The Manifest Destiny

It's the End of the World As We Know It

2007-03-17T12:21:00.000-06:00

(St. Patrick´s Day...and Jim Paprocki´s birthday)
Ushuaia, Island of Tierra del Fuego, Argentina
Latitude: 54.8 degrees south
Trip Odometer: 20,041 miles
Day: 231

It was a troublesome day for line-makers in Vegas. At about the same time that Winthrop was serving a set of walking papers to Notre Dame in the NCAA men´s basketball tournament, a $2000 Japanese motorcycle held together by a lot of pink duct tape and a kaleidoscope of fluorescent zip ties was sputtering to the to the end point of Ruta 3 in southern Argentina, thereby reaching the literal end of the road through the Americas. After over 20,000 miles, eight months, and fourteen countries, the driver finished the final 20 miles the best way he knew how: with a less-than-slender Irishman from Belfast on the back of his bike.

Shortly after the last update, Lady Fortune smiled upon me and a new way of attaching the theretofore incompatible front sprocket to the motorcycle was revealed. More than slightly eager to get the hell out of Rio Gallegos, I attempted to make my way towards the island of Tierra del Fuego to the south by way of El Cabo de las Virgenes, the second-largest penguin colony in Latin America.

The road in that direction was a dirt job blazed by Chevron-Texaco as a means to get to the rich oil and natural gas fields lurking near to and off of the Atlantic coast. A few days of sporadic rains had turned parts of it into the equivalent of one of those giant pools of ice cream that kids had to slide into on the zany Nickolodeon show, ¨Double Dare¨. Traction-wise. The road sadly was not edible.

It took about three times as long as I thought it would to traverse approximately 100 miles, but through the light fog along the beach I could hear the odd mutterings of a whole lot of penguins; I had been able to smell them since a ways back. 20,000 of the little pudges were molting in the reserve, doing their best to shake off the old feathers for new, insulated ones that would allow them to head back out to the ocean without freezing to death. Most people visit the area when the chicks are starting to hatch or simply in finer weather, but all of that was fine by me. There´s something very unusual indeed about being completely alone on a beach with thousands of penguins waddling around to keep on eye on you keeping an eye on them.

The penguins choose this particular stretch of land to come to breed and molt because of a scrubby type of brush called the ¨mate verde¨. The soil being loose and unaccommodating, it seemed to be about the only type of flora able to hang up its hat there. All of the male penguins come in every year, take a look around the place, scope out a choice parcel of land with a mate verde plant growing on it, and then dig out a little enclave in the sandy soil at its base. There they set up shop and lounge, safe from the eyes of the birds of prey circling above. ¨Bring on the ladies¨, they say.

The female penguins strut up in short order and do a little Parade of Homes as the males show off their digs and ask, ¨You like?¨ If the female does indeed fancy the place, she lets herself in, a woman´s touch is applied to the nest, and in short order the stork arrives with a little bundle of penguin egg joy and the occasional jar of Clausen pickles...or at least that´s what we´ll tell the kids.

The slippery roads and extended travel time bought me another night in Rio Gallegos since I couldn´t make the border in time. This night brought a middle-aged Argentine furniture salesman and a young Israeli man to the shared hotel room. Though I wear earplugs at night, they didn´t keep me from being woken up to incomprehensible shouts in Hebrew from the Israeli, who apparently doesn´t just talk in his sleep but screams. I was comforted in the morning to find that his mysterious incantations had not morphed me into a piglet or a candlestick.

At last I crossed the border into Chile and took a ferry across the Straits of Magellan, named for that savvy swashbuckler who is falsely believed to have been the first man to sail completely around the world. Alas, old Ferdinand was laid low by a bad mama jama named Lapu Lapu in what are now known as the Phillipines when the overzealous Portuguese spread one dab too many of evangelism onto the natives´ bread. Out came the spears and down went Magellan. Most of his crew made it back, though.

Anyway...

The Strait of Magellan separates the mainland of South America from the largest island in South America, Tierra del Fuego, or ¨Land of Fire¨. It is so named because of all the torches and campfires Magellan and his crew saw along the coast when they first sailed into the strait. Why the natives were living in this remote and fairly inhospitable part of the globe back then is another question. Lacking furs or other sources of clothing, they would slather sea lion fat onto their bodies to keep warm in the extreme cold (and to lock in the stench). Equally as surprising, they rigged up a way to keep a fire going in their boats for warmth while fishing. There boats were made of bark and the water was freezing cold. Something in that smell lightly of a gamble to you, too? Talk about a will to survive.

Thanks to the fact that Chile and Argentina have hashed out a very odd set of borders on the island (do a Google Image search for a map of Tierra del Fuego), you have no choice but to go through Chile to get to the southern tip of Argentina. That meant two border crossings in one day. Even though they´re a world apart from the other countries in South America in terms of modernity, don´t think they don´t have stacks of superfluous paperwork, a series of stampers swimming in red ink, and a couple of sets of dilatory, uninterested hands at the ready to make your transit as painfully slow and inefficient as possible. The icing on the cake of the whole process was watching an Argentine officer that could have been helping with the long lines instead seated on a wheeled office chair with his legs up using a knotted rag to play tug-of-war with a dog that was effectively pulling him around inside the border station.

Cold, soaked from the rain, and not excited about driving much more in the dark of these shortened days, I arrived at the city of Rio Grande. There I stayed at a place called the Hostel Argentino, a place recommended to me by several other motorcyclists. The tradition of the owner, a gracious middle-aged woman with a limp named Graciela, is to give each newcomer a shot of some odd homemade liquor. She gave me two shots because she said I drank the first one too fast (solid logic), and for about an hour I had trouble focusing on colors. No idea what it was. Maybe paint thinner.

From there it was a day´s drive over the final mountain pass and into the city of Ushuaia, which contentiously claims to be ¨the southernmost city in the world¨. Chile also claims to have the southernmost city in the world at Puerto Williams, but it is mostly a naval base and there is no road going to the island. Still, because of their heated rivalry in all things, it must irritate the Chileans to no end that the Argentines beat them to the marketing punch.

Here I have remained for about a week, just taking it easy and taking in the sights. The horizon over the ocean(s) to the south is endless. Only a few small islands stand in the way of a long, cold swim to the Frozen Continent. Well, a few islands and the occassional cruise ship. Walking around town looking through the windows of some of the shops, I can´t help but wonder who in the name of Cat Stevens would buy that gawdy two-foot tall quartz carving of a pair of toucans. Then I see the elderly couple with the Princess Cruise Lines nametags and freshly purchased ¨Ushuaia: The End of the World¨ baseball caps on their heads. Oh, yeah. They would.

Among the best things to do in Ushuaia is to take a boat ride into the Beagle Channel. A number of modern catamarans hustle out every day with about 125 people on board to wind among the islands off the coast and to check out the cormorans and sea lions that live together on the rocks. Instead, I booked passage on what was arguably the ugliest, most rickety vessel in the harbour - a six-man sailboat called the Paludine. Once aboard, I learned from the 28 year-old captain (when he wasn´t holding a cigarette or glass of brew up to his mouth) that he had bought the boat for a song.

About twenty years back, a retired engineer from the French navy decided to build himself a boat. He designed the 30-foot Paludine. Apparently over-engineered, it weighed ten tons when it should have weighed four. The Frenchman then sailed the ship around the world two times by himself, eventually landing in Ushuaia. There he encountered a horrible storm off the coast, dropped anchor, and hid below while his boat was beaten savagely against the rocks. Lacking fresh water, he scurried onto the coast to find a little river or something. It was around that time that he noticed a sign saying, ¨Warning: Mine Field¨. Terrified to move a muscle, he stood fast on a rock for two days straight until a Chilean naval patrol boat spotted him. The mine field sign was only a joke, they said, to keep the Argentines out. More than a little shaken, he headed into town, talked to the then much younger captain, and told him that he had had enough and wanted to sell the boat. The Frenchman wanted sixty thousand. The captain said he had ten - maybe thirteen. The Frenchman said ¨fine¨, and the captain, surprised that the Frenchman would agree to his paltry sum (and actually having no money), convinced his dad to sell his car and pretty much everything else they had to buy the boat. Oh, and one more thing: the Frenchman had done all of this when he was 73 years old.

All in all, Ushuaia has been a little anti-climactic. The closer and closer that I got, the less and less I actually cared if I got here. First of all, I never thought this bike would have made it. And secondly, it feels like somwhat of a hollow and false finality to what has been a great trip. As Robert Louis Stevenson once said, ¨To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.¨ Or, at the risk of sounding very cheesy indeed, better put in the Cavafy poem which I have attached at the bottom of this E-mail for those who aren´t laughing already.

From here it is a decent distance northwest to Torres del Paine National Park, the crown jewel of the hiking circuit in Patagonia for a week-long trek. And then begins the long final approach to Buenos Aires along the Atlantic Coast to sell El Jugoso. It will be a bittersweet parting to hand over the keys, but at this point I don´t care if it gives up its spirit tomorrow. For $2000, it has definitely done its job.

- Tom

ITHAKA

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that one on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon - you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfumes of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean
Constantine P. Cavafy

Manifest - 3-17-07

Bad Eagles Remake: ¨Welcome to the Hotel Rio Gallegos!¨

2007-03-09T13:28:00.000-06:00

The accepted nomenclature for articulating the escalation of the intensity of an inconveniece goes a little something like this:

Annoyance -> Operation -> Fiasco -> Ordeal -> Hassenfeffer

We are currently at Code Hassenfeffer here. Anything above and beyond this string begins to elude the realm of language and instead manifests itself in maddened deeds (arson, acts of mayhem, etc). But first, to bring you up to speed...

My last update originated over a shared dial-up connection from the windswept hole of Gobernador Gregores, that sweet oasis in the sand. From there it was another woeful journey west to the trekking Mecca of El Chalten, nestled at the foot of the Andes on the border with Chile. Heading west meant taking the 35 mph wind straight in the chops like a repeated clothesline from Ricky ¨The Dragon¨ Steamboat. In an effort not to repeat the same dreary explanation that I doled out in the last E-mail, suffice it to say that it was soul crushingly miserable and - if possible - worse than the day before. The highlight was spotting some wildlife: a big armadillo that could neither smell nor hear me in the fierce wind, so that I was able to get within about three feet of him as he went about his digging business, and later a group of ten huemul (like a Dr. Moreau blend of a llama, a deer, and a horse) that took off hot-footing it across the desert when they sensed me motoring toward them. Wildlife thus outnumbered cars eleven to zero over the first two hours. And I only got blown off the road three times.

I made it into El Chalten late at night and checked into a classy army barracks-style hostel run by a bearded man with teeth stained dark brown from cigarettes. The little town is the gateway to a trekking circuit that pipes around the surreal, craggy spires of Mount Fitzroy and its supporting cast of shoulder-high compadres. I headed up into the mountains for three days, where the briskness was in rich supply and the views spectacular. This would be a good place to insert a couple of pics, but this computer doesn´t take kindly to USB devices. Then again, it is the first computer not to have a shared dial-up connection in some time, so I shouldn´t complain. The best part (though it didn´t seem to be such a great idea while arduously peeling my eyes open) was waking up at 4:30 AM to hustle up a steep grade to the Laguna de Las Tres to watch the sun come up on Fitzroy.

While in the town, I also met one of the most inspiring people of the trip, a 73 year-old German named Deiter. He had bought an old pick-up truck and was driving around the continent, sleeping all the while in the back of the truck and deliberately seeking out horrible mountain storms, which he described over the painful crooning of the permed lounge singer in the restaurant as ¨the greatest show on Earth¨. He capped off the night by paying for all of the drinks for me and the four other motorcyclists in our group - two Swiss, an English woman, and a Scot - and inviting us to visit him in Germany.

From El Chalten I headed south to El Calafate, the draw of which is its access to a series of titanic glaciers. The main attraction is the Perito Moreno Glacier, located within the Parque Nacional de Los Glaciares. It is one of only two advancing glaciers in South America and one of only a handful in the world. Every 12 years or so (approximately the cycle of Argentina´s boom/absolute bust economy), it succeeds in cutting off the flow of meltwater from the mountains towards Lago Argentina, until the pressure becomes too great and it gives way, giving off such a thunderous boom that it can be heard fifty miles away in El Calafate. Alas, I had no such luck while I was there, but it was awe-inspiring nonetheless. Chunks of its massive sapphire face collapsed into the water at least a dozen times while I was there, each with the approximate report of a small cannon. This naturally sent the masses crowded onto the elaborate wooden lookout structure scrambling - the foreigners for their cameras and the Argentines for the exits (people in Argentina, as it is well known, have a terrible fear of pirates...they probably mistook the booms for an attack from pirate ships).

The drive through the other parts of the national park afforded one of those transcendant, almost spiritual experiences that only a motorcycle can provide. It was a winding road along the coast of a completely still, alpine lake with the visage of the glacier-topped mountains predominating the vista. The well-paved road curled through pine forests which would suddenly open up and give you a different panorama of the white mountains and then the blue, scabrous spine of the Perito Moreno glacier. The clean smells of the forest and the palpable taste of the crisp breezes coming off the lake heightened the immediacy of it all, how it is all was just thrust in your face, and soon you´d just forget you were even downshifting into the corners or steering at all. You just looked and you were there, soaking it all up in the process.

The next morning I surrended to another early riser, boarded a bus, and was herded like cattle along with perhaps 500 other people from all over the world onto a modern vessel that plied along through the crisp waters of the Brazo Norte on a day tour of a half dozen other glaciers. Everyone seemed to have a neckwarmer except for me and a Hungarian couple, though they (God bless Eastern European style) were dressed in a mixture of pink and yellow skiing gear, and thus clearly took the cake in the style department. The thin canals that brought us up to the heads of the glaciers were littered with bobbing indigo icebergs that had broken away from the the gargantuan bodies of ice coming down the mountains, and when I wasn´t getting beaten back by strong winds and the frigid waters churned up by the nose of the catamaran or, for that matter, watching people lose their balance (including a broad shouldered Austrian that took down two old women while trying unsuccessfully to regain his balance) and sometimes their hats, it was all quite a sight to behold. One of the glaciers was named after someone called The Spegazinni, which strikes me as probably the greatest conceivable name for a glacier, sub sandwich, ice cream sundae, or despot.

El Jugoso developed a few ailments along the way to El Calafate, some of which I was able to address by myself and some not. First, the clutch cable went. This was a bad sign for an aftermarket cable that went by the name of ¨The Terminator¨, and I took the obvious affront to Schwarzenegger´s character to heart. Here the sage foresight of Swami Neubz came into the light yet again, and I gave him a salute for his brilliant idea to zip-tie the stock cable to the aftermarket one. Even in the 30 mph winds and light rain, it was a snap to get into place, and soon I was no longer broken down on a remote mountain road.

The more serious problems were the continued deterioration of the rear sprocket and the failure of the shifter, the teeth of the latter having worn away completely and thus rendering it incapable of engaging the gears. El Calafate was not a big town, and the consensus amongst the locals was to seek out ¨El Mono¨ (The Monkey). Clues as to where The Monkey lived or worked (a drugstore, a taxi stand, a gas station) all came up empty, though the search did result in the predictable comical awkwardness of walking into a store and saying, ¨I´m looking for The Monkey...¨

In the end, I cut out a small piece of a beer can and used it as a shim to fail the small gap created by the loss of the shifter´s teeth, thus vindicating a late night at the bar with a couple of Australians. It worked for a day, and got me all the way to the Atlantic Coast of the continent and into the drowsy burg of Rio Gallegos. With a population of 80,000 it is the largest city I´ve seen since January.

Here I have remained for the past five days on a tour of the city´s welders and motorcycle mechanics. All I needed was a few parts (3 of the rear sprocket´s 43 prickly, tired teeth remained when I arrived) and for someone to do a little weld work on the shifter. The ensuing witches brew of incompetence, apathy, and addiction to alcohol whipped up by one of the mechanics set me back a few days, but I´m close to pay dirt now. At the present I am waiting for a machinist to finish fusing parts of two front sprockets together so that I´ll have a compatible piece to work with. This town is terribly depressing (it reminds me of rural Russia), and the only consolation is a revolving door of odd characters that shows up every evening to set up shop in my shared dorm room. My current roommate is Homer Simpson incarnate.

Provided that I ever leave, it is a measly 400 or so miles to Ushuaia and the ¨end of the world¨.

- Tom

Desolate Jones On Line Three

2007-02-26T13:40:00.000-06:00

Gobernador Gregores, Argentina

Collector of clay leprechauns. Accomplished jazz harpsichordist. Designer of the arcade game ¨Streetfighter¨. Ruthless dictator. Augusto ¨Clap Your Hands Say Yeah¨ Pinochet was all of these things and more. During his time at the helm of the Chilean state, Pinochet always seemed to be on the make - or, before his recent death, on the run...from the persistent hands of justice. But among his many achievements - or at least one of the things achieved while he was in power that he signed his name to - was the construction of the ¨Carretera Austral¨, or Austral Highway.

Now before your mind conjures an image of cruising down a plush four-lane highway with your arm out the window, some classic rock on the radio, and your blinker signalling your impending exit to stop in at a PDQ because you´re jonesing for a lemon slushee, let me assure you that the Carreterra Austral is a highway in only the loosest sense of the word. It´s more like the long, rocky driveway of that weird neighbor of yours that never bothered to have it paved...you know, the guy that hands out pencil erasers for Halloween and sometimes sits on his roof in the morning drinking Mellow Yellow out of a rubber glove. No?

What the Carretera Austral did accomplish was to bring some semblance of infrastructure to a portion of the most distant and uninhabited sections of Chilean Patagonia. It is an area rich in rugged natural beauty and vexing contrasts. Indeed, for those willing to endure the poor condition of its roads, careless driving methods of its users, and lack of creature comforts, it can be quite an unexpected treasure trove.

The Carretera officially starts outside of the fishing city of Puerto Montt and winds some 700 miles south - connected at points only by ferries - until it dead ends near a group of huge, impassable ice fields at a dusty little town called Villa O´Higgins. I entered the route after my rafting escapades in Futaleufú, though I was sapped of any inclination of riding it through to the end by each rut and stone in the road. El Jugoso was calling for sweet mercy, too, having surrendered one of two bolts from the seat, one of two from the gas tank, two of two from the exhaust pipe, and almost one of four from the subframe (which, as you remember, was what caused Neubz´s bike to literally break in half in Bolivia) to the merciless hammering of the road. After eight days of being jolted around my body started to feel like it had been put in a rock tumbler, so I shimmied back east by way of Chile Chico to Argentina, which is where I am now.

Early in the voyage down the Carretera I had the sterling fortune to encounter a couple of hilarious motorcyclists, Camilo and Paul (on a Suzuki 650 and Honda XR250) from Santiago, who were heading in the same direction. We stuck together for a week, taking in the sights, meeting a string of interesting locals, and partaking of some of the deluxe accomodations afforded the budget traveller along the way. One such ¨hospedaje¨ (essentially someone renting out a portion of his or her house) was run by a cantankerous, portly hag that reminded me of one of the wicked sisters in the book, ¨James and the Giant Peach¨, except that she had liberally applied some sort of silver rock star makeup around her eyes and hated Israelis. Drama was consequently always in the air. We also encountered some kindly backwoods folks that made their own tasty cheese in old paint cans and who apparently were not in short supply of sweat pants and other leisure wear. The list goes on, but suffice it to say that remote areas of the world are seemingly always disproportionately flush in odd characters, and that the back roads of the Carretera Austral possess remoteness in spades.

The road was typically flanked on both sides by either thick coniferous forest or - somehow - lush rainforest. Given, if it wasn´t raining, it at least looked like it would rain, so precipitation was not the issue. But it was windy and none too warm, so I don´t know how some of the vegetation could survive. Consfusing but delightful, too, was how every little town was lined with flourishing rose trees exploding in a whole spectrum of colors. In addition to the to flora, the road was nearly always shadowed by the mountains of the southern Cordillera, including at one point the impossibly spindly towers of the Cerro Castillo.

And, if you haven`t guessed, I`m getting pretty far south now. This means ice, and lots of it. Several of the mountains had hulking glaciers draped over their crests like quilt racks, and the compactness of the ice gave it a deep blue like I had never seen before. At one point we had the opportunity to hire a guide to take us out onto the sprawling mass of the titanic Glacier Exploradores for a day. Exploring its luminescently cerulean caverns, walking along its bottomless and echo-friendly crevasses, and simply running up its steep ridges with a pair of rusty crimpons was one of the highlights of the trip, and I struggle to describe its vastness and majesty in words.

Departing the Carretera Austral took me along Lake Carrera, whose bright azul waters looked to have been Photoshopped in from an Acapulco postcard. The road was full of ¨twisties¨ with constantly changing views of the mountains and water - without question one of the best roads of the past seven months.

But not everything has been empanadas and roses. The teeth on my rear sprocket have worn about as thin as the lead singer of The Black Crowes, and I drive each day wondering when it will finally give up the ghost. I had hoped that getting back to Argentina would be the harbinger of civilization, but if anything it is even more desolate and disconnected from the world than was the other side of the Andes. Rainforests and mountains have given way to endless desert dotted with sparse patches of scrub brush. Towns - if there are any - are more like depressed little settlements with a gas station. In the case of Bajo Carracoles (population 37), the last town I passed before arriving here, the service station didn´t even have any gas. Thank Roy Rogers for my six gallon tank, which on the past leg was tested to its last drop.

I would be bored out of my mind were I not constantly fighting to stay on the road. A gale-force wind constantly blows across the desert from the west. Leaning into it and battling its periodic gusts is exhausting and, at times, terrifying. Route 40 is the main road south through central Argentina, but it is not paved. For whatever reason, the engineers that built it dumped on copious amounts of gravel and loose stones. The passing convoys of semis and lonely cars have left ridges down the length of the road, piling the gravel into lines between four and twelve inches tall in between. It would be easy to hoist the mizzenmast and give it the gas while blowing along in the tire tracks, but the wind (so fierce and cold that it gusts in under my helmet, makes my nose run, and then slingshots the snot onto my sunglasses or - when it gets dark and I have to take them off - into my left eye) mercilessly pushes the motorcycle towards the pile of loose gravel. If you hit it, your wheels basically become the legs of the cartoon villain that tries to run on a pile of marbles, except that if you fall it will hurt - really bad. I´ve done the dance about 20-30 times, and it is not pleasant. So far, I have kept El Jugoso on both wheels. But driving this road has been my least favorite drive of the trip. For the first time in a long time, I can say that I would have preferred being on a bus with everybody else.

Not wanting to get back on that windy road is probably why this E-mail is getting long, but I´ll bow out with a description of a crazy old man whose yard I set my tent up in two days ago.

Rolling into the town of Perito Moreno, I looked at my trusty map and saw that there was not much of anything for a while. The gas station attendant confirmed this. So I decided to set up camp. Municipal Camping costed only $2.50, but the people there were shady and there were no other tents - just guys who were sleeping in their trucks. I decided to follow the signs for Camping Raul to have a comparator.

I knew I had found it when an old man bolted into the street in front of me, waving his arms frantically and shouting, ¨Aleman! Aleman! Spreken zie deutsch?!¨ Nice. A madman that thinks I´m German.

This was the eponymous Raul. He was about 60, bald, with darting eyes, and an incoherently rapid cadence of speech. Everything he did and said was spastic and ridiculous, and I couldn´t help but imagine all the inhabitants of the surrounding houses checking their sugar bowls and finding them empty. He was obviously excited to show me his house/shack/what he later described as ¨bomb shelter¨ and camping area. The latter ended up being a section of the yard next to a garden and a large circular metal structure that I later saw two gauchos filling up with horse saddles and miscellaneous pieces of metal piping. Like a true salesman, he refused to tell me the cost before showing me all of his place´s amenities. The shower and bathroom were clean, he explained, and the toilet paper was not ¨the cheap stuff¨ - something he had to demonstrate by ripping it from the dispenser (breaking it in the process) and thrusting the roll in my face. ¨Feel it!¨

But the toilet paper was not all he had to offer. Next on display was a collection of testimonials from past visitors written in any of a stack of little books on the shelf in his personal chamber. He splayed the booklets out on the table, wildly thrashing through the pages. ¨Look! He was on a motorcycle, too!¨ I took the booklet from his shaking hand, and as I saw the passage he was referring to it was clear that the small drawing was actually that of a bicycle and that the person was from Belgium. ¨I don´t speak Fren-¨, I tried to say, but he screamed, ¨The garden!¨ I followed him outside.

He walked faster than me...probably because he was not walking but sprinting. When I got to the garden he was down on all fours in the dirt, tearing up green leaves. ¨Lettuce!¨, he proclaimed in his Helen Keller-esque manner. And with that, he stabbed about four leaves into his mouth and started munching. Needless to say, he talked with his mouth open. And with green jutting from all corners of his mouth, he explained, ¨Lettuce! All fresh! It´s for you! All of it! And the onions! Fresh!¨ He slowed down only to tell me, ¨My mother just died today...92...in Buenos Aires...16 children...¨, before grabbing an onion and adding, ¨Do you want some mint tea!?¨

His price was three times that of the municipal site, but obviously I had to stay there. It was an unforgettably unusual experience, from the hardboiled eggs he layed on the seat of my motorcycle with a note saying ¨For the road¨ to the scratching on my tent zipper which I opened to him standing with a plate of freshly grilled chicken, sausage, and beef that he invited me to eat with him. Insane? Yes. But generous and well-meaning? Now I know why all those books were filled with notes of thanks.

From here it is another painstaking run through the desert to El Calafate, base for some of the best trekking in the world. And from there, it is a paved road south to Ushuaia, that ever-dangling prize.

- Tom

Quote: ¨We are the music makers. And we are the dreamers of the dreams.

Under the Watchful Gaze of the Diginied Sheep

2007-02-15T13:43:00.000-06:00

Futaleufú, Chile

This is the first update that I have written whose length will be determined not by available time or how long I can tolerate sitting in an uncomfortable chair. It is rather dictated by the winds of finance, currently blowing over my shoulder to the tune of one dollar and sixty cents. It´s not that I don´t have more money available; I just can´t get at it. Futaleufú is a town of approximately 500 people, so certainly they have no need for more than one bank, but as luck would have it the ATM at said bank accepts all cards (including, I suspect, Diner´s Club) except Visa. The list includes Mastercard and Cirrus, both of which are owned by the same company that issues Visa, but that fact grants me little solace, nor does it change the fact that all I could afford to eat today were a couple of flaky pastries and an empanada. There is also a little ramshackle building nearby with a cardboard sign out front informing me that its proprietor buys Argentinian pesos (in which I am flush), but the door has been locked since the first of ten or so times I have checked on it beginning at 9AM. The running computer and half-consumed bottle of Fanta on the table I can see through the window have not moved, and no one in town knows where the lady is. The bank changes dollars (not pesos...despite the fact that the border is about 5 miles from here), but by the time that I remembered that I had emergency dollars duct taped to the gas tank of the KLR, the bank had closed. Even here, in the most modern and industrious of all countries in Latin America, ¨banker´s hours¨ don´t mean 9-5. They mean 9-2 - with a break for lunch.

Obviously the inconveniences of Latin America are many. But once you get used to the fact that nothing is efficient or predictable, you start to derive a sort of casual amusement from witnessing the laughable idiosyncrasies that comprise its societal workings. In this sense, it´s not hard to have a good time and spend little or no money. This is especially fortuitous for me this week, as cold, incessant rain has kept me here in Futaleufú long enough to dry out my coffers. So I´d be lying to say that I have wanted for entertainment or stimulation while I have been here, even on limited funds.

First off, the only cheap accommodation I could dig up was at a place called Residencial Coyhaique. It is not so much a hotel as it is some sort of halfway house or dormitory for a motley bunch of itinerant grunts brought in to help with the busy work of putting a cellular tower on a nearby mountain. Presently my motorcycle is leaned against a pile of wood in a sad, leaky excuse for a shed in back of the house. I was given a large room on the top floor with three beds and five wool blankets, all of which are necessary since it gets quite brisk at night, my window does not close, and there is no heat in the house. The door does not lock, but it does close if you give it the mustard. How, then, I came home yesterday to find two cats sleeping on my bed and the door still closed is a matter still unresolved, though I am not certain that I can write off the possibility of Patagonian cats possessing the necessary motor skills and guile to shimmy the handle on my door open and then close it with due force behind them. Perhaps a better explanation is the presence of the little girl down the hall. One of the workers brought his daughter, who is about six, and she apparently just hangs out with the stout, elderly cook downstairs all day (as an aside, that lady is always cooking enormous amounts of food, but seems confused and insulted when I ask if I can buy some, me being the only tennant not partaking). And puts stuff in the toilet. Each day when I get up to take a leak, I find something new in the shared toilet. First, pieces of bread and some gumdrops or something. The next day, a little plastic boat. And this morning, a stick of lipstick. Maybe it´s not her, but then the theories get even stranger.

Walking around town today, I made eye contact with a sheep grazing on a front lawn next to one of those colorful pedal cars for kids. From that point on, the sheep kept a watchful eye on me. Six blocks later he was still behind me on the sidewalk, although he would stop and bow his head every time I looked over my shoulder. Eventually he tired of the surveillance, or we simply reached his place. He went up a short set of stairs and went through the open door to a house. Odd, but classic rural Latin America.

Futaleufú is currently celebrating its anniversary, so the town is awash with a number of activities, the majority being competitions of some kind or another. So far they have included soccer matches in the corrugated metal covered gymnasium between teams comprised of people of all ages and hailing from the northern and southern halves of town, each side with its own mascot and cheer squads. There was also the contest today to see who could stay balanced on a bicycle for the longest period of time without pedaling out of a small area denoted by cracks in the pavement in front of the police station. Typical anniversary fare, really.

But most people, including me, do not come to Futaleufú for hot bicycle balancing action. They come to raft the Futaleufú River, considered in the rafting community to be one of the three best in the world. My rafting resumé is thin, but I decided to hit the river anyway. As expected, I was the only guy in the raft that wasn´t a fanatic that customizes his vacations around the sport. But I fared well enough. It was as intense as the guide painted it out to be, and we whistled through about four hours worth of rapids with scary names that translated into ¨The Terminator¨, ¨Moondaka¨, ¨Rock House¨, and...¨Meat and Potato Stew¨. I loved every minute, aside from the presence of a New Zealander seated on the ridge of the raft in front of me. Mind you, he wasn´t affiliated with the company, but he still felt it his duty to scream commands at the other six of us, like he was leading us into an attack on Guadalcanal. I had the misfortune of sitting behind him, and moreover, being the only other English speaker in the boat. When things got wild (and they often do on a Class V river, Class VI meaning unnavigable), he would get tossed into me as he took the brunt of the force of the water. I regret not having the wherewithal to move away from him at these times so that he´d be thrown from the raft, but I was usually otherwise engaged drinking deeply from the wall of water that came over on my own side.

So that´s Futaleufú.

The other two weeks were spent in Argentina. Having been summarily discouraged that I could not learn how to fly fish in a couple of days (Brad Pitt made it look so easy in ¨A River Runs Through It¨), I resigned myself to using spinner bait in the rich rivers around Junin de los Andes. Not wanting to pay the exorbitant $150/day that the fishing outfits around town were charging for a guide and gear, I asked some people I met if they knew a local fisherman, who then made a call to someone, who in turn called someone else. The next morning a 25 year-old chap named Guillermo showed up at the house I was renting a room in, and we fished all day. How did we do? I hit more fish on the head with the spinner than I caught. This is probably why everybody else was fly fishing. Still, it only cost me a few beers, and it was a relaxing day. Guillermo was a funny guy, and his current employment was just another jolting reminder of how good we have it back home. He essentially works 12 hours a day six days on/three days off at an oil refinery of some sort, where he is constantly in contact with harsh chemicals because the protective gear is lacking. The skin on his arms showed it. Salary: $2.50/hour. Nevertheless, he was upbeat and positive, and he claimed that if he worked for three more years that he and his brother would have enough cashed socked away to build a couple of modest cabins to rent out to fishermen. He wouldn´t let me contribute to the fund, instead only letting me buy him a cheap dinner of empanadas (dough around beef, chicken, cheese, etc.). On the whole, I´d venture to say that empanadas constitute somewhere in the vicinity of 40% of my total caloric intake in Argentina because of their tastiness/cost quotient - perhaps 60% in more expensive Chile.

The other time was spent in and around Bariloche, the Argentinian Patagonia tourist haven. Is it touristy? Yes. But is it as beautiful as a pirate´s breath is offensive? That, too. I hung out with Pete (motorcyclist from New Zealand) and his hilarious London wingman for a few days before meeting a couple of inseperable brothers (Matt and Keegan) from Michigan and staying at their place they had just built outside town for about a week. The friendship with the latter was forged in the manner of all good comradeship among men: over a fart. Thinking that no one was around while he was brushing his teeth one morning while camping, Matt let out a solid toot. I happened to be walking by, and simply commented, ¨Nice gasser¨, and kept walking. They turned out to be great guys, and we spent a lot of time hanging out around town at its many brew pubs before I did some hiking up into the mountains on my own. Both have degrees from Michigan State, but have made a living starting their own company as kiteboarding instructors ( www.broneah.com) in Michigan, Puerto Rico, and Argentina - spreading their time around their houses they built in each place while in pursuit of good weather. I could write a book about these guys and their comical mannerisms, their success in avoiding the corporate world, and their commendable and fresh philosophies on life, but this E-mail is getting long. Besides, I´m not sure I have enough money to pay for the time I´ve used thus far.

I remain...

Yours in the Brotherhood of the Travelling Pants,

- Tom

Note: The Chileans have been the first to begin to ask with any sort of frequency if I had a name for the bike. As neither ¨Aqua Sips¨ nor ¨Kentucky Gentleman¨ translate very well, I went with a Spanish name. ¨Che¨ Guevara and Alberto Granado called their bike ¨El Poderoso¨, or ¨The Powerful One¨. I have thus dubbed mine ¨El Jugoso¨, or ¨The Juicy One¨. I do not explain that it is related to all the juicy ripplers I´ve buried in the seat in the past seven months.

Quote: ¨Now...where is Mr. Takagi? Joseph Yashinobo Takagi...born Kyoto, 1937. Family emigrated to San Pedro, California, 1939...interned at Manzanar, 1942 to '43...scholarship student, University of California...1955. Law degree, Stanford, 1962. MBA, Harvard, 1970. President, Nakatomi Trading. Vice Chairman, Nakatomi Investment Group...and father...of five.¨

Chickens At the Outpost

2007-02-04T13:45:00.000-06:00

San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina

Why Latin American Internet cafes go so heavy on bad pop/dance music is a matter that will eludes me. That said, if any of this becomes incoherent or stops abruptly, you can blame it on current bass attack with only three words repeated throughout: ¨Keep...the...BEAT!!!¨

February brings me back to Argentinian soil, and with it, reasonable prices. Gas has fallen from $5/gallon to $2.50, disgusting motels have been traded for fantastic campsites, and menus are more wide open to a man on a budget. Getting here meant crossing a poorly chosen pass not well suited for vehicular travel, but that I shall deal with that in a minute.

Over the past couple of weeks I have spent a good portion of my time in Chile´s very well maintained and naturally incredible natural parks. Starting out in Laguna del Laja (That´s ¨Lagoon¨ del Laja for you that don´t habla Español...and ¨Laja¨ you ask?...clearly it translates into ¨smooth stone¨...come on, people, I´m not going to hold your hand through the obvious cognates!), I was befriended by the disgruntled park administrator, who allowed me to stay in an unused room of the park headquarters since the sites were for large groups. ¨My room¨ was then cordoned off with a ratty red blanket, which didn´t stop an old woman from walking in on me in my underwear, which must have startled her considerably - at least sufficiently to cause her to drop her bread and utter ¨¡Permiso!¨. She probably thought she saw a ghost, but it was only my chest, still so white that you could watch a movie on it.

The park encompassed a number of remote mountain lagoons surrounding Volcano Antuco and its surrounding range. I spent the next couple of days exploring the place - first by motorcycle and then on foot. During the former, I came upon what seemed to be a funny sort of monument to the Chilean army, comprised of a statue made from a camouflage-painted metal garbage can with pieces of metal welded to it so that it resembled a soldier with a ridiculous face. I found out later by talking to the locals that it commemorated 45 soldiers that died during a training exercise in 2005 when they got lost nearby in a blizzard, which in turn took away a good portion of the humor derived from the goofy statue.

In terms of the hike, I teamed up with a group of seven Chileans about my age from Santiago. It was good to roll with a posse again. The hike was a steep one, eventually leveling off onto a high valley covered with dark volcanic rock from when Antuco blew its top about a 100 years back. Despite the lack of sure footing and the fact that it shredded the lighter footwear of my comrades, it goes without saying that I love magma. Hot...cool...whatever. Love the magma.

The Chileans were kind enough to share their food and wine with me, and I ended up staying there for a couple of days. Such generosity has been commonplace in Chile (with offers of food, drink, and conversation so frequent while camping that I have little need to bring or prepare my own food), despite the warnings from Argentinians who told me that the Chilean people were ¨very cold¨. Then again, Chileans and Argentinians are always cutting each other down, so it seems. In the ´90s they almost stepped into the ring together after a maritime incident in which a temporary guard near the straight of Magellan opened fire on a boat full of Argentines, but a war was allayed by virtue of intervention by El Papa (aka The Pope).

On a similar note, it has been fascinating how much that religiosity has waned the further I have headed south. Compared with countries in Central America, Bolivia, and Peru, Argentina and Chile are much more overtly secular. Catholicism is not even remotely as pervasive in everyday life. The buses do not have paintings of the Risen Christ on the hood. There are not as many American-based churches with evangelical headquarters in the countryside. Bumper stickers do not commonly express the driver´s belief that ¨The success I have I owe to the Father¨. And, as was the most striking example of living the faith, no one is dressed up as Jesus in a crown of thorns with a giant, wheeled, wooden cross braced against his shoulder rolling along in sort of pilgrimage across the country as in Peru and Bolivia. I do not intend here to offend or to draw conclusions, but it would make for an interesting sociological study to track the inverse and commensurate relationship between standard of living and religiosity across Latin America.

All the off-roading in the park loosened up the fork clamps on my bike and kind of threw the steering askew. Neubz had great foresight in assembling the tools (most of which he admitted were purchased in a late-night online buying frenzy facilitated by the comsumption of alcoholic beverages), and he didn´t skimp on quality. But in spite of having near every kind of equipment a man with a motorcycle could want, the socket set maxes out at 24mm, and the stem nut is a 27mm. I deemed the bike dangerous to drive, so I jettisoned the lion´s share of my gear at the park and slowly made my way down a gravel road toward civilization.

Civilization, as it turns out, was a generous word. At the outskirts of the little village, I was surprised to suddenly be surrounded by a group of perhaps a dozen horses who had bounded out from the wooded bank of the road on both sides. My only thought: ¨What in the name of Sidney Poitier is going on?¨ I was soon surrounded on all side by the horses, who ran along in the same direction as me like a cavalcade. I didn´t dare slow down, as there were three horses behind me that I could see in my side mirrors, so I just kept the same speed until they had enough of their hijinx and dispersed as quickly as they had come. The townspeople down the road were likely equally surprised by catching a glimpse of me, my protective riding gear reminiscent of something they had only seen in the Disney classic, ¨Tron¨.

As it went, it was classic Latin America. ¨Oh, you need to go see Pascualito.¨ Pascualito? ¨Go up to the third street and take a right.¨ Does the street have a name? ¨No, but his place is in between the butcher and the yellow house.¨

Pascualito was exactly what you´d expect in an elderly, small town mechanic - aside from the fact that he wasn´t a mechanic. He fixes tires, but that was about as close as I was going to get to what I was looking for. His tools were a mixture of homemade implements and Chinese wrenches that he had busted and since crudely welded back into approximate shape. But we were able to get things situated, and he even treated me to some sage advice as I was driving away: ¨Remember, don´t get married until you´re 50! I didn´t. And it´s the only reason I´m happy!¨ Wise words, Pascualito.

While buying some supplies in town, I was approached by a group of teenagers who told me that I had to go see Jonny. Jonny had seven motorcycles, knew everything about them, and he could make sure that everything was set.

Jonny lived outside of town, and to make a long story short, he did have seven motorcycles of varying quality...none good. He was friendly enough, and wanted to take the bike for a ride to see what the problem was. I never let him, as he was drunk out of his mind and did nothing for the bike except spill a warm beer he was trying to hand to me ¨for the journey ahead¨ all over the seat while trying unsuccessfully to throw a leg over it. He also offered to trade his sister for the bike, assuring me that she was ¨really hot¨. I´ll have to mull that one over.

The rest of the next two weeks were spent hiking in two other parks with a couple of Germans and a Swiss. Then there was camping with the Chilean family, the father of whom told me of the good days in Argentina in 1979 when meat was so cheap that while he was visiting a friend, his friend went out and bought pasta from a restaurant for the special occasion because dry spaghetti costed more than beef. Why my Dad - arguably the world´s champion of beef - didn´t live in Argentina in the ´70s is a mystery to me.

The pass that brought me into Argentina was represented by the rare purple line on the map, which should have tipped me off that it was slightly sub par. As this E-mail is getting long, let me say that it was a five-hour crucible done completely in first gear up a rocky one-lane road, across bridges so rickety that they wouldn´t even have served as visual props in ¨The Dukes of Hazzard¨, including a stop for fuel from a woman in a shack with a wine jug of gasoline, and ending up at a remote border post where the immigrations officer filled out paperwork among the clucking of chickens that walked in and out of his crowded office at will. I imagine that getting that prized post is akin to getting tapped by the President for an ambassadorship to Chad.

That doesn´t sum up the two weeks, but I´ll finish later. I need to meet someone for dinner - a guy from New Zealand also travelling by cycle.

I did, however, manage to toss a nice stack of pics over to Webmaster Alex, and I´m sure they´ll be up in short order. If not, he has to eat a bag of Whiska Lickin´s cat treats, as per our agreement.

Adieu,

- Tom

Quote: ¨Striker, listen, and you listen close: flying a plane is no different than riding a bicycle, just a lot harder to put baseball cards in the spokes.¨

Ice Cave Picture

2007-01-28T15:48:00.000-06:00

Click to see -

Manifest - 1/28/07

Back In the High Life Again

2007-01-23T13:46:00.000-06:00

Los Angeles, Chile

Praise be to Samsonite! The bike was still where I left it, though - as expected - my sandals were moved to a new location. While on the topic of stink, I´m going to go ahead and reset the stench meter to low, as I got a new pair of boots while back in the US.

Sweet, succulent, Santiago. I ended up staying longer than I planned, as The Bear allowed me to sleep at his apartment and I met a bunch of his friends. A few days after I got there, a teacher from the US bound for some whale research project in southern Chile arrived from Chicago and joined the crew. In general, it was a lot of exploring the town, dancing, frisbee, and tipping it back. That´s not to say it wasn´t pricey. In addition to being the most Americanized and modern city I have seen on the trip, it was also the most expensive, with prices on par with - if not higher than - the US.

I finally wrested myself from the web of good times in Santiago and started to make my way south. That day I spent my first night sleeping in South America in a tent. It was only $2 for the site, but then again I would say that I got approximately $2 worth of sleep. It was a Saturday night, I got there late, and seemingly everyone at the campground was drunk. The security guard reeked of booze, and he did laps around me in the sand on his bicycle while I set up my tent (thank you, Neubz) in the dark while talking gibberish about a motorcycle he used to have. Somehow he never went down, but I´d be lying if I said I wasn´t hoping for it. But other people did. There was a large group of lively high schoolers about 150 feet away, and I unknowingly set up camp directly in the route between their camp and the water supply and bathrooms. A number of them tripped over the tarp cords as they stumbled towards the john using their cell phones as flashlights, even in spite of the heavy logs and a picnic table that I nearly herniated myself moving into a perimeter around the tent to keep them away.

From there I continued to head south through beautiful rolling green hills punctuated by valleys overflowing with picturesque vineyards and fields of olive trees. I wanted to get to Concepcion, and about five hours out I was befriended by a motorcycle gang that called themselves ¨The Falcons¨. They were headed in the same direction, so I joined their posse, and we motored along at high speeds towards the Pacific coast. Good people. They even gave me one of their Falcons bandannas.

In Concepcion, I was finally was able to find a new helmet. Since the visor broke off of mine in the gust of wind (taking the complicated plastic mounting hardware with it), I was unable to find a reasonable helmet in Argentina, and my Ebay efforts in the US came up short. While the Chinese helmets I found in recent days were by all means high on style and rich in interesting attempts at English in their accompanying literature, I had doubts as to their capability to protect my melon. But I struck gold in Concepcion. I like the helmet, though it would look more at home in the XGames or some extreme motocross competition. Oh, well. I´ve got no one to impress.

In all of Latin America, it is common knowledge to travellers like myself that you do not stay in motels. Hotels are fine, as are hostels, residenciales, pensiones, and the like. But motels, no. Motels are not so much places to sleep as they are places rented by the hour for young, unmarried couples that want to...watch old Westerns and eat sourdough bread...and do so discreetly. Never in our trip south did Neubz and I want so badly for cheap accomodation to stoop to such degenerate standards, and I think I can say that we prided ourselves on that.

Times change.

Over the past week, I have stayed at two such shady establishments - the Hotel Victoria and the Hotel Fish. ¨Wait a minute¨, you´re saying, ¨didn´t you just say that hotels were okay?¨ Yes, I did. Which was why I was more than confused by the menu posted on the wall at the Hotel Victoria that listed prophyactics for room delivery - right after the $1.50 cheese sandwich. And then there was the collage of penciled hearts with names in them all over the walls of my room at The Hotel Fish (Chico and Chica Crespa had marked their names three times). And the six foot by eight foot mirror next to the bed. That creeped me out pretty bad, so much so that I unfurled my sleeping pad and bag and slept on the floor.

I tried to protest to the management.

Me: ¨In my experience in South America, hotels are usually a place to sleep, whereas motels are a place where people go to...do other things.¨

Chain-smoking lady with leathery skin: (smiling) ¨That´s right¨.

Me: ¨Well, I think this is more of a motel.¨

Chain-smoking lady with leathery skin: ¨It is.¨

Me: ¨But the sign out front says it´s a hotel¨.

Chain-smoking lady with leathery skin: (her eyes strangely closing half-way) ¨That´s right.¨

Me: ¨So in Chile you just don´t know.¨

(Phone rings. She answers. Nods head. ¨OK. So two cheese sandwiches and a Coke to room seven.¨)

Me: (In English) ¨Sweet.¨

At the second place (where I left from early this morning when my 12 hours were up), I was accosted in the parking structure by a maid whose teeth were on average each composed at least partly of gold.

Theresa: ¨You know, the Señora is very interested in your story.¨ (I had spent about two hours the night before talking to all the maids so as to minimize the amount of time spent in my room and all of them knew the motorcycle story. And they were constantly asking if someone was meeting me, offering me a second towel on several occasions ¨just in case¨.)

Me: ¨Oh?¨

Theresa: ¨Follow me. You need to see the Señora.¨

I followed, feeling as if I was to be introduced to a Head of State or a religious leader. The experience, as it were, wasn´t far off from the latter. We wound through a kitchen, a few dark halls, and finally emerged through a curtain into a sort of living room. There, seated in front of me, was the Señora - looking more like some sort of oracle than a human. She was seated in a medical device chair, the feet on her propped up, edemic, sausage-like legs adorned in bright yellow socks that splayed out in front of me. Her fingers were heavy with gawdy jewelry, her hair was done up high, and the room was flush with incense and very large photographs of her and her husband posing in front of famous buildings throughout South America.

We talked for a half-hour. She was one of the kindest people that I have ever met. Never in my wildest dreams would I have suspected this 82 year-old woman to be the proprietor of a place like that, but it just goes to show that you never know.

Today I stopped in the coastal town of Lota to go on a tour of a carbon mine, though the experience was sadly far less authentic than our adventure in Bolivia. I´m confident that the highlight for the Chileans in my group was watching the tall gringo bash his head on big, wooden beams throughout the dimly lit descent into the mine and hearing him curse in a language they didn´t understand.

From here I will be heading briefly east for a hike into the Parque Nacional de las Lajas before heading south for some longer treks into the parks in the south near Pucón with my newly acquired camping gear. All the pictures I have ever seen are unbelievable, and I am very excited. And rumor has it that legitimate hotels are no longer $60 and up like they were in Concepcion the further you head south, so hopefully my experience with Shady Alley is past me.

Stay classy,

- Tom

Quote: ¨I was born to love you. I was born to lick your face.¨

Manifest - 1/23/07

¨You Wish to Depart Hostile Alien Environment?¨ ¨Yes.¨ ¨Compliance.¨

2006-12-19T13:48:00.000-06:00

Santiago, Chile

I thought it impossible to find a place with more mullets than Argentina. Then again, I had never been to Chile. Here the mullet has assumed forms with which I was previously familiar - my favorite being the ¨Fractional Mullet¨ that I saw in the central plaza this morning. Not finding the traditional mullet adequately laughable, one fine lad today sheared off two thirds of his Kentucky Waterfall to leave but a small wispy portion wavering from his rear right quarterpanel. I bet he´s an ace with the ladies.

I have little to write about this last week. Aside from some hiking up in the Valley of the Moon, nearly all my time was spent touring wineries. The Valley of the Moon was like being on the moon, or so they say. While on a guided tour through one part of the park, the khaki-clad guide quipped that ¨Your Neil Armstrong might have actually been walking here, hey?¨. He had probably told this pseudo-joke 500 times, and he took note of the ¨I got it¨ nods from the other visitors - mostly Japanese and Germans. I was the only American, and since I didn´t laugh he approached me and nudged me in the belly, ¨You know, your astronaut...who walked on the moon?¨ Hee. Hee.

In contrast to Napa Valley, only a handful of wineries in the gorgeous valleys around Mendoza charge a tasting fee. And since the harvest season here is not until March, I was often the only person at each vineyard. The majority wanted prior reservations, but the security guard at each winery´s respective gate found the pleadings of a stammering foreign moron sitting on an extremely dirty motorcycle sufficient for entry. Ohhhh, and the wine flowed...like wine.

The flagship of the Argentinian wine industry is the Malbec grape, and it is a tasty varietal indeed. My teeth were stained purple all week. And despite the fact that it was clearly a bad idea, I started to buy a few bottles. I scarcely had room on the bike for anything else. So why did I buy 60 bottles of wine? Because it was delicious and because it was cheap. 48 bottles are now on a boat bound for the States, 10 I somehow lashed to the motorcycle, and two I drank the night before I left with Antonio, the night clerk at my ratty hotel, and his friend Armando with the broken foot.

The drive to Chile was without the greatest border crossing of my life, as it winds and whirls through the Andes at dizzying heights. Had the wind not nearly blown me over on several occasions and thrown sand into my eyes (the visor on my helmet was lashed off my helmet by a monstrous gust provided by a semi that zipped by in the other direction), it would have been even more enjoyable. Near the road´s apex it passed just south of Aconcagua, which at 22,831 feet did not seem real. Then it was an incredibly long tunnel through a mountain and into Chile.

Chile is all business when it comes to customs. It took about two hours to complete the border formalities. Thankfully I asked if there would be a problem if I left the motorcycle in Santiago for a few weeks while I went home for the holidays. ¨Yes, it is a problem!¨

I needed to find someone to ¨take responsibility for the motorcycle¨ while I was out of the country. This invariably involved lots of stamps and ate up the better part of an afternoon. My savior was a man known as ¨The Bear¨, a friend of my brother-in-law who worked in the embassy here in Chile for two years. The Bear now has my bike and stinky sandals at his apartment, and I won´t be surprised to find the sandals outside with the motorcycle when I return on account of the foul stench.

Other than that, I´m just waiting for my plane. I´ve got two cheap Chinese suitcases (one of them pink) full of motorcycle parts, clothes, and wine that I want to get rid of. I haven´t seen my family, my friends, or my girlfriend since July, so this will be a welcome break.

Merry Christmas and Yuletide Cheer to you all.

- Tom

Bonus quote: ¨Stansfield?¨ ¨At your service.¨ ¨This is from...Mathilda.¨

¨I Remember Grey Carpet. I Want to Go Home.¨

2006-12-10T15:39:00.000-06:00

San Augustin de Valle Fértil, Argentina

9-5 grind got you down? Own a horse? Possess the rudimentary carpentry skills necessary to build a rickety cart? Could you lure your horse onto a plane or boat bound for South America? Well then, book that ticket and become your own boss!

Every night in Montevideo, Uruguay, not long after people put out the trash for their neighborhood´s morning collection, one can hear the clickety clack of hooves on pavement. It´s strange to see a horse trot down the main streets of a large city - stranger still to see that horse towing a trailer made of miscellaneous scraps of wood and with either old bicycle tires or wooden wheels attached to a slipshod axle. But every city block has a midnight rider. Apparently there are people who pay good money for bags of paper and pieces of cardboard. And so has spawned one of the more creative and unusual capitalist ventures I have ever seen.

The garbage diggers usually work in family teams, so that means the Mom and Dad bring their little kids along for the hunt, and everybody helps to sift through garbage containing every sort of conceivable refuse (including some fairly ripe bags from the restaurants). And not a scrap is left behind. The city residents, apparently not high on separating their trash for recycling, need not worry that their paper will end up in the dump. According to a bunch of people I asked about it, the paper gig is good for a few hundred dollars a month. The sifters can work when they please, and need only trot in from their shanty towns on the city´s perimeter for a few hours each night to earn their daily bread, exiting the city with their loot piled impossibly high on their creaky carts.

The garbage diggers were just one of the little surprises from Uruguay. I had no idea what to expect from the country. By all accounts from the Argentinians I asked about Uruguay, it was ¨like a province of Argentina¨. Compared to Argentina´s population of 38 million, Uruguay has only around three - about half of whom live in the capital city. Aside from that it´s mostly a bunch of small towns spread across the country: cattle ranches throughout the interior and little fishing villages up the eastern coast all the way up to its border with Brazil.

When I wrote last, I was in the border city of Fray Bentos. The only reason I went there was that one of my guidebooks described it as ¨macabre¨. What it says about me that I am attracted to a ¨macabre¨ town I do not know. But I will say that it turned out to be one of my favorite and the most bizarre places of the trip.

Fray Bentos´ claim to fame is meat - or, more specifically, meat extract. A couple of Germans arrived in the late 1800´s with some new scientific ideas that they thought would change the face of agriculture forever. Why they chose distant Uruguay for their little experiment can probably be attributed to four things: tons of cattle, cheap land, even cheaper labor, and zero government regulation of any kind.

In any event, they set up a factory there that became the world´s largest meatpacking plant and played a major role in feeding troops from both sides in both World Wars. The chemistry conceived by the Krauts and perfected in Uruguay facilitated the development of the Spam that you most likely have in your lunchbox at this very moment.

Fray Bentos was the first city in South America to have electricity. That´s how important the meat plant was. But a salmonella outbreak in the 1960´s stole the company´s thunder, and changing tastes (ie people no longer digging meat extract in a can) throughout the world eventually knocked out the company´s legs.

The nice thing is that when they decided to call it quits, they pretty much just left everything as it was at that moment and the workers got the hell out. Thus, it became macabre. I was the only person at the plant the day I went, and I was able to convince a woman to unlock some doors and show me around the place. It was so cool. It looked like a Hollywood set for some sort of horror film. Enormous flywheels and odd generators and whatnot. Cobwebs everywhere. A room with broken windows and a giant pile of a few thousand meat hooks, some dirty, some clean. Weird catwalks where diseased cattle were separated from the good stock and waltzed into an adjoining chamber for ¨treatment¨. A jar filled with formaldehyde preserving a pair of severed, congenitally joined sheep heads. An office full of antiquated equipment, switchboards, and papers still sitting on the desks. If I ever come into some serious cash, I´m going to fly my buddies down there and rent the place out for a macabre paintball game.

From Fray Bentos, I shimmied down to Montevideo. I don´t know why, but I really liked the place, and I ended up staying there for a few days. I think it kind of reminded me of Milwaukee or Chicago. Whereas Beunos Aires tries so hard to be the cool New York of South America, Montevideo seemed pretty content with itself, and it was a nice respite from the pervasive pretense of the Argentinian capital city. It had a nice stretch of coast, a laid back citizenry, a well preserved historic barrio, and an old meat market turned honeycomb of family-run grills called the Mercado del Puerto. It was at one of those grills that I bellied up to the counter and ate all kinds of meaty delights, steering clear of only one item on the big menu hanging over the grill that listed its English translation as ¨guts¨.

From Montevideo I headed west to Colonia del Sacramento, one of the only completely preserved examples of Spanish colonial architecture on the continent. It seemed to be more of a couples´ getaway for Argentinians from across the bay, so I fell into the role of the creepy guy eating by himself amongst couples dining by candelight at a little table where some guy serenaded everyone with a Spanish guitar. In an effort to escape the hordes of handholders, I went to a museum a little ways out of the city that the girl at the tourism office described as ¨interesting¨, pointing out that it had ¨pencils and marmelade¨. And it did. The guy who started it had an indescribably ridiculous collection of 17,000 keychains, 10,000 pencils, an adjoining marmelade store, and most likely a severe case of OCD.

Argentina and Uruguay are at odds over some paper factory Uruguay wants to build on their shared river border, so Argentina periodically shuts down the bridges between the two neighbors. What that does to stop the construction of a paper factory I´m not sure, but it keeps guys like me guessing as to whether they´ll be able to leave the country when they want to. The sure thing was to put the bike on a two-hour ferry to Buenos Aires, so that´s what I did.

In Buenos Aires I met up with my brother-in-law, Tommy, 25, who is travelling by himself from Chile to Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. Good beer was found, good steak was eaten, good times were had, and I bought another painting - the long wooden frame of which is now lashed clumsily to my motorcycle.

After Tommy left for Uruguay, I drove widthwise across the continent, something that took long enough and was so painfully boring that its short description will keep this E-mail from getting ridiculously lengthy. Suffice it to say that it was like driving back and forth on a rural Nebraskan road for days. Cattle. Crops. Cattle. Crops. More cattle. If I could have rigged up a safe way to aim the bike straight so I could kick my legs up and read a book, I would have done it.

Along the way I met a guy who sold metal pipes and ended up at a BBQ with his friends. One of them was a 59 year-old mechanic that wanted to show me the town later, so we hit the casino and local bars until late in the night. The guy that sold the pipes had a Harley Sportster, and he was the first Latino I have met on this trip that knew where Milwaukee was. He said it was his dream to go to the Harley factory, but he doesn´t have the cash.

Finally, I ended up in Mendoza province, which welcomed me with a sign declaring itself to be the ¨Land of Sun and Good Wine¨ and with a full police inspection of my motorcycle including the traditional request for my fire extinguisher. Mendoza is to Argentina what Napa Valley is to the States, though here the valley sits in the shadow of some Andean peaks that crest 23,000 feet. It´s pretty impressive. Just outside of town I tried to downshift and snapped off my shifter, which was sweet. So I had to roll through city working the clutch with what the Pointer Sisters would describe as a slow hand and an easy touch. Third gear is not the gear that traditionally comes to mind when you´re looking for a smooth start from a dead stop with a heavily loaded bike, but I eventually found a mechanic who made me a new shifter from scrap metal for free. It looks absurd (like a cross between a six iron and a spoon), but it works.

I stayed in Mendoza for a couple of days and toured some wineries. At one of the hostels I met an Indonesian guy from Oregon who rode his old Suzuki down here, and a Texan who rode a bicycle here from Ecuador (and who was almost killed by a strung out shaman in Peru). And I got hardly any sleep last night in a youth hostel because some Belgian guy on the top bunk next to mine was snoring like crazy all night. I nudged him with increasing degrees of malice throughout the night, but he was not to be stirred. He didn´t even even stop when I grabbed somebody´s wet bath towel that was hanging nearby and draped it over his face. Pulling out his pillow so that he hit his head on the wooden frame brought peace for five minutes, but in the end the Belgian was steadfast and I found myself outmatched.

All in all it has been a fine run, and I never got around to writing an update for quite some time with all that was going on, so I apologize if you made it through this rambling tale.

Tomorrow I head off to a national park called the Valley of the Moon about fifty miles from here to do a little hiking. I am hoping that it is somehow connected to the Canyon of the Crescent Moon, in which case one of you might just be getting the ¨cup of a carpenter¨ for Christmas.

- Tom

Good luck on the trivia.

Pictures

2006-12-04T15:38:00.000-06:00

Click to view -

Manifest - 12/4/06

Link to South America trip pictures

2006-11-29T15:34:00.000-06:00

I hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving weekend. I finally managed to motivate and get some of the trip photos online, at least the ones up until our extended stay in Bolivia. So if you're bored hit the link here, go to 'View Pictures' and then select 'View as a slideshow' in the column to the right, which is the best way to see them.

http://nathanneuberger.shutterfly.com/action/?a=0AZM27li5ZMWLkg

- Nate

¨Here lies Sub-Zero. Now...plain zero!!!¨

2006-11-26T15:35:00.000-06:00

Fray Bentos, Uruguay

Greetings, comrades. This E-mail comes to you from the tender arms of Uruguay, which I entered today via a strange road built on top of a hydroelectric dam connecting Uruguay to Argentina. The ¨International Hydroelectric Dam¨ was announced with much pomp in the forms of signs celebrating its construction, signs which presented themselves with a frequency in line with those announcing the speed limit. The latter were largely unnecessary, as the spirit of international cooperation drawn upon in the building of the dam resulted in a sort of faux cobblestone finish on the road, the vibration from which nearly rattled the fillings from my teeth.

Those of you who were following the progress of the Destiny are likely confounded by my present coordinates, thinking that I should be nearer to the southern tip of the continent than I am. Aye, you are correct. The Kentucky Gentleman shares your sentiments, and he was likely displeased when I turned his yokes sharply to starboard and egged him on a northerly course. ¨North, Miss Tessmacher¨, I whispered. For I fell victim to the irresistable siren song of Iguaza Falls, and I was helpless against its charms.

The Iguazu Falls are one of the greatest natural wonders in the world. Snuggled comfortably at the crux of the borders of Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina, Iguazu draws its name from the indigenous Guarani language ¨y¨, meaning ¨big¨, and ¨guasu¨, which means ¨water¨ (most of you probably speak Guarani, so I apologize for belaboring the obvious). The Guarani weren´t kidding. Upon visiting the falls during her husband´s presidency, Eleanor Roosevelt was rumored to have remarked, ¨Poor Niagara...¨, as the Iguazu Falls are some four times larger than the Niagara Falls.

Alas, I underestimated the distance to Iguazu when I looked at a map, thinking I could make it there in a couple of days. Rather, the trip north turned into a 1200 mile ordeal across roads of varying quality, through a series of intense thunderstorms that seemed to follow me for several hundred miles, and into a heatwave that crested 100 degrees for a few days. It was a trajectory marked by insect-infested rooms (commemorated this evening by the discovery this evening of a dead cockroach in my rain-soaked boot whose death the insect coroner could attribute to drowning, being crushing by my giant Slavic foot, or asphixiation by the stench of a sock I´ve been wearing for ten days), tours of tea plantations and amethyst mines, and a few random encounters - one of which reached its weary end with me sleeping in a trailer full of itinerant construction workers (but not before being taught how to operate a backhoe at 1AM by a kindly Argentinian named Armando and an Irish/Argentinian named John and then being taken to a brothel named Manollo´s that was full of disgusting women and disguised as a restaurant) and one which landed me at a family BBQ. At the latter, I was mistaken as a friend of the family, and only late in the meal was it revealed that I had only known the hostess´s husband´s sister´s husband since the day before (and had met him while operating the backhoe). Regardless, the conversation was good, the meat savory, and the king-size bed at the house comfortable. Indeed, the tradition of Argentinians being generous to a fault has continued - from Rafa (who showed me the best that the country has to offer and always tried to pay for everything) to complete strangers that have showed me every sort of hospitality.

Aside from the Falls, my time in the far north afforded me the opportunity to visit Che Guevarra´s childhood home (the museum´s proprietor refusing to acknowledge my assertions that Señor Gueverra had advocated a nuclear war against the US (he did)...and who wore a sweet beret), tour an incredible set of ruins left behind from the Jesuit missions before the Spanish gave them the boot so they could annihilate a few more natives, and wind up on a tea plantation with the wrong crowd.

In terms of the tea plantation, it played out as follows. I saw a sign on the side of the road saying something or other about a tea factory. At the bottom of the sign, it said: ¨We´ve been waiting for you.¨ As you wish, fancy tea people. And the Kentucky Gentleman turned off into a flower-lined drive to a rather nice estate.

Security at the plantation was more befitting a nuclear arms installation, and the cadre of meaty guards asked all sorts of questions, save for the largest of the group, who merely stood silently about three feet away from me with a solid grasp on his combat shotgun.

One of the questions in the later stages of the interrogation was ¨Are you here for the meeting?¨ I was unsure as to what that meant, so naturally I answered ¨yes¨. Copies of my passport and license now on file, the gate was at last opened, and I sped into the grounds. After parking in front of the main building, I was approached by a man named Walter. Walter - like all the employees of the plantation - was dressed in company monogrammed garb. We´ve all seen company polo shirts and jackets in our day, but I must say that I´ve never seen company jeans...much less company jeans where the company logo is emblazened on the buttcheek. Very professional. Very classy.

Walter welcomed me to the plantation and ushered me over to a group of seven or so people dressed in cripsly tailored suits. I was introduced and asked where I worked, to which I simply replied, ¨Chicago¨. It was honestly close to 100 degrees, so I couldn´t imagine wearing a suit (or maybe I could - after standing up in a Serbian wedding this past summer in non-air conditioned church wearing a three-piece tux). But my head start on these people in the stink department was robust. And clearly I did not fit in, which confuses me more and more every time I think about why they let me hang around so long.

I was dressed in a raggedy grey V-neck shirt I inherited from Neubz when he left, a dusty pair of motorcycle pants with a little blood on the shins from a dead animal I accidentally ran over the day before (disgusting, I know), and as mentioned, I reeked.

My Spanish has gotten a lot better over the course of the trip, but when the conversation turned to growing techniques, current trends in the global tea market, and new developments in agricultural chemistry, I was clearly at a loss. Since I understood very little of what was being said and simply said ¨Si¨ to every question directed at me and laughed, the conversation could well have played out thus:

Man in sweet brown suit: ¨So, looking at global sales trends, it seems that Ceylon tea is experiencing quite a renaissance in your country - particularly in the Northeast. To what do you attribute this phenomenon?¨

Me: ¨Yes, of course.¨ (Having understood nothing, I smile and laugh a little while shaking my head in acknowledgement)

(Awkward silence in the group. People look nervously at one another.)

After about 15 minutes of this, I think somebody realized the mistake, an S.O.S. was placed discreetly by Walter into his walkie-talkie, and two guys in company jeans came to lead me away.

I was taken to what I believe to have been the tourist center, and seated in a small ampitheater with what appeared to be the rest of the riff-raff looking for free samples to watch a company propaganda film. The man sitting next to me was probably about 350 pounds with a ZZ-top style beard and dressed in denim overalls (no monogram). I could picture him choking back a 12 lb pot roast for lunch and perhaps chasing it with a few bratwurst, but could not imagine him sipping daintily on a cup of tea. We were equally out of place as we watched the majestic film, which borrowed its soundtrack heavily from the musical ¨Riverdance¨ and the early '90s film ¨Howards End¨. This I leaned over to tell to the man in overalls, but either Big John Stud did not care or he was simply not familiar with Sir Hopkins´ work.

Perhaps because they felt awkward about putting me in the wrong group at first, I was treated to copious amounts of free tea and something called yerba mate, which is for whatever reason always consumed via a silver straw. They did not give me a silver straw.

And from there I have made it to Uruguay. The police in Argentina have searched the contents of my bike at least eight times at random checkpoints along the way, ostensibly searching for drugs, though I think it is because they are bored. They are corrupt, but lack the audacity and know that - unlike in Central America - extortion by traffic police is not sanctioned/encouraged by the state.

That´s not to say they haven´t tried. I was fined 100 dollars (which was then raised to 150 dollars when I asked for the paper ticket) for passing a broken down semi on a curve (the alternative being...), but they are not apparently willing to risk asking for the money on the spot; they just allude to it. So they said they would send the ticket to my Embassy in Buenos Aires which would ¨get me in a lot of trouble¨. Surprise, surprise. It never happened.

Another creative tactic has been to ask me for my fire extinguisher. As I scarcely had room to pack four pairs of underwear, I obviously have no room for a fire extinguisher. And since about one out of every five hundred people in Latin America on a motorcycle even wears a helmet, I´m guessing they don´t have fire extinguishers either. The first two times I was stopped for this, I refused to pay. The third time, I responded with an equally asinine question: ¨Do you own a bakery?¨ He did not.

I do not have adequate time to reach the southern tip before Christmas, so I will be heading west to Mendoza, the heart of South American wine country settled near the base of the highest peak in both the western and southern hemispheres. If the Kentucky Gentleman can crest the mountain pass, I will finish up in Santiago, Chile, from where I fly home for Christmas and return to in January for the final push south. I´m grabbing a tent (and perhaps a fire extinguisher?) when I go home, and I think I may start growing a mountain man mustache.

- Tom

PS: From now on I will put a movie quote as the title of each E-mail. Anyone that can get three correct in succession without cheating by using the Internet will get a postcard signed by a local celebrity. This title does not count, as it is a gimme.

If you cheat I will lace your postcard with the lethal poison, Black Velvet.

Pictures

2006-11-15T15:29:00.000-06:00

Click to see -

Manifest - 11/15/06

Hoodwinked By A Fake Plopper

2006-11-08T15:26:00.000-06:00

Leprechauns, Hornswagglers, and Fizzywinks!

Greetings from Buenos Aires, Argentina, a city which (according to the cabbies) has the widest city street in the world - 14 lanes. Ah, but the city´s charms go far past the width of it streets, and thus I have been here for over a week.

When I last wrote, I was in wine growing region in the northwest part of the country. From there I rendezvoused with my friend Rafa in Tucuman and we set our compass south for his hometown of La Cumbre, then Cordoba, and finally Buenos Aires.

Tucuman was a rather bland city with little to offer any sort of traveller, though I did have a chance to eat ungodly amounts of meat and familiarize myself with Argentinian cafe culture. The latter consists of stopping for a tiny espresso about three to four times per day. Not being a coffee drinker, the caffeine intake zipped me up like Gary Busse on speed. But the thing I enjoyed most was watching the old men watching the young ladies.

Whereas in the US all men apparently get a small package in the mail on their 70th birthday containing:

1.) A pair of black, knee-high socks be worn only with pleated shorts.

2.) A license to rip gas in elevators.

3.) The title to a 1982 Buick LeSabre.

the Argentinian men come of age at around 65, at which point they are entitled to abandon tact and subtlety in blatant appreciation of the female form in a public setting. The cafe, then, is their playground. I spent a lot of time hanging out with friends of Rafa´s dad (who I found out later was arrested in the 80´s for taking over an airport in a failed coup and tying a Colonel of the Armed Forces to a chair in the control tower with a telephone cord after hitting him in the face with the butt of a rifle...somehow Rafa did not know all the details...that would not be the case if my old man was into shenanigans like that), so that meant trying to find a chair at a sidewalk cafe and introduce it into the perfect half-circle that they would form around one portion of a table so as to have strategic visual access to the most heavily traversed sidewalk. These were well-dressed older men with cool names like Sergio, Gabriel, and Guillermo, though they said little else after I sat down, as the games were underway. When an attractive young woman would enter the horizon, all small talk would end, the elbow nudge would be shared, all men would attain missile lock, and they would shamelessly follow the woman with their eyes until she disappeared from sight, at which point conversation would clumsily resume.

Truth be told, they are still more tactful than most other younger Argentinian men at bars, though that is only when alcohol is involved. In that case, a group of guys openly cheers or claps for each girl that goes by that they like. Sweet style.

But as I said, Tucuman wasn´t much of a tourist paradise, so Rafa and I left as soon as his shady responsibilities moonlighting as a bidder for governmental powdered milk contracts had concluded. From Tucuman we drove to the small, Door County-esque town of La Cumbre, where Rafa grew up. Time there consisted of exploring the small mountains and rivers in the vicinity, hanging out with Rafa´s friends (nearly all of whom live the sweet life in their late 20´s or early 30´s by living with their parents and somehow not working), and celebrating Halloween. Since La Cumbre was for a time a British colony, that holiday remained after the Brits left.

I had no costume, so Rafa´s girlfriend gave me a bag of clothes and told me that she thought they would fit. I went to go put them on and was less than delighted to find a halter top, some sort of burgundy vest that didn´t go past my rib cage, a mini skirt, and a gold wig. We hit a number of clubs before hitting ´´the real party´´ held at a club located in a residential area named Toby´s (and enigmatically owned by one of Rafa´s very entertaining friends who had no job and lived with his parents), which people strangely started to fill as soon as the clock struck 4:30 AM. Not accustomed to the hours of the nightlife and a party that was still rolling at 7 when I left, I started kicking back a number of Speed Unlimited (like a poor man´s Red Bull) and Vodkas. The 80´s rock ballads being strummed up by Lucho (30, unemployed, lives with his parents, very funny, dressed as Flavor Flav) and the tight crowds did not mix well with my out of place doh-see-doh meneuvers, so I headed home as it was getting light outside. In the morning I woke up in my golden wig to learn that that the Speed Unlimited had somehow numbed half of one my fingers. This is making typing somewhat difficult right now.

Oh, I forgot to write about Rafa´s girlfriend. Shortly after arriving in La Cumbre, we went to pick her up. Her name was Desiree, and I must admit that she was very good looking, though that confession will sound strange in a minute. She lived with her parents, but this was obviously par for the course. So we stepped in and her Mom and Dad peppered me with all kinds of strange questions. Later, while she and I were talking alone, we had the following awkward exchange:

Desiree: ¨Wow. So you´re really travelling for a long time. How old are you?¨

Me: 27. (glad she asked because I can never tell how old Latin people are but feel stupid asking since it sounds like such a Spanish textbook type of question) How old are you?

Desiree: 16

Me: (Thinking I didn´t hear right) What?

Desiree: 16

(Awkward silence...doing the math...right...so Rafa is 29...she...is 16...and that means...right...)

Me: Oh...how´s high school?

Rafa assured me later that it was ¨normal¨ in Argentina and that her parents were ¨cool with it¨. Hmmm. Indeed. Long live the true Ponce de Leon.

From La Cumbre we passed through Cordoba and wound up in Buenos Aires, which immediately blew me away due its size. Argentina is the 8th largest country in the world in terms of landmass, yet it only has 38 million inhabitants. Nearly 13 million of those live in the metropolitan area of Buenos Aires.

Buenos Aires has been the priciest city of the trip so far, and most of the money I have shelled out has been on food and drink. For the first time on the trip, I truly look forward to every meal. In fact, I had the best steak of my life at a manly restaurant with the Sally name of Cabin of the Lillies.

A friend of Rafa´s came in from DC, so over the course of a few days we did some salsa dancing, played Bingo in a huge casino with a bunch of enthusiastic locals, toured the city, and a bunch of other details that I won´t belabor right now. Sadly, the two most entertaining things to write about are also the most unfortunate for me. First, I was robbed. And, second, I flirted with the possibility of serious personal injury.

The robbery took place in the morning at a small park in one of the three medians that separate the lanes in the 14-lane avenue I referenced earlier. I was reading the paper, enjoying some breakfast, when I suddenly realized that a bird had just pooped in my yogurt and on my leg. I figured this to be revenge for not sharing my donut with the crowd of birds gathered around my feet. At right around this time, a man in his 50´s walked by and motioned to the birds in the tree directly above me. I stood up to survey the breadth of the poop, at which point the man directed me to a cement post a short distance away where he claimed there was water. Near the post a woman in her thirties noticed my leg and offered some of her Kleenex while addressing me in an apologetic tone. I was not in the mood to have people wiping poop off my leg, so I brushed them away. It was on the way back to the hotel that I realized that my camera was not in my pocket.

I also had had a video camera and some cash on me, so they didn´t fleece me completely But I was pretty irritated, and I had evil thoughts of breaking all of that woman´s fingers one by one. Strangely, the more I thought about it, the less upset I got. It´s one thing to be robbed, but to be bamboozled by a three-person (including the deuce squirter in the grassy knoll) squad in an elaborate artificial poop ploy is quite another. I admired their audacity and originality, and, as an aside, I believe that the fake poop recipe involved a spicy mustard.

The brush with personal injury took place at a sort of communications center (mixture of telephone booths for international calls and computers for Internet access) two days later. The place was packed, and the only remaining computer was near the entrance at a small desk.

Sitting down in a chair is a fairly routine practice, but on this day everything went horribly wrong. As I attempted to squeeze into the spot and my left butt cheek touched down on the aged swiveling office chair, something buckled and the chair zipped away with me positioned loosely along its periphery. What stopped it was the 8´ x 8´ storefront window...but it didn´t stop me. It was LOUD, and when I opened my eyes my hands were on the outside sidewalk holding my body up (along with a leg draped over the chair). I was a little scared to turn around for fear of seeing a denim-clad Patrick Swayze looking at me pitifully as he would utter, ¨Oh, Carl...¨. But despite my arms and shoulder being covered in shards of glass, I had not a scratch.

Also strange was the reaction of the other customers and the management. I would like to think that if something like that happened in the US, people would stop what they were doing, women may scream, and those in the immediate vicinity would rush to my aid. Not here. Everyone was so perversely cavalier that you´d think someone fell through that window everyday and my little piece of drama was old hat. ¨What´s that, honey? I didn´t hear you. Oh, the sound? Yeah, some foreign guy fell for the old rickety chair scheme and went through the front window. Sure. So, when´s dinner?¨

As for the girl that worked there, she asked me if I was cut, and nothing else was said until I went to pay for using the Internet. ¨1 peso (33 cents)¨. I said I was sorry about the window, but she had already gone back to reading her magazine.

I am actually no longer in Buenos Aires, as I have been writing this on and off for a few days. Instead, I am in the small town of Azul, south of Buenos Aires on the way to the southern tip. Yesterday I finally got my Ted Danson-bald rear tire replaced, and the shop doubled as a sort of sanctuary/rest stop for motorcycle travellers from all over the world. Last night I did my part to polish off five bottles of wine with two older guys from Cyprus as they jammed out on a guitar called a buziki they brought with them and sang some unusual tunes in their native tongue. The sleeping area was already booked up when I got there, so I ended up sleeping in a garage amidst about 25 motorcycles. And thank God for the wine, as it was a little brisk and the owner dug up a somewhat unusual Argentinian military cot from the ´20s for me to sleep on.

The march to the south continues...

- Tom

Max Dugan Returns

2006-10-26T15:25:00.000-06:00

Cafayate, Argentina 10-26

Readers!

It has been a long, long time since my words rang clear from the belfry. But glory of glories, the Destiny has been preserved, and Nate is recovering nicely in the USA.

I think that the last time an update went out was from Santa Cruz, Bolivia, right around the time that a suspicious Bolivian with the very unBolivian name of Jean Denis Middagh Kauffman decided to take out Neubz with a white Toyota Helix pickup. Oh, how times have changed.

A lot of people called Bolivia to offer moral support to the Neubz; heck, a few people even braved the ridiculously high seas of international postage to whisk south a few items to help our beloved cripple wile away the days. Whoever sent the 500 page book titled ¨Civil War: Army vs Navy - A History of the Great American Football Rivalry¨, know this: that is either the funniest or the most random thing I have ever seen sent across the world...depending upon your motive. To people like this we give our thanks.

The weeks spent in Santa Cruz were excruciatingly boring. That, of course, is from my point of view. I could get up and walk around; at the very least I could sleep on my side. Neubz, on the other hand, took keeping it real to a heretofore unattained level. After a breakneck pace and heaps of crazy times on the way down, both of us found ourselves sedentarily watching more television over the course of two and a half weeks than we had watched during the last two and a half years. The WB Network was Neubz´s rock and his shepherd, and I can´t count a day that I didn´t walk in to his room and have the following conversation:

Me: What are you watching?

Neubz: ¨The Gilmore Girls¨.

Me: Sweet.

It didn´t hurt that ¨The Gilmore Girls¨ was on three times a day, but it didn´t stop Neubz from taking in all three...plus ¨ER¨...plus ¨Supernatural¨...plus ¨OC¨...plus ¨Everwood¨...plus at least one Steven Seagal flick per day (which invariably co-starred DMX). In spite of his consumption of TV, The Neubz wanted so much excruciating physical therapy that one therapist didn´t cut the mustard anymore and a second was recruited.

In the beginning the dainty ladies couldn´t hoist his beastly German limb aloft for the exercises, so I had to grasp his stinky foot or the undercarriage of his knee during repetitions. But the leg amazingly got stronger after just a few days, and my services in that department were no longer necessary. This was a true relief, as The Neubz did not wear pants for the better part of three weeks, and his wispy hospital gown treated both the therapists and me to inappropriate amounts of giblets au naturale.

A lot of people asked what we we actually did during our time in Santa Cruz, and most would be disappointed to here how little actually transpired. Most of the time was spent watching pirated movies that I would purchase for a dollar in the streets, reading books, swimming in the poorly maintained pool at my hotel with 85 year-old women sitting around its rim, walking around talking to street vendors, visiting the US Consulate, and making food runs when the hospital meals ran sour (and they often did). Other than that I just hung out with The Neubz a lot and worked out the many kinks with the payment for his medical services and visa complications. And of course there was the twist of irony in representing Lawyer Neubz in court...and avoiding The Colonel...but I´ll get to that in a second.

After flying to Santa Cruz in the Beachcraft Bonanza with Neubz, I had him transferred from Hospital San Juan de Dios to a legitimate hospital (ie not 12 beds to a room with no fan where the doctor says: ¨So we don´t have much along the lines of medicine here. Are you the one that will be running to the pharmacies to fill his prescriptions for blood thinners and antibiotics?¨ Once he was on his way to an upscale Wetsern-style clinic, I had to hop a tasty 10-hour night bus back to San Ignacio de Velasco to resolve the legal quagmire left in the wake of the accident. Having worked for a pharmaceutical company, I was not short on sleeping pills, but the road was as crappy on a hot bus as it was on a motorcycle, and I slept not a wink.

But at last I arrived, and the next two days were spent giving statements to the police, strategizing with an attorney, and then serving as Neubz´s legal representation in court. Only this was not what you imagine a courtroom to be. It was me, the other driver, and the ¨Fiscal¨, or Public Prosecutor (sort of a Judge Dredd-type position: judge, jury, and executioner), who was professionally dressed in...not a wig and black robe...but an LA Lakers T-shirt and highwaters jeans. ¨All right, you guys talk. I´ll be right back.¨ And then he put down his M&Ms and stepped outside for a smoke.

I felt like I was in marriage counseling, except that the person in the chair next to me was a 45 year-old man with a bad mustache and stained teeth. His breathing was erratic and he was sweating profusely. We talked for two hours, though it couldn´t have been more obvious that the accident was his fault. Ah, but the Bolivian justice system is a mysterious thing. If Neubz and I were to press too hard, some money could be passed along to some police and legal officials and magically statements would be altered, accident photos would disappear, and - just like that - the accident would be our fault. The most important thing was obviously for Neubz to be able to leave the country when he wanted without being detained at the border, so I´m sure he slept soundly knowing that a Polish goon with suspect Spanish skills was serving as his legal counsel.

All things considered, things ended fairly well. The prosecutor decided that the other driver´s insurance would pay $3000 (the maximum) to Neubz to help with his medical bills, and the brisk wheels of justice would dole out a verdict in a mere six months. Never ye mind that the insurance company never paid a cent, but Neubz was able to leave Bolivia unmolested, and fortunately we had taken out travel insurance before we left. I believe that somewhere in the policy it said that when the insured party pays a $75 premium and the insurance company pays $14K (and counting), that qualifies in insurance jargon as the insurer ¨singing the blues¨.

As I referenced earlier, a solid portion of our time in Santa Cruz was spent avoiding The Colonel. While I was in San Ignacio preparing to represent Neubz, I wined and dined a number of employees at the Public Prosecutor´s office. This practice earned me an earful from the other driver´s attorney, but I didn´t view the legal system in Bolivia as being particularly virtuous, so I didn´t take his insults to heart.

One of the guys I took out to lunch was a man named Hugo. He was bald but had a majestic mustache, and he recommended that I contact a friend of his in the US Armed Forces that was currently residing in Santa Cruz. To keep myself from having my throat cut while I sleep, I will continue to refer to this man simply as The Colonel.

Within about ten minutes of me placing the call, The Colonel materialized in Neubz´s hospital room. He was around 45 years old, stood about 5'8¨, was of a medium build, and had a lazy eye that kept you on edge because you never knew where he was looking. He wasted no time intimidating the staff and assuring them that there would be repercussions if Neubz was harmed or stolen from. These threats, though they undoubtedly spooked out the nurses, did nothing to stop the sixty or so (no exaggeration) visits to the room every day by various members of the medical personnel. I´m sure that this absolute lack of privacy was sweet ambrosia to The Neubz, who could never sleep past 6AM and was routinely interrupted while trying to pee into a jug.

I arrived back in Santa Cruz after traversing the same choice roads that had taken us 10 hours from the city, and I had the good fortune of having my chain snap in half in the middle of a jungle stretch so rich in insects that I shouted out all sorts of rabid profanity into the 100 degree sky. I now have all the heavy tools and spare parts that were once shared between the two bikes in my metal boxes, so it was a true treat trying desperately to deadlift the beastly bike for 25 minutes from its side after I fixed the chain.

But I rolled into the hospital that night a sweaty mess to find a fairly content Neubz lounging in his bed, watching the WB, and throwing back a plate of food half populated by beets. Still in the habit of cheap accomodations, I found a place about ten blocks away for $4.50 where I could park my motorcycle in the carpeted lobby in front of the television that everyone was watching. Wondering why the area in front of my door smelled so strongly of perfume, I saw the door next to mine open and an attractive young girl in a shiny blue leotard and tall platform shoes emerge. My guess? She was heading off to work, and you don´t dress like that if you´re a computer programmer. My room itself did not smell like perfume, and this I ascribed to the floaters I discovered in the toilet. Neubz´s parents kindly insisted in the following days that I move to a better hotel, so I moved three more times before settling on the Hotel Asturia, a nice place just about two blocks from Neubz´s hospital - and a short block from the home of The Colonel.

My eyes met The Colonel´s the next morning in Neubz´s room...or at least one of them at a time. Neubz and I were both appreciative of his help and attention. He even brought food to supplement the often unpalatable hospital menu, though Neubz would later confess that the empañadas he dropped off tasted like sand, and he would routinely hide them in the drawer of his nightstand so The Colonel would think that he ate them.

The Colonel had served in both Iraq campaigns, Afghanistan, Mogadishu, Israel, Southeast Asia, Northern Africa, and Central America. Afghanistan he described as ¨a good place to let off steam¨. He probably did missions in other parts of the world that I am not remembering. But one thing was clear: he was intense. His wartime mentality was not something he could turn off at will, so our conversations somehow always centered around war and killing. I have no experience in either department, so as you can imagine, times spent at the bar were a true delight.

(After talking about war for three hours in a bar...I tried to change the subject to anything from his favorite foods to what happened to Chevy Chase)

The Colonel: ¨My first kill was with a knife. It was dark, and the enemy had stormed the trench - ¨

Me: ¨Boy, this Guinness is pretty tasty. What do you think of the beer down here?¨

The Colonel: ¨There was no room for guns, so it came down to who wanted it most. It was pretty grisly, and I remember that I couldn´t wash the blood off my hands for days.¨

Me: ¨How about that?¨

Approximately 50% of his sentences started with ¨If the shit hits the fan...¨, so you can probably guess that we didn´t spend a lot of time discussing Edgar Allen Poe or advances in technology. His eyes glowed when he talked about the possibility of civil war in Bolivia, and as he drank more beer, he assured me with more and more frequency, ¨Trust me. You don´t want to see a war here. Because the next time you see me I´m going to be in uniform, and things are going to get bad.¨ I couldn´t help but wonder if they had based Schwartzenegger´s character, John Matrix, in the film ¨Commando¨ off this guy.

In the event of a war, he comforted me a couple of days later:

The Colonel: ¨I´m not going to stand by and leave your buddy in the hospital. He´ll be on a night convoy out of the country. He´ll be safe, I promise you that. There are ways through the jungle. There are ways.¨

(Then pointing to Neubz´s second-story hospital window)

The Colonel: ¨Go ahead. Look out that window. What do you see?¨

Me: ¨Well, there´s a Spanish tile roof, and a bunch of palm - ¨

The Colonel: ¨I see an escape route. I´d have to blow a hole through the wall, sure. But that can be arranged. My question for you is this: Are you willing to do what it takes?¨

Me: ¨What it takes?¨

The Colonel: ¨I´d like you to stop by the house tomorrow. It would be best for you to familiarize yourself with some weaponry, the RPG (Rocket-Propelled Grenade Launcher). You´re going to need to defend the perimeter.¨

At that moment, I wrote him off as batshit insane. Neubz, it turns out, had done this days earlier. And from that point forward, I had to take alternate routes to avoid passing near his house, where through the open door to the garage, I´d sometimes see him sitting at a picnic table in his boxers, smoking. Or was he doing what he told me he was sent here to do, ¨gather intel¨? I don´t know, but my favorite restaurant in the city (¨Le Michaelangelo¨) was about 50 feet from his house, and I risked it every night by going there for dinner. It´s crazy what you´ll chance for delicious Italian food served by a man in an all-white suit that looks like a chubbier version of Ricardo Montalban.

Neubz made good progress in physical therapy, and his therapists always told me that he pushed himself too much. But he was hungry to get out of that bed, and the effort paid dividends. The last night before he left, he slithered into a wheelchair and I took him down the street to the Italian restaurant for a last supper. This meant going against traffic since the sidewalks were in poor shape and did not have ramps for wheelchairs, but dine we did, and at last I wasn´t the most sloppily dressed guy in the restaurant. That award went to the 3-weeks-without-shaving-but-still-no-visible-mustache Neubz, who was wearing a pair of shorts and an old school pajama top that looked like it had been heisted from the set of ¨Peter Pan¨.

On the morning of the 17th, we took a taxi to the airport, and Neubz ambled onto a plane back to the US. He had shelled out top dollar for a a first-class ticket, and he told me the ride was about as good as it could have been considering the circumstances. And just like that, I was in Bolivia Han Solo...

I had been itching to get out of Santa Cruz for a while, so I was less than pleased to discover my chain had some issues and needed to be replaced before I could leave. I´d say that if you haven´t sought out a part for a large Japanese motorcycle in a poor Latin American country that you haven´t lived, but I think that the experience can be sufficiently summarized in three words: ¨Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!¨ It took all day.

So the next day, I loaded up and headed south. In light of the accident, I changed the route to head into Argentina instead of east into Brazil in hopes that I would thus avoid the desolate, dirt roads that had given us problems in the past. The road was in good shape, and I made haste, making it to Argentina in just two days.

The border crossing was taxing as usual, and it turns out that my customs form for the bike was expired by five days. The guy working the booth suggested that I find a lawyer. And so began about three and a half hours of sob stories, threats to call the American Embassy, gifts of chocolate, and a photo session of the accident. Somehow they crumbled, papers were stamped, and Argentina was mine.

Crossing into Argentina was like leaving Latin America and entering Europe. Almost immediately the changes became evident. The architecture, people, and roads were more European. Some people were as white as me, and for the first time in a long time, I saw guys that were taller than me. In short, I didn´t stick out as bad anymore.

The country is more expensive, but everything feels a lot less like the 3rd world. The beef has lived up to its reputation as the best in the world, and a number of Argentinians have told me that ¨a meal without meat is not a meal at all¨. Good, too, is the wine, and I have been quite cosy with the bottle this week.

French cars are king here, so I suddenly found myself in a sea of Renaults, Peugeots, and Citroens. This is a contrast to Bolivia, where nearly everyone drove a small Toyota (or piled en masse into the beds of old pickups), and especially in relation to Peru, where there was a mix of Toyotas and an inexplicable assortment of monstrous 1970´s US sedans. Ford Galaxies, Chevy Novas, and Dodge Chargers roamed the streets. I don´t know how they footed the bill when gas was $5/gallon and those behemoths probably bring home a crisp 8 mpg, but if the ¨Dukes of Hazzard¨ franchise is per chance resurrected, more than one Peruvian will cash in on Hollywood´s decision.

Of particular popularity here is the Renault Express, a sort of barebones, small delivery pickup truck with a permanent cap over the bed. It almost brought a tear to my eye to see it, as that was the same car I bought in Barcelona four years ago that I drove/slept in across Europe all the way to Russia for six months with my friend Jon Rebholz (whose feet smelled worse that Neubz´s) and Andy Binder, the latter of whom slept in a hammock that dangled about 8 inches from my face at night. A shrewd businessman even then, we sold/traded the Renault to an engineer in Estonia for six warm beers. This time around, Neubz and I have expertly pawned away two motorcycles. The first was a lemon motorcycle off of EBay (before getting our current bikes) that we bought for $800 and turned around and sold for $50 to my friend, Nick LeRoy, for a tidy profit of... . The second was Neubz´s bike, which I am currently negotiating the sale of to a Bolivian cabbie via E-mail for $200. Like I say, shrewd business sense.

All in all, I have been in Argentina for six days. I spent one day travelling, three days in Tucumán with my friend Rafa, and two days in wine country, which is where I am now. In actuality, I never knew Rafa until this week. As it turns out, he worked for the same marketing company that I worked for in Chicago a few years back driving the same Hershey Kissmobile around the US.

He lived in Alaska for eight years, so his English is perfect, and he has introduced me to the Argentinian club culture. I hate clubs, but the women are so attractive here that gawking kinds of takes away some of the sting inflicted by the awful electronic music and maddening bass beats. Everybody stays out until at least five every night. At first I thought they were superhuman, but then I learned that people take a nap for a few hours before they go out, and unlike the US, people don´t really booze it up big time when they go out. People have a drink or two, but nobody that I saw pushed the envelope.

I am a horrible dancer, and it doesn´t help that the only clothes I have are a bunch of polyester or nylon outdoorsy shirts and pants. That, and the fact that the only footwear I have besides my dusty boots is a pair of hiking sandals that hold stench like a fart in a mason jar. But I don´t feel too bad since all the Argentinian guys wear tight pants, have shirts buttoned down to the sternum, and - most importantly - LOVE the Euromullet.

Rafa had to do some work this week, so I took off and currently am in the wine growing region in the northwest part of the country. I have toured enough wineries (and goat cheese farms) and tasted enough wine to keep me sated until I get to the better wineries in the south on the border with Chile. Unlike Napa or Sonoma Valley, there is no charge for tasting here, and top-notch bottles at the wineries range from $2-8. Unwisely I purchased three bottles and stashed them in what little room exists in the ammo cans on the bikes. Nevertheless, it feels good to know that if I need to lighten the load that I can drink the cargo, which is more than I can say for the torque wrench or air filter cleaner.

From here I am heading back to Tucumán to meet up with Rafa before heading south to Cordoba (where Che Guevara spent a good portion of his childhood) to whoop it up with what will probably be one of the few groups of people celebrating Halloween in South America. My costume: an Argentinian...so I am on the prowl for hair extensions and tight jeans. After that we´ll be heading to Buenos Aires and then I will be flailing south by myself to do a lot of hiking and hopefully find a boat to Antarctica.

- Tom

PS: Neubz is back in the US. I don´t know his cell phone number off hand, but the number for the house is 414-427-6461. Give the young lad a call. He´s on the mend, but still can´t walk and ¨The Gilmore Girls¨ is only on once a day back in the States. He needs to pass the other 23 hours somehow.

The End of the Road For Neubz

2006-10-02T15:24:00.000-06:00

The following is transcribed from the pen of Neubz...

Hello, all.

As some of you may have heard, Tom and I have hit a little hitch in our travels. Although generally this is not the type of material that I feel is appropriate for casual Internet dissemination, I plan on recounting the story in its entirety here, primarily so that I can let this episode begin to fade into the past and not be forced to reface these memories every few days when I see you all in person.

That being said, the short story is this: I´ve been in a bad motorcycle crash in Bolivia. My left leg is badly broken and I´ve had three surgeries thus far to put it back together. I am laid up in a hospital in the city of Santa Cruz and it looks like I will be stuck here until I can bend my leg in such a way that will allow it to be fit onto a commercial airliner.

For those of you that want the full gory story, read on. But you´ve been warned...

Last week found Tom and I continuing to head east across Bolivia. We were finally descending out of the Andes for good, and the last stretch of mountainous roads were made all the more hazardous by stretches of pavement washed out by mountain rockslides. While I was crossing one such stretch, my bike an extraordinarily large bump in the pavement. Cruising at around 45 mph, suddenly my fuel tank was stuck up in my chest and my seat fell away behind me. I stood up on the foot pegs and let the bike coast to a stop. What happened was that two of the crucial bolts that holds the subframe of the bike together had sheared off from the constant jarring of the heavy load. Tom and I had even anticipated this, and before the trip had replaced the stock bolts with hardened ones. It was clearly not successful.

What followed was actually an amusing story. We spent several hours trying to flag down a truck to transport the bike, and when darkness came we were forced to negotiate lodging in the little indigenous village near our spot. When a powerful thunderstorm hit that night, Tom and I found ourselves both crammed into a three-foot wide couch (no exaggeration) hiding from the waves of rain that were blowing in where there should have been walls. The next day we managed to put the bike together with our spare parts, and upon reaching the city of Santa Cruz, we hired some machinists to drill out the existing 8mm holes and thread them for some hefty 10mm bolts. And onward we went.

We soon found ourselves in the Bolivian boondocks, heading east to Brazila along some semi-paved and then eventually dirt roads. The weather was hot again now that we were out of the mountains and into the thick, and the bugs were out in force. There was plenty of dirt in the air, and this day I was riding behind Tom, and my face showed it.

After crossing through the town of San Ignacio, we headed out into what seemed to be a particularly remote stretch. There were few cars anywhere. At one point we saw and SUV heading toward us in the oncoming lane, kicking up clouds of red dust. We both moved to the right side of the lane and Tom roared past. I followed about 100 yards or so behind going around 40-45. As I was passing SUV #1, I looked up ahead through the dust and saw not more than 20 feet ahead of me another SUV heading towards me in my lane. My only thought: Oh, no.

Suddenly I had the sensation of flying through the air: feet above head, head above feet, and then repeats itself all over again. I finally fell to the Earth on my left side, my helmet and Kevlar armored jacket easily took the brunt of the fall. I wiggled my head, my hands, and my feet. Thank God they all responded. I rolled myself over with my left arm. Although sore, it was working with me. My left leg, well that´s another story.

I saw the wheels of Tom´s bike roll past my view. He got off, shouted a few choice words at the other driver, and came over to check me out. I told him I thought my left leg was broken, and that he was going to have to cut my motorcycle pants off to examine the situation. Motorcycle pants are not made to cut easily but when he finally knifed his way through them, Tom informed me that I had a compound fracture in my lower leg - the broken bone was protruding through the skin. I asked him to clean the wound, and as he went to work with the iodine I was rewarded with the most intense shot of pain I have ever experienced.

About 1/2 hour after the crash, a medic arrived from a neighboring town. He found me laying with a sun cap over my face trying to hide from both the sun and the merciless swarms of bugs. He tourniquetted the leg with a rubber cord and gave me a much appreciated jab of morphine. An ambulance arrived from San Ignacio about 1 1/2 hours after the accident. I had to drag my broken leg onto their stretcher, and enjoyed an hour-long tour of every pothole on the way to the hospital.

The hospital at San Ignacio is not exactly an ¨ER¨-style emergency treatment facility. As I was wheeled in I was sweating profusely and gasping for breath. Someone finally stuck an oxygen source in my nose. The wound continued to bleed. They wanted to take extensive X-rays, so they wheeled me to appropraite room. I had to climb from the gurney to the table, a horribly painful experience when dragging a shattered leg behind you. Once on the table, I looked down at the floor and saw a pool of my own blood. The gurney had the same decoration. The downfall of the X-ray machine was that it did not move. They wanted to take head to toe X-rays, and for each one I had to slide myself down the table. This was made easier by the pool of blead and sweat that was beginning to collect on the table. Just when I thought I was done, the X-ray tech would wrench my leg into a previously untried angle, and the pain would set new records.

I was wheeled back into a different room. My hands were ghostly white and wrinkled from all the sweat. They took my blood pressure - 80 over 60. ¨I think I need blood.¨ ¨There is no blood.¨ My God, am I going to bleed to death here? Finally they tell me that they have to operate, that I have a severed artery in my leg. They wheel me to the OR and have me climb onto the table. There is no general anesthesia. ¨Here, sit up.¨ I feel a needle begin to probe for my spinal cord, but all the remaining blood rushes out of my head and I pass out...

I feel a slap and come to a few seconds later. Where am I? Who are all these people in masks? Then it comes rushing back to me: Ah, I´m back in this hell. They tell me to lay down. I do as instructed and pass out again.

I come to and my leg is wrapped in a soft cast. Surgery #1 stopped much of the bleeding. However, I am informed that it could get worse at any time. Tom drives to the dirt airfield to find a plane. It´s either an 10-hour drive or a one-hour flight to Santa Cruz. Tom finds what he later tells me is a 1978 Beachcraft Bonanza with a bearded pilot named Juan Pablo. Tom, a young doctor, and I pile into the rickety craft along with the pilot. Even fitting the four of us is a stretch. Soon I am being wheeled into a big hospital in Santa Cruz. For the past day I´d been wondering why my rear has been hurting so much. I guess that it is because I have been strapped to a wooden board for much of the past couple days. However, after consulting with the surgeon he found, Tom comes in to deliver the good news. In addition to the three breaks in my lower leg, my hip is severely broken as well. We schedule two surgeries over the next two days: #2 will repair the lower leg and #3 the hip. My leg will be a hodgepodge of pins, plates, and screws.

It is now two days since the surgeries have been completed. I haven´t moved from the bed, nor am I planning on it anytime soon. The surgeon characterized the damage to my hip as ¨massive trauma¨. My parents and I are looking at ways to get me home and have my leg looked at by a specialist in the US. This may involve trying to get a first-class seat or something where I don´t have to completely bend my leg. We´re not sure and that´s at least a couple of weeks off. Aside from that, I have international travel insurance which will pick up the medical costs, and Tom and I have been the recipient of numerous visits from a Colonel in the U.S. Special Forces who has assured our safety if the Bolivian political situation continues to deteriorate towards civil war.

As for me, I am in good spirits, although bored and anxious to get home and learn to walk again. It is easy to reach me by phone in the hospital, so if anyone wants to call I would greatly appreciate hearing a voice or two from home. A great thanks to those of you that have called already. It has meant a lot to me.

Tom has the number here and has said that he will list it. Just ask for the gringo in room 212. They know. This will be the last update from me, so don´t take any further silence from me as an indication that I have died. I also do not have Internet access from my bed, so the only way to reach me is by phone or through Tom. Also, my parents´ E-mail address is jpneubs@gmail.com. Thanks to those who have followed along and I´ll see you soon.

- Nate

Note from the scribe...

Hello, readers. Alas, we have come to an unfortunate end here in South America. We made it over 11,000 miles over roads of continually deteriorating quality. In all of our preparations, we never concocted a contingency plan for a short guy with a mustache that thought it would be a good idea to pass another truck on a narrow, dusty dirt road when he couldn´t see well enough to do so. It has been a hellish week, and there was a point at which I thought I might lose the Neubz...the point at which there was an impossible amount of blood in X-ray rooms, ambulance floors, my hands and clothes, and the only the blood available in a jungle town to replace it and lift his sagging blood pressure was my own slow-roasted Polish blend. But the Neubz is a truly tough and resillient cat. I don´t think that I can think of anyone that would have faced a terrible situation like this as calmly as he did, and I respect him greatly for it. Even with a bone jutting through his flesh as he lay on a dusty road with no one else in sight, he was cool-headed, logical, and resourceful.

I don´t think that I´ll ever forget the sound that he made when I cleaned his wound with iodine, but if he could somehow recreate it in a recording studio, I think that the makers of A-1 Bold BBQ sauce would be very interested in it for a commercial of some kind. It went a little something like this: ¨Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!! Don´t do THAT again!¨

Many of you have asked if there is something you can do to help. I don´t think anyone will be hopping on a plane to deliver a singing telegram, but I do have a few suggestions:

1.) Give him a call. He lays in a room coffin-style watching Telemundo and the Spanish version of ¨Mortal Kombat¨ most of the time. Any words of encouragement would be helpful. The telephone number (assuming that you are calling from the US) is 001-591-3-336-2211, 591 being the country code for Bolivia and 3 being the area code for Santa Cruz. The person that answers will speak Spanish, but all you have to do is keep saying Neuberger and gringo. They´ll figure it out. And he is in room 212, or dos see-yen-to dough-say.

It may well be expensive to call normally from the US. I recommend pooling together with other people for a calling card. Nobel.com is the website I have always used for calling other countries. You´ll get the access number and code via E-mail so you can share with others. For 20 bucks you get over 4 hours to Bolivia. They also have one for 10 and possibly for five. Let me know if you have questions.

2.) Send him a piece of mail...even a poster of Siegfried and Roy for his blank walls. His address is:

Centro Medico Foianini

Señor Nathan Neuberger

Cuarto 212

Calle Chuquisaca 737

Santa Cruz, Bolivia 5872

3.) I will be printing out posts on the Steerage Class Forum section of the www.themanifestdestiny.org website, so you can put your well wishes there and I will deliver them to the hospital.

As for me, I am staying at a hotel about three blocks from the hospital and playing food delivery man. I´ll be here until Neubz is safe and on a plane, and then will be continuing solo towards the southern tip of the continent on the one remaining motorcycle, Aqua Sips. I will not be going to Brazil or Paraguay so as to avoid some of the dirt roads. Updates will resume in my saddened Neubz-less adventure at that time.

Thank you all for any moral support you can lend to my gimpy comrade while he is down and out.

- Tom

Dyn-O-Mite!

2006-09-22T15:20:00.000-06:00

Greetings, dear readers. I have started a pattern that I do not expect to break anytime soon, and that is to compose my updates solely from cities with fun-to-pronouce names. In this case, that means that Señor Neubz and I are tucked away in the hopping hamlet of Cochabamba, Bolivia. Its people, like my friend Brad Huebner, have a deep appreciation for whitewashed jeans, and they, too, send their regards.

I am going to make it known in advance that this E-mail will be peppered with superlatives. Understand that this is simply because this past week has been one of those rarest of runs that reeks of rich experiences laid back to back to back.

Bolivia has surpassed my lofty expectations and has earned its place as my favorite country of the trip. This was not difficult. I knew before I crossed the border that the new Bolivian President, Evo Morales, wears a sash whenever he is in public (and most likely while he sleeps). I love civil pageantry, so admittedly Bolivia had a leg up. I also appreciate a politician with a good sense of humor. On a recent trip a month or so ago, our esteemed Secretary of State Doctor Condeleeza Rice paid a visit to President Morales in an effort to get him to limit his country´s production of coca leaves - the base element in cocaine. Bolivia is one of the world´s leading producers of coca, as it has been used in its benign natural form by the indigenous people in this area for over a thousand years for its myriad benefits in both tea and in herbal medicine. As Morales was previously a coca farmer, he probably had little intention of doing anything at all to curb the growing of coca. At the end of the meeting, he presented Rice with a guitar decorated with a coca leaf inlay. Rice, not knowing what coca leaves actually looked like, accepted the guitar and smiled for pictures with Morales amidst laughter by the Bolivians in attendance. Only back in the US did she realize that it was a shenanigan. I can´t say that I agree with his choice of enemies, but that´s pretty funny.

When Neubz last wrote, we had just left a prison in La Paz. What he failed to report in his E-mail is that he accidentally left our pass from the Director of Prisons in an inmate´s cell, so we were temporarily trapped between the prisoners (and their cosmopolitan suggestions as to what we should do with ourselves) and the iron faced guards, who would not let us leave without it. Thankfully our prisoner/guide retrieved it and we were on our way.

Since Neubz´s time is limited, we are striving to hit as much as is humanly possible before he heads home to begin his life behind a desk. One item on our collective wishlist was to dip into the Amazonian rainforest, and that is what we originally set off from La Paz to accomplish. About four hours from La Paz, it became clear that this was not going to happen. We´ve been fairly lucky with the quality of roads we´ve traversed on the whole on this trip, but here that luck collapsed.

The road that exits the Bolivian capital to the northeast is regarded as ¨The World´s Most Dangerous Road¨, and thus is concurrently touted as a tourist attraction. If one is so inclined, a mountain bike can be rented in La Paz on the cheap and you can join a guided group in riding the 25 or so miles down one of the steepest roads in the world, praying all the while that your brakes hold out as you zip through the fog around sharp switchbacks. While this was not our reason for being there, we had no choice but to take that road, and in doing so simply cut our engines and coasted at around 55mph past herds of petrified bikers who probably did not appreciate Neubz and I honking our $3 bicycle horns and hooting at them.

It didn´t take a seasoned environmentalist to realize that we had arrived in the rainforest about 20 miles later. Here the asphalt and the two-lane system both stopped, and the mud and the spirited driving began. I use the term ¨spirited driving¨ not to describe our speed. That hovered at around 20mph. Rather, I refer to the conduct of the other savvy personnel on the roadway. Typical passenger traffic was, for the most part, no longer part of the game. All that remained were buses, dump trucks, and cargo vehicles. All three varieties had little interest in our presence, and treated our meager attempts at advancement with disdain.

To augment their glaring absence of a second lane, the Bolivians had strategically positioned a series of top-notch state employees (mostly children) at various curves along the road, each armed with what appeared to be a snowshoe covered with red fabric on one side and green on the other. From their omniscient posts, they employed the mock snowshoe (usually by waving it wildly) to signal approaching traffic whether or not there was a large diesel delivery truck making haste towards the curve in the opposite direction. If that was the case, the truck ordained by the child to lay in wait would seek refuge on one of the few legitimate pull-offs to await his turn to proceed. Even these legitimate pull-offs lacked a railing, and moreover, were perched precipitously above a significant fall into the land of bad dreams.

This would have been difficult enough had the roads been in good stead, but they most certainly were not. A persistent drizzle (perhaps a factor in the rainforest gaining its namesake?) and then downpour littered the dirt road with puddles - some deep, some not - and woe to he that attempted to pilot his two-wheeled gadget along their crests, for unto him was delivered a warranted descent into chaos. More than once did Neubz and I nearly brakedance over the edge in our efforts to correct and then overcorrect our mistakes. Between the slippery tracks and the merciless advance of the cargo trucks that did not wait for us to find the shoulder, our morale was shaken. And when we realized that the distance of the round trip was more significant than the map indicated on account of the many curves (a lip smacking total of approximately 600 miles, the equivalent of driving through a jungle from Milwaukee to Nashville, Tennessee...or for the Coasties, from New York City to Winston-Salem, North Carolina...and, again, at an average of 20mph), we wisely counted our blessings and headed back to La Paz.

In lieu of our rainforest adventure, we set our course south by southeast for Salaar de Uyuni, the largest salt lake in the world. We did not know what to expect, but had read and heard good things, so we thought that it would make a fine second fiddle. The road there was uneventful for the first half of the trip, save for a small discovery. As it so happens, amongst the many coups that have shaken this country over the last half-century, Bolivia was apparently ruled for a very brief period by a group of kindergarten students from rural Iowa in the early ´60s. The youngsters accomplished little before they were ousted, but their achievements last to this day. Their sole goal was giggles and snickering. Their major work, obviously, was the renaming of the world´s largest mountain lake to Lake Titticacca. But they didn´t stop there. The second largest lake in the country they named Lake Poopo (look it up). On its eastern shores you will find the town of Poopo, and southwest you will find - perhaps in anticipation of Neubz´s rank feet - the small town of Aroma.

It was not far past Poopo that we holed up for the night in a little nugget called Challapata. In keeping with tradition, we chose another town that lacked that was wanting for electricity. After wandering around the town´s unpaved streets in search of a restaurant, we came upon a tired structure and ordered by lamplight. Under normal circumstances, the arrival of two tourists would have been the most exciting event in the past 30 years, but when there was no electricity, it was colossal. Neubz admirably went outside to play circus performer to the fifteen or so children that had gathered around the bikes. I sat inside and sipped my tasteless broth. But within a half hour the children turned ugly and started to ask for money. They didn´t know the English word for ¨money¨, so I told them that it was ¨scratch¨ and that Neubz was Señor Rico. As I drove away, Neubz was encircled by a phalanx of youngsters calling out for ¨Scratch! Scratch! Scratch!¨ And so continued yet another underlying tradition of the trip: throwing the other guy under the bus whenever possible.

For the latter half of the journey south, we passed through a desert terrain dotted with wild bushes that resembled the hair on those Troll pen-toppers from days of yore. It was a Martian landscape accented with interleaving bodies of swirling red and yellow dust, and it was in this kaleidoscope of color that we began to wage war with the Kryptonite of motorcycles everywhere.

Under no other circumstances does the exclamation of the word ¨Sand!!!¨ elicit such terror in the heart of man, much as the bellowing of ¨Berg!¨ did from the crow´s nest of the Titanic did a century ago. Or to put it in more modern and tangible terms for you, the aristocratic reader, it is similar to the alarm experienced when you look down and shout ¨Fire!¨ upon seeing that the sleeve of your chartreuse smoking jacket has caught alight, and you curse yourself for splurging on that giant pewter candleabra at Liberace´s estate sale...and even more so for placing it so perilously close to your favorite reading chair.

As you sight the sand, there is little you can do but to cut the throttle, hold the clutch, batten down the hatches, and ride out the storm. There were times when we would be cruising at fifty, crest a hill, and spot thick sand lining the descent. These were times when verbal reactions ranged from the profane (¨#%!!&¬¬$¨) to the obscure (¨Polynesian Appetite!¨), but always resulted in miraculous recoveries. Whatever of our nine lives remained from the jungle, we expended in the sand.

The other hallmark of the road south was wildlife. If my mom and I have one thing in common, it is that we find llamas to be the funniest animals on Earth. From there we start to diverge; she, for example, likes to eat chalk. For those of you that disagree with my claim, I challenge you to hold your composure for 20 seconds under the weight of a llama´s sly smile. Whatever your stance, this was Llama Row. I have never in my life felt more like I was absolutely in the middle of nowhere as I did upon that sandy road, but if we did perchance feast our eyes upon the countenance of the living, it was usually the craned neck of the llama.

From what I can gather, llamas engage in but four activities: nibbling, taking tasty sips, keeping it real, and scheming, though the last activity is seldom undertaken except under the guise of one of the other three. The llama herders down here are typically old indigenous women. They realized - and quite correctly, I might add - that it would be a tall order to brand a llama, so they have taken to marking llamas in their herds by tying foofy pink pieces of yarn in distinct patterns around each llama´s ear. I am sure that the male llamas are by now aware of this unjust mockery. Once they have adequately schemed, I foresee a comeuppance for many an old woman when these goofy creatures come together in an ¨Animal Farm¨-style mutiny.

At last we arrived at the salt lake at Salaar de Uyuni, and I can say without reservation (again the superlatives) that it was the most bizarre place that I have ever been in my life. It defies a worthy explanation, though I will attempt to post some pics. It differed chiefly from all other lakes that I have visited in one way: you could drive on it. I´m no limnologist, but I do not understand how so much salt could form on the surface of a lake. Alas, I forgot to pack my auger for this trip, but I would estimate that the salt was anywhere from one to three feet thick at any given point, based upon the disconcerting holes that I saw periodically as we raced across it. How strong is salt? Well, I saw a coach bus drive on the lake at one point, so I´m guessing that it´s pretty serious. It was truly surreal. We drove about fifty miles in, and I was thankful for my sunglasses. The salt was as blindingly white as my upper thigh, and it flowed out identically in all directions for what seemed like forever.

Again, I don´t understand how so much salt crystallized, but in doing so it developed a set of geometrical lattices across the sheer white surface of the lake similar to what you could look down and see in the pattern on the surface of your skin. In this way, I felt like I was speeding across the chest of a giant Albino. Now, when you´re driving across a giant Albino´s chest you need proper musical accompaniment. Those of you familiar with the voluminous works of the late Ray Charles probably know ¨One Mint Julep¨. If you don´t, I suggest that you go to pandora.com and look it up, as this is salt lake racing music.

Making the whole experience even more outlandish, we stopped at two increasingly peculiar places on the lake. As with everything in life, there is always one overly passionate person that is not content with merely appreciating something that they enjoy in life, and this is the person that decides to take it to the next level. Anyone who has ever been to the Mustard Museum in Mount Horeb, Wisconsin, knows what I´m talking about. In this case, someone decided to build an entire hotel out of salt. By cutting segments out of the lake, he or she built quite a grandiose structure, complete with salt tables, salt chairs, and assuredly plush salt mattresses for the beds.

The second place was the Isle of Incahuani. The island was relatively small - perhaps 1/2 mile by 1 mile and rising about 200 feet out of the lake. But it supported life, and a slew of cacti as tall as 35 feet slithered up out of its soil. According to a Bolivian tour guide that I met on the lake (and who secretly shared his llama meat with us meant for his Israeli clients), the story goes a little something like this: In the 1500´s, silver was discovered a few hours away in Potosí. Not wanting to be forced by the Spaniards into working the mines, a few of the Incas around the area banded together, rounded up some food and some cactus seeds, and fled to the island, where they lived off of the water from the cacti and ate the cactus ¨meat¨.

Potosí was in fact our next destination. Perched amongst the mountains at over 4100 meters above sea level, Potosí is the highest city in the world, with a history that ranks among the world´s most tragic. The only reason that a city this high was founded in the first place was that in 1545 rumors of a silver deposit were swirling around the area - rumors that proved true. And so began the mining of the richest source of silver that the world had ever seen.

The Spaniards couldn´t be troubled with working the mines themselves, so naturally they turned to the indigenous tribes around the area. When they started dying in waves during forced 48 hours shifts in horrible conditions under which - among many others - the workers had to sleep underground between shifts, were fed minimally if at all, and if brought to the surface had their eyes bandaged since they couldn´t tolerate the light. When the indigenous fodder started to wear thin (¨What´s that? You accept Jesus Christ as your Personal Savior and renounce your pagan gods? Well, get back in that mine anyway!¨), the benevolent Spaniards brought in African slaves by the boat load. Within a hundred years, Potosí´s population had mushroomed to over 160,000, making it more populous than even contemporary Madrid. Conservative estimates put the number of slaves that died working the mines somewhere in the vicinity of nine million. Adjusted for population inflation, that would put any of the colonial Spaniards in the running against Uncle Joe Stalin for the title of ¨Most Murderous Rat Bastard In the History of the World¨. I can´t help but hope that they´re all burning in hell as I write this. How much silver did they pull out of Cerro Rico in Potosí? The common Spanish boast at the time was ¨enough to build a silver bridge from Potosí to Spain and still have silver to carry across it¨. The mineral wealth from Bolivia floated the Spanish Empire for more than two centuries.

When we rolled into Potosí our main goal was to somehow take a tour of the mines. Even now, almost five centuries later, the people of Potosí are still working the mines (and they still only last an average of 15-20 years in there before they succumb to silicosis), though its stocks are understandably now wearing about as thin as Neubz´s mustache. We found a guide in a 30 year-old named Willy, who had himself actually worked in the mines for seven years (from the ripe age of 12 to 19). I won´t get into the details of how we found him, but suffice it to say that it was an accident resulting from the fact that we are idiots who either consistently receive faulty advice or simply fail to understand it correctly.

In any case, it was a stroke of luck, as Willy was one of only seven guides in the town who had previously worked in the mountain - and he spoke great English on top of it. We set out in the morning for the mines, donned our ill-fitting mining gear, and stopped by the miner´s market for some gifts for the poor saps working underground whose work we would be interrupting by traipsing around in there. We spent all of about $2.50 on a large sack full of goodies (a massive amount of coca leaves, small bottles of 98% alcohol, unfiltered cigarettes, soft drinks). We were about to get back in the cab when Willy stopped me and pointed to a lady with a makeshift booth about ten feet away (right next to the guy selling alligator heads).

Willy: (in English) ¨One more thing¨.
Me: ¨What?¨
Willy: ¨Dinimita.¨
Me: ¨What?¨
Willy: ¨Dinimita.¨
Me: ¨Dynamite!?¨
Willy: ¨Yes. Do you want some?¨
Me: ¨How much is it?¨
Willy: ¨10 Bolivianos ($1.25). We can make it blow.¨

Dynamite in hand, we made our way to the entrance to the mine. I´d say the average Bolivian male is around 5´6¨, the average Bolivian miner shorter still. When they carved out the narrow passageways through the dark, their primary concern was not the ease with which foreign visitors could stroll the corridors, so Neubz and I were forced to saunter through like a couple of Quasimotos. It became immediately obvious that this tour would not fly in the US. We had signed no waivers, yet we started to descend and ascend rickety homemade ladders that lacked both rungs and sufficient nails (and in one case, half a supporting leg) as we made our way deeper and deeper into the mines, stopping only to pin ourselves against the walls as a couple of boys in their early teens bound for daylight would roll by pushing a mine car loaded down with 2000 pounds of raw minerals. From time to time we would come upon miners working in the darkness at the end of a hall by the dim light of their headlamps. We shared some of our coca and alcohol with them, got to hear what they thought of the mines, and watched them work with tools more primitive than hammers (one older guy was tapping away with a metal tent stake). It was absolutely fascinating. I could write more about the statue of the Devil that they built and offered gifts to every time they entered the mine to guarantee their safety (they called him ¨Tío, a mixture of Spanish for ¨uncle¨ and Quechua for ¨my good friend¨) while they were in his territory underground taking his minerals, but this E-mail is getting long and I have to run. But, yes, we set off the dynamite. And, yes, it was loud.

So now we are in Cochabamba, set in the heart of Bolivia´s agricultural region. We made our way here yesterday while weaving through a couple of miles worth of backed-up semis whose progress was impeded by a oil tanker train car that had been wheeled across the road and adorned with a giant Bolivian flag. Apparently some of the other political parties are not a fan of the new Constitution that Morales and his circle are penning. But we squeaked through, and now will head east to Brazil.

- Tom

Manifest - 9/22/06

What could possibly go wrong in a Bolivian prison?

2006-09-15T15:18:00.000-06:00

Hello all from La Paz, Bolivia! This is quite possibly my favorite city that we have stopped in on this trip. But more on that later...

Tom last wrote in Ollyantombo (yeah I don´t know how to spell it) in Peru. We were stuck in that town for a couple days, having fallen victim to the tourist trap that is Machu Picchu. Tour buses from all over the region converge on the city and dump load upon load of foreign tourists upon the Peruvian version of Disneyland. Led by local tour guides who wave flags to keep their herds separate, these camera-toting and suncap-clad visitors sack the town in search of the perfect wall hanging or painting to show that they had in fact been to Peru. This city is a bottleneck; the only way to get to Machu Picchu is to take the one train that runs out of the city. Tom and I felt that it would be shame to be in Peru and not see MP, so we bought our train tickets and settled in for the fiscal raping. The train ride to MP takes about an hour and half. It costs over $50 a man. By comparison, you can take a bus 1000 miles from Santiago, Chile to Buenos Aires, Argentina for less money. Once off the train, you must buy a bus ticket for the 20 minute ride to the site: $12. The coup de grace is the admission itself: $40 for us lucky foreigners. Although MP is undeniably an interesting place, it probably says something that the best part of the day was watching a Japanese woman get thrown from a llama as she tried to mount it for a photo.

After MP, we cruised back through Cuzco for a quick lunch with some priests at a monastery / youth mission. From there we headed to the Bolivian border. The route ran along the southern shores of Lake Titicaca. I had first heard of Lake Titicaca in 4th grade music class amidst the chuckles of my fellow male classmates. They can´t be serious with a name like that? But they are, and the highest navigable lake in the world is a site to see. The blueness of the waters makes the oceans take a step back. Its shoreline is filled with indigenous people digging irrigation trenches for crops or building brown adobe houses. At times you can barely see the mountains on the far side of the lake that are the welcoming wave from Bolivia. Furthermore, the inspiration for the Barry Manilow song "Copacabana" apparently is located somewhere around these parts, although thus far it has eluded us.

As we had hoped, the border crossing was extremely relaxed. Gone were the throngs of young men vying for a chance to do our paperwork. The border officials didn´t want our money, but only to fill out some forms and send us on our way. I chatted with the border police and shared a bag of peanuts with them while Tom went through the border formalities. Once in Bolivia, we found ourselves back in the land of the high sierra. The road to La Paz is overlooked to the north by the spine of the Cordillera Real, a mountain range that boasts at least ten white-capped peaks over 6000 meters. Black and white cows graze the amber grass, and the houses are painted with signs calling for ´Morales - Presidente´ in support of the recently elected Evo Morales, the first indigenous leader in South America.

Between its setting at 14,000 feet, the constant trudging up mountain city streets, and the diesel clogged byways, La Paz literally takes your breath away. This sprawling city is a mass of energy, where there is constantly a shop to look in, a minibus to dodge, or cheap restaurant to take advantage of. Prices have continually dropped the farther we get from Cuzco. Our first night in the city, Tom and I had a dinner with three entrees and a couple cokes for $2. Two-thirds of a liter of beer costs a buck (although the beer, like in the rest of Latin America, generally sucks). And for those of you with money to burn, you can acquire a nicely mummified cow fetus at the witch´s market for about $10. After almost sliding backwards down a mountain road into traffic on our KLRs, Tom and I found a nice hotel with hot water for about $15 a night. The staff has been very friendly, although they were taken aback by the stench that has resurfaced in my socks in recent days. After two nights airing out in the hallway, my socks mysteriously disappeared on the third day. Tom went in search of them, the owner of the establishment knew quite well of my stinky socks. A housekeeper eventually produced the beasts from beneath a kitchen sink, wrapped in a plastic bag to quarantine the disease. ¨Tell your friend his socks are quite rich,¨she said as she tossed the bag to Tom. Sorry. Its mold. What can I do?

La Paz has no shortage of churches and museums to go and see. However, Tom and I had heard that it was possible to tour the prison of San Pedro, so that is what we first set off to do. The prison is downtown and within walking distance of our hotel. We strolled over and covertly asked a couple guards if it was possible to get in to see the place. They said they doubted it, but directed us to go see the head of the prison, Colonel Guzman. We found the steel door that contained Guzman, and after 15 minutes and several requests he finally produced himself. Dressed in his prison uniform, Guzman politely told us that this was a secure facility and that the public was not allowed. He asked if we had a friend inside. I wondered if my elementary school friend Carl was still locked away in that Bolivan prison, but I couldn´t remember, so we told Guzman that we just wanted to see the building. He was a really nice guy, so he told us that if we wanted to get in we would have to get a memorandum of ingress from the national director of prisons. He probably thought that this would dissuade us from trying anything further. So we asked directions...

The national director was one Dr. Garcia Llamas. At the government building that held his office we traded our passports for red access badges, and asked to see Dr. Lorenzo Llamas. We knew the name was incorrect, but we couldn´t stop giggling when we asked to see Lorenzo Llamas, the beautiful pony-tailed star of the hit 80´s action series Renegade. After a few false starts, we were finally told by Llamas´ secretary that the Doctor was sleeping (either sleeping or busy - she talked really fast so I´m not sure), but she directed us to a different official who could help. At this point we decided that a back story would be helpful. Instead of being just some random motorcycle adventurer, I became law professor who studies penal systems throughout the world. Tom became a medical sociologist (whatever that is), but later switched to a law professor who volunteers at medical clinics when that became easier to explain. We were told by this official that we could not get into San Pedro; that it was too secure. We then asked if there were other prisons we could get into, because Bolivian prisons were the linchpin to my scholarly research. She listed some other facilities and told us to write a letter to the top dog explaining what we were studying. We asked what prison this would get us into. ¨San Pedro,¨ she replied. Confused? Yes. But we didn´t ask questions.

Using our elementary Spanish we scratched out a request to the national prison director, and were rewarded with a letter from him the next day granting us access. We arrived at San Pedro at the designated time, gave the guards the letter, were searched, and were let in through the gate. Now this was not your ordinary ¨Hey come check out my cell¨ kind of prison. There are no cells. There are just 1500 inmates milling around in a kind of complex reminiscent of a low-budget version of Melrose Place. All the guards stay on the outside during the day. As the gate slammed behind us, we were swarmed by a bunch of residents. Not really sure what to do, we asked if there was anyone who spoke English. One guy ran off. Another in black warm up pants and gelled hair told me to be careful in here; accidents happen. He then produced a homemade knife, expertly flipped it in the air, and casually slid it back into his pocket. Our requests for an English speaker were rewarded when a red-headed Spaniard introduced himself. He knew about enough English to explain to us that he was in prison for another 20 years for narco-trafficking, told us it sucked being the only white guy, and asked me for some cash. Finally we found a real English speaker who had been in the US for eight years. He took us on a tour of the place, all the while being followed by a small posse of thugs. He explained that those guys were going to accost him in his room after we left and demand the money they assumed we were paying him.

Inmates at the prison have to pay rent. Depending on how much they can afford, they can either get a private room with a private bath (rare) or a closet-sized room to be shared with two other guys. If they couldn´t afford rent from outside sources, then they worked twelve hours a day for the other prisoners doing laundry or making juice. Most prisoners get help from outside; the state only contributed 50 cents per prisoner per day for expenses, plus the costs of electricity and water. Everything else that happens in the prison comes from outside resources, or from working the internal economic system. For example, the biggest drug lord in Bolivia recently spent two years in San Pedro. Since he had boat loads of cash, he built himself a third level onto the prison structure just for himself and lived the good life until he was transferred. Money is everything, and if you have none you´re screwed. The guy who who showed us around was very helpful. We paid him with $15, a Twix bar, and a pack of cigarettes. He paid off the gang of thugs with half the money, and escorted us to the exit. It was a very strange experience.

Sadly, our little adventure will be parting ways with La Paz tomorrow. It looks like Tom will be back. Tom´s plan for after I leave is to volunteer at a hospital down here for the next eight months until he returns to the States next summer to pursue a medical degree. While in La Paz he visited several hospitals and seems to have found some positions that may work out. Just like gaining access to the prison, it took a little stretching of the truth ("I think I may have accidently told them I was a first-year medical student. Ahh, what do you learn in the first year of med school anyway?"), but it looks like he´ll return here in a few months, either to assist in surgeries or to scrub toilets. He´s not quite sure which yet.

For those of you concerned about the bikes, they are running pretty well. I get my second flat tire a couple weeks ago courtesy of a three-inch nail. Tom´s bike has been slowly losing oil recently, although I think we finally found the source of the leak and (hopefully) clogged it up with a liberal application of gasket sealant (and in the process virtually destroying the white garbage can from our hoptel room: grease and white plastic do not make good bedfellows). The KLRs have handled the thin air of high altitude quite well, although sometimes when ascending a steep mountain they seem to have the pòwer of a moped. But they´ve made it 8,000 miles, and I think making it to Tierra del Fuego is well within their grasp. Tomorrow we will be heading into the Amazon basin rain forest to the city of Rurrenabaque for a few days, and then southeast to the colonial mining (and virtual Indian slavery center) at Potosi. We will be challenged with sub-par fuel, tires that are running our of tread, and a reappearance of malaria-toting mosquitoes. So long for now.

Nate

Pictures

2006-09-15T15:16:00.000-06:00

Click to view -

Manifest - 9/15/06

Take That Bird Down...With Extreme Prejudice

2006-09-10T22:11:00.000-06:00

Greetings from the very fun to say and very difficult to spell town of Ollantaytambo, Peru.

We are trapped in this quaint little pueblo until tomorrow, when tickets are again available to the great ruins of Machu Picchu. There was a train leaving at 8PM which returns tomorrow morning; it was a quite reasonable $173 per person (first class, she calmy explained) for the 35 mile trip, but I suspect that it may be a wee bit creepy to attempt to drift away to the Sandman while nestled on a stone bench under the moonlight with angry Incan spirits circling above. Go ahead. Ask the icy lady working the ticket booth. She´ll tell you the same thing through a forced smile as her eyes flash a more sadistic message: ¨Burn in hell, gringo.¨

The road to this town was a curried journey flavored with freshly roasted haste. Wanting badly to rendezvous with our Wisconsin comrades LeRoy and ¨Slippery¨ Rix before they flew home, we had a lot of ground to cover in just a few days. When Neubz last wrote, we were holed up in a city that reeked of processed trout. From there we headed east away from the PanAmericana and into the mountains near the second highest peak in South America: Huascaron.

The road started out innocently enough, but quickly deteriorated. Within about 20 miles the pavement came to an abrupt halt and the road became a delicious mash of large rocks, gravel, and dust. Luckily I was in front, and I´d be lying if I were to say that I did not relish the thought of kicking up a cloud of silty delight for Neubz to trudge through. Having not showered in about three days, the shroud attached itself nicely to the layer of grease on his face, and within about an hour he looked like Ben Stiller in the coal mine scene in ¨Zoolander¨.

The ¨road¨ wound through a dammed canyon for about four hours, passing through 38 dynamited tunnels that still had debris left behind that had crumbled from the jagged ceilings. Piloting through in total darkness was more than slightly unnerving. Apparently in Peru it is a cardinal sin to use headlights during any time that the sun is up - regardless of the situation - so every once and awhile we would make the acquaintance of the other rare traffic, dump trucks and pickups crammed full of miners in hard hats coming in the opposite direction, while emerging from one of the tunnels onto the one-lane road. Needless to say, it was a lot of fun.

The 20,000 feet peaks of Huascaron and its little brother, Alpamayo, were breathtaking - much like Neubz´s rank socks. We are still in disbelief, but someone actually stole them in the middle of the night while we were in a hotel in Huaras, at the base of mountains. The richness from the mold that was growing in his boots was so robust that they were literally nauseating, which is why Nuebz - always the gentleman - would put them in the hall before we went to sleep: out of courtesy to us both and in a flagrant act of biological war against the hotel´s other inhabitants. Whether it was in fact an incidence of perverse larceny or simply a desperate act of self-preservation by the hotel staff, we do not know. What I do know is that Neubz was too embarrassed to ask.

Embarrassed, too, am I to report that I have at last faltered...not once, but twice, in the fallen bike game. One was the result of shifty gravel in a hotel parking lot; the other was the fruit of a partially extended kickstand that almost felled me, too, as the bike fell. In any event, the score is still 8-2. In baseball, hockey, or soccer, they call that a shallacking. I call it ascendancy. You can call it what you will, but I call the rainbow colored hula hoop Neubz snapped up for me for sixty cents ridiculous. Lucky for me it snapped in two, then three and four, in the high winds and only a small section remains. And, besides, the score is actually 9-2, as Neubz´s bike went down again while he was preparing to change the oil a couple of days ago. The brightly colored womens´ scarf with poofy pink pom-poms on each end that I bought in a Cuzco market has been triple-knotted to the back of his bike. Come rain or come gail, that baby is never coming off, though it does wave gallantly in the breeze.

The accumulation of character is something that is garnered slowly along the way for these bikes, but I´d like to relate a few choice morsels that have found their way onto the beasts in the past month.

1.) While at a market in Ecuador, we locked in on a couple of stickers long enough to go across the windshield of a car. We snipped them into sections and put them onto our gas tanks. Mine reads ¨Gordito pero Agilito¨ (Chubby but agile). Neubz didn´t know what his meant when he bought it, but a glance at a dictionary a week later revealed that ¨Dolce Venena¨ translates into Sweet Venom.

2.) It was extremely cheap to have your clothing professionally laundered in Guatemala. We washed everything we had, and discovered the next day that we were mysteriously one black woman´s cardigan (here I mean that the cardigan itself was black in color; it may or may not have belonged to an African American woman) richer, an item which has since been knotted to the side of my bike.

3.) Under cover of darkness, someone at a hotel in Guatemala peppered our bikes with about a dozen ¨You Did It!¨ stickers. I´m not so sure what it is that he or she was congratulating us for, but if they were referring to the clogged toilet, they should reserved the stickers solely for Neubz. Those stickers fit in well among perhaps ten others, including an apple that reads ¨Oklahoma or Bust¨, a yellow ¨Commando¨ sticker, and the packing label for a mattress.

The road out of the mountains was a ridiculously winding one, and it is clear that it was the work of famed Peruvian civil engineer ¨Curvy¨ Sanchez. It is rumored that when Señor Sanchez lays out a road, he fixes himself a plate of angel hair pasta, twirls it with a trident, and then traces it with a pencil and paper. The road constantly curved so sharply that both of Neubz´s front turn signals flew off about ten minutes apart, one of them skidding about 100 feet and almost going over the side of a cliff.

The other impediment to the route back to the PanAmericana was wildlife. Now I like wildlife as much as the next guy, but I could have done without the bird that kamikazied my face. Luckily I had my face shield down. Yeah, the little suicide bomber died upon impact (I had to brush his limp carcass off my leg), but his beak put a big scratch right in my line of vision. And shortly thereafter Neubz nearly wiped out a flock of sheep that bounded out of a bush in front of him while he was doing sixty. That would have been an ugly scene: sheep being toted away on gurneys, a contorted Neubz struggling to get his bearings - his toupee jutting curiously out the front of his helmet.

As the sun began to set and we started to roll though small mountain villages, dogs began to get into the mix. They would leap from their posts (laying at someone´s feet or nibbling on garbage, or both) and bolt into the street with reckless abandon. Sometimes they would almost get you, other times they would give up and stand like idiots in the street as the second guy would have to swerve around them. One nearly latched on to my leg, so I gave him a shot to the jowels with my boot. As I drove away, I could have sworn that I heard him whistling Matthew Wilder´s ´80s classic ¨Ain´t Nothin´ Gonna Break My Stride¨...or was it Whodini´s ¨Freaks Come Out At Night¨?

The final push to meet our buddies meant our departure from the main road that traverses South America. This point was at Nazca, which some of you may know on account of the legendary and inexplicable Nazca Lines - elaborate designs of trees and animals made hundreds of years ago, some stretching over miles and miles while still remaining straight and clear. Before you book a flight down there to check them out, I´ll let you in on a little secret. I could have made some of them myself with a gardening spade in about two and a half hours.

The road from Nazca to Cuzco was a slow one. It was in fairly good shape (the Peruvians know the tourist treasure that they have out here), but it wound through two sets of mountain ranges, and it revealed to us the true meaning of the word ¨brisk¨.

Now before I go talking about the temperatures up there, let me first assure you that Neubz´s and my BRCs (Briskness Recognition Credentials) are in good order.

1.) Neubz spent the latter half of an eight-day horse trek through the Tien Shan mountain range of southern Kyrgyzstan last fall sleeping in a tent without a sleeping bag. When the sun went down at around 5:30 and the temperature dropped from around 70 to, say, zero (not taking into account the wind), he slipped into about four pairs up pants, eight shirts, and as many pairs of socks that would fit onto one another and then tried desperately to fall asleep in between a couple layers of the sweaty wool blankets that had been festering all day between the saddle and the hot flesh of the horse. He still blames Ryan Heinemann and me for the mysterious disappearance of his bag, but we lost out nearly as bad from the horse hair that clogged our lungs and stung our eyes as we slept three-wide in that tent.

2.) I spent a winter in Moscow - a place so brisk that they remain the only city in the world to use a de-icing agent on the roads so intense that its caustic vapors actually chew through the electric lines for the cable cars that hang overhead.

So, yes, suffice it to say that it was brisk as we drove into the night over two mountain passes at around 70mph. My hands hurt so bad that I considered asking one of the natives that live in the remote mountain villages if I could sleep on their dirt floor. But we decided to lay on, MacDuff, to a town with a small hotel, though not before being accosted outside of a shack selling hot chocolate by a drunk man in a bright sash that asked us how old we were about twenty times (including one time when he zipped down his fly and took a leak right in front of us before asking Neubz for a smoke), and only after narrowly missing a kid on a bicycle riding down the middle of the pitch black road who in turn swerved and almost hit a donkey in the other lane.

We arrived in Cusco exhausted and sore, but loving the dining options. Indeed, we felt as though the last week through small mountain villages bestowed upon us a certain degree of clairvoyance at the dining table. ¨Wait, wait. Don´t tell me. I see...rice...yes, rice!...be-...yes, beans, and perhaps...chicken...but chicken chopped up casually so that each bite gives you a one in six chance of cracking a tooth on a small piece of bone...¨. And we did in fact find our friends. We watched as Rix dined on alpaca meat and we kicked back a few brews, depite protests from LeRoy that the beer was ¨bubbling up in [his] throat¨. And it was awfully nice to carry on a conversation in English with someone other than Neubz.

So here we sit. We may have caught the early train this morning, but as usual, people we meet think that these motorcycles are faster than fast. We were told that it would take us 20 minutes to get here from Cuzco. It ended up being 60 miles on a mountain road. You do the math. The only way we´d make that kind of time is if I rode Falcor from ¨The Neverending Story¨and Nuebz a six-winged pegasus - something I understood he did quite often in his Advanced Dungeons and Dragons days.

The Machu Picchu racket and the $5/gallon we´re gulping from the Peruvian gas spigot only furthers the financial bleeding that reached its ghastly crescendo with the transportation of our bikes and ourselves from Panama to Quito via Bogota. I´d rather not disclose the actual price tag on that sweet breeze, but suffice it to say that our suspicious joint checking account took substantial hit and that we are lamenting our lack of time in the hurried preparatory stages to secure corporate sponsorship of some kind. Nevertheless, the beat goes on.

- Tom

Is that ... my .... backpack....? Santa, Peru

2006-09-04T22:04:00.000-06:00

Hello all! Its been a little while since we´ve been in touch. Tom and I are on a quick stopover in a small town in Peru called Santa, which lies about 100 miles south of Trujillo along the Pacific coast. This charming hamlet is only 15 miles from the largest fish processing plant in the world (the holder of this distinction is determined not by size, but by smell). Luckily, the trucks and buses that cruise the road adjacent to the city contribute enough dust and pollution to overpower any fish stink that may stray this direction. The centerpiece of this little slice of heaven seems to be the gas station, as those were the only lights that didn´t go black when the power went down several hours ago. We were forced to park our bikes by candlelight in a huge empty garage that is fit to be used as the setting for a hollywood slasher flick. The halls of the adjoining hotel are decorated with posters of a variety of topless models, although their purchaser seems to have a taste for short brunettes. As we left the hotel to find dinner, the hotel´s operator (and probable decorator) warned us that the area was a little dangerous. Luckily for us I brought my trusty Kyrgyz switchblade along, although I must admit that the number of "fight-until-someone-is-bleeding-to-death" type battles that I have been involved in during my life is less than 20. Okay, maybe less than 10. But don´t tell that to the guy at the next computer who has that evil look in his eye...

In Panama last week we finally managed to load the bikes onto a plane bound for Ecuador. AND THEY DID IT FOR FREE!! Hah. Not even close. Tom and I beat the bikes to Ecuador by a couple days, so we spent our free time getting a haircut. The salon offered cuts for $1, so we splurged and each got one. In addition to the normal sample haircut photos they usually have at salons, this one also provided sample photos of Jean Claude Van Dam circa Bloodsport, pop superstar Christina Aguilera, Governor Schwartzennegar in his Oscar-nominated performance from 1985´s "Commando", and crucified Jesus. I love Van Dam.

We knew the bikes were to make it to Quito last Wednesday, although beyond that we had no idea how we were to go about getting our steeds back between our loving legs. After finding the office of the airline (camoflauged as a house), we realized that we would be forced to hire a broker to get our bikes released from the black hole of Ecuadorian customs. I won´t chronicle the ensuing eight-hour orgy of paperwork that devoured the rest of our Wednesday. Suffice it say that, even though he may be in this staunchly Catholic country and armed with every stamp and signature that man or deity can obtain, Jesus Christ himself would have a hell of a time getting his healing hands on his Holy Harley without the aid of a broker. So we sat back .... waited .... waited some more .... paid a small bribe ... and rode off into the Ecuadorian sunset.

The road from Quito went south through a stretch known as "Volcano Alley". Along this route, snow-capped peaks punctuated a landscape of steep hills and harvest-awaiting crops. We spent a day driving along winding roads through this spectacular setting, stopping at a local market and cruising through indigenous communities. The local children were adorable, dressed in little shawls, hats and boots, and we had a great time indulging both their and our photographic desires. That evening we arrived late into the city of Ambota. After criss-crossing the downtown in search of lodging, we learned that there were only three hotels in the "centro", which was probably responsible for the ridiculously high prices we had found. I may pay $25 to fill up my tank for a day of riding (sometimes fill it twice), but I for damn sure will not pay $12 to be unconscious, especilly in Ecuador. Tom and I got some directions and headed to the cheap(skate?) part of town. From the main road, a sign for the Hotel Mary beckoned to us. We obeyed.

A knock on the steel-gated window of the Hotel Mary was promptly answered by a middle-aged man. "Sir, do you have a room available? Yes, for the whole night. You have to check? Okay." Five minutes later we hear a click-click coming from inside the window. "Is that a walker?" Indeed it was. Was this the hotel´s namesake? Tom again requests a room. Ancient Mary gives Tom the staredown, then offers me the same treatment. "They´re all occupied." Hmmmm. I didn´t see any people. But it was clear we were supposed to leave. A few minutes later Tom and I are conversing with a nearby welder, who has let me use his hacksaw to cut down my bent brake lever. He laughs when we mention the episode at the Hotel Mary. The welder informs us that Mary is a place where you rent rooms by the hour. The old lady must have come down, had a look at the size of the two of us, and figured there was no way her antiquated bedframe could survive an hour-long romatic tryst between the two of us behemoths, much less a night-long binge session. And honestly Mary, I think I would be tempted to agree with you.

The next morning we set out for the town of Baños, where a neighboring volcano had erupted two weeks earlier. We had heard tales of ash piled two feet high in the steets and an air clogged with volcanic gasses. So of course we had to check it out. Although not quite the apolcalyptic scene that I had been expecting, it still was interesting to see a stretch of road completely destroyed by a lava flow. The citizens of the town were just beginning to return, and the shovels were in action making piles of ash along the street. We had a quick dip in the hot springs and headed toward Peru.

The next day was a miserable blur, as I was sacked with a 24-hour bug that brought a little bit of everything and a whole lot of somethings. I stumbled along through what would have been a beautiful drive through the southern Ecuadorian highlands. Tom said it was his favorite ride of the trip. I would have preferred to have been dead. Luckily my affliction dispersed as quicly as it had arrived, and by the time we reached Peru I was able to undertake my document chasing duties. As I was filling out some form or another, Tom was watching the bikes and chatting with passers-by. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a guilty countenance slinking away. He looked more closely, and saw his Camelback backpack strolling away as well. A few seconds later the middle-aged thief headed down an alley and Tom gave chase. As he reached the alley, Tom bellowed in his most threatening "I´m-6-foot-3-and-you-sure-are-not" voice "SEÑOR!!!" The thief made the correct decision: dropping the pack and running. And its not as if the pack was any sort of treasure trove. What would the guy have done with a liter of stale backwashed water, hand sanitizer, a russian novel, and a South American guidebook? Enjoy.

We´ve spent the last two days crossing a giant desert in northern Peru. In some places the sand stretches as flat as the ocean for as far as the eye can see. In others, 30-foot dunes tower over the road. Waves of sand trickle down onto the pavement, forcing you to keep a watchful eye at all times. For the first time in a long time, the roads are long and straight. I´ve become so relaxed on the bike that unless there is something to swerve around, my attention wanes. Yesterday I almost fell asleep on the bike, and not for the first time. I don´t think I have to delve into the afteraffects of taking a brief nap at 75 miles per hour.

Tomorrow we head east; away from the coast and into the mountains. We are taking a partially-paved backroad for two days that meanders between Peru´s Cordillera Blanca and Cordillera Negra ranges. The views should be fantastic, as the road spends the majority of its time above 15,000 feet. The summit of Huascaron (the highest in Peru at some 6700 meters) will be constantly in view. We´ve readied our electric fleeces that plug into our motorcycle batteries and put every liner we have into its proper place. Its going to be brisk. The altitude will push the limits of these KLRs, but the drive should be amazing. After we get back to sea level, we will skirt Lima and make a two day drive into the mountains again to get to the old Incan capital of Cuzco. Here we will meet our friends Nick and Jason who are now trekking in the region, and together we will explore the ruins at Macchu Picchu. And that night, good times will be had by all.

-Nate

Manifest - 9/4/06

Anybody In the House Own A Vessel?

2006-08-26T22:03:00.000-06:00

Greetings from Panama City, Panama.

It has been a while since the last update, but know that we are resting comfortably in this grand city on the canal while we await passage for our motorcycles via steamship, zeppelin, or moss-covered, three-handled family credunza to South America.

As I recall, the last post was dispatched from Playa de Coco, Costa Rica. Since that point we drank deeply from the luscious cup that is The Tasty Coast and made our way east to our final destination in Central America: Panama City. I have sought asylum in an Internet cafe while Neubz sits in the hostel drinking his 73rd cup of coffee and now find myself seated two feet away from a 35 year-old man with a shirt too short to cover his paunch that has been listening to the same Latin pop song for twenty minutes running on his miniature boombox.

Costa Rica is a gorgeous country, but in 1948 it made the unfortunate decision to abolish its military. Alas, they´ve been lamenting that choice for the past half-century as they watched their neighbors relish the fruit of police states and the joyous brouhaha of the bi-annual coup. And without a bloated defense budget, they could only look on helplessly while their quality of living soared and their GDP climbed to the upper echelon in Latin America on the wings of industry (such as microchip processing) while their contemporaries down the street sold pineapples to finance the importation of advanced weaponry from first world countries abroad.

Costa Rica also decided to take an approach to land conservation somewhat different than, say, that of its cousin, El Salvador, which at the time of this writing had succeeded in cutting down 98% of its forests. As a result, natural parks abound and wildlife flourishes. That means the country draws a lot of what have come to be known as ecotourists, and that means a lot of Germans. Combine the multitude of beaches with the proclivity of the European male for the minimalist swim suit and a crisp Bavarian tan and you´ve got a reason to head underwater and stay there for a long time. So we went scuba diving.

I´ve only scuba dived once in my life (earlier this year in the Phillipines under the watchful eye of Divemaster Leach) and Neubz had not been in the deep since ´97, so clearly we brought an impressive amount of experience to the ship. But what had brought us to the ship was a posse of mangy beasts turned domesticated animals befriended by the compassionate Dutch lady that ran the diving outfit. If Bob Barker has somehow gotten onto this mailing list, he should know that he should bring his neutering gospel to Central America before the whole place literally goes to the dogs.

The Germans, not content with polluting the beach with their Speedos, had somehow infiltrated the ship as well. One of them was an engineer from Munich who - either by way of congenital defect or freak accident involving a slightly concave anvil - possessed ten very wan, very short toe nails. Had lunch been offered on the ship, I would not have partaken. But once in the water, the Kraut´s toe nails seemed to communicate with all aquatic creatures near and far. Eels, enormous schools of fish that moved in an almost impossible unity, several sharks, sting rays. Even out of the water it continued, as a pair of dolphins swam alongside the ship and a giant sea turtle flapped his paw at us repeatedly, either signaling his salutations or telling us to - please, for the love of Hans Christian Andersen - turn back and find that man a podiatrist.

The sea conquered, we ended up spending a few days in Playa de Coco, more as a result of the forced hand of the rainy season than out of a love for the town. But it was a nice relaxing time replete with a steady supply of sixty cent beers, impromptu soccer games on the beach by the locals, and languishing at night in the stench that radiated from Neubz´s moldy (the origin has now been identified) boots. And in case you´re wondering, yes, my boots smell like lollipops and peppermint.

Our recently betrothed friend, Nick LeRoy, had recommended but one place to visit while in Costa Rica: the mountain village of Monteverde. While his status as a false prophet is well documented, we decided to give creedence to his suggestion. Looking at the map, it seemed straightforward enough: take the main highway, branch off at Cañas, 45 km northeast and you´re there. But in typical Latin style, roads were marked casually - if at all - and we suddenly ended up on what appeared to be some sort of medieval oxen cart trading route with impossible 20 degree grades.

Neubz: ¨This can´t be the way!¨

Me: ¨I think this is it. The signs for Monteverde pointed this way.¨

So we proceeded. The hill was so steep and the quality of the road so poor that putting your feet down for balance did nothing. You needed to use the front and rear brakes and put your left foot to use pushing off the loose stones and weeds. Realizing that Neubz was right and that this was indeed a bad idea, we had no choice to continue to the valley separating the two insane hills in order to turn around. We did so and I was luckily able to scurry up the same hill as the back tire skidded back and forth. Neubz was not so fortunate and went over twice - once while rolling backwards down the steep hill at a decent speed and while exhorting profanities most likely involving my name and probably fit for print only in the most sordid of publications.

Sadly, a steady rain came and thickened the soup further, so even our progress on the real - yet only slightly less impassable - road to Monteverde which we found later had to be aborted. Indeed, we will never know the splendor of that magical town, our white whale.

Defeat in our mouths, we set our sights on another location reputed to be rich in natural beauty: Parque Nacional de Chirripo. But getting there meant spending the night in the Costa Rican capital of San Jose. The details there are hardly worth going over, but some of the highlights included:

1.) Nearly witnessing a fracas in a bar between two 65 year-old American retirees stemming from some sort of argument over the services of a young lady working in the place. That melee was abated at the last second by a security guard with a perm.

2.) Neubz putting down his bike for the eighth time while wheeling it out of a hostel. He is in fact one of the smartest people that I know, but for whatever reason he is somewhat like a child that continually burns his hand on the stove when it comes to this game. See the website for a pic of the creepy mask that I have since purchased at a market and attached to his bike with bailing wire. Suffice it to say that the gentleman portrayed in the carving most likely wears a GPS bracelet and is not allowed to live in the vicinity of schools. We call him Ned.

3.) Another shakedown by a Costa Rican cop, whom we were able to talk down from $80/man to $40 total.

Over the course of our travels through Costa Rica, we experienced one other small mechanical problem: my speedometer and odometer ceased to function. Further inspection revealed that the steel-braided cable that connects the instrument panel to the front wheel had somehow snapped in two. Neubz says it was just wear and tear but I know it to be the work of Ned. Truthfully it has no impact on the functioning of the bike. The speed I can gauge by the tachometer and the gear, but distance I cannot. Thus, the only way to gauge how many miles I have travelled and when my cramped legs deserve a break is by way of music.

Of the 7500 songs on my MP3 player, 5256 are Michael Bolton B-sides and bootlegs from his ´94 world tour. So I have concocted the following formula:

Miles travelled = # of time I hear a version of ¨How Can We Be Lovers If We Can´t Be Friends?¨ Divided by how many cats Bolton has (three) Multiplied by # of Platinum Albums Bolton had put out by 1999 (One-hundred and eighteen)

I stop every 160 miles.

The only other problem that we have encountered thus far was Neubz´s flat tire in back in Guatemala. We replaced it with an industrial German tube so thick were it a gasser it could clear out a bowling alley. It has yet to lose one PSI of pressure on bad roads.

We reached Chirripo National Park approximately 25 minutes after its gates closed at 10AM. We pleaded with the ranger to let us in, but he insisted that it would be a good idea to wait until tomorrow. We relented and relaxed at a cheap hotel with fresh fruit juice for the rest of the day.

The hike through the park was 16km (app. 10 miles) long. According to the guy at the hotel, the summit was approximately 1800 meters (6000 feet) up. Since we were already at 5000 feet, this would be a drop in the bucket.

We were wrong.

Again, we were the victims of either poor direction or poor Spanish comprehension. We started out for the summit at 5AM, as we had been told that it would take 6-8 hours to reach the top (a number that we thought we could crush). Once you got there, you could stay in what sounded to be a rustic cabin of sorts (which we paid for in advance) before heading back down the ten mile path in the morning or continuing on to other parts of the park. We knew that there was no food at the cabin, so we had thrown together an assortment of little tasties to fortify us during the ascent while on a brief shopping spree at the very limited hotel store.

We left the hotel at the same time as a German couple. I remember how prepared they were: walking sticks (which we found funny and superfluous), top-of-the-line backpacks stuffed with culinary delights (unnecessary, to be sure), nice sleeping bags, etc. For our own part, we had no gear of any kind, and all we had for bags were rubber marine supply sacks that were slung over our shoulders.

Two kilometers in we knew we were in trouble. Not fit as fiddles when we left the US, our muscles had atrophied further through weeks of disuse on the bikes. Soon we were panting and sweating profusely.

Me: ¨Genghis Khan! I thought the summit was at 6000 feet. This incline is intense.¨

Neubz: ¨It has to level off. It can´t go on like this forever.¨

Oh, but it did. The muddy trail continued upwards unabated through lush, humid rainforest, mile after mile. Bugs emerged from the thick and bombarded our faces, paying special attention to the eyes.

Where were the views? I have never understood marathons, as they seem to be painful and with only the hollow reward of contrived achievment. Hiking, on the other hand, grants you incredible views in exchange for your toil - views that I´m sure are sweetened by exertion. But here there was nothing to see, just more mud and trees. At last we came out of the tree cover and were treated to a ho-hum spectacle of mountains covered with dead trees. By the time we made it to the shelter at the top, it was 1PM and we were exhausted. The real peak was 11,600 feet.

Given, had the payoff at the summit been anything less than a tapdancing Sphinx that could tell me my future while quoting Marx Brothers films, I would have been disappointed. But what we walked into was in the parlance of the the paisan the burlap sack put over the head before the face is smashed repeatedly by a gardening spade. Here was deathly silence, bitter cold, and shoddy contruction. We played Dominos. We read books. But as the light faded and the marine battery-powered lights in the building (think the hotel in ¨The Shining¨ made with a 200 dollar construction budget) failed to come on, our rancour was galvanized and we knew that we had been had. We went to sleep; I by way of pharmaceutical intervention and Neubz by way of lonesome tears.

It was 6:30PM.

Morning came with the 4AM alarm. In truth, we didn´t need our watch alarms, as our sleep was spotty...I´m guesssing on account of the fact that it was freezing up there and the sleeping bags we rented were from the ´60s and paper thin. At least we had breakfast to look forward to. Wait a minute, we had eaten a family size package of cookies and a box of granola bars for lunch...the pasta with salsa and tomato paste we had for dinner...does that mean that all we have left is this can of corn, four slices of bread, and a can of Pringles? Fire up that butane burner, Neubz. I want my corn sandwich piping hot.

At the very least the way down was easier than the way up. My brother Kevin had given me a playlist of movie themes to put on my MP3 player before I left, and it was hard not to scamper at ill-advised speeds down the mountain as the score to ¨Willow¨ raced in my ears. But by the bottom my knees were shot, the strap on the rubber sack had popped a fair amount of blood vessels on my shoulder, and both Neubz and I were forced to lift our weary legs with our hands in order to toss them over the high seats on the bikes.

At last we have made it to Panama City. Panama is a beautiful country, covered in total with green rolling hills and is fairly well developed. In fact, Panama City is extremely advanced, its skyline peppered by towering buildings so tall and modern that they seem better suited to Kuala Lampur than Central America. The Panama Canal is unbelievable in scale, and it is almost impossible to conceive that it is man made and, moreover, was constructed nearly a century ago. Gargantuan shipping vessels lurk like Leviathans off the coast, and each of them will pay somewhere in the vicinity of 30-50 thousand dollars to pass through the canal. Interestingly, a man in the 1930´s by the name of Halliburton paid 39 cents to swim through the canal. Put that in your trivia pipe and smoke it.

This is the end of the road - literally. When I was just finishing high school, some friends and I entertained dreams of driving a school bus from Wisconsin to South America. We bought the bus, but sadly did not realize that there is no road connecting Panama to Colombia. Well, that, and the fact that my sister´s husband ripped off the steering wheel...

So we are faced with the daunting task of getting our bikes over what is known as the Darien Gap, a dense jungle populated by drug smugglers, ne´er-do-wells, and wild beasts. If the bandits don´t get you, dengai fever will.

Our first day here I met a boat captain that offered to take our bikes and us, but he is bound for Colombia. Aside from the fact that 80% of all the kidnappings in the world take place in Colombia, it is a long drive from Cartagena to Ecuador, and the mountain drive would probably nix our chances of hitting the southern tip before Neubz needs to scurry home to speak in highbrow Latin legal terminology in Chicago. So yesterday we headed out to the cargo terminal at the international airport and inked a deal with a harmoniously named company called ´Girag´ to crate our pretty ladies and whisk them away to Ecuador. Customs should be a snap.

That locked away, we find ourselves with couple days to explore Panama City before we and our bikes depart for Ecuador on separate planes come Monday. And that is what I will stop writing this E-mail and go do.

- Tom

Pictures

2006-08-26T22:02:00.000-06:00

Click to see -

Manifest - 8/26/06

Pictures From Latin America

2006-08-18T14:28:00.000-06:00

Click for pictures -

Manifest - 8/18/06

Managua Shakedown Party

2006-08-18T14:24:00.000-06:00

Hello all from Playa de Coco, Costa Rica!

Today is the first period of relaxation since we departed Antigua several days ago. I am happily sitting in a small room with a cheesy tapestry/bedsheet hanging on the wall. An archaic Lotus fan (with a stars and stripes emblem) is keeping the breeze going. I think for the first time in three days I am not sweating profusely. The last few days have been a virtual sprint on the bikes, and the cold weather that followed us through the highlands of Mexico and Guatemala is long gone. Every hour on the bike seems to be a battle against dehydration, a war that oftentimes I feel like I am losing. And with the sweat comes the stench. And in stench we are flush.

After leaving Antigua, Guatemala, we crossed into El Salvador and sped eastward along the coastal highway. The sunset caught us in mid stride just shy of Honduras, so we were forced to take refuge in the smog-clogged city of San Miguel. The next morning we crossed into Honduras, sprinted two hours to the next border, entered Nicaragua, and holed up with a bunch of backpackers and a seemingly bottomless supply of beer in Leon. After breakfast we bolted out of Leon, had a tasty lunch with chocolate milk in Granada, and crossed into Costa Rica an hour before sunset. The last leg to Coco Beach here was made slowly in darkness, praying that the lightening threatening us on the horizon would not overtake us before we hit the beach. We lucked out.

Back in the day, Central America used to be one big county. However, sometime along the way some people made the decison that this was impractical and split things up, resulting in the geographic borders we know today. I think there were two primary reasons for this. First, it made fighting a lot more efficient. Now every country could have its own civil war and everyone could feel like they were taking part. If your country was one of those that didn't feel like fighting itself, then you could all just sit back, enjoy the sun, and just kick it for awhile.

Now, with the civil wars fading into history, the border's primary function apparantly is to be a pain in the ass for international travellers. The countries in this region have a mindblowing obsession with documents, stamps, and official certifications. Each border crossing requires navigating a maze of offices, windows and lines. The process is so complicated that we have begun hiring local youths (including one sprightly young chap who only had one leg) to usher us through each step. The borders are such a pain because, not only are bringing a person into the county, but we are importing a vehicle as well. Therefore at each border you have to export yourself and your bike, and import the same into the next country. This exercise in tedium goes something like this: fill out some papers, copy them along with your documents, stand in a line in the 106 degree heat, start sweating uncontrollably, get a stamp, wonder why that guy is still staring at you after 20 minutes, wait in another line, watch the official in that line stroll away for a break, make some more copies, check out the guard's combatshotgun, keep sweating, tell the guy that is selling watches that you don't want one for the twentieth time, stand in line, watch the disembodied head working in the window punch a key on the keyboard as the computers all go down, get another stamp, move the bikes 20 meters, get another stamp in another line, make sure you are still sweating.... Then if you are lucky a guy will come out and check the VIN and ask very imporant questions that are crucial to being able to have the bike in that country:

"What size is the bike?" 650.

"What is in these metal boxes?" Gravy. Giblet gravy.

"How heavy is it?" Like a nine year old Spanish stallion, give or take.

"You know you can't sell it here, right?" Damn, I was hoping to use the proceeds to finance a small pig farm here in Honduras.

"Are you guys brothers?" Can we go now?

Then they want your money. They take it in the form of migration taxes, exit taxes, import taxes, permit fees, insurance, copying charges, and probably a scam or two here or there. Honduras cost us $40 a man to get in, $40 to get out. Costa Rica was $50 to get in, and I hear it is $30 to get out. As Tom and I rationalize, this is all payback for the coups, death squads, and other dirty deeds the United States has financed in these parts since WWII. But I digress...

With your patience tested and your wallet thinner, you finally get to hop on your bike and drive it into their country. Our route through El Salvador was a sweet road along the Pacific coast. It had a number of awesome tunnels (the longest was 600 meters). This wouldn't be anything special, except that we had disconnected our headlamps to avoid tipping off the banditos that we were approaching. Therefore as we plunged into these tunnels we were surrounded by complete darkness. Tom was in the lead, and nearly swerved into the tunnel walls several times. Luckily the road was nearly vacant and we could crawl through the tunnel without worrying about any old American school buses with a murals of crucified Jesus flying in at 70 mph and taking both of us out in one fell swoop.

After the nightmarish border crossing into Honduras, and a frigid reception at lunch, we both wrote Honduras off and sped through the country. Nicaragua was a different story. It was a beautiful country with volcanoes dotting the horizon. However, the county also sported the worst roads we had enountered. With all the guns and missles the U.S. gave the Contra rebels here in the 80s, you'd think they could have thrown in a steamroller and a couple bags of asphalt. For the first 17 kilometers, the main road looked like it had been shelled with artillery. As you would dodge one giant pothole, another would present itself to swallow you whole. We attempted to take a more rural route to bypass the sprawling mass of Managua. However, here the road was even worse. There would be good pavement for 100 meters, and then a completely washed out section for an equal length. This went on for miles. It was a good reminder as to why we were driving these KLRs and not some 700 pound chrome monster.

Despite our efforts at bypassing Managua, somehow we took a wrong turn and suddenly found ourselves cruising through the capital city's streets. Traffic was backed up at all the intersections, but occassionally we could gain some time by sneaking around the side and to the front of the line. As we neared the outskirts on the east edge of town, we were stopped at a light, and Tom and I both swerved into the right line to bypass the traffic stacked up in the left. A cabbie pulled up next to us and warned us that this lane was for right turns only. Since when are there traffic laws down here? At green, we bolted straight through the light, and got our answer. A hundred meters down two cops stared wide eyed at us. We were two big juicy turkeys coming straight at them and they had their knife and fork out and ready. "My driver's license? Here you go. That's an infraction? Oh, you can't turn right? Silly me, I must have missed the sign. Oh, there is no sign. So if you give me a ticket you will have to take my license and it will take a month to resolve it. No, surprisingly enough we're not from Managua. Yes, we're going to Costa Rica. Yes, I suppose we will need our license there. Want to ride my motorcycle? Oh come on, give it a try. No? Okay. How about a photo? No I guess that probably isn't a good idea." [All four of us stand there for five minutes scratching our chins and searching for a solution. What could be done?] "I know! How about if we give you some money and you give us our licenses back? Excellent! 200 cordobas a man [$11]? How about $300 total and a ride on my bike? So, 400 it is..."

All in all they were nice guys. We all knew what was going on and we played our roles. We all had a good laugh. One cop even led us for 15 minutes to the proper highway to get out of the city. Its all part of the game down here...

-Nate

Follow That Mannequin Leg!

2006-08-14T21:51:00.000-06:00

Greetings from Antigua, Guatemala.

Those of you who know me well know that when I see a mannequin leg lashed to the top of a moving vehicle, I have no choice but to give chase. Logic and common sense abandon me, and I am enticed - nay! commanded - to follow it, like a lemming summoned to the sweet tunes of the piper.

So there we were, hustling at high speeds in a frenetic attempt to keep apace with a small Toyota pickup laden well beyond recommended capacity with equal parts Guatemalan teenagers and large burlap sacks stuffed to the gills with God knows what and capped by a mysterious pair of grey mannequin legs lashed to its roof as it barreled through mountainous turn after turn through the highlands of Guatemala.

Western Guatemala was essentially eastern Mexico writ large. The mountains were greener and more impressive, the potholes and myriad other road hazzards unannounced and potentially more debilitating, the scenery more intense, the native citizenry more exotic, the women in the towns more attractive, the vehicles more slipshod, the emissions standards more lax, and the cat in the window possessed of a certain level of sophistication never attained by his contemporary on other side of the border. Orange Crush had made a sudden and quite impressive inroad into Coca-Cola territory, and their 1980's style logo hung from almost every store, bar, and restaurant along the road. The people in the cities had a more laissez-faire attitude towards stop signs and traffic signals, more of an ¨as you like it¨ approach. All intersections were subject to the same rule: whichever street is bigger has the right of way and its traffic need not stop. This was fine and dandy in some places, like when you were on the large road and you intersected an obviously lesser thoroughfare. But sometimes the roads seemed of equal significance, and discerning which was which was entirely subjective. In other words, if you weren´t born in the city and didn´t know the secret hierarchy, enjoy.

Getting into Guatemala was fairly easy, albeit unnecessarily obfuscated by a lack of any signs whatsoever. In short, the process is as follows: drive to border, road is blocked by two men holding the ends of a long stick, men with stick direct you down filthy dirt road to the right and under shanties built on stilts a la ¨Waterworld¨ sans Costner to man in all denim, man in denim selling tickets to a parking lot that you have no desire to enter, man in denim directs you back to men with stick and tells you to tell them to let you through, back to main road, men lift stick, shysters in leather cowboy hats try to change your pesos for Guatemalan Quetzal at 60 percent of real rate, try to outsmart shysters by going to bank 100 feet further, man at bank says they don´t change money - you know, like a real bank at a border, back to smiling shysters in hats, then to line at counter to fill out paperwork and calculate fee for importation of motorcycles, back to bank guarded by 5´1¨ man with assault rifle to pay the fee as the guy at counter obviously cannot be counted upon to accept money, too, then go against traffic (mostly refurbished and brightly painted US schoolbuses and throngs of people buying cheap merchandise at stalls along street) until you reach freedom. And it´s 105 degrees and you´re wearing a black motorcycle jacket and pants.

But once you´re in, you are treated to some of the greatest scenery imaginable. Picture a road that meanders along a river through a smaller version of the Rockies that has been festooned in brilliant green in celebration of St. Patrick´s Day and you´ve got an idea.

At this point, we had a total of five Quetzal to our name, not wanting the senores en los sombreros to get the best of us. For those of you following along at home with your currency converters, that´s about 75 cents. Certainly there would be a bank or ATM somewhere. And that´s when I saw the legs.

In all honesty, I wanted to follow a vehicle of some sort, because potholes and large rocks would emerge without warning as you whipped around a corner at sixty. Usually the other drivers were Guatemalans and they knew from experience where all the dangers were, so you just had to keep up and follow the Good Ship Lollypop to safety. So we targeted the legs and proceeded; often that meant proceeding with great haste. It turned out that the driver of the mannqeuin truck was a man that liked to make things happen, and why wouldn´t he? There were only six Guatemalan guys sleeping in contorted positions amongst the burlap sacks in the bed of the truck and all of his tires were either underinflated or under extreme duress...or both, so he had little to lose. Keeping up with him made me feel like I was in a motorcross event, but we stayed within sight at all times and copied his movements - except when one of the guys in the back saw us, reached up, and patted the mannequin legs on the butt. I started laughing during a turn and almost lost it.

Eventually they pulled over at a gas station, so we did, too. I snapped a pic and Neubz joked with them about the mannequin. Just then we looked over and saw that Neubz´s bike had a flat rear tire, so he crouched down for a pic of that, too, which was precisely the moment that his motorcycle collapsed. In a reflex effort to save it, he thrust out a hand, and in doing so grabbed onto and subsequently tore off his cheap Chinese trunk. As the bike hit the ground, the plastic pieces that comprised the hinge system on the trunk scattered across the cement, the largest piece sliding several feet and through a grate that led to a current of murky water a foot and a half down that may or may not have contained sewage. And to add salt to the wound, he had consequently lost the falling bike game yet again, so I´ll be making another trip to the market.

The stage was set for good times at this point. One bike down. Darkness coming. Storm on the horizon. 75 cents in our pocket. Middle of nowhere. It was decided that Neubz would change the tire while I made a Quetzal run, so he busted out the tools while I made off for a bank. Finding a bank was easier said than done, and it took over an hour before I ended up in a town called Quetzaltenango, a damn fine place to find Quetzal if you ask me. Quetzal in hand, I scurried back to the scene of the fall to find Neubz surrounded by a throng of curious onlookers dressed in traditional rural Mayan garb. It turned out that I was too late to witness the Neubz coaxing a guy in a van to run over his tire to break the bead so that he could get it off the rim; that would have been an interesting conversation. Within a few minutes grimy-handed Neubz and I were off again, bound for the only reasonably sized town where we would be able to find a hotel for the night: jolly Quetzaltenango.

Once situated, we set out for food (now being able to afford it for the first time all day) and drink. Upon entering a bar/restaurant, we ordered food and were promptly accosted by two Guatemalan men (they looked 13 but claimed to be 22) who invited us to their table. Pouring what remained of their three 40 oz bottles of Dorado Ice into two dirty glasses besmirched with a mixture of salt and lime juice, they embarked upon Operation Jibberish - a marathon that we would endure for approximately forty five minutes while we waited, starving, for our food to arrive. We understood very little of what they said, but we did understand that they were excited to talk to us - evidenced by the incoherent, loud rambling and the dozen or so times the one who called himself Leonardo de Caprio spat inadvertently in my face while swinging his hand inches from my eyes, that they had consumed a reasonable amount of Doral Ice, that they wanted us to accompany them to a certain establishment where women exchanged certain services for Quetzal, and that they had absolutely no problem taking the food that we had waited so patiently for and eating it before our disbelieving eyes. Hungry, thirsty, and utterly defeated, we took our leave and headed back to the hotel steeped in despair.

The subsequent two days held redemption, as we first met up with the aunt of a girl Neubz went to law school with that lives in an awesome place overlooking Lake Atitlan. I am attaching a picture of the lake that I found on the Internet, as it is one of the most absolutely stunning places that I have ever been and I forgot to bring my card reader to this Internet place. She (Molly) and her well-read husband (Miguel) treated us to a delicious dinner and a great political discussion, put us up in their house (which Neubz kindly decimated with the stench from his boots), and served us a great breakfast early this morning. Fantastic people.

And today a guy named Guillermo pulled over with us to the side of the road while we were looking at a map and trying to figure out where in the heck we were. He had a KLR 650, too, and he had us follow him to the colonial town of Antigua and showed us around. That is where we are now.

Tomorrow we plan to leave early and exit Guatemala, cross El Salvador, and get halfway across Nicaragua. Stay tuned for the next item that Nuebz is forced to lash to his bike (the prospect of a rack of lamb was summarily dismissed, as was a giant plastic horse that an old man in a park was randomly selling), as I'll make sure it won´t cave as easily as the Dora the Explorer piñata. I´ll try to get some pics up on www.themanifestdestiny.org when I get a chance later and a computer more recent than this Commodore 888.

- Tom

San Cristobal del las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico

2006-08-11T21:44:00.000-06:00

First off, I think I may have failed to mention to the people on my list that we have a website established to follow the trip. We are uploading pictures and such and is being updated by our friend Alex. The website is www.themanifestdestiny.org. The pictures are under the Captains Log, but check the rest out because it is nicely done. Now, onward...

Chiapas is the easternmost state in Mexico before the border with Guatemala. In 1994, an indiginous separatist movement officially known as the EZLN (and popularly known as the Zapatistas) was launched by locals of Indian descent. The movement was based out of the remote highland and jungle regions in the northeast portion of the state. However, the city of San Cristobal de las Casas to the west become important to the movement. Tourists from around the world flocked to the city in order to feel as one with the movement, and possibly to catch a glimpse of Zapatista's popular spokesperson, Subcommandante Marcos. The tourist presence helped give the Zapatistas a heightened image in global pop culture. The Zapatistas and the Mexican authorities have largely been at a péacful standstill for the past years, but Zapatista images still are visible throught the city, and twice I have heard Subcommandante Marcos name mentioned in passing. The city itself is a beautiful colonial city, set 5000 feet above the lush regions that run off to the Pacific coast to the south. We arrived here yesterday after a two-day long journey from Oaxaca. And there is pizza. Real pizza.

The unrest in Oaxaca did not end with the vehicle barracades at the city borders. The majority of the once-beautiful city buildings have been defaced with grafitti, all aimed at bringing about the end of the extreme right-wing administration headed by governor Ulysses Ruiz. Many of the streets are impassable, as makeshift barracades have been constructed out of highway rail guard, trucks, or giant chunks of stone torn out of the streets themselves. The few streets that are still navigable are backed up like Chicago rush hour. The city limit barracades are still intact, and people come and go by means of an abandoned railway line.

In this mess we tried to find our friends. After spending a rainy night in a hotel, we finally got in contact with Gina's friend Tony, who offered us a place to stay at his house. We had wanted to try and get to a market in order to settle up the bet that I had lost because my bike had been the first to go down. But daylight got the best of us, and we went over to Tony's place and met his parents. They had abandoned the house while it was being renovated, but said we could stay there for as long as we liked. While we were talking in the kitchen, my bike took a second dive, as my kickstand sunk into the ground in front of their house. Both of the parents had looks of extreme horror and ran over to the bike. Tom and I both knew the bike would be fine. I started laughing and Tom snapped a picture while singing "We're going to the market! We're going to the market!" I had lost the bet for a second time and I knew Tom would show no mercy. Tony's place was a good place to stay. However, Tom and I were forced to cram into a small full-size bed together. This would have been fine except that the only blanket on the bed was about 4 feet wide. This led to war which left both of us freezing most of the night. Tom finally won by outsmarting me and retrieving another blanket from a different room. I was so cold. From then on, Tony's dad kept a close eye on both of us, clearly convinced that we were doing drugs up in that room or engaging in unspeakable acts of ...well... you get the idea.

We spent the next day doing maintenance on the bikes, and went over to our friend Hugo's place for a BBQ. The night before Tom had jokingly told his mother that I was a vegetarian, so she went out of her way to make me a pepper and corn dish while everyone else ate meatloaf. I felt like an ass. The next morning, Tom and I headed for Chiapas. On the way out of town we finally managed to find a market. While sipping a couple smoothies in plastic bags, Tom perused the goods for an acceptable penalty. The bet had been that whichever bike fell down first, the other person got to pick something out of the market to lash to that person's bike that cost less than $10. It didn't take Tom very long. His eyes got missle lock on a shop selling piñatas. "Is that Dora the Explorer?" he asked. Dora the Explorer is a childrens cross-cultural cartoon heroine. The lady at the shop replied that it was indeed Dora and that she cost $5.50. My hear sunk as Tom's hand moved with lightening speed for his wallet. Laughter followed me out of the market as I lugged the four-foor tall pink Dora over to my bike. I strapped her on as Tom was bent over with laughter. Off we went.

As it turns out, Dora the Explorer is not really cut out for motorcycle travel. The first problem came as I tried to squeeze my bike through a gap between a truck and a sign. The bike made it through, but Dora took a serious shot to the temple, breaking her kneck. Luckily Dora's innards included a rope spinal cord, which kept her head more or less where it is supposed to be. But Dora would have a long road to recovery before she would run and play with the other kids. Outside of Oaxaca, the road twists and turns through the mountiains. Every few miles, crosses are planted at the side of the road to show where someone drove too drunk, too tired, or too fast, and paid the piper by taking the big plunge over the side. The turns were rough on Dora as well. Banking the motorcycle caused Dora's right foot to drag, and after 50 miles her foot came completely off. Dora also was not wearing proper motorcycling clothes, and the high winds began to rip her skin off piece by piece. Finally Dora's head was lost for good, either to a speed bump or a gust of wind from a semi. A sick little párt inside me laughed everytime I saw the look of horror that crossed a passer-bys face as they caught a glimpse of the carnage hanging off the rear of my bike.

The two day drive from Oaxaca to San Cristobal here in Chiapas took us through an amazing route. The road has been a never ending curve, and the KLRs have handled it beautifully. The vegetation has shifted from the more arid style that surrounds Oaxaca to a contunous lush green cover in Chiapas,. The road dives in and out of the clouds, with amazing views opening up in all directions. Tom is fun to drive with as well, as we both have a similar cautious-yet-aggressive style of driving. I trust him to do a good job leading the way whether we are blasting past semis on the highway, skipping lines of cars at topes (speed bumps), or slithering through jumbled traffic in the cities. The few differences in our driving probably stem from the fact that I think Tom puts more faith in the bike and tires than I do, whereas I think I put more faith in gravity than he does. So far he has been right, and maybe gravity is just a scientific theory that needs more study. But I doubt it.

Tomorrow we will be crossing the border into Guatemala. Crime is more widespread on the far side of the line, so we will have to be more careful about everything we do. But the bikes are holding up well after the first 3200+ miles, so hopefully they will get us through without incident. Anyway, hope all is well with everyone and check out www.themanifestdestiny.org if you want for pictures.

-Nate

How to Jockey With a Military Convoy

2006-08-07T21:42:00.000-06:00

I won the rock, paper, scissors contest in the parking lot, so I have been elected to compose the first of our collective E-mails while Nate stands guard in the heat watching the bikes.

A spirited Monday greeting from Oaxaca, Mexico. Having traveled nearly 2800 miles during the past seven days (with around two days off in San Antonio while we waited for our last-minute parcels), we finally arrived here in southern Mexico late last night amidst burned police cars, buses used as roadblocks, and a flash flood that almost prevented us from entering the city...but I´ll get to that in a minute.

We entered Mexico on the evening of the 3rd from Laredo, Texas, being welcomed into the country by perhaps the largest flag I have ever seen in my life. It actually worked out to our favor that we arrived later than we had anticipated due to the delayed arrival of the UPS man and our coveted morsel - at least at first. We dodged what would have assuredly been quite robust lines at the immigration office, something that would have been even more enjoyable on account of the intense heat. As it was, we were required to wait in three separate lines: one for personal immigration and payment for the pleasure of being in Mexico, one where official copies of documents that we already had copies of were made and paid for, and a third where we paid for the right to bring our vehicle into Mexico. For the last, they attempted to extract US $200 per motorcycle, but eventually settled for US $30 since we put it on a credit card. And so commenced the mirth of the Latin world.

From there, Nate received directions from a man in the street that appeared to be dressed for a late night performance in a mariachi band and we were off. Now, prior to leaving the United States, we had set out only one rule for ourselves: do not drive at night. Due to our late start, we promptly decided to break that rule, and we were issued a painful reminder from the powers that be why we had made that rule in the first place (see the Captain´s Log section of the web site for more details). First off, it was hard to see. Our motorcycles, amongst their many other shortfalls in the comfort/amenity, have lackluster headlights. Second, it began to rain - lightly at first, then like it meant it. And third, the quality of the road deteriorated shortly upon crossing the border, meaning that it was probably in your interest to be able to see well in order to dodge potholes and to give shout outs well in advance to livestock on the periphery of the road.

Eventually we wanted to just get a hotel and be done with it. But if only it had been that easy. Rather, we drove on and on, eliciting a couple of false leads for accommodation from people at gas stations and cafes along the road, including a guy in a sweet Stetson hat and a lady of the night with golden shoes. Ah, but the beacon in the night was the Motel Astro at around 3:30 AM. There is a description on the web page that tells of the juicy spiders that Neubz crushed and our plush, four foot wide bed in a flooded room.

Over the next couple of days we boogied south at a frantic pace on the toll roads. These roads are not cheap (it cost us about $100 a piece to get from Monterrey to here), but they are very nicely maintained and you can make haste with cheddar and chives if you so desire. The fact that people would pass doing around 130 while our little wombats were giving their all to do 70-75 was the only difficulty. That and the wind. Having encumbered our bikes with 20 mm ammunition boxes as saddlebags and a Chinese knockoff of a tastefully designed Italian Givi trunk, it was akin to piloting a mizzenmast on wheels once we get into the plains at the foot of the Sierra Madres, and it became physically strenuous to ride listing to the left to battle the wind and stay on the road.

Close to the mountains it began to rain on and off, and we were quite pleased with our decision to purchase Aerostitch riding coats. Naturally we were a little reticent to blow $600 on a coat, but our torsos were all that remained dry as our boots filled with water (and as the rain saturated Nate´s white briefs, the transparent crack of which would nauseate me later in the hotel). Nice, too, will it be when we can plug in the electric liners to the batteries while in the Andes for some much-needed warmth. For anyone that rides a motorcycle, I highly recommend one. If/when we take a spill on this trip, they should minimize the damage to our pasty bodies. Indeed, they are so loaded with Kevlar that we could take two shotgun blasts from Chuck Norris himself and walk away. Of course, they would protect us little when Mr. Norris realized the folly of his weaponry and delivered a roundhouse kick. But that goes without saying.

We eventually deviated from the toll road in an effort to circumnavigate the rotten tentacles of the most populated city in the world, Mexico City. Instead, we took a route recommended by Gina Isherwood (thank you) and her Mexican friends that took us on some country roads towards a city named Pachuca. Try saying it once at work. Louder. It sounds cool, doesn´t it? This route gave us a chance to roll through some smaller towns and gave us a brake from the full throttle riding up until that point. It also introduced us to the land of the doble remolque (or double semi), basically a vehicle conceived with the belief that it would be more efficient to haul two trailers behind a semi than one. They´re probably right, but some of you might be thinking, "Isn´t that a little much to ask of the engine and the brakes in a mountainous country?¨ Yes, my friends, it is. And so began the game of ¨Who Can Make the Most Audacious and Ill-Advised Pass?¨. Double semis would slink along like giant snails in a line up any grade of consequence, but when they reached the peak of the hill or mountain, the gunshot sounded and it was off to the races. These behemoths (and the spattering of cars and our petty cycles) would throw down the hammer and go two - sometimes three - wide in an effort to gain the poll position for the next incline. A crescendo usually came at the bottom of each hill when the guy with the most cojones (or really just the biggest moron) would find himself looking into the eyes of another driver coming in the direction and swerve desperately to get back in his own lane. We never saw an accident; in fact, everyone seemed quite comfortable with the system, and I concede that it made driving very, very fun. Only once did driving with such gusto cause a problem. We didn´t see it happen, but our Columbo instincts tell us that it played out thus: guy in a semi with doors on the sides and filled with bags of powdered concrete takes a corner at the bottom of the hill with some serious speed. Forty thousand pounds of concrete pressed against the side too much to handle. Small Volkswagen coming from the other direction. Concrete excuses itself from the semi. Guy in car casually looks over and takes about 50 eighty-pound bags to the chops. The rest go all over the and the surrounding area (and in Nate´s eyes and mouth). The guy was apparently OK, but his car was not.

The drive through the Sierra Madres was absolutely stunning, though the Mexicans admittedly falter in the "how about we pick up those giant rocks that fell into the road" department. Add to that the return of the rain, and you´ve got a spicy plate of jambalaya - especially if you´re Neubz (no one calls him Nate). Apparently Neubz broke the visor on his helmet while parading around India earlier this year, so he thought it would be no problem to just swing through Latin America during rainy season and bask in the icy droplets. His prescription goggles continually fogged up, something he blames on the fact that he ¨put(s) off a lot of vapor¨. Indeed. So at times he was driving close to blind while concentrating on my brake light. This was a dicey endeavor, as the rocks were plentiful, including one that almost led me to the piper. So at times he would ride without goggles, something enjoyed by the enormous motorcade of military trucks hauling soldiers to Oaxaca that we would pass, then get passed by, and so on and so forth. But what they truly enjoyed was another Neubz moment.

Every fifty miles or so we would stop and pay a toll. Since it was a pain in the butt to take off our gloves, dig into a pocket, and grab some cash, we decided to take turns paying for both. At the last toll before Oaxaca, when we were wet, hungry, exhausted and thinking only of shelter from the rain and a few brewskis, a frustrated Neubz could not get his wet gloves back on after paying. Honorably not wanting to hold up traffic, he stuffed them in the side pocket of his coat and we took off on the final approach. When we arrived at the ¨Welcome to Oaxaca¨ sign, I pulled over to snap a picture of Neubz. I honked for him to turn around for pic, but he searching frantically for something. He got off the bike, took something out of his pocket and spiked it on the ground. Then he kicked his bike. Yes, he had lost a precious glove, so we painfully turned around and drove back to the toll station. The guys with machine guns now had a keen interest in the Neubz. Once he parked his bike in the median and strolled from booth to booth putting out the SOS on the missing glove, their eyes followed him like a cat watching a ping pong ball. They pointed. They lurked. But the glove was no more, so we made off for Oaxaca once again. Suddenly the glove appeared in the street, and a jubilant Neubz snatched it up and shook it at an approaching bus in exaltation. Upon returning to the city, however, a significant traffic jam had built up at the entrance. Figuring that it was an accident that we could scurry around, we moved forward, but it then became clear that cars were stalling in a flash flood as dirty water rushed across six lanes of traffic. Luckily the current did not take us down, and we stuck to the shallower areas. Once in the city, we were confronted with something resembling a scene from an apocalyptic movie. Buses and graffiti-riddled police cars had been assembled to create roadblocks along the route to the city center. Dozens upon dozens of cars were lined along the railroad tracks to prevent anything from getting in. Piles of unrecognisable rubbish lay in burned piles. Our motorcycles were just small enough to slip between gaps in multiple layers of roadblocks, then we hopped some curbs and rode the sidewalks into the clear. And that is where we are now. For more on the protests, check out: http://www.zmag.org/content/showarticle.cfm?SectionID=59&ItemID=10708

From here we head out for Chiapas, home of the zapatistas, and then to Guatemala.

For those interested in pictures, I´ll try to get some more on the site under Captain´s Log.

- Tom

A side note: while in the US, Neubz and made an agreement that we would put 25 cents in a pot per person per day, and that the first person to take a spill - no matter how minor - would have to pay the other guy the pot. We decided later that the money thing was lame, and we expanded the ¨spill¨ definition to include your bike going over on its own. The punishment became the following: the winner (the guy whose bike does not go down) gets to pick out an item at a market - no matter the size or shape - and the other guy must lash it to his bike until it falls off. Since Neubz´s bike tipped over in a gravel parking lot (in the process bending his brake lever into the shape of a Sultan´s shoe), he has garnered a trip to the market. I attempted to get him to purchase a four-foot tall paper machete statue of Darth Vader that I saw in a store, but he said no. To be fair, it was late, raining, that thing was probably expensive and took a lot of effort to make, and we just wanted to find a hotel, but it would have been sweet. Stay tuned for pics of whatever item we dig up, as well as the end of my smug celebration when I bite it myself.

And so it begins: San Antonio

2006-08-03T11:20:00.000-06:00

Hello everyone! As many of you know, I have set off from Milwaukee on a 3-month motorcycle trip with my friend Tom. The idea of this trip is to ride from Milwaukee, through Mexico and Central America, and see most of the countries in South America. The ultimate goal (time and circumstances willing) is to make it to the southern tip of South America at Tierra del Fuego, and then get myself on a plane and get back to Chicago to start my new job. But that is a ways away. I received a lot of positive comments about the series of emails I sent out during the big motorcyce trip I took around India, so I have planned on doing the same e-mail updates for this trip. So to those of you who were on that list: Welcome back. For those of you new to the realm of 'Nate traveling around the world and doing stupid things', hopefully you will enjoy. And if at any time you no longer want to be on this list, let me know and I will get you off. I don't want to become spam or junk mailed. And also, since Tom and I have a lot of common friends, some of you may get more emails than you want, so I won't be hurt if you want off my list.

This trip has required a monstrous amount of planning and preparation (and $). Countless hours were spent this summer sweating and cursing while working on the bikes in my parents garage. (And my parents deserve a great deal of thanks for quietly allowing us to oil stain their floor, chew up the blacktop on their driveway, and bang up the fridge. I think they made their recent decision to move to Arizona just so they could have a pristine garage again). Most of my summer was spent studying for the bar during the day and cranking a wrench at night. Its been fun, educational, and stressful for both Tom and me. But preparation details are not real interesting...

July 30 was D-Day. The bikes were packed, tanks filled, and good byes said. We headed south from Milwaukee, praying that one of these bikes would not keel over before the state line and put a quick end to the trip. But true to their reputation, the bikes ran strong. The only hiccup occurred about 80 miles out, when Tom's clutch cable shook loose. We pulled over to the side of the highway, cracked out the tools, and were up and running in few minutes. Considering that almost every fastener on these bikes has been removed multiple times over the past months, it is amazing that more things did not shake loose during the initial leg.

We pulled into St. Louis late Sunday night after a 400 mile run. A few pictures were attempted with the Arch, and then we collapsed into a hotel room, our bodies not yet accustomed to the seats and extended driving conditions. The next morning we indulged in some custard (not going to find much of that south of the border) and headed into the Ozarks. The hill driving was beautiful. Then into western Missouri, the hills got smaller and the horizons longer. The thermometer topped out at 104 degrees. On a bike you have a perpetual wind which helps keep cold, but our riding gear is laden with Kevlar and is heavy duty for protection. It is hot and the sweat does not stop. We made the smart investement in 3-liter Camelback packs, which have allowed us to drink while driving, keeping dehydration at bay and allowing us to keep driving on longer legs.

Oklahoma greeted us with a slap upside the head in the form of a vicious head wind. When coupled with the turbulence caused by passing semis, sometimes our light bikes get tossed all over the road. One gust was so severe it blew me into the next lane and caused my bike to shimmy so much I thought I had blown a tire and was forced to pull over. Driving in wind like that is exhausting for distances. After 500 miles on our second day, we rolled into Oklahoma City and stayed with one of Tom's co-worker friends. The next morning we left and headed due south. The wind had not abated, which was a nice 'Good Morning!' from the Plains. Nine hours and 475 miles put us into San Antonio, where we holed up with my sister and her husband (Thank You Erin and Ryan!) and put some last pieces on the bikes and made final preparations for leaving the States. There is always one more thing to do. At 3 a.m. this morning, we were out on my sister's lawn using our headlamps and applying waterproofing to our maps. So much to do... I am currently waiting for one last morsel to arrive by UPS, before we load up and head out for Mexico. Our destination there in a few days is Oaxaca, where we will meet some friends and relax for a couple days before heading to Chiapas and Guatemala.

I know this is getting long, but very quickly I would like to answer three of the most common questions I have received about this trip:

1. What types of bikes are you taking? The motorcycles are a 1993 and a 1994 Kawasaki KLR650, both with around 10,000 miles. We specifically bought these bikes last fall for this trip. They are called thumpers: they have only one big cylinder that thumps away at a variety of speeds. These bikes are called dual sport bikes - they are like giant powerful dirt bikes that are capable of maintaining highway speeds but can also go offroad. I'll attach some pictures. The bikes are known for being ugly (check out the color schemes), uncomfortable, and not exceptionally good at highways or offroad. But most importantly, the bikes are known for being tough and dependable: if you take care of them then they will take care of you. They also are easy(ier) to work on. They are not chrome-laden monsters with inaccessible parts. Rather, they have plastic covers that come off easily and allow you to get at their guts. They could break down at any time, just like any bike. But they have taken us almost 1500 miles so far without complaint, so I have a feeling that they will keep chugging for awhile.
As far as holding our gear, we have attached two large steel 20mm ammo cans to the sides of each bike, mounted to a frame we attached. We each have a detachable top box trunk for the rear, and a 35 liter dry bag that sits between us and the trunk. We can hold a lot of stuff.

2. What happens when you break down? Tom and I have put a lot of time and effort into upgrading and learning about these bikes. We did all the work ourselves, with the couple exceptions of two local Milwaukeeans who showed us how to do one difficult procedure and helped remove some stripped bolts. We have spent $0 at mechanics on these things. We have upgraded the brakes, the suspension, the cables, the air filter, the battery, frame bolts, relocated turn signals, installed protective hardware, etc.. We checked and adjusted the engine valves ourselves and removed, disassembled, and cleaned the carburators. We've done other engine work and stuff I can't really think of. We can change tires on the side of the road in a flash. Blah Blah Blah. In short, we've learned a lot about these bikes and are pretty handy with a wrench these days, so hopefully we can take care of most things that pop up. All that being said, there still is a lot that can go wrong that is beyond us...

3. What do you take on a trip like this? I made a nearly comprehensive packing list for my own sanity. I'll attach that here as a word document if you want to look at it.

Okay, sorry that got so long, but that sums up about a year of trip preparation into a few paragraphs. If you have any questions along the way, feel free to ask and I will do my best to answer. I will also try to attach photos whenever possible, but sometimes third world internet access leaves something to be desired. Anyway, hopefully you will hear from me soon from Oaxaca and everything is going smoothly....

Nate