The Last Few Weeks in S. America

Oddly, I used to find more time to write when I was on the move than I do now stationary in Buenos Aires. I have been wanting to write, but my limited computer access and circumstances have kept me away from the keyboard. Two things have kept writing at bay in the last few days. Preparing to fly my bike to Miami definitely commanded my attention. If something had gone wrong with that, I would land in Miami next Wednesday and would be stuck. Of course, there might be worse places to be stranded. Fortunately, all went very well this last Tuesday. I rode my spic and span bike out of BA to the international airport, met the contact person, rode to the cargo terminal and met Martin who crated and wrapped my bike after I had removed the front wheel, loosened the handle bar, and squeezed all the gear I could into my panniers and any free space on the pallet. For any riders who are reading this and wondering who they can trust to ship a bike out of Buenos Aires, All Cargo has been totally reliable and professional for my friends and me. There are woeful stories out there of scam artists and there are companies that offer amazing services but cost much more. And speaking of woeful stories...the other matter that has cost me a lot of time recently and caused me much anxiety is the state in which my former tenants left my home after abandoning my house without any notification on the first of June. Fortunately, I have amazing friends in Vermont. Karen Alexander and Roo Mold checked my house, made sure new locks were installed, and made sure no permanent damage was done to the interior of the home. Denise and Paul Scavitto and Jennifer Goodhue worked with one of my tenants all day Tuesday and removed the 900+ pounds of garbage that my tenants had left unattended (for over two weeks!) outside the house. Hopefully the bears will now forget my home and stop prowling around the neighborhood (my poor neighbors). This drama is still not resolved, as the tenants still have lots of  stuff in my house and of course a huge clean up job awaits me when I get back. I expected that to a certain degree, but this is more than I had imagined.

Despite all that, I have plenty to share about the last few weeks here in Argentina. I moved out of my room in Chacarita on the 3rd of June. Being sort of homeless (I spent two nights at Stafford and Fernando´s), I figured this was the perfect opportunity to ride north to the Misiones province. Misiones is named for the Jesuit Missions established there in the 17th century. The ruins of these remarkable settlements remain, but by far the biggest tourist draw in Misiones are the Iguazu waterfalls. They are considered one of the world´s seven natural wonders and a day´s visit leaves no doubt that they are worthy. The falls are not just a couple grand cascades, but well over one hundred of them, big and small, falling an average of 200 feet. The surroundings are green and lush. Water seems to be everywhere and it is all heading in the same direction. The volume of water is not as much as the Victoria Falls in Africa, but my friend and fellow rider Tim, who met me at Iguazu, confirmed first hand that the falls of Iguazu are much more of a crowd-pleaser - partly because of how observable the falls are. Indeed, the infrastructure of the park on the Argentine side of the border is impressive. Well constructed walkways winding over the river and above cliffs give visitors amazing access to views, mist, and the gentle thunder accompanying so much force. Tim and I had a great day exploring the park and taking a plethora of photos. Every new angle seemed ready to give me my most Ansel Adams-esque photo.

The next day, I started heading back south. I didn´t ride far though, as I got a late start after an oil change and because I wanted to visit the ruins of the San Ignacio Mission. Anyone who has seen the movie, the Mission (with Deniro, Neeson, and Irons), understands the draw of these historical sites (and if you haven´t seen the movie, you should. Great acting, great soundtrack, great scenery, essentially true story.). More than perhaps any other religious enterprise in the so-called "New World", these extensions of the Catholic Church found considerable success and sympathy among the local aboriginal peoples - in this case, the Guarani. This is partly because the Guarani belief system fit quite well with what the Jesuits presented them and because the Jesuits were working and even fighting to protect the Guarani from slave traders. The very communal Guarani people also appreciated that the Missions´s profits (which were considerable) were put right back into their communities.

I spent that night in the border town (to Paraguay) Posadas. I knew I had a long ride ahead of me. The ride from BA had taken two long days of riding through a lot of flat, visually numbing farmland in the province called Entre-Rios. To break up the return trip and to see another major Argentine city, I decided to ride back to BA by way of Rosario. The ride to Rosario took over ten hours and crossed more than 1000km in one day. This was probably my longest single day ride of the entire trip. I was soon struck (literally) with just how alive the Entre-Rios region is. For the first time since last August, I hit a bird. A brown pigeon enjoying the hot tarmac, waited too long to fly away and when it did, it veered right in front of me and smacked the top of my helmet. I looked worriedly in my rear-view mirror expecting to see blood, guts, and feathers. Instead, all I saw was a bit of a sag in my visor. I stopped and found that the force of the impact had broken a plastic bolt that attaches one side of the visor to the helmet. That meant I was now riding with a broken bolt on my helmet, a broken bolt on my crash guard, and the consequences of a broken bolt on the right-side foot peg. (Good bolts are really important) At any rate, as I rode on, it became clear why I had finally hit a bird - there were thousands of them all along the road. There were gorgeous birds of yellow, others all white except for a bright red head, there were pigeons of all sorts and duck like amblers that were surprisingly nimble on the ground, but never flew. There were also birds of prey and foxes looking for some easy feed.

Rosario was like a small BA (but still has more than one million residents). The waterfront, overlooking the Parana River was lovely. Joggers and walkers and maté sippers love this long, public space. Gazing across the great Parana back into Entre-Rios, a giant wetland devoid of any sign of human activity, it felt like being at civilization´s last outpost at the end of the known world. Rosario was significant for my voyage in a unique way though. The inspiration for my trip was the movie, Motorcycle Diaries, about a great motorcycle trip made by the young Che Guevara. Che was born in Rosario in 1928 and the elegant bourgeois building where he first lived is still standing. There is nothing on the building itself to indicate it´s most famous resident, but the Che Guevara Hostel right across the street takes care of that. So in a sense, Rosario was a very fitting place to visit here at the tail end of my journey. It was also the site of the last (I hope) roadblock of my trip. My nighttime ride into Rosario took me through a villa (slum) and led right to some protesters and newly ignited tires. While sizing up the situation, a young man told me motorcyclists could pass through. So, I rode up to the line of tires, hopped up on the sidewalk and went around the blockade. A few kids and a woman came over to object, but I was already through and short of using force there was nothing they could do. I was delighted with how vacant the streets were on the other side!

After two nights in Rosario, I rode the remaining four hour trip back to Buenos Aires and moved into the Kilca Hostal in the downtown area. This hostel is not elegant. Indeed, it is rather run-down, but it is friendly, inexpensive, and has room to park a number of bikes - very rare in BA. The nice thing about living in hostels is meeting people and being tourists together as opposed to alone. So, I have revisited some places here and checked out some new places. A couple nights ago, I went to the Cathedral with my friend, Tim, and a couple others. This former church is now a very cool Tango venue. The walls are covered with graffiti-like modern art. That and the darkness of this space create an almost gothic ambiance - which is magic when combined with tango music, organic Argentine wines, and inexpensive tango lessons (and lots of cute women!). I met one of them on the dance floor - Carla Soto of Lima, Peru, who taught me the first few steps of Tango (or did I teach her?? Hmm....). I also finally visited Tigre, a small city outside BA famous for its quaint waterways through parts of the Parana delta. Carla and Vaneska and I enjoyed a boat tour past groves of reeds and cute cottages.

Another noteworthy evening was when I met with Ade Barkah a few days ago. Ade, a computer programmer from Toronto, and I first met in Baja and rode together for about three days. He just arrived in BA after pushing just as far south as he possibly could before being pushed back by the Patagonian winter. Ade and I went to my favorite pizza joint, Angelín, and then walked along the lively Avenida Armenia. We each had a lot of stories to share. I look forward to visiting him sometime in Toronto.

The goodbyes have begun of course. Tim (who I first met in Guatemala) sold his KLR (a big goodbye) and caught a freighter headed to Senegal. My last night of volunteering at a home for girls was Wednesday. As usual, I met my friend Majo (Marie José), and went with her to the home. Being a holiday (Dia de la Bandera - flag day), not many of the girls were there, so we played board games with those remaining and just hung out. Afterwards, Majo and I swapped stories and shared a pizza.

More goodbyes are coming in the next couple days before my flight to Miami. I will miss quite a few people and I know days are coming where I will wish to be back in BA, but I am ready to move on and to explore the US some as I ride north to Michigan.

A Really Fine Night

The following comes from an evening about three weeks ago. I took notes as it was happening. I realize that some of the likenesses drawn in this journal-style entry will mean nothing to those who don´t know the persons referenced. But it is my blog after all :)

It has been a tough day. I left my debit card in an ATM about a week ago and just realized it yesterday. Today was spent scrambling in order to get money flowing to me as soon as possible. Thank goodness Stafford was able to spot me some cash to tie me over.

So I was feeling a bit brain-dead and hungry too as I approached the corner cafe on the way back to my apartment. Since it is cold now, the windows were closed and I heard next to nothing, but there were lots of people inside and a number of smokers just outside the entrance. The big crowd and the warm light reflecting off wood trim and antique cameras beckoned. It was tempting to pass it all by and return to one thing that was a sure thing on this marathon day (that being my apartment and the salad nicoise whose fixings I was carrying with me). But why not escape for a while into a charming, bustling porteño cafe?

I stepped in and found a white haired jazz band playing It Had To Be You. One last table remained free. I took my place and ordered a beer which came with a tiny bowl of peanuts. Beer and protein - a good combo! Particularly the beer in my empty tummy had an almost immediate effect and added to the fun and the free flow of writing ideas as I scribbled in my notebook. It became abundantly clear to me why Christopher Hitchens prefered to write while drinking whiskey.

Whether it was the beer, a bit of nostalgia or just coincidence, the white-haired virtuosos of the Musicos Cabildo Norte Jazz Club almost all reminded me of someone.

The trombonist with his generous round belly and simple button-up shirt reminded me of my Grandpa Ehrean. If he had stopped and stuck his false teeth out at any of the kids present, the illusion would have been complete.

The keyboardist was a diminutive (and aged) version of my friend Jim Webber who I once helped schlep a vintage electric keyboard into the back of his Subaru.

The guitarist looked like a Gunter Grass without the burdens of a self-anointed moralizer.

The saxophonist reminded me of Saint Johnsbury Academy´s now retired automotive teacher, Tom Moore, as one might see him all dressed up at the Academy´s Christmas Party.

The drummer was a shorter version of former US Director of Intelligence, John Negroponte. The drummer did not miss a beat, so unlike his doppelganger who spoke unintelligently at graduation a few years back about Saint Johnsbury´s namesake (His assumption was wrong - the city is not named for Saint John.).

As they advanced from one jazz standard to another, the performers rotated, giving a slightly more literal meaning to musical chairs. There were a lot more musicians present than I thought...maybe even more performers than audience members.

The shortest and perhaps oldest of the performers, occasionally picking his guitar, occasionally joining other vocalists, reminded me paradoxically of Herman Munster with his box-like head and very prominent chin. His face, however, was as white and wrinkled as Herman´s was green and taut.

Another guitarist, perhaps the most elegant of the men bore a resemblance to my great grandfather from Sweden...perhaps crossed with post-war Germany´s chancellor, Adenauer.

There was a clarinetist too. A Benny Goodman with an incredible comb-over.

Of all these men, there was only one dark-haired interloper. I think I would have bleached my hair if I were him.

The elder musikmeisters, the tunes from the golden age of jazz, the b & w photos in this cafe cum photography museum all carried me away from the day´s worries. I was struck by how many amazing musicians there are in Buenos Aires and by how such quintessentially American music has become a part of the world´s musical heritage. This American felt really lucky and even a bit proud to be enjoying one of his country´s great and truly appreciated cultural gifts performed masterfully by men who may never have set foot on US soil. It was a really fine night.

May in BA

It has been weeks since I last posted an article on my blog. In some ways, I am a bit disappointed that more has not happened. The opportunity to work at a hotel fell through without a word from its owners. It has been hard to find volunteering opportunities. Such opportunities for foreigners usually comes with a price tag (but I am making progress here). Making friends has also not been a piece of cake. Thankfully I have had Stafford MacKay and his partner, Fernando, to help me and give me company from day one.

Nevertheless, things are good here in Buenos Aires. My explorations of this city continue - and there is a LOT to explore and observe.

Walk through Buenos Aires on a nice, sunny, weekend day or holiday and you will see people walking with friends and family, sitting at nice cafes, or chilling out with their kids and dogs and sipping yerba maté (a traditional green tea). That´s what I did on May Day. At the time, I was reading Pamuk´s My Name is Red, and would sit and relax in the sun while half reading and half people-watching. In a grassy neighborhood park I was pleased to see people frolicking and extremely good-natured dogs running around, sniffing each other and sniffing the ground.

On this day I was headed for the Ateneo, a spectacular book store in the affluent Palermo district. But after walking at least 1.5 hours, I found the workers of this biblioteca were also celebrating their day. No worries. I know that bus #39 can take me from Avenida Santa Fe right to my apartment. Any time I am out late at night (as was the case last Saturday - until 2:30am), if I don´t know how to get home, I can simply hoof it over to Avenida Santa Fe and catch this bus. At night, some of these buses have red curtains and blue lights and (typically) 80s music playing (Boy George, Queen, Duran Duran). I was surprised to see even the fire extinguisher replaced by a decoration - a mini statue of the Virgin Mary. The Catholics in this country probably figure that the latter is just as likely to save lives as the former.

What else have I found in the last few weeks? In the Almagro district I stopped at a cafe across from the Italian Hospital (there is also a German one, a British one, and probably more) and found not only really good coffee, but the best cheesecake I have had since leaving the US. What a great surprise! Not far away is a shopping mall made out of an old marketplace. The building is enormous, composed of three parallel arched spaces (the middle one being the highest, not unlike the nave of a cathedral). For me, the highlights of this place were found in the upper levels. There are two McDonalds in this mall, but one is truly unique - it is kosher! The menu is not as expansive as at other franchises, but the lines were still plenty long. There is also a carnival for kids upstairs. Neverland is the name and offers a swinging pirate ship, a mini roller coaster, and an elegant Ferris wheel fitted snugly in the arch of the central hall. It was a crowded place on that rainy day.

Buenos Aires is not without poverty. I still have not happened upon a slum (although I have been told there are slums and warned to stay away at night), but one walk brought me to Plaza Miserere, a sadly apt name for a city square. An enormous mausoleum for Bernardino Rivadavia, Argentina´s first head of state, sets the mood. The homeless and their makeshift tents and beds perpetuate the sadness. Tragically, the adjacent train station is where well over one hundred people died a couple months back when a typically overfilled train´s brakes failed.

One new friend is Valeria (as a friend of mine asked, yes it is pronounced like ´malaria´). We spent one evening walking from art venue to art venue on one of BA´s Open Gallery Nights. Coincidentally, that day was the anniversary of the Guernica Bombing during the Spanish Civil War. There are quite a few ethnic Basque in Argentina. It seemed somehow fitting that there were a number of pieces that were reminiscent of Picasso´s cubist and collage periods. While not one of the better exhibits, the exhibit that most hit home was a gallery full of embellished motorcycle helmets. The message was that every rider should wear one (Shame on you Michigan!! All The Gear, All The Time - ATGATT). Seven million Argentines ride 4.5 million motorcycles and accidents on these bikes are the number one killer of people between 15 and 19 years. It is estimated that 80% of those deaths would be prevented by properly wearing a helmet. Later, Val and I went to a bar called Dada. I doubt Duchamp and his rebellious Dadaists would have approved of this rather bourgeois hangout using their name. But at least the food was good. I don´t think I would like Dada food.

My Spanish continues to progress, albeit slowly. The day of the open galleries, I received an email from Valeria. I was surprised to see that it was addressed to "Dale, ..." I figured she must have another American friend named Dale and just had a little brain cramp. Later that night, I asked her about it. She pointed out that "Dale" (pronounced doll a) means ¨Let´s go.¨

Politics are ubiquitous in BA. Protests (whether for farmers, marijuana legalization, or any sort or subgroup of workers) are commonplace in front of the Congresso or the Casa Rosada. Just a couple hours ago, I was on the subway and a handful of young people were beating their drums in a station. A most likely homeless woman who was panhandling in my train car made a number of people laugh when she good-naturedly joked about how there is never a day without some protest in BA. Political graffiti can be seen everywhere, even in nice neighborhoods. Statements like "El pueblo por Christina" are reminders of the populist Peronist President Christina Fernandez de Kirchner´s popularity. She has been giving Argentines, journalists, and the world a lot to think about lately. Her expropriation and nationalization of the oil company YPF has angered Spain (whose Repsol previously owned YPF) and made international investors nervous about investing in Argentina. For me, this news was at least an interesting distraction from the Malvinas/Falklands issue, which is in itself a distraction from looming inflation and international debt crisis. I worry about this lovely country. Its economy is in danger of imploding and its president does not strike me as a steady and wise leader. A couple days ago she debuted a commercial for TV on the Malvinas issue. I can´t think of a democracy where the executive branch has run an advertisement on a foreign affairs issue (I bet someone is going to find an American example to prove me wrong on this!). For Argentines, many of them stoked by jingoistic propaganda, this issue is a no-brainer, but I don´t think many of them realize just how complicated it is historically and in terms of international law (not to mention the question of the islanders themselves who are loyal to the UK).

I have at last found a place where I can volunteer. Stafford asked a friend of his, Majo, if she had any ideas for me. Last week she took me to a home for teenage girls. I worked on a little English with one sweet 14 year old and helped a learning impaired young woman with a little very basic reading and writing. When Majo and I were done, it was time for dinner at this home of about 23 young women. We joined Padre Pablo (also a volunteer) and a bunch of the kids while others served the meatloaf and fries. It was a fun meal that kept me on my toes trying to communicate in Spanish. Volunteers at this facility are arranged through an NGO called Siloé. This seems to be a great organization. If you are going to spend a couple months in BA and want to volunteer, you should contact them.

Slowly but surely, the trees are growing bear and the temperature is dropping. I have taken my sleeping bag out of the stuff sack and have even put my water bottle filled with hot water in my bed to help me stay warm on a couple occasions. I like this weather though and the sense of change. Plus, I know that I will soon be enjoying this year´s third summer when I arrive in Miami on June 27.

Impressions of BA

One could easily feel adrift in a city like Buenos Aires. The anonymity that comes in a population center of over 10 million people attracts some and surely depresses others. For me, newly arrived, unable to understand the unique dialect spoken by the Porteños, and used to small town familiarity, Buenos Aires can seem cold and rather unfriendly. There are no nods of recognition and only rather rare passing smiles between strangers on the sidewalk or in the subway. But I knew all this coming in. It is no different from New York or Paris or any other major metropolis.

To keep me going and upbeat until I meet more people and/or begin to work a little, I am exploring, observing, and just being. My knowledge of Buenos Aires is very superficial and it will remain superficial when I return to the US. Three months are not enough time to get to know even rural communities in a meaningful way. Recently, I have taken a couple long walks with little more in mind than seeing what is around me, getting a bit of exercise, and enjoying the gradual slide into Autumn marked by yellowing trees and little clusters of dried leaves to kick through on the sidewalk.

A walk up the sidewalk (dodging dog doo) on the major street of Lacroze in my Chacarita neighborhood leads one past cafes, grocery stores, little kiosks, bakeries, fruit stands, clothing stores, pizza and empañada restaurants, and parillas. Everything one needs to get by. Parillas are a particularly Argentine institution. These restaurants serve up what Argentina is perhaps best known for - meat. Beef, chicken, pork, sausages including blood sausage - sometimes all of it served on a single heaping plate or on a mini-grill that is brought to your table... It's a wonder there aren't more fat Porteños. Maybe Dr. Atkins's diet was inspired here and not in the laboratory. My budget and taste keep me from indulging in such meaty hedonism, but a simple choripan or sausage sandwich for lunch (for less than two dollars) is becoming more than just an occasional treat for me.

The plethora of cafes reflect the Buenos Aires coffee culture. Elsewhere in Argentina, yerba matte, a type of green tea cultivated northwest of here since the 1700s, seems like essential fuel for Argentines. Indeed, gas stations and any place where Argentines are likely to stop have hot water spigots to fill the thermoses that are carried by seemingly everyone. In Buenos Aires, this tea culture is less obvious, although a quick look at a grocery store aisle packed with nothing but bags of tea shows that perhaps yerba is widely drank here too. Still, coffee is king here in BA. As one would expect in a city with European roots, espresso (called a cortado, and frequently served with a touch of milk) is perhaps most popular. Even as I write, I am sitting at a very special cafe (Museo Fotográfico Simik) across the street from my apartment. The windows, as is the norm here, are wide open to the sidewalk and the expectation (if not preference) is that coffee or beer sippers will sit there for hours while chatting with a friend, skimming a newspaper, or reading a novel (in my case, Richard Price's Lush Life). Starbucks is, of course, present here. I counted at least five during my walk down Avenida Corrientes yesterday. I don't believe, though, that it's putting much pressure on the competition.

(Note: Just now it sounded as if gunshots were being fired outside the cafe - at least four very loud pops. People are gawking and looking around for the perpetrator. I just asked an officer about it. Nothing but a backfiring motor!)

A number of groups of people have stood out for me in my comings and goings. The subway train is the site of some rather unique, but sad commerce. Young men can frequently be seen and heard selling random, small items on the train. The men will walk along and place the item in each seated person's lap. When they reach the far end of the car, they turn around and either pick up the cash for the item or the item itself if it isn´t wanted (which is usually the case). The men are not nuisances. They are a sad reminder of the poverty here. More tragic - I have recently seen a couple elderly men handing out religious trinkets using the same process. I was struck how these well-kempt men looked like they could have been businessmen or professionals of some sort not too long ago. These men and the dramatic dips in Argentina's economy in the last 30 plus years make Argentines especially mindful of the ephemeral nature and the dark sides of economic booms.

Almost every evening after the sun has set, the night streets of BA bustle with cartoneros - people who sift through the garbage and remove all the cardboard, which they then sell to companies that recycle paper fiber. Competing against each other for the greatest take, whole families of cartoneros hurriedly rip open garbage bags and throw the cardboard together into huge sacks that are then rolled away atop big two-wheel carts pulled usually by lanky, but muscular teenage boys or early 20 something men.

(For much more on Cartoneros, check out this documentary about them. It is very well done. Thanks go to the anonymous person who shared it with me!)

On a very different human note, there are over 250,000 Jews in BA. Buenos Aires, after New York, is home to more Jewish people than any city outside Israel. I am sure most Jewish people here are invisible, but it is not at all rare to see men wearing yarmulkas or to see either sex wearing traditional orthodox garb. I have yet to see if they are concentrated anywhere in the city. That's another thing to investigate.

The city does not quiet at night. Young people on noisy motorbikes are still cruising, garbage trucks are making their rounds, buses deliver riders all night long, and emergency vehicles can be heard any time of the day (although not more often than in any other big city). But for a bit of visual peace, just look up. This is an enormous city, but some stars are still visible. I can sit on the roof terrace and see Orion and the Southern Cross.

In general, I have been impressed with the air clarity here. Granted, it is not summer, but I still have not seen an ugly brown layer hanging overheard nor gotten headaches from too much ozone. Very few trucks belch out much smoke and people really do use buses and the subway. Maybe the air will get even clearer in the future. I think bicycling will grow here. The few enlightened young people and the poor who currently ride bikes have to put up with and look out for some fairly inconsiderate car drivers (I actually smacked the side of a car today that drove too close to me as I crossed a street - I don't know what got into me!). But there are already a few designated bike lanes here and this is a city without any hills. Bicyclist heaven!

Alas, another long entry. I hope you enjoyed it.

Making My Way In BA

Yesterday was April Fools Day and it was no joke. A couple significant things transpired - I will tell you about them later.

I am still in Buenos Aires. At this moment I am seated comfortably in the home of Stafford and Fernando in one of Buenos Aires's nicest neighborhoods, Belgrano. It is a holiday today, a memorial day of sorts for the people and the pride and opportunity lost in Argentina's 1983 fight for the Falkland Islands. The long weekend is a great opportunity to get out of the big city, so this well-to-do wooded neighborhood is even quieter than usual. Stafford is the younger brother of a dear colleague from my year teaching at the Leelanau School. Molly wrote to me as I approached BA that I should definitely meet up with him. He and his partner have been hugely helpful to me.

Stafford and I met about a week ago, probably the day after my previous blog post. I took my first ride in BA's underground (the Subte) to Belgrano and walked somewhat awestruck up his beautiful, quiet, tree-lined street. Stafford took me on a walking tour of the surrounding neighborhood which is home to numerous interesting architecture styles, grand high rise apartment buildings, and stately embassies (the German one being the largest). We concluded the walk with a delicious coffee at one of the many sidewalk cafes. At that moment, I knew that I could not turn my back on Buenos Aires. Santiago is a very nice city, but BA is a great one.

Time to start looking for apartments. Years and years ago in Paris, Paul Miotke and I would daily check the bulletin board at the Eglise Americaine for apartment offers. It was a hassle, but it was good to be out walking and exploring as we made the pilgrimage to the church each day. Nowadays people search for things they want on the internet. I used Craigslist, Mercado Libre, and Airbnb to find offers and then emailed my interest. As I checked the offerings and then waited for responses, I became a rather sedentary being at my hostel - barely straying outdoors for a couple days unless it was to check an apartment or get food.

Those days seemed a bit gloomy. Hostel life was getting to me. Nick and Ivanka had left, there were only a few people I was really chatty with, I was getting shifted from room to room, and some of the people in the rooms were rather inconsiderate when going out at 1am and returning drunk at 5 or 6am (BA just might be the latest city in the world). My wardrobe was getting to me - same clothes every day, simply because I don't have any more. By far the most significant factor contributing to this gloominess was news from back in Saint Johnsbury. A lovely colleague, Melissa Jenkins, was murdered by a local married couple. The death of this 33 year old single mother and the unfathomable motives and cruelty of the killers has left everyone who had some connection to Melissa at a total loss. Suddenly, the world seems to be devoid of meaning and logic (even evil logic!).

But life goes on and so did my apartment search. In one day I looked at rooms in three apartments. I could have taken one, but it was dumpy - the landlord never responded to my lower offer. The other two didn't select me because I am only staying until the end of June.

Fortunately, Stafford and Fermando had invited me to stay with them. I have a comfy bed here, great company, both my hosts appreciate great food and drink (Stafford's beef carpaccio is amazing!), Fernando is tutoring me in Spanish, and I have internet access any time I want it.

So, it was with tempered optimism that I visited two more apartments yesterday. The first was across town in a much poorer neighborhood. The rooming arrangement there would not allow me to have visitors and the surrounding area lacked cafes, bakeries, and good food stores. Too bad, because the price was right. At six, I met with Nicole in her apartment about 12 blocks from Belgrano. The walk there brought me past numerous restaurants, cafes, ice cream shops, stores, and internet cafes. The neighborhood (Chacarita) lacks the polish, but also the slightly pretentious feel of Belgrano. So far, so good. The apartment is simple and clean. The roof is open for lounging and visiting. Nicole and I discussed arrangements, what it will be like sharing her apartment, and rent. We agreed upon a very fair monthly rate. We would speak again the next day to finalize things. My 30 minute walk back to Belgrano seemed to take seconds as all the sights and sounds and smells of this neighborhood now had a new meaning.

The evening was not over. Stafford had invited a few friends over for dinner. Delphine (a French expat) and Graham and Brenda (he is from the US, she is Argentine) made for great company. Graham and Brenda own a lovely little hotel in downtown BA (http://www.hotelpatios.com/) and mentioned that they need another receptionist. Stafford knew that the compensation is a free room, so he immediately said I might be interested. Indeed I was!

But what a conflict: Should I take the room in the cool, slightly gritty Chacarita or should I take free lodging and a job and live in a business and tourist district? I visited the hotel this morning and Graham understood why I was torn. The solution? I will take the room in Chacarita and then, when Graham and Brenda are out of town in May, I will supervise the hotel. I am thrilled! If I want to leave Chacarita, I can, but if I want to stay, I may.

All is well in Buenos Aires. No joke.

From Ushuaia to Buenos Aires

I should have known. Just after labelling northern Tierra del Fuego as boring (in my previous blog entry), Nick, Ivanka and I had a great drive through the same area. We left Ushuaia late morning, wound our way through the surrounding mountains and followed Ruta 3 northeast. The wind battered us the whole way to the border. Leaning against gale force winds so as not to be blown over or off the road was exhausting. Cooking up some coffee during a roadside break was impossible, as our cookers' flames would just blow out.

It was in that fatigued and wary state-of-mind that we reached the border, crossed over into Chile and once again faced the loose gravel roads of northern Tierra del Fuego. We decided against the same roads we took going south and so pushed inland a bit more this time. At the first crossroad, we asked a surveyor which way to go. He pointed up the smaller road. Hm. To our great relief, this was a dirt road more than a gravel one, so the driving was much more pleasant. Better yet, the wind died down. We passed only a couple pickups on this road, otherwise it was ours alone...along with occasional flocks of geese (they were also going north), guanacos (one of which ran just ahead of us thinking we were chasing it), and a rancher and his dogs herding sheep. This narrower road felt cozier and turned spectacular in a subtle way as we descended into a shallow valley that seemed very significant in this otherwise flat land. The ride became adventurous again when confronted with a little brook blocking our way. There was no quick way to gauge its depth or seek obstacles, so being on the bike with the lighter load, I shrugged my shoulder and cranked the throttle. Water somehow managed to fly up over my windshield. Exhilarated, I hopped off my bike and photographed Nick and Ivanka doing the same.

We were relieved to reach pavement again and then the Straits of Magellan and to have caught the day's last ferry. The sun had set before we reached the northern shore. We pushed on into the dark hoping to reach Rio Gallegos across the border in Argentina. Just before the border it started to rain and our vision was rather limited. So, at the border we asked where we could camp, as driving was unsafe for us. The boss told us we could sleep in the next building just outside the bathrooms. It was a bit smelly, but it was warm and secure. And free!

In Rio Gallegos, Ivanka needed to Skype with her boss. We needed a cafe with wifi. We parked to begin looking for such a place by foot. Out of nowhere, Mark appeared. He and Kevin and Andre had slept right across the street. While laughing about the coincidence, Adrian drove by.

I was worried about my bike's front end. Something did not feel right, but a quick inspection the previous day turned up nothing. There was a squeak too, but we figured it was just the front brake. I asked Mark to take a quick look and he showed that he could wiggle the front wheel from side to side. My nearly new wheel bearings were shot. Adrian also had to get work done, so we found the local bike shops and ordered the repairs.

The ride up Ruta 3 is a long one...nearly 2000 miles. It follows Argentina's eastern coast and is known for relentless winds and a rather featureless (dare I say 'boring'?) landscape. Indeed, the winds were constant and usually perpendicular to our path or against us, almost never at our backs, and the landscape was flat, flat, flat. There were very few trees but lots of scrub brush. It was during the long hours of driving through here that it dawned upon me that the wind is the reason all the trees in southern Chile and Argentina have such tiny leaves. Bigger ones would simply blow away. Nevertheless, to declare this whole region of steppe boring is a grave injustice to the coast. We visited two national parks (Monte Leon and Peninsula Valdez) with spectacular shorelines, tremendous tides (up to 12 meters!), and wildlife - penguins, seals, sea lions and elephants, whales, and orcas. The whale calving season was way past, but we saw magellan penguins, seals, both sea lions and elephants, and we hoped to see orcas rush the beach to snatch a seal snack. The orcas were a no show in both parks, but we still very much enjoyed the natural beauty of these places.

Rain is a seldom visitor to this region, but we drove through when they reportedly received more rain than in any other single storm in over five years. It still did not seem like all that much, but it was certainly impressive to watch the dark clouds roll by and to see how rain would fall straight down from a cloud and then suddenly turn 45 degrees at the elevation where the wind hit it. On Peninsula Valdez we witnessed heavenly art as distant rain mixed with the purples and oranges of the setting sun.

This treeless land is also nearly people-less in many places. Camping was difficult with the crazy winds and fence enclosed ranches. So, our new campgrounds were the isolated gas stations/truck stops along Ruta 3. This was ideal. We could stock up on drinking and cooking water, get a snack, and sit in the small dining areas (after we had eaten our own feasts) and play scrabble.

Slowly, the land transformed. Just south of San Antonio we encountered cultivated land. Fields of sunflowers welcomed us as did the smell of freshly unearthed onions. North of Viedma, Ruta 3 is lined on both sides by vast green farmland with occasional patches of trees. It reminded me of very flat sections of Michigan or what Iowa might look like. Compared to the unforgiving steppe of Patagonia, I felt very at home here.

One more national park was on our list - the Parque National Tornquist. This park protects a patch of mountains that pop out of the flat lands in spectacular fashion. We spent two nights there enjoying the scenery, a couple short hikes, the campground showers, and a dinner with perhaps the best sausages any of us had ever eaten (available at the mercadito in Villa de la Ventana, if you're wondering).

We left the park for what was Nick and Ivanka's last big ride. Buenos Aires is their departure point for flying home. Our arrival in Argentina's famous capital happened the next day though, after one more night camping at a gas station (albeit a natural gas service station - lots of Argentine's are driving with natural gas that cost just 2 pesos a liter - gasoline costs at least 5 pesos a liter).

We wisely rolled into this city of 13 million on a quiet Sunday morning. The traffic was minimal and considerate. We asked and were directed to a great little breakfast nook where we enjoyed tasty sandwiches and sinfully indulgent churros. Neighborhood men came out and appreciated our bikes and took pictures with us. Soon we were deep in the city, in awe of this urban cityscape with grand buildings overlooking plazas and narrow streets with apartment buildings reminiscent of Paris. With a little leg and phone work from Ivanka, we selected a hostel and made our way there. That short drive put us on Avenue July 9, which, with a total of 18 lanes, is the widest avenue in the world. Our hostel overlooks this avenue, the surrounding business edifices, and the very phallic obelisk.

One remarkable thing about this city`s traffic is the very spare use of horns. New York streets echo incessantly with audibles of frustration and indignation. Buenos Aires` streets are quiet and cool for the most part. This fits with my positive perception of Argentinians. Walk into a store or restaurant and you are greeted right away by perfect strangers. Lots of people ask us about our bikes and the journeys we have made and all wish us well. Many Argentinians are also considerate when speaking to us in Spanish, slowing the pace so we can grasp what they say or even writing out directions as opposed to just pointing and gesturing where we should go.

So far, Buenos Aires has been fantastic. Nick and Ivanka and I enjoyed the enormous San Telmo Sunday street market that teems with shoppers, vendors of all sorts of crafts, and street musicians, some of a remarkable calibre. And speaking of music, Nick, Ivanka, and I saw Roger Waters` The Wall last night. I call it a show rather than a concert because this really was more of a rock opera or perhaps a rock oratorio than a band playing and interacting with its audience. Images and names of dead soldiers and other victims of war and hatred from the First World War up to current conflicts were projected on the Wall. Clearly Water`s anti-war, anti-capitalist, anti-fascist philosophy has not waned. In a country with a history like Argentina`s, especially the latter of those three is very well received. Regardless, it was amazing to see music that has been with me nearly all my life performed live...and under the Southern Cross with 60,000 good people from all around the world.

Aside from the imminent departure of a number of my rider friends, the only bad news to share is that someone has stolen money from my bank accounts...and not just a little bit. Mark, Kevin, and Andre have also been victims of someone we are guessing is in Peru. I will sit tight here for a few days until a new bank card arrives. I was planning on staying here for at least a week anyhow and there is soooo much to see that I am not at all bummed by this imposed wait.

If you would like to see a fun video of our ride through Patagonia, arrival  in Ushuaia, and a debate of the EggGate scandal, follow this link. You might also enjoy the music from New Order.

Ushuaia

In terms of latitude, Ushuaia is about as far south as Calgary is north, but Calgary is nowhere near the end of the road in North America. South America's travellers reach the fin del mundo in this blustery tourist magnet where the southern shore of Tierra del Fuego meets the Beagle Channel.

Setting out from Vermont, Ushuaia was not my primary objective. It was and still is my goal to settle for a couple months in some major city so as to satiate my urban cravings before returning to Vermont, that most bucolic of states. That is still my plan (and Santiago, Chile will be that city), but Ushuaia has long been in my sights. Almost all my fellow riders planned on coming here and curiosity has also made Ushuaia appealing. As a teacher of history and geography, how could I not seize the opportunity to cross the Magellan Straits and explore this contested tip of the Western Hemisphere? Even the Beagle Channel is significant, being named for the historic HMS Beagle whose crews surveyed this area on two separate voyages. Darwin was aboard during the second voyage and wrote many observations about Tierra del Fuego in 1833. So, it seemed I should go.

Nick, Ivanka and I left Punta Arenas, Chile around 9am (our typical departure time) and drove along the north shore of the Magellan Strait for a couple hours until we reached a ferry crossing to Tierra del Fuego. We were not alone. There were trucks, cars, and about a dozen riders from Sweden on rented BMWs. The thirty minute crossing was over almost before we were able to take pictures and appreciate what Magellan must have seen as he cautiously entered what he hoped would be a southwest passage to the Pacific.

We hit the shore, headed inland and were very soon riding gravel roads again. That part of Tierra del Fuego belongs to Chile, but most of the people passing on that road are going to Ushuaia in Argentina. It seems Chile doesn't care to pave roads for the benefit of Argentina...nor for our benefit!

I was happy to fixate on the road both for my safety and because the scenery was boring. In the first couple hours I counted a total of three rather weakly trees. The landscape was mostly flat with a few very gently rolling hills...probably ancient moraines from the last ice age.

Rain soon dampened our ride and our spirits. We found temporary shelter in official buildings as we crossed from Chile into Argentina. We pushed onward and arrived in Rio Grande after a couple hours. Camping didn't seem very palatable in such weather so we looked for lodging and found nothing affordable. However, after sharing a couple pizzas and another hotel search, the rain had stopped. So we left town determined to find a place to camp...in the dark. After an hour of riding, we saw a home behind a fence and stopped to see if we could camp behind the fence. The owner was already outside and immediately said we were welcome. Indeed, he apologized repeatedly for not being able to offer any hot water or other amenities. We were just happy to set up camp and sleep in a safe location.

The next day's ride was considerably more interesting. Soon there were trees and then bigger hills and then mountains and lakes and herds of guanacos (like a mix between llamas and vicunas) and even a ski resort (closed for the summer). Ushuaia is nestled between these mountains and the Beagle Channel. At the city gates, we stopped for photos and did another dance routine for Nick and Ivanka's Ushuaia video.

There are lots of bikers here. I'm sure some of them party like crazy when they get here. I suspect though that a lot of them feel like I do - it's great to be here, but it is a bit of an anticlimax and even a bit sad as this signals the end...even if that is still months off. Nick and Ivanka will be heading to a home in Croatia (Ivanka has a big chat with her boss coming up and Nick is looking forward to being a house husband - only partly tongue in cheek.). Andre will soon return to Switzerland. Carole and Laurent (who I met in Palenque, Mexico) will ride up to Rio before flying home to France. Kevin, who has ridden all through Asia, and Mark who rode with his wife for three years around the world...both of them will be going home to their women in Australia. Other riders I know are scrambling to find good rates to ship their bikes home from here. So, to be sure, we have thrown back some drinks, toasted with champagne, and eaten our share of Argentine beef, chicken and mutton, but the mood is not necessarily jubilant. Almost all of us would keep riding and exploring if the money and circumstances would permit.

What have I done in Ushuaia? Not a lot really. I have slept well in a nice hostel with a very stern caretaker (n.b. I am NOT sleeping with the caretaker!). I have visited with friends and cooked much more than eaten out. I have changed the oil of my bike and had the pannier rack welded for a third time (this job was very well done and should last.). I have not visited the very good maritime museum nor the national park. Both are simply too expensive. I understand why food and many things cost a lot in such a far-flung location. However it is also clear that tourists are being fleeced here. I am keeping my fleecing to a minimum.

Tomorrow we will leave this nice little city and Tierra del Fuego. It is extremely satisfying to have been here and to have a greater understanding of this place...and of course the getting here has been amazing, both in the last couple weeks and ever since Vermont for that matter.

I am very grateful to all of you who have made this trip possible and who have supported me even if it's just been a kind comment on Facebook. Now keep that love coming for a few more month and I will do my part not to let my guard down - there are still a lot of miles to go!!

Patagonia

Patagonia in southern Chile and southwestern Argentina is a remote area. People come here to enjoy the amazing scenery and wildness and to get away from civilization and all its trappings including the internet. As much as I enjoy those aspects of this amazing region, I am now very happy to have reached Punta Arenas and to be staying at a hostel where I can access my blog. The backlog of photos I need to upload is enormous, but all I can hope to do now is to share some highlights from the last couple weeks.

My last posting was from a very rainy Chaiten, Chile in northern Patagonia. This is where I feel our adventure on the Carretera Austral (The southern highway) really began. My friends and I headed out the next day and were rewarded with blue skies and a warm sun. We drove past gorgeous mountains through green valleys and along rivers gushing with glacial melt. Rain returned the next day and what a shame. That day's drive took us past some stunning scenery...and that was just the parts we could see through the cold fog and rain. At one point, we stopped for a break in a mountain pass where we could seen dozens of waterfalls dashing down from their hidden glacial sources. It was really cold and I was soaked to the bone. I have known since the beginning of my trip that my rain gear would not protect me from the elements we would encounter down here, so I resolved to do some shopping in the next big town.

While Patagonia is known for its nature, it was its people who made the biggest impact on us for the next couple days. As we pushed south, we started encountering roadblocks. "Patagonia sin Represas" was a message posted in many locations. I had forgotten what the word 'represas' was since I had first learned it in Ecuador. Patagonia without dams. There are plans already being put into action to build a major dam in Patagonia and the locals don't like it. Environmentalists from around the world are also upset. We encountered our first road block at La Junta. A small group of indigenous peoples blocked a bridge. We met a German heading north from the bridge on his BMW bike. He told us about the blockade and suggested a very long way around it. We decided to check things out on our own. We concocted a story about needing to deliver meds to a friend south of us, but when Ivanka and I walked up to the people we were rather surprised. First of all, these people were more interested in getting government support for a new school and bank in their town (other protesters express frustration at the high cost of living in Patagonia - think Alaska). Second, they pointed out a path around their blockade that motorcycles could take, but not cars. Perfecto! We hopped on our bikes, cleared the path of obstacles and went around their blockade.

The next road block was the same day as the terribly rainy and cold day mentioned above. Tires were burning across the road and a band was playing oom pah pah music for the participants. We warmed ourselves in front of the fire and waited until they let traffic through, which they were doing every couple hours. Things were more grim in Coyaihaque. Here the problem was a bit different. Protesters in this city of 40,000 were blocking trucks bearing gasoline and diesel meaning there was a severe shortage of fuel in the town. We arrived in the evening, found lodging and then planned our next day. At about 9am, we rode our bikes to the line forming near the station that was supposed (according to rumor) to get gas that day. We waited patiently in line for over 13 hours. By that time, the gas trucks had arrived, but protesters would not let people go to the pumps. At about 10:30pm, a riot started. A small number of young demonstrators started throwing rocks. We were warned to get away, but we saw the kids run past us and start throwing rocks at the local grocery store windows (probably the most appealing glass target in the vicinity). The gas station was also cosmetically damaged, but that still crushed our hopes of a reward for our marathon of a day. Fortunately, Nick and Ivanka were up at the crack of dawn and found a line to a station that was pumping gas...at an hour way to early for the protesters. We filled our bikes and our additional canisters. I had a total of 15 extra liters strapped on my bike. We had a long way to go and weren't sure where we could refuel again.

The next grand natural highlight and the next roadblock coincided at Lake General Carrera, South America's second largest lake. The incredible blue waters were a lovely reward for our perseverance in Coyaihaque. Our progress was stopped though by another small group of protesters. No riots here, just music and dancing. Ivanka and I walked past the protest to shop for dinner fixings while the others waited with the bikes. After a couple hours, we were allowed to pass. We rode just another couple miles before settling in at a beautiful campground with awesome views across the lake.


Buying gasoline (or benzina, as they call it - just like in Germany) was not an issue. Getting to it was. We were now about to head south on the famed Ruta 40, a road infamous for long stretches of gravel, fierce winds, and its lack of towns. Again, we filled our bike tanks and all our canisters and headed south. Surprisingly, more of the Ruta 40 was paved than we thought. Still, we traveled close to 300 miles of gravel in two days...and were not able to refuel until after 372 miles in El Chalten. Driving on gravel is exhausting. The bike wobbles and the driver has to be totally focused all the time. The road typically has three to four narrow channels (a couple feet wide) that all vehicles stick to. Their wheels throw most stones aside so that each of these lanes has gravel piled three to four inches high between them. If you drift unawares into one of those piles you better hold tight and be ready to crash. Nick, Ivanka and I managed not to crash, but they were not quite able to make the distance to El Chalten. I drove the final miles to get gas for them. They managed to get fuel first though from a Czech couple in a van.

Patagonia's mountains are the product of two tectonic plates colliding and the Pacific one pushing under the South American one. A number of spectacular parks protect the results. One is in El Chalten, Argentina. After two hard days riding through treeless brown steppe, the abrupt appearance of El Chalten's granite towers blows the mind. To a boy who grew up in the flat Midwest, mountains always seem majestic, but these narrow towers of light-colored stone are just eye-popping. We spent two nights there and took a seven hour hike to a glacier and a glorious close up view of the Cerro Torre (the highest peak is the Fitz Roy, which attracts climbers from around the world).

A few hours away is El Calafate and an hour beyond that is Argentina's Glacier National Park. Nick, Ivanka and I spent one night at that park, but it was a night to remember. Following a couple tips that Nick and Ivanka had gotten, we drove to the viewing platform for the Perito Moreno Glacier. We cased the premises and then left and waited until 8:30pm when the park closes. When we arrived at the parking lot, only a couple cars remained and all the employees had left. We unpacked our sleeping gear and set up camp on the viewing platform right in front of one of the world's most active (and not shrinking) glaciers. All night long, under the Southern Cross, we listened to the pop and crack of compressed, advancing ice. At 5:30am we were awakened by an earth-shaking mass of ice tumbling from the glacier. It was an amazing night!

The next day we headed further south to the Torres Del Paine National Park - back in Chile! As in El Chalten, Torres Del Paine is known for its torres - towers. We set up camp just outside the park where we had a view across a small salty lake (including pink flamingos) of the towers. It was an perfect campsite...until the police arrived. We were told through a translator that our fire was forbidden and that we were on private property. Perhaps not so coincidentally, the owner of the land also owned a campground just four kilometers up the road. So, at ten at night, we were forced to pack up, move, and then set up camp again. We were upset that there were no signs, no fences, not even anything telling us if we were in the park or not. Plus free camping is so common in Chile that this took us by surprise. The fire ban, however, was not a surprise. Torres Del Paine suffered from a terrible fire, possibly set by an arsonist, just a few weeks before our arrival. The damage is enormous. Some trails now require face masks if it is a windy day. But nothing can obscure the majesty of the Blue Massive, another product of incredible tectonic forces and of the glaciers in the last ice age some 15,000 years ago. Nick, Ivanka and I spent two nights in different campgrounds inside the park. We simply enjoyed the scenery and the relaxed, quiet atmosphere of the campgrounds peopled by hikers from around the world.

Right now, I am sitting in a hostel in Punta Arenas, a former penal colony, and now home to some 150,000 plus people including a sizable number of ethnic Croatians, which is very exciting for Ivanka (half English, half Croatian). Punta Arenas sits on the Magellan Strait - and that is very exciting for me (history teacher). Magellan sailed past here in 1520 just to get himself killed in a stupid skirmish in the Philippines.

You might wonder what it looks like down here. Driving from Torres Del Paine, we left the mountains behind today. It was almost sad to look back at them. The three of us sat in a wonderful cafe in Puerto Natales with views west over a bay to the snowy mountains which extend farther south to truly remote regions and islands. Then the land levels out thanks surely to the last ice age. The sky is big, not even trees get in the way. Much of what we saw today had only patches of rather stunted, twisted trees. Land is enclosed by fences and signs announce the name of each "estancia" or ranch. The weather has been gorgeous for at least a week now, but it looks like rain is in our immediate future...or snow. Ushuaia has already had a couple small snowstorms. Fortunately, I have invested in rain gear and am ready to go.

Tomorrow we begin our two day ride to Ushuaia...and the end of our journey south. Stay tuned. Hasta luego.

misCHILEaneous

I am writing from Chaiten, Patagonia, Chile. This town was nearly wiped out four years ago when a volcano erupted and dumped mounds of ash here. Some homes are still filled with ash. Others are now homes again, while still others are abandoned - a result of government efforts to build a new town nearby. The policy flopped.

It has been raining like crazy here. It started yesterday as we rode. We arrived in Chaiten and sought refuge. It is high season for tourists here - both foreigners and people from Santiago. The flood of people and the sparse accommodations meant we had to split up for the night. The rain convinced us to stay another night in hope of a drier morrow.

I have really enjoyed my time in Chile, but it has not always been easy going. Certainly the scenery has been spectacular. Most recently, I traveled through the famous Lakes Region. It was great to be back in an area abounding in green foliage. The lakes, mountains, active volcanoes, and German culture made it that much better.

In one of my previous posts I pondered when I would meet up with my rider friends again. It did not take long. I spent four splendid days in Santiago (one of those was actually spent on the coast in Valparaiso with a friend). On the third day, I ran into Andre at a motorcycle shop. He was in the city with Mark and Kevin. We then headed south together. Two days later, as we were on an on ramp to Highway 5, we saw two white helmets on a motorcycle pass by on the highway. Sure enough, it was Nick and Ivanka. I am still in the company of these great folks here in Patagonia.

It has been a while since I have posted a new blog entry and, of course, I could go on and on. Instead, I am going to list a number of random miscellaneous occurrences and thoughts to give glimpses of my time thus far in Chile. Here it goes:

- After about 17000 miles I received my first dog bite in Chile (no worries, it just barely scratched my boot).

- Camping on the beach in Antofagasta two dogs pissed on my tent...while I was in it.

- I was hungry at the beach in Antofagasta and was not going to leave to get food. My neighbors brought a huge tomato and onion salad over without me even asking.

- Chile has immaculate roads, but I hit a rock as I rode into and was blinded by the sun. This broke two bolts and caused my right foot peg and center stand to fall off.

- A mechanic removed the broken bolts with great ease, but then stripped one of the holes, leaving the repair job less than perfect.

- I have used Castrol oil ever since I left the US and have found it in even the poorest communities. It´s really hard to find in Chile. I now use whatever I find.

- I lost my tire wrench when adjusting my chain. I was given one for free at a shop where I had some work done (of course, the work cost an arm and leg)

- Eucalyptus trees win my award for the most versatile tree. I have seen them in every country and almost every climate I have been in.

- Many Chilenos like the USA. What a nice change.

- Cake is called Kuchen in much of Chile.

- Saw lots of familiar plants as we got farther south in Chile: Poplar trees, pine trees, blackberries (yum!)

- Camped on a nice beach south of Concepion and was greeted by an extremely overfriendly drunken family.

- The same family warned us of robbers. That night, robbers stole two tires from Andre.

- Lots of tree plantations in areas where lumber companies must have completely stripped vast regions.

- Needed to catch a five hour ferry ride south in northern Patagonia. The ferry was booked five days out. We got on on the first day when it was raining and would have been awful to be left behind.

- Rainwater started creeping into the area where where I will be sleeping in Chaiten tonight. A bunch of us helped mop it up. The owner says that has never happened here before.

- Santiago really impresed me. I will return there for a couple months after Tierra del Fuego and Buenos Aires.

Northern Chile

I rode over the cold and barren Peruvian altiplano (high plains) from Lake Titicaca and down into even more barren desert and arrived in Arequipa. Peru`s second largest city is called the "White City" because the stone used in building much of the old colonial city is white. I spent just one night there, but still had time to take in the sights of the elegant old city with its churches, arched facades, bustling park, and convent. The latter is especially noteworthy as being the only convent with its own mini-city within. A very gregarious (to say the least) local told some French acquaintances and me that nuns from wealthy families spent their entire adult lives in the convent, not leaving or looking outside even once. They had slaves to look after them. According to him the Pope personally put an end to that in the early 1900s. Arequipa, like many of the more touristed cities I have visited, is home to an Alliance Francaise. This one was paired with an excellent creperie, where I treated myself to a dessert after eating a really inexpensive burger from a street vendor.

The ride to Tacna took me through desert of all sorts. Near Arequipa were small mountains that looked like someone had drizzled frosting over a bundt cake. Brown rocks and lighter drifted sand gave these mountains a truly unique look. Later I was cruising down a very straight road at quite an angle, as a constant wind from the west tried to push me over. This wind is generated when the sun heats the sand and causes convection to start. It fades at night. It also stirs up whirlwinds, mostly small. Sometimes dozens can be seen at once.

Tacna is the last major city before the border to Chile. I arrived mid afternoon and looked for accommodations. None were reasonably priced, so I dashed to the border. Peru and Chile have a model border crossing there. It is clean, orderly, and there are no scam-artists of any kind. What a relief. I met an English expat at the border. He led me into town, showed me where to change money and where to get insurance, if I wanted it. What I really wanted was a place to spend the night. I looked for a campground that`s listed in my guidebook, but instead just found people camping for free on the beach. That`s where I spent my first two nights in Chile.

Arica is a nice town with a couple famous buildings - built of steel by Gustave Eiffel. The beach is long and clean and free for all campers. My first full day in Chile was spent running errands so I would be ready to head south. I also had a very nice conference via skype with colleagues back at the Academy. This was effectively my first Academy related activity since a half year. Wow!

The next day I headed south on the road to Iquique. The desert is simply mind-blowing here. It is just rock and mostly sand for a seeming eternity. Some deep valleys don`t have any sign of flowing water - just a smoothly rounded sandy bottom.

I made two stops on the way to Iquique. The first was to see the so-called Giant of the Atacama. This figurine is the largest archaeological geoglyph in the world (I am guessing this is a very specific category). This rather boxy, distorted man on a hill is said to date back to about 900AD. Then I stopped in Humberstone, a ghost town that used to be a boom-town when sales of phosphate were hot - before Germany pioneered synthetic fertilizers during World War One. This little city was done by 1960. Walking through its empty streets and buildings (whose dilapidated corrugated walls and roofs creaked and clapped in the desert wind) reminded me of Calumet, MI which folded when copper prices sank after the Civil War. My visit here was very special though, because I realized something I have been trying to accomplish for a long time. As I walked up the main street, I saw a platform scale. I looked it over and found it was manufactured in Birmingham, England. Bummer. About ten meters farther, another. Finally, a Fairbanks scale!!! I stood on it and it still seemed to work. I canvassed the whole town and found two more, although only one had Fairbanks clearly written on it.

Humberstone also had a nice theater (reminding me of Fuller Hall - I felt like giving a long-winded chapel talk!), a swimming pool with grandstands, an elegant hotel and church, both with typical 1930s architecture. In the town center, I was hailed by a youngish woman. She is a news reporter for Megavision here in Chile. She interviewed me about what I thought of Humberstone and I hope tonight to see myself on national television (I`m so vain!).

My only frustration in Humberstone was with batteries. My camera batteries were dying on me. The cameraman from Megavision gave me two more, but they were duds too (I don`t know if he realized that). Still, I managed to shoot what I wanted. Then it was time to go. I hopped on my bike and...nothing. I hit the starter and heard a little click - no more. Ugh oh. I took the seat off and checked the battery. The connections appeared fine. I read the manual and it said it could be a short somewhere in the system. I checked all the fuses. They were all good. So if there were a short or an exposed wire, it could be ANYwhere

Goal number one in Miami-esque Iquique was to find a workshop. I found that quite quickly. Goal number two: lodging. That was not so easy. Indeed, I was getting discouraged when I met Mike, a local man on a BMW motorcycle. He suggested I stay in his 18th floor empty apartment. I pinched myself and said OK! Mike got me settled and told me we would meet with friends of his who are very good mechanics in the morning.

Mike is a mechanical engineer who works seven days straight at a nearby (300km) copper mine and then has seven days free. In the morning, we looked over my bike and tried to start it, going so far as to pull it with his pickup to try to push (pull) start it. No luck. Mike kept telling me it was something with the battery and I disagreed since the battery clearly had power. Finally, we took off the seat, and Mike tried to tighten the cable connections with a screwdriver. Indeed, the one (the same one I looked over the previous day) was somewhat loose. That solved the starting issue! Already in the bike repair mindset, I decided to get some other work out of the way. I have been carrying new brake pads since San Diego and a new chain/sprocket set since Panama. We tackled the latter. This undertaking made plain just how inadequate my mechanical know-how and instincts are - especially compared to a mechanical engineer! I took a short job and made it longer by not reading directions first and by using a torque wrench when I did not really know how one works. Needless to say, I broke a couple bolts when replacing the rear sprocket. When these special bolts (with threading on both ends but not in the middle) broke, I thought I was going to be very stationary for a long while. Mike told me to relax. We drove his pickup to the House of Bolts and bought replacement "prisoner" bolts (I wonder if they have the same name in English) that are supposedly better than the originals. Mike also got some gasoline so I could clean my bike of all the accumulated grease (from the chain spray) and then we put grease just where it was needed. By the time we were done, the tropical sun had been beating on us for hours. It feels great to have this job behind me though.

Lake Titicaca

After a delectable one pound burger, a badly needed load of laundry, and a night´s rest in Cuzco, it was time to move on to Lake Titicaca. Mark, Nick and Ivanka and I met at the Plaza de Armas and headed out of town. This ride spared us the constant zigzags and ups and downs. Our road was well paved and mostly straight as we followed a river upstream to a mountain pass and then followed another river downstream. The green valleys are dotted by small homes and farms. Cattle were munching freely in rice paddies and around the many blue flowered potato fields.

The ride to Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca was just a bit more than we wished to drive in a single day. All four of us were keen to go camping and by four o´clock, Mark had picked a small dirt drive that led to a gently sloping field just out of sight of the highway. Perfect! We set up camp, Mark and Nick replaced brake pads on Nick´s bike, and then we started thinking about food. Nick and Ivanka had quinoa and a curry paste to offer. Mark and I drove into a nearby town, picked up some veggies and beer and soon a masterpiece was in the making. By this time, the sky was darkening and cold was creeping through our layers of clothes. It would be so nice to have a fire! But how when not a single tree was in sight? While I was dicing potatoes, I noticed dung scattered around our piece of the prairie. I had one armload in just minutes and collected several more in no time. Nick provided a bit of kerosene and soon we had a lovely little campfire. The smell was no worse than a wood fire. My first dung fueled campfire was followed by another first for me. The cloudy sky had given way to a clear, black, moonless sky filled by the arc of the Milky Way. Mark pointed out the famed Southern Cross, its long axis pointing due south. It was an amazing night, despite the rain that seems to be a nightly occurrence this time of year.

The next morning, we needed about two hours to travel through light rain, through a rather wet and messy Juliaca and on to Puno. Mark, Nick and Ivanka decided to push on to Copacabana, Bolivia. My path heads to Chile from here. Again, our ways part...we shall see when they meet again.

My hope in Puno was to visit the famous Uros communities on their artificial islands. I was worried about how much it would cost though. I was also quite unsure where I would stay in this rather cramped hillside and lakeside city. My Lonely Planet guide had a couple suggestions, so I set out to find the first. In no time it was clear I had taken a couple wrong turns. While sitting on my bike at a corner and contemplating the map, a light blue VW beetle stopped. Its driver asked if I was looking for Hostal El Duque. I told him I was not. He slowly continued up the steep street and then disappeared around a corner. At a bit of a loss, I drove up the same hill, saw his parked car and decided to check out his hostel. This chance encounter led me to a great hostel with a great price and with information for very affordable overnight stays on an island in Lake Titicaca. It is so nice when things just fall into place.

At 7:45 the next morning, a bus picked me up and took its human cargo to the dock where a boat awaited us. At a very slow speed (the only speed this boat could offer - indeed, I don´t think the motor could even run in neutral), our group of about 20 chugged to the Islas Flotantes. I had read that these islands are so commercialized that the visits can actually be quite unpleasant. Fortunately, that was not the case for us. We had a great time walking around on these constructions of peet and reeds where the Uros have lived for hundreds of years after other tribes threatened their coastal settlements. The first prominent Westerners to visit these islands were Jacques Cousteau and Thor Heyerdahl. The latter used their know-how to construct his famous Kontiki reed boat. Now the Uros have schools and health clinics on their islands. They make a lot of money from tourism, but they cling to their lifestyles, subsisting on trout (that they also farm and sell) and even pelicans. Some of their homes have solar panels, but most are without electricity. These floating islands are anchored by stakes and rocks, but if the residents wish to move or if residents on the same island can´t get along with each other, the islands can be moved or even quite easily sawed in half!

After a friendly visit with the Uros, our group boated out of Puno Bay and into Lake Titicaca proper. This body of water (elevation just over 3800 meters) would rightly deserve the title Great Lake in the US. It is smaller than lake Ontario, but much larger than Lake Champlain. Its deepest point is over 900 feet and the temperature hovers around 48 degrees fahrenheit. The shore has rolling hills and some small mountains and is speckled with homes and small farming communities. There are a number of real islands that are home to indigenous peoples speaking Quechua and Aymari. Our tour took us to two of them.

Amantani has a population of about 5000. It rises about 400 meters out of Titicaca´s (meaning stone puma)clean blue waters. The hillsides are terraced and divided by stone fences that, while not better built than those found in New England, are certainly more numerous. The small fields grow potatoes and quinoa when they aren´t fallow. Awaiting our boat were about a dozen villagers, mostly elder, wearing their traditional outfits. A few of the men and women were spinning colorful yarn as they waited. Our guide divided us up according to language and assigned us to families. It was 1:30 and we were starving. Benedicto escorted Antony and Rose (an English couple) and me uphill, past a couple potato fields to his home where his wife Simona was ready with lunch. We enjoyed a delicious quinoa soup and a very tasty main course of cheese, rice, and salad. We drank a tea of cocoa leaves and muña, a local herb that someone said is called ´wild thyme´ in English. While there is some electricity on Amantani, this home was without. Cooking was done in a woodfired stove that had no chimney. Our rooms were simple, but clean and of course, without the hum of any electronic appliances, very quiet and peaceful.

The views, the clean waters, the pastoral lifestyle...I was enchanted. People in the US would pay a mint to build their dream second homes in such a setting, but such "development" is not allowed on this island. A group hike to the island´s summit, complete with many stops so we could catch our breath in the thin air, simply added to Amantani´s appeal. Ruins of past dwellings and temples (the latter are still used for pre-Christian rituals) crown the island. Peru and Bolivia, vast stretches of blue water, lowlands, rivers and snow-covered mountains can all be seen from the breezy, cool summit.

The people also made the stay on this island wonderful. Antony and Rose were great company as was Klara, a tall and lovely Hungarian. Benedicto and Simona were very kind and gracious hosts. After a delicious dinner, it was time to go to a little show. Antony and Rose and I were ready to go, but our hosts asked us to join them in a different room. Upon entering, we found traditional clothing awaiting us. Antony and I donned our woolen ponchos and colorful caps. Simona helped rose put on her embroidered blouse, black cape and bright red skirt. NOW we could walk down to the hall where everyone else was in similar garb and where a ban played traditional tunes and the locals pulled us (willingly!) out to dance. After a very full day of activity and fresh air, we huffed and puffed our ways home to quiet candlelit rooms and beds laden with heavy woolen blankets.

After an early breakfast (including pancakes!), our group assembled at the dock for our 7am departure. For over an hour we floated over waves as big as 6 feet to Taquile Island. This island is very similar to Amantani. We were there to enjoy a nice walk around the island and to learn a bit more about the inhabitants. We learned how they adjust their clothing to communicate mood or whether one is single or taken. Marriages are preceded by a three year trial period. Young people are likely to approach their future mates at a party held in February at the Plaze de Armas. Another festival is held in June for the lucky new couples. Women make clothes for the men and men make clothes for the women. Knitting prowess is definitely a factor in mate selection (and yes, we saw young men knitting as they walked around the island). Almost all the business on the island is organized communally in order to benefit all, not just the few.

Gusty cool air greeted us on Taquile, but the wind died and the temperature climbed. While some of our group enjoyed a pricy lunch of trout, Antony, Rose, Klara and I found a cozy spot to sit and enjoy the amazing views. Our boat ride back to Puno was over much smoother waters. Some of us sat on the roof for more sun and scenery. It was raining at the dock in Puno, making this overnight escape seem all the more magical.

Peru

James and I were feeling lucky back in Cajamarca when we scored accident insurance (for motorists) on Monday instead of Tuesday and for less money than we expected. Now we could hightail it to the coast. We rushed back to the hotel, packed our things, checked out one minute before we would incur a late charge and loaded our bikes. As I mounted my panniers, I saw that my luck had changed. My pannier rack was broken. The hard rides on bumpy roads had taken their toll. Undeterred, James and I set off to find a welder. But then James`s bike wouldn`t stay running. Hm. We still aren`t certain why his bike was stalling, but after a short while, it was running again and within two hours my pannier rack was repaired. It`s great that workshops and stores cluster by type in Peruvian cities. We had seen them on our drive into Cajamarca and knew where to look for a welder without even asking.

Traveling latitudinally in Peru reveals a lot of variety. The towering Andes mountains that run up and down the spine of South America dictate the varying climates and landscapes. In the east there is jungle and rain forest. Snow capped peaks and green (but mostly treeless) highlands occupy the middle of Peru. In the west the mountains are dry and seemingly lifeless. They give way to desert. Having zigzagged my way through Peru, I have witnessed this transition a couple times and the ride from Cajamarca to the coast was my first experience with this, but definitely not the most spectacular.

James and I spent that night in Pucamayo, Peru, a pleasant coastal town with a nice malecon (walkway along the waterfront) and a bit of a surfer scene. This was simply a place to rest our heads after a day of ups and downs. A local policeman halted us and told us he knew where we should spend the night. The following day we headed south to Trujillo. This is a big city and a good place to look for bike stuff. A local English teacher directed us to the local Kawasaki dealer who then escorted us (on another KLR!) to another shop. Yet more nice people then gave us tips for the next days` travels.

Just north of Trujillo are ruins of yet another pre-Incan society, the Chimu Kingdom. The sandy, walled compounds are expansive and house temples and dwellings.dating back to the 9th century A.D. The ornamentation found in Chan Chan (the particular ruin we toured) shows very quickly what was important to this civilization - the ocean and fish! Carvings of fish, pelicans, and nets adorn walls throughout Chan Chan.

That evening, I was checking Facebook and saw that Nick and Ivanka were online. I sent a message to Nick and got a quick response. After just a few messages each way, we realized that there were just three buildings separating us. James and I ran over to their hostel, shared a couple bottles of tasty Cusqueña beer and made plans for the next day.

That day provided us with another epic ride. Taking advice from the guys in Trujillo, we took a shortcut down a well maintained dirt road through the desert. Everything was stony, sandy, and some shade of brown. Hills were small, but grew as we headed inland. Oddly enough, there was a bit of water to be seen. Water was teeming through an aqueduct that at times went underground and even cut through tunnels in mountains. Where it came from and where it was going was unclear, but clearly a lot of money had been invested.

Our shortcut led us to the day`s main attraction - the Canyon del Pato. The farther we rode inland, the higher the mountains rose. Aside from the river we followed there was no water and almost no life. James remarked that it was like driving into Mordor. The constant upward climb, the high temperature, and the wind at our backs caused Nick and Ivanka`s BMW (air cooled) to nearly overheat. So, we took a couple breaks. During the first, I took a dip in the river and found it refreshing, not too cold, but very silty. I emerged dirtier, but less sweaty than before.  The climax of the canyon was a 10 mile stretch through a narrow gorge with very steep sides and a total of 40 tunnels. Signs warned us of tunnels, but also warned us to honk our horns going through them as they were only one lane wide and sometimes curved so you could not see the other side. There was no warning of the rock slide that nearly put a new twist on (or an end to) my journey. As I was about to exit a tunnel, I saw rocks, some of them melon-sized falling just ahead of me. It was too late to stop though, so I just hit the gas and emerged miraculously unscathed. Whew!! At the far end of the canyon, the mountains turned green and we were greeted by rain...and a double rainbow. We spent that night in Huaraz.


The next day I saw that the Canyon del Pato also exacted a toll on my bike. A part needed to clamp my panniers on the frame had fallen off. Nick and Ivanka also needed to do some bike work, so again, we searched out the workshop district and engineered solutions to all our bike issues. That resolved, it was time to head back to the coast (James headed deeper into the mountains). The ride was a bit rainy and quite cold and at times foggy. We rode over highlands approaching 5000 meters in elevation. Snowy mountains were in the distance.  Soon we were winding our way downward into dry, brown mountains and then to the dry, sandy coast, where the nearest city with any lodging options was Barranca. We erred our way into this busy town and searched for reasonably priced lodging. We thought we might find something beach side, but driving toward the beach brought us into a neighborhood where we were greeted by stern looks and then wagging fingers and finally a couple women telling us we should not be there. We turned around and then found some police who escorted us to the the most expensive hotel in the city. Ivanka and I formed a search party, set out on foot and found other accommodations. Barranca was the most extreme example of the chaos one can find in Peruvian cities. Particularly the traffic was insane. Cars, motorcycles, and mototaxis vied for the quickest ways down roads and around corners. Horns were honked incessantly as warnings and reprimands. Why slow down when you can just honk your horn and power through? Whether on our bikes or strolling the sidewalks, we had to beware. It was good to leave that cacophony behind the next day.

We certainly left a lot of miles behind that next day. We got up early with the hope of getting close to Nazca, where friends of ours were watching the Dakar Rally. The streets were quiet at 7am, but the highway (just two lanes) was already busy with truck traffic. We passed a complete convoy of trucks and were making good progress when we were pulled over by police. They showed us their videotaped footage of us passing a couple trucks. I pointed out that the yellow line was not solid. They said the issue was speed, not the passing. Great. The morning`s hero was Ivanka. While I was lucky to be confronted by the nice cop, the bad cop got Ivanka`s attention. Her looks and her patient explanations and questions (Wow, that is a steep fine. How are Peruvians able to afford that?) slowly won the favor of our accuser. When the moment was ripe, she told him that we were hungry and asked where could we get a good breakfast. With that, the officer returned our documents and, with his colleague, escorted us to a great breakfast place. The nice officer went in and even told the proprietor what we should eat. The pork, bread, and coffee were great - and a LOT better than a ticket!

Chastened, we drove a good deal more slowly after that, but our persistence got us through Lima`s traffic jams, past and over giant dunes along the coast and to the point where we had to head inland again toward Nazca. Just after Lima, we passed a motorcyclist working on his bike. It was our Irish friend, Kevin. He too was rushing to Nazca. A minor problem that the BMW dealer thought was a major problem would keep from him joining us until Cuzco...and that was by way of an airplane, not his bike.

Before Nazca lie vast stretches of desert. We rode into this featureless landscape and watched the sun dip behind us. Just before Nazca, small mountains arise. They reminded me of the Badlands in the Dakotas. By the time we reached Nazca, it was dark. We had vague directions from Kevin who said that our friends were camping near the airport and that the place would be obvious. Well, when we saw "La Maison Suisse," I figured our friends (two of whom are Swiss) would have to be there. They were. And so were a multitude of other bikers from all over South America.

The previous day`s stage had finished in Nazca. It was a dusty scene, leaving all the spectators in need of a shower and some refreshments. Nick, Ivanka and I missed that action, but went with our friends the next morning to the compound where the race vehicles and crews were camped out. The gate was guarded, but two by two we strolled in looking like we belonged there and proceeded to check out the machinery and even joined the crews for breakfast. I didn`t race the Dakar Rally, but I did eat there!

As I sat in Nazca`s sweltering heat listening to plane after plane take tourists to view the famous Nazca Lines (an indulgence I cannot afford), I decided it was time to get outta there. Cuzco and Machu Picchu beckoned. So, one day ahead of my friends, I headed east (again). Almost immediately, the desert highway took me up thousands of feet. After the first big climb, I added clothes. Still, the road led upward. The scenery changed from desert to green highlands with blue lakes, tiny stone homes belonging to shepherds, and white peaks in the distance. Again, I added clothing - this time almost all the clothes I have along.

Cuzco is a lovely city set in a bowl. The rooftops are terra cotta colored. The foundations of some of the more important buildings downtown are still the product of Incan craftsmanship. Aside from that and a few ruins though, visible traces of Incan society and design (such as the puma shaped city layout) are few and obscured. This city is very much a product of Spain. Its central plaza (all the central plazas in Peru are "Plazas de Armas"), the churches, the residence (of the archbishop), etc. Cuzco has many quaint narrow streets that are home to restaurants and hostels and stores, all catering to tourists. Our favorite restaurant was an Australian owned restaurant called Los Perros (the dogs), famous for its delicious 16oz hamburger. I also especially enjoyed the market which I visited on a free city tour. We sampled a soup made of frog, seafood, and bull`s penis - it`s not ready for export. We also tried a juice made of blended tropical fruit, dark beer, malt, and a raw egg. That was very tasty and not all that unhealthy.

Cuzco`s pull as a tourist destination is owed in large part to its propinquity to Machu Picchu. My rider friends and I negotiated a package deal that started in Santa Teresa. We rode through the Sacred Valley to Santa Teresa where we stayed overnight and enjoyed a dip in its geothermal pools. The next day we walked along railroad tracks through a valley below Machu Picchu to Aguas Calientes which is supposedly only reachable by foot or by train. After a night there, we left our hotel at 4:30 am and hiked up to Machu Picchu. We thought we would enter the ruins before sunrise and be joined only by others who had hiked up. Well, as soon as we arrived at the gate, buses were arriving from Aguas Calientes and the gate was still closed as the sun rose. Regardless, the ruins are truly amazing. Not even our tour guide, who had suggested the possibility of Incan contact with ancient Egyptians and extraterrestrials, could dampen the grandeur of this world wonder. It had rained all night long, and the hike up was through drizzle, but the sun soon burned through the clouds and gave us a splendid morning. I was impressed by the condition of the ruins. I hadn`t expected to find roof supports still standing after over 800 years. One could easily imagine the dwellings as they were when they were new. Of course the setting is also breathtaking. Perched on a green mountain with towering summits all around. Fantasy writers could hardly imagine a more dramatic setting and design. I took a lot of pictures, but they all seem rather cliche, as we have all seen so many photos of Machu Picchu - but it was still a thrill to be there.

Two days later, Marc, Nick and Ivanka, and I left Cuzco for Lake Titicaca. I am writing this in Puno on the shores of Lake Titicaca. We drove most of the way here yesterday through grand valleys, past more snowy peaks, and up a very nice, gentle highway. We decided to camp last night. Mark chose a small dirt two-track where we hoped we might settle for the night. Just out of sight of the road there was a very gently sloping field - ideal for a campsite. We set up our tents and discussed food options. Nick and Ivanka had some curry paste. Mark and I drove to the nearby town, picked up some veggies and soon a quinoa curry dish was on its way. It was cold and a fire sounded really ideal, but how? There was not a single tree in sight (over a vast landscape). I spotted some dung while dicing potatoes. I collected a few armloads of dung and with a little assistance from kerosene, we had a nice fire that kept us warm until bedtime. My first dung campfire! Another first was in the sky. The clouds departed and provided us a view of the Milky Way. Mark pointed out the Southern Cross to me - finally!! I didn`t know that it points due south and could serve like our Northern Star. It was an amazing evening!

By now, this blog entry has probably bored and fatigued you. If you need a little pick-me-up, check out this video produced by Nick and Ivanka. I don`t think Peru (or any country) has ever seen motorcyclists shake their asses like this. Enjoy!

Collision at Cajamarca

For years, students in my World Civilizations (Post 1500) classes have been assigned a chapter from Jared Diamond´s Guns, Germs, and Steel. The chapter analyzes Spain´s conquest of the Incan Empire, made possible by Pizarro´s dramatic defeat of Incan emperor Atahualpa. That historical turning point transpired here in Cajamarca, Peru. The chapter´s title is "Collision at Cajamarca." It´s exciting to visit this place that was, until now, only a name for me.

My new year began in Cuenca, Ecuador. I had ridden there with Australians Tim and Adrian and we met up with James (from West Virginia). Tim´s bike was in need of repair. An internet search produced the name and location of a supposedly good mechanic. Fernando is indeed a good mechanic and a generous one at that. He and an assistant went right to work on Tim´s bike. Adrian and I used the time and the facilities to clean our own bikes. My bike was caked with dirt and so was the air filter. It feels good to baby the machines we usually ride so hard. Of course my main concern was my balding tires. After six flats (regardless of whether the tires themselves had anything to do with those failures), I was desperate for a change. That change was not assured though. While shops may even be open for business on Christmas Day, many places on New Year´s Eve were not. Not to worry. Fernando knew who to call. A friend of his manages the local Continental tire store, which happened to be open. Fernando escorted us to the shop where I bought tires for the front and rear and scored the last heavy duty tube for the rear wheel - all of this with a very generous discount. In return I allowed the manager to put Continental stickers on my bike´s front forks. I don´t like to advertise or endorse, but the stickers look pretty decent. Most importantly, I have had no flats since Cuenca, despite some very punishing roads.

Looking forward to a festive and eventful New Year´s Eve, Tim and Adrian took very uncharacteristic "disco naps." At about 8pm we headed out wondering where the big gatherings would be. James and a couple acquaintances from his hostel joined us. Surprisingly, many restaurants were closed. We settled for an Indian restaurant where we had eaten the previous evening. After the meal, we decided to partake of a local pastime and smoked a round of apple flavored tobacco from a hookah. I assume immigrants from India and the Middle East brought this custom  along with their respective cuisines to Cuenca. We then returned to the sidewalks and looked for the party. We found none, other than a small street concert benefiting local environmental causes. Instead, small groups of friends were spread throughout the city. Most had effigies of every imaginable type, which they were looking forward to burning - a means of symbolically burning all the previous year´s frustrations. There were effigies of politicians, villains, cartoon characters, and many more. Ever since entering Ecuador we have seen these figures on sidewalks, in the beds of pick-ups, and even strapped to the grills of semi trucks. Now we knew their fate.

As midnight approached, the streets were ablaze with torched effigies. Fireworks were not city-sponsored, but again set off by private individuals anywhere and everywhere. It was a chaotic and at times nerve-wrecking scene. The fires and explosions made me think of the Troubles in Belfast. We stood outside a small karaoke bar ready to duck and cover and tried not to inhale too many of the pungent fumes wafting through the streets. Disappointed that we hadn´t discovered a great public gathering with all kinds of cute, slightly tipsy Ecuadorian chicas wanting to wish us a happy new year, we resignedly called it a night.

The next day, the streets were already cleaned, but most businesses were still closed. No surprise, the town felt rather sleepy. We took a morning stroll through this attractive colonial town, shot a few pictures, and hunted for breakfast. Figuring there would not be much to do, we decided spontaneously to ride on. Our hope was to be ready to cross into Peru the next morning.

Our ride was a typical Andean cruise over hills and mountains with sometimes very deep valleys in between. The area immediately south of Cuenca brought Vermont to mind with rounded smallish mountains and lots of black and white cows. For lunch, we stopped at a roadside pizzeria. Pizza!! The pizza was actually quite good. To drink, we bought a bottle of locally made yogurt - those cows are not just trimming the grass. As we waited for our food, two riders on Honda Africa Twins rode by and then stopped to say hi. It was a married Dutch couple, Miriam and Don. We figured we would all see each other again.

That day´s ride eventually brought us to the end of the pavement and up into fog and mud. We caught up with Don and Miriam and rode about 10 more miles to the remote town of Palanda. We scouted out the most affordable accommodations that were able to provide a secure space for our bikes. Locals viewed us in different ways. I heard men mutter "gringos," we were met by next to no acknowledgement where we ate our dinner (chicken and rice, of course), but we were also received in friendly ways by some. I found it interesting that no traditional Latino music was to be heard. Instead rock music was blaring from different sources, including the venerable anthem We´re not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister. Pop culture is truly pervasive and that´s a shame on certain levels, but at that time I was happy to trade Mariachi tunes for Rick Deez.

The next day, the six of us left Palanda in drizzly weather riding slippery, muddy roads. Foremost on our minds, though, was gasoline. James´s bike has the smallest fuel tank. He was very fortunate to get one gallon in Palanda. We knew that we would make it to the next town (Zumba), although that might require sharing fuel. Then the fear was whether we could access fuel in that military outpost. Reports from other riders posed the prospect of a long and hasslesome wait, requiring permission from military superiors to purchase gas. We were lucky, though. The gas station was open and all we had to do was put our names and plate numbers on a list before we filled our tanks - good for at least another 200 miles.

The sky soon cleared and the road was drying. We had grown accustomed to slippery and sticky (once it dried on the bikes) red mud. Now, after passing one last Ecuadorian military checkpoint, the color turned gray. This was clay, though. Down went Don. One of his panniers was slightly damaged, but he is a quick and capable mechanic. Shortly thereafter Miriam dropped her bike...right on the edge of a very steep slope. In both instances, the other nearest riders jumped to help out. The others acted equally quickly to get out their cameras. Don and Miriam also recorded the falls in bytes. No detail of our travels nowadays can be allowed to be forgotten.

We spent our first Peruvian night in San Ignacio. As we entered town, we lost Tim. Our posse divided up and searched the town. Soon Tim reappeared with two buddies he and Adrian had met in Colombia. Mike and Jason are two carefree souls from Tennessee riding south on vintage 1976 (I think) Honda 250s. Good thing Mike is a mechanic, because parts for those bikes are very hard to come by. They actually carry a spare piston with them. A local man saw our group and introduced himself. He is also a rider and has his own racetrack for dirt bikes. Mike and Jason were excited about that, so they checked out the track and then came back to report there was a gas station under construction where we could all camp. Mike, Jason and I chose the roof and had to hurry our gear downstairs at midnight when it began (very predictably) to rain.

Like everywhere else (since southern Mexico) on this trip, rains have been wrecking havoc on roadways in Peru. We knew that a landslide had blocked the road south, but had seen buses heading that way late in the evening, so we figured it must be open. Indeed it had been. Heavy equipment had reduced the rubble to a big mound that buses could just barely handle. When we arrived though, they had just sealed it off for two more hours of work. We visited, checked our bikes over, and sent a couple riders to pick up some pineapple at a nearby food stand. Tim went for a swim (in the river the road follows) and then, as he is wont to do, paraded about in his skivvies. When we had eaten all the pineapple we had wanted, he (still only partially clad) offered one to some local women who were sitting nearby. They accepted the fruit (and his help cutting it) with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

That night was spent in Jaen, an unremarkable city packed with three-wheeled tuk-tuks cruising the streets looking for people needing a ride. Many of these vehicles are motorcycles in the front with two wheels and seating for at least three passengers in the back. Accordingly, there are a multitude of shops to work on these nifty taxis. I figured this would be a good place to have someone work on my top trunk which has been showing the strain of all the bumpy miles it has born.

Six of us, minus Mike and Jason, rode to Kuelap the next day. These pre-Incan ruins sit upon a mountaintop in very rural Peru. Our ride up there was magnificent. We stayed at a nice Hospedaje (complete with warm water!) in Maria and arose early the next day to visit the ruins. The compound covers over 12 acres and is one of Peru´s most important archaeological sites. Development there is minimal though. No signs or booklets provide the visitor with any insight. It was nice, though, to be left to explore and imagine and just to gaze into the mountainous, green surroundings.

Our fellowship parted ways the next day. Adrian and Tim are racing south to see the Dakar Rally in Nazca. James and I took a slightly more leisurely pace, heading to Cajamarca. After an initial wrong turn, made very frustrating by the fact that we had to backtrack over a mercilessly bumpy dirt road, we resumed typical Andean travel - climb up, up and up to the clouds and then head zig-zag fashion back down and repeat. We were in the second part of that program when the clouds thinned just enough to reveal a splendid green valley below us. We stopped, took out our cameras, took a couple pics and were getting back on our bikes when I noticed the clouds were lifting...quickly! Suddenly, that valley became an amazing expanse of dramatic mountains and ridge lines. It was the most dramatic landscape I have seen on this journey and perhaps in my life.

We arrived at the river in the valley just before sunset. Two tiny communities coexist there. They met our most basic needs - food, a place to stay, and gasoline (brought to us one-gallon-jug at a time). These valley towns and many of the mountain communities we passed make me wonder what it´s like to grow up there. Children definitely have schools to attend and the schoolyards are frequently the sites of volleyball games and occasionally soccer. Internet appears accessible, but is surely very slow and limited to cafes -  few people have money for their own computer not to mention internet subscriptions. At night, one street may have some street lights, but otherwise it´s dark and quiet. Evening church services are common, but don´t seem to draw more than a couple dozen attendees. In the early night, it´s not uncommon for people to sit in front of their homes and chat with friends and neighbors. The sides of buildings are often painted with signs promoting one political party or candidate or another, although I suspect politicians´ hirelings do the painting and pay the owner. Streets, schools, and the maintenance of the long mountain roads that connect them to other population centers suggest that the government does not totally neglect these communities. Indeed, paved roads seem to be slowly, but inexorably expanding their reach.  Whether riders 10 years from now will know the pleasure of these at times torturous but lovely back roads is very uncertain. I suspect it´s also uncertain how these improved roads will be received by the people they reach.

James and I were very relieved to reach pavement again. Thirty minutes later we were in Cajamarca. Our hotel is on the central park and only has hot water in the morning, if at all - quite an irritation for two dirty riders in this slightly chilly climate. The coolness of these equatorial cities still surprises me, even though I understand the science behind it. Cajamarca is proud of its agricultural riches (especially its dairy industry) and its history. Its history must, however, evoke mixed feelings here. On the one hand, this is a very Catholic part of the world. On the other, many of the people here descend from the Incas and the peoples who preceded them. Catholicism was introduced forcefully and nowhere is that more poignant than here in Cajamarca where the Spanish conquistador Pizarro and his men, armed with steel, guns, and horses (and germs, as Diamond asserts) defeated the Incan Emperor and thousands of his followers in 1533. Yesterday I visited the one preserved remnant of that time and event - the so called Ransom Chamber. It is asserted that this is both the chamber where Atahualpa was killed by Pizarro and where the ransom of gold, that was supposed to win Atahualpa´s release, was collected. But whether the ransom really was collected there and even how Atahualpa was killed (whether by fire or by garroting) appears to be in dispute. The main consequences of this encounter, however, are not in dispute.

James and I are sitting tight here until Tuesday when we can finally get paperwork showing we have Peru´s required vehicular insurance. Police along the Panamerican Highway are said to target rich foreigners for bribes. The wait here in Cajamarca will give us peace of mind as we head farther south.