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.

A long entry - lots to share from Ecuador!

Of all things, Adrian, Tim, and I missed the monument and museum dedicated to this country´s namesake - the equator. Having never crossed that imaginary line, I was especially keen to commemorate the event with some photos. Alas, our belief that the monument was just off the Panamerican Highway was mistaken and apparently we missed the sign that pointed the way (not the only sign we missed!). Right now though, that omission seems a trifle. Ecuador has so much to offer. Plus, all those things are tangible!

We had been warned in Colombia that Ecuador, aside from the amazingly cheap fuel ($1.48 per gallon), was not such a great place. The women are not as good looking and the food is rotten. Even the fuel cost was a mixed blessing because sometimes you could only get $10 worth at a time. Well, we have determined that the first point is debatable, the second is wrong, and we simply don´t know about the third, because we can´t get more than $9 worth of fuel in our tanks at a time.

Certainly, Quito is an excellent city. Mountains near and far are visible in all directions. The city has a modern feel - especially where our hostel is located. That area is actually very gringo-ified, but it was nice to find English language bookstores, eateries of all sorts (including great Ecuadorian-style hamburgers with salad between the patties), and outdoor gear stores with all the offerings we expect at home. Quito´s real charm however is found in the Centro Historico. The colonial character of its buildings is typical of other well-preserved cities in Latin America and is equally pleasant. Above all it was the churches that bedazzled me. Oddly enough, it is the comparatively modern (1920s) Basilica del Voto Nacional that first wowed me. The size of this Notre Dame-like structure is imposing and seductive enough that I paid the dollar entrance to view the nave. I had read one could climb the towers for free, so I walked around the outside to the facade and approached the stairwell. My way was blocked - I needed a ticket first. Great, another two dollars in a country where you can get a hotel room for $6. I suppressed my cheap-ass mindset and splurged. Little did I know that the fun and views to be had above would be worth much more than that. Go up six flights of stairs and you arrive at a level which crosses over to the other tower and which puts you right in front of the rosetta glass. Go up another couple flights and you are above the nave. There is a narrow wooden walkway that traverses across the top of the roof over the nave (see my pics). Reach the far end of the nave and there´s a ladder that puts you outside above the sanctuary. From there you can climb another ladder to a small platform in a tower. I got up there and met a family and a couple college students from Hanover, NH. Small world. All these vantage points afforded commanding views over the entire city. I was thrilled about what those two dollars were getting me! But from the tower over the nave I could see there were also people up in the other tower at the facade. So, I crossed the nave again and then went to the east tower. More stairs and even more ladders awaited the adventurous. Chartres in France boggles with its history and artistry, the cathedral in Ulm wows with the world´s highest church tower, but no church offers its visitors the chance to explore, climb and almost play.

The next church was the Iglesia de la Merced. This church dates back to the 1700s and is very, very ornate. Finally, as I was running out of time to get back to the hostel so I could arrange oil recycling (I had changed my bike´s oil in the morning), I hurried over to the Convent of San Francisco. The church at the heart of this institution dates back to the early 1500s and is still in its original state. The choir where the monks sat and chanted was dark, oaken and creaky (although I am sure it was not oak), but noble and mysterious. It was elevated and overlooked the sanctuary and the altarpiece at the opposite end. Both of those almost defy description with the amount of detail from the floor, up the walls, to the arch of the ceiling. Supposedly, elements of the church were influenced by Moorish architecture that was still relatively new to Christian Spaniards who had reconquered Grenada in 1492.

The next day, it was time to leave Quito. The sky was sunny and the air crisp - good omens. We had risen early to beat the traffic, but had not traveled even one mile before congestion squeezed us up next to a police truck. The officer behind the wheel started yelling at us. Adrian was well ahead of Tim and me, so he simply drove off. Tim and I  pulled over wondering what could possibly be the problem. It turns out their issue with us was legit, even if it was extremely inconvenient for us. Quito, in its effort to mitigate traffic congestion (and pollution?), bans certain license plate numbers at certain times on certain days. Tim and I had plates ending in zero and nine...both of which just happened to be prohibited at that time. When Adrian got back to us, we saw his plate also ended with a zero. What terrible luck! The senior officer made clear to us that our bikes would be impounded for the day and we would have to pay a fine of over $80. Great. How would we get out of this one? We appealed to the Christmas spirit. We appealed to common sense ("How are tourists like us supposed to know this?" or "We just want to leave the city, not busy its streets!"). Not even the yummy, warm chocolate pastries Tim bought across the street and offered to the officers helped our case (each officer refused). We insisted we were not driving our bikes away from that place on the side of the road. That slowed the process down, which worked in our favor. The senior officer tried to drive off with some of our documents. Tim and Adrian responded very fast and stood in front of him so he could not get away with our essentials. I suggested the officer leave the docs with another who was staying with us. That worked. More police arrived. At one time, there were eleven officers present (Nothing better to do?). Eventually some of the officers, probably the elder and the youngest, realized that this really didn´t make sense. Why all this trouble for a couple foreigners who had no ill intent? A way out was found in that the ban on our plate numbers expired at 9:30am. The solution: we would have to wait until then before driving away. An officer or two would remain with us until that time. WHEW!!! We used the remaining time well, buying flashing lights for Tim´s bike, buying spare inner tubes, and prepping the bikes.

The road out of Quito gave us our first glimpse of the snow-capped volcano peaks that dot Ecuador. Our path put them at our backs, though, as we rode down toward the Pacific. The most memorable aspect of this day trip was smoke. Out of the highlands, the landscape was marked by sandy looking hills with corn or bananas or sugarcane growing on them and with wooden homes upon stilts. Many of these hills were smoldering though. The local farmers are still using slash and burn farming techniques here. Some of these hills were apparently then worked over in such a way as to leave alternating stripes of light brown and charred brown - not beautiful, but interesting. We encountered more smoke in a town that had at least a dozen kilns baking bricks. The at times faint and sometimes pungent smell of smoke that continued for dozens and dozens of miles made me wonder about the health of the kids in these areas.

At last, we reached the coast. Another hour of driving along scenic and winding roads brought us to Montañita, where our friends Andre and Mark awaited us. I last saw Andre and Mark in Cartagena, Colombia. Our fivesome was joined by James, a West Virginian on a Suzuki DR650. Despite the artificial Christmas tree and a few strings of lights around our hostel compound, it did not feel like Christmas. Perhaps it was the warm temps and the lounge chairs around the pool. Perhaps it was the beach and the ocean without so much as a single floating patch of ice. Perhaps it was the thumping techno beats in this town catering to bikini and tattoo-clad Western tourists. Maybe a delicious plate of Ceviche doesn´t conjure the holidays like turkey and cranberry chutney do. Regardless, we had a great time. I took advantage of the beach to go for a couple jogs. We all took great pleasure in eating well. Andre, true to his folk, made muesli with yogurt for breakfast, but added local exotic fruits instead of raisins and nuts. Mark and Andre also teamed up to prepare our dinners - steak one evening and fish the next.

A couple days of rest and we were all ready to move again. On Boxing Day, Adrian, Tim, James and I headed out looking for some good back roads to explore. We found a perfectly dusty, sandy, and gravelly road heading inland from the coast. Despite a number of wrong turns, we made our way through a brown, parched landscape and out the other side. There were quite a few small villages along the way and we even encountered a couple buses that travel those one lane roads to service those otherwise isolated communities. Almost each village had a small town square, sometimes just a sort of playground, and a church. That day´s ride brought us to Quevedo where the rain convinced us to stop. As we approached our hotel, a man ran out in the street to talk with us. Nelson is his name and he wanted to meet up with us. He claimed to be a rider himself and was excited to see us in town. We agreed to meet at 7pm. Seven came and went. We were hungry and dubious about this fellow anyhow, so we took advantage of his failed sense of ´gringo-time´ and went out to eat. We were soon spotted though. Although Nelson spoke only Spanish, we heard him mention something about promoting Quevedo. I heard him use the word "Alcalde", which I know means either mayor or city government. He showed us photos of kids he has supposedly helped. Uh oh, I sensed we were going to be hit up for money. He said we should all meet in the morning at 9. We wondered if he was legit. Adrian and Tim watched some TV that night in their room. Surfing channels, they saw Nelson on TV. Ok, he´s legit. This time, in the morning, Nelson was very punctual. He led us on his BMW to the town hall where he and his friends made a bunch of pics of us and our bikes. Instead of asking us for money, he presented us with T-shirts and little gift packets of promo material for Quevedo. Apparently, Nelson is trying to promote Quevedo as the center of the motorcyclist community in Ecuador. We wish him luck!

A little over an hour of driving the next day brought us to 3800 meters elevation and to my third crater lake of the trip. Laguna Quilotoa is a blue-green jewel set amidst the rolling and sometimes jutting scenery of the Andes. The short ride left us time to descend to the lake and, as I have done at each other crater lake, go for a swim. The cold water and the cool air definitely made me think twice, but a little encouragement (or is it peer pressure?) from my friends and in I went. At this elevation, the majority of Ecuadorians are native peoples of pre-Columbian descent. Many of these dark-brown skinned people are of modest stature, some are diminutive. They are hardy and hard-working. The steep trail down to the lake was being upgraded with a stone wall and some supports to halt erosion from human and horse traffic. Long tubes brought cement where it was needed and adults, boys and girls, the latter wearing their traditional skirts, stockings, and dress shoes, carted rocks in wheel-barrels. It was nice to see that most of the businesses, including the hostel where we stayed (each room complete with its own woodstove!) were owned by these indigenous peoples and not by Westerners, as is often the case.

James headed off on his own the next day. Adrian, Tim, and I hit the backroads again. The first dozen miles or so were magnificent. The skies were mostly blue, the roads stony (not so fun) but dry and well-traveled. We encountered numerous herds of sheep, cattle and llamas being driven by men, women, and even kids. The scenery was, of course, spectacular. We could look off into the distance and see how our road was going to hug the sides of mountains and pass over into distant, unseen valleys. As the day progressed however, more and more clouds were blasted our way and slowly, especially on roads out of the sunlight, we had more and more mud to contend with. Our bikes, heavy with gear, became harder to manage. Extreme concentration was needed to avoid a fall. The steep mountainsides we were skirting reminded us continually not to lose our focus. Eventually, we reached the town of El Corazon. It was time to refuel - our bikes and ourselves. The gas station being out of service, we found a local woman who sold us each a couple gallons for a modest mark-up. I was under the impression that we would be on paved roads from here to our destination. Instead, we had another 50 miles to go. This stretch was worse than the previous. Mud. Hills. Slippery switchbacks. Then rain. My helmet and glasses fogged up. The only thing to do was remove my glasses. Things were then blurry and a bit distorted, but at least I wasn´t looking through prisms of raindrops and condensation. At last, the weather cleared and revealed a vast brown landscape and cliffs of basalt. After one more turn and another ridgeline, we stopped and stared in awe at an amazing snow-capped volcano. Chimborazo - Earth´s closest point to the sun (the equatorial bulge puts it closer to the sun than Everest). Soon, we were back on a paved road that led us around Chimborazo and on to Baños a town popular with tourists for the great views and with adventurers for the guided climbs up the nearby volcanoes. Before reaching Baños though, there was one very memorable event. As we passed through a small town, we saw a young bull running straight down the road. A couple young men took shirts and held them out like matadors, tempting the bull off the road. The bull was clearly furious. He charged the men and then continued down the road. Adrian is not one to let something slow his progress. He zipped past the line of cars and then became the bull´s next target. Adrian veered to the left and accelerated, but the bull still managed to hit Adrian´s right leg with his horns. Fortunately, speed and inertia were on Adrian´s side.

Tim and I explored more backroads today. One road we looked for eluded us, until we realized it was this steep, unmarked two-track. It winds up through magnificent farmland, past horses, cows, donkeys, and Ecuador´s ever-present canines (I think the many shepherds here rely on them), and gave us great views of the volcano and the city of Baños. The ride back down to town was steep and a bit treacherous with loose gravel. At the bottom of the last hill I noticed my rear brake had overheated and was no longer working. Thank goodness I had made it that far!

I am completing this blog entry in Cuenca, Ecuador. We made it here after yet another flat tire on my bike (The sixth flat. I will buy new tires tomorrow!). Tomorrow is New Year´s Eve. Hopefully, this city knows how to bring in the new year. Firecrackers are already popping around town and hundreds of effigies are on sale here - all waiting to go up in celebratory smoke. It has been an amazing 2011 and I have many people to thank, especially my parents and sister for their support, my colleagues and the Academy for making this possible, Frank Bowen for helping me prepare, and friends like Brad and Karen Alexander for looking after business back home for me. I wish you all a fun slide (as Germans say) into the new year and a very happy 2012!

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.