“No, no. It´s OK, calm down, they´re just burning down the Police Station.”

-Name Unknown, “Manager” of my hotel. Tecpán, Guatemala.

On the ride into Tecpán earlier that day, I had been advised by a group of guys on the side of the road to not continue, there had been a murder on the highway a ways up. I decided to stop for lunch and let whatever happened cool off. An hour or so later, I felt it was safe to continue, 10km later I passed the scene of the crime. Apparently a police officer had shot and killed a local taxi driver in the middle of the highway. I rode slowly by the somber scene, where a large crowd had gathered, mourning their loss.

I didn´t catch the details of what exactly led up to the killing and why it happened. The townspeople were quite upset with the Police Officer in question and the entire Police Department in general.

Here´s some of my notes from that night.

9:01 p.m. Holy Shit. The locals have set fire to the Policia Nacional station across the street from the Hotel. (The door to the police station is probably 30 yards from the hotel. Between us there is a house and then a narrrow, one-lane street.) I was eating tacos in the plaza, saw a small fire in front of the police station, with people huddled around it. didn´t seem like a big deal. By the time I left (hastily) there were large flames spilling out of the roof and large groups of people running away from and towards the police building! Shit!, “Can I get that second order of tacos to go?” People now seem pretty calm, the hotel guy insures me it´s safe.

9:12 p.m. Fire seems to be dieing out. Crowd is still present, including many unaccompanied young children. I have gathered my most important things in a small bag, in case shit gets crazy.

9:30 p.m. Crowd is dissipating but it looks like they may have lit another fire next door to the police station. Can´t tell because there is a tree blocking the view, not going down to investigate. There are auditory waves of whistling whenever the crowd sees something or someone it doesn´t like.

10:13 p.m. Crowd set a large fire off in front of the police station. It got up to about twenty feet high. Three or four bandana-face-covered guys were on what remained of the roof of the police station. Setting fires? Looked like they could be setting explosives? They left. I went up to the roof (5th floor) of the hotel for a better view. The crowd is not too big, but they are having a laugh whenever someone goes up to the fire and does something (can´t see the front of the police station from the roof).

10:43 p.m. There is now a barricade of ambulances in front of what remains of the police station.

Fell asleep some time after that

8:00 a.m. Awake and what remains of the police station in still smoldering, the charred remains of several motorcycles lie in the entryway. There are several children wandering around inside of the building, looking through desks, etc. The sun is shining through the large hole that used to be the roof.

As it turns out, the guy was right, they only burnt down the Police Station and everything was OK, except for the taxi driver and his family. The front page of the National newspaper this morning has a photo of the Police Station from the night before, fully ablaze.

3.

“Yeah, so I sold the rest of the Dom for $80,000.”

-Jonathan from French Canadia. Tobacco Caye, Belize.

Aside from being a second degree black-belt in Aikido, he owns a few bars outside Montreal and uses the money from them to finance his SCUBA addiction. He is currently having a Catamaran built so he can sail and dive wherever he wants, full time.

One day he was diving a shipwreck off of Nova Scotia, as he passed through one of the dining rooms, the hose from his tank opened a cabinet door and the tug caught his attention. He stopped to untangle himself and looked into the cabinet, down at the bottom sat an untouched box containing six bottles of 1910 Dom Perignon Champagne. He kept one bottle for himself, “incase I ever get married some day”, and sold the rest to an acquaintance at Dom Perignon back in France.

4.

“Oh, I see that ribbon on your bike. Green, Red, Yellow. Nice, you gonna be smoking some weed in Belize?”

-Border Police Officer at the crossing from Guatemala into Belize.

He was sitting so relaxed in his plastic chair that he was closer to laying down than sitting up. Appropriately enough, Belize´s national motto is “Sub Umbra Florero”, “Under the shade, I flourish”. Explains why their space program is amongst the world´s best. Just kidding Belize, I love you.

So, I responded to him, “Actually, that´s the Bolivian flag.” He gives me a funny look and replies, “Suuuuuuure it is buddy, sure it is.” I smiled and moved on.

**Note: It actually was a Bolivian flag.

5.

“Open Bar? I´ve been to weddings before where every guest got a line of coke, a line of speed and a joint.”

-Never has trouble finding a plus-1, Sufi Love from Finland. San Marcos la Laguna, Guatemala.

She is a regression-therapist, believer in faries, the intoxicating powers of crystal (the mineral, not the drug)-infused water, amongst other esoteric things. She really deserves her own post, but this will have to suffice for now. Living with her in Guatemala for the better part of three weeks, this was one of the more coherent things I ever heard her say.

6.

“So, my entire life growing up, I was flat as a board, I hated it. Hated it! It was hard growing up like that, so one day I sat down and closed my eyes and talked to God. I told Him how I felt and what I wanted, but I knew better than to have unrealistic expectations. So I told Him, “OK, I want big boobs but I know they don´t come free, so You can go ahead and put two kilos on my legs too.”

-Effie Ninio. Tulum, Mexico.

Shrewd Negotiator and proud owner of a DD rack, Got her wish and, at 34, looks amazing.

7.

“…My friends told me what happened last night…Yeah, wow, I´m sorry about that.

-Australian guy whose name I chose to forget. Isla Mujeres, Mexico.

The previous night, a bunch of us had gone to a bar on the beach. As we walked up to the bar, I saw this guy standing with his back to us and laughed to myself at his hairstyle, frosted tips, a la Mark McGrath, 1998.

An hour or so later, I was sitting on a bench at the bar, facing toward two girls I was talking with. Mid-sentence, I feel a large hand pull my shoulder around to my back and as I look up to see who it is, I am greeted by Mr. Frosted-Tips’s lips, in close proximity, heading my way.

Let me say, I have only been “mouth-raped” once before and, you know who you are, it was nice. This guy didn´t even say hi, offer to buy me a drink, nothing. Poor etiquette.

Before I am even able to process what is going on, I was able to get a hand in between the two of us. He tried again, I blocked again and laughed it off because by this point it was obvious that he was very drunk, even for an Australian. By the time he went for the “I know, third time´s a charm” attempt, I stood up, “Hey man, you are going to have to cut this shit out, right now.” Security and a girl who was attempting to hold him upright intervened and shuffled him away, off the property.

After some laughs at the absurdity of the situation the girls told me that, as awkward as it may have been for me, they both felt pretty shitty that he looked at the three of us and picked me over them. We also decided that this may be a sign that my hair is getting too long.

Talking to the guy for a minute the next morning, he informed us he had infact completely blacked out and had no memory of the previous night AND that he is actually on vacation with his girlfriend, who had been in their room sick for the past three days.

I guess the moral of this story is two-fold:

Ladies, take care of your men, even when you are sick and

Australia, stop issuing passports to these kind of people, they aren´t winning you any fans.

8.

“Yeah, when I first saw you come in here with your bike, my first thought was, ´What´s that homeless guy doing in here.`”

-Unnamed Guatemalan girl. Antigua, Guatemala.

Since being robbed this past March in Peru, I have adopted a new anti-theft strategy. Theft and armed robbery of tourists are things that happen in the Americas. It is not common enough at this point that it should stop anyone from visiting any of the places I have been to, but it does happen and I have heard several stories over the past few years.

While analyzing the details of the stories I have heard, I had a realization. There are two types of people who don´t get robbed: Homeless people and people with hoods on. This has inspired a change in attire/appearance in the past months. I decided to not purchase new panniers for my bike, I just bought a gym bag and cover it in a black trash bag to make it waterproof. Instead of buying a new tent, I bought a hammock in Colombia and store it in an old rice sack on the back of my bike. On the few days that I wear a shirt while riding, it is the same one I started with in Argentina. A black sleeve-less Nike DryFit shirt, which is way too long and due to repeated use, has a back-side that has faded from black to green.

Whether this is deterring thieves from robbing me or I´ve just had a lucky run, I have no idea. But I would like to think that by assuming this new look, I am not just scaring small children but also helping to keep what little things I have, in my possession.

So, when she told me her first impression was that i was homeless, my immediate, unthinking reaction was, “Awesome, and it’s by design”

9.

“Yeah, You were staying where? SeaSide Guesthouse in Belize City? That´s where you left your bike? Holy Shit! We were going to stay there too but our taxi driver told us that they use that place to sell crack. You left your stuff at a crack house!”

-Lydia. Caye Caulker, Belize.

This revelation was made a full two days after leaving my beloved bike behind in Belize City and taking the 45-minute water taxi to Caye Caulker in Belize´s Caribbean.

An argument could be made that I should have known better. The night before I left I was having dinner in the City and was talking to a couple of cops at the restaurant. They inquired as to where I was staying, when I told them, they gave me a weird look and told me, “That´s where people go to get drugs.” I assumed they just meant weed, feigned concern and thought nothing of it, until their words came hauntingly back to me three days later.

I tried to quell the surging panic. Thoughts like, “Shit, there is no way my bike is going to be there when I get back,” kept running through my head. “Well, if it is gone I will figure something out,” I reassured myself.

As I thought about it further, even though there were some sketchy looking people around the place, the guy in charge seemed to have his head on and didn´t have that “crackhead” look. Besides, he told me that he was going to charge me $1.50/day to keep my bike there. I couldn´t see a situation in which he both planned to steal/sell my bike and charge me to watch it.

When I got back to Belize City a few days later I was relieved to see my bike sitting, under the stairwell, where I had left it. Bullet Dodged.

10.

ME: Hey man, your nose is bleeding
LOVELESS: (non-chalantly) That´s because I have a deviated septum.

This exchange took place in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica, just across the border from Panama.

After joking about this guy and others like him for a while, I have come to believe there is actually a serious problem with middle-aged men from the U.S. moving to Costa Rica. It is a common destination for the recently divorced. The draws are all there, beautiful rainforest, Caribbean and Pacific beaches, legal prostitution and cheap drugs. Sounds like a good enough time, which I am sure it is for many people, but there are some that really fall off a cliff.

I had just woke up and gotten out of my hammock. The time was 6:10 a.m. A guy toting an uncracked bottle of Johnnie Walker walked by me and asked, “Do you play any instruments?” I told him I can play guitar or bass. “Ever recorded?” “Yeah,” I told him. “Great, I need some help. The name’s Loveless (flashes tattooed Knuckles, “LOVE LESS” at me). Come on lets go.”

Loveless is building a recording studio right on the beach. We started jamming together and it was going well enough. After a bit though it became apparent that not only had he not slept the night before, the guy has a major cocaine problem. He kept disappearing for what became obvious to be drug runs.

Loveless told us of the plans he had for his Studio. Professional recording equipment, original material and…Number 1 Singles! What? There was an intensity to the guy that was admirable. But after a while it was apparent that the guy is delusional.

Over five months have past since Chris Loveless and I met him and I hope he is better, but given his environment, I doubt he is.

This story took on an extra layer of sadness recently. While in Cancun I picked up the book, In Search of Captian Zero. The book recounts the amazing adventure of its author, Allan Weisbecker, as he surfs his way down Mexico and Central America in search of a long lost surfing/pot-smuggling buddy. The book ends in a terribly depressing way as Weisbecker finally finds his friend, Chris, in Puerto Viejo.

Since his time in Puerto Viejo, Chris has become addicted to crack cocaine. After having read of their amazing adventures for some 200-plus pages, the deteriorated state the Chris is found in is heartbreaking.

Reading through this book, and noting the name and geographical identicalities, I am brought back to Loveless and left with a deep feeling of sorrow.

Sorry to end on a bummer.

This last game I tried saw me shacking up with a woman of the pole, a man of the cloth, some men of the pole (not what you think), and a drunken, stem-cell infused buddy of Ken Kesey, amongst others.

Due to one part financial constraint and two parts looking for adventure, I decided to continue to travel but not pay any money for lodging for a week.

RULES

1. Don´t pay to sleep anywhere
2. Not allowed to mention this game to encourage anyone to let me sleep in their residence, business etc. for free.

These rules resulted in a few things changing. I was forced to finish riding much earlier in the day, enough to allow time to find somewhere to sleep. Since being robbed in Peru, I am no longer traveling with a tent. I did, however, pick up a hammock in Colombia, which has been serving me well in the heat of Central America. Here is what happened.

All the locations from this week are in Costa Rica.

Night 1.

Title: What if This is as Good as it Gets?
Location: Marriott Los Sueños Resort. Playa Herradura.

Easy start to the week. Last night spent with my parents visiting in Costa Rica. Our room has a view of the Pacific Ocean, Air-Conditioning and little chocolates on the pillow at night. Spoiler: In terms of ease, this IS as good as it gets over the next week, just barely.

Adventure factor: 2 (A 4-to-5 star resort, but there were wild iguanas outside and a casino on-site)

Night 2.

Title: Well, He´s Gettin´ Lucky, So You Get Lucky.
Location: Cuerpo de Bomberos. San Ramon.

The early afternoon saw me say a fond farewell to my parents at San Jose International Airport in the nation´s capital. After their departure, I looked at my map and saw a lake located in central Costa Rica and thought that it might be fun to visit. So, instead of taking the coast north, I headed up into the mountains. I ended up in the town of San Ramon, found a fire-station and after talking to the firefighters for a half-hour or so, broke out with my soft-sell pitch, “so guys, hey, I´m not sure if I mentioned it or not but I am actually riding my bicycle through the Americas, just for fun. I will probably be staying in town tonight. I have a hammock, do you guys know any places in town where I can hang it for the night, I just need a place with a roof (I gesture toward the approaching lightning storm)? That´s really it…”

“Yeah, yeah”, they tell me, “there´s a gas station about a mile that way”. “Cool guys thanks.” But as I start to go, their boss mentions to me, “Hey by the way, one of our guys is gonna be at his girl´s house tonight, ya know…and anyways, his bed is empty, just take that, stay with us, it will be nicer.” Sweet, gracias.

Adventure Factor: 4. Had the town broke out in a riot or had the rapture started that night, I would have been on the hook to help these guys out, but I take a few points off because they had Wi-Fi.

Night 3.

Title: So, What´s the Catch?
Location: Cabinas Jerry. La Fortuna.

In the middle of the day I meet a misanthropic Australian cyclist heading South (the opposite way) on her bicycle, she started in Alaska two years ago. “There is a very touristy town just up the road a little bit, it´s called La Fortuna.” she sneered at me, “it´s full of (pauses and gives me looking over) Americans”. I think, “Jesus lady, calm down. I am on vacation and you are killing my buzz.” I decided to give La Fortuna a try but upon arriving I am so hungry that before I even get around to looking for a place, I stop for an early dinner.

I end up chatting with the second most interesting person I will meet on this week-long adventure. Three hours later, I look up as we are leaving, it´s dark and I haven´t even started looking for a place to put my hammock, shit. Oh wait, she tells me, “Hey, the girl I stayed with last night took off and there is an extra bed in my place, just stay with me there”. “Hmm,” I think…

Before I decide to say yes or no, let me fill in a little information that she volunteered during our conversation so far.

Facts.

- She tells me her name is Tanya, I am 80% sure that is not her real name

- “Tanya” enjoys her job because she can “be a totally different person at work” than in the rest of her life.

- She claims to be at least two different people (inside her head)

- I am almost positive that she is DSM IV certifiable Multiple Personality Disorder and/or Disassociative Personality Disorder

- Born in England, she has been living in Los Angeles for the past 7 years.

- She admits that if a guy ever asks her where she wants to go to dinner, the date is “basically already over”

- She has “attempted to graduate from community college three times”

- Has yet to graduate from community college.

- She earns an income of $250,000 per year.

- After working for many years at this income level her net worth is negative (her x-husband got the business when they divorced…allegedly)

- Is the first girl to ever respond that she would “rather marry a guy who was always really excited about things, but beat her up once a year, over a guy who was a flat-liner but never hit her”. “That´s not even really a question”, she says.

Given all of this, she is acutally a very open, vulnerable girl. So I fugured, hell, worst cast scenario, you don´t actually need BOTH of your kidneys, right?

Adventure level: 8 (but after an unsucessful attempt to sneak past the owner of the place where she was staying, I paid $8 for the night. P.S. she works at Sapphire´s in Las Vegas).

Night 4.

Title: I got a Nautical-themed Pashmina Afghan
Location: Unnamed boat, Laguna Arenal.

After riding about 12 miles, I arrive to Laguna Arenal. It is a man-made lake, about 40 years old and supplies Costa Rica with over 2/3 of its energy. I take a quick detour off the road to a set of suspension bridges that wind into the jungle near the lake. As I am finishing up resting, a huge clap of thunder strikes and the skies open up into a full downpour for the next two hours. After the rain finally stops, I get back on the 2km path to the main road. By the time I arrive at the lake, the downpour has resumed. I find shelter under a little makeshift thatched roof, which was leaking profusely. After about half an hour, I conclude that the rain will not be letting up any time soon. I run down to the lake (about 100 feet below) and notice a bunch of tour boats tied to the shore, unguarded. Fuck it, I figure, “it can´t be worse than this.” The boat was huge, covered and there were amazing views of the lake all throughout the evening and the next morning. Even better, when its guardian came by later that night, instead of kicking me out into the nighttime rain, he invited me up to his friends house for a beer, dinner and we watched Argentinian soccer team kick the shit out of Costa Rica 3-0.

Adventure Factor: 7 (would have been a 9 if the guy who was paid to keep people off the boats did his job and freaked out on me)

Night 5.

Title: Where do You go When the Catholic Church won´t let you in?
Location: Residence of Pastor Octavio Espinoza, Tronadora.

After a day of amazing weather, wildlife and views as I circled the entire lake, I arrived at the town of Tronadora. On this day, I was feeling like trying something religious, to balance out the trespassing and strippers of the past two nights. Surprisingly, the Catholic church in town was locked up. I ended up staying with the pastor of the Asemblia de Dios Church. Pretty mellow guy. His son Brandon is an aspiring NBA player and gave me a tour of the town while his wife cooked an amazing breakfast the following morning.

Adventure level: 3 (But I did wake up in the middle of the night and for about a minute, I looked around the room and had absolutely ZERO idea where the hell I was. I quickly checked for missing organs, and fell back to sleep).

Night 6.

Title: Well, better than a “free” night in jail
Location: Cruz Roja de Costa Rica, Liberia.

Day six saw my descent from the highlands of Costa Rica back to the rediculously hot and humid costal lowlands. The riding was pretty uneventful and as I pulled into Liberia, I was contemplating just finding a cheap hotel to stay in. The tough thing about finding free lodging in a city like Liberia is that there are 50,000 people living there. It is always easier to find somone willing to help out in a small town. The larger the town, the more diffusion of responsibility there is. In addition to that, unlike tiny mountain towns, there are actually places you can pay to stay in for the night. Competition is a bitch.

I found the police station and started talking with the local cops. After a while I caught the eye of a guy in the drunk tank. From that point on, he kept giving me crazy-eyes looks. Must have been thinking, “Hey asshole, why are you trying to get in here, Jesus, I hate white people”. After a bit, the guys check with their boss, who “regrets to inform me that, due to security reasons, I can not stay at the jail tonight”. “Cool, thanks for trying anyways, have a good night guys”, I say, but I am thinking, “Security reasons??? You guys are the police, you have all the guns and keys to lock people up, and you are worried about me, I don´t get it”.

I end up catching a break at the Red Cross, Liberia. They end up being an amazing group of guys. After I shower up, I am invited to audit the lecture they are having that night entitled, “Emergency First Responder: Fatal and Near-Fatal Auto Accidents en Español“, which sounded like a cool enough idea, until, on the way into the class, I am called aside by the boss. He is also a tour guide in Costa Rica and has spent extensive amounts of time traveling in Central America. Instead of learning how to pull bloody bodies out of flaming cars in Spanish, we have a nice sit-down and he gives me a ton of places to visit in Nicaragua, El Salvador and Guatemala. Good night!

Adventure Factor: 4

Night 7

Title: University of Oregon Alumni Association Outreach Program
Location: La Vida Loca Bar, Playa los Cocos.

One of the suggestions from my impromptu tour course the previous night was Playa los Cocos, some 35 miles northwest of Liberia. After the sweaty ride to the coast, I found the beach underwhelming, so I ended up riding south to the neighboring Matapalo beach for a swim. The water was really warm and I could see the sand on the ocean floor, up to ten feet deep. In the afternoon I headed back to los Cocos to look for a place to stay.

At one point, I was instructed by a man with two thumbs on his left hand to go, “look for Jimbo, he´s the owner, at ´la Via Loca´”. I confirmed the spelling, V-I-A? not V-I-D-A? Yeah, he said, V-I-A. OK, “The Crazy Way, that sounds interesting, gracias.”

I end up finding Jimbo sitting a bar (La VIDA Loca, as it turns out, but whatever) with some friends, about 5 rum and cokes deep. We start talking, I head to the bathroom out back and take in the atmosphere of the bar, which is that of a wacky sports bar, with all kinds of crazy shit on the wall, including but not limited to the following.

4 tickets to the University of Oregon v Oakland Basketball game from Dec. 19, 2009 stapled to the wall.
A SCUBA tank hanging from the ceiling
A 3/4 eaten surfboard
A wooden sign that says “German Embassy” written in Sharpie
2 pair of woman´s underwear from , “a whorehouse in San Jose”

After taking in all of this and noticing the University of Oregon tattoo (complete with the likeness of Donald Duck) on Jimbo´s right bicep, I knew I was a shoe-in for a free night.

He shows me around the whole place, including a room out back, but I am looking for a place to hang the hammock. He retorts, a la Tyler Durden, “Just take the fucking room man”.

Allright, I´m in.

After

1 nice tequila on ice
5? beers
4-6 rum and cokes
and some shots

The rest of the night is a bit of a blur.
here´s what I remembered the next morning.

-Jimbo was born and raised in Eugene, Oregon, explaining all the UO shit everywhere

-He and all of his ex-pat buddies (in their 50s-70s) all make biweekly trips to Grenada, Nicaragua where, in the office of a German doctor, they undergo Stem Cell Therapy. Which, according to them is, “a fucking miracle, we pay $6000 for a sixteen week treatment, and seven weeks in, you feel like an entirely new person, like you are forty years younger”

-Stem Cell Therapy will NEVER be legal in the USA, the pharmaceutical companies will never allow that to happen, and they will ally with Religious Right to keep it illegal.

-They “aren´t sure” if the stem cells are from “zygotes or fetuses or whatever”.

-Jimbo owns The Wild Duck and Good Times bars in Eugene

-He took several tours with Ken Kesey on his magic hippy bus, including one trip bound for San Francisco in which the bus ran out of gas in Eugene before they even got to the freeway

-An airplane will never crash due to turbulance, the wings of a Boeing 747 can almost touch tips above or below the body of the plane, and not break off

-At some point in the night, the local police drive slowly by the bar and a drunken Jimbo yells something rude at them in English, they stop, he pours them each a strong screwdriver, they come in out of the rain for their drink, finish, get back in the truck and drive away!

-Later on, the power went out for several hours, which combined with the rain and the booze caused Jimbo to speak at an increasingly higher volume, which, by whatever time it was, I think was scaring the shit out of his 7-year old son. Oh, the mental scarring.

Adventure level: Sometimes you end up sleeping in a bar 7.5.

(In the words of Australian stand-up comedian Jim Jefferies, “I´ve never met an interesting person in my life who didn´t drink. If you don´t drink … all your stories suck…all your stories end the same way with, “and then I got home”. He said it not me. but check this video out.

.
:
I woke up the next morning with a solid hangover, fought off the advances of a passing prostitute and at 12:30 head out into the cloudless, blisteringly hot afternoon, toward the Nicaraguan border, having spent a total of $8 on lodging over the previous week.

When I first started this bike trip, March 26, 2010, after each day of riding I would write down a few things from the day. At the back of my journal, after every day, I would write down how many kilometers I traveled, how long it took, my high speed for the day etc. At the end of the line for each day, I would write a word of phrase to remember the day by. Not necessarily something to summarize the day, just a specific moment or image that, when read in the future, would hopefully take me back to a specific situation or moment that happened.

I still write down at least this much basic information every day I ride. I has proven to be very good at helping me recollect every single day I have spent on my bike. Before my journal was stolen in Peru, I would, every few months or so, look back at past months in the journal. After looking at the phrases, I could remember something from 100% of the days. It was amazing. To this day, I still write one word or consise phrase for each day. Below are just a few of the things I remember from Ecuador and Southern Colombia.

April 9, 2011.

Hours ridden: 6:24:00
Distance: 91.2km (55 miles)
Max Speed: 54.3km/h (34 mph)
Comment: Mountain Crab (45+km) AKA Heartbreak in the Andes

(Side story to start) The first thing in journal from this day says is,

*Be careful drinking 2L (1/2 gallon) of water right before going to bed*

Fell asleep at about 10:15 last night. I woke up to pee twice beofe 11:30. Then I had a dream that I was in some kind of fancy luxury spa/resort in the USA, it had really pretty pools of water everywhere, saunas, steam rooms, all over the place. In my dream I had to pee, but chose to do the right thing and find a bathroom. After running around for a while, I wondered to myself, Why are there no bathrooms in this amazingly beautiful resort? It´s like they are asking you to pee in their pools”

At that point I woke up and wondered into my gross, shared bathroom and went pee again. Half way through, looking at my surroundings and comparing them to my dream, I started laughing like a madman. Back to bed I went. Woke up at least two more times that night. So remember, Don´t drink 2L right before going to bed, even if you are really dehydrated.

OK, onto the Mountian Crab.

This was my second full day riding in Ecuador. I had decided to head from the coast back into the mountains, which would take from from sea level back up to 2560m (8,400ft) over the course of 2 1/2 days. Leaving the city of Machala, Ecuador just after dawn, I was greeted by amazing views of cloud-blanketed Andean peaks above seemingly endless fields of banana trees. As I got up into the mountains, the weather, thankfully, remained cool. At exactly 37km into the day, I saw what looked like a really large insect wander out of the trees onto the road´s left shoulder, which I happened to be riding in at the time. I stopped about ten feet short of the creature, which had stopped well short of the downhill lane of the road. As I walked the bike closer, I realized that it wasn´t an insect at all, but a CRAB. I was standing there, over 25 miles from the nearest beach, at an elevation of about 2,000ft., staring at a crab.

Wow, That´s a first. I took a lap around the crab, just to make sure I wasn´t hallucinating the whole thing. I stood there for a few minutes, just staring at it, waiting for it to make the next move. It just stared back at me quizzically. I decided to let the crab win the stand-off, “Well, good luck buddy”,I said as I took off and I meant it. The crab, feeling pretty good about itself for winning the staring contest, made its way into the lane. Just as I started to continue pedaling up into the mountains, a large van came racing down the hill. “Good luck buddy”, I repeated to myself. After the van had passed, I looked back to see how the crab fared.

The poor thing, the van had totally run over its right pincher and the leg next to it. Damn it! I was so pissed, this crab had probably made it further into the mountains than any crab in a long time. The saddest thing was what I saw when I rode back down a little bit to check on the crab. It was just sitting there in the road, pinching and moving around its left pincher, looking desperately for its right pincher, as if it didn´t even know what had happened. After a minute, he turned and headed back into the trees that he had originally come out of.

That really left me with kind of a bummed out feeling for the rest of the day.

April 17, 2011.

Time Ridden: 2:58:17
Distance: 52.25km (32.4 miles)
Max. Speed: 64kmph (40 mph)
Comment: flowers walk down the railway

This day was really easy, I usually like to ride at least 4 hours, but on this day I arrived at the city of Riobamba after just three hours. The ride into town was almost entirely flat, which was a welcome change from the previous three days of tough climbing leaving the city of Cuenca. After an initial ascent, the Andes opened up to a wide valley, full of countless shades of green. The road ran parallel to a pair of train tracks for the majority of the day. At one point, I looked over to the railway and noticed that the tracks were completely dug up and turned over on their sides.

I wondered if this was some sick prank, or if people had been working, repairing the the tracks. As I was wondering this, I saw a most amazing sight. There was a huge stack of the brightest yellow wildflowers walking itself down the tracks. The bundle of flowers was about four feet high, just as wide and about three feet thick. The only clue I had as to what was going on was a pair of black rubber boots, barely visible, slowly walking down the planks of wood between the rails. As I passed, I looked back and saw an old man, only slightly more visible from the front, hunched over walking slowly down the tracks. The bundle of flowers he was hauling was significantly larger than him, probably twice as large.

Beautiful sight.

April 18, 2010.

Time ridden: 3:48:13
Distance: 54.4km (34 miles) *Total distance of trip passed 7000km (4340 miles) today*
Max. Speed: 54.4kmph (34 mph)
Comment: Ducha de polvo (Dirt Shower)

From the journal:

I was up pretty late last night, 2 or 3am, I didn´t want to look, as I knew I had to get up early in the morning to beat the heat I would find as I headed down from Riobamba to Baños.

Up at 9:30? Or was it 10:30? Either way, Bought breakfast for $1.50 and hit the road. Pretty easy ride to start despite some steep, but short, climbs to get into the valley, which was incredibly windy, right into my face. At one point the wind was particularly strong and I saw a large dust cloud ahead. Slow down. Approach the cloud, which mysteriously enough seems to be staying constant if not thickening and not dissipating. I stare at it for a minute and decide, what the hell, I gotta go though. As I reach the cloud, visibility drops to absolutely zero! And I realize with the strength of the wind I can´t hear if there are any cars coming from ahead, or behind for that matter.

Even with sunglasses on, my eyes are getting hit by the dirt, so I am forced to close both of them. I decide at this point that the best solution is to get out of the road. So, eyes closed, I pick the bike up and carry it over to the shoulder. I turn away from the wind and attempt to open my eyes, the only thing I can see is the brim of my helmet and the small mirror that hangs off of it. I attempt to look into the mirror, but nothing is visible, except all of the swirling dirt. I am forced to close my eyes again. At this point I am able to make out another source of noise, aside from the howling wind. Is that…? Yes it is, I can hear rocks, some of them rather large-sounding, falling down the mountian. Wow! Next plan, stay off the road, head back up-hill.

I walk the bike, eyes closed, back up the hill to a point where I suppose the dirt cloud has ceased. As I open my eyes, I am relieved that I had walked enough to exit the mini-storm. I look down at the river below and notice that the wind is actually carrying the dirt upriver and is visible for at least a mile. “Wow!”, I think to myself. Shortly thereafter, I take the little mirror off of my helmet to look at my eyes, which are starting to sting from all the dirt. My eyes have black lines along the inside edge of my eyeballs from all the dirt. I consider using my shirt to wipe my eyeballs off, but quickly realize that everything from my shirt to my bandana to my shorts is, of course, covered in dirt. I decide to use the inside of my shirt, this helps a bit.

I look ahead at the dirt could, which is of course still there, as thick as ever. I realize that the dirt seems to be coming off the mountain at just one point and then the wind is doing the rest of the work. If I can just get passed this one point, I will be in the clear. Well, Take Two. I have to get through. This time, I approach a little faster, with the collar of my shirt pulled over my mouth and nose. As I hit the cloud I yell, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh” and it is all over in a matter of about twenty feet. As I pass though, and reach the other side, which is still really windy but utterly free of dirt, I see the source of the dirt. There is a team of people working on the mountainside. Most of them working only fifteen to twenty feet above the road, but a few are working at least one-hundred feet straight up the mountain, in a tractor! THEY are the ones responsible for the dirt and large rocks that were falling down the mountain! “Hijo´e puta!”, I scream more at the situation than at them, but still at least a little at them.

A little further down the road, it starts to sprinkle for about fifteen minutes, kind of cleaning some of the dirt off of me. An hour later, as I pulled into the town of Baños de Agua Santa and subsequently Hostal Plantas y Blanco, I was greeted with a lot of long stares like, “WTF happened to this guy, looks like he lost a fight with a bull”.

Funny side-bar to this story.

Also on this day, i met a man named from Parana, Entre Rios, Argentina, one of the first places I passed through last March. His name was Andres and he has been riding his bicycle around South America for four years. Two of which were spent in Brazil! I saw him resting near an abandoned, broken bridge, having some lunch. We talked for an hour of so, he shared some juice and crackers and as I was about to leave he asked, “Queires Heirba?”. “Ah no man, if I get high, I probably won´t be able to ride the bike very well and given the shitty road condition (a large volcanic eruption had taken out not only the bridge we had been resting by, but a seven mile stretch of the road) combined with my history (falling in Bolivia) I should probably have all of my senses working properly at this point. You know, I might take off the wrong way”, I joke. He breaks out into a slight laugh. “What´s up?”, I enquire. “Well, it´s funny you should say that”, he comments, “yeah, that has happened to me a few times. I will stop to rest, eat and smoke. Then I get back on my bike and head out again. After a while I will think the scenery looks familiar, then a while later, usually after lots of uphill climbing, I will end up in the exact same city where I had started hours and hours earlier.” “Ahhh”, I laugh, “no wonder it took you two years to get through Brazil. Well the least I can do is point you in the right direction. THAAAAAAT WAY, AMIGO.” He puts on a big smile and as I continue downhill to the east, he heads up the valley to the west. “Adios Amigo, buena suerte”, I yell.

April 28, 2010.

Time Ridden: 3:18:33
Distance: 44.34km (27.5 miles)
Max. Speed: 69.1km/h (43 mph)
Comment: rumbling volcano /McCarthy´s The Road

My original plans were to spend one or, at most, two days, resting in Baños. As of April 28, I have not ridden my bike in nine days. I decide it is time to head out. For the previous two days, Volcan Tungurahua, a volcano that sits right above the town of Baños, has been violently erupting. One afternoon, after the rain and clouds cleared, a pillar of ash was clearly visible, extending for miles straight up into the clear blue sky. The townspeople, used to the volcano erupting every few years or so, continue their day to day business as if nothing were happening.

On this day, I head out at about eleven in the morning. This is a special ride for me. It was in Baños, in December 2009, that I met a my friend Sam, who was riding his bicycle from his Peace Corps post in Paraguay to his home in Arizona. The rest, I guess, is history. The day Sam left Baños for the city of Ambato, I decided to rent a bike and join him. We rode uphill together for what I remember being six hours (it was probably significantly less than that). The whole time I could not get the idea out of my head, “This is so hard, there is no way I can do this day after day”. But I knew that because I could I had to do this trip.

Flashing back to April 2011. I passed several places that I remember Sam and I passing together: A Bonzai tree farm with a café in it, a restaurant in the town of Palileo, where we stopped to have lunch and the road up towards Ambato. It was a really nostalgic, happy day.

Aside from these fond memories, on several occasions I could hear Tungurahua, still erupting, rumbling violently in the distance. Hearing the volcano rumbling away, lingering above a town so special to me, was quite an experience. I wished the town and all of the people in it the best.

After about an hour into the ride, I started to notice a build-up of ash in the creases of my inner elbows. As I passed each town on the way up to Ambato, I noticed that most of the people, including virtually all children, were wearing SARS masks to protect from the ash in the air.

The scene reminded me of a much more mild version of what it must have been like to be in the book, The Road.

April 29, 2011.

Time Ridden: 2:45??
Distance: 43.??km (26.5 miles?)
Max. Speed: 62 km/h (38.5 mph)
Comment: Clowns and Pools: Population Psychology in Ecuador

I think the computer on my bicycle must have broken this day. But I am pretty sure the above numbers are pretty accurate.

Question: What do clowns and pools have to do with the way Ecuadorians manage groups of people?

Answer: There is a much more subtle way of dealing with people in Ecuador. In the States, you frequently see signs, “NO Littering, $500 fine”. These signs are virtually non-existant in Ecuador. Riding through the town of Salcedo on this day, I noticed Ecuador´s answer to the “No Littering Big-Ass-Fine-Coming-Your-Way-If-You-Do” sign. The town´s main drag was full of ice cream shops, there were probably twenty in the space of a half-mile. Out in front of each shop, was an pretty drab, unimpressive looking trash can to put your ice cream cup and spoon in when you had finished your dessert. However, on top of each plain-looking, old metal trashcan, was a huge, brightly painted fiberglass head with a huge smile, leaving the mouth wide open. The heads ranged from happy clowns to Mickey Mouse to Homer Simpson.

Who are the ones most likely to litter ice cream? Children of course. By decorating trashcans with oversized, brightly painted likenesses of familiar figures, litter is significantly reduced in Ecuador. This is not to say there is no litter in Ecuador, but this significantly reduces it.

How to apply this in the States?

Put large fiberglass likenesses of naked women on top of trashcans?
That´s for the guys.
For the ladies.
I don´t know, an old guy with a big fat wallet in his hand, big smile, hole in it, leading right into the trashcan?

Couldn´t hurt, could it?

Also, other ways in which Ecuadorians use psychology to better manage their populace.

There are thermal baths in the town of Baños (hence the name). The baths close at 10:00pm each night. You would figure that you could stay until at least 10:10, probably 10:15 as the people that work there make the rounds to shoo everyone out for the night. I counted on this one night when we showed up late, at 9:30, “Ah, we have at least 45 minutes here, probably closer to an hour, right?”

WRONG.

How did they have myself and everyone else out of the baths and on our way out the door by 10:01 pm?

At 9:50, they start to slowly drain the pools. The cold night air, combined with the increasinly shallow pool depth does the work of ten employees, with 10 times less hassle.

Also, similar psychology applies at the clubs in Quito.

In California, as the bars close, the staff basically yell at of their patrons to get them to leave, annoying to patron and employee alike. Simple solution in Quito, a club that has been playing great music all night long, at 3-something, starts to play awful music, the kind of music that is so bad, it makes you pray for Black Eyed Peas.

So Easy. Everyone leaves. No stress.

Between the Clowns, Draining Pools and the Shitty Music, I think the Ecuadorians are on to something.

Two quick stories from Southern Colombia.

May 19, 2011.
Time Ridden: 6:43:55
Distance: 127.88km (80 miles)
Max. Speed: 60 km/h (37 mph)
Comment: It must be Spring: Keep your mouth shut

This is the longest day I have had since I was in Peru, the mountains in Ecuador simply did not allow me to go this far in one single day. The ride from Pasto to Mojarra, Colombia basically went like this: 4 miles uphill, 18 miles downhill, 7 miles uphill [really hot!], 25 miles downhill, then 18 more miles of large, rolling hills.

In the middle, for a distance of 40 km (25 miles) I was surrounded by white butterflys. They were literally constant through this entire stretch, for most of this time their numbers were uncountable. I thought, “It must be spring”. Quite a sight. I had to remind myself, “Keep your mouth shut, don´t want to eat any of these beautiful butterflys.”

For the record, I think I only killed about 3 or 4 of them, which compared to all of the trucks is a pretty low Kill-Rate.

Side Story from this date, entitled: Stupidest Government Project I Have Ever Seen.

OK, so all throughout Peru, Ecuador and Colombia there are countless landslides where the road has been carved out of the mountain. They range from piles of gravel on the side of the road to the entire mountain falling over into the road, covering 60% it with rocks piled 25 feet high. The midsized to large spills are the most obvious thing you have even seen. Huge pile of rocks in the road. Easy. Right? Wrong!

On a certain stretch of the highway on this day in Colombia, there is a boulder the size of a VW Beetle sitting smack in the middle of the uphill lane! Next to it are some smaller rocks and a large pothole from where the boulder fell down from the cliff above. Where does the idiocy come in?

Wrapped around the boulder is a belt of bright yellow CAUTION tape, which basically says, “Caution, Dangerous Zone”.

Wow! Really! No Shit?

I would understand if there were a warning sign in the road, ahead of the large obstacle, “Warning, large boulder in the road ahead!” Nope, they decided to put the warning sign ON the large boulder. Genius.

Whoever put that there needs to be fired. Whoever that person´s boss is also needs to be fired.

And Finally

May 21, 2011

Time Ridden: 3:07:03
Distance: 43.7km (27 miles)
Max. Speed: 58 km/h (36 mph)
Comment: “Agressive? Stupid!” and “The Colimbian Jay Leno”

Stupidest thing that I have done recently. This morning, I am riding downhill and their is a truck in front of me. The ground is still wet from last nights torrential downpour and this truck is lagging, going about 20 miles an hour. I keep looking for a safe place to pass him but, due to the curvy, wet road, I can´t. Oh well, I figure, I´ll just follow behind. After a few miles, a semi-truck pulls up behind me and I continue to ride in between them, down the mountain. I ask myself, “Wouldn´t I be better off just pulling over, drinking some water and letting the slow truck keep going down the hill and continue on my way, unimpeded in a few minutes?” “Don´t be a puss”, I tell myself, “you are fine where you are.”

A few minutes later, out from under the slow truck infront of my comes probably the worst thing you could see come out from under a truck you are following downhill at a dangerously fast speed. No, not Leo Messi´s maimed body ahead of The Champion´s League Final next Saturday, it was a large, deep pothole. “Oh Fuck”, I thought.

Now, this was not the same, “Oh Fuck”, I uttered right before I broke by collarbone in Bolivia last year. I knew I was going “slow” enough that falling was likely, but not a foregone conclusion. I unsuccesfully try to bunny-hop over the pothole, bang my front wheel into the far edge of the hole, knocking both of my waterbottles out of their cages. I hit the brakes as hard as I can and try to slow myself down with my feet and I swerve all over the downhill lane. At this point I can hear two things: my feet banging against the rapidly passing blacktop and, the semitruck behind me slamming on its brakes.

Luckily, I was able to keep the bike upright, slowed down and pulled off the road unharmed. My first feeling at the side of the road was embarassment. Then, “What a dumbass! Jesus, how have I made it this far alive?”

I can´t help but think how stupid I am. Then I think, I bet there are circle of people who would just write this sort of thing off as, “Eh, he was just being agressive.” Or, “Yeah, he´s just an agressive guy”.

Must be nice.

Well, lesson learned. Don´t follow trucks down hills!

As it turns out, the impact of hitting the pothole at such a fast speed bent the front fork of the bike, instantly popping the tire, and bent the back rim, both of which were fixed here in the town of Popayán. The guys at the bike shop said the repairs were free of charge, but I insisted, Please! at least take enough to buy yourselves a beer or two, they complied.

In addition to this, as I was finishing repairing the front tire on the side of the road, an old man walked out the hills with a coffee cup and saucer. Apparently he had seen my stunt and how shook-up I looked, he was bringing me a cup of warm milk to help me out. Regretably, I told him no thanks, and just took off, still a bit embarassed.

I love Colombians!

Except that guy who put the Caution tape around the boulder.

OK, one more quick story just to end on a positive note.

A while later, I rode by a guy who was a spot-on, dead ringer for Jay Leno.
I passed by as he was crossing a rural section of the highway. This guy had it all. Same height and build. White hair, same lenght and style as Leno´s, with a loosefitting ballcap barely resting, old man style, on his head. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeve, buttondown denim shirt, tucked in. Clean shaven face with a large, protruding jaw!

“Uh, ah, uh…hey, It´s the Colombian Jay Leno,” I think to myself as I pass.

Shit, what do you say to this guy?

In English

“I´m with CoCo!!!!!!!!!!”
pause
“Just kidding, that guys sucks”

I don´t think he got it…

peace

“Oye, De donde eres? Bienvenidos a Perú, solo queremos una colaboración”

Let´s back up just a little bit.

Peru´s northern coast is composed of vast stretches of rural desert, which extend from the Pacific Ocean some sixty to seventy miles until the Andes start to build up. Two days prior, I had my longest riding day so far. Eight hours and change of ride time through 110 miles of surprisingly hilly desert brought me to the refuge of Piura, my last stop before reaching the coast again. After a day of rest and muscle recovery, Sunday brought me back to the road.

7:00 am

I woke up at 6:30 and now I head out for the costal city of Talara, which, some 60 miles to the north-west, is the Westernmost point of South America. I am a bit tired as I head out of town to the west. At the edge of the city the road turns to the North. Passing a pair of parked highway police, I nod and head into the desert toward the next town, Sullana, which I will reach after about thirty miles. The terrain becomes rural surprisingly quickly, I pass by a rustic-looking gas station and a large pile of trash burning black smoke into the windless morning air. Aside from these two details, I am not particularly attentive to my surroundings.

7:40am

As I coast up to a small hill in the middle of the road, a guy approaches my bike from the right shoulder, waving a rolled-up newspaper as if to let me know that he needs help. I shake my head “No”, to him and start to pedal again. He now places his hand on my handlebars and gets a kind of weird look in his eyes. I grab his arm to shove him and start yelling at him…

7:44 am

I find myself in a 3-wheeled, covered motorcycle taxi, heading straight off the road into the desert with a group of five men who are frantically talking on their cell phones. The inquisition begins. “Lower your head!”, “Where are you from?”, “Well, welcome to Peru, we just want a little donation from you”. “How much money do you have on you? We know you have a camera, what kind is it? How much is it worth? What else was on your bike that has value? Do you have a computer?” I cooperate, letting them know that my camera may be worth $200 (it actually cost $1000, but I feel the need to mitigate their expectations). I also tell them that I have US$130 and $100 in local currency. I lie and tell them that none of my credit cards even work in Peru and that I have nothing else of value on my bike, just some clothes and an old tent. After about three quarters of a mile the driver of the vehicle stops and we all get out, I look up and, surrounded by brush, sand and emptiness, it looks like the kind of place Joe Pesci would bury a body in the movie “Casino”…

7:40:15 sec

Before I can even touch the guy, I am restrained from behind by what would turn out to be a group of six guys. I try to fight back for about 5 seconds and quickly realize how outnumbered I am. They grab my hands, surround me, pull my helmet off and I can´t even move. They throw me off the bike. Two of them take off in a mototaxi with my bike and everything I own in the back seat. It took them about 25 seconds from the time the first guy put his hand on my bike to the time the bike was on its way back to the city. The five who remain pick me up off the ground and carry me into a second mototaxi. “Wait”, I yell, “I need my passport”. “If you behave and do what we say, we will bring that back with your bike”, I am told by a man in a green sweatshit, which has the hood pulled down over his face and the shoelace tightened so that only his nose is visible to me. This guy takes the role of leader and commences with the interrogation.

7:50 am

After a few minutes of yelling at who I assume to be the guys who took off with my bike, the leader informs me that they are leaving and instructs me to stay with one of the guys, who isn´t particularly big. Then after looking at the two of us for a minute, decides to leave another, larger guy with the two of us. “Wait for us here”, the leader says to me. “When will you be back”. “Twenty to twenty-five minutes”.

7:55 am

My two detainers and I take a little walk around to the back side of a large shrub, and I can´t help but wonder if these guys are planning to kill me. If you do take a hostage and plan to kill him, the best way to make it easy on yourself is to tell him that if they cooperate they will surely be released. As we walk I look at the two guys very closely. I don´t notice any bulges in their waistbands or pockets. The fatter one is wearing a leather fanny pack which could easily conceal a knife. (Yes, adding insult to injury, I was held prisoner by a guy wearing a fanny pack). I am also comforted by the recollection of a conversation I once had with a friend who is well trained in small arms fire. He told me that if you have at least a 30-40 ft. headstart and are running away from an untrained shooter in a zig-zag pattern, he is very unlikely to hit you. Nonetheless, I watch their hands with all of my attention.

Once I have convinced myself that they are unlikely to harm me physically and just want my money, I form a plan for the rest of the situation. I think that due to their lack of discipline and training I could have, if need be, fought these two guys or just run back to the highway and flag down a car to stop. But, if they are really unlikely to hurt me and there seems to be good chance that if I just cooperate I will get my bike, passport and anything else I was carrying of no value to them back, I should build as much rapport as possible. If I attack them or run away, my chances of getting anything back falls to zero. So, I start chatting the guys up, trying to build as much rapport as I can. We talk about what they are doing, their plans for later in the day and their political affiliations. As we talk, I notice that I keep having to bite my tongue, reminding myself of the situation. I am not sure exactly why but guess it was just their overall lack of professionalism as a group, but I kept talking shit to them. I am talking to these guys not as my captors but as if I had just met a couple of guys who were well below par on intelligence and conversating abilities. I couldn´t help myself, I just kept responding with smart ass comments. Here we are, the two of them standing up and me sitting down on the ground in the middle of the desert, talking shit to them. So much for building rapport.

8:20 am

As I am doing my best to be as little of a smart-ass as possible I notice that my right knee is bleeding from when they threw me on the ground. I look a little closer and see that there are about ten little fleas eating the blood out of my cut. I quickly wipe them off and notice that these little fleas are everywhere and if I stop waving my hands around for just a few seconds they swarm all around. In the midst of all this I look up and see a sight I cannot believe…

8:25 am

I look up and see a family walking by. There is a woman wearing a pink t-shirt, followed shortly by her husband and daughter. “Holy Shit!”, I think to myslef, “what the hell are they doing out here”, I look around, there is nothing out here we are in the middle of nowhere. “Wow, this must look really odd”, then I wonder, “Shit, fatty and the skinny guy are going to have some explaining to do if this family walk over here and ask why the two of them are out here with a gringo with a bike helmet, bike shoes and bloody ass knee”. Fatty and Skinny exchange a few nervous glances, the family look at us quizzically, but keep going and I decide to stick at least stick to the part of my plan where I just sit here and end up with most of my (”worthless”) stuff back in my possession. And then I contemplate the scene and wonder what would happen if, just an hour ago, you had told me I would be here, with these guys at this time.

8:30 am

After the family passed out of view, Fatty approached me and said in a serious tone, “Come Here!” and led me even further into the desert behind another large shrub. I kept my eyes glued to his hands, ready to pounce on him the second he should put his hand into a pocket or make a move for any weapon, which luckily he did not. “Sit down here and don´t move”, “You got it man, you are in charge here”. “Hey! If you get up, move or do anything two things will happen. 1. You won´t get any of your things back and 2. We will kill you”. “Sure thing man, you are in charge”.

8:40 am

Fatty comes back behind the bush. “Come on let´s go, they are back”. We walk back to where I was origionally being held and I can see the roof of the mototaxi parked behind a small hill just ahead. “Wait here until we are gone and then, go get your bike and keep going the direction you were headed in, do not go back to Piura”. They take off, and I run over the hill, see my things and…laugh

8:43 am

Something in the way they talked about only wanting my money and camera and alluding the fact that they only wanted what presumably they could sell led to a rather large delusion in my head. I thought they would just leave all the bags attached with my clothes, books, etc. inside. As you can guess, that was not the case. I laughed because I saw my bike sitting there, naked as a new-born baby. As I approached, I saw my money belt, full size bike pump (made me laugh again), and just the bike sitting there, looking like an assault victim, much more so than me at least.

Picking up the bike, I found out why they left the pump. Both tires were flat. As I went through my money belt I saw they left all of my cards, except the Gold American Express. I carried the bike back to the road, where the family that had passed was standing by waiting for a ride. “Did you see all those guys leave”, “Yeah, they took off in the mototaxi heading back to Piura”, “Well, they just stold everything I own”, “No way!, You are kidding, right?”, “No”. I relayed what had happened and shortly after a police officer on motorcycle approached.

9:10 am

I walk into the road and wave down the cop, explain what happened, he radios it back to Piura and after I reinflate the tires, he escorts me back to the city.

12:00 pm

After filing a report with the police, we took a ride around the slums that surround the city center (fruitless) and one of the police officers took me to the local market, which is known for selling stolen electronics (fruitless again). He then accompanied me on a shopping spree where I purchased a gym bag, a few pairs of clothes, toothbrush, deoderant and a pair of sandals. At noon, I find myself on a bus headed for the beach town of Máncora, about 140 miles north of Piura, which would have been my destination the following day.

Partial summary of losses

Canon digital camera $1000
additional lenses $1800
cash $250
everything else $1500

Sentimental shit lost

Journal from the past year full of stories I know I will now forget
English copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo”, I was on page 705 of 870, shit!

The police informed me that they will likely sell whatever they can for approx. 5 to 10 cents on the dollar.
Everything else will be burned or thrown away.

A little over a week later, I had no problem letting go of all the things I lost and I look forward to starting my bike trip again. In the meantime I will be bartending here in Máncora for at least a few weeks.

A Happy Ending?

A little bit of τύχη never hurts, except for when it does.

As it turns out, because I spent time living with my parents while I was back in the States after breaking my collarbone last year, I qualify under my dad´s homeowners insurance policy. Which means that (after a $1000 deductible) I should get most of the money back for the stuff that was stolen.

I´m assuming most of you either noticed the five month gap in entries and did the math or knew about my injury. For those of you who fit into neither catagory, I applaud you for even reading this. You are my new best friend(s). Since I am only speaking to one or two people and maybe a few stray dogs here, I´ll be brief so the tens of you who already know won´t be bored for too long.

1. Go find a bike with a speedomoter on it
2. Go find a hill and start riding down it
3. Wait until you get up to 25 mph (which is surprisingly fast on a bicycle)
4. Jump off the front of the bike and land on the back of your head.

That´s basically what happened and yes it was my fault and totally avoidable. It messed up my back pretty good, took most of the skin off my right side from my shoulder to my hip (wasn´t wearing a shirt) and broke my right collar bone.

So, after a nice four month recovery back in the U.S., I am back to Bolivia to complete my ride…maybe.

“Fighting Darwin”

Here is a brief continuation of the injuries and “injuries” sustained since I have been back in Bolivia.

1. Bloody nose, first one in at least ten years

2. Mysterious fat lip.

After eating a huge fried fish last week, I noticed a sore feeling on the inside of my left lower lip. I Didn´t really pay attention to it, until half an hour later I felt my lip and it had swollen up to a huge size. I walked over to a mirror and laughed at what I saw. It looked like someone had punched me right in the mouth. Unfortunately, I forgot to take a picutre and a few hours later it was gone.

3. Mysterious bites.

A week ago, I am staying at an awesome place that included a free wake up call at 5:00am (someone´s daughters screaming, “Mamí, Mamí”, for ten minutes) and a room the size of my childhood closet. One night, I was showering in their “Romantic Shower” which translates as such: it was a public (shared) shower, there were no lights, no lock on the door and if it weren´t for the cold water I think they really would have nailed the unintentionally romantic ambiance. All of a sudden, I noticed a sharp pain in my left shin. “Damn, that hurt… odd, I must have gotten stung earlier today, oh well”. (Much like the swollen lip, I tend to disregard pain if I don´t actually see something causing it). Fast-forward two minutes to me drying off when I felt something move on my left forearm, I look down and see nothing (remember no lights), move my right hand toward it again and “Aahhh, Something bit me”. It felt like three or four bee stings at once and I still have no idea what the hell it was.

4. Not-so-mysterious Bloody Forehead

Earlier today, the weather was an amazing 78 deg. with a nice breeze. I am walking near the municipal bus terminal here in Cochabamba. Leading up to the terminal, the street and sidewalk are packed with pedestrians and vendors selling everything from juice to tattoos to candy. I am walking, innocently enough, up to pass another booth full of trinkets and full of hanging signs advertising cell phone minutes for sale. I duck to pass under the awning, which at 5´8″ leaves plenty of head room for the average Bolivian adult to pass under without having to duck. Right as I pass under the awning, one of the cell phone signs catches a gust of wind at exactly the right moment and smacks me just below the hairline, square in the forehead. “Shit, that was a pretty solid knock from a plastic sign, must have hit me square-on”.

My mind immediately flashes back to highschool baseball. Whenever someone would get hit by a pitch, the entire team would yell from the dugout, “Don´t rub it!!”. And if the hit batsman would not heed the friendly advice, he would be mercilessly ridiculed for months on end. In the meantime, I look back at the sign, feel it and realize that it is not plastic, but metal. This explains the surprisingly sharp sting from the impact. “Wow, I wonder if that broke skin”. So, in the face of years of social programming to act otherwise, I feel my forehead (let the record state, however, that it was not to rub pain away, but out of curiosity). And yeah, that sign broke right through several layers of skin and drew blood. Luckily it missed the vein that professional wrestlers use to cut themselves (a la ´The Wrestler´) which results in profuse bleeding and lightheadedness. Hopefully this won´t leave too much of a scar.

[Speaking of scars. Before falling off my bike, I was actually planning a post entitled "Free Souvenirs" where I listed and explained the scars I accumulated over the first ten months on the road.

These include but are not limited too, a scar on left forearm from falling off the front of a wet boat in Venezuela, scar on second knuckle of left index finger from punching the safety railing on the first day of the cruise to Antarctica, a scar on inside of right ankle from kicking a large rock in Venezuela, scarred achilles tendon area on both legs from 10 day hike wearing brand-new shoes in Chile]

On to a maybe potentially serious injury

5. Not-so-obvious knee injury

As I sit typing this, I have been back in Bolivia for thirteen days, and I have cycled a total of 125 miles. At this pace I will be back to California some time toward the end of Palin´s first term in the White House. The stats break down like this.

Day 1 and 2. Prep.
Day 3 and 4. Ride 110 miles combined.
Day 5,6 & 7. REST.
Day 8. Ride 15 miles.
Day 9,10,11, 12 &13. REST.

“Damn”, you must be thinking, “That´s a lot of rest, you must be really out of shape”.

Well, apparently my left knee is VERY out of shape. Toward the middle of day four, I noticed a slight pain in my left knee. And, considering my record of not being deterred or even aware of slight to not-so-slight pain, I continued on. By the time (18 miles later) that I reached the next town I had switched to my clip-in shoe for my right foot and let my left foot rest on the down tube of the bike.

Three days of anti-inflammatorys and ice later, I hit the road feeling all healed up…until about 5 miles into the ride. Same shit. So, I swallowed my pride and took a bus to the nearest city, Cochabamba, to rest for a full week. Here I sit, 4 days into my second rest cycle. No idea what I´ll do if, come next week, the same thing happens. I guess I will figure that out if it occurs.

Editors notes:

1. I should note that this whole “taking anti-inflammatory medication” thing constitutes a radical shift in my medicinal philosophy. For all of my life, I have operated under the, “If I can´t catch a buzz from it, I´m just as good not taking it” ethos. I have, in my old age, decided to do the “mature, doctor reccomended thing”, and take Ibuprofin around the clock, given the apparent lack of options if I don´t get better. Time will tell if these so-called “don´t give you a buzz but are still worth taking” medications are worth taking after all.

2. Recounting all of these injuries really makes me wonder how these genes have been passed on for so long. Seriously, How? Nearly every sport I have taken up has resulted in a significant injury.

Baseball (broken ulna and radius)
Rock Climbing (dislocated knee)
Snowboarding (broken radius, twice)
Cycling (broken clavicle, stay tuned for updates)

I guess I should have stuck with skateboarding.

The only thing I can come up with is that I must come from a long line of smooth talkers. So, ladies, if you are interested in having children that will likely die at a premature age, I can be reached via this website or at sepulvedamatt@gmail.com.

Enough Injury talk.

Some quick observations from Central Bolivia.

P.S. If you don´t find buttsex jokes funny, DO NOT read the last story.

Overall, people this side of the Andes have been much more open and friendly than their counterparts I previously reported on.

“Carpooling”

An acceptalbe mode of transportation in this part of the world includes Me (the father), my wife and our three children lined up single file riding around on the back of a dirtbike. And remember kids, helmets are just a ploy by the man to take your money. And so what if the tires are balled and barely inflated, HOP ON! Seriously, I have seen this several times. Love it.

“Lazy do..oh, ouch”

Speaking of children and the proper operation of heavy machinery. Last week, I was riding into the village of Portachuelo and as I was approaching, there was a pick-up truck that appeared to be full of children leaving town. As we approached each other, I noticed two things.

1. While the truck´s cabin was full of about eight screaming 9 year olds, there was an older, surely more responsible 13 year old piloting the ship. Nice.

2. There was a noise coming from the back of the truck suggesting that they were dragging something.

As they passed me, what they were dragging came into view. Attached to the tow-hitch of the truck was a twenty foot long rope and attached to the end of the rope…an enormous dog. They were going too fast for me to identify it, but it was huge and made an unforgettable impression in my mind once I realized what it was. My first thought, “Hey, why isn´t that dog running?”, followed quickly by, “Oh, OUCH! Damn!”.

Yeah, I figured she either couldn´t keep up or these kids were just dragging her out of town to give her a proper burial in the surrounding fields.

Two more quick ones

“Matt Attends his first Riña de Gallo”

During my three days of rest in the small town of Buena Vista, I was invited to a local male bonding activity. One of the men from the town gave me a tour all afternoon and after we finished he invited me, “Oh, you´ve gotta come to the Riña del Gallo tonight, lot´s of fun”.

Later that night, we are joined by 50 other people (90+% men) for my first ever Cockfight! As we sit around the ring, waiting for the action to start, I wonder to myself how exactly these things end. If the roosters can only peck each other with their beaks, it´s gotta take forever to actually die, right?

Well, as it turns out, the owners of the respective roosters use medical tape to attach sharpened nails to the back of each of the rooster´s legs. Ah, now that seems to fit. I am told by one owner that I should stick around another month and a half for the town´s annual Party where they make the nails extra sharp for a more intense fight.

The action commences and it´s not actually as bad as you would think. Little bits of blood, but it didn´t strike me as excessively violent. After about 20 minutes and several beers, I look down and below my seat in the bleachers, a white lab is resting peacefully oblivious to all of the men screaming and sounds of rooster feathers ruffling. I look over to his owner and ask, “How long until he gets in the ring?” Wow, not even half an hour in and I am already making Michael Vick jokes, shame on me.

After several hours of drinking and gambling (I broke even) the final fight saw the only disturbing action of the night. Rooster 1 was beating Rooster 2 really bad, and after a while Rooster 2 went into “lets just play defense” mode. A few minutes later #2 was unable to defend himself, he was just running in circles and kept repeatedly banging his head into the padded wall of the ring. That was kind of sad, but his owner essentially conceded the victory to #1 and took his rooster home for either a cool bath and wound stitching or some rooster soup.

In the final analysis, the owners of each rooster really seemed to care for their animals, yes, they were betting money on their health and perhaps their lives but there was a sense of compassion and pride in all of the owners. Guess you had to be there.

Also, if you ever find yourself at a Riña del GAllo and want to know which rooster to bet on, here you go.

When they bring the roosters back from being prepped and are about to start fighting, look carefully at each competitor´s legs. Whichever one seems the most scared or is shaking will lose, 90% of the time this works 100% of the time.

“Hypothetical Question in a Café”

A young man is sitting at a small café table looking into the eyes of his woman. He is looking deeply into her eyes and holding each of her arms with his hands, in a casual yet not abesnt-minded manner. And he is talking to her, for twenty minutes non-stop. They are not fighting, her body language was not confrontational or annoyed at all. By the way, she didn´t get a word in edgewise… I wonder, what could he possibly be saying to her for all this time. I can´t think of anything I would want to say to someone for twenty minutes straight.
Two espressos and half an hour after they leave, I have narrowed it down to the only two possible, logical options.

1. He was practicing his role as Hamlet in a local production

or

2. He was trying to convince her to let him put it in her butt.

still not sure, your thoughts?

Disclaimer:

This has more to do with me than any of you I´m sure, but here goes anyway

(In Alphabetical order)

Argentina – Thank you for all of the hospitality, but I am still not sure if you are mocking me when you call me “Ché”

Australia – you are cool enough, but you gotta cut the word “heaps” out of your vocabulary. Seriously, at least limit it to once a sentence

Bolivia – see previous post

Brazil – love your language, but tell el Prez. Lula to make the blood sample optional for U.S. citizens so that I can come stereotype you in your natural habitat…

Canada – you are cool except for those of you from BC who always brag about how good your weed is, I´m sure it is, but that doesn´t mean you need to bring it up in the middle of a conversation about Beethoven

Chile – As what´s his name yelled at Jared Leto in “Fight Club”, “You´re too… … … blonde!”
And by blonde I mean nice

England – You are too witty, please stop, you making the rest of us look bad. Your humor is like a nice dry Bordeaux, Awesome, but not what you want to drink with every meal. P.S. See you June 11, bitches

Germany – Most of you look upsettingly un-Aryan

Israel – “Aji, ta´hat ya´fe” Let´s just say the bar was set too high by the first two Israelis I got to know. But I did like it when former Prime Minister Golda Meir said, when asked if she believed in God, “I believe in the Israeli people and the Israeli people believe in God”. She makes Clinton look like a 5-year old who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Well played ma´am, well played.

Japan – You are pleasantly quiet and well behaved compared to how loud and obnoxious everyone else is. But, could you maybe be a little quieter when you get up at 6 a.m., gracias

Mexico – I love you speak Spanish

Sweden – It´s OK to like your country, just ask the French, they´ll tell you all about it. And by the way, the letter, “Å” is the best sound I have ever heard, ever. Thanks for that

USA – A note to the self-loathers. The next one of you that makes a self-deprecating remark because you think it makes you hip and worldly will be choked out and taken to the nearest Embassy for a return flight.

Venezuela – Thanks to Chavez for officially devaluing your currency after I left, much appreciated.

A few bonus groups

“Old” people who stay in hostels – Just like the Japanese, but I feel like my parents are watching me and I´m 17 again, so yeah, cut that out, thanks. And P.S. Dear that one old guy who screamed us down in Valparaiso, Chile. Thanks that was great; you really got your point across.

Bickering Couples – I wish I could say that you make me feel good about 1. Being single and 2. Traveling alone, but I just get sad when I hear you bickering about trivial shit, so cut that out. I can tell you from personal experience, if it´s gotten to that point, just cut your losses, you will be better off. Trust me.

small towns and deflated flashers
camaraderie on the road
man´s best friend
riding partners
choose your own adventure in Bolivia
3rd world fashion

1. Small Towns

A few thoughts and observations about small towns in Northern Argentina and Southern Bolivia. Without romanticizing rural South America, there are several things I have seen that starkly contrast with the way I remember things being in the States.

In Bellville, Argentina, while getting my bike fixed in a local bicicleteria (read: some guys garage) I saw an 8-year old girl run to the liquor store to buy cigarettes for her dad. (Advantage, Argentina)

In Northern Argentina in general, smaller towns seem to not have a driving age or enforced laws mandating a license to drive. (Arg 2-0 US)

I have passed through several towns with train tracks running through them, with no gates to protect you from the trains. (3-0)

The other day, I was passed by a truck that was being driven by a child who couldn´t have been older than 13 years old, just driving down the highway in a large, industrial truck with his friend riding shotgun. (3-1)

Also, the smaller the town, the more lax the drinking and driving laws seem to be. To be more accurate, the “drinking while driving” laws seem to be non-existent as well. (4-1)

Earlier this week, I was having breakfast at a roadside restaurant/hotel and two truckers walked in, sat down, and ordered two liters of beer…it was 9:00 a.m. and they still had a few hours to go before reaching their destination. (4-2)

The thing I like about these things is that despite these “dangerous” practices, people here still go on living. There are no large piles of bodies at the roadside because someone didn´t see or hear the train coming…As Adam Carolla said, “In the US we have no real problems, too much time and too many lawyers”. The result is way too much emphasis on safety , bla, bla , bla, end rant.

Despite their similarities, there is a stark difference between what constitutes a “small town” in Argentina and in Bolivia. In Argentina, a small town will consist of several blocks of houses that look just like houses in the states in terms of their construction. The town also will have a state-of-the-art gas station at its entrance complete with free Wi-Fi internet, hot showers and a small-sized market full of food and bottled water.
In contrast, a small town in Bolivia (at least in the South) consists of anywhere from 3 to 100 adobe houses. Some may have a store or someone´s house where you can have gas or diesel hand pumped from a barrel. As far as showers go, you can find a room to rent for the night that will cost you anywhere from $1.70 to $3.00, but this will not include a shower…if you do find a shower, for example, at a hostel in a large town, they may tell you they have water and when you put your hand under the shower it may feel hot, but somehow, once you step under the showerhead, the water somehow turns cold. Not sure how this works, but either way, you are still only paying $5/night with breakfast usually included.

Another note on the really small towns in Bolivia. Most, while not having bottled water to sell, will have a well or ground water source that so far (knock, knock) have had drinkable water for free.
However, both the maps and people in Bolivia give directions about as well as a weather vane in a storm. However, after regularly getting contradictory directions to various cities, I realized that wrong directions are not the worst response you can get…

The best example of this so far occurred a few weeks ago. I was riding quite literally in the middle of nowhere, Bolivia. In the middle of a large climb, I passed by a group of three adobe huts and saw a woman sitting down against the wall. I didn´t have much water left, so I asked her if she knew if a town was coming up. “Yes”, she replied, there is a town coming up. “Great”, I thought, “How far to this town and do they sell water there”? … … She is thinking…”I don´t know”…”You don´t know?”…”Yeah, I don´t know…”

“Wow”, I thought, “You do live here right? And oh, you have lived here for decades…Tell you what…at the risk of sounding like a ungrateful foreigner, just lie to me next time, tell me, “Yeah, Yeah, it´s 20km up that hill”. I would rather be misinformed than uniformed.

Which brings me to another point, a question actually…?

Whenever I ride through a small Bolivian town I will frequently see an old woman sitting by the side of the road, as I ride by I will always smile, nod, say “Good Morning”, “How are you?” etc. some way of acknowledging their presence. Usually they will acknowledge me with a hello or a nod and a wave, but on way more than one occasion, the woman will make no response. Usually, here is how the script goes…

Me (riding by fairly slowly): Hola! (with a wave)
Woman: …(does not turn head up to look at me)
Me (still riding but not pedaling): Como esta Ud.?
Woman: …
Me: (I decide to answer for her) Bien!
Woman: …
Me: Que tenga un buen día, Ciao…(rides off stage)
Woman: …

Now, this interests me…My question for you is this, what do you call someone in the States who refuses to acknowledge someone of a different skin color?…

Now, before I brand these Quechua women as racist, there are perhaps a few explanations of the above scene that avoid bigotry or xenophobia.

Maybe these women are deaf? Could be, will have to follow up on this one…
Maybe they only speak Quechua, not Spanish. Quechua is the most popular indigenous language of Northern Argentina, Chile, and Southern Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador. (Side note, with millions of speakers, Quechua is the most widely spoken Indigenous Language in the Western Hemisphere)

This, even if true, doesn´t work because, as I found out, the way to say “Good Morning” in Quechua is the same as in Spanish, but even still, if someone rode by and said something in Mandarin, you would at least (and especially if it were in Mandarin) look up, right?
And then, maybe these women are sleeping? Wouldn´t some guy riding by on a bicycle, frequently ringing a bell, wake you up?

Either way, it doesn’t look good for these women…will keep you posted on any further developments.

However, lest I leave you with a negative opinion of the rural people of Southern Bolivia, let me say that while I have found the people of Argentina to be warmer toward me, there certainly are open, friendly people in Southern Bolivia. For example, this past Tuesday I met a woman who was, while perhaps not the most socially well-graced person I´ve met, was an excellent citizen-ambassador for her country.
I was making the 150km (93 mile) mostly downhill trip from Potosí (elev. 13,400 ft) to Sucre (elev. 9100 ft). I was passing through a 15 mile stretch of relatively flat road between mountain ranges, when I happened upon a school that was getting out of session. I was joined for the next 6 miles by two young boys who were riding their bikes down the highway back home, which happened to be the way I was going.
One of the kids, named Jules Verne, after the author, chatted me up the entire way, asking questions about where I was from, what I was doing, just like any super-curious, uninhibited child. This all made for a quick, enjoyable ride back to the town and his house.
So, as we pull up to the dirt road that heads up the way to his house, there are four adults working in a garden/yard at the side of the road. We greet them and it becomes apparent that they are familiar with one another. We chat for a few minutes, nicely enough until one of the women pipes up, “Ay gringo, dame plata” (Hey whitey, give me some money). She then proceeds to lift up her shirt a bit to show me her stomach, and I breathe a sigh of relief that she stopped there, just to stop the situation from getting VERY awkward. She then continues in her loud, yelling tone, telling me something about being sick or something, then, as if I sighed too early, her shirt went all the way up, exposing her deflated, floppy left breast…

Now, I´m not sure if she was asking me for money for a breast augmentation (doubt it), or was trying to motivate me to give her money, but given the audience, it became really awkward, really fast at this point. I mean, it would have been bad enough if it had just been the two of us, but add in the three other townspeople, and then two ten-year olds and Jesus, I was stuck and totally unable to think of a witty thing to say in Spanish to disarm the situation…

She then proceeded to whip out her other breast (just as saggy) and continue to ask me for money, and complain that she didn´t feel well. “Aha”, I thought, “my way out of this”. I reached into a bag in by bike and pulled out a bag of coca leaves and gave her a bunch. Coca leaves are known to alleviate, among other things, altitude sickness, hunger and headaches. This seemed to distract her from her un-erotic striptease long enough to do two important things

1. Keep her pants on and
2. Allow me to say a proper “Adios”, to the kids and hit the road.

So yes, not all Bolivian women refuse to acknowledge fair-skinned, semi-homeless looking cyclists.

2. Camaraderie on the Road

Motorcycle touring is a very popular pastime in Argentina. Cycling through Argentina I was passed almost daily by a group of touring motorcyclists. While these groups ranged from European tourists who purchased pre-planned package tours of the country on BMW motorcycles to pairs of Argentineans touring their country on 150cc dirt bikes and everything in between, there was something that they all shared. Whenever they would pass me, I would receive a plethora of honks and, waves and fist-pumps. As if to say, “Hey bud, we are in the same boat, Right On. We are fighting the good fight”. While the camaraderie and solidarity is appreciated, I can´t help but think of the following analogy…

Picture yourself on a chilly April morning in Boston, the big day has finally come-the World-Famous Boston Marathon. For the better part of the last twelve months, you have meticulously watched your diet and ran sixty miles every week. You are 3 and 1/2 hours into the grueling run, nearing the “dead zone” of marathons, around mile 18. You reach the top of a small hill, grab a small cup of water to wet your parched mouth, all of a sudden you hear a voice. “Hey man, yeah good job! We are kicking ass out here this morning”. You must be hallucinating, no one could possibly have that much breath and enthusiasm after that hill…You look up to see what hell is going on when to your utter disgust you spot the speaker…Your tired eyes are greeted by a guy wearing a fanny pack, sweat bands and white Oakley sunglasses passing you on a Segway…

Yeah, except for the watching what I eat and running 60 miles a week, that´s exactly how I felt whenever a group of motorcyclists would pass me pumping their fists…

That said, I did meet a few really cool motorcyclists and if any of you have the desire to tour Argentina by motorcycle, I know a guy who can set you up with a brand new dirt bike that will get you around for $2,000. Let me know, seriously.

3. Man´s best friend

Just a quick word on dogs. For those of you are from the States and who have never been to South America, dogs are treated very differently here. In most towns and cities, packs of “homeless” dogs roam the streets, searching for food and marking their territory. Homeless dogs are so common that I was actually taken aback a week ago when I saw someone walking a dog on a leash, I honestly can´t remember the last time I saw someone actually walking a dog.

Every time I meet a cyclist, the subject of dogs always comes up. From all of the accounts I´ve heard,
the dogs of South America seem to have made a pact to terrorize touring bicyclists. Most cyclists, if they don´t wield a wooden club, carry several large rocks within hands reach at all times to scare off rabid barking dogs. I am happy to report that while dogs frequently chase after me with barks ranging from excitement to “I´m pissed off, get the hell out of my turf”, I have never felt in danger of being bitten by a dog. And furthermore, most dogs I pass by on the side of the road don´t even get up, they just like a Bolivian woman, I ring my bell and they don´t even lift their head…hmm, maybe the Quechua women may be in on some pact with the dogs…

Either way, if you ever hear the horror stories from some hippy cyclist, don´t buy into the rumors of dogs being a huge threat to cyclists. Even the dogs that seem the most pissed off just seem to be defending their territory, once I get to about 200 feet from where they were sitting; they stop chasing me and resume their sitting in the sun. After noticing this, I will now actually tease the dogs by slowing down and making it easier for them to chase me, just to see how far they will run from their territory. The record so far was well over a 1/2 mile…well let´s hope I didn´t just jinx myself and get bit by a rabid dog next week…

4. Cycling partners

I have been fortunate enough in the past month to share time on the
road for a few days with amazing cyclists on two occasions
Just a quick insight into that

A. For two days in Northern Argentina, I cycled with a guy namedThomas. Originally from Austria, but a resident of Florida for over a decade, Thomas is undertaking a rather ambitious project. He is
riding his bicycle from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska (essentially the northernmost point in the States) to Ushuaia, Argentina (The Southernmost City in the World). Not impressed, well he is also
climbing the highest peak in every country along the way. If you are interested, check him out at www.panamericanpeaks.com.

Another interesting thing about Thomas´ adventure is that he is riding by recumbent bicycle (do a google image search). It´s a bicycle where you essentially lay down on your back and pedal like you are on a
couch watching TV. I kept telling him that because of this, I was unimpressed by his project and think that he is lazy… It´squite a sight though.

So every time we would pull into town, every child within eyesight would stop whatever they were doing and start pointing and laughing in utter amazement. It was nice to be incognito compared to Thomas but after the two days I began to feel like that one girl at the bar feels. You know the one, she´s got a really hot
friend that she always goes out with but she herself is fat or just unattractive, never gets any attention…It´s tough on the ego. Hey, I did tell you that I´m primarily doing this for vanity right?
But, I had great conversations with Thomas and the company was very
nice to have. But now I am left wondering if he too is ignored by the
allegedly-xenophobic women of rural Bolivia…
B. The road from Tupiza to Uyuni, Bolivia looks innocent enough on a map, just a straight line of “dirt road” for about 200km (120 miles). As it turns out, it´s not quite that simple.

Leaving the town of Tupiza I set a record so far for fastest flat tire. I had left the center of the small town and crossed a bridge to ask for directions at the local gas station. Leaving the gas station I was greeted by a quick hissing sound, I looked down and saw a completely flat rear tire…I had gone about 1/4 of a mile…a short 40 minutes later I was back on the road. The scenery leaving the town was amazing; some easy hills and ton of red rock cliffs, like the Grand Canyon. After a few hours I ran into two Dutch cyclists, Tom and Tom, (that´s 3 for 3 on Tom´s for those keeping score) who were having lunch by the side of the road. They were just wrapping up so we all decided to ride together. An hour or so later as we reached the first town, we stopped to ask when the next town would come and if they would have water there. Apparently, we were told, there were no more towns until the city of Atocha, some 60 miles away. Tom and Tom decide to fill up their water bottles and an additional 5L jug each, for a total of 8 L (2 gallons) each.

I fill up my 3L of water and wonder why the hell they would carry all that water…I would soon find out.

Without exaggerating, for the next two days straight we climbed uphill and didn´t even see as much as a flat road or 3 huts in total. The only thing I think that kept me going was the hope that beyond the next curve at the top of the hill would be the fabled Bolivian Altiplano…After telling myself this about five times I think I knew at some level that I was lying to myself, but, like Guy Pearce said in Memento, “We all lie to ourselves to be happy”. So yeah, we were rained on, hailed on, experienced winds of 80mph and slept in a llama corral and camped with overnight temperatures of -12deg C (10deg F) all at elevations between 12,000 and 14,000 feet.

The following are notes from my journal.

“Dos de Mayo, 2010
Holy shit, what a day. We just kept going up and up and up, but we finally had some drops. All day, I ate an apple and two cookies for breakfast, eight cookies for lunch and 1 3/4L of water (that´s all the food I had left). We rode from 8am to 5pm, so hard. Finally found a good downhill section. Flat tire…patched it..Nope, that didn´t work, had to put a new tube in…tonight we are sleeping with two miners, Adolfo (family owns the mine) and ??. They made us a nice mix of 96% alcohol and hot cinnamon tea…we just kept drinking it, it was so warm. There are so many stars out tonight, amazing, for the 2nd night in a row. This short paragraph does not do justice to the difficulty of the day…One time the wind was so strong that I couldn´t even hold my bike up while I was just standing and we (the bike and I) almost fell off a ledge. And, at one point as I was looking ahead at Tom, the wind blew him and his bike over onto the ground, while he was riding…

Lying to oneself…
HOPE…
Sisyphus and Nietzsche´s Eternal Return of the Present
Can you say ¨Yes´ to life, on life´s terms?”

So, that was a difficult day. But an interesting note about the generous miners we stayed with for the night. Aside from their generous offerings of alcohol and marijuana, they liked to smoke cigarettes at what I would consider to be a dangerously close distance to their supply of dynamite. I entered one of their rooms to see if I could move a generator to fit my tent inside and the guy whose name I can´t remember walked in and said (holding lit cigarette in hand), “NO, you shouldn´t put your tent in here, look at all this dynamite” as he grabbed a huge sack full of about 100 sticks of dynamite…”Uh, OK”, I agree, “let´s go back outside then”…as we quickly exit the room before this guy ashes into the dynamite…

Aside from their lack of safety standards, I probably had the most surreal moment of the bike journey so far…

The following morning, after hot tea and breakfast, we are getting ready to head out and we are all just chatting…

Me (to Adolfo): Entonces, que van a hacer hoy?
Adolfo: Pues, vamos a la mina para trabajar un poquito, y luego, por la noche, Tratar de conquistar el mundo!

Yeah, he said that today, they are going to go to the mine to work for a little bit, but that later they were going to try to take over the world!

Yeah, a Bolivian miner who we met in the middle of the mountains quoted Pinky and the Brain to me. I started laughing so hard, He told me how he used to love that show, I told him, Me too… left their “house” with a huge smile on my face. amazing…

Over the next two days, we finally reached the Altiplano and eventually the small city of Uyuni. I am so grateful to have met my cycling partners, I learned so much from Tom and Tom, they shared their water when I ran out, gave me pasta when I ran out, and overall were very accommodating to an amateur cyclist such as myself. Lesson Learned…

And while I am on the topic of difficulties, I must confess that on the road from Tupiza to Uyuni, the day before the journal entry, May 1, after a hail storm had moved past, We had to have been well over 13,000ft, I stopped. I had a bad headache and started to get dizzy and felt like I was going to throw up. I rested for a bit, ate a banana and some cookies, but 10 minutes later, I felt the same, so I pushed my bike about 100m up the hill, and I did this again the following day…so yeah, I cheated…but didn´t lie about it…

5. Chose your own adventure in Bolivia

Not all off the roads in Bolivia are quite that frightening. The road from the border to Tupiza, for example, is under construction. For the first 3 miles, it is actually paved with fresh asphalt. After leaving the town, the old road continues about 50 miles to Tupiza. The road alternates between sand, washboard looking hard dirt, and just a regular road that someone has come along and thrown strawberry-sized rocks all over. The old road continues like this the entire way, while these are the three worst types of road surface to ride a road bike on, it was a somewhat predictable path…However, the construction of the new road continues usually within eyeshot of the old road. The new road is much more adventurous. It is in various states of construction, with tons of turns. And you would never know what would be beyond the next corner. It reminded me of the old “Choose your own Adventure” books, where you read a page then make a decision based on what you read, then turn to a different page based on the decision you made.

Around the various corners would lie anything including…

1. A construction crew with steamrollers flattening the dirt into a hard-packed, smooth surface
2. A water truck watering the road
3. A thirty by ten foot trench interrupting the road, being built to allow water to pass under the new road (this meant getting off the bike and walking it off the road and through the desert for a while until I could get back onto the road, this probably happened 30 times)
4. A freshly paved, 3 mile (5K) downhill stretch that cars were not allowed to drive on yet! (so nice)
5. A cactus field 100m long
6. An old man with a huge bundle of sticks, pedaling a bike with no brakes uphill

6. Third World Fashion

Riding around Bolivia I have seen a really high amount of U.S. Athletic clothing being worn. Everything from Chicago Bulls jackets, to Buffalo Bills beanies. But, by far the most popular, even surpassing NY Yankee and FC Barcelona apparel has been Cal Berkeley clothing. I have no idea why it is so ubiquitous, but it is hard to ride for a day in Southern Bolivia without seeing a Cal Jacket or hat…weird. But I am still looking for one of the t-shirts pronouncing the losing team from a major sporting event to be the winner, you know like the “Indianapolis Colts: 2010 Super Bowl Champs!” shirts…will keep you posted

1. What was the name of that Michael Douglas movie from 1993? or “Laughing at oneself…again”
2. What traveling is
3. More thoughts on fashion
4. My New Haircut
5. Why I love Capitalism, a philosophy of art

Hello Kids.

Greetings from Salta, Argentina. This is the last major city I will be visiting in Argentina. I will leave tomorrow and should arrive at the Bolivian Border before the month´s end.

Just a couple quick thoughts from the past few weeks.

1. So, I finally decided to become a real cyclist and buy the specials shoes and pedals that click together. They are supposed to help when climbing hills, which I will be doing plenty of in the coming months as I cycle in Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador and Colombia. The small town of Santaigo del Estero, Argentina has a famous bicicleteria that several people in small towns along the way has reccomended I visit. After a quick tune-up in the shop, I was fitted for a pair of silver and black (Go Raiders!) cycling shoes and some fancy pedals, all made by Shimano, for those of you who know the cycling world, there stuff is supposed to be top of the line. But, as I found out the next day, that does not make one a competant cyclist. Like the guy at the mountain with brand-new, expensive snowboard who falls off the lift on the bunny slope…

So, I ended up buying the “training-wheels” version of the pedals, where on one side you can clip in Lance Armstrong-style and on the other side of the pedal, it is just a normal pedal.

The following day about 2 hours out of town, after climbing a large hill, I pulled down off the road onto the gravel shoulder to have some water and catch my breath for a bit. After a few minutes, I put the water bottle away, looked over to make sure no trucks were coming up the hill, clipped my left foot into the pedal, pushed down and started back up the 4 inch bump that separated the gravel shoulder from the asphault road…then…well my internal dialogue went something like this…

OK, nice rest, climbing the hills feels pretty good with these fancy shoes, much easier
All right, no cars coming good to go…
OK, left foot clipped in, push it down, just got to get up this 4 inch bump and back onto the highway…
Oh yeah, I forgot I put the bike in a really easy gear so it would be easy to get started again…
Well, that last pedal stroke barely got me over the bump so now I need a little more speed…
No problem, I´ll just lift my left foot of the pedal and give myself a pus…
Oh, shit, foot´s connected to the pedal, here I go…
**THUD** (the sound of me and my bike and all of my stuff falling over sideways and hitting the asphault)
AAHHH, SHIT that hurt!

So, yeah, just like the guy with the $2000 snowboard falling off the ski lift, I went down like a chump.

It hurt all right, no injuries though. I´m just glad I looked to make sure no trucks were coming first. After getting up, I simultaneously laughed out loud at myself and cursed myself for not hiring a film crew to document my trip back to the States. That video of me falling down while not even riding would have made some serious money on America´s Funniest Home Videos.

2. Before leaving for Venezuela last August I did a lot of reading about travel etc. It´s funny, looking back nine months later, all of the research really goes out the window once you are gone. Given that, and that I have been spending a lot more time in small villages getting to know a ton of people I normally would not have met, if I would have been traveling by bus for example (I know this is a sentance fragment, but I´m tired right now, so forgive me, por favor). I recently recalled a quote I read a long time ago.

“Traveling consists of leaving your place of residence, adventuring far, far away only to conversate with and befriend the same kind of people that you ignored back at home”

So, keep this in mind, make sure not to ignore the guy taking your money at the gas station or the random person walking through the park next to you, because to some traveler standing next to you, these people are exotic specimens worth conversating with, and they should be to you as well. Either that or, if you are traveling, make sure not to exotify the people you meet on the road because in all likelyhood they are ignoring and being ignored by most of the people around them.

I guess what i am trying to say is that it is wrong to exotify people because they are from a distant land, dig deeper, see if they have anything of substance going on in their heads. Likewise, don´t simply ignore everyone around you at home just because you are busy doing whatever you have convinced yourself is important, and try to find interesting people in your everyday life.

OK, enough waxing philosophical. Time to laugh at me some more.

3. Fashion Update.

Change to one of my 4 rules of fashion.
Rule 1. No white sunglasses. no changes here
Rule 2. No socks with sandals. ditto
Rule 3. No pants that zip-off into shorts. nope, still shouldn´t do that
Rule 4. Don´t wear sunglasses when it is cloudy or getting dark. **Change, or rather, an exception has been added to Rule 4.

So, I always wear sunglasses when I am riding, just to keep my eyes from drying out. A few days back I was heading into the mountains, it was cloudy and about to be getting dark. I consulted my laminated list of fashion rules and decided that, even that no one was around, I should probably still take my glasses off. No sooner than 5 minutes later, it felt like a bug actually hit me right by the eye…

“Huh”, I thought…It felt like it was actually in the outside corner of my eye. I proceeded to rub my eye with my filthy hand, just to make sure there was no bug there…it, of course, started stinging…and felt like I had actually gotten some dust in my eye in the process…

So, I pull over, rub a little more and look down in my mirror to see what was going on…

After a few seconds my vision clears and I can see that my eye is actually pretty red…and also, I found the large speck of dust that got trapped in my eye…Yeah, let´s just get that out…

Oh, what´s that now…the speck of large-grain-of-sand-sized dust particle in my eye now has legs and is crawling around on the surface of my eye! WTF!

Yeah, the bug had landed ON my eye and proceeded to crawl around on the surface of my eyeball! And I witnessed this in a very close mirror. Yeah, that was one of the grosser things I have seen in the past nine months. On top of all this, once I realized there what was going on, it took me a good 20-30 seconds to get it out!

So yeah, if you see me riding around Latin America at night time…in the rain with my sunglasses on…just let me be…all right…

And by the way, it is also never acceptalbe to wear the “Sunglasses with clear lenses” sunglasses.

4. My New Haircut

So, yeah, a while back I got a really cheap hotel room because I was really tired and just wanted a place to sleep without being bothered…Lucky for me this hotel had a full cable line-up, including just what every person in my shoes needs, MTV.

So, apparently, someone thought it would be a good idea to take the guy from “My New Haircut” video on YouTube (full of profanity and NSFW, but funny…sort of…). So, they thought it would be a good idea to take this guy and give him his own show!

I thought it was actually a joke at first…There couldn´t actually be people like this in real life right? Well apparently “Jersey Shore” is an actual show. I couldn´t believe it! After watching the pilot episode, I was full of many confused, mixed thoughts…

First off, I was really upset at the lack of Heineken and Jager-Bombs…come on people, are you serious about this or what? But maybe they didn´t want to give it all up in the first episode…

Secondly, This makes me really not miss being in the USA.

Third, as far as these guys go…I blame women for these guys even existing in the first place. Women, you enable this kind of behavior and disposition. I guarantee you, if guys like this weren´t getting laid, there is no way people would act like this…So ladies, next time you see one of these types, don´t give them any attention, good or bad, just pretend they don´t exist. Unless of course, you are turned on by this sort of tomcatting. Well in that case, I´m not sure what I can really tell you here except, please, please, please, dopn´t forget to take your birth control. In fact, go ahead and double down, just to be safe.

fourthly. These are supposed to be what´s hip in the Italian-American community these days…Jesus, how far you have fallen since the days of GoodFellas. If I hadn´t lost Pesci´s cell number, I would call him up, tell him to grab his mom´s steak knife, get Ray Liotta and a car with a really big trunk and head straight to New Jersey.

Fifthly. But really I think the crazy thing about all of this is the vanity. See, we are all basically vain to a certain degree or another, but along with the vanity of the normal person comes another level of vanity that tells the person, yes you can be vain but you must make an attempt to conceal your vanity…don´t flaunt it. The “cast members” of this show do not seem to have any semblance of this “vanity regulating” layer to their vanity…

I think this is what makes them “compelling” or what draws people to watch them. Like, “Hello, you aren´t supposed to be so obvious about your Narcissism”.

5. Why I love Capitalism.

Kind of piggy-backing on the previous section.

The other day, a friend and I were discussing art and how shitty popular art (films, music, television) are in a market society, how the lowest common denominator is catered to, etc.

I can´t deny this of course, however, instead of getting down on capitalism for destroying art etc. I choose to make lemonade here. I love a market-driven art society for precisely the above reason. It punishes the stupid for being stupid and rewards the smart for being smart. The stupid have easy access to “Jersey Shore”, Miley Cyrus music and Jerry Bruckheimer films. These things are all punishments. In a free market, there are always other avenues for legitimate art to be made, it is not hard to find and the little effort it takes is rewarded to those who put the it in.

That´s all for now, gotta run.

And remember

Nothing good ever happens after 4AM. Well sometimes good stuff happens, but more often than not, only stupid, bad shit happens at this time!

A few notes from the past four days.

I left on my 1/2 Birthday. A huge “Thank You” to those of you who sent me emails of Congratulations and warm thoughts, for those who didn´t, just know that I am a little hurt but confident that the wounds will heal.

I have seen more dragonflys in the past week to last several lifetimes. I should note though, that they are, for the most part, smart to get out of the way of my bike and passing trucks.

I have seen enough road kill (dogs, large lizards, cows and several unidentifiable smudges) to have made a fur coat and matching top hat.

On, March 27, my second day of riding, I rode through a large swarm of bees. I didn´t even see it coming. I just felt one hit my arm, looked up and…while I wish I could say that everything slowed down and like Keanu in the Matrix, I dodged them all like a CGI acrobat, I don´t want to brag. Actually, I don´t even think I remembered to close my mouth. Hopefully that doesn´t happen again…

I was given a great piece of motivational advise before I left Buenos Aires. My good friend Chelsea recently met a guy in Chile who was taking part in an untra-marathon. Sounds redundant right? Well actually, not so. The event takes place in Northern Chile´s Atacama Desert, the driest desert in the world. The contestants run a marathon every day for four days, then on the fifth day, they run two marathons! Holy Shit, yeah, they actually do this.

She informed me that this is actually not that impressive if you think about it. A decent marathon runner can complete a marathon in five hours. That leaves nineteen more hours in the day! I mean come on right? Even on the final day, they all have twelve hours do play videogames and eat pizza. So, what she was saying, basically, is that it´s not that hard or impressive to be an ultra-marathoner. I guess the same applies to me. I just ride a bike for five to seven hours per day then eat crap food and beer the rest of the time. Chelsea, Thanks for the perspective!

One highlight so far.

On March 27, some time after my run-in with the swarm of bees, I pull off the highway to the village of Alsina, Argentina. Today, I´ve ridden 62 miles and I´m tired. I pull up to the first market I see and start chatting with the people loitering outside. After a while, I ask, “So, where are the hotels around here?” Patricia, the woman I was talking to responds laughing, “Hotels? Here? In Alsina? Barely two-thousand people live here. But, what we have are guest houses. [Pause] In five minutes a bus is coming to take me to Buenos Aires [130 miles to the south] for three weeks. But I´ll tell you what. You can stay in my house, if you like it. Ruben here will get the key for you and show you where it is.” I respond, “¿Como?”. “Yeah”, she says, “if you like it, just stay there.” “Uh, Wow, Jesús, thank you so much.”

So, her pal Ruben shows me the house. A nice place with elecricity, hot water, two dogs and a family of cows in the back yard! I ended up with a two bedroom, one bathroom house all to myself for the night! “One rule”, he said as he was leaving on his bike, “keep this gate closed or the cows will get out and get hit by a train, we don´t want that.” “Yes sir”, I replied, “done and done.”

Ruben came back to see me in the morning I asked him, “How much do you, or Patricia, want for the night´s stay?” “Nothing”, he replies. After the token resistance from each side, he didn´t want any money and gave my his cell phone number so that next time I come by I can call him for whatever I need. I told him it might be a while, but next time I´m around, I will definetly give him a call.

Another amazing thing about riding a bicycle for extended periods of time for days on end is that it provides you an excellent oportunity to think. One question I have been considering and I think some of you may be considering is: Why the hell am I doing this?

Whenever you ask someone why they are doing something, there are many ways to answer the question but the answers usually stop as soon as the question-asker is satisfied, which is usually after one answer, maybe two.

So, when I ask myself why I want to do this, this is what I come up with.

I am doing this for vanity. That´s it. No más.

Well actually that is probably sort of true. I just want to be able to eat whatever the hell I want and in fact I lose so much sodium riding in the sun all day that I actually have to eat a large amount of salty foods just to remain healthy. So yeah, I want to be able to eat whatever I want and still be healthy, just like my friends from Israel.

I am doing this for the flat, curved highway I rode on three days ago. It opened up into the biggest sky, dotted with just a few clouds and I was surrounded by farmland. The day was just starting to cool into afternoon, It was the aesthetic highlight of the first leg of this trip.

I am doing this as a way to get to know the countries I will be visiting better. And so far, the interactions with the people I have met have been amazing. The towns I stopped in don´t really see tourists very often, they have been amazing to visit and the people amazing to talk to.

The next point is a bit more subtle then it will originally sound and I am not sure I can articulate it 100% but,

I am doing this because I can. I want to differentiate between this and “A dog licks itself because it can”. I am doing this because I realized that it is possible for me. From a health and capability point of view, I knew I can.

Before leaving for South America, I had heard of long term bicycle trips. My favorite Professor at the University of Oregon rode his bicycle across the United States. When he told me, I thought, “Wow, that´s cool, but what do you think Plato was saying over here?” Even though I had heard of such a thing, I just never even considered it. Even as I began traveling last year, I met people who had friends who had spent long periods of time on cycle tours, I never felt attracted to such a thing. Until last December.

Well, I guess the story actually starts in July of 2008.

I took what I consider to be my first trip out of the United States (not counting long weekends in Mexico and Canada). I went with my girlfriend, my sister, her boyfriend and his family to Ecuador. We spent ten days traveling around the country and by the end of it my favorite town was the smallest one we had visited, Baños de Agua Santa or just Baños, for short. Located in central Ecuador, the town is nestled between two green mountains and has a river that drains to the east into the Amazon. On this trip, it was foggy most of the time we were there. But the fog, mixed with the green mountains created a very tranquil, remote feeling the entire time. Once I knew I would be heading back through Ecuador this time, I knew I had to go back to my favorite town.

Last December, as my bus pulled into town, it was actually quite sunny in Baños, which was a bit of a letdown. I prayed for clouds and fog but knew that either way I would have a good time. Leaving the bus station, I headed to the hostel where I had stayed seventeen months earlier. Without needing a map I arrived, about 12 blocks later, at Plantas y Blanca hostel. Just as I remembered it. It was good to be back.

One day, as I was coming back in I stopped by the front desk to ask a question. As I was waiting, a guy came in talking loudly about being from Arizona or something. Later that night in the rooftop, self-serve honor-system bar, I started talking to this guy, whose name ended up being Sam. As it turns out, Sam has been working with the Peace Corps in Paraguay for the past two years and is headed home now, on his bicycle. He is riding his bike to raise money to save the rainforest where he lived in Paraguay (www.rideforthetrees.com). He shouldn´t even have been in Baños but he had a problem with a tire and no where in town even carried the proper size replacement. So, he had been waiting for a few days for a replacement to come in from Colombia. For some, unknown reason I became curious. We talked for a while, he answered a bunch of questions and we ended up going heading out for the night in a big group.

I still don´t know what it was about our chat, but something planted in my mind, “Hey, you should do that!” And I was seriously thinking about it. So, the next day, I woke up after sleeping for four hours, rented a bike and took off on a 35 mile trail down river to the east. I had done the same trail on the previous trip, but on an ATV. I figured, let´s have this be a little mini-test to see if I am capable of this kind of thing. About twenty miles into the trip, the back wheel began shaking from side to side. “No problem”, I thought, “I can handle a little shaking, let´s see if it gets any worse…”. Well, after the next patch of gravel, the rear wheel began shaking rather violently. I had to stop. I quickly realized that I don´t know the first thing about bicycle maintenance. “Hmm, that may be something worth looking into if I decide to go through with this”, I thought to myself. So, I hitch-hiked back into town, feeling really excited about the ride I had just had, but with a creeping sense of doubt as to my ineptitude as an emergency bicycle repairman.

The next day Sam´s new tires had arrived and he was heading north to continue his trip back home. I decided to give it another try and joined him for the ride from Baños to Ambato some 25 miles away. At some point I asked him, “OK, I know that if I end up doing this it will be an adventure etc., but, given what you know about me, do you think I would be putting myself in unnecessary risk given my total lack of knowledge of the bicycle?”. He gave me an unequivocal, “No, it would not be taking a stupid risk, you can do this.”

We ended up riding together for six hours, 90% of it uphill. As I turned back towards Baños and Sam continued on to Ambato, I felt uplifted by his endorsement, but in the back of my head that same sense of doubt was creeping, but now it was directed toward my physical capabilities.

Despite this doubt, the moment he told me I would not be making a rash decision, I knew I had to do this.

A list of answers to the question “Why am I doing this?” would obviously be incomplete without the above story. And I am grateful for the blind luck that happened, being fascinated by Baños almost two years ago, coming to South America on this trip instead of Asia (another story for another time), staying at the same hostel, a ruined tire, and parts delay. If any of these things didn´t happen, I am 100% sure I would not be doing this right now. So, all of these are also reasons why I am doing this.

So, I guess what I am trying to articulate here is that, through meeting the right type of person and thinking a little bit, this became a valid option for me and I felt that I had no excuse (time, money or physical handicap) not to go through with this.

Our destination was, as you´ve guessed, Torres del Paine Park, where I planned to spend somewhere between four days and two weeks hiking and camping around the park´s numerous trails and campsites. The deal with the park is that aside from being huge (it is about 150 miles x 200 miles), it is very remote and there are very few facilities. You take everything you will need with you and carry it on your back the entire time. This includes all of the food you will eat, toilet paper, etc. Nacho went on to quite hilariously tell us about how to properly bury our poop etc. “Great natural fertilizer”, he called it, adding, “just make sure to bury it at least six inches from the surface and not anywhere near a river or lake (of which there are many)”. I couldn´t help but wonder, with countless tens of thousands of visitors per year, there must literally be tons of “fertilizer” buried all over the park…Note to self: Watch my steps, just incase someone “forgot” to bury their fertilizer.

Nacho was extremely helpful and did a great job to humorously lower our collective expectations with respect to such trivialities as comfort, dryness and convenience. Quick note about guys named Nacho. I have now met three of them in my life. They all have the same, strong accent and an incredible sense of humor. I´m guessing this is like the “Boy Named Sue” phenomenon. Except that instead of being a hard-ass, you become light-hearted, funny, smile all the time and can basically make me laugh just by talking. It must be something about being named after a snack of fried tortillas and processed cheese. So, let´s have more guys named Nacho and less names Sue.

So, after the FAQ session, I hit the town to buy a tent, new, waterproof shoes, cooking pot, backpack cover and a dozen or so other things I will need for my trip. I head home, organize it all and fill my backpack to the VERY top…then I realize that I have no where to put my sleeping pad, any of my food, water bottle, walking sticks and several other important things. After some creative rearranging and fat-cutting I made it work and the backpack only weighed 40 pounds!

We have a bus coming to get us at 7:30 the following morning and I am excited to break in my new shoes and see how beautiful the park is. But first, it is someone´s Birthday and they are having a Birthday Party for him. I decide to join in and am offered a Chilean drink called Pisco, which is commonly mixed with Coke. After finishing my first “Piscola”, I realize that I couldn´t even tell if I liked Pisco or not, so they gave me another one…After the second drink, the jury was still out. “No problem”, I was informed, “We are all going out, come on, get your jacket, Let´s go, we´ll try it again at the bar”…

Fast forward the clock until 5:00 a.m. the next morning and, after visiting several bars, deciding that Pisco is good but far from great, visiting a casino and walking home in 30-something degree F weather, we arrive back home. I responsibly set two alarms, one for 6:30, which feels kind of silly and another for 6:45, which feels like plenty of time to take my last shower for maybe two weeks…

Fast Forward again to 7:33 a.m. I am awoken by Barbara, a Chilean who came out with us last night. “Matt, Matt, get up”. “Ah shit, what happened to my alarms” I wonder. I skip the shower and get ready in 30 seconds. “They said the bus might be running late right? And that it actually usually comes between 7:30 and 7:45?” Barbara concurs and while I catch my breath, we enjoy some of the guest house´s free breakfast.

Fast Forward to 8:30 a.m. We realize the obvious truth. The bus isn´t coming…No problem, though. We can just take the 2:30 p.m. bus into the park. Sweet, I think, flashing a peace sign and falling back into bed.

Fast Forward to 2:25 p.m. We are awake and ready to go this time, waiting for the bus to come by and pick us up…and waiting…and waiting…Eventually we cry WTF! We were definetly ready on time this time and there was no bus. So, the owner of the hotel scrambles…finds a friend who obviously owed him a favor and Barbara, he friend Mari and I hop into this guy´s 1996 Ford Explorer and take off…to where I am not sure…We are driving well in excess of 100 miles per hour and have gone at least 50 miles (which, by the way, is over half the distance to the park) when our driver drops us off at a bus terminal in some town that is still being built. Well, the bus was there and we were are finally on our way to the park, with a strange suspicion that even if we had gotten out of bed three minutes earlier this morning that there probably wouldn´t have been a bus waiting for us then either.

First night in the park.

Upon entering the park, we catch a shuttle to a campsite near a remote lake, Laguna Azul, in the park´s often ignored Northeast corner. For over half of the 45 minute car ride we are surrounded by thousands of trees that have been burnt, but are showing signs of regrowth. Our driver informes us, “Some Czech guy was in here six years ago, he was cooking with a camping stove where he shouldn´t have been, the wind picked up, blew his stove away while it was still lit and, well, you can see how it looks…six years later…”

Note to Self: Don´t do anything THAT stupid. Jesus, You know everyone asks, “What´s the deal with all of these burnt trees?” Think of how many people who have never been to the Czech Republic, may never go there, and may not even be able to find it on a map, now have one, specific thing they know about the Czech Republic and some guy from there and what a dumbass he was. Ammended Note to Self: Don´t do ANYTHING stupid, at least not with fire.

We set up camp with an amazing view of the lake. The campsite attendant brings us a wheelbarrow full of chopped wood and asks us if we need help starting a fire. Uhh, well, if you could just keep the wind down for us that would be nice, thanks. We get a fire going, make some dinner and enjoy watching the shaddows bounce around the campsite under the late January full moon.

In the morning, we wake up to clear skies and an amazing views of the three Torres del Paine (google image search, if you don´t know). Some people come to the park for 8 to 10 days and don´t ever even get to see the Torres due to sometimes constant cloud-cover. As if that wasn´t enough, as we are eating breakfast, a small fox and an alpaca (non-domesticated llama) come by our camp to say Hi/see if they can steal any food.

After tearing down our camp, we head out to start the 6 mile walk back to the park´s entrance where I will start the main circuit of hikes and the girls will head home for a holiday. In a random spurt of additional luck I see a Dutch couple that were on the cruise to Antarctica with me and they take the three of us, and all of our backpacks, back to the camp entrance in their rental car! Awesome.

After saying our good-byes, I head out into the park…The first full day of hiking was amazing. I saw maybe two people all day, and in between large sections of burnt down trees, walked through miles-long fields of white flowers and enjoyed the amazing views.

On the third day I coninued further into the mountains, walking along the Rio Paine. At one point, the trail gained a few hundred feet of altitude and continued along a ridge for some time, providing an amazing view of the river and mountians. The ridge, which when I was there had wind gusts of up to 80 miles per hour, also provided me my first (and as it would end up, only) example of Forrest Gump rain. It was so windy that water was being blown up off the river several hundred feet into the sky and fell back down onto the path where I was walking. Then, the water just started traveling straight up the steep hillside and “falling” upward as I was walking. Nice. This wind also made for nice navigation with 40 pounds of camping supplies tied to my back.

Half way through my third day, I noticed a slight rubbing in one of my shoes and as the day continued, the rubbing turned into two blisters on my right foot and one on my left. By the time I reached the campsite, I was hobbling down the hill and excited to just sit down and rest. The campsite´s amazing, nearly 360 degree view of various mountains took my mind off the pain in my feet, temporarily.

I am not sure if it was the new shoes, plain cotton socks, or just me having weak feet, but the blisters only got worse over the next seven days of hiking (90 miles in total). Basically every step hurt, like, “Ouch, Ouch, Ouch, Ouch” for five to seven hours every day. Lest you think I am eliciting sympathy from you, dear reader. While the blisters really slowed me down, there were two AMAZINGLY positive side-effects. 1. I was “walking” so slowly that I only got winded one time over the next week. And 2. I was able to enjoy the scenery that much more at “Grandma Speed”.

A few notes for you if you are ever in such a situation. Do not, as I did, play amateur podiatrist and proceed to cut the blisters off the bottom of your feet. I did this with my right foot and it was significantly worse that the left one for the remainder of the hiking. Unless of course you enjoy walking like the soles of your feet have been scratched with sandpaper, then by all means, cut the blisters off both of your feet. If not, let my mistake be your education. (Side note, after leaving the park, the blisters turned to scabs, which eventually [just recently, actually] fell off. I didn´t wear shoes for over five weeks.)

I did have the good fortune of unknowingly timing the trip to coincide nicely with the Chilean University system. While I was in the park, it happened to be summer break for all of the Universities in Chile. I met several groups of students who chose to spend their time off from school hiking in the mountains. This fact kind of pre-selects who you meet on such a trip (i.e. weeding out the real partiers), but they were almost all extremely calm for a groups of up to 19 college students. They were extremely generous as well, cooking me meals, frequently sharing drinks with me and just being awesome domestic ambassadors.

The highlight group for sure, was a group of three law students. They were the friendliest guys and all too eager to get the inside on U.S. culture from someone who has lived in the States their whole lives. They were apparently huge fans of some show called, “I Love Money”, some guy named Pedro Norte and that one song by Usher, Little Jon and Luda. “My God”, I interrupted them at one point, “do you think everyone in the U.S.A. is like the people you see on reality shows on VH1? Well, we are. Seriously”.

I wondered, if this is the kind of entertainment that tomorrow´s lawyers are watching, what are tomorrow´s garbage men watching? Ay, dios.

Back to the park. The landscapes were simply amazing. For days on end you walk along glaciers that extend miles, forests, lakes of a supernatural looking shade of blue, and waterfalls on all sides as you walk through canyons. In the end, it only rained one day out of ten, and it wasn´t even annoying becaue, as you are hiking, your body keeps you warm.

Along with Antarctica, I would highly reccomend this stop to anyone coming to South America, or even if you aren´t planning on coming here, you should still come. I would, however, reccomend visiting Torres del Paine before going to Antarctica.

Another tip I learned on this camping trip. Tent placement is key. You of course want to put your tent in a place where you will have an amazing view when you open the door in the morning, but there is another factor to consider that is equally if not more important. You should always put your tent in a location where you can, should you need to go pee during the night (which I did every night) , go pee without leaving your tent. There is nothing like waking up at three in the morning when it is in the mid 40s, putting all your clothes back on, finding your head lamp, putting shoes on and heading out to find somewhere to pee. Sorry ladies, can´t help you on this one…and guys, you are welcome in advance.

One final note on this trip. I finally had my first dream in Spanish. I was at an art gallery with, of all people, Hugo Chavez. We were just hanging out, the two of us, and a ton of press, talking about paintings. The whole time I was nervous thinking to myself, “Man, if this guy knew half of the things I´ve said about him, I am going to end up in prison, for sure”. Anyway, I ended up making it out unincarcerated.

The trip, I should note, ended on an extremely positive note. While walking down out of the last canyon I visited, the craziest thing happened. My feet stopped hurting. After eight days of rubbing and pain, they gave up. It was as if they said to the rest of me, “OK, we´re done, you are obviously not listening to us, so we quit, you are on your own.” It was actually a really weird feeling. I noticed it right away, paused, interpreted the message and continued walking. There was only about a mile and a half left to the shuttle stop that would take me back to the park´s entrance. I decided, instead, to walk the six mile road out of the park. I had the biggest smile on my face the entire time, taking in all of the scenery for just a little while longer and appreciating it a little more than I would have if I had taken the shuttle.

So, That was some of what happend in Torres del Paine from January 29th to February 7th, 2010.