Ed's Gone South

Photos -- Highs and Lows So Far from South America

Location: Upata, Venezuela
Miles from Home: 9,800
Days on the Road: approx. 134

What I didn't tell most people when I first got down to SA is that I spent a few days running around Bogota, Colombia without the bike before heading over to Caracas to continue on my merry way. (Sorry, Mom, but I just knew you'd have a cow!) It was well worth the stop-over and is a wonderful city full of colonial arcitechture, strong coffee, and beautiful, well-dressed people.

The bike arrived a week late in Caracas and I sped off from there to the northern Andes, then through some coastal towns until Zelie arrived. I'm currently in Upata, just north of La Gran Sabana, Venezuela's Yosemite National Park, but without the roads, facilities, traffic, people, and other such annoyances.

From there, it's into the heart of the Amazon at Manaus, Brazil. I should arrive within a few weeks. After crossing the Amazon in boat to Porto Vehlo, I'll cruise south east to the Pantanal, and into Bolivia. That should me through July.

Aside from a recent robbery (from the bike, not a hold-up), things have been very well, with the week-long visit from Zelie being the brightest highlight of late. (Love ya, babe!)

As I recently told some motorcycle compatriates after learning I had been robbed: ride safe, hug your loved ones, and watch your back.

Best regards to all,
Ed

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A small coffee shop window in old town Bogota. The woman didn't have such a bizarre look on her face when I pressed the shutter button, I promise!

This kid came down with his burro everyday from the mountains outside Bogota to collect food scraps to feed the livestock back home. It was a two hour trek each way, his shoeshine uncle told me.

From the plaza in Bogata, you could look over one shoulder of the Cathedral and see a monastary on the mountain, and over the other to see a Christ figure on the hill. Not a religious country at all.

I was welcomed in my first days in Caracas to some of the most insane traffic conditions I've ever witnessed. This included VERY optional traffic lights, four way no-stop intersections, and public buses like this one that lost its right rear tires on the middle of traffic and ground to halt on its brake drum. I saw another bus later had lost its differential in the middle of the highway, leaving the entire road covered with tranny oil. Real fun a bike, I tell you.

The crime scene after a poochie took a liking to El Cab in La Puerta, Venezuela en route to the northernmost stretch of the Andes.

Five minutes after my fall on the Merida high road. Either the camera does something to make the road seem less steep, or my memory makes it seem more so.

A roadside church on the way up the pass into Mèrida.

En route to the highest highway pass in Venezuela, Pico Aguilar at 4100 m, about 14,300 ft.

After a harrowing four hour jeep ride from Mèrida, I arrived in Los Nevados to stay for the night before starting a day hike to the top of the Aerial Tram. The word "quaint" doesn't come to mind, does it?

After five hours hiking straight up hill, I arrived at the pass between Los Nevados and Mèrida. And trust me, at close to 15,000 feet, I came to Jesus.

In Puerto Colombia just trhee hours west of Caracas, fishermen stow their colorful lanchas every night in the still waters of the stream that runs through the east end of town.

Sunset from the cannon studded promenade of Puerto Colombia.

Live entertainment at the dinner table in Isla de Margarita. After Zelie arrived, we made haste to get to Isla de Margarita for a week of relaxing on the beach. The view from our table the first night was nothing short of stunning.

After learning the day before that there were no more tickets for the ferry to get back to mainland from Isla de Margarita because of the sheer number of people traveling during Semana Santa, we decided to head down at five AM to jump on any unclaimed reserved tickets. Zelie always has that sexy faraway look in her eyes after three hours sleep.

The impeccable first class accomodations on the ferry back from Margarita. Seriously. Strangely, the only two photos I shot of Z the whole time she was down, were on the ferry back from Isla de Margarita. Guess I was too busy being sappy in love to get trigger happy with the camera. ;)

Before heading inland for the next two to three months, I decided one more day at the beach was in order. I stopped by Playa Colorada west of Caracas and enjoyed the best night's sleep I've had in weeks at "Posada Nirvana."

Street Showers. This group of kids were merrily bathing themselves in the street as I walked around town in Playa Colorada.

El Cab posing for the camera in front of the colorful façades of Cuidad Bolívar. Unfortunately, eight hours later, I found the bike in the downstairs hallway of my Hotel with half of it's contents missing. A thief had jimmied the side case open a removed more than an armful of nice gear. About $800 in total. I hope he got at least $10 for it all. Shit, I'd pay $20 to get it back!

High Times in Venezuela

Mérida, Venezuela -- My rear tire is somewhere between a skid and a slide, it depends how well the gravel under it adheres to the eroded track I'm on. I'm taking the high road to Mérida, but as far as I knew 25 minutes ago when I started up this track, it was the only road. From here, however, I can see the road I missed, one thousand feet below in the valley bottom. I'm wishing I was on it.

I think the views from here are quite astounding, but I really can't be sure. Right now I'm concentraing 110% on keeping me and El Cab from falling off the side of the road.

I asked four different rimes if this was the road to Mérida. I think the reply I got was, yes this is "a road to Mérida," but I know now it's not the only, nor the best. No one in their right mind would frequent this rocky, sandy, eroded dirt track. I have some friends who would love to ride it, but their not in their right minds.

So down I go, switchback after switchback. Slip after slide. About half way down, the road turns 180° to the right. With so much sand and marbly gravel there's not enough friction between my 700 pound gorilla of a bike and the road to slow down and make the turn. I try, believe me, but I just can't, so I don't.

Six inches before losing it over the edge of the switchback, I bail. The bike falls to the left, and I just stand there over it. I hit the kill switch and turn off the idling engine, the smell of gasoline pouring out of one orafice or another tickles my nose. Unfortunately, after close to ten such spills so far, that scent is all too familiar.

After righting the bike, I make the vain attempt of pushing it back up hill a bit so I can turn right and continue on my way. The bike not only refuses to nudge, but every time I pull in the clutch to start pushing, it just moves one inch closer to the edge. It's three inches from bye-bye at this point.

I contemplate getting out my Z drag pulley system to haul the bike uphill some, but before I even get in my side bag to get it, along comes a young chap to my aid. He's walking down the track I'm riding and by the look on his face, he's never seen another bike on this road either.

"Can you lend me a hand?" I ask sheepishly, and he gladly complies. He stands downhill of the bike pushing on the fairing, locking his toes in the sand and gravel of the hillside as best he can, while I run the clutch and brakes at mid bike. Together, we pull El Cab back from the brink of the ride of his life and set him ready to ride in the left hand track.

I ask the kid if the road gets much worse from here (is it possible?!) and he just laughs and nods, as if he knows we'll be seeing more of each other today. I hope not.

Soon, I'm off and running again, and white-knuckle my way to the bottom after another 20 minutes. I pass the kid again just as I ride past a family of ranchers having lunch in the shade of a broad tree. I think to wave, but the road continues to demand all my attention.

At the bottom, my dirt track turns onto one of the finest works of pavement I've ever seen, or at least that's what it seems like at this point. Smooth is good. Traction is better.

The road winds its way up another valley heading southwest over the highest paved pass in Venezuela, Pico Águila at 4,035m, just over 13,200 feet. It cuts through a fertile and steep valley, lined with fields of carrots, lettuce, root crops, and corn. I watch as men break earth with teams of oxen. Their latest harvest or garlic and carrots hangs in wood slat stalls along the road.

After 3,000 meters, the climate turns too cold for farming, and is instead used as pasture, the hillsides scarred with cris-crossed cow paths. As I approach the pass, both the bike and I are struggling for air.

Soon, I am enveloped in a cloud bank that slowly creeps over the divide. The clouds form as the moist air from the valley below is pushed up over the mountains; they dissipate once again on their way down the other side.

Once over the pass, the road desends rapidly into the Rio Chama valley. Within 10 minutes I'm back down to 3,000 m, and within a hour I arrive at 1,500 m in Mérida. The incredible variation in altitude in this mountainous terrain cannot be understated.

After a day of poking around Mérida, I decide to take a trip to the mountian hamlet of Los Nevados, "the snowy ones." From there I will hike ten miles through Sierra Nevada National Park to the second to last station of "the world's highest and longest aerial tram" and take it back down. It's only a one night trip, but a good taste of the Andean backcountry.

The four hour jeep ride to Los Nevados begins just 20 feet from the door of my hostal. I saddle up and wait for our scheduled 9:00 AM departure. At 9:30 when we still havn't left, I tell the guy I'm going to run to the boys room real quick. At 10 I run to do a little email. At 10:30 it's off for a bite to eat, and by 11:00, the 9:00 jeep is underway.

For the next four hours I witness what can only be described as the most insane display of 4WD driving I have ever witnessed outside of the "rock crawlers" party we crashed in Las Cruces one time. Armed with only a Toyota Land Cruiser and four bald Bridgestones, our driver ventured on one of the curviest, steepest, most dangerous roads I've ever seen. It wasn't just the curves and inclination that made it dangerous, but also the penalty for making a mistake. Two thousand feet down is a long way to go.

We arrive in four hours, and I bed down in a small family posada for the night. The mountain village is comprised to two cobblestone streets lined with white walled buildings with terracotta roofs, and a small church that holds 60 people maximum. Cute is not the word.

At 5:30 the next morning, I'm off to start the 16 km trek to the Loma Redonda where I'll catch the tram. It's only 10 miles, but I've been at sea level for three months; it's 14,000 feet at the highest pass I'll see today.

As I start out, the morning light glows dimly behind the crest of the 4,000 m ridges above me. The crisp morning air bites hard into my rosy cheeks. It tastes fresh, familiar. My head spins with that buzz you only get starting off on a new mountain trail. My eyes are wide and my mind open.

I ascend slowly through the surrounding villages until it's just me, the trail, and the rocky alpine country of the northern Andes. It is different than the lush terrain of the Sangre de Cristos in New Mexico, or even the Rockies of Colorado. It's drier, tougher, harder, at least in the uplands. A thousand meters below it is a moist temperate forest of broad leafy trees, hanging vines, and lush, shaded streams. Up here there are no tall trees to speak of, and no evidence that there once were. Instead, I'm surrounded by low shrubs and grasses. There seems to be not more than 15 species in the whole lot.

The highest peaaks in Venezuela tower above me at 5,000 meters. With four days, ropes and crampons I could climb the highest of them, but this time I take a bye. There will be plenty of opportunity to spend all my money on apline expeditions on Argentina and Chile.

As I crest over the pass just before the tramway station at 4,300 m, I stop to nibble on a granola bar and contemplate the town of Mérida 2,500 m (1.7 miles) below. The craggy spines of the Andes fade off into the distance at my left, and the sharp peaks haloed with misty afternoon clouds ascend to my left.

It's amazing to think one can travel nearly due south from here for 5,000 miles and never descend to 2,500 meters (more or less). The Andres must surely be one of the highest and longest uninterrrupted mountain ranges in the world. I just sit in silent awe of their grandness.

As I make my way down on the tram, I get that jittery butterfly feeling in my stomach thinking of all the treasures this continent will hold over the next year. Although I'm already 4 months into my journey (4 months yesterday) I feel like I've just started anew.

Touching Down in South America

Location - Mérida, Venezuela
Miles from Home - 7,850 (bike miles, not including flight from Panama)
Hours of paperwork to get bike through customs - 5 (not too shabby)
Number of stamps and signatures combined needed to clear customs - 15, four times each
Legal Exchange Rate - Bs.1,600:US$1 (although Chavez has prohibited all banks from buying or selling dollars reportedly in an effort to strangle private business)
Black Market Exchange Rate - Bs.2,200:US$1 (2,500 if you're really good!)
Local Time - EST, plus 1 (I think it's called Atlantic Time)

I landed on Terra Firma in South America just over two weeks ago, and I can already feel the enormity of this grand continent. While in Central America, I was spiraling down and ever narrowing funnel for three months, running into the same travelers in the same hostels time and again, climbing peaks that on clear days provide views to both oceans, and generally running out of space. South America already feels completely different; it's a place you can really stretch out in.

Here are a few highlights and insights from the last few weeks. I'll admit that I've spent much of the last few weeks dealing with shipping and receiving the bike, so little on the "adventure" end of things has transpired. In fact, the following is more a collection of smart-ass observations than anything else. More travel tales to come, as soon as I get a few more miles under my belt.

Happy St. Panny's Day

Panama City, Panama -- It's St. Patrick's Day (or at least a few days before) and I'm happy to see I'm not the only sappy Irishman heading to Bennigan's for a pint of Guiness and a few verses of Danny Boy. Not that the local brew doesn't hit the spot, but there's something about the frothy head of a well-poured Guiness that mere piss-water cannot replace.

It's the Saturday before the official holiday, and the place is packed. I must say that all of the clovers, green hats, and green beer look a little funny mingling with this very NON-Irish crowd, but I give them points for spirit. Heck, everyone's Irish on St. Pat's.

I sidle up to the bar and order me a Guiness. Experience has taught me not to have expectations, but I admit that I've been dreaming of a tall, creamy stout all day. I especially like watching the buddles cascade down the inside of the glass just before taking that first sip, the mustache of froth lingering on my upper lip. I'm a visual guy, if you know what I mean.

So I guess I have good reason to be a little let down when the frothy pint of ecstacy I've been craving all day arrives as little more than coca-cola colored Budweiser disguised in a Guiness bottle. It tastes like it's been in and out of the fridge five time. On the back of the bottle it says, "Proudly Brewed in Panama." I guess it's Happy St. Panny's Day this year. Oh well...

Panama: The Last Great Bastion for Organized Crime

Panama City, Panama -- Perhaps I'm just naive, but I had never considered the fact that a large portion of the great wealth one sees in Panama City is derived from the very lucrative business of money laundering.

Looking out over the Panamanien skyline, I found it reminiscent of many major US cities. Tall buildings soar out over the Pacific, glowing in the night sky, ringing of success and affluence. I'm not at all surprised to see quite a few Beemers, Mercs and other expensive imported cars about town.

I was VERY surprised to find out, however, that most of the towering sky scrapers lining Panama's Panilla section remain empty. As in, without one inhabitant. Although the lawns are meticulously kept, the lights turned off and on, and the door men paid by the hour, most of the buildings are merely shells, tax cover for any number of "off-shore services" firms that launder money for the world's rich and corrupt.

It was quite logical then to learn that a number of former Central American presidents and dictators now reside in Panama, enjoying the benefits of a tax-free and financially invisible existence.

This is all according to a friend in Panama who works for one of the "off-shore" firms, enjoying the beneifits of his own six figure salary.

Coca Cola Culture

Everywhere, Central America -- Although I enjoy a nice, cold Coke every now and again, the reverence given to the King of Cola throughout Central and South America is unprecedented.

Although, after a while I stopped seeing the six by eight foot Coke logo murals on every roadside stand throughout Central America. I even forgot that every chair I sat in for two months was of the red, plastic "lawn" variety, conveniently imprinted with the coke emblem along the back.

But when I saw a mother giving her one year old Coke in a baby bottle, and when I learned that the "secret ingredient" in the sweet, boiled plantains of Panama is actually boiled down Coke, I had to throw up my hands. Somethings are just too bizarre to comprehend. Either that or some marketing campaigns are too good to fight.

"I'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony..."

Venezuela Burning

Barquistemo, Venezuela -- Sources close to the Chavez Administration recently confirmed reports that indeed all of Venezuela is on fire. Whereas, Central America has its share of small roadside enflagrations and trash burning pits, ALL of Venezuela is engulfed in roaring flames.

At least that's what it seems like recently as I ride around the country side. I've never seen so many huge fires as in Venezuela. Twenty five foot flames tower over the highway. Whiteout smoke conditions continue for 100 meters. And every open patch of hillslope and valley bottom is charred black.

I think I'm going to start a pyro-tour company. We'll start at Carnaval in Panama where they have 10,000,000 fireworks exploding in the middle of the street for hours on end, and finish up in central Venezuela in the dry season a few weeks later where every blade of grass seems to spontaneously combust in the near-equatorial sun.

When Animals Attack

La Puerta, Venezuela -- The knocking on the door at 7 am certainly can't be for me. At least I hope not. This is the first good night's sleep I've had in days, and I roll over putting the pillow on my head. The mosquito den in Caracas I stayed in for a week didn't exactly lend itself to sound sleep, and I'm enjoying the fresh mountain air for a change.

"Señor!" comes a voice at the door. Since I'm the only guest in the entire place that I could see, I guess he means me. I pour myself out of bed and go to the door. The owner has the look on his face of a child who just got caught drawing on the walls. He motions me down the hall to the end so we can look out into the parking lot where El Cabroncito was nestled down for the night.

He's speaking quickly and apologeticly, and I'm not really getting the drift. It's not until I look out into the parking lot and see the bike draped in shreds of that used to be my nylon motorcycle cover that I understand what all the commotion is about. Seems the "guard dog" took a liking to ol' Cabroncito in the night and decided to get a little closer.

Now, my Mom will tell you I'm not one for bad news in the morning. Thirteen years of bad news every morning that I had to go to school again gave her a good taste of my morning moodiness. So it being 7 AM and me being tired and this being bad news, I'm expecting to throw a fit. But not this time.

Instead, I let out one of those sick and deranged laughs. The kind that don't stop for a while. The kind that awkwardly infect the other people around you because they don't know if this is the laugh of a well-humored person or a lunatic that's about to kill everyone with a butcher knife. The kind you see in Austin Powers movies.

So we just laughed and laughed. Sometimes all you can do is laugh.

Coming Home

Los Llanos, Venezuela -- There's something very familiar about the landscape of Central Venezuela. As I ride through it's parched, winding hills, crowned in desert shrubs, lined here and there with short ribbons of green along the sparse waterways, I'm reminded of home. New Mexico.

This is unlike northern New Mexico where I currently reside, but more reminiscent of southern New Mexico. The upper reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert around Truth or Consequences or Hatch where the wide expanses of desert and big sky make one feel small, insignificant. Although it is a dusty and unwelcoming landscape, it makes me feel comfortable in a strange way.

This place reminds me of the long, barren stretches of gently sloping highway you'll find throughout the Land of Enchantment. It makes me realize that when I finally find my way home, I'll feel welcomed by every cholla, prickly pear and mesquite bush I come in contact with.

Although I still have a long way to go, it's nice to know there's still a place called Home.

The Question of the Day

Mérida, Venezuela -- As I meander south on this strange odyssey I've made for myself, I'm faced with the same question over and over. In cafés, in bars, on the street, and in the cold kitchens of farmers that open their doors as guest houses for travelers passing by, it's always the same.

Although the main question I get is "Where are you from?" and "How much does your motorcycle cost?" is a close second, the question people are really trying to get to once they break the ice is "What do you think about the war?"

When I am faced with this question, as I am five to ten times a day, I tell people that sometimes the actions of a government are not necessarily in keeping with the sentiments of its people. They understand this. They're governments are often not in keeping with them either. But then again the US is a nation divided. I'm sure we are as divided on the war as on many other hotly contested issues. That's just the way it goes, I guess.

Don't worry, I'll spare the reader another diatribe on the war. I'll only say that I pray to God, Allah, the Great Spirit, Buddha, or whoever is up there that our troops come home soon, alive and well, that the lives of innocent Iraqi civilians are spared, and that this will all be over very, very soon.

"War is over, if you want it."

And now back to our regularly scheduled program of cynical travel writing...