Last Ride

So I left Popayan, not on Friday, but was out the door early on Saturday morning. For once, I managed to get out before the youngest child woke up and began to scream. That was what normally woke me up every morning it will not be missed. The eight hour bus ride to the boarder was uneventful. After crossing into Ecuador, I took a fifteen minute taxi ride to Tulcan and then another five hours bus ride to Quito. The bus got into Quito at 2:00 AM and it was déjà vu to be in a big city late at night without a clue of how to proceed. A few questions got me in the right direction and, after a forty minute trolley, I was in Quito's historical center. I debated waiting until sun-up to find a hostel but three police officers pulled up in a pickup and offered to take me to a hotel. They knew a hotel, woke the keeper, and even haggled for a better price.

The next few days were spent in transition. Initially, this meant a lot of walking but I eventually figured out the bus and trolley systems. Quito is an incredibly long city and very high at 2800 meters. According to Wiki, Quito is the second highest administrative capitol, second to La Paz, and the city center is only 25 km from the equator. For newcomers, this means breathless walks and sun burns. I was looking for a reasonable place to stay close to a Spanish school and found both in the Historical Center. Tourists tend to congregate in the La Mariscal (nicknamed Gringolandia), not in Historical Center. La Mariscal has plenty of hostels and Spanish schools but I found the markets, plazas, and hustle and bustle of Quito’s massive historical center more appealing. My place is a small rooftop room within easy walking distance to the Spanish school.

This is a new chapter with a different culture, new acquaintances, and a regular schedule. Mornings are spent with a Spanish teacher and the evening’s sightseeing, reading, or playing sports. My Spanish teacher is also a tour guide and integrates Quito’s history into our classes. Our three hours each day go by quickly. I also found a jui-jitsu school and have been training there a few times a week. On the weekends, there is time for trips out of the city. A classmate and I went trekking with a group of Catholics up to Charlie's mountain cabin. Charlie is a Spanish catholic hermit who came to Ecuador 25 years ago and has become active in environmental issues. This particular trek was in preparation for a 12 day protest march in July to the Amazon region where an oil company is seeking to drill in an estuary. In addition to Charlie, the group consisted of university students, several nuns, two gringos, and a catholic priest. Long story but very interesting and we got a closer look at the religion which seems to influence every aspect of Ecuadorian life.

Is anyone interested in purchasing a mature Honda motorcycle? (please say yes) This is simply an amazing machine and letting it go would have been a sacrifice a couple of years ago (but not at the moment, of course). A legendary bike and full of potential (for instance, you could potentially get it going again and you could potentially enjoy riding it but both statements are doubtful, especially the last one). They are famous for being “bulletproof” which is biker code for “good” (but there are notable exceptions and I prefer to think of it as a description of comfort since “hard” just doesn’t seem hard enough). It may even imply literally bulletproof (unlikely), in which case, you could find it particularly useful here in Colombia some day. You will be proud to own a bike with this kind of reputation (not sure about that) and welcomed into the Honda family with open arms (and wallet, not a real family, of course, as you will get raked over the coals for everything. Just wait until you see how much parts cost). I would describe the engine as middle aged (much as we would describe a mid life crisis to occur in the middle age and sometimes even a heart attack) and with plenty of life left (pending some serious interventions). Don’t hesitate, this bike won’t last long (and I do mean that literally). Consider this to be as much of an adventure as it is an investment (more of an adventure actually and even that will depend on your definition and/or limits). It is with great sadness (relief) that I part with this machine. I have learned a lot with this motorcycle (all the hard way). No doubt you, as her new owner, will learn many of the same lessons (like this one) and enjoy countless miles of freedom (good luck).

If you are ever unfortunate enough to end up in Popayan, you will often find yourself interacting with venders. Twenty times a day sounds about right and don't worry about finding them. They will find you. Almost invariably, they will be selling objects of little use and, should you choose to buy, of questionable quality. The encounter usually occurs at a café or bar and the victim is left either feeling guilty or stupidly holding something as useful as a sticker. After only a few encounters, newcomers usually adopt the local method; a quick “no thank you” followed by whatever means they feel will encourage the seller to move on.

While I was reading in a bakery, I was approached by two kids, first one and then the other as they worked the crowd. The first was selling a sewing kit and the other was selling notebooks. It later occurred to me that a notebook might be useful in-spite of its neon pink cover, but the sewing kit? Those needles would most likely end up in the bottom of a backpack, poised to poke probing fingers. I asked him what he expected me to do with a sewing kit. What would most men do with a sewing kit? What would most women, in this age, do with a sewing kit? Nothing. He responded with an open hand, pointing to his worn shoes. I pointed at mine, just as worn. Yes, I felt a little guilty. Perhaps sensing this, number two came over with his bright pink notebooks in hand. I was clearly breaking the cardinal rule; never show any interest. They sat down, taking turns and, forgetting the usual steps, stumbled through a well rehearsed act of suffering and despair. Cute kids but poor actors and struggling to understand why I wasn’t interested in a sewing kit or a pink notebook. They shuffled off, exaggerated disappointment. In a complete turnaround a few steps away, they paused by a window to admire the cakes inside; they smiled, laughed, put their arms around each other, and walk out; good friends, perhaps even brothers. True suffering… If we can call that suffering, then I’m probably suffering more. From lack of purpose, first of all and, secondly, from a bit of self pity. At least these kids seem to have a purpose, selling such things. Are they happier than I am? Does purpose contribute to happiness? Is a beggar with something to sell happier than a traveler with nowhere to go? In this case, I would say, yes. So what am I doing here? I have no purpose in staying here, except to wait on motorcycle parts. What? I feel embarrassed to say it. MOTORCYCLE PARTS! As if my life depended on the arrival of a few pieces of metal! Is a motorcycle the only way to get down the road? I should have left a long time ago! My days here are spent reading and surfing the web; dreaming of other places and coming up with reasons why I hate this one. It’s not such a bad place, seen objectively, or at least I’ve seen worse. But then again, I’ve seen a lot and maybe it’s time to leave. Perhaps I should walk out to the highway and beg to leave. I could be at least as convincing as these kids and it seems to work some of the time.

But I’ll wait a few more days, till Friday at least. I should resolve this now or when Friday comes I will be tempted to say it again and thus never leave. These last three weeks have been an almost complete waste of time. Yes, another embarrassment statement and even worse than the first. Let me put them together to ensure my place; I have wasted three weeks of my life waiting for motorcycle parts. I have wasted three weeks of my life! I wonder what percentage that is? It leaves me feeling empty. It’s one thing to waste money, sometimes even popular, but to waste time! Is there a better way to say you are wasting than to say you are wasting time? When I leave Popayan, it will be with relief that I finally found the courage to do it. The courage to leave that hunk of metal parked where it is and dare to travel as the common people do. Who came up with the idea of long distance motorcycle travel anyway? Curse you, Che. Wait, maybe this was my idea. In that case, it only seems natural. I am already at the bottom in my own regards. Natural that I would leave home on two wheels, only to become glued at the hip with, above all things, an XR650L! Lewis and Clark didn’t cross the Rockies on camels, why did I try to cross the world on a dirtbike? I am becoming less and less attached to it by the day. In the event that it should be repaired, a minor miracle, it will even seem strange to it ride again. I’m thinking of that saying, “a dog returns to its vomit” or something like that and it reminds of returning to that horribly uncomfortable seat, battered by the rain, wind, and bugs, and moving down the highway at a remarkably slow pace. A bus seat is much more comfortable. Does anyone want to by a motorcycle?

Well, things didn’t go quite according to plan… A week later, Mark’s on the Ecuadorian coast, Shrift is probably in Peru, and I’m sitting in a Colombian cafe. A hundred km south of Cali, my bike started to complain with an unsettling engine noise. Why does it have to be the XR with only 12,000 miles? We pulled off for a valve adjustment that got us 30 km down the road. There’s something heart breaking about a clanging engine noise this far from home. I’m not a mechanic but serial valve adjustments≈goodbye camshaft.

So we limped into the next town in search of a shop. The hotel owner knew someone and the next morning we were briefed. Not good. It took all day to track down the parts and they would cost $900. Seriously? I went on eBay and found what I needed for $350. The total came out to $500 with a few upgrades. Now I’m not so sure the aftermarket piston kit and performance cam shaft were necessary. Anyway, it’s to late now and this is going to take about three weeks. Mark and Shrift, ever so loyal, hit the road the next day. Somewhere in Ecuador, they split ways with Mark heading to the coast and Shrift toward Peru.

In the meantime, I found a room in another part of town for $25 a week. One nursing student, a single mom, two screaming kids, and myself make for a somewhat dysfunctional house. The house doubles as a massage parlor during the day and it’s important to keep things quiet. The kids are shuttled off, of course. Perhaps to grandma’s as it would be impossible to cultivate the necessary ambiance with them in the vicinity. I have my own room, unfurnished except for a thin mattress. A glass window offers a nice view of the kitchen and keeps me connected at all times. The language barrier adds to the general confusion and everyone wants to learn English. Sign language soon found it’s place. I'm amazing at how little Spanish is necessary to survive here. Andreas, the 68 year Californian biker, proudly told me in Cartagena that he had made it all the way to Argentina and back to Colombia with one Spanish word. “Nada”.

A few days later, I joined a few backpackers from the only hostel in town for a bike ride. 32 km of sheer beauty.



The only interesting activity I found in town was teaching English but it was a one time event. A three day search for a Spanish school proved equally disappointing. The best option consisted of sitting in on a beginner English class with the hopes of learning some Spanish along the way. I imagined hours of repetitive dialogue along the lines of “how are you” and “my name is…” Not to mention the teacher’s terrible accent, faithfully copied by the students, and I cringed. Perhaps buying a backpack and returning in three weeks wasn't such a bad idea. I entertained the idea of going to Ecuador for awhile but Shrift's warning was enough;

"one more reason not to come down farther south...
Ecuador- hot milk with instant coffee powder on the table
peru- very strong coffee concentrate on the table in a flask, your cup comes with hot water to be mixed with the ready made coffee syrup."

I can deal with an awkward living situation, language barriers, and guerrilla infested mountains but bad coffee is altogether different. Meanwhile, the XR sits in pieces, a grim sight to all who crowd around as I payed a visit. Only the chief mechanic seems confident and that reassures me for a few blocks as I return to see what’s brewing at the crazy house.

Blogs are a lot of work, especially on the road. Just felt like I needed to say that.
The next day we rode all day to Parque Nacional Natural de Los Nevados. Mark wanted to do some hiking and it seemed like a good place. I had contacted Shrift in Medellin. The plan was to meet up in Las Brisas, a dot on the map that looked like a small town. It was looked more like a ranger station when we pulled up well after dark. At over 12,000 feel, it was cold, harsh and there wasn’t anywhere to camp. Shrift had arrived hours before from nearby Libano. We chanced to meet him as he was headed down for the night. On his way up, he had stopped by a house for a few pictures and was immediately taken in. Food and shelter just like that with an open invitation for his friends. Mark and I followed him to the house and received a similar welcome. The family was also hosting two other groups of hikers who were up for the Semana Santa weekend. Amazing hospitality.


After supper and tea in the candle light, we were given a room. It was high, about 12,000 feet, and I was acclimated to sea level after weeks spent in Panama City and Cartagena. Half way through the night I got sick and was soon vomiting. Altitude sickness, by morning it was bad and we had no choice but to descend.

That day we rode to Armenia and found a fire station to take us in. Another dose of great hospitality; they gave us a room and access to the kitchen and bathrooms. On a side note, the weather is getting noticeably wetter the further south we get. It's raining almost every day now.

The next day we rode to Cali where we spent three nights in the famous biker hostel named Casa Blanca. Casa Blanca is run by Mikkel, a biker who has been around the world two and a half times by motorcycle. He found a girl in Cali and decided to settle down. Most of the guests at the hostel were bikers on their way to either Ecuador or Venezuela. We met a guy that Shrift had ridden with on his sailboat trip from Panama. Another guy had ridden with Elijah, my traveling companion from Panama, through parts of Central America. Small world. Tomorrow we’ll continue towards Ecuador.