Colombia Part II

Cali is a city known for its salsa dancing clubs and its plastic surgery clinics. I didn´t patronize either. Some of you may be disappointed about that and perhaps some day I´ll regret it, but I still had a nice stay there. Angelica Orozco´s sister, Alexandra, manages the very nice Hotel Calima Real. I was able to stay there for next to nothing and enjoy good breakfasts and all the CNN my heart desired. Plus my bike was shielded from the elements in the hotel garage. The highlights of my time in Cali included a tour of the city courtesy of Alexandra, her husband (Ferney), and her son (Juan) and daughter (Camilla). We drove up to a hilltop to gaze over the city by night. I was reminded of overlooking Montreal from Mont Royal. Before going out, I had eaten a massive pasta dinner. Alexandra asked me what I would like to do and particularly if I would like to go eat something. Stuffed to the gills but not knowing what to suggest nor how to suggest it in Spanish, I kept it easy and meekly suggested that perhaps a little dessert would be good. Being conscientious hosts, this then became the evening´s quest - get Glenn some dessert. After bypassing a number of cool neighborhoods a bunch of hip restaurants and bars and finding no place that would serve up a good dessert, I began to feel a bit silly about all this trouble on my behalf. Finally, we stopped at a bakery, where I got a piece of pie and where they treated me to a tasty loaf of sweet bread. Ferney and I closed the evening by going, just the two of us, to a friendly roadside bar for a couple beers. My very broken (as if it had ever been whole) Spanish sufficed to discuss a bit of Colombian culture, schools, politics, beer, and women.

Two nights later, my colleague, Angelica, was in town with her son, Geronimo. I joined her and her family at Fernando and Alexandra´s home. Angelica filled me in on what has been happening (or not) in the Northeast Kingdom and at our school. Alexandra´s daughter, Camilla, kept yummy food flowing my way, and Ferney taught me how to make Arepas, a Colombian specialty.

Good fortune had Aussie riding friends, Adrian and Tim, arriving in Cali that same day. We decided to quit Cali the next day and head for Ecuador. Despite rain, we met at 8:30am and slowly made our way through the city to find highway 25 south. On the outskirts of town, I noticed my bike was not feeling normal. The rear end felt squirrelly. I pondered reasons for that, but soon learned what the real problem was when suddenly the rear end felt like it was going to slide out from under me - a flat tire. Damn! Fortunately, I was not alone. Adrian and Tim soon realized I was not behind them and backtracked to find me. We put the bike up on the center stand and, on the side of the road, removed the rear wheel which had become home to two large nails. I dug through my panniers to find a replacement tube. We took the old, shredded tube out, inserted the new one and (using my tire irons, the best one of which I had just bought in Bogota!) started putting the tire back on. That started easily enough, but with about 3/4s of the tire on, we couldn´t get it to budge anymore. As we pushed harder and harder, the new tire iron began to bend - not a good sign. Resignedly, we loaded the wheel on Adrian´s KLR and he rode off to find a tire shop. He returned about an hour later with the wheel ready to go.

Off we dashed, still intent to reach our destination, Pasto. After a little rain and a great trout lunch, the landscape became hilly and led us down into a canyon. A Red Cross vehicle was coming out of the canyon as we headed in - an ominous sign, given all the rain Colombia has seen in the past weeks. Indeed, our road was partly washed out in several locations, but it was passable, easily so for our two-wheelers. At least, it was until my rear end felt the back of my bike start to squirm again. Another flat! Having learned from our first effort, we knew this was doable, if annoying. The problem this time was the valve stem. It was so loose, that it popped right out of the tube. Having used my spare tube, we now turned to a patched tube Adrian was carrying. By this time, our hopes of reaching Pasto were dashed, but there was still time to get close. Off we went! There were lots of police along this beautiful route of canyons and rivers, but none were interested in stopping us or taking our money.

The sun was getting lower and the road getting worse (lots of potholes) when I again sensed something wrong with the tail of my bike. By now, I was getting paranoid and was no longer sure whether I was just imagining some defect. To be safe, though, I pulled over and Tim quickly confirmed that my tire was flat again. Adrian, who has a biker´s equivalent to a driver´s lead foot, was way ahead of us. By now, Tim and I were becoming a practiced pit crew. He learned how to detach my panniers. We needed to work quickly as the daylight was dwindling in this mountainous area. Tim was quick to point out that at least my tire went flat in scenic locations. We wondered though with all the police around, if it was a safe location.

This flat really baffled us. The valve was fine and despite using lots of water and soap, we could not find a leak. Good thing. We had no more tubes, so this would have to do. Soon, a Spanish couple on Hondas arrived and checked on us. Tim asked them to tell the police we were there. Within 15 minutes, a couple police showed up and shortly thereafter, Adrian. Tim asked if this was a dangerous area. They said it was, but when we asked if that was because of FARC, they said no, simply general delinquency. Our trio reassembled my bike and we rode to the next town where Adrian had already reserved $5 rooms in a hotel (before turning back to find us). I was extremely worried about my tire going flat again...and this time in the dark, but we arrived safely at the hotel and the tire pressure was still good. We had a delicious dinner at our hotel and marveled that I could drive over 13,000 miles without a flat and then get three in one day.

The next day, after coffee and arepas, we made our dash for Ecuador. The Andean mountains and canyons on our way to Pasto were breathtaking. I was still holding my breath about the rear tire, but all seemed well. Highway 25 took us to ever higher elevations and cooler weather. My bike, like all carbeurated vehicles, lost a bit of power and responsiveness, but still had more than enough to move me speedily forward. The roads were well paved and nicely sculpted for fun in the curves and the scenery continued to amaze with small streams cascading hundreds of meters from on high. A bit of traffic was stopped where some road work was being done. Still paranoid, I looked at my tire. Tim confirmed: it´s going flat again!!!! We proceeded through the construction zone and stopped where there was a generous shoulder. Somehow, we had ridden nearly 100 miles and only now did that patched tube fail - who knows why then and not sooner? We attracted the attention of some police officers who were posted nearby. They joined us, oversaw our repair efforts (and indeed, Adrian and I managed to pinch one of the new tubes we had JUST bought in Pasto) and checked out our bikes.

Our last noteworthy stop in Colombia was at the Santuario de Las Lajas, a majestically situated church near the Ecuadorean border. The Virgin was reportedly seen there back in the mid 1700s and the current construction (done in a Neo-Gothic style and reminiscent of Germany´s Neuschwanstein) was completed in the mid 1800s. A local man unchained a barrier that allowed us to ride our bikes down a pedestrian only path right to the church. I felt like a schmuck doing that, but being out of shape and at a high elevation, I justified my indulgence.

We successfully and uneventfully crossed into Ecuador around 5pm. We rode into the dark and spent the night at a $6 a room hotel in San Gabriel, a charming little town, whose church is topped with an impressive sculpture of the archangel. We enjoyed a $1.75 dinner and then crashed in our beds under thick, warm blankets - a necessity in this cool climate.

I am writing from Quito, officially south of the equator...my first time! We enjoyed a lovely ride here, although we somehow missed the monument marking the equator.  Such a photo-op gone...and an opportunity to show off the result of my self-inflicted buzz cut.

Quito looks like a great city! Adrian and Tim are getting their bikes tuned. Mine just needs an oil change. Hopefully, I will have more to tell about this mountain city very soon.

I drove through the rich, green countryside around Villa de Leyva and upward toward Bogota. Rain was constantly threatening and the temperatures dropped as the elevation climbed. The drive was only a couple hours long, but I was a bit nervous.  Bogota is a city of over 8 million people. How hard would it be to navigate my way to one of the hostels I had found in Lonely Planet? I stopped for lunch before pushing into the city limits figuring traffic jams, disorientation, and frustration are that much worse on an empty stomach.

I was glad to have the food in me, no doubt, but my fears quickly subsided. There was a lot of traffic, to be sure, oh and there was the solidarity protest against Farc to reckon with downtown, but the road headed straight to the center, and the amount of traffic  did not seem commensurate for a city of over 8 million people.  It was soon clear why. Metro bus lines to the left of the car and truck lanes ran efficiently and were packed with people. Bus stops looked more like metro stops. Walkways went up over the highway to between the lanes of either direction so pedestrians had easy access without having to dash between cars or interrupt the flow of traffic. Bogota is truly a model city in this respect. My drive was not without detours, but they were clearly marked with big banners hanging over the road - if only the US made detours so easy! Roads were divided into numbered ¨Calles¨ (going east and west) and ¨Carreras¨ (going north and south), not unlike New York City. The only difficulty was deciding which hostel to check out first and figuring out which streets are one way.  I was a bit tired and cold, though, so when I arrived at Platypus, I knew I was not going elsewhere.  Indeed, little did I know that I would be there for a full week. It was Tuesday.

That evening, I needed warm, hearty food.  I was directed to a restaurant called Sabor Al Carbon (flavor of charcoal) for a local specialty, Ajeito. This creamy soup of chicken and a partial cob of corn was warming and, combined with rice, an arepa, and avocado, filling! With a bulging gut, I strolled downtown wondering what would remain of the day´s protest. Finding Bolivar Square was easy, just follow the people and the Christmas lights. The square was ringed by mostly government buildings covered in white Christmas lights. In the middle was a tall tree of mostly blue lights. The 19th century cathedral at the square was open, perhaps because the Church had supported the day´s demonstration. A few anti-Farc banners were still at the square, but the masses had returned to their window shopping on Carrera 7.

Carrera 7 was bustling with life. Stores and vendors sought the attention of passers-by, as did street performers. One very successful act was a middle aged man, cross dressed and singing and dancing to a song about liposuction. His flirtations with other men were real crowd pleasers.

The next day I resumed my exploration of Bogota. By day the propinquity of the mountains hovering over the downtown is clear. There are aerial trams and  a funicular that climb to the summits, one of which is home to a monastery and a statue of the fallen Christ. I looked around the Candelaria district known for some of Bogota´s older dwellings and also for its Bohemian scene. I found the latter later in the day. The narrow streets, cozy cafes and bars and the provocative graffiti are very inviting and intriguing, but I guess I looked like I didn´t belong, as the same guy asked me twice what I wanted there. He would have to be happy with me just wanting to look around and not being interested in the plainly (to every nose) available drug of choice.

That evening,  I planned to visit a bar/cafe I had spotted the previous evening - one that brought 1950s Paris to mind. I sat and chatted with a Dutch woman at the hostel before going out. We had gotten dinner together and she was about to hop on a plane for New York City. It was cold in the hostel. She was wearing at least two fleece tops and commented how cold it was before she left. I then headed to that bar and, finding it closed, returned to the hostel and got ready for bed. It was cold enough that I got out my mummy sleeping bag with which I have been winter camping on the shores of Lake Superior and on Mount Lafayette in the White Mountains. On neither of those trips did I experience cold like I did that night. I laid in my bag under two more blankets and shivered for hours. How could I be this cold?? Soon my chest started to hurt from the exertion of my quivering muscles. I finally got up, went to the kitchen, made some tea and watched TV to try to warm up and relax some. I returned to bed around 4am and finally managed to warm up some and sleep. I knew, though, that I had a fever - not a good sign.

The next day the fever was less but still present. It was joined by a splendid case of the runs. What was it? Dengue? Didn´t look like the symptoms lined up. Perhaps food poisoning. At any rate, I toughed it out that day and one more before deciding to go to a clinic. Excellent - I would see the inside of a Colombian hospital. It was Saturday and there was a line as one would expect, but I saw a nurse to get my vitals within a short while and then the real wait began before seeing a doctor. At least it was clean and WARM at the clinic! The doctor said I had an intestinal infection and gave me an IV, which is exactly what I was hoping for, knowing full well that I was dehydrated. A couple hours with an IV was time well spent. I could lay down and I knew I was getting better. Soon I was cozy warm, sweating even - a really slimy-feeling sweat. That didn´t bother me.

What would bother me was the next step - paying for all this. I am insured, so that is no worry. I simply needed cash. I tried an ATM at the clinic two times, thinking I might have done something wrong the first time. There were more ATMs just outside the clinic. No luck there either, but they were from the same bank as the first one. Then I found other ATMs nearby, but they also refused to work. Ruh roh. I hired a cabby to drive me to other banks. He told me that after three failed attempts, a card will automatically be refused by all others for 24 hours. Super. I returned to the clinic. The woman at the counter was unconcerned. They would hold my passport until I pay. My bigger concern was that I could not purchase my new cocktail of drugs to make sure my newly healthy state would remain.

After a full day of great worry and what-if scenarios, I tried my debit card 24 hours later and it worked. I bought my meds and planned to pay my bill at the clinic the next day. Then I would have to wait a day to get more money to pay my hostel and the parqueador where my bike was.

By the time I left Bogota, a week had passed and I was itching to get outta there. I did not quit town without one last scare, though. Tuesday morning, my card did not work at a bank I had used twice previously. It was then refused at two others. Oh no!! It turned out though, that my first attempt was made when the ATM was disconnected (but not turned off) so it could be restocked with precious Pesos. Whew.

Money issues stuck with me though as I traveled to the next destination. It was good to make my way through the urban jungle back to a more natural setting. I aimed to get half way to Cali, which, according to Googlemaps, should take a total of 8 hours. A four hour ride after being sick seemed very prudent. For the most part, the ride was pleasant and easy. Not too much traffic, nice scenery, good roads, some of them four lane highways. Then the road plunged down into a canyon. The road narrowed and the traffic congealed as passing slower vehicles became really difficult for all but the most nimble - like motorcyclists. It has simply become habit in months of  travel south of the US to cross yellow lines willy-nilly to pass someone. No room on the left, pass them on the right! That is God´s gift to motorcyclists! After one such passing episode, I (along with others) was waved to the side at a police checkpoint. I was told that I had crossed the yellow line. There is a law against that. I would have to pay. A ticket would be very expensive. I think the first guy, genuinely impressed that I was all the way from the US was going to let me off, but his partner appeared and told him to scram. This fellow then insisted, as he held all my documents, that I pay 50,000 pesos (about $26). I had no choice. I planted the money in his hand, turned my back to him, got on my bike and sped away.  My first bribe!! As beautiful as the canyon was with its steep green, partially terraced sides, all I could see was red. I didn´t even know how they saw me pass anyone. I did know, however, how the next post of policemen, just a couple miles up the road, saw me. I passed a truck and suddenly saw the next post and they were already waving me over. No (insert an expletive) WAY!!! This post was staffed by a bunch of officers. And the lead negotiator here seemed to want more money. This time I actually saw a form for a proper citation, but they were in no hurry to fill it out, instead just telling me how much it would cost me. This time, the figure was more like 200,000 pesos (over $100). I tried to drag this process out and got angry about the money amounts. Finally, I pulled out another 50,000 note and for some reason they decided they didn´t need my money after all. I was totally baffled, but also relieved.  Equally baffling was how open they were about this. All the officers were in on this, even a plain-clothes official who looked like a government representative was on site, but cared not.

Now, I drove more slowly and saw just how many of these posts there are along this route. I don´t doubt that this is a dangerous stretch of road. And there is an impressive infrastructure project well underway to complete a roadway with numerous tunnels and bridges - that will be a flat and straight road. I could not not pass anyone, but I waited until there were longer straightaways where I could see if there was a police post or not. I followed behind a guy in a pickup. We got ahead of a trucker and then came across another two man team that stopped both of us. The guy ahead of me gave an animated explanation. I know they were asking how it could be that we were just barely ahead of that semi. This time, I pretended to know no Spanish and made friendly with the young fellow who came over by me. He was carrying an M-16 and had a magazine holder that said US on it - clearly a hand-me-down from the US Army. I pointed at it and gave a thumbs-up. He smiled too and checked out my bike. The other guy joined us and got nowhere trying to speak with me. The first guy signaled that I could go, but the other interrupted him.  Damn!  The number two guy went and talked now to the trucker, to get his account. That´s when three other riders on big Suzukis and one on a BMW showed up. What relief! We greeted each other. These guys were Colombians. Things were looking better. Then it became clear that where we were parked was not just another police posting. This was a stopping point for a washout up ahead. Only one lane of traffic could pass at a time. Soon, the green flag was issued and we could carry on. Whew.

I rode with the three others up out of the canyon, into a light rain, over a pass and back down the other side, past an overturned tanker, and back out of the rain, but into the dark. My four hour day was turning into seven. We took a coffee break  and I showed that I can actually speak a little Spanish - at least not none. One other rider was headed to Armenia, a town I now figured was my best bet for lodging. He took me straight to the hotel.

I wondered if the next four hours to Cali would be more of the same. The four hours were actually more like three. I had covered most of the distance the previous day and the roads on this day were good and straight! Police postings were few and far between. The ride into Cali was simple and finding the hotel run by the sister of my colleague (Angelica Orozco), was equally so. After settling in, I went to the lobby and found the Orozco parents waiting to greet me. They have been to Danville/Peacham many times. I also met Alexandra, who is hosting me here. She speaks no English, so my Spanish is all we can go on. It´s not much, but Alexandra is very kind and gracious. I spoke with Angelica on the phone yesterday. She will arrive here for the holidays on Saturday. So, I am staying here for the weekend before moving on. Quito will be my next major stop. It will be exciting to move into the next country south...and into another hemisphere of people, land, and adventure!

Colombia Part I

Below deck the ride was perfectly smooth. Much smoother than any road. We were entering the harbor at Cartagena. A breakfast of German bread, tomatoes and bologna, peanut butter and jelly was served up one last time before we shuttled on the dingy to shore. It was good to be back on terra firma.

The hostel of choice for motorcyclists is Hostel Amber, located in the Getsamani (Gethsemene) part of Cartagena. This hostel has room for motorcycles, if you can just get them through the entryway. Our four bikes would join at least four others from Washington state, Denmark, and elsewhere, but only after they were unloaded and processed at customs the next day.

Getsamani is a teeming mix of locals and tourists. The former run small businesses as mechanics, tailors, and food vendors. The latter are there for the many hostels and inexpensive eateries and bars. These groups intersect in the hostels and restaurants, but also in the sale and consumption of drugs, especially cocaine.

A short walk away is the old, walled city of Cartagena. Parts of the wall date to the early 1600s, having been built in response to attacks by English privateers like Sir Francis Drake. These walls nestle a very cozy network of streets and homes.  Second floor balconies overlook the streets and provide shelter from sun and rain. Stylish banisters and windows adorn the homes and give each building its own character. Today these buildings are occupied by hip restaurants and bars, by stores selling crafts, and by museums and cultural institutions. By night the atmosphere becomes even more charming as light and shadow give even more romance to this town suspended in time.

The Colombian people are ethnically diverse - white, black, hispanic, mestizo. For us guys, it was hard not to notice the Colombian women. Many are truly gorgeous...and they know how to show it. Tight jeans and short skirts are the daily norm, whether out shopping or working at the customs office or the insurance company.  Our time spent at those two places on our second day also showed an orderly side to Colombia, as well as good customer service - we were served delicious coffee while waiting for our insurance paperwork.

Coffee is a major industry in Colombia. The US and Europe have forgotten Juan Valdez, but he (or his memory) is alive and well in Cartagena with a Juan Valdez Cafe. Pastries are also advertised by way of sweet smells that waft through the avenues. I had been missing good pastries through much of Central America. No one matches the French, but these pastries, whether sweet or hearty, are still mighty tempting. If your coffee buzz is already going, you can wash a pastry or a meal down with juice made on the spot with fresh fruit - mangoes, bananas, raspberries, strawberries and a number of fruits I´ve never heard of.

Andre, Kerman, Kevin and I were reunited with Mark in Cartagena. It was great to see him and to hear about his crossing on the Stahlratte. Nick and Ivanka were also in town. I spent the better part of my third full day in Cartagena exploring the city with them and then joining them for a homemade supper in the apartment they rented with some friends.

After three days in the city and five days sailing, I was itching to start the bike and pound the pavement. Leaving Cartagena was not easy. The streets were congested with buses and trucks and some cars as well. There are lots of motorcyclists here and it is easy to see why. In addition to being more affordable (and having no winter!), they can squeeze through traffic jams while others must wait and wait. My bike with its panniers is not so trim, but is still nimble enough to thread most needles. Squeeze left between that bus and truck, go back to the right, avoid pedestrians and anticipate people hopping off buses; don´t go through that trash, look out for broken glass... But on the outskirt of town, the traffic lets up quickly and soon I am on the open highway where I am joined mostly by trucks.

My path led me south, then east through Plato.  Plato is on the Magdelena River which was flooded from recent rain. This great waterway, along with swollen lakes and fields that had become lakes, was breathtaking. I pondered moving there and opening a restaurant or store called the Republic (sorry, a philosophy joke). It seemed a shame to be passing through such lovely places without stopping, but the urge to get south has been growing in me. I stopped for lunch (at 3pm) and had some local fish from the river.  Conveniently, it poured while I was there. Soon I arrived at highway 45 which leads all the way to Bogota. I turned south and encountered even more truck traffic. Containers being shuttled between northern ports and southern industrial centers made me wonder why this highway only has two lanes (further south construction on another two lanes is well underway). Then I hit a traffic jam.  Trucks and buses backed up for miles. The cause? A one lane bridge! Again, I was able to zip to the front of the line. A life of privilege indeed!

The sun was nearing the horizon and my shadow, which usually resides right under me in these latitudes, was stretched to my left. Where to spend the night? There were a lot of hotels right at truck stops, but they definitely did not look appealing. Some had signs with renderings of sexy chicas

The next day´s ride took me out of the grassy plains into the mountains, where the roads got smaller and curvier and of course slower. Rain and mountains haven´t been a good mix on my trip so far and that remained the case here.  Derrumbas, or landslides, had closed this highway just days before. There were still a couple places where only one lane existed and crews were present to regulate the flow of traffic. By 3pm I arrived at Bucaramanga. I reviewed my guidebook to get the address of the one recommended hostel in this town. That sole suggestion paired with the brown brick slums on the hillside of this foothill town gave a drab first impression. Lacking a town map, I asked a young man on a scooter for directions. He led me straight to the hotel of that name. Nice! Unfortunately, that was a hotel, not a hostel, but by then I had figured out the street numbers and rode on my own to the hostel.

A walk downtown revealed a bustling center. Colorful markets and stores and tasty eateries were everywhere. The only thing lacking was crossing lights for pedestrians. For the first time on my trip, I felt that if I walked in front of a car, the driver really might NOT stop for me. It appears that way in many cities, but here appearance might just be reality. This fear actually started back south of Cartagena where I dropped my bike on its side. I was only going a couple miles an hour when I turned left and nearly hit a guy who was coming from behind on his scooter. At first I wondered how I could be so careless, but then I realized he was on my left in the other lane. No wonder I didn´t anticipate him. Indeed, the multitude of motorcyclists here means I have to be watching at all times on the left and right and especially in my blind spots. Anyhow, no damage done at all and a whole posse of men rushed out to help me pick up my bike.

Bucaramanga felt like a gritty city, despite the lively center. In the evening though, I went for a walk near the hostel and found another side. This is the affluent side of Bucaramanga. Modern shopping centers; tall, attractive apartment buildings; and lots of hip young people (there are 10 universities in town). I was especially surprised to find a store for Chevingnon, a hip French fashion store I have rarely seen outside its mother country. Salons were especially busy this evening and not just for the women. Men were also getting coiffed, pampered, and prepped for a fun night out.

I rose early the next morning, anticipating a long ride. I quickly checked Facebook and found Kerman online. He suggested stopping at San Gil and visiting nearby Barichara. That would make a long ride short. Why not? The ride was indeed short, but also spectacular. Highway 45 left Bucaramanga and sloped into a canyon named Chicamocha. Colombia´s landscape was impressing me more and more. San Gil is a smallish town that is thriving on adventure tourism.  Rafting is excellent there, but you can also go paragliding, bungee jumping, etc. Having arrived early, I rode up to Barichara right away. That stately, tranquil 18th century town is said to be Colombia´s most beautiful. It is certainly one of the most beautiful I have seen on my entire trip. It is set above a cliff overlooking a vast, verdant canyon. There is no modern building in the entire town. Almost all the buildings are one story tall, have whitewashed walls and reddish tile roofs. The churches are made of brown stone. These colors contrast with and complement the green surroundings. I liked it enough that I rode up there again the next (Sunday) morning with a Montreallaise I met at my hostel. We were struck by the contrast of a full church on one side of the square and bars full of very animated drinkers on the other. We joined neither.

I am writing now from Villa de Leyva. It is like a bigger and busier Barichara. The ride here took me through more spectacular countryside and up higher into the mountains. Indeed, I was a bit chilled (and a bit wet) upon my arrival here. The climate is very pleasant; comfortable days and cool nights pretty much year round. The climb up here followed the Suarez River whose churning brown waters seemed in a panicked hurry to lower elevations. The climb ended in a flat highland that, in its green and wet state brought Bretagne, France to mind. That comparison was strengthened by the simple stone homes, fenced in pasture and cattle, and the multitude of old and new Renault cars on the road. The only thing missing was some good pastis, but actually a taste of the cheap liquor called Aguadientes in San Gil satisfied that characteristic as well.

Colombia has really impressed me so far. Please check out my Colombia album and stay tuned for part II.

Leaving North America

One could debate where, geographically, North America ends and South America begins.  Politically, the Colombian-Panamanian border is the clear demarcation. Geophysically, one could argue it is at the narrowest point of the isthmus (wherever that is). Human activity has cut a pretty clear line with the Panama Canal which was first traversed by a two lane, permanent bridge in the early 60s, called La Puente de las Americas - the bridge of the Americas. By any measure, I am now writing from South America. I awoke to Cartagena, Colombia this morning aboard Fritz-the-Cat, a 15 meter catamaran. We were anchored in the harbor as all the slips were occupied. Andre, Kevin, Kerman and I left our bikes and the boat and taxied to a recommended hotel (with room for bikes) where we met our good friend, Marc, and a bunch of other bikers who had just crossed on the Stahlratte. Soon we will spread out again and just see each other upon occasion. It´s great to be a part of this brotherhood though and to get their advice for going through customs tomorrow when we unload our bikes from Fritz.

My ride from the mountains and Boquete to Panama City was pretty unremarkable except for a couple things. I was struck by how few people there are between David and the capital. Aside from a couple modestly sized cities, the Panamerican Highway cuts through rural territory, much of it hilly, all of it green. My map noted several points on rivers I crossed where primarily British privateers had raided Spanish settlements. Today, it wouldn´t be worth the effort.  The other noteworthy part of my ride was rain. For a short while, the skies let loose a torrent, complete with thunder and lightning and of course minimal visibility. I sped on though and soon left it behind.  After six hours of riding, I finally arrived at the Bridge of the Americas, crossed over the canal and got my first glimpses of Panama City and its remarkable skyline. I had sized up a map of the city in my Lonely Planet guide and knew about what I would have to do to find my hostel. It´s great to have such an unmistakable landmark like a shoreline. I found my way there, rode to a cross street and then headed north.  As usual, I stopped a couple times to check my progress. A local man stopped his pickup and got out to help me. Frequently, locals do not know maps - they know their cities intuitively (maybe it´s no different in the US). So in fact I determined on my own that I was just blocks away and figured out how to get there. The hostel was clean and welcoming, but appeared to be in a dicey neighborhood. Before going out to get some food, I asked about how safe it was and was told not to worry. Upon my return, there were police cars in front of the hostel and a crowd of onlookers. I had been gone about 30 minutes, but in that time there had been a shootout and one man was killed - a local. Good thing I asked.

The next day I set out to explore the big city. Just before heading out, a woman of Lebanese and Danish citizenship arrived at the hostel. Marianna joined me. While lots of people had told me that Panama City is an unpleasant town, I found a lot to like. The old part of town, Casco Viejo, is absolutely charming. Old homes that surely belonged to the propertied classes still retain their elegance and class. The old cathedral is a simple and cool refuge from the heat and anchors a plaza that is more quaint than grand. The tip of this mini-peninsula is dedicated to the French, who lost over 20,000 workers in the first effort to construct the canal (albeit, most of those French were black workers from Caribbean colonies). The streets in between are marked by their colorful homes and inviting balconies. As hunger pangs set in, Marianna and I concocted a plan to get Ceviche at the Fisherman`s Market, then to visit the Canal Museum (by the Cathedral) and then to get gelato at a French-owned etablissement. The Ceviche was great! This is raw fish, served up in a lime and onion based juice. We bought small cups with prawns, conch, and some other fish sorts. Hot sauce is available for everything in Latin America and adds a real punch. The museum was a cool retreat from the heat and very informative. In addition to addressing the construction and the politics surrounding the canal, there was a special exhibit on pirates. I found it interesting that pirates of the 17th century, such as Henry Morgan, are called "filibusteros" in Spanish. It would be interesting to know who took that word and applied it to stalling American senators. I was also surprised to learn that the French, under the leadership of De Lesseps (builder of the Suez Canal) had planned on a sea level canal. It was the US that decided to employ locks. After the museum came gelato. Ice cream throughout Latin America had left me very unimpressed. Even in a city like elegant and affluent Morelia, Mexico, ice cream seemed an afterthought. Well, gelato in Panama City is taken to new heights with flavors like basil, ginger, lavender, etc. I tried the lavender and as I guessed, it tasted like soap...but good soap.

I visited the Miraflores locks on the Panama Canal with fellow riders, Kerman, Kevin, and Andre. Having visited the Soo Locks in Michigan, these did not seem terribly impressive. To be sure, these locks are bigger, but the Panama Canal is only impressive when one considers its totality, the history of its construction, the volume of traffic, and the geopolitical significance of the waterway. So while I was a bit underwhelmed by the locks I saw, I still feel very lucky to have visited such a human marvel. By 2014, new, larger locks will be dedicated, capable of handling supertankers.

The next day, the four of us arose early and headed north to Portobello, east of Colon, to catch our ride to South America aboard Fritz-the-Cat. The coast there is green and peaceful. Portobello is a small town with a small bay and a tiny dock. We wondered how we would get our bikes on board. The answer was simple, but scary: ride them up a ramp. The ramp was a 2x6 plank of wood that climbed probably 4 feet over its 10 feet length. Yikes!! I was first in the line. Four trained hands grabbed my bike. I gave gas and trusted they knew what they are doing as my feet left the ground. Up on deck, I rode my bike to the far side where others helped me shift it around so it could be securely fastened. By about 3pm, twelve paying guests, four bikes, Fritz (an Austrian), Duli (his Kurdish partner), and Jose (their do everything man) were motoring across gently rolling blue waters to the San Blas islands. We arrived at the islands in the dark. Fritz apparently had a little scare about being too close to a reef. He cursed and cursed and barked orders, but we were soon safely anchored. In the morning, we awoke to a Caribbean paradise. Three little islands surrounded us. One had just one palm tree on it. Kevin swam out to it and claimed it for Ireland (although I doubt his claim´s validity). We twice changed locations amidst these islands to give us new reefs to snorkel through. For just the second time in my life, I was snorkeling. We saw lots of fish and corral. Aside from a stingray, I didn´t see anything super exciting, but it was all peaceful and beautiful. Just the thrill of peering into another world and of testing one´s body and lungs in increasingly deep dives made the trip very worthwhile. Some of the others tested their skills at hunting with a spear gun. They provided us with dinners including stingray, lobster, crab, etc. We also enjoyed shark that we caught aboard Fritz while cruising. Some we ate cooked, some raw.  It was all delicious.

After two full days of rest and snorkeling, it was time to push to Cartagena. Rain had held off just long enough for us to enjoy all our outdoor activities, but when the motor fired, it was time to seek shelter. Already on our first day´s cruise, I had felt a bit odd, but now I was clearly getting seasick. I did not turn shades of pale or green, I did not break out in a cold sweat or vomit, but neither did I feel like eating or doing much of anything really. And so it was until we arrived in Cartagena harbor.

Now for part II of my great journey.  Thank you for reading!!

The Caribbean and Panama

I left La Fortuna on a cloudy, rain-threatening morning.  The peaks of higher mountains and more volcanoes were hidden as I rode by. Slowly, the road southwest descended and then flattened as the coast neared.  Truck traffic grew in volume. Driving behind big trucks is never fun, but in Central America it can be downright unhealthy as clouds of black smoke billow from the exhaust. On a couple occasions though, the smell given off by these trucks was really nice. Indeed, at first I wondered where the women were who were wearing such strong but yummy perfume. Then I realized it was not perfume, there were no women in sight, instead it was pineapples in the thousands piled high in the back of the trucks. A quick look around revealed fields of pineapple. Those fields soon gave way to others of banana trees. The closer I got to Limon, the more container trucks and the more banana trees. At the outskirts of Limon, each exporter/importer of bananas had their own compound with hundreds of containers awaiting their load of this rather delicate, bruisable fruit. In scale, I have only seen more containers in Hamburg. The fields of green trees were further decorated with transparent blue bags containing the bananas. I figure that is to protect them from pests and probably from falls, if their hold on their branches were to fail.

It was just south of Limon that I again saw the Atlantic/Caribbean - the first time since Belize. The gentle sweep of the beach was a welcoming view. I continued south to Cahuita. Limon is said to be a tough, worker town; Cahuita rather quiet and accomodating. My Lonely Planet guide mentioned a Dutch-owned hostal, The Secret Garden. I found it quickly and almost immediately had new friends. An expected two nights turned into four as a core group consisting of Marilyn (Canada), Doug (US), Larissa (Germany), Nanne (Holland) and I (Vermont) enjoyed each other´s company. Together we enjoyed the beaches, the local jungle trail, we cooked together, and went out to the local bar for Saturday night´s live reggae music. On Friday, Marilyn, Larissa, Doug and I accepted an offer to visit an indigenous village and even meet a local medicine man. We showed up, met our tour guide (arranged by a local charity) and plunged into the forest, walking not along but at times IN a stream. I felt like a 17th century Jesuit searching for the Guarani tribe. The Bribri people live only in this corner of Costa Rica. They have their own language and live in rather remote locations. After an hour of very slippery conditions and a tumble taken by Marilyn resulting in total immersion and a sore knee, we reached our guide´s home. We looked around and didn´t really ask much, as we figured the village and medicine man were next. Well, we were wrong. That was our tour. A bit disappointing, but still a good, muddy bonding experience for us.

I left on a Monday.  By email I had communicated with an experienced KLR mechanic who lives in David, Panama. He was busy Monday, but thought he would have time on Tuesday to look my bike over. The ride to the border at Sixaola led me past more banana plantations. The town at the border looked pretty impoverished and it was certainly isolated. One road led back north and then one road to Panama over an old railroad bridge - one lane wide with loose planks of wood lying on the ties to the right and left of the rails.
Before I could brave the bridge, I had to take care of paperwork with the Costa Rican authorities. This was made a bit frustrating by the hot weather, my heavy bike gear, and by the alarm I have for my bike - it kept going off and I could not shut the thing up (it is, of course, rather tamper-proof). There I stood, beads of sweat dropping and Costa Rican authorities looking bemused at the sight of this very annoyed gringo. Finally, I silenced my foe and rode ahead. After pedestrians cleared the right side of the bridge, I proceeded at about 15mph, my eyes wide and focused on those loose boards and any potentially troubling gaps between them. In my periphery I was very aware of the holes in the poorly anchored fence to my right and the gaps between the ties between the rails.

The Panamanian authorities were generally welcoming and not too overworked by the slow flow of traffic there. The usual onslaught of men looking to swindle you for a few dollars was absent, except a couple young boys who offered to watch your vehicle (not needed here). I was making speedy progress to resume my drive until I had to buy insurance. The vendor was in an Arab-owned store and she was not there.  An hour and a half later she finally returned.  A waste of time. I had, however, chatted with the son of the Syrian owner and learned there are quite a few Arabs in Panama. I also met a really nice young Mexican woman (from Guadalajara) traveling south with her Argentinian boyfriend - not many Mexicans traveling through here. She gets a lot more scrutiny than I do.

By 3:30pm I was admitted to Panama. David would be at least another three hours of driving. Hurry! The roads accomodated me with good conditions, little traffic, and fun hills and curves. At first the path hugged the coast, but then headed into what appeared to be rainy mountains. As I drove up, the temperature dropped and so did the sun. I was surprised to find such mountains in a country most famous for a canal. A reservoir appeared below me. The dam was a couple hundred feet tall. I kept thinking how if I didn´t know better, I would think I was somewhere in northern Canada. A ways beyond the dam, a surreal scene appeared, accompanied by strong gusts from each side. I was on a ridge, probably the continental divide (I later learned it"s called the "Devil´s Elbow"). As I looked southwest through clouds and rain, it was impossible to discern if I saw the distant and dark Pacific or if it was a mountain towering up into the clouds and out of sight. It was very disorientating.  A stocking-cap wearing official manned a permanent roadblock ahead of me. He took a quick look at my papers and waved me on. In December, he decides if vehicles are allowed to pass through there.

By now, it was totally dark. Great. My second night ride and just like last time, it is raining, dark, there are no street lights and I don´t know where I will sleep. The only improvement this time was that there were very few stray dogs on this side of Panama. I stopped a number of times to verify my location and eventually made it to David, where someone gave me very good directions to the Purple House hostel. I was welcomed there by Gustavo, a very kind and conscientious caretaker when the owner, a former Peace Corps volunteer is gone. This friendly place truly lives up to its name - EVERYTHING is purple. It grows on you.

The next day I met Paul Donohue at his home a short ways up in the highlands. This American expat loves to tinker. He has three motorcycles, a big backhoe, and a couple ultralight airplanes. Well, we tinkered on my bike until late in the night. By midnight, my bike´s valves were adjusted, the doohickey (yes, it´s really called that) checked, the airfilter cleaned, and the oil changed. A very productive day.

David is Panama´s second city, although one would not guess that. It´s population is only a little over 100,000.  It has big hopes, though, as more gringos and other expats discover the fair countryside to the north and more surfers discover the coast to the south. A new airport is on the way and hopefully more jobs for the people there. On Thursday, Paul and his friend Jim (both of whom have raced motorcycles for much of their lives) took me for a motorcycle tour of Northwest Panama. We took a break in a town somewhere near Quebrada. The beautiful seaside location belied the economic hardships this community has faced in the years since a banana exporter left the town after the workers demanded pay raises. Crime is reportedly rampant, but this is fertile turf for angling expats.

My bike running tip-top, I bid David ado and drove just one hour north to Boquete. This is another world, up here.  It is cool, the oppressive heat and humidity are left below. Coffee plantations climb the mountainsides, as do the homes of many more expats from all over. A quick glance suggests that the expats and the locals coexist nicely, but Paul told me of disputes even about roosters that disturb the peace and quiet of the new arrivals.

Tourists tend to travel to the same towns. When I arrived at my hostel, I saw Renaud (a Frenchman from Lyons who spent the past two years in Montreal) who I had met at the Purple House. I also saw the Mexican woman I had met at the border a few days earlier.

Boquete sits in the shadow of the 3474 meter Volcan Baru (Panama´s highest point). Tourists flock here for hikes, whitewater rafting, horseback riding, etc. The ultimate goal of the hiking crowd is to summit Baru and take in views of both the Pacific and the Atlantic. Tonight at midnight (weather permitting), Renaud and I will be heading up Baru´s steep slope hoping to catch a glimpse of each as the sun rises.

A POST HIKE UPDATE:
Our descent from the summit was a long, unrelenting slog. The trail is actually an access road for maintenance vehicles for the antennae near the summit. It is at times sandy, muddy, at times boulders litter the way, but mostly it is loose gravel.  Every step must be selected to avoid twisting an ankle or slipping. The kilometer markers that have not been damaged or stolen are few and far between on this 27 km (16 mi.) round trip trail. Amber and I walked down together and hoped for quick progress, but learned with each sign that there was still a long way down to go. Fortunately the company was good, otherwise we would have had nothing else to do than plead with our joints and muscles, curse the stones and stumbles, and dream of a hot shower and a cozy bed.

That was bad enough, but imagine the way up the mountain...in the dark!! Headlamps are indispensable, but their light must be focused on the small patch of turf right in front of you as you carefully determine where you can next place your feet.  That leaves everything else in varying degree of shadow. One of my co-hikers, David, asked me if I was feeling dizzy.  I was.  This was a result of the bad lighting. The exertion made me feel nauseous at times as well. I am astonished to have emerged without a vomit-session to write about. The other major factor was fatigue. We had all already been up all day before our 12AM hike began. I managed to reach a small camping area just below the summit in four hours (the total altitude gain is about 1600 meters - one mile). About two hours into the ascent my head seemed to have become heavy physically and mentally I seemed short-circuited as the same couple annoying songs played and replayed and as my thought processing could not choose between French and English (due to Renaud´s presence). Relief was not found at the camping area just below the summit, as my muscles found a new task - shivering. I actually had pretty good gear compared to the others, but the cold attacked my taxed body.

Hiking in mountains is rarely easy. The reward is often found in the exertion, pushing limits, and of course the view.  Well, the latter was lacking at the summit. After starting under a very promising and stunning sky full of stars, fog eventually rolled in, the wind picked up and nothing but opaque darkness and then white gusts greeted us. One could only imagine what the Pacific and Atlantic must look like from that vantage point.  At least there was a cross to guide us to the summit. David, Renaud and I took some quick pics and left the top unceremoniously.

Fun in Costa Rica

Saturday night, I said goodbye to Maggie and was planning to hit the road to Monteverde the next day.  In the computer lounge back at the hostel, I met a German woman, Melanie, and the thought entered my mind that it might be fun to hang out the next day.  I was still wishing to see more of the city, but figured a Sunday would not be ideal for that.  But with a friend it would surely be fun.  The next morning, as luck would have it, I couldn´t find Melanie.  Bummer.  I loaded my bike, got it out of the parking area and was ready to go.  Just then, she returned to the hostel and was game for exploring the town.

Our walks took us to the urban park at the west end of town.  Lots of people were spending their Sunday there, relaxing in the shade by the ponds, enjoying the sculptures, jogging, and playing soccer.  At the far end of the park, a very cool (and big) soccer stadium.  Hunger led us to a sort of American diner complete with black and white checkered tile floors and shakes.  Then, back toward the center of town.  Walking through one particular neighborhood, I thought I heard my name but figured I was imagining things.  Nope.  Two Canadian women I had met back in Belize (and have since met again in Granada and San Juan del Sur) just happened to be going down the same road in their taxi.

Melanie and I had a great time sizing up San Jose´s architecture, judging the colors they painted their houses, being advised to get out of a certain neighborhood (too dangerous), searching for an open cafe, she giving me the scoop on local hospitals (she was in CR ten years ago) and I really enjoying one person after another commenting on her French accent in Spanish.  It was a really great day!

Monteverde became Monday´s destination.  I was a bit perturbed heading north.  It was the very first time I went backward in my southerly sojourn.  The ride up to this Quaker setttled mountain roost was very fun, though.  The road was hilly and curvy and the scenery reminded me of alpine farming villages in Switzerland - it was that clean, that ordered, that pristine.  I was glad I had decided to backtrack.  Monteverde, as its name suggests (just like Vermont), is very green.  It is famous for its cloud forests, which I´ve been told differ from rainforests in that they are higher in elevation.  The forests were indeed beautiful.  Exceptionally perfect weather with warm days and cool nights made it that much better.  The only hard part is not spending money.  Every trail or activity costs at least $10.  Where could I do something for free?  The first free activity took me on a short hike to an amazing tree.  A Strangler Fig Tree wraps its tentacle like roots and branches around a host tree and kills it like a boa constrictor kills its prey.  The host tree then dies, rots away, and leaves a shaft up through the center of the Strangler.  This particular tree had grown and apparently connected with another Strangler located about 10 ft from its own base.  I met four Brits at the tree.  Together, we entered the shaft and climbed up through the tree.  We mused about how this is every child´s dream come true.  Climbing as one would up a ladder, we got up to where the shaft opened up at the canopy.  There one could exit the shaft and climb out on the branches...a good 60 feet above the ground.  Amazing!!

The next day, a free hike took me up Cerro Amigo where the clouds lifted just long enough to gain views to the Pacific in the west and to Volcano Arenal in the east.

Today, I rode from Monteverde down rocky gravel roads through Tilaran and then over to La Fortuna.  It was a gorgeous ride.  Rolling green hills, sweeping vistas, wind turbines whirring in the wind, and then Lake Areal.  This long narrow reservoir is simply stunning.  The blue waters contrast with the very green countryside and a red-sand shoreline that slopes into the lake.  The east end of the lake is saddled by Volcan Arenal.  This lake has clearly been discovered by many world travelers.  Century 21 has signs all over marketing properties.  On the north side of the lake, there are restaurants catering to the many tourists.  I was drawn by a sign for a German Bakery.  I stopped and was immediately greeted by Tom, the owner.  He told me he has encountered many bikers, some who had traveled for many, many years.  I mentioned the book "Abgefahren" which I had just read about a German couple that had ridden around the world for 16 years.  He responded that he is friends with the authors, Klaus and Claudia.  Wow!  He promised me special prices, so I sat down to a very fine meal of beef tips and spaetzle and an apple struedel for dessert.  I had arrived at just the right moment, as about 10 minutes later, first one, then another bus full of Germans arrived.

The rest of the ride along the lakeshore was lovely.  A smooth, winding road with one great view after another.  As I approached the end of the lake, the clouds lifted (a rather rare occurance) and revealed the smoldering summit of the volcano.  Until last year, this mountain had nearly daily bursts of activity, jettisoning rocks and ash.  This has slowed, but the heat and potential are still there.

I am now in the touristed town of La Fortuna.  Tomorrow´s trail leads me to the Caribbean coast.

From Managua to San Jose

Nicaragua continued to charm even after my time in Leon.  A veritable convoy of us (Laurent and Carole, Nick and Ivanka, Mark and Maggie, Jarik, and I) rolled out of Nicaragua, albeit with a couple different destinations in mind.  Some went directly to Granada.  Mark and Maggie, Nick and Ivanka and I drove into Managua to meet up with acquaintances she has through her work with Ubuntu (an open source operating system).  Our first stop in Managua was for checking directions. When we looked up from the maps we saw we were parked right in front of the US Embassy.  The very first thing I really noticed though was across the street from it: a large billboard promoting the Sandinista Party complete with a smiling Daniel Ortega.  Given the location and the history between him and the US, perhaps he should have been winking or even giving the bird to our diplomatic corps.  Clearly, this was worth a photo.  Mark saw me reach for my camera and told me that pictures of embassies are not allowed.  I balked but resumed when I realized I could capture the billboard and a small sign in front of the embassy without showing anything from the actual compound.  After three quick pics, I looked up and saw a US security guard (not an American) strolling toward me. In my mind, I instantly pictured Mark with an all-knowing grin, shaking his finger at me ("Dumbass!!"). The guard greeted me nicely and told me photos aren´t allowed.  I told him I had no shots of the compound.  So he reviewed my photos, told me to delete two and then had a change of heart and allowed me to retake one he had told me to delete.  Good grief.


Our hostel was in a quiet neighborhood of nicely cared for single story dwellings, almost all of them behind fences, many with razor wire atop the fences.  We needed food and some relief from the intense heat.  Nearby was a shopping mall - how could a group of Westerners resist?  The mall was cool and festive.  Not only were they prepping for Halloween, but also for Christmas!  The Christmas tree was decked and so were some of the halls.  The food court was just as one would find in the US, including Subway, McDonalds and your usual Chinese fastfood option, albeit without General Tsao´s chicken. Bummer.  Outside the mall, homeless people were a frequent sight and they truly appeared deperate.  Inside the mall, the middle and upper classes were free to shop in perfect consumerist harmony.


That evening, we joined several of Ivanka´s friends.  They had already been helpful to us as we planned Kevin´s urgent departure to Ireland (Btw, Kevin will be back with us at the end of November).  Now it was a pleasure to meet them and to learn a bit more about Nicaragua. We first went to a beergarden and later to a very modest but delicious restaurant.  I had a sore throat and was not feeling well.  Nick caught me nodding off at the beergarden (sacrilege!).  Still, I was awake enough to learn that the Sandinistas would very definitely win the upcoming election and that those whosupport them are frustrated about political patronage and stagnation.
I was disappointed not to find an urban focal point in Managua, a sort of downtown where business, arts, and entertainment coincide. Aparently there is also no visitworthy lakefront on the reportedly polluted Lake Managua.  There were however a couple interesting things to take in even during this very brief visit.  Ladas.  I hadn´t seen a Russian car in a long time, but there are quite a few there and most are in good condition.  Whether that is due to good quality or good care I´ll let you decide.  There are numerous large Christmas trees decorating the night.  It turns out these are there year round. I guess they do look nice, but they are also smiled upon by the Sandinistas who like to flaunt their Christian credentials.


The next day, our quintet made the short jaunt to Granada, named for the famous Spanish home of the Alhambra. No great Muslim palace or art here, but it was a charming city nonetheless. The city sits just back from the shore of Lake Nicaragua (Lake Cocibolca is the native name), Central America´s largest lake. Granada´s Parque Central is graced with arcaded buildings, a handsome yellow cathedral and a few restored colonial buildings.  Outside this zone, around the marketplace is where the real Granada ticks.  The market is housed in an old hall, but the vendors spill into the adjacent streets.  Stall after stall of fruit and veggie vendors, butchers, jean and shoe sellers, and a few food stands at the heart of the market.  A major street passed in front of my hotel.  From the porch, I watched shoe repairmen work at antique sewing machines, and people sell juices contained in plastic baggies, upon which the drinker sucks almost like they are breastfeeding.  Cars and buses, old and new, drove by leaving clouds of blackened air behind them.  More numerous than cars were the bicycles.  Often a passenger was sitting sidesaddle on the top bar of the bike.  Sons pedaled their mothers and grandmothers, girls pedaled their younger sisters and friends, and young men pedaled their girlfriends around, making for especially cute scenes.


Again, there were many bikers present.  In addition to the crew that met in Leon, Adrian and Tim joined us.  I also met Todd, another KLR rider from San Diego.


Ivanka´s friends were also a part of our time here.  Neville invited us to his family´s property on Lago Appoyo.  Here I took the second swim of my trip in a crater lake.  This lake was lovely, if a bit less dramatic and grand than its Oregonian brother.  The water was of course warmer and had just a touch of sulphur in it, giving it a very soft sensation.  We loved the location and the water and were amused by floaties...bouyant rocks.  Find them, clean them off and they will float.  Who knew?
I stayed in Granada for at least four nights.  It was pleasant and inexpensive.  When the others left, I stayed and waited for Andre, whose bike was repaired following his dog crash.  We celebrated with some Toña cerveza - AFTER he cleaned his face blackened from diesel soot.
Our last night in Nicaragua was in San Juan del Sur, a surfer´s destination on the Pacific. This town was too small to hide any bikers.  I found Kerman, a French friend, in just minutes.  Later, we met Todd along with his two riding mates. All of us enjoyed an excellent dinner at a small French restaurant in town - delicieux!


Kerman, Andre and I headed into Costa Rica the next day.  We were ready for this crossing and it showed in how quickly we made it through: 1.5 hours.  About two hours later we were in Playas del Coco on the Pacific. Playas del Coco is home to LOTS of expats.  One woman with whom I made eye contact greeted me with "Bonjour."  I was floored.  Clearly the expats are not all Americans.  There are Canadians, Quebecois and I reckon a good number of Europeans as well.  Usually I find something to dislike about expat communities.  There though they just looked like kids´ grandparents in a slightly different country.  Nicaragua is quite different from the US; Costa Rica, sometimes called Central America´s Switzerland, seems like it could be a 51st state.  It´s clean and orderly, there are almost no stray dogs, horses, cows, etc running amok, and people are more likely to observe traffic rules.


Andre, Kerman and I spent two days and nights there.  We loved the bay, the pleasant brown-sand beach, and the very nice weather.  Kerman offered to cook both nights.  He did not disappoint.  The first night´s menu included ratatouille and porc in a dijon/white wine sauce.  French food two nights in a row!!  The next night Kerman proved his mastery of international gastronomy by conjuring a delicious Pasta Carbonara - very exotique!!
That was Thursday night.  On Monday, the adventure rider world will bid adieu (at least for now) to a woman who has ridden with her husband, Mark all around the world.  Maggie has been a great friend to many, many people and to me since I first met her as we boarded the ferry in La Paz, Mexico.  Her husband will continue solo to Tierra del Fuego, but he won´t be the only one missing her.


For that reason, I drove to San Jose, Costa Rica´s capital.  This was a solo ride that climbed steadily from the ocean to Costa Rica´s highlands where San Jose resides.  It is cooler up here.  Both last night and today, I have enjoyed perfect weather.  The focal point I missed in Managua thrives in San Jose.  This saturday morning, masses of people were out enjoying the parks, the pedestrian zones, and the plethora of stores and eateries this city offers.  It is great to be in a really major city again.  I love the masses of people as they converge and diverge, the full buses taking them to and fro. I enjoyed a great lunch of rice, beans, and meat served on a big banana tree leaf in a little "soda" (Costa Rican for little restaurant or diner) in what I would guess is a vintage 1930s era marketplace.  The architecture of this city is varied and attractive.  There are buildings harking back to the Beaux-Arts era.  A couple reminded me of buidings in Quebec city with their colored tin roofs.  Most prominent though are the Brutalist buildings.  I´m not much of a fan of these concrete monstrosities, but somehow these buildings work here.  One buiding of probably 15 stories is a clear Brutalist materpiece.  The building reportedly houses the Instituto Nacional de Seguros...Now I just need to find the architect!  Beyond this, there is the National Library, a church that reminds me of Muskegon´s St. Francis de Sales, and a nearby apartment building.  Perhaps all this Brutalism reflects the fashion and taste of the 60s and 70s or maybe concrete was a prefered building material for some reason.  Regardless, I like their imprint on this town.  Overall walking around San Jose reminded me a bit of Montreal with its many different architectures, although the skyline is not as towering.


San Jose certainly feels safe.  Police, men and women, are paired all over this city.  I suppose some people might find this a bit oppressive, but the Ticos (as Costa Ricans call themselves) seem unbothered.  The only thing San Jose seems to lack is diversity.  Aside from tourists and some western expats, this city appears pretty homogenous, both ethnically and racially as well as lifestyle (although it is supposedly home to Central America´s most open gay and lesbian community).  I aim to look for where the Bohemians reside, though. Perhaps I´ll find more diversity there.