Pablo Escobar and the Medellin Cocaine Cartel

Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria was a Colombian criminal kingpin most renowned for his leading role in smuggling cocaine to the USA. At the height of his power, Pablo Escobar and the Medellin Cartel were smuggling 15 tons of cocaine to the USA each day, accounting for about 80% of all cocaine consumed in the USA and valued at some half a billion dollars per day. From humble beginnings, Pablo worked his way up to become one of the richest men in the world, and was eventually gunned down on a Colombian rooftop by a huge team of USA funded and CIA controlled men deployed to track him down.



Pablo was born 1 December 1949, the third of seven children to a farmer and school teacher parents. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, Pablo answered that he wanted to be a millionaire. As a teenager he began his criminal career reselling stolen gravestones, stealing cars, smuggling contraband cigarettes and even assisting in the kidnapping of a business executive. At the age of 25 he got into the business of cocaine in earnest. After a rival dealer was murdered, ostensibly by Pablo, all his men were told that they now work for Pablo. The following year Pablo was caught in possession of 18 kgs of cocaine after returning from Ecuador. While his attempts to bribe the judge were unsuccessful, after less than 2 months in prison he was eventually able to bribe the arresting police officers, and the case was dropped. This pattern of corruption and intimidation characterised Pablo´s manner of dealing with problems. As Pablo once said, ¨Everyone has a price, the important thing is to find out what it is.¨ Bribing was the first choice, but Pablo was not afraid to take more dramatic actions if necessary. He once said, ¨Sometimes I am God. If I say a man dies, he dies that same day.¨ This policy became to be known as ¨Plata o plomo¨ meaning ´silver or lead´.


While Pablo Escobar was the most well known member of the Medellin cartel, he was not the boss and held an equal, or perhaps only a somewhat greater, share to about 10 other senior members. However, over 10% of a cartel that at its prime smuggled 80% of the USA cocaine supply made him an exceedingly wealthy man. Indeed, by 1983 his fortune was loosely estimated at US$20 Billion, making him the 7th richest person according to Forbes Magazine rich list. As cash was the primary mode of transaction, stashes of millions of dollars continue to be found hidden in the walls of country villas and warehouses across Colombia.


The cartel was mainly a smuggling operation, with most of the cocaine coming from Peru and Bolivia. After is was further refined, it was transported to the USA via other Caribbean countries, mainly the Bahamas, where the cartel bought an island as a smuggling headquarters. They had a fleet of planes, helicopters, boats and even submarines at their disposal, and Pablo, unlike most of the other cartel leaders, famously piloted some deliveries. There were jetliners that could carry 11 tonnes of cocaine per flight and a record delivery of 23 tonnes in a cargo ship.


But controlling so much money has its costs. In addition to constant fighting with rival cartels involving frequent bombing and counter-bombing of cartel owned properties, they were also at war with the US-backed Colombian Government. In a rare offer of peace, Pablo and the cartel offered to pay off the entire national debt of some US$13 billion in exchange for immunity for cartel leaders.  The government said ´no´ and confiscated nearly 1000 cartel owned properties. They then signed an extradition treaty with the US whereby Colombian drug criminals could be imprisoned in the US. As Pablo famously said, `I would prefer to be in the grave in Colombia than in a jail cell in the United States.` The cartel responded with violence. A presidential candidate was gunned down, banks,  newspapers and a Government building in Bogota were car bombed and a commercial flight on which the President was supposed to be was bombed, leaving 107 dead. It was also alleged that Escobar financed an attack on the Colombian Supreme Court in 1985 by a guerrilla group which left have of the Supreme Court judges dead. With so much conflict, Medellin became the murder capital of the world, with over 25,000 violent deaths within the city in 1991 and over 27,000 in 1992. A portion of this high murder rate was attributable to the cartel´s offer of US$1000 for every police officer killed. Over 600 officers were killed in this way in only a few years.



After a period of relative peace, when a new president rescinded the extradition treaty and Pablo was voluntarily imprisoned in a luxury house he built for himself, the position was changed again under pressure from the USA. The war was back on, and Pablo let himself out from his prison and was on the run again. Throughout all these periods of different levels of violence, the rate of cocaine trafficking never faltered.

It took a US funded and CIA controlled team of 1500 men 499 days to track down the escaped Pablo. Using radio triangulation technology provided by the US, Pablo was tracked down to a middle-class neighbourhood in Medellin while talking to his son on the phone. As forces moved in Pablo and his one remaining bodyguard, who had been by his side since almost the beginning, fled the building rooftop to rooftop before they were eventually gunned down. It was 2 December 1993, the day after Pablo´s birthday. There is some controversy about how he actually died. Some claim it was the CIA, who have photos with the body moments later, while others claim it was a vigilante group called Los Pepes who had been pursuing Pablo for over a decade and had captured and killed his cousin earlier that day. Other´s claimed that Pablo shot himself and assured his wish to end up in a Colombian grave rather than a US prison.



While seen as an enemy of the US and Colombian Governments, Pablo was a hero to many Colombians, especially the poor. He built many hospitals, schools and houses in Colombia, most notably a 500 residence housing project in a poor area of Medellin that he gave to the locals. He was also patron of football, building sports centres, sponsoring children´s football teams and paying for about half of the Colombian national team. He did however, have umpires assassinated on a couple of occasions when he did not agree with a decision. He also built a massive zoo on his private country residence. It was abandoned upon his death and there are now some 300 wild hippos roaming the Colombian mountains.



Since 1995 Pablo´s widow and two children have lived in Buenos Aires Argentina, under different names. Pablo said that his wife was the only person he was ever scared of, and other than  being unfaithful was actually a good husband and father. While the family could only get away with a small fraction of Pablo´s wealthy, they still live a very comfortable life.

Now days, about 90% of cocaine used in the USA still comes from Colombia, usually via an intermediary Mexican cartel. The murder capital on the world is now Juarez, on the Mexican border with the US. In the post Escobar era supply and production of cocaine has not dropped, but now it is a collection of guerrilla and paramilitary groups in power operating from the jungle regions of Colombia. It is though that 50-300 thousand hectares of virgin Amazonian rainforest are cleared each year for the production of cocaine. But the situation in Colombian cities and highways has improved dramatically. Medellin is now a growing city with a perpetual spring-like climate, streets lined by mango trees and more beautiful women with breast and arse implants than you could poke a scalpel at. Once the murder capital of the world, this fun, safe and progressive cosmopolitan is now leaving many Western cities for dead. However, some bombed cartel buildings, including a highrise tower used as the cartel´s headquarters and the house of Pablo himself, remain unrepaired and vacant, serving as a constant reminder for the still too recent pasts.

Sacred Sueños Regenerative Farm Project

I recently came back from volunteering for a couple of weeks at a farm in Southern Equador. On the first morning I met up with Yves (pronounced Eve), the guy who runs the project. He is  Swiss born, Canadian raised fiery red headed ex-psudo-anarchist who completed a Bachelor and Masters in Environmental studies. Eight years ago he bought some land serverely degradaded by years of unsustainable farming where almost nothing grew, and committed at least 15 years of his life to help restore it. Today was his 37th birthday.

Clyde the baby donkey having his weekly bath

After a 15 minute taxi ride out of town I was handed the reigns to a horse loaded with a week´s worth of supplies just purchased in town, and we hiked about 1 1/2 hours up a steap, narrow and sometimes muddy trail. Huge respect to Jocito (the horse). We unloaded the weekly bounty of food. One of 12 eggs were cracked, several avacados and papayas were damaged, a few pears were uterlly destroyed, one bag of rice split open, and the bag of oranges and mandarins was left left in the chaos of the market. ¨All in all not too bad,¨ said Yves, who on other accasions had lost almost everything when the bags slipped off, sometimes bringing the horse with it over the edge of the trail. Then Yves, I and 4 other volunteers sat down to a hearty lunch of stewed vegetables, beans and grains.

The kitchen/dinning room/sitting room/library that we ate in was made by Yves at the begging of the project. After months of clearing flat land on the steep slope, he then dragged timber by horse from a tree plantation further up the mountain, and combined it with hand made adobe/mud bricks. After more than 6 months, there was a single room. The whole area was still covered in ferns and other weeds following the previous mono-cropping of sugar cane.

Now, after 8 years of using what he calls regenerative design (roughly permaculture principles), much progress has been made. With the help of a transient community of volunteers (up to 1000 over the 8 years), the soil quality has improved and now there are a number of productive vegi patches, greenhouses, native trees and fruit and nut trees. There is also running water from a nearby spring, solar panels for some eletricity, a composting toilet (aka the shit bucket), bee hives, 2 chicken coops, a solar shower, a dormitory and several cabins for sleeping. There is also a surpisingly extensive library with such titles as: Home Cheese Making; Butterflies of South America; 1984 (Orwell); Packin´ In on Mules and Horses; The Road; Ishmael and Human Manure. The other residents of the property include 2 milking goats, 1 baby goat (aka  a kid), 2 cats, 1 kitten, 1 dog, 2 puppies, an old horse, a donkey and her baby. Yves now lives on another part of the property intermitantly with his girlfriend, raising the goats and making goats cheese which he sells in town each week.

Mani (or Peanut in Spanish), the baby goat

We were expected to do 6 hours of work each day, and after splitting the chores to maintain the place, we could work on whatever projects we chose. I did such things as: weeding and caring for plants, planting seeds, transplanting seedlings, washing puppies, maintaining trails, fixing water tanks, feeding the animals, watering the garden and harvesting. I loved harvesting. While there is room for improvment in vegetable production, there were certainly enough beans. When I traced a thicket of climbing beans down to their stems, sometimes what I thought was 1 plant turned out to be 5, and other times what I thought was 5 plants turned out to be 1. These self seeded beans from past cropps were everywhere. I also harvested root vegetables, salad greens, some squash-like thing called Sambo, berries, a few types of fruit and eggs from the chickens. You could go pick a bowl of salad in a few minutes for lunch or pick some strawberries, rasberries and blackberries to go with your pancakes in the morning.

Living at a farm that did not import fertiliser or chemicals and that did not take any rubish off the property made you very aware of the consequences of your lifestyle. The rubish was sorted into careful piles. The planstics and other things that could not otherwise be reused were mixed with mud to make bricks, the food scraps were fed to the animals or composted, and the paper was burnt so the ash could be used in the garden bed. Furthermore, carfeully selcted plants were used to help improve the soil. Some brought up nutrients from deap in the soil, others fixed nitrogen, and all, even the weeds, produced organic matter that helped to improve the quality of the soil. As Yves said, even when removing undesired plants from the vegi patches, trim them back with love, and thank them for their contribution to the soil. Everything grown on the property -- and everything brought up in the form of food -- will return to improve the soil. Whether it is directly broken down, composted, eaten by the chickens or other animals and pooped out or eaten by the humans and pooped out (yes, even the human waste was used as fertiliser). At Sacred Sueños you can see the miracle of life in action.

You don´t need to sacrifice your lifestyle to be more sustainable; you just need to adjust it. My time at the farm was not at all unpleasant or unduely difficult. In fact, it was wonderful.

For More information, please checkout http://sacredsuenos.wordpress.com/ 

Kuelap Ruins

Near the city of Chachapoyas in Northern Peru lies some magnificent ruins made by the Chachapoyans. This pre-Incan civilisation reigned over an area of cloud forest in the Amazon Basin about a third the size of modern day Peru from about AD500 to 1470. They were called The Chachapoyas by the Incans (of Machu Pichu fame) who eventually conquered them, meaning Warriors of the Clouds. They were fierce fighters who took the skulls of victims as trophies and were believed to also eat their hearts. They worshipped mainly pumas, eagles and snakes, with a mummified jaguar found in a royal tomb and images of these animals depicted in their art and constructions. Animal and human scarifies were also performed at the temple in the ruins. They even had their own language.


Radiocarbon dating shows that construction of the fortress began sometime in the sixth century AD. The structure is located at an altitude of 3000 on a ridge above a narrow valley some 1.2 kms vertically below. It consists of a huge exterior stone wall as much as 19 m high made without the benefit of cement. Some of these stones have aquatic fossils from before the sea bed was forced up to form the Andes Mountains. The fortress is roughly 600 m in length and 110 m in width. It had two levels, one for the Military, Religious order and Ruling class and one for the common people below, and had over 500 buildings. This is believed to have support a population of up to 4000 people at its zenith. Each house has a huge stone on the floor, usually embedded bedrock, used to grind flour for the household´s needs. They would live amongst their Guinea Pigs (i.e. their dinner) during the day to share body warmth, but would sleep separated on a platform or on the other side of a low stone wall during the night. Most houses had tombs for deceased relatives at the door for the believed protection it provided from evil spirits.

The Chachapoyas were eventually conquered by the significantly more powerful and numerous Incans; but it was not done without difficulty. The citadel itself could never be taken by force. Instead, it was sieged for about 20 years -- cutting off access to outside food and water -- until they eventually surrendered. They survived off huge stockpiles, some farming within the fort, but mainly by their intense hatred of the Incans. Only 60 years later the Spanish invaded. Even with the advantage of arms and other technology, they could not take the citadel by force either. However, due to the highly infectious Small Pox brought over by the Spanish, this siege of the now Incan held fort took a little under a year.

That this citadel was never taken by force is incredible; unless you look at the design. The only entry points through the high walls were two gates, one on either side of the complex. The gap in the wall starts wide then narrows as it ascends the steep stairs, like the shape of a pizza slice. Many attacking soldiers could charge in together but would get jammed as the passage narrowed, and the top was wide enough for only one person to pass at a time. This single soldier would be met by a wall of spears and other weapons, and both sides of this gauntlet would be defended by soldiers slinging down rocks and other instruments of harm. Even to reach the outer wall you needed to charge 1.2 kms vertically up from the river below. At 3000 m altitude, this is no easy feat by itself. Furthermore, there was a guard tower at the top of the complex that had a direct line of sight to the fire or smoke signals of the three nearest villages, providing an advanced warning signal for attack.

For a civilisation that ruled over a large area for almost 1000 years, surprisingly little is known about the Chachapoyas. But from what we do know, they seem pretty bad arse.

Authors Note: Most of these ´facts´ came from my memory of the tour I took through the ruins, and should not be relied upon in more than a general sense.

The Amazon River

Day 1

After almost 30 hours of bus travel from Lima I had arrived in Pucallpa, a steamy Peruvian jungle town on a tributary of the Amazon river. The bus had been stopped by a police roadblock because there was too much snow on the highway ahead, so we waited on the bus until morning to attempt the pass. Too much snow to get to the jungle? Only in South America.

In Pucallpa, first I went to the market to buy a hammock, Tupperware and a spoon, drinking water and some snacks. Then down to the docks. Luckily, a cargo ship was scheduled to depart for my destination - Iquitos - in only a few hours. I walked past all the various cargo under tarps and in metal barrels and tied up my hammock in a big metal room on the third storey of the boat amongst at least 40 others. It was going to be cosy. I also bought a small mesh hammock from a tout on board so that I could store my backpack above where I slept. Apparently it would be more safe. I then went and payed directly to the captain - 100 soles (about $35) for food, accommodation and passage for the 4 day journey.

I then took off my shirt and went up on deck with a book to watch sunset. After talking to a kid for a while I was approached by a relatively hot group of Peruvian girls who wanted to take photos posing with me. I´m sure they were going straight on Facebook. This could be an interesting few days. I spotted another non-Peruvian and went to talk to him. He was a 24 year old Spaniard from Barcelona who had already been travelling for a year and a half. We then joined up with a 22 year old Argentinian and the only three non-Peruvians on board went out for dinner. Apparently the departure time had been delayed until 10AM the following day as we waited for a truckload of flour. $1.50 for a fish dinner is not bad.

Back in my hammock on board people had moved in on each side of me, both with crying young babies who were sleeping on the floor virtually underneath me. If I fell out of my hammock in the night (a genuine concern because it was my first ever night sleeping in a hammock) I would fall on a baby. Not the best night sleep ever.

Day 2

Went and got breakfast and new batteries for my headlight in the market, then waited in my hammock for departure. As I got hungry around lunch time I asked around and found out that departure had been pushed back to 5pm. As I was looking for a place to eat, I was beckoned into a bar by a bunch of rowdy old drunken men, who wanted to buy me beers. It was filthy hot and Peruvian party music was blaring loudly. They shouted and competed amongst themselves to talk to me and ask me questions. My Spanish comprehension was being tested by their slurred speech. Eventually all of them had gone back to work, save two. One had fallen asleep with his chin on his chest and the other, the oldest of the group, had taken to the dance floor by himself. He then invited me back to his house to meet his family. So we piled into a motortaxi with his bundle of whiteboards (he was in the business of selling whiteboards on the street). We then sat on his porch as his wife served us cold Fanta and he introduced me to his kids and grand kids. His granddaughter was definitely giving me eyes. I then thanked my hosts and went to a place they recommended for Ceviche, and dish of uncooked fish marinated in lemon juice.

Back on the boat I had an epic siesta like you only can in a hammock in the jungle. I then found out that the departure time had been pushed back to 5AM the following morning. Went for another fried fish dinners and an ice cream. Then stood out on the deck and watched a lightning storm over the river, preparing for my second night on the boat without leaving.

Day 3

When I awoke the following morning we had actually departed. Although I couldn´t be sure until I got up and checked, because the ship has a top speed travelling down river of about 15 km/h. I was informed of this my a guy in a white polo shirt, jeans and a fanny pack, who ostentatiously was showing off his GPS. He worked in the logging industry and explained how logging areas must be charted by GPS and approved by the Government. Apparently it is not a very stringent approval process, because I saw plenty of barge loads of old growth Amazon hardwoods passing us on the river. He also explained about how the girls in the jungle are Caliente (hot, passionate) and how he was ¨fucking¨ (the only English word he had used) a girl in town while we waited for the boat to leave. In the 5 minutes I was talking with him he had hit on about 3 different girls, and kept on trying to show off his GPS which he repeatedly produced from his fanny pack.

I had missed breakfast, but the lunch of rice, chicken, beans, potato and platano was pretty decent. Although it got pretty repetitive when you ate it every day. You lined up and they mark it off on your ticket as they serve you into some vessel that you must provide yourself. I then joined up with the Spaniard and Argentinian for a joint amongst the cargo. We sat on a front end loader at the very front of the boat and watched the jungle go by. We were joined by guy with red cargo pants, a crew cut and a purple wife beater singlet saying ´Student´ in Spanish with lude stick figure drawings of drinking, having sex and sleeping. As soon as he started talking to us he put one leg up on the side of the boat, with his crutch in our face, and started these unconscious thrusting motions. He had joined us to see if we wanted to buy weed from him. No thanks.

After a siesta, I was back out on deck for sunset. I talked to a guy who each month had to do a 2 day voyage each way to the nearest town with an ATM. He also explained that a boat we passed was full of Peruvian made beer, near the beginning of a 1 month round trip far into Brazil.

Whenever we stopped at the larger villages, a hoard of people would come on board selling anything from food to animals. For 30 cents I got a bag of a peeled jungle fruit I had never heard of before that tasted something between a guava and a pineapple. Other people bought parrots taken from nests in the jungle with clipped wings so that they could not fly. I also saw a kid with a baby monkey, also stolen from its mother in the jungle. I had heard of the trade of Amazonian animals, but  had no idea it was so prevalent. The Spanish guy had volunteered a couple of months in a refuge for animals rescued from the illegal animal trade. He told me about a Puma there that was purchased off the black market and kept in the courtyard of a butcher, being fed the off cuts each night. Eventually the cute little puma became a big adult (which tends to be the case) and they gave it to the refuge, saying they could no longer care for it.

Each time we passed a village, almost everyone on board would go and stare at the villagers that would themselves gather to watch the boat. People would even put down the meal they were eating and cross to the other side of the boat to get a better view. At first it was no big deal to me, but by the end I got it. With so little external stimulation, any human contact was the best entertainment available. Sometimes virtually the whole village would assemble to watch the boat pass, with kids rushing out of their houses to try to get a good seat.

Each time we stopped at a village the boat´s population would swell. Like a spreading patch of mushrooms, new hammocks would crop up everywhere. Previously that day I had counted 64 hammocks inside, but when we docked at a village at 10PM at night we took on many more passengers. A hammock squeezed between me and the woman with two young children that I thought the laws of physics, let alone human decency, would not permit. It was a friendly guy that was always staring at me whenever I looked. That night, I later found out, our population swelled to about 150 people, although for most of the journey there was only about 100. Apparently, at the beginning of the Peruvian holiday season, the boat can accommodate up to 400 people. I felt like an insect squished together with so many others in our suspended cocoons/hammocks. That night the phones of the Argentinian and another person were stolen. But they were left on top of bags or charging and not inside closed let alone locked pockets.

Day 4

I woke up late, thinking I had missed breakfast. I went down to the kitchen to check, but ended up being the first in line of the entire boat. After we docked in a large village, this Christian conspiracy theory group started taking over the boat. They put up these banners everywhere explaining how the Government was planning to put microchips and bar codes on us, and where already watching us from small cameras hidden in our television sets. Certain world leaders, mainly Americans (eg Obama), were named as false prophets or even the anti-Christ himself, all apparently with ´the mark of the beast.´ The Apocalypse is coming. Then they explained the key principles of Christianity and how the church was our only saviour from this impending evil. The people who put up the banners were on their way to an annual congregation of people from all over the Peruvian Amazon.

We went to have another smoke, but it started pouring with rain, so I sheltered in my hammock, read, then had a siesta. Then had dinner. Eat, rest, sleep. Eat, rest, read, sleep. That was the routine.

From the deck I watched a few canoes with outboard motors catch up with us and tag a ride to the next village. We passed a naked man bathing in the Amazon River from the flooded front steps of his house, and someone on the boat gave a wolf whistle. Everyone laughed. After some hesitation, the naked man gave a wolf whistle back. Nice come-back. When we arrived in the village I witnessed some astonishing feats of unloading cargo. Into one canoe was unloaded 14 cases of beer and two of cola. Just when I thought he could not possibly fit more into his boat, the cherry on top was carried out: two large stacks of eggs precariously balanced on top of everything else. Then two live chickens were passed across upside down by the feet. So at least in this case, the chicken was not before the egg. On another canoe was unloaded a brand new double bed, still wrapped in plastic, which wobbled its way uncertainly to shore.

Day 5

Each time I returned to the toilets they were in a worse state of repair. Less locks working (one had no door at all) and more toilets blocked and filthy. Sometimes I had to decide between working toilets or working locks. But today, on day 5, it finally happened - the water stopped working, leaving the toilets un-flushable. It was only ever water pumped up directly from the dirty river, but it was better than nothing. Later that morning I was up on the roof where I saw the water tanks overflowing. The pump had obviously been repaired. I saw a man amble up the stairs in a self-satisfied manner, as if he had just repaired the water system of the entire boat. Then he was met by a small torrent of overflowing water. His expression changed in an instant, and he turned on the spot and ran back down the stairs.

I watched a child play with two puppies as I ate my watery oatmeal for breakfast, then climbed up onto the roof of the fourth storey control room with the Spanish and Argentinian guys for our first joint of the day. It was only 8.30AM. I asked the Spanish guy why we were smoking so much. His reply, ¨Lo tengo, me gusta, prque no?¨ (I have it, I like it, why not?) pretty much sums it up.

From up on the roof we got a better sense of both the boat and the surrounding jungle and river. The boat was on the larger end of the scale, with a huge cargo area, and was made only a few years previously in Pucallpa, the shitty little city from which the boat departed. I was surprised they had the capacity to make such a large boat. I was equally surprised about the manoeuvres that such a large boat was capable of. When ever it ´docked´ in a village it would turn around so that it was facing upstream, and thus would not need to tie up to anything. This huge boat would literally poke its nose up against the washed-out muddy bank of tiny little villages. From up on the roof we spotted a pod of 4-5 river dolphins.

After the other guys went down, I sat at the front of the roof and watched the landscape float by until lunch time. From this perspective I could see further into the jungle, and got a better sense of how the boat was controlled. At one of the villages we passed a little boat was blasting ´Eye of the Tiger´. Strange but somehow appropriate.

After lunch I talked to a nice lady for about an hour, who gave me an open invitation to come and stay with her in her village beside the amazon. Tempting. Siesta, dinner, then watched sunset with the other two guys up on the roof again. Next stood on the deck and talked to some wistful old Peruvian men about their world and a little of mine. A plastic bag of food scraps was thrown into the seemingly lifeless river (yes all the Peruvians threw rubbish into the Amazon) and I saw it torn apart by a hoard of fish within half a second. I later found out that four years ago a similar boat on the same route had sunk. Most survived, some drowned, and some were eaten by fish. Yes! There are actually man eating fish in the Amazon River. While eating a full grown adult will probably kill them in the process, they will take you down with them. With that image in mind, I went to bed.

Day 6

I woke up well past normal breakfast time, but went down to the kitchen to try my luck and see if they had any left. Just as I asked they announced the begging of breakfast and I was again the first in line of the entire boat. Smoked with the guys again, but this time not on the roof since it was raining. I sat and watched the mist shrouded flooded little villages on stilts with half naked children as we floated by. Very Heart-of-Darkness.

It was the end of the wet season and the water level of the Amazon River was as high as it has been in about 40 years. Twenty-four years ago there was another flood, but not as bad as this one. Many have had to flee to higher ground in the cities and towns as their homes are submerged, but even the outer suburbs of the cities have been flooded. I met a guy living in Iquitos who was sleeping in the collage gymnasium with his wife and two children, since his house was underwater. I also saw a bunch of government issued refugee-like tents and portable toilets lining one of the main streets of the city. Others have decided to stay in their houses and sleep on tables with water below them.

Those who stay in their villages outside of the cities and towns have problems too. There is little land on which to cook or sleep when they are out on fishing expeditions, and fishing, the main livelihood of many people, is more difficult because the usually abundant lakes have now been linked to and flooded by the main river. It is also more difficult to access drinking water and the brother of the guy working at my guesthouse was sick with a pretty serious fever from drinking dirty water when out in his village. This guy working at the hostel was also just recovering from a week in hospital after contracting malaria.

The high water level has also had a devastating effect on the crops grown alongside the river. It will take at least a year to replant and grow bananas, for example. While quick growing vegetables can be planted as soon as the water recedes, there will be a food shortage for some time to come. It will be another two months before the water has receded enough for the people to start planting crops and rebuilding their homes and lives. Without crops to earn income, the people will be forced into more clearing of forest for timber for the next year.

As I was returning to my hammock, I was intercepted by a group of children who I had been trying to play with, without success, since the first day one the boat. For some reason they had now decided it was OK, and we played for almost an hour. Horseback rides, ´airplane ´other forms of physical gymnastics, pile ups and lots of squealing and giggling. A couple of mothers came outside to see what the noise was, and at first looked sceptical about a Gringo playing with their children. But by the end I had a crowd of onlooking mothers with approving looks on their faces. One even thanked me afterwards.

After lunch I went back up on the roof with the other guys to watch the official begging of the Amazon River, as two large rivers merged. Then my usual lunch-siesta-dinner routine.

We arrived in Iquitos, our final destination, at about 11PM. I was woken the narcotics trafficking police, who wanted to search my bag. My search was OK, but another guy was not so lucky. He was caught with a big stash of cocaine destined for Brazil and was escorted off the boat. I played a bit more with the kids, who had been roused by the commotion, then went back to bed. There I was hit on by the very obviously gay cook, who had been talking to a friend in a hammock near mine. Later I heard is friend ask him (in Spanish): Do you want the Gringo? Yes or no? Yes or no? I then replied (in Spanish): I understood that. And I´m sorry, but I like women.

The following morning I awoke and the Spaniard, the Argentinian and I were the last ones on the boat. It was 7AM. We quickly packed our bags and tried to exit the boat, but it had moved further down river and was no longer attached to land. So we payed a passing little boat to take us and our baggage to dry land. We had arrived in Iquitos, the largest city in the world unreachable by road. It had taken 6 days to travel about 1000kms as the bird flies, but much longer including all the bends in the river. From here, at 106 m above sea level, the Amazon River travels more than 3000kms more before it reaches the Atlantic ocean in Brazil. At its mouth, the river is 240 kms wide and discharges more water than the following 7 biggest rivers in the world combined. I had not spoken a sentence of English in 10 days.

A Day in the Life - 17 March 2012

I woke up at about 8AM, at first disorientated, but then remembering I was free-camping in a valley near a thermal hot spring, just out of Juljuy, Argentina. It had been my 24th night since leaving Ushuaia in Southern Argentina, and I had camped at almost as many places. I had my usual breakfast of cold porridge, packed up my tent and my bag, and secured it to the back of my motorcycle. I then oiled the chain and adjusted its tightness. Only the previous day I had lost a screw holding the rear wheel on its bracket, and was using an old screw that was severely warped from a separate incident when the chain came off on a gravel road. I could not screw it in past the bend in the screw, and thus I was going to have to make do with a very loose chain. All going well, I would be in Bolivia today.

After only a couple of attempts on the kick start (the battery and electric starter had given out on me a week or two earlier), I was on the road. Within an hour, the lush sub-tropical jungle gave way to epic desert canyons peppered with huge cacti. This UNESCO world heritage area (whatever that means) had bizarre patterns scoured into the canyon walls and such a variety of distinct and striking colours in the stone.

I stopped at a service station and filled my bike with only enough gasoline to get to Bolivia, where fuel is subsidised and about half the price. I produced from the pocket on the inside of my leather jacket a banana which I had purchased the previous day. Experience showed that such precautions were necessary. Just as I was about to go, a guy rolled in with a big BMW touring motorcycle, and a woman on the back. They had the full outfits and helmets complete with radios. So I went to talk to them (in my broken Spanish of course). They were Argentinians from a nearby city and were riding only for the day. I told them about my travels (over 15,000 kms) and showed them my bike (150CC Chinese made). They said I was Loco. 


As I continued to climb in altitude, everything started to become more and more Bolivian. By the time I had reached the sparse Altiplano, where even the cacti cannot survive, I was basically back in Bolivia: women in Bowler hats carrying large loads, broken down buses destined for Bolivia and little street vendors and markets everywhere.

After some difficulty at the border, I actually crossed into Bolivia. Not only was it the slowest and worst organised border crossing I have ever encountered, at first an armed guard refused me entry. I could not produce the entry paper for my Bolivian registered bike because to get the entry paper I needed to show them the exit paper, which I had never been given. After quite some time of waiting for the boss, I was able to explain the situation and convince them to let me and my bike back in. My Spanish was being tested. This was also the border which, three months earlier, on the Argentinian side, had refused me and the guys I was travelling with entry with our Bolivian bikes. Instead, we crossed over and travelled South in Chile until we were able to pass into Argentina at a small border post in the far South.


With much relief I got some Bolivian cash from an ATM (I had only about $12 left, and Bolivia is known for unreliable ATMs). Back in cheap Bolivia I was rich again. I treated myself to an ice cream, a freshly squeezed orange juice, empanadas, fries, chicken and a soft drink.

After a while asking around, I was able to locate a motorbike workshop where I could get a new screw to hold my rear wheel on. The shop keeper next door said it would be re-opening soon after the lunch break, so I waited. After a while I asked another shop keeper, who called them and told me they would not be open until the the following day. I was feeling impatient, so decided to continue on with my dodgy screw.


After buying some food for a night of camping, I continued on. In some tiny village there was a big soccer match going on, so I pulled over to check it out. One of the many benefits of travelling with your own vehicle. I then continued on to a small river that was packed with kids frolicking in the water and adults just sitting around in the sun with food and drinks. Ten buses and a host of private cars were there this Saturday afternoon. I really liked the vibe so decided to camp there rather than press on. Waded in the creek (it was a hot day) I indulged in some serious people-watching. The first day of high altitude in a long time left me panting if I walked too fast. 

Lying on a grassy bank I smoked a joint that I had smuggled across the border (the last of a small stash purchased weeks earlier) and watched the people return to the buses as the sun went down. They took so long. After some people had been sitting in the bus for over an hour, a small group would come trudging around the corner, which I though must surely be the last people. But as they neared the buses, another group would appear. There were several times when I was sure that these people must be the last, but they just kept coming. At first the bus drivers took it patiently, but by the end they were shouting, honking the horn and edging the bus away a couple of metres at a time. A group of young teenage girls started some chant to pass the time. A good couple of hours after the buses started leaving, when only one of the ten buses remained, and had edged its way towards the highway rather than waiting in the parking area, the last people came. I heard the girls excuse (spoken in Spanish): ¨I had to pack up the tent.¨


I had just seen a kid hoon done a rough hill on his motorbike, and I wanted to try it. Especially since only that day I had decided for sure that I would sell the bike when I got back to Sucre. I put on my leather jacket and boots and went to kick start the bike. Of course it did not work. So I pushed it halfway up the hill and roll started it instead. I blasted up the hill and continued on down the little dirt track. I then came hooning down the hill, cutting off the track and riding over grass and dirt. I was having too much fun, so I continued out onto the highway, cruising the almost deserted desert road as the last of the purple from sunset faded from the sky. When I passed a little Bolivian couple trudging along carrying huge loads on their backs it certainly dampened my spirits, but I felt more grateful for my position than guilty for theirs.


When I pulled off the highway back down to the river in the dark, I was abruptly confronted by a herd of cows in the way. After they went around, I parked my bike and set up my tent. With my head torch I looked around for the empanadas I got for dinner, but found only the Muffin that was in the same plastic bag. Whether they were pinched by hungry little hands when I left my bag unattended or I just lost them I never found out, but my dinner consisted of a half packet of biscuits. I had another packet of emergency ration biscuits which I had bought in Ushuaia and carried for 23 days and almost 6,000 kms, but I wanted to make it back to Sucre with them untouched.


First I marked off another day of traveling on my map. Then I lay on my bike with my head propped up on the dashboard and watched to epic starts as I reminisced about the incredible trip that was coming to an end. All going to plan, I would cover the remaining 450 kms to Sucre tomorow and end my journey with the motorbike which had begun 89 days and almost 16,000 kms earlier. Shooting stars blaised accross the crystal clear sky. I then crawled into my warm sleeping bag and fell fast asleep.

Diagnostics Cross-Check of Kanda KL150-11A 2848IXG

A Poem by Zack Doherty

Odometer: 16,309.8 kms
Age: 90 Days


One headlight smashed, one not functioning and cut off; fender warped by crash; almost none of the guages reliably working; throttle stuck on full once; crash-bar bolts rattled off and replaced several times; engine casing cracked open by rock and sealed with epoxy; oil plug rounded by adjustable wrench and eventually replaced; gear changing peddle rattled off and secured with super glue and string; three of four bolts securing the foot pegs and kickstand rattled off; kick stand occacionally falling down while riding, spring eventually lost, so secured to frame by rubber or elastic; foot pegs damaged by crash; rear break lead warped when break plate came off and rapped around axel; screw holding rear wheel in place within one centemetre of rattling off one time, and actually came off and was lost another; buckled rear bracket when chain came off; six punctured tires, two replaced inner tubes; break pads severly worn and rusted; lost licence plate, replaced by laminated paper; battery not functioning, kick-start functioning only with difficulty; bolts holding on rear pannel and taillight rattled off; changes up a gear when a bump is hit at speed; changes down into neutral by itself occacionally; bald tires.


´The Mighty One´ is no longer so mighty.

Motorcycling to the End of the World (a Lonley Planet style itiniary of a very non-Lonely Planet type travel)

Motorcycling to the End of the World

8-10 weeks/ Sucre, Bolivia to Ushuaia, Argentina

If you are heading South into Argentina, don´t do it half-arsed. Go all the way through  Patagonia to the Southern most city in the world, where there are no more roads further south to take. With your own set of wheels is the best way to see the expanses of Argentina and Patagonia. You will pass through remote regions, incredible landscapes and see a side of Chile and Argentina that most people never will. While some sections would certainly benefit from a 4WD, it is all doable on a 150CC Chinese Motorbike. It will require time, resourcefullness and patience, but it will be the adventure of a lifetime.

While passing into Argentina via Villazon on almost all paved roads would be better, they will not let you in with a Bolivian registered bike if you are not Bolivian. Instead, take the remote dirt roads past Uyuni to cross into Chile at Ollague (or just buy a bike in Northern Argentina). Join up with Route 5 at Calama and take it South through over 1,000 kms of the Atacama desert. Take a break and soak up some rays on the beaches around Viña del Mar, before spending a couple of days in the Nation´s Capital – Santiago. Continue South on a combination of highways, seconary roads and dirt tracks to Pucon in the Lake District. Here you can enjoy crystal clear lakes and gorgeous forested mountains. From Puerto Montt, take the Carretera Austral, skirting the thin strip of land between ocean and mountains with the help of several ferry crossings. You are now in Patagonia, but come prepaired for rain. Continue through Coyayque and cross into Argentina from Chile Chico (this little border crossing is less concerned with such trivial things as laws). Take the windy and challenging section of Route 40  South, remebering to fill up on Gasolina in Bajo Carocoles. Detour to El Chalten for treking around Mt Fitz Roy. Go to Calafate to visit the epic Perito Moreno glacier. Then cross back into Chile at Cerro Castillo (or down to Puerto Natales if you need more gasoline and supplies) to explore stunning Torres del Pain National Park. You have now made it from the border of Region I in Northern Chile to Region XII, the final region in the South. From Punta Arenus, take a ferry accross the Magellan Strait to Tierra del Fuego (make sure your bike is secured because the seas can get rough). Join up with Route 3 and continue on to el Fin Del Mundo (the end of the world) at Ushuaia. From there you can illegally sell your bike and fly to Buenos Aires for your return flight home (unless you turn around and head all the way back to Bolivia, using all different roads and traveling solo).

La Carretera Austral

After weeks of Couchsurfing at beach side apartments or swimming in insanely clear lakes or rivers in the Lake District of Chile, it was time for another adventure. We arrived in Puerto Montt, the end point of major roads in Chile and the beginning of Patagonia. After stocking up on some supplies, we headed further South to the ´Carretera Austral,´ or Southern Road, and said goodbye to paved roads. Despite literally weeks without rain, of course this afternoon it was pouring. We rode our bikes onto a ferry (where there was no road), then continued on a while in the rain until we found a muddy track leading to a clearing to set up camp. If everything wasn´t so wet, it would have been incredibly beautiful. Lush ferns, huge mountains, jungle-like vegetation and gorgeous rivers. I went and sat by the river, appreciating that I was now in Patagonia. When I returned to camp, the guys were sheltering in their tents. It literally had not stopped raining all afternoon. I cooked dinner in the rain and delivered it to their tent doors, before retreating to my own. My shitty tent had succumbed to the incessant rain and was filled with puddles, and my sleeping bag and all my clothes were wet from on the bike. Tom, who had the same tent as me, said he had literally bailed water out with a cup all night. It was a rough night.

Early in the morning we packed up our tents in the rain and rushed off to the single ferry crossing per day. Despite being sold out, they squeezed our small bikes on and we departed on the several hour journey. Through epic misty fjords and heavily forested mountains we mostly sheltered in the cabin. It was still raining. We then disembarked and rode 10km in a convoy with all the other vehicles to another ferry crossing. Apparently all these ferry crossings are easier and cheaper than cutting roads into the incredibly steep mountains. On this crossing we saw penguins swimming around the boat. By 8 PM we were back on the road. While it was some of the most stunning scenery I have ever seen, with huge waterfalls cutting out of the rainforest every few hundred meters, we rushed in search of shelter. We stopped in a National Park created by some US Millionaire where there was a wooden roof which provided some shelter. Because our tents were so wet, we just draped our mats on the dirt and dug a channel around us to divert the runoff of the rain. Another camp site two across from us was submerged in a foot of water. Because my sleeping bag was so wet, it was a cold night.

We left late the following morning in a rare patch of partial sunshine to a town called Chaiten, where we hoped to stock up on supplies and find somewhere to dry our clothes. It turns out that Chaiten is a mostly abandoned ghost town following a major volcanic eruption in 2008 with no amenities or government services, and only limited stores. However, it did have ample abandoned buildings in which to shelter, some still with meters of volcanic ash half burrying them. After all exploring the ghost town for a good place to sleep, we  took up residence in the abandoned Chaiten airport, still covered in a thick layer of volcanic ash, and set up our beds in the airplane hanger. I slept on the roof of the office rather than amongst the ash on the floor. In a delightful couple of hours of sunshine we made ourselves at home and hung up our things all over the place. We then spent a pleasant afternoon relaxing, reading our books, and old flight plans strewn across the floor. We could also see the volcano responsible for the airport being vacant smoking ominously in the background. We sat around a fire made in the hanger and drank red wine purchased at a little supermarket in the town, sheltering from the heavy rain that had resumed outside.

We ended up staying another night in the hanger, letting our clothes fully dry and ourselves recover. I went for a cruise by myself on my motorbike and found an awesome waterfall beside the road. I bush-bashed my way to it, then scrambled up this steep moss covered rock face, clinging to the trunks of bushes. Further up there was a pool, below an even higher waterfall, where I took a very cold swim to celebrate reaching it. Later that afternoon a car load of people came to look at the airport. I went to talk to them, expecting to get in trouble for squatting there. But the Chilean woman used to live in the airport 30 years ago, when her father was the boss, and she found it hilarious that we were camping there. That night we drank red wine around the fire again, and I watched the sunset from the control tower.

Departed the following morning in relatively good weather (only light rain), enjoying the incredible scenery and the difficult but fun dirt road. We rode along what I thought was a long, thin lake squished between two mountains for several kms. But it then opened out into the open ocean. We then passed around the headland on a road blasted into the cliff face. The next valley was the most beautiful place I have ever seen on Earth. There was super lush temperate rainforest covering epic mountains with snow capped peaks and glaciers, and gushing super clear rivers and waterfalls criss-crossing the landscape. At the back of the valley, the dirt road sharply zig-zagged up and over the mountains, where we were greeted with an epic vista and an even bigger waterfall. Due to the rain I never stopped to take photos, and I am kicking myself for it. Even my imagination cannot do it justice. After we crossed the mountains the scenery became drier and more coniferous. Camped by a nice river that we had to ride across a wooden suspension bridge to reach and had a campfire. We rode over 350kms that day on dirt roads, and I was tired, but satisfied.

Now, back on paved road, we curved our way through the mountains to a city called Coyayque, a surprisingly big city that is mainly reached through Argentina. We ran some errands then treated ourselves to an amazing lunch of local salmon. We continued only a little further that day, then stopped in a National Park to enjoy the sunshine. Nick and I summited a big hill which almost reached the snow line of the mountain behind it. I then did some maintenance on my bike: cleaned my air-filter, screwed my rear pannel back on, tightened bolts and tightened my chain. I then had my first shower in about a week with a woodfired heating system.

Back on dirt roads with strong winds and lost of rain was very cold. My boots leak and my visor is too scratched up to be able to see when its raining. My bike also got knocked off its stand by the slipstream of a passing bus full of soldiers when we stopped for Tom to put his chain back on. Fortunately, there was a small town where we treated ourselves to a hot lunch and some tea. Continued on around this huge glacial lake in a patch of sunshine, untill I got a flat tire. They guys headed back to the town to get it fixed, while I sat in the sun reading Sherlock Holms and eating chocolate. I was almost glad I got a flat. We camped down on the beach of the huge lake, beside a river coming down from a glacier. Beautiful sunset and a delicious curry I made for dinner

For the next section we were on good dirt roads with sunshine cruising along cliffs where the lake was squeezed between two mountains. This was probabably my favorite bit of riding so far, since although it was not quite as beautiful as the other section I raved about, the road was better and it was sunny. We stopped to talk to two fellow bikers changing a flat, and the Argentinian had heard of us on another blog/chat forum about us (http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=744634). He said he would help us cross the border and buy us an Argentinian steak dinner. We we rode on to Chile Chico, then onto the border. While we were refused entry on our first attemp in the north, because apparently foreigners cannor enter with Bolivian registered bikes, this time we got through with no problems. We then set up at a campsite in Los Antiguos and met up with the other bikers for an amazing dinner. We were now in Argentina!

Let´s Make a Run for the Border

After almost a month of waiting and wading through Bolivian Beaucracy we were now the legally registered owners of brand new motorbikes. Made in China, assembled in Bolivia, these 150CC beasts were rearing to go. To say that we were ready to hit the road was an understatement. We rode out of the hostel to a fanfare of well-wishers. Made good time riding towards the highest city in the world (4100m) and our spirits were even higher. However, a bout of heavy rain brought us back down to earth, and as it turned into snow as we ascended I hit rock bottom. The freezing weather combined with the wind-chill from wet clothes left me constantly convulsing in shivers and with unresponsive hands with which to operate the bike. But after some hot soup at a roadhouse, dry clothes and some slightly better weather things were looking up. We camped in a canyon beside the highway, cooked on a campfire and smoked a joint.

The following morning we were on the road by 8AM and made it all the way through Tupiza to Villazon and the Argentinian border by 12:30. After a ridiculous wait to get through Bolivian immigrations, we crossed the bridge on our bikes into Argentina -- only to be told that we could not enter with the Bolivian registered bikes. We were gutted, and it seemed like our patience and expenditure had been for nothing. We crossed back into Bolivia with our tails between our legs (bribing our way to the front of the line) and found a cheap guesthouse. After some research on the internet we decided to give Chile a try.

The following morning we rode back to Tupiza, and then turned onto a rough 200km ´shortcut´ through the desert to Uyuni. I was really enjoying the ride through the spectacular scenery as if it would be my last time (which it would be if Chile did not let us in). I was also reflecting on life with the clarity and perspective availably only when sitting on a motorcycle speeding through the remote Bolivian altiplano. We made it to Uyuni in surprisingly decent time considering how bad the road was, then stocked up on fuel and food and hit the road again along the edge of the biggest salt flat in the world. Shortly afterwards it started to get dark, and we pulled off the dirt road onto a track that went behind a big hill. We startled a lone donkey which trotted off towards the center of the barren salt flat. I hope he is ok. We camped on sand at the begging of the salt flat and drank beers purchased at the last town, celebrating keeping the dream alive.

Changed our engine oil, tightened my drive chain and were on the road by 8:30 am. After stopping at most of the villages along the way to ask for directions, we made it to the border by 12:30. It was a strange barren place with a train graveyard and one employee at the immigration office. We then headed on to the Chile border post where we passed the lone, bored looking employee quickly and without difficulty; quite a contrast to our last attempt to cross a border in the bustle of Villazon. We then sped off whooping and punching the air in celebration. We were heading South on our bikes.

It was a rough dirt road through salt flats surrounded by epic volcanic mountains. Other than losing my gear changing peddle a few times and having to walk back to find it, we had no problems for almost 100 km - until we came to a police check-point. Apparently, we were supposed to have registered bikes at a different office at the border, although we were not informed of this by the immigration officer who saw our bikes. We were denied further passage and forced to re-trace our route to the border, despite having dangerously low fuel (the exact amount was unknown because the fuel gauge stopped working a long time before).

I ran out of fuel with 47 km to go (I had just passed a sign). I considered my options. I had a reserve tank which we guessed was one liter. If that was correct, and the pedometer was accurate, I could get only about 30 km. Then I would be stuck out on a salt flat for a night without food or money, and only about half a liter of water, probably alone (the others were riding ahead of me and I did not know what happened to them). I rode on a couple of kms to a salt mining depot, where a couple of salt miners with very thickly accented Spanish suggested I take a bus that would be arriving shortly to Calama, the nearest city with ATM´s and petrol stations. They did not think the border town had a petrol station, and the amount of US cash we had on us would unlikely buy us sufficient fuel to get to Calama anyway. So as the bus trundled towards us minutes later I made a quick decision, took my backpack off the bike, left the bike by the road so my friends might see it, and boarded the bus with money lent to me by the salt miners.

After being given money by the bus driver, navigating the public transport system and finding an ATM, I now had Chilean pesos. I sat down alone for Japanese food at about 10pm and ate for the first time since breakfast at 7:30 am. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I did not have that luxury. First, I tried to find a bus back for the next morning. The first company I enquired at, which was just closing, said they did not have services for the next three days over the Christmas break. The next office I found was closed, but asking around I found out that they usually have services at 5 AM in the morning. I would just have to turn up then and hope they had available seats. Next, I asked around to find the nearest petrol station, where I emptied distilled water bottles and filled them with fuel. Finally, I tried to find a place to sleep near the bus company office. The first hotel I asked at was full. The second, while usually reserved for workers, was willing to let me stay since it was now 11:30 PM and I would be leaving by 5 AM the following morning.

Luckily I had organized a wakeup call, because 5 AM Chile time was 4 AM according to my watch still set to Bolivian time. According to the bus driver, the service was sold out. But he told me to wait and see if any spaces became available. Just as the bus was about to leave, he apologized and told me it was not possible. There I was standing alone on the street at 5 AM in the morning with a backpack and two big bottles of petrol on the morning of Christmas Eve, hoping that my friends without food or water were ok. After explaining my situation again as best I could in broken Spanish, and then simply begging, he eventually relented and let me squish up front with him.

Three hours later I got off where I left my bike, and with huge relief saw the tents of my friends. I have them water and food (and some tinsel to decorate their bikes) and we shared the laughter of relief and then our stories. They had made it to the border (apparently the reserve tank is 2 L), where there was no petrol station but were able to buy some fuel from a holiday maker with a 4WD and a jerry can.

I topped up my bike with petrol then headed back to the border to do my paperwork. We then continued onto the police check point together, this time not even being stopped to check our paperwork. I had now done that stretch of road 5 times, twice on the bus and three times on the bike.

Speeding back towards town, I crossed a wet railway at speed, where the bike slipped out from under me and smashed into the ground. I had bailed on the bike and rolled a couple of times (all in slow motion of course) and got up totally un-injured despite a small scratch on me knee and some small tears on my gloves. The guys, who were riding directly behind me when it happened, could not believe I was not more hurt. The bike, however, had not faired quite so well. While it had miraculously avoided serious damage, one headlight and the rear vision mirror were smashed, the knee guard grills warped and the bolts snapped, and the handlebars slightly out of alignment.

Around this time Tom also realized he had a flat tire. Since he had already filled his bike with enough fuel that at least he could make it into the city, he borrowed my front wheel, and Nick my fuel from the bottles, and they left. I had a packet of biscuits, a bit of water, and lots of time to kill. Despite allegedly being the driest desert in the world (other than Antarctica), it decided on this moment to unleash a tempest on me. I set up my tent in the rain and sheltered until Tom came back 3 1/2 hours later.

We continued on through the monotonous moon like surface of grey rubble for a couple of uneventful hours. Eventually getting back onto paved road for the first time in days was nice though, as was the epic sunset over the desert.

We met up with Nick, checked into a cheap guesthouse and sat down together for Christmas Eve dinner. We had made it to Chile. We had water, food, fuel, money, shelter and ready access to more of all of the above.

Feliz Navidad

My First Week on a Motocycle

Yeah so I bought a brand new Chinese made 150CC motorcycle in Bolivia for US$930. Chinese made parts assembled in Bolivia. Two hallmarks of quality and reliability. The plans of the guy I was sort of travelling with to cycle from Bolivia to Patagonia fell through, and we met this Canadian guy who had been looking into buying a motorcycle. I was planning on going down to Patagonia and doing heaps of trekking, and I heard you miss out on lots of great places if you are limited to public transport. Somehow, without a couple of days, a crazy idea we discussed over beers at a hostel had become a reality. I was handing over a wad of cash to buy a motorbike, despite having never ridden one.

After only a 5 minute crash course and about 1 1/2 cruising around town to familiarize myself the vehicle, we were heading off on the highway with our backpacks strapped onto the back. We wanted to go somewhere for a week until we had to return to the same city to collect our license plates for our new bikes. A few people from the hostel tried to leave that day, but were unable because the truckers union had organized another blockade of the road to protest something. It is hard to keep track of what they are protesting, because there seems to be another blockade with another reason every few days. However, on the bikes, we were able to go though the blockade, zigzagging and squeezing between all the trucks parked across the highway. For some reason the blockade did not apply to motorbikes, because the truckers smiled and waved us through. This made for perfect learning conditions, because the road was almost deserted.

It was a totally surreal experience riding off in the Andes in Bolivia on a bike I had just purchased, with all my possessions strapped to the back, despite having almost no motorcycle experience. But it was so much fun! Intermittently I would cry out in joy and laugh with disbelief. It was incredible scenery cruising amongst the mountains and small villages, and you notice so much more on a bike than in a bus because it is all windows and you have to constantly pay attention, otherwise you will be dead. We also got a lot more positive reactions from locals. Rather than the usual cold shoulder they give Gringos who they think are are Americans, kids would wave and chase us on the roads, and at the petrol station a few people came over to talk to us about our bikes and our trip. Apparently South Americans love motorcycles.

We literally rode off into the sunset towards the highest city in the world (4100m). The brand new engines struggled with the lack of oxygen at high altitude, and spluttered up some ridiculously steep mountains, sometimes in second gear. After about 200km (my bike had only done 216km ever) we arrived in the city of Potosi (4100m), and navigated the chaotic Bolivian streets to find a hostel. When we were wheeling the bikes into the courtyard I left the big tarp we had with us on the footpath. When we returned a couple of minutes later, it was gone. This is Bolivia.

The following morning we left our bikes behind and went on a tour of the famous Potosi mines. They have been in operation for over 460 years, have claimed the lives of over 8 million people (mostly slaves in colonial times) and have exported a metric butt-load of silver over its life, mostly to the Spanish coffers. About 10,000 people still work there now, although within 10 years the reserves will be depleted and Potosi will likely become a ghost town. I didn´t like the tour mentality, but it was pretty cool walking for hundreds of meters into a mountain, then descending down tiny cracks on ropes to lower levels. We also gave a dynamite stick we purchased earlier to this lone miner on the third level down hammering a stake into the rock for three hours in which to insert the dynamite. It was really hot and stuffy on the lower levels, and I actually got a little bit costraphobic when I took a wrong turn and got separated from the group down this narrow crevasse. The miners are all self-employed working in cooperatives, and sometimes work double shifts when they need extra money, involving working 20 out of 24 hours of the day. We also met a 15 year old kid who had already been working in the mine for several years. What a hard life. I prefer my bike.

That night we went to a soccer game between the local B-grade team and a B-grade from another Bolivian city. It was pretty low standards, but then again it was the highest professional soccer stadium in the world, and I struggled even to walk up the stairs to my seat at this altitude. Sometimes they looked like they were almost competent, but they one of them would made a hopeless shot at goals that resulted in a throw in rather than a kick in. However, the goalie and another playing from the away team getting knocked down by a firework launched from the crowd redeemed the night. No investigations or repercussions resulted; the game just went on as if such sabotage was commonplace.

The next morning, after supply shopping at the markets, we were back on our bikes. Epic landscapes again, and the bikes struggled with the high altitude. We stopped us our petrol in some tiny village where the fuel was scooped out of a bucket. After a while more we stopped in the Wild West canyon landscape on a huge spire for lunch. As we were about to leave, Tom noticed that the bolts holding his rear suspension on were absent. With supposedly the best Spanish of us, I rode back to the nearest village to see if they had replacements. After being given multiple conflicting accounts, I was directed to the next village along a muddy dirt road. I got bogged once, and nearly had an incident with a big mining truck, but eventually made it. After every shopkeeper telling me there were bolts in the shop next door, or in the central market, I eventually concluded that there were no bolts. Despite the help of a bunch of local children that escorted me around, I had failed in my mission and returned 2 1/2 hours later with my head hung low. In my absence, Tom had decided that cable-tying the suspension on would be fine to get us to the next city.

So we were back on the road in clichéd Bolivian style, dodging llamas on the road in our bikes held together with cable-ties. We continued down from the canyons into this huge grassy prairie dotted with llamas - The Field of 1000 Llamas, as we called it. We also saw this guy with one leg on crutches 10´s of kms from anything resembling civilization, hobbling his way to god-knows where. There was an insane cross-wind down in the plains, and we had to get a huge lean going just to keep straight. We then returned the protection of the mountains, and decided the camp there, where our tents would not be blown away. We originally hoped to make it to the next city that night, but due to my attempts to find replacement bolts, we were just out of time. We found a canyon just off the highway and managed to get out bikes out of sight of the road, and set up our tents right beside them. We then walked about a km back up the road to where we had seen a trucker’s restaurant for dinner. We then sat on or around our bikes listening to iPod speakers and watching the stars.

The following morning we were on the road by 9am. Before long we encountered a huge stretch of serious roadwork. In Australia you would be diverted completely around even the most miner roadwork, but here in Bolivia we rode through the uncompressed layers of dirt (I got bogged a couple of times) and between the heavy machines. A big truck that sprayed water over the road stopped for a moment to let us pass, but I was too slow off the blocks and got drenched in water just as I was almost past. Tom got a flat tire on a rocky section, but one of the road workers told us that it was only 4 km to the next town, so he rolled down the hill with a flat. There we were able to locate a place that could fix punctured tires, and after we helped push start a truck he got to work. Apparently the tube was peppered with holes and was unrepairable. So we changed our engine oil, and Nic and I set off to the next town that was supposedly only an hour away and would have replacements, leaving Tom to sit in some random town.

Awesome plains with mini-dust tornadoes, where I put my feet up on the grills under the handlebars and leaned back into my new lifestyle. Went through this random abandoned mining village on a shitty dirt road, and went through a police checkpoint without trouble (despite not having license plates for the bikes yet nor a valid Bolivian driver’s license not a motorbike license of any form).

Within a few minutes of checking, I notice that a bag strapped to the back of the bike had fallen off. I was not that concerned, and returned to find it. But within a few minutes someone driving past in the opposite direction had taken it. Now I no longer had a tent or any change of clothes. This is Bolivia.

We arrived in Uyuni 2 1/2 hours later, and were able to find replacement bike tires after receiving only a few conflicting explanations of where the shop was. Nic ate a piece of bread and turned straight around, heading all the way back with the replacement. I parked myself in a Plaza beside my bike and read my book or listened to music, watching life go by. I befriended a street dog which rested its head in my lap, and some snotty nosed children who I played soccer with using a bottle cap.

Five or six hours later they guys cruised in. We found ourselves a cheap hole-in-the-wall room and got a big feed of greasy delicious fried chicken.

The following morning we set out for a day trip into the biggest salt flat in the world (over 12,000km2). We had originally planned on camping out there a night, but since I had been relieved of my tent plans had to change. Bolivia, an extremely poor but mineral rich country, has 80% of the words lithium reserves, and the salt flats contain the largest reserve. The government was able to amass a pathetic $2M towards a new mine, while refusing any foreign investment. In the meantime, the Bolivian President recently purchased a $45M private jet which he allegedly uses to traffic cocaine. This is Bolivia.

We headed off on random trails that we found, past the salt mining village, for some reasons avoiding the more major paths. After a round-about way, we made it out onto the salt flats proper. It was all flat compressed salt (hence ´salt flat´) so was all like paved road and was perfect for hooning around on our bikes as we pleased. Tom and I then rode around naked, posing for photos. We didn´t know what we were looking for so we just headed off towards the centre. At full speed (only about 80km p/h) the landscape did not change much from minute to minute, and it didn´t feel like we even moving. After a while of riding, when the mountain the front was only slightly larger, we stopped in the middle of absolute nowhere for a very surreal picnic. We then had a little siesta lying on our bikes, and then headed back. 

Once we got off the salt flats, instead of taking the horribly bumpy dirt road back to town, we took these narrow dirt paths alongside the highway. Incredibly fun, dirt biking, but I almost wiped out a couple of times trying to control the bike through deep dirt for the first time. Back in town we got the bikes washed because they were absolutely plastered with salt.

The next day we left at 10am and were determined to get all the way back to Sucre (where we began) in one day (we no longer had a tent to camp). The first petrol station we tried to fill up at had no petrol, and the second refused to serve us because our bikes did not have plates. But after a bit of pleading we were back on the road with full tanks of petrol. At the police checkpoint, this time my entry card and bike ownership papers were inspected, but I´m not sure they officers could read very well. Epic scenery again, but this with huge downhill curvy sections where I could really lean into the turns. At one point I going along a particularly curvy part with llamas to my right, the biggest mini-tornado I have ever seen on my right, and eagle soaring overhead.

When we got back to Potosi (which had taken us two days in the other direction), I was exhausted and wanted to stop. But the others were determined to make it back so that we could collect our bike paperwork first thing Monday morning and start the next step of the process to get our license plates. However, the first, second and third petrol station refused to serve us without license plates. Apparently, while we were away on the trip a law had come into effect that required this. We explained that we needed petrol to return to Sucre and collect our license plates, but they would not have a bar of. While Bolivia is lax about most things (safety, hygiene, health and other such trivial matters), they are sometimes surprisingly particular about certain administrative rules. So we were legally able to buy dynamite and charges in Bolivia (for only about $1.5) but not fuel for our motobikes. They guys were so keen to get back, so we considered buying dynamite to strap onto the back of our bikes. Instead, and only somewhat more sensibly, we set off without much fuel, hoping to find a random village with petrol which would not be concerned about things like government laws. We had enough fuel to get into the middle of nowhere, but not enough to get back.

After my malfunctioning fuel gauge was on empty for over 50kms, we found a highway petrol station which barely even knew about the license plate requirement. So we sped off into the sunset towards these ginormous mushroom clouds down 1.5 kms into a canyon, Black Sabbath bearing into my ears. It was the first time I had ridden with music, but I needed the energy and I thought this was the best biking music I had. However, such pumping music makes you ride really aggressively. I would overtake trucks on sharp corners beside epic cliffs, really leaning into the turns. At the bottom I handed over my iPod to Tom, saying ¨take it away from me.¨ 

The next section was my first night driving, heading towards the clouds that now contained occasional flashes of lightening. The road was really good and had reflectors in the middle and on the edges of the road, so it was actually really good. I felt like I was in some Japanese motorcycle gang.

After a bit of light rain and a few more hours of riding, we were back in Sucre. We did 8-9 hours of riding and we were all exhausted but elated. What an experience, a learning experience, it had been for me: coming from a complete novice to a semi-decent motorcycle rider in a few days. And all in Bolivia!

There are going to be a lot more adventures to come riding from Bolivia to the Southern Tip of Argentina, and I can´t wait.

Now we just need to wait for the Bolivian bureaucracy to get its act together.

Our new group Blog ´The Naked Motos´ coming soon...