The Longest Friday

Returning to Bogota with a duffel bag full of motorcycle parts was an interesting ordeal. If it hadn’t been an array of odd metal pieces I would have slipped through. After being roughly pulled aside, I rummaged through the bag and pulled out the parts they had identified on their scanners. They excitedly unboxed the new clutch and assorted parts demanding paper work for each piece. I tried unsuccessfully to explain that my carnet document proved that all parts would leave the country with me.

It was already midnight and the military customs guy was getting a bit tired and annoyed.  There was a bit of a standoff as I argued that the collective cost was 300 hundred dollars. I was soon guided over to another room and told to take a seat. I was relieved to be handed over to a couple of very friendly customs ladies who kindly explained the import tax requirements and almost apologetically charged me 15% on the 300 dollars I had stated. Getting off lightly and happy to be free of the custom’s guy I happily paid up and ran for the door.

About 30 taxis drivers were clawing at the door just waiting to pounce on me as I exited the airport. Apparently, the only way for a taxi driver to make money at this hour is to compete for travelers at the airport. I picked out a driver, negotiated half his asking rate and jumped in his cab. His excitement at scoreing a customer seemed to correlate directly to a heavy foot as we tore through Bogota, running no less then eight red lights.

Happily reunited with the bike, I took a day to do some maintenance and prep for the ride to Medellin. Felipe and his friend were kind enough to join me one night to discuss routes through Colombia and South America. I had met Felipe, a local biker, a week before. I had just entered Bogota late at night after a 7 hour ride from Bucaramanga. Felipe pulled up beside me on his 1000 cc Yamaha and called a out a greeting, followed by an invitation to dinner. Random hospitality towards a complete stranger is always surprising. I was thinking that he was either incredibly cool or he’s a con artist. . (my criteria is based on having being ripped off by a fat guy riding a 200 cc pulsar, and a fat guy riding a 100 cc scooter.) Felipe was neither over weight, nor riding a mini bike. Judging by the rare and beautiful import bike he was riding I was confidant he was a true biker and a likely safe to hang with. Not to mention I was starving.

I joined Felipe for dinner at his place and we a talked of his adventure in riding all over S. America. He was an excellent source of information and just a good guy in general. Its always a pleasure to meet bike lovers in foreign cultures,.. makes you feel like you’ve got buddies around the world. Shared passions, whether it be biking, paragliding, or bug collecting sure does transcend borders and bring people together. It was great to find a friend in Felipe.

An interesting note, if you look closely at this picture you can see the guy in the background behind Felipe and the motorcycle,.. this is the homeless  guy who tried to steal my watch a month a go.

An 8 hour drive landed me in Medellin. Yet another modern, clean, and beautiful Colombian city.

I arrived at hostel Kiwi around 10pm, tired and looking forward to a hot shower. My heart sank when I was informed that there was no space for my motorcycle in the garage. Just as I was about to head back out into the night, Graham, another overlander rushed out and insisted there was room in the garage. Together we muscled and tetrus fitted my bike in with the other 4 bikes. Relieved to be parked safely for the night, I showered and then kept Graham up all night over a few beers and good travel stories.

Graham is doing it right. He’s an English man that cashed in his chips at his tech job, flew to the California, bought a BMW GS, and has now been traveling for over a year through North and Central America. Armed with his VOI helmet cam, he’s a brilliant film maker. His film on crossing the Honduran border is the best evidence of  border corruption I’ve ever seen. So if you want to know what kind of hell you get crossing some borders, experience it first hand through his vid..

Graham Honduras Border Crossing

Graham- you’re the man!, keep riding and keep filming, thanks for the filming inspiration.

Ruta 40 is an internationally renown bike shop in Medelllin Colombia. They come well recommended by Felipe, so I dropped  off the bike and new clutch parts with a feeling of being in good hands. It was the largest inventory of BMW motorcycles I’d seen yet south of the American Border,.. and there was a very heavy GS bias,…which appealed to me of course!

Meanwhile I had some time to kill back at Casa Kiwi. Not a bad place to hang I might add. Casa Kiwi Hostel is a story in itself. The owner, Paul, is a legitimate biker by all means. I caught Paul one evening at the hostel and coaxed out his story. He was doing a tour from Seattle to Argintina when he fell in love with Colombia( I cant imagine how or why:), and subsecuently relocated to Colombia after his tour. He’s running the best hostel in Medellin. And by the sounds of the next door construction, its soon going to be the biggest ad most epic hostal in Colombia.

Pic- Paul of Casa Kiwi in Medellin

With time on my hands I sifted through mountains of video clips and pushed out two new vids,.. check out these links, they should also be posted soon under the vid tab on this site.

Centro America

Project Orizaba

Not one to miss an opportunity to get back into the sky, I inquired about the local paragliding scene. Armed with directions to the local flysite, I begain working through the hostel to recruit anyone willing to help fill a cab to the flysite. It was a willing group of adventurers that liked the idea of flying. Before long we found ourselves renting a micro buss to fit everyone in. I was just as excited to fly this new site as I was to share this great sport with some new freinds from the hostel. The smile on anyone’s face after experiencing freeflight for the first time is not something to be missed!

On my first run  I sank out like a rock, and with a few other pilots I bombed for the LZ. But here it was all about timing. I had launched too soon and flew in the wrong direction. Determined to give it one more try, I launched for my second flight and skied out with epic lift. Thermals were everywhere, allowing me to hop effortless from one to another.

The fat columns of hot air rose up from the valley with soft edges, limiting turbulence to a minimum. I worked my way above the edge of the mountains exploring canyons and waterfalls from my birds eye view above. Not wanting to miss my ride back to the hostel, I flew back towards the launch zone to attempt a top landing.

Excited to see that my landing approach was clear of other pilots, I set up a conservative figure eight approach to burn altitude. I’d never landed on this sort of launch before. There was a lot of terrain features to be concerned with so I was prepared to back off at the slightest turbulence or crowding from other pilots. But every thing progressed smoothly as I sank softly onto the original launch zone. What a great fly site!

We celebrated our awesome flying day over a home cooked meal back at the hostel.  Best meal I’ve had in a long time!  Left to right, Maren, Rob, Sofia, and Venca. Germans sure do know how to cook!

I went for an urban hike to burn off some accumulated energy. A few hours into it I felt an extreme itch all over my body. Figuring I’d just run across something that my skin didn’t like, I reasoned a shower would fix things when I got back. At the hostel I showered up and went to bed assuming I’d feel better in the morning.

During the night I rubbed my eyes so much that I woke up the next morning with a severly swollen face. I purchased some form of antihistamine from the nearest drug store, and popped some of the tablets. Back at the hostel I resigned myself to my bunk partly in hopes that resting would fix things and partly because I was a bit embarrassed about wandering through the hostel as a balooned faced zombie. That evening I sauntered over to a mirror with high hopes that the antihistamines had done their work. What I found was a worsening situation that would lead to my eyes swelling shut if I didn’t get help soon. Preferring to be capable of actually seeing my way to the hospital I set out that evening.  Its times like this, when the reality of solo touring hits you in the face, when your down on your luck, feeling like shit, and you’ve got no one to turn to for help, you’ve just got to muscle through on your own.  Feeling very self-conscious about my total weirdo appearance, I avoided everyone on the streets and worked my way towards the hospital. I was soon frustrated in not being able to locate the hospital and I was forced to make contact with local jogger for directions. Instead of running away from my aweful appearance, the jogger, in true Colombian fashion, took the time to guide me to the hospital and personally check me in at the clinic. Which was a life saver, because I would never have found the hospital with out his help.  I’ve learned a lot about proper hostitality from Colombians!

Expecting a long miserable wait, I was surprised to be seen by a doctor within 30 minutes. From the typical hospital gurny I did my best to explain in Spanish my symptoms which was wasn’t necisary as it was written all over my swollen red face. The Doc was professional, reassuring and explained I’d be getting a solid dose of antihistamines through an IV. As I waited in my curtained off  section, I listened to the chaos around me. The sounds coming from the next stall over were alarming. The screaming suggested some guy was crying out in fear or pain as if his limb was being removed with out anesthetic. (sucks to be him) And on the other side of me several women were whaling at the top of their lungs. Mean while I’m literally sitting on my hands, desperately trying not to scratch my eyes out, and wondering what on earth/or hell is going on around me.

I found myself happily distracted from the audio drama as a very attractive young nurse entered my section with a tray and IV stand. She was polite, courtous and made small talk about the all the craziness going on that night. She did an expert job of needling in and hooking up the IV. The swelling went down but the itchiness increased as I tried with all my might not to touch my face. Ultimately the doc came back and told me it would take a while before I felt better. He wrote me a up a powerful prescription and sent me on my way. A hundred bucks later I was walking back to my hotel feeling a bit better and hoping I’d be cured by morning.

Well, two days later, my face is still swollen and its still very uncomfortable, but it is getting slowly better. At least I can walk outside with out scaring children or being offered a job in traveling circus.  And its not like I’m going any place soon anyway. As one would expect, things are taking a bit longer for bike repair. I can now say with some pride as an adventure motorcyclists that I’ve broken my frame clean through.

That’s some evidence that I’m not limiting my tour to pansy paved routes. I’m glad I’m getting it fixed here and not by some tin welder in Bolivia. There was also some small hiccups with installing the clutch, so I’ll be here a few more days. With a little luck though, the bike and I will be 100% or nearly so, in time for riding South on Saturday.

So I’ve been a bit lame lately,…. the site has been a bit slow. Contrary to your average adventure motorcycling book, not every turn is a death defying  adventure. So bare with me this week!   I’ve been “busy” the last few weeks tying up loose ends. Here’s little update on what I’ve been up to.

lunch on the road- a little vino can transform canned tuna and saltine lunch into an exquisite Mediterranean affair….do i look as classy as I feel!??

My original plan was to explore Cocuy, a remote and high altitude region in N. Eastern Colombia. It had all the makings of a mountain lover’s playground. A whole chain of 15,000ft+ glaciated peaks rising up to form a border between Colombia and Venezuela.  Judging by the lack of available mountaineering equipment, I’d likely have been the only one up there above the glacier line….a unique experience. More mountain, less people, just right! However, I never made it past Bucaramanga.

A late start from Bogotá led me into the expected nightly rainstorm. (Rain comes like clockwork at night in the Colombian highlands) Risking the wet roads and low visibility for as long as I could, I eventually pulled into San Gil. As I signed in at the hostel desk a small puddle formed around my boots with rain and mud dripping off my rally suite. I was standing in the lobby soaking up the warmth and enjoying the attention of being the dirtiest dude in the hostel when I heard my name from across the room and was amused to find myself in the company of Jake again….minus the hookers this time. You will remember a certain previous blog involving Jake inviting some “ladies” to the hostel and our subsequently being robbed.

Curious to hear how things had turned out on his end, I joined him for pizza and talked over the events. I was particularly disappointed to discover that there were still some issues at large. Jake informed me that one person involved in the theft of our equipment had created a Facebook page in my name and with my photo.

At first it all seemed petty and simply annoying. But after I logged onto Facebook and checked the photos he was using , I was alarmed. The photos and information were taken directly from the external drive that was stolen and returned over a month ago. This guy is known locally as David (from Venezuela),.. or Jose Hurtado,..or whatever other alias a dirt bag like him uses. We always suspected David was involved with the theft of our electronics, but this was proof. So David took my external drive, swiped all my personal information off this drive and used the information to steal my identity on face book and god knows what else he’s got in mind. He actually used my profile to hit on a friends girl friend. Its flattering that David is using my photo to pick up girls on the internet.   Flattering…… but not really.

Its good to know who the culprit is.  Facebook has already voided the page. I am currently working with the Major of the local police force in Bucaramanga to resolve this issue.  

Meanwhile a major snowstorm hit and consistent bad weather set in on Cocuy, making access by motorcycle unreasonable. So what would I do in Bucaramanga, when not filling out police reports….guess

So what’s my next move? Well, I’m now armed with some new toys, to include a new ceramic clutch. Personally, I’m more than ready to shoot for Ecuador, but I’m going to need a week to have this clutch installed on the bike. As soon as she’s running strong, I’ll make run for the border.

In Ecuador I’ll be looking for another Orizaba grade venture. Armed with a mean bike, a glider, and a new ice axe, in two weeks time I expect to be sipping a heavy concoction of riding, soaring and climbing Ecuadorian volcanoes.

-pic of water fall …near…well its not really near anywhere, somewhere between Tunja and San Gil.

So there was a time when I thought any city biker riding a 250 cc bike or smaller was riding because it was economical, not for sport. However, there is a200CC motorcycle called the Pulsar that has quite a cult following of die hard Colombian bikers. I was happy to have an escort all the way to Villavicencio from the local Pulsar Club.

There was a last minute decision for Victor to put his wing on the buss, and jump on the back of the bike with me. This proved to be a miserable experience. It was my fault for not thinking through the weight considerations, the type of road and the traffic. Considering the weight I’m already carrying, coupled with an extra dude on the back, it was comparable to riding with 3 people on a single bike. For the average 3^rd world biker, there would still be room for a couple goats,.. but for me,.. a biker who rides for the experience of riding and not for the destination, it was abysmal. With a passenger that was weight shifting onto my panniers, every turn felt like a near death experience. Instead rallying through a real race track of a road, I was limited to sucking exhaust behind truck trains that I could not safely pass with this passenger at night. I was kicking myself the whole way for getting myself into such a predicament. I’ve since removed the passenger foot pegs.

Needless to say. after two hours  I was relieved to arrive at our destination. It was a sort of open air night club with a magnificent view overlooking the nightlights of Villavicencio. I received a warm reception from all the pilots I had previously met in Bucaramanga. We drank a few beers, swapped stories and made ambitious plans for waking up early the next day for paragliding.

Regrettably the camping site was about 30 meters from the nightclub, which continued to rock out until 3 in the morning. The alternative was a nearby hotel that was out of my budget. So I experienced my first night camping at nightclub.

I got up at the proposed time of eight am, only to realize that I was the only one up. A few hours later, Victor assisted me in finding secure parking for the motorcycle at his father’s neighbor’s house. While greeting the neighbors and asking permission for parking, the grandmother of the house arrived with glasses of juice. It was hot, and we were dehydrated from the night before and fresh squeezed juice was just what I needed,..I thought. With in minutes of drinking the mystery brew, my stomach turned into a pretzel as the “juice” hatched mini piranhas that would ravage my innards for the next 3 days. But having survived my Nicaragua food poisoning episode, I was confidant I could tough it out, hoping a good breakfast would set things strait. Since everyone got up late, breakfast was bypassed in lieu of rushing up the mountain to fly. I scored two empanadas from a tienda and forced them down as we charged up the mountain.

At the summit launch site, I broke out with some serious sweating as I hunched my over glider with my insides screaming. I laid back on the grass as the other pilots rushed to set up their flying rigs. I tried to explain (unsuccessfully) that it wasn’t a hangover from a meager 4 beers the night prior, but rather some reaction to grandmas well intended hospitality.

At this point I felt a serious urge to return to the comforts of Bogotá. The climate is cool as opposed to hot and steamy Villavicencio and the hostel I had in mind was just what I needed to relax and overcome this stomach bug. When you are sick, sometimes you just want to be some place you’re familiar with until you’ve recovered enough to start exploring again.

After the launch cleared of pilots I hooked up to my wing and checked my lines. Conditions appeared strong and I was worried about not having my usual 4 liters of extra ballast. But I reasoned that the sooner I launched the sooner I’d be down and closer to getting “home”.

The assisted launch=

My fly site introduction consisted of the usual points of sink, rotor, and lift within eyesight of launch. When I questioned about the main landing zone, I was informed that I couldn’t see it from this angle and I’d be guided in from the air. Another first (aside from camping at a night club) was to launch into the air with out knowing where the landing zone was.

Standing on launch I readied myself for take off. I felt that familiar breeze brush the hair on the back of my neck, took a quick look at the wind sock, and then pulled wing into the air. Everything was perfect; I kited the wing for a split second to check my lines, and then stepped off the mountain.

Conditions were fairly smooth, but my wing was barely penetrating the strong wind. I gained 50 meters of lift off the ridge and edged over to a potential thermal. I found some thermic lift here and there, but I wasn’t willing to risk making turns over the ridge and possibly getting stuck behind the ridge. As the local pilots danced gracefully among the mountain ridges, I flew conservatively, gradually edging my way around the mountain were the “supposed” LZ was. As I was traveling along the mountain ridge, I lost any hint of dynamic or thermal lift and was faced with a head wind that was sinking my glider towards the trees. At full speed bar I was at least able to move forward toward a postage stamp size of an emergency landing. So with full speed bar, and lots of wishing,…. I maintained just enough altitude to slip around the mountain run with the wind. With the wind working with me and the mountains falling away to the plains I found myself with plenty of altitude to relax and enjoy the ride.

All of us pilots had dispersed in different directions, running from turbulence or chasing lift in any number of directions. The concept of being guided in on the LZ was fading rapidly. I realized I was going to have to pick the best looking pasture and just go for it. I noticed a huge field just South of Villavicencio. Even a lost pilot with piranhas in his stomach could land safely in field of that size.

While enjoying the view and soaking up the experience, I noticed a huge strip of concrete on the N. side of Villavicencio. The airport was probably 7 kilometers away, but by some weird coincidence I found myself directly aligned with landing approach of this runway,….which was ….alarming. I was surprised no one had mentioned this during the site introduction. I pulled a 360 scanning in every direction for aircraft, but was relieved to have the airspace to myself. With clear skys I chose to leisurely fly towards the big field and set up my landing approach.

Ever since I’d left the mountains I‘d actually been gaining altitude. It was fantastic, lift was everywhere. I had a tremendous amount of freedom to fly where ever I wanted. The airport, landing, and my stomach issues temporarily slipped from my mind as I found myself on the sky elevator of a huge thermal. Grand schemes of cross country travel were creeping into my mind as I pointed my glider towards Brazil, (shooting for the far side of Villavicencio)

Reality hit me as a low mechanical humming replaced the whisper of wind through my lines. My radio crackled as another pilot announced that an plane was in the local airspace. I nervously scanned around as the sound of the aircraft engines became louder and louder. I desperately looked for the airplane to avoid a potential collision that would definitely not be in my favor. By now the sound was at a roar and I  still had not located the source, which was…scary! Then, to my surprise a Korean War era, 4 prop, full size cargo plane passed underneath me! I couldn’t believe it. It would have been a hell of a photo, but that just wasn’t the time to drop my controls and fiddle with camera. The pilots of that aircraft must have got quite a laugh out of scaring the hell out of a paraglider pilot.

Not that it was any fault of there’s, as I was one in flying near an airport. I then got a call over the radio, explaining that I should fly closer to the mountains…good information…late..but good information.

Having had a enough excitement for the day, I abandoned any distance aspirations, curtailed back towards the mountains, and aimed for a small pasture that was definitely away from the Airports landing approach. I made some steep turns to loose altitude, then touched down softly among a few goats. There is always a moment of insecurity when landing in weird places. You never know who’s field you’re and how they will react to a dude falling out of the sky. I said hello to a nearby goat herder, but he just stared for a minute and then ran away.

It took me about 10 minutes to pack up and get on the move. After so many “exploratory” landings on this tour, I’ve learned to scope out the area from the sky so I know how to get out on foot. (surprising it took me a long time,,..and a lot of unnecessarily long hikes out to learn this) I also fly with pants and long sleeve shirt, so when I bushwhacking my way out of landing zone, I don’t get eaten alive by angry bugs and itchy plants.

Thirty minutes and 4 fences later I was standing on the side of a major road.

Victor was kind enough to send his friends to come pick me up. As I stood on the side of the road I realized this was a bad plan. From my awkward position on the side of a road in Eastern Colombia I reasoned that my position was a bit vulnerable. Villavicencio is for the most part safe, but it’s close to a lot of not so safe places, and there is a lot of not so safe traffic that comes through this town. A gringo standing on the side road could be a real opportunity for a bad dude, and very poor opportunity for the gringo. Whenever I feel vulnerable, I get moving. I communicated over the radio my intentions, which were probably not understood. It was a jerk move to take a taxi when friends were out here looking for me, but at some point safety has to come before etiquette. I also was feeling terrible. I needed to get back to my bike. Fortunately I’d marked the position on my GPS and was able to get the cabbie to drop me off a half mile out.

Within thirty minutes I was happily rolling the throttle, soaking up the familiar feeling of freedom, mobility, and security that I’ve come to know so well on my motorcycle. It felt wrong to leave this place and my friends here after only one day. I felt like a bad guest. But I was hurting, and I knew the best road to recovery was in the cooler climate and welcoming hostel of Bogotá.

I scribbled off a note for victor, explaining my intentions and apologizing for my early departure. I also drove out to the launch site in hopes of saying good by to everyone, but it was too late and everybody was at the landing zone (of which I still didn’t know the location). So it was off I went back to Bogotá.

With out the complications of to much weight, darkness, and another’s agenda, I experienced a totally different ride on the way back. I would argue with confidence that the ride between Villavicencio and Bogotá is the best motorcycle ride I’ve ever experienced! Even my ailing stomach could not prevent me from soaking up the experience of each curve, drop, and rise. It is essentially a two hour ride along a good road that contours the bottom of a very deep and steep valley. Virtually every mile offers stupendous views of waterfalls, soaring cloud capped mountains, and roaring rivers. The feeling of freedom was incredible  as there are virtually no traffic rules.  You can ride as fast as you want, dodge traffic, ride in the opposite lane, ride the gutter, what ever you want…at our own risk of course. With an expansive and shallow gutter on each side of the road, your escape options on a motorcycle are excellent. I roared up this road like bat out of hell, enjoying every minute of it.

I do slow down for tunnels though! Tunnels here resemble something out of a Disneyland ride,…. dark, steamy, little ventilation, with a few lanterns here and there. If any of the construction engineers had even the slightest sense of humor they would at least hang few skeletons in there for entertainment purposes.

In Bogotá, I was received warmly by the staff at Hostel Sue, which surprises me as I always arrive covered in road grime and on a mud cladden bike which I park in the middle of their immaculately clean common room. I had spent my last dime on taxis in Villavicencio, so wandered out into the streets of Bogotá search of an ATM. I’d previously felt that the Candelaria area of Bogotá was relatively safe. But this night was different. It was Sunday night and the only people out on the streets were the rough homeless drug junkie types.

Within a block of the hostel I had a junkie demanding that I buy him dinner. I kept walking, ignoring him, and claiming to only speak German. Trailing a little behind me, he rushed up and tried to snatch my watch off my wrist. I jerked my left hand away from him and raised my right hand to slug him. As soon as he saw my right hand come up he ran off. I realized then how rough a place this was on a Sunday night. I spent the rest of my ATM search that night strategizing my routes between the best lit streets and mentally preparing myself to fight for what I’ve got if I had to.

Three days later and a dose of some medicine I can’t pronounce and I was 100%. I was fortunate to link up with the Skillrider dude,..Randy again.

We had taken the boat over from Panama together and he’d just pulled into Bogota. We spent some time swapping waypoints and going over routes at the hostel, until he had to go ply his trade at the local casino.

Randy is a story in of himself. A story I should tell. You know those dudes in the western movies who go town to town playing poker and kicking ass. Well, that’s Randy, except he rides a motorcycle instead of a horse. Randy is a super talented poker player who is riding around the world and playing poker in every city or backwoods dump that has a casino. Here’s a picture of Randy in perspective. Randy! Your are the Man!

good thing I’m better at riding than photoshop!

more photos from the road