The Longest Friday

The 747 jet engines roared to life, pressing me back in my seat as I sat there thumping away to Samba from my headphones and gazing out from the little window at the Brazil falling away below me.

I had been so absorbed in the challenge of freighting the motorcycle and myself out to the next country, it never occurred to me at the time to ask myself, ….should I be leaving?  While trying to make sense of it all, a tidal of wave emotion descended over me. Maybe it was the inevitable affects of the journey on my mind, … an 8 month accumulation of blissfully drowning in new realizations and perceptions of a world I’d never known,..nor would I now claim to know it.

Brazil, like Colombia (but for different reasons) captured my imagination. Rambling through this land and among its people for barely a month, I walked away with a meager snapshot of the country.  I’d never claim to understand Brazil, only to admire it!  It’s the warm smile and hospitality from a Brazilian when you least expect it. Its the poorest favelas painted in the richest colors,..and its the soft yet vibrant music that graces the streets and draws you into their culture.  You hear the seductive calling, you feel the deep attraction …..and if you don’t “go native”, you will always wonder if should have.

I knew I was leaving something special behind in Brazil.  But I’d argue that’s often the nature of realizing or beginning to understand anything in this world- and you don’t know what you want until you’ve already let it go and you don’t know where you’ve been until you’ve left it behind,.…and even then its unlikely to ever makes sense or reveal itself in any form of rationality. It would seem that knowledge descends on us in the form of nostalgic warm memories accompanied with a little heart ache.

The border crossing from Bolivia into Brazil at Corumba was a tough one. Although folks were honest on both sides and no bribes were requested, the agents at the Brazilian registration office were lost on how to deal with two bikers wandering in from Bolivia.  At first, the Corumba office sent us back to the border, because they didn’t believe they were responsible for processing our paperwork.  At the border we waited for 2 hours for the manager to arrive. In an incredible fashion of kindness I’d come admire the Brazilians for, the manager personally escorted us all the way back to the Corumba office and got the process moving.   The ball was rolling,..slowly rolling, it was another 5 hours in a waiting room to get the final paper work.  When all else fails,…patience pays off.

Once across the border and free to legally roam Brazil, Roman and I parted ways. We had some differences in riding styles, cultural interaction, and destinations,..so with a hand shake and a “buen suerte” we split up and I ran for Rio on the best highways I’d seen since Mexico.

Campo Grande was the first major city I’d witnessed since La Paz.  In the downtown area I’d taken a few wrong turns and was in the process of getting back on track.  As I bumped along in traffic, two bikers pulled up on either side of me and called out a greeting.  They were from a local biker club and were out for a ride when they spotted my mud clad GS slipping between shiny new cars.  We pulled off to the side of the road for a hand shake and introductions.

After explaining that I was rolling for Rio, they informed me that I was off track and offered to assist me with some GPS routes and digital maps.   We headed over to a club member’s house, got the laptops out and started plotting a route to Rio.  This “planning” session involved a sort of on the spot party with the local bikers.  By the time I had the data I needed, it was late in the day and I was to liquored up to ride.  They kindly insisted I stay the night in Campo Grande, offering me their place for the night.

From the moment I met these guys it was full on hospitality.  That evening we rolled around Campo Grande meeting other bikers, eating out and exploring  varios clubs and live music concerts.  Dinner consisted of the first real hamburger I’d had since leaving the US, followed by some outrageous chocolate confection that should probably be illegal. As I wolfed down the meal, I had the excellent company of the restaurant owner and his beautiful daughter (prior Miss Amazon title holder).  I was introduced to about 3 different biker clubs,…including a trike club.  (these guys had chopped volkswagons into outrageous 3wheeled wheely machines).

The bikers of Campo Grande  continued to provide information and support to me over email and phone for the entire time I was in Brazil.  I can only hope I have the opportunity to return the favor in Colorado some day.

From Campo Grande to Rio de Janiero is a long and mostly boring highway ride through country side that looks deceptively like Kansas. Something like 100% of the agricultural land is owned by about 1% of the population, resulting in land management akin to Texas with massive ranches and farms spread out in every direction.  Noting the unbroken line of fencing alongside the road, I knew I had left the long stretches of wilderness (and epic camping) behind in Bolivia.

After a day and a half of fast highway riding I entered the city of Rio de Janeiro.  This was for me a major milestone in my tour.   I never new for if I’d make it, and I certainly didn’t know it would have taken eight of the most amazing months of my life to get there.  So on arrival I had some big expectations,. all of which were exceeded.

Several years ago I had good fortune to cross paths with the US army Major, Lee Johnson and his family.  Neither of us at the time had any idea we’d be linking up in South America years down the road.  A perfect concoction of fortune and zealous determination had landed us both one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

Homing in as close as I could with the GPS, I left the bike parked along the Ipanema beachfront.  I had the address scribbled across a Bolivian cashiers receipt in one hand and my helmet in the other. Walking through crowds of half naked, perfectly tanned and very beautiful sunbathers, I suddenly realized how ridiculous I looked bundled up in my muddy riding suite .   But I didn’t care, because I knew how far I’d come.

There was definitely a moment of shock as the Johnsons opened the door of their immaculate Ipanema home to a barely recognizable road weary biker.  Ignoring my rough disposition,  I was immediately embraced by friends and welcomed into their home.  After which, I was led directly to the laundry room for a three cycle double soap wash of anything I had come in contact with.  Lee put a frosty mug of ice cold Bohemia brew in my hand and sent me strait for the shower. The hot water never felt so good. For a solid thirty minutes I stood there in the shower, sipping on that delicious wheat beer and letting that steamy water wash away the miles.  Clean shaven, with fresh short haircut and near bursting from the an outstanding meal, I was ready for two weeks of nonstop fun in Rio with the Johnson family.

The Major is currently working in partnership with Brazilian military.  As he was at work during the days, I sorted my kit and researched my next move.   Floundering with the Portuguese language, I was seriously struggling to find a shipping agent in Brazil.  Lee’s wife came to my rescue, putting some hours in on the phone negotiating with various agents. I have to give her full credit for getting my shipping quote down to 2,500 from 9,300usd!  I’ve been assisted by altruistic people through out my entire trip, but the Johnsons seriously went out of their way for me.  I can’t thank them enough.

As soon as Lee got of work, it was “go time” for seeking excitement through out Rio.  I can only think of a few cities in the world that offers so much outdoor adventure within the city limits.

After a good climb or hike, we’d rush back in time to clean up for the evenings activities.  It was truly enjoyable, sipping on good whisky, pulling on a fine cigar, and working the social circles among Brazilian and American Army officers.  My limited pannier wardrobe barely got me by for such events as a cocktail party on an Aircraft carrier.  Life was good!

And of course, there was flying to be done.  No freeflight pilot can visit Rio and not fly! Seriously, your not allowed to leave the country until you have the “ I flew Rio” stamp on your visa!

Through several emails, Lee had mentioned  some good flying in Rio. He had also told me about a possible backwoods launch he had found while climbing and hiking on Pedra de Gavea.  I didn’t really think much of it at the time, cus I was already flying epic sites all over S. America.  I was in for a surprise.

Lee pointed out Pedra de Gavea to me on my first day in town.  I was immediately impressed and eager to check it out.  It was a big deal.  A huge dome of rock that shot up off the water front towering over the entire region.  Wer’re talking something like 2,500feet of near vertical granite.  There are a lot of variables in flying terrain like that, but I had to to check it out.

We were running a little behind that morning (late nights out have that effect), but we made link up at the trail head by 9am.  One of Lee’s friends arrived with about 5 young folks visiting from Utah.  They were a good group and it was blast working together to get through the technical sections.  There is apparently a non technical trail to the summit, but we didn’t know about it.  Nor would I want to know about it. The easy chimney climb was too much fun!  I say easy, but wouldn’t want to lead it!…thats what Lee is for!

pic-hauling the glider up

The route up the summit is a blast!   I stood there gingerly looking over the edge,….talk about some serious exposure!   Lee was right, it was an epic launch zone.  The rock mountain was capped by grassy top that was suitable for prepping a cliff launch.

As much as I wanted to fly it, there was just too much wind.   I was still content, the climb up was great, the view was awesome,..Pedra de Gavea is a great experience regardless of having hauled a useless glider to the top.

It was all about group photos and soaking up the view.  As we turned to head back down, I decided out of a whim, to check the grassy launch area one more time.  I can’t explain why or how, but the winds had abated over the grassy area.  (normally winds continue to increase as the day heats up)

I couldn’t believe it, conditions were now absolutely perfect!  Like an excited school boy on a sugar high, I ran all over the summit, observing every angle of the launch, the wind patterns, and timing the thermal gusts.  It was all too good to pass up.  And I had a 6 man launch team to assist me. We did a little huddle as I explained how to hold the wing and when to release.   They kept the wing from flipping up with the occasional wind gusts as I sorted through my kit and triple checked all my connections.  Last time I stepped off such an intense vertical face was on Orizaba in Mexico, and I was more than happy to have the back up this time.

I could tell you I wasn’t nervous,. but I’d be lying.  Actually I’m pretty much nervous any time I launch a new site..which is good,..keeps me in line,,..double checking my kit.

-thanks Utah guys for the pics- I like the psychedelic photo lense,..feels like a disco- very groovy!

of course there’s a vid

http://www.vimeo.com/6306929

I knew there would be a gust coming off that cliff face.  Basically thermals(hot air) drip up terrain features like water on inverted stalagtites.  The bigger and steeper the terrain feature, the more powerful the thermal blast.  There was also some dynamic lift coming off wind from the ocean that complicates the thermals.  Fortunately after having flown Colombia, I had an idea of what to expect and how to ride it out.

However, I had never felt gusts quite like this…..totaly manageable, not dangerous, but a bit nerv racking. I was glad I had tied bag full of gravel into my harness before I had launched, the extra weight created more pressure and stability in the wing.

It was an epic flight.  I arrived over the city, still a thousand feet above the towering office buildings.

Lee had also found the main paraglider launch in Rio, which sits below Pedra de Gavea.

Although it gets a little too busy during the day, we’d come out early in the morning to enjoy smooth effortless flights over the city with the skies totally to ourselves.  It was an absolute blast flying with Lee,..although keeping up with him on his speedy new Ozone was a challenge.  Keep flying Lee!

When Lee and I get together and start bouncing ideas off each other, unusual concepts emerge!  At some point one of us (LeeJ) brought up the idea of flying Rio at night.  I’m a sponge for unusual ideas like that and I immediately decided to look into it.

The concept of stepping off into pitch darkness is really really unnerving.  Its kinda like rappeling in caves,..your not sure what your descending into.   Its not a high risk factor, its just a natural human fear of what you cant see.  I wasn’t going to do it unless conditions were excellent.  We drove up to the site late at night and sat on the launch listening and feeling the wind.  It was nasty, the windsock was doing a 360.  I have some concept of how micrometeorology works during the day, but at night I wasn’t too sure.  All I knew was that there is higher probability for catabatic (down flowing cold air) winds, which doesn’t bode well for a paraglider.  After 30 minutes of wondering what would happen if I flew, I pulled the plug and backed off, the windsock was a clear indicator of bad flying conditions.

Then I returned with the Lee the next night under better conditions and flew the site.  It was wild!  It was not a smooth flight.  Talk about some serious coal to diamond pucker facter! But ultimately I was on the beach shoveing my glider into a bag before anyone who cared noticed.   I did film the whole flight,…but its not very interesting..go figure,,,it was dark!

I decided not to go to Argentina.  My holiday/work visa for Australia was soon to expire, so I would have to scream down the highway, cross 2 borders and then desperately look for a flight for myself and the bike.  There’s nothing cool about long days on the highway or border crossings.  So I said, “screw it,”..and committed to finding a way to Australia from Brazil.  The big challenge was in breaking new ground. I couldn’t find anyone or any information on shipping motorcycles from Brazil to Australia.  I made contacts with some of the “greats” of world adv touring (ie Lisa and Simon Thomas) and they all said the same thing, “its to difficult from Brazil, go to Argentina”.   I’m kind of a rock head about some things, and I decided to try it from Brazil. Lee’s wife, did the phone work from Rio and got things started, but I had to get down to Sao Paulo to personally push things along.  Besides,  I had to get out Rio, before I completely corrupted their son! see pic below

Riding a motorcycle in Sao Paulo is an experience in itself.  As crazy and wild as the traffic may be (although nothing compared to La Paz),.. the drivers are very aware and courteous towards bikers.  I was amazed to find cars actually premeditating my next lane shift and getting out of the way.  As I white lined between cars, they actually pulled aside to give me more room. It was amazing.

I would later find out that there is a lot behind this “courtesy” towards bikers in Sao Paulo.  Business in this city is dependent on motorcycle delivery guys.  These men have formed unions, united together by their fast and dangerous profession. (I was quoted that 8 of these guys end up in the hospital every night) They’re a wild bunch,..and if you get in their way,…they break your mirrors.  So the standard automobile traffic gives them leeway for fear of having their mirrors broken.

Unexpectedly, Sao Paulo turned out to be a rich experience in itself.

11 years ago I was an exchange student studying in Germany.  I have kept in contact with several of the other exchange students by email, to include one of the Brazilian students.  Aware of my tour in South America, she contacted me and invited me to stay at her house in Sao Paulo.  So, as I worked through the wild jungle of Brazilian shipping I had great fortune of staying with a wonderful Brazilian family.

I’ve made it to Australia, but the bike has not! I’ll do a blog on the shipping adventure as soon as thing work out, until then I’m holding out so I don’t give any misleading information.

Footnote:

I would never be so naïve or arrogant as to compare myself with greats of motorcycle touring, such Ted Simon or Robert Fulton.  However,  I noticed a familiar trend in their writing, writing that began as easy reading adventurous trip reports, but gradually drifted into much heavier psychological revelation.  The journey changed the way they thought of the world and themselves, and this baptism of realization began to dominate their writing.  The last chapters of Simon’s, “Jupiter’s Travels” are not easy reading, and difficult for the reader to understand. It was almost as if the author began writing less for the reader and more as an outlet for his own emotions.  Although its less action for the reader, there is still a great deal of value in it all,…a value that lies in honesty and realism if only in the authors mind.

I don’t like to think of myself as an emotional drama type person, but after a long solo ride through S. America, I’ve begun to feel a need to write more than just simple trip reports.  The desert tracks, strange folks or wild flights off mountains,. were not the journey itself, but simply vehicles arriving on a greater experience.  What I’m getting at, is that this blog may come to entertain more than mere trip reports. The thoughts that pour from my mind into this computer, the bizarre and the eclectic, may confuse and likely bore the reader.  But to hell with it,…its just a blog anyeay. I’ll write what I want,… No matter how weird or boring it may be, at least I can still promise you good pictures from the road ahead!  At any rate, thanks for riding along,- its been a blast sharing! Lots to come (Australia ,Asia, Africa, Europe

.

.

We set out running due east from Santa Cruz, Bolivia towards San Jose.  Mile by mile the pavement edges closer to connecting Corumba, Brazil with Santa Cruz. The construction zones provided their own challenges…aside from trucks hauling fill dirt and supplies, there was the water truck.  The water truck was laying down the slick stuff in a futile attempt to cut the dust.  So the end result of the water truck was mud road obscured by dust.  This red clay soil was the slickest mess I’d ever seen.  Nothing like it had ever reared its ugly head like this stuff on the tour so far.  It’s like it had some sort of chemical reaction with water that resulted in a petroleum product specifically engineered to topple anything on two wheels.  We both went down on this stuff.  It ultimately meant driving at about 3 miles an hour tracing your boot soles through the mud alongside the bike.

The construction is creeping its asphalt fingers deeper into the jungle each year, but for now,there is still over a 100 kilometers of red dirt track that slashes its way through the forest towards San Jose.  It’s a road to find a sense of solitude in, a place that heightens your sense to the environment immediately around you.

Instead of gazing off to at the distant peaks and salars of SW Bolivia, you vision is narrowed by the dense wall of exotic plants and trees along side the road.

nice pic Roman!

You can peer a few meters into the shadowed jungle, catching site of the occasional toucan and various other weird creatures.  The 1150 ate this stuff up like a charm, and I pushed a good hour’s ride ahead of Roman.  In 90 kilometers I came across only two other vehicles and couple dudes on horses with rifles slung across their backs.

I was warned that this was rough country, riddled with narco traffickers and bandits.  And I’m sure it is,..but that day, no one was interested in giving me trouble.  In fact the two truckers and the armed dudes on horseback,,all gave me a friendly wave and smile.  I’m not saying it was Disneyland out there,  for me it was an over all positive experience.  Basicly I followed the advice I was given by trucker I met in Lima,.. get driving early, put your miles in and then get off the roads and out of site before dark.

As day passed on,  the sun dipped towards the horizon the shadows grew longer over the red clay road and I new it was nearing time to get off the road..   I arrived at another construction site stretching out from San Jose.  Not wanting to enter the town at night, I pulled off the road, waited for Roman, then we hunted town a campsite nearby

By mid morning the following day we arrived in San Jose.  We were hungry for a meal and in need of more tire patches.  Both of us had new punctures in our tires.  The road wasn’t that rough, it was just a matter of old abused tires that needed to be replaced. When a street side tire shop guy in S America says you need new tires,,…you need new tires bad! Because they normally run their tires way down to the metal threads.

Obviously there wasn’t any replacement around, so we pushed on relying heavily on my air compressor.

I was surprised to find a near perfect paved road from San Jose all the way to the Brazilian border.

I don’t know if it’s always windy and cold in SW Bolivia, but I was wearing everything I had for days.  Well, it wasn’t raining, that’s a plus, especially on dirt.  From Uyuni we turned our handlebars towards Brazil.  Somewhere way off to the east was the tropics,…warm weather, good food,… and topless beaches….okay, I may have exagerated, but at any rate, I was ready to ditch the gortex and long underwear.

The fastest way to Brazil from Uyuni is back the way we had come.  But this was not acceptable.  Ask any adventure tourer,…….backtracking is always a last resort option.  Going forward, wherever that may be,,,is the nature of this type of riding,….the hundreds of miles of new and fascinating terrain ahead lures you on, soothing your sole in a way that only the open road can.  “The sweet voice of freedom,, whispers down the ages, calling another cowboy on his way” (Chris Leudoux)  I’m no cowboy, but I can hear the whisper…especially out here.

So it was on a dirt track, south by south east…. by way of San Vicente.

Speaking of cowboys….. there’s a spark of American history down in these vast tracks of high altitude wilderness.  Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid  had been running these parts back in the day. After things got a little too hot in the American West they start working south of the border…way south.  There last hit was some mining pay roll in San Lorenzo.  On the run with the Army hot on their heals, they’d pushed all the way to the stark mining town of San Vicente. From a small church (still there) they made their famous last stand, immortalized by the movie “Butch Cassidy  and the Sundance Kid”.

San Vicente is way off the beaten track.  But the beaten track is great, fast dirt riding and no traffic.  After about 5 hours we got our first view of the town. Bleak, would be the best description.  Over a hundred years after the American bandits sought shelter here, the locals are still pulling Silver out of the ground.  It’s all business, in this town, ….mining business. There’s no shops or restaurants, just a collection of buildings to house the miners and their equipment.  We passed a few rough looking folks wearing head lamps that were retiring after a long day underground. There wasn’t a lot  of smiles around here, but if I plied my trade under ground, I’m not sure I’d be smiling either.

Was it worth the trek.  Hell yeah! There is an old section of the village focused around a church,…THE church!.

-the chappel were the American outlaws burst out guns blazzing for thier last stand.

We pushed on that evening racing the sun, hoping to camp low enough to escape the subfreezing temps.  As the sun dipped behind the hills, we were still very high and looking for campsite along a frozen creek.  Around a bend we came across a set of old abandoned shelters.

Likely the remnants of a llama herder or a lone miner, they were an obvious shelter against the wind.  A bit of scouting revealed a hut with the roof  still in tact. As the cold night descended on us we were only too happy to have shelter that night.  With the bikes in the coral we piled in for the best nights sleep I’d had in a long time. Those mud walls outperformed our nylon tent walls ten fold.

That night I cooked up some hot chocolate, settled back against the stone coral outside, and soaked up the experience.  I gazed over the dark mountain ridges as the moon rose into the brilliant night sky, illuminating the canyon as it reflected off the rocks and ice. I couldn’t help but wonder if those American outlaws had made camp nearby, or perhaps in this very spot.  Had they corralled their horses and holed up in a herder’s hut like this, or had they weathered it out under some ledge down by the water?  They probably didn’t have a fire, for fear of being seen by their pursuers. It must have been a cold night with out down sleeping bag or patagonia cap4 long underwear.  I bet they knew they were close to being caught, close to the end.  I’d give just about anything to know what words would have passed between those two American outlaws, as they weathered out the night, with their adventures so near to a violent end,,, on the run, and so far from home.

And damn it….were did the booty end up!  Somewhere out there perhaps!

The bikes grumbled a bit that morning when we worked the starters to get the motors pumping.

For a while it looked like the stoves were coming out, but after a few more tries both bikes fired up just fine.  As I waited for Roman’s R1100 to start up, I did once over on the bike and found a major crack in my frame.  It was fairly alarming, I had a clean break all the way through…..and I was about 120km from the nearest paved road.

The only course of action on my mind at the time was to ride on,.. a little slower,. which was just fine because the road ahead was more technical anyway.  All in all, a chassis break or crack is totally rideable and not that big of deal I would learn……drive on and get r fixed when you can.  A Bimmer can take a lot and keep going, Roman taught me that.

I loved the ride to Tupiza.   Seven hours of wandering through incredible geography.  There was everything I needed for adventureing on two wheels,…sand traps that keep you humble, ruts that keeps you on your pegs, water crossing that soak your boots, and a track that challenges your route finding skills and keeps you wondering……”where the hell am I anyway?”

Part way through a tough sand section, we came across an old truck that appeared to be stuck.  We were truly in the middle of nowhere, so I stopped to see if anyone needed help.  An old man popped out the cab and greeted me. I would learn that he wasn’t stuck, but had simply run out gas.  He pointed excitedly to my fuel tank, but as far as I was concerned he’d have to have a gun to get it.   Fuel is a precious commodity and possibly a life link in boonies.  I explained to him that I had only enough to get my own butt out, and that it was gasoline anyway,..and he had a diesel truck that probably needed about 20 gallons to get to the next fuel depot.  I told him I’d notify the folks in the first town I came across.  I also offered him food and water, which he declined, which was good, because both my dromedaries were frozen anyway.  I guess the guy was making supply runs to outback mining camps. Maybe he’d ruptured his fuel tank, or was simply hoping to make it out on a prayer and fumes.

The sandy track eventually spilled us out onto a creek bed.  The ice was slick, but the frozen water held that mud together like concrete keeping the rear wheel from sinking in.

The path we’d been following eventually teetered out to a few tire tracks leading off in various directions.  The riding was good on the hard sand so we stayed in the river bed hoping to bisect a better track.  I had previously plotted a dirt road on my gps, so I knew it was close to the Tupiza track.

With the GPS homing in on the route, we found a sandy path leading up out of the creek in the general direction of Tupiza.   As usual, we were on the wrong side of the creek, necessitating another crossing.   Excited to get on a real dirt road, I pushed forward out over the ice.  Fortunately I’ve got a lot of torque in first gear to make for poor decisions… like crossing the deep section of a frozen creek.  About a third of the way across, the ice broke and  I sank in, I  dropped a gear, and pulled hard on throttle.  The big pig of bike busted its way through the water and frozen surface like some Arctic ice breaker.  It was weird, but it worked….once you get a big bike moving, it’ll plow through a lot.

Roman watched from behind, cursing his dead camera batteries, then rerouting to a smarter place to cross downstream.  We both emerged above the creek onto a firm dirt road that had us on a good dirt road towards Tupiza.

Over the next four hours we came across one truck, which we notified about the stranded trucker up in the hills.  Hopefully they made link up.

A few hours in route to Tupiza we began dropping some real elevation.  The terrain changed from cold windy hills and snow touched mountains to red canyon lands graced with cactus, and the first trees we’d seen in days.  Reminiscent of the American West, it felt like home to me.

Switching my mp3 player over to a new play list, I got some old school country playing, putting a nice touch on the ride. I stopped off beside a river in the shade of a willow tree to take a breather and embrace the first warm day I’d experienced since the jungles of Corioco.

Tupiza is place worth visiting!  (okay, picture is lame,..this is the outskirts of town)

The town has retained its old style charm, the terrain is gorgeous, climate dry and warm-ish, and the town folk are friendly.

Five bucks and 20 minutes later, my frame was rewelded we were back on the road, rolling north of town to look for a campsite.

With timber available for burning , we had ourselves a little campfire.  Was a pleasure to hang out in the glow and warmth of a fire late into the night instead of diving into a sleeping bag to escape a subfreezing wind.

In the afternoon of the following day we hit pavement.  Was a nice feeling to turn up the throttle a bit, but I was already missing the beautiful country we’d just traversed.  The next stop was Potosi.  Said to be the highest city in the world, it sits on the side of a mountain that is the source of its wealth.  The town was all about mining that mountain, and the wealth retrieved from its depths, was evident in the beautiful colonial architecture.

We were there for chow! A 1.50 got us a full place of decent food.  It being Sunday, a lot of the miners had the day off,…which meant getting drunk and harassing two foreign bikers.   I was out by my bike gnawing on the end of chicken bone when three drunk dudes arrived looking for entertainment.  Reeking of bad booze and teeth stained black by coca leave, these were rough looking folks.

After making some small talk for a bit, one of them demanded that I buy him a bit of corn brew (some weird local alcohol).  Refusing to buy him a drink, the guy flipped out and made a big scene and actually tried push me over to the liquor vendor.  This might have been kinda scary, getting yelled at by a drunken native miner,…but the fact that he was a full foot or two shorter then me,….made it..well …funny!   Criticize me if you will, but a four foot drunken native dude trying to intimidate a 5 foot 11 gringo wearing riding armor is hilarious!

more pics from Potosi

nice photos Roman!

More great camping.  Fortunately, it was dry season in this region, so finding campsites was just a matter of finding a river or creek that bisected the road.  You can drop down onto a creek and ride the bed until you find a homey pad out of site of the road.

It was a smooth sailing asphalt road all the way to Sucre.

From Sucre, I figured we were in for smooth sailing paved roads all the way to Santa Cruz.  Boy was I wrong!  Whats the fun of paved roads anyway!  From Sucre, it’s a wild 2 day ride to the lowlands of the Pantanal.  (I think there is a faster paved route up north, but that meant back tracking to Oruro)

Usualy he’s too quick and gets the bike up before I can get a photo-cus if there’s no pic it didnt happen…. but I finaly caught em!

Cloud forests are cool, but there’s a lot a gooey!

Santa Cruz is so different from the Bolivia, I felt I’d entered another country.  It almost seemed that the character of people in Bolivia coincided with the weather.  The warmer the weather, the warmer their hearts …and the warmer the reaction to strange bikers.  Its been said that Santa Cruz identifies itself more with Brazil than with Bolivia, and I’d have to agree.

And check out my new favorite gas station!  Again- nice shot Roman.

I’m now lounging back among good friends in a plush high rise apartment, a mere 100meters from the Ipanema beach in Rio de Janeiro.  I’ve had a hot shower, shaved, and even got a haircut.

I don’t think my buddy’s wife was much impressed when I showed up at their doorstep with long hair, a beard and covered in mud and sweat.   The journey to Rio was scrolled across  my riding suite in various forms of dirt and grease stains, and graced appropriately with virtually every specimen of dead insect from the Bolivian highlands to the Brazilian Panatanal.  But through all that road grime beamed a huge smile that only comes from a really…. really… good ride!.

It was a top notch route,….challenging at times, but the experiences were rewarding beyond measure.  I would have to rank SW Bolivia right up there with Baja in regards to epic dirt riding.

But I’ve got to back up a bit to where we left off on the last post- I returned from the charming town of Coroico to La Paz-which is my favorite place to ride a motorcycle (–this is an attempt at sarcasm)

The Brazil Visa was supposed to be ready,…..but ..it wasn’t!  The embassy guy explained that there was a holiday so things were delayed.  How the 2 day holiday delayed the visa application for 10 days is the question I wanted to ask…but I knew better than to get into a pissing contest with the guy holding my passport. So there I was back in La Paz with more time to kill.  If you like mountains, the region around La  Paz offers up some world class stuff!

I’d heard that I was near the world’s highest ski resort. Intrigued, I rolled out of the city, through the ghetto, and up into the hills to check the Chalcataya Ski Resort.

Darkness fell as I was still bumping my way up the mountain, so I scouted around, then made camp at about 15,500ft.  The air temp dropped to below freezing, but it was the ice cold ground that got to me as it crept up through my leaking air mat and into my sleeping bag. I eventually realized the 3 layer foam back armor in the BMW Rally jacket retains heat well and doubles as a comfy sleeping matt.  Substituting the jacket for the thermarest, I was warm and comfortable and drifted off to sleep under a cold clear starlit sky.

It was an early start.  I got up with the sun, broke the ice in my cooking pot and laid into some hot chow!  Within an hour I was fireing up the bike and then back on the twisty dirt road up to Chalcataya.

The rising sun made a spectacular show over the glaciated peaks as it peaked up over the horizon.  Within thirty minutes I arrived at the lodge of Chalcataya.

Skiing was out of the question.  There was no snow.  The site was founded before World War Two on a major glacier close to the summit. Up into the early 70’s it was a year round skiing destination. It was not exactly Vail and in truth not even a resort, but it was a big deal for Bolivians and all those international adventure types that might be drawn to this record high ski run.

The site is stilled skied, and has a rope tow operation that operates through the summer months when there is more precipitation.  However, the glacier is all but gone, and the snow pack is more disappointing each year.  Many predict that the site will close within a few years……and at that point some place in China will lay claim to the worlds highest ski resort.     Not that any of this mattered much to me.  Sure I love a good ride on one plank or two , …..but I had back up…and the winds smelled just right.

It wasn’t a coincidence that I was there at the worlds highest ski resort at 7am with a paraglider.  I’d gambled that just maybe if I arrived early before the sun heated things up…the conditions might be right to break my personal high altitude launch record from Orizaba..

I hiked the last half mile up to 17,600ft.  Everything was perfect.  It was like Orizaba all over again….except higher, easier to get to, and it wasn’t a cliff launch.   I was experiencing perfect launch conditions at a place and altitude that is usually a pilot’s nightmare.

With a gentle wind, I eased that glider up and stepped off the mountain on one of the smoothest and easiest high altitude launches I’ve experienced.   There was virtually zero turbulence, allowing me to cruise the mountain ridge lines soaking up a little lift here and there.  The view from a paraglider is always spectacular, but when its in the Andes its even more intense.  I was so mesmerized by the beauty of the local peaks it was hard to pay attention to flying. I have no worthy pictures or video to share these emotions.  Its an experience the great Andes mountains only offer on a rare and personal bases.  I was fortunate!

(I had the camera rolling for a bit, but the batteries soon ran out.  Regardless I’ll see if I can’t scrap something together from what I’ve got and post it…”manana”(that’s Spanish for whenever I get to it)

http://www.vimeo.com/6032175

I ultimately ended up in the valley where I had camped a week ago.  I cruised over a half frozen red lake (minerals or something- I don’t know why it was red!…the blood of Bolivian drivers perhaps!) and landed on the far side in soft grass.  Still attached to my glider,  I plopped down, reached into my pocket for an empanada(meat filled pastry), munched away, soaking up the experience.  It sure felt good.

It wasn’t long until my “buddies”,..the llamas, showed up in force.   Curios by nature, I had about 50 of them come check me out.

I landed at just under ~15,000ft and the hike back up to my bike was not quite as much fun as the flight down.  It took me about 4 hours, but I probably could’ve knocked it out faster if I hadn’t stopped and picked up a bunch of rocks.

I tried not to do it! At first I was pretty good, but I eventually gave in. Once I had one cool rock,…a few more didn’t seem like a big deal.  It was the fossils that were so impressive.  Supper cool sea shells and other ancient critters had fossilized into the rocks, and I’d barely make it 10 steps with out stumbling across another intriguing stone embedded with a perfect sea snail shell and various clam patterns.

So,..rocks and all,  I eventually topped out and reached my bike.  At this point, things were hoping up at Chalcataya.  A couple trucks had arrived to disgorge tourists, who snapped a victory photo or two and then rushed into the shelter of the chalet to absorb hot beverages.  A tourist myself, I took a few photos also, then fired up the stove next to my bike and brewed up my own hot brew.

The place is staffed by the local alpine club.

These men were top notch folks. They came out and introduced themselves and  I put some tea on for them.  I told them about the morning’s excursion with the paraglider.  They seemed pretty excited about it all and they insisted I stay the night at their Chalet and fly again in the morning.  I was enjoying their company, liked the proposition of a warm bed at 17,000ft, and I jumped at the chance to fly the mountain again…and hopefully get some real video footage this time.

As it turned out, I never flew the next morning.  I got up early and hiked up to the top, but things didn’t feel right.  There was more wind and clouds were forming over lake Titicaca and blowing in towards the mountains. It was borderline flyable.  I sat there for an hour, exposed to a cold wind, high on the ridge top, throwing the possibilities around in my mind.  Go or no go was the question.  “Risk verse reward,” as my old boss used to tell me.  Or as another would say.”if your not getting paid,..and your not getting laid..dont risk it”   By 0800 I made the decision to back off.  The wind wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t perfect and I trudged back down the mountain.  There’s always other adventures to be had…like riding SW Bolivia.

(as it turned out, those winds I felt were the beginnings of a major weather front  that would blast the region with unusually strong winds for the next week,….it was a good time to be on the ground!)

I rolled back into La Paz to go check on my Visa.  I got just far enough into the city to find my self trapped in complete chaos.  I regret that I never did find out exactly what was going on.  However, it was obvious that the compesinos (hill folk) had come down from the mountains and into the city to block the main street through town, and march around protesting.  The compesinos have it pretty rough, -overworked, underpaid, super poor, so I’m sure what ever they fussing over was legitimate.  But it was hell of a time to be stuck traffic, sweltering in thermal underwear, and holding the brake lever for 20 minutes at a time on impossibly steep cobble stone streets.

A slight gap opened up, and I was able to work my way up to the next intersection.  Here I witnessed, what I’m going to term “the bolivian standoff’. It was a four way intersection.  Varios cars and busses had pulled into the oncoming lanes of traffic in an attempt to force the vehicles on the opposite side to back up and let them through.  Each side of the intersection refused to back up regardless of who had right away.  The drivers got out of the cars and started a hard core screaming match.  If so much as one car backed up 5 feet, we all could have moved forward to the next intersection.  But the testosterone was flowing and the concept of maintaining face and not backing up became far more important than cooperating and moving on.   By this time I had turned the bike off, put town the kick stand, propped a leg over the handle bar, munched on an empanada and watched the circus do its thing.  I wanted to film this, but when folks start getting crazy I kinda like to take a back seat and avoid attention.  Its amazing the simple things people cant accomplish when they refuse to work together.   Ultimately a man in uniformed arrived and forced one of the cars to back up and we all got moving again.

I ran for the nearest parking garage, ditched the bike and made a run for the Brazilian embassy on foot.  I didn’t make it,.. so it was yet another day of waiting for the visa in La Paz.  The application for a Brazilian visa was turning into some weird urban and beaurocratic odyssey.

Fortunately the sirens never reared their ugly heads and my lucky day arrived. The clouds parted and the protests stopped. I got a ham and egg breakfast, and I got my Visa for Brazil!  Everything was good, real good!  There was no longer anything to hold me in La Paz.

At this point I had three options. I could ride strait for Brazil, which was the probably safest/conservative option.  Or could do a huge loop through SW Boliva then roll for Brazil.  Or I could take up an invitation I’d received from a Brazilian climbing team and try to knock out a major summit.  It all looked tasty to me.  I opted out on the climb as I wasn’t feeling a hundred percent and I knew the winds would be raging above 15,000ft.  But it just didn’t seem right to blow out of Bolivia with out going to south to the Salar of Uyuni. I wasn’t just yet ready to leave Bolivia.

It was a two day ride along the Bolivian altiplano to the little town Uyuni.   Cruising through a dusty little town I caught a glimpse of a couple adventure bikes parked against a local eatery.   I hadn’t seen another adventure tourer for over two months.  Not willing to pass up the rare chance to meet other bikers, I pulled a uturn, parked the bike, and poked my head into the café.

These were certainly not your usual high end BMW boys,,,…these guys were of a different nature.   It was a Polish guy on a leakey salvage title R1150, and a Japanese gal and an American dude on a custom painted orange KLR.  The KLR couple had no riding gear, surviving the cold by raiding a local army surplus store for warm combat clothing.   It was impressive to say the least.  These folks were definitely stretching their dime to the max.

Without so much as screw driver or knife between them, they’d managed make all the way down to Bolivia.  I gave up a fork seal to help out Roman the Polish guy, who had fork fluid spilling over his brakes.  I recall, pointing that out with alarm, and he replied with confidence…that’s okay, I don’t use the front brakes much anyways!

Here’s a picture of “Team Crazy”.

We were ultimately heading in a similar direction.  I admit that at this point I was a bit lonely after rolling solo for 8 months, so the idea of picking up a riding partner was on my mind.  However, I was aware that these guys had a very different riding style that I wasn’t jonesing to adapt to.   I was rolling with a strong R1150 GS Adventure and with my full kit  I was self sufficient.  I’ve got enough tools, spares, water, food, and cafeine to handle the worst I can think of.

The KLR couple was not going to make it with their inadequate jackets due to the cold.  They turned around a few hours down the road.  Roman, the Polish guy decided to ride on with me.  I explained my concern over the state his bike and the fact that I was short on time and couldn’t afford to wait for him if he slowed down or broke down.  I felt like a jerk explaining this to him, but I had an expensive Visa that was going to expire soon, and looking at his bike, I saw a breakdown or accident very near in his future.

Roman, agreed to the terms and off we rode for Uyuni.  By mid day we’d hit just what I was looking for….the beginning of a long  and tasty dirt route through SW Bolivia.  At last I’d found some dirt riding to rival Baja.  It was heaven…and hell…just right!

We made it to the Uyuni Salar (salt flat) just as it was getting dark.  It was gorgeous.  A pefect white plain spanning off into infinity.  The initial plan was to get way out on the flats and camp out for the night.  We cut off the dirt road and bushwacked through the desert scrub strait for the edge of the salt plain.    I just made it into the salt when my front tire sank in followed by my rear.  In a last ditch effort,  I poured on the gas in an attempt to escape back onto firm ground.  Realizing I was stuck, I pulled off the throttle and killed the engine just before my final drive sunk in.

It was a real treat to have Roman there to help me push the bike out, avoiding the usual 15 minute gear download.

We realized that the edge of the Salar served as a sort of soft nasty barrier to getting to the good stuff.  Having failed at our “gas on brains off” approach, we rerouted to the little town of Uyuni for some advice and hot chow.

The old mining town is cold windy miserable place.  But the hot chicken never tasted so good, and the bikes were thirsty for petrol!

As we exited the chicken joint it was dark, cold, and extremely windy.  The idea of setting up tents on the salt flats in this wind convinced us to go another direction.  The icey cold wind tempted us both towards hotels, but the prices were pretty steep,..so off we road into the night in search of a camp.

Its always tough find that perfect campsite at night, fortunately we were way out in the boonies, so just about anywhere off the road was good.  The terrain was fairly solid so we cut off the dirt road and drove through the scrub for a half mile or so.  Up front I found some soft ground, sank my back tire and took that as a sign to make camp.

This was the coldest night I’ve experienced in a long time. The wind raged, the temps fell well below freezing, and I was waiting with great anticipation for the morning sun.  I spent a good deal of the night, with the stove burning, pumping down cups of hot tea, and wondering if this was all such a good idea.

By morning the winds had died down and the warm sun was luring us out of our sleeping bags.  Few things feel as good as climbing out of your tent in the morning and stepping into a new beautiful day in a far away place with nothing ahead of you but limitless opportunities for exploration.  We woofed down some oat meal, and road off in search for a way onto the Salar.

With the full light of the morning sun, we soon found a bridge of hard mud that got us into the flats.  The Salt flats of Uyuni are the largest in the world.  I’d never seen anything like it. We were cruising at 70 over the strangest terrain I’d ever laid tread on.

The ground was rock hard and patterned by quarter inch high ridges arranged in perfect octogans.  It was mind boggling and marked a significant point my journey.  It was as big deal as every one had made it out to be, and I was thrilled to be there.

From the Uyuni Salar,  we changed course towards Brazil. The normal ADV biker path lies over the Salar and on to Chille, which would be spectacular and challenging in its own right, but I had something different in mind.