Location: Cuiabá, Brazil
Miles from Home: 11,800
Days on the Road: 160, Exactly 5 Months Today
I hightailed it out of Venezuela and made it down into the Amazon in seemingly record time. After four days on a river boat heading up a tributary of the Amazon, I landed in Porto Vehlo. Iīm now just outside the Pantanal, South Americaīs most highly acclaimed wildlife area and the continentīs largest wetlands. Within a week or so, Iīll be heading west, through the backdoor into Bolivia. Is there a FRONT door into Bolivia?
The Kindness of Strangers
Caracas, Venezuela -- Iīm taking the first part of this entry to give special thanks to all the wonderful folks I met in Venezuela who wnet out of their way to halp me and make me feel welcome in their beautiful country.
My first day in Caracas, I met Eduardo and his group of friends. He took me under his wing, showed me around town, and even drove me to the airport TWICE. Once to play bad cop when I was getting my bike out of customs, and the second time to pick up Zelie when she came to visit.
I met Francisco Sanz through fellow motorcycle travelers Chris and Erin Ratay. Francisco went out of his way to help me find parts for the bike, wouldnīt let me pay for a single meal in his presence, and was the best tour guide one could ask for offering advice on where to go and what to see for the entire country.
Then there were the numerous shop owners, metal fabricators, and random people on the street that were more than willing to offer me a hand each and everyday.
Muchisimas Gracias por todo, amigos!!
Life with Malaria
Km 70, Gran Sabana Highway, Venezuela -- On the way south into the Gran Sabana from Central Venezuela, I stop at a roadside hotel to spend the night. I just north of the infamous "Km 88," a rough and tumble mining town that doesnīt even really have a name. It just goes by the mile marker posted on the way into town.
As I pull into the hotel, I note it looks a little run down, but itīs not anything Iīm not used to. The woman running the place greets me in an awkward way, almost like she is surprised to have a guest. I learn why. No water or electricity. But the price is right, and itīs getting late, so whatever. Besides. sheīs nice enough and I never pass up the opportunity to practice my Spanish.
By 7 pm, itīs already dark, and Iīm in the kitchen with her and her kids watching them make dinner. There are just two candles by the stove to illuminate the room, and the sweet smell of cooking arepas fills the cool night air. Her son, the youngest, has down syndrome and plays high five with me for ten minutes or so.
She tells me itīs a good thing I stopped here for the night instead of 10 km up the road at Km 88. Seems there an ouitbreak of malaria, and people are dropping like flies. The make-shift hospital is out of beds, and the mood is pretty somber around town. She seems to know an awful lot about malaria and starts telling me more than Iīd ever care to know about the disease, the anatomy of mosquitos, and the treatments available.
Itīs not until I start asking about the place (and by inference, I suppose, why itīs so rundown) that she tells me sheīs a widow. Her husband died of malaria just three years ago. Thereīs an awkward moment of silence before we resume the conversation.
After dinner we are just hanging out in the kitchen watching the candles flicker out, and I here something down the road. It sound like a big truck slowly going up a hill, but thereīs no hill it would be climbing so slowly near the house.
Here comes the fumigation truck, they tell me. Seems the government sprays pesticides once a week or so to keep the mosquito population down. Within a few minutes the truck has pulled up the road and is passing in front of the hotel. I step outside to see it and realize it is just 10 feet from the door, a huge white cloud of chemicals trailing behind it. It passes within 2 feet of the kitchen window. The taste of chemicals hangs in the air for another fifteen minutes or so.
I ask if she minds the chemical spraying. She just looks at her kids and shakes her head. Sheīd rather live with pesticides in the air than lose anyone else to the mosquitos. I just nod in agreement.
Mud: A Motorcycleīs Best Friend
La Gran Sabana, Venezuela -- The sound of light rain pattering on the tin roof above me brings me softly out of a deep sleep. Itīs a chilly morning out here in the Gran Sabana, but Iīm toasty warm inside my sleeping bag. Itīs not until Iīve been awake for a few moments that the true meaning of the rain sinks in. Out here in the Gran Sabana, 45 km off the highway on a packed clay dirt road, rain means only one thing: mud.
Murphyīs law should have told me that it was going to rain overnight. The dirt road I took to get here was too dry, too inviting, for it NOT to rain. So, here I am, in the small Pemon village of Iboribo, watching the rain wash away any chancec of El Cab and I getting out of here without some serious drama.
Iboribo is the launching point for the hike to Salto Aponoua, an incredible 100 m high waterfall that has brought this small otherwise anonymous village front and center on the gringo trail of southern Venezuela. Since Iīm already here, I might as well do the hike. How much more wet can a dirt road get in another two hours?
"Looks like the rainy season is a little early this year," says the village Cacique (sort of like the Chief) to me as he stares into his morning coffee. "It shouldnīt rain all day, though. It will let up and dry things off within a few hours." I breathe a sigh of relief and off we go to the falls.
About 20 minutes into the hike the sky tears open and rain pours down like I havenīt seen since Honduras. My guide gives me that, "Do you really want to keep hiking through this rain?" look, and we press on.
Just over an hour later we are back at the village and Iīm packing to go. The falls were nice, what I could see through the curtain of rain, but after a two minute glance, I was ready to hightail it back and get into some dry clothes.
I debate for a minute to stay or go. Surely Iīm being impatient and if I just stay one more day, it will be dry and easy going on the way out. I ask the Cacique his opinion. The story has changed since this morning. Now he thinks it will continue raining all day, and if I donīt get out now, I might not get out until August - the end of the rainy season.
Right...
As I set off, the rain lets up some. The soft sand that nearly ate the bike alive yesterday on the way in is now wet and firm. Maybe this wonīt be so bad after all.
Within ten minutes, however, I begin seeing what the rest of the day will be like. As I come up the first rise out of the village, El Cab takes his first mud bath of the day. After fifteen or so minutes of slipping, sliding, and cursing, I right the bike and weīre off and running again, this time using my boots as training wheels dragging them through the thick mud, stepping out to balance myself when needed.
As I come over the next rise, I see the true enemy of all motorcycles dead ahead. The entire road is covered in 6 inches of water. The water is not so bad, but under standing water in this type of soil is the most wretched, motorcycle eating mud youīd never want to set eyes on.
Without even thinking, Iīm off of the road entirely, heading cross country through the tall grasses of the Gran Sabana. I never thought Iīd strike out across virgin soil like this, but itīs either this or that. And I ainīt havinī any of that...
I feel better looking back over my tracks to see that there are no tracks. The grasses still stand tall where Iīve just riden.
My main concern at this point are the deep culverts cut off of the road every 100 meters or so. With every one, I must drop into the muddy bottoms quickly enough to shoot up the other side before getting stuck. Itīs a series of motions surely not meant for a 700 lb. motorcycle/rider combination, but I manage.
At the fourth or fifth cuclvert crossing, my momentum wanes. I hesitate on the throttle on the way out and before I know it, Iīm shooting a rooster tail of mud out 30 feet behind me. This canīt be good.
I kill the engine and look around to assess the damage. The rear end is axle deep in tan soupy mud, and the frame is resting squarely on the berm of the culvert. The front tire is just barely resting on the ground. From the side, the bike looks like itīs at a 45 degree angle. If I werenīt a good catholic boy, Iīd be swearing up and down the continent right about now.
It being raining, and me being covered in mud, I refrain from taking that critical photo that all my riding buddies are surely craving. I can only say itīs truly a sight to behold.
I get down to business digging out the bike. The mud seems to be hardening around the rear tire, and it wonīt even spin now when I throw open the clutch. It would be a good time to start cursing right about now.
After 25 minutes more of digging, destroying the clutch, and stuffing any number of random items under the rear tire, I resign myself that Iīll be stuck here the rest of my life. I might as well start walking back to the village to scope out my future home.
In a last ditch effort, I decide to try pulling the bike out of the mud myself. Since driving it out doesnīt seem to be working, itīs time to give myself a hernia trying to do it alone. I knock the bike over to the right, and the rear tire slowly breaks loose from the murky quagmire. Because the frame was up on the berm, the whole bike it now at ground level, and itīs only a matter of tugging and dragging to get the bike completely on level ground. A few hernias later, I have the bike righted and ready to ride.
I mount up and hit the starter. Nothing. Zero, zilch, nada. My god, my god why hast thou forsaken me?! Of all the times for something else to go wrong, why now? I just replaced the battery, so what else could it be? Mud in the switch? Bad connections? Iīm no electrictian, so this is going to be a LONG day if I have to hunt down a short in the system -- especially without ANY of the proper tools.
Ok, alter boy or not, Iīm officially fuĒ#ed.
I dig through the panniers for the Clymerīs guide. Surely, Mr. Clymer will impart some sage knowledge to make this little problem painlessly go away. Instead, I find he doesnīt have patience for details on HOW to check the electrical system for shorts, he simply says, "First, make sure there are no bad connections..." Great.
What he should have written first, however, under the "Bike Wonīt Go" section is: Did you leave the kick stand down? Nah, he assumes that most people smart enough to remember that the bike doesnīt start with the kick stand down. Sheepishly, I put the kick stand up, and she starts right up.
Forty five minutes after getting stuck, Iīm back on the road, skiing along with my size 12īs keeping me afloat on this river of mud.
A few more innocent spills later, the road improves to all-weather gravel, and for the first time all day, I shift into second gear. Iīm happy. The sky seems to be clearing, and I even stop for a "made it through the worst of it" photo. As I start smelling the highway, I come over a rise into one of the last river crossings Iīll have to deal with. Thereīs a backhoe off to the side, and evidence of very recent road work ahead.
Before I know it, the bike grinds to a halt and nearly takes another spill. More mud. This mud is different, though. Itīs dark brown, thick, and like near-dry cement. I try to proceed but the bike just crawls along. Both tires pack tight with the brown stuff, and the entire underside becomes laden with rock solid adobe as it dries in the warming midday air. Soon, my feet are 15 lb bricks as 4 inches of it tacks onto my soles.
I dismount and chip away as much of the dried mud I can get too. With so much mud packed under the fender, the front tire has just frozen in place. I take off the 30 lb fender and throw it on the seat behind me. Three hundred yards, half an hour and two more dis-mudding stops later, I crest out of the valley of eternal mud and make my way towards the highway.
After 4 and a half hours, I arrive at the black top of Venezuelaīs Gran Sabana Highway. Iīve only gone 35 miles, but the bike and I have aged ten years. As I head down the road towards the Amazon, huge chucks of dried mud fling off the bike in every direction.
Funny, but I canīt help but sing Guns N Rosesī "Welcome to the Jungle" at full volume inside my helmet as I scream down the highway. "You know where you are? You in the Jungle, baby. You gonna die!!"
We Done Been Robbed
Cuidad Bolivar, Venezuela -- Heads? Again? Thatīs three in a row. This is starting to get weird. Iīd go best out of seven, but I donīt think my Rosenkrantzian luck is going to let up enough to give me four tails in a row. Ok, heads. I guess Iīll go back.
I just wanted to get out of town as quickly as possible after getting robbed last night, but something tells me I should go back. I didnīt do enough. I didnīt search enough tables at the market for the missing goods, already for sale for 50Ē a piece. Hell, I didnīt even file a Police report, or at least one I could get a copy of. "Sorry, no copies," the police receptionist told me this morning. And this helps me how?
Before heading off to bed, I went down to check on the bike one more time for the night. As I came down the steps I noticed it looked different. The cover was askew, and one of the panniers was exposed. Not as I normally leave it.
Iīd left the bike in the Hotel hallway for the night, while I was having drinks upstairs with an Aussie fellow who was staying there as well. It seemed safe enough, and the owner told me there was a guard on duty during the night. Seems the guard didnīt show up tonight for some reason.
As I looked closer I saw the damage. The two left panniers were both ripped open, their contents largely missing. They (itīs always "they," isnīt it?) took eveything that looked useful, or big enough to potentially be so. The stuff sacks filled with parts and tools, the tent, the poles, the sleeping pad and sneakers. Like anything else, itīs hard to know whatīs missing until you miss it. They left the books, except the South America guidebook (?!), and a few small ziplocks with random nuts and bolts. The big tools were in a side pocket they didnīt see, thank god.
After I was through kicking and pounding the walls, I hit the streets looking for clues. A string from my gym shorts which had been sitting on top in one of the panniers was just outside the hotel doorway. Maybe theyīd dropped something else, but no such luck. After a few scary run-ins with hookers and drug addicts in the alley around the corner, I returned to the hotel to collect my things and find a better place for the bike for the rest of the night.
As I walked back up to the door, a cop car just happened to pull up and I invited them in to "investigate" the scene of the crime. They walk around for a few minutes shaking their heads and then start asking me about my trip. Where are you from? All that way on a motorcycle? Wow!
Not your most inquiring minds, so I bid them good night and headed back upstairs. I donīt know what I expected them to do, theyīre just cops, and this is just Venezuela.
Since the owner of the hotel still couldnīt guarantee ANYONE would watch the bike for the night, I packed my things and headed out. Itīs normally not a good idea to drive around looking for a place to stay at 2 AM, but I wasnīt exactly making rational decisions at that point.
Just one block away, I found another place with a guard and inside parking for the bike. Where was this place at 5 oīclock today when I pulled into town?
The next morning, I took a stroll through the neighborhood stopping at every pawn shop and hardware store to see if anyone had been by trying to sell my stuff. No leads. Later, I headed down to the Police station to file a report, and was surprised by the quick response from the Sergeant on duty. He got on the horn and called in the bicycle patrol to "investigate" the scene of the crime. After filing my report I was instructed to go back to the hotel to talk to the bicycle beat crew.
When I arrived they were just finishing their thorough investigation which was comprised of running around the hotel with their white collared shirts and black shorts confirming my story with the owner. Yup, seems like you were robbed last night, sir. Thanks, fellas.
The oldest one of the group pulled me aside and told me Iīd have better luck filing a report with the tourism board. He said they give cash reimbursements to tourists who are victims of theft. Not a bloody chance, I thought.
At this point, I was just ready to get out of town. I packed up and drove over to a shop where I met another rider who said heīd give me directions out of town. I told him the story and he asked if Iīd gone to the PDJ. The what? The PDJ - the Judicial and Detection Police. He said they would dust my bike for prints and find the thief that way. I found it hard to believe that any detective in his right mind would spend hours on end comparing prints from my bike to the thousands of rap sheets they have on file just to help me find my tent and running shoes, among other things.
Not interested in dealing with anymore paperwork, I just took off. I rode out of town for half and hour until the anxiety that I hadnīt done enough to get my stuff back started to bug me. So here I am flipping a coin to decide if I should go back and see if the tourism board could potentially help. Maybe thereīs a bored green horn detective looking for a petty theft case to work on for a few days?
(Editorīs Note: I went back, spent three hours putzing around with the tourism board. They laughed when I asked if they gave reimbursements, and the cops donīt print for theft, thank you very much , sir. By 4 PM I was back on the road out of town.)
Posted by Sully at May 13, 2003 03:13 PM