Road Trip 2005 - North and South America by Motorcycle: July 2005

Colombia to Panama

There is no road linking Colombia and Panama. The Darien Gap is the name given to the no-mans land separating these countries, inhabited by Indians, mosquitoes, and, increasingly, Colombian guerillas. For the overland traveler, there are three transit options: cross the Darien gap on foot with the help of local guides, fly, or take a sailboat through the Caribbean Sea to from Cartagena, Colombia to to Portobelo, Panama. The overland option was out of the question to us for obvious reasons, and flying just seemed like no fun. We decided on the sailboat because we thought it would be a relatively uncomplicated, pleasant experience. If you take a sailboat, you don’t need to crate your bike, clear it through exit customs, or drain the fuel or take out the battery. You just put the bike on the boat and go.

There are several foreign yacht owners who make it their business to ferry travelers between Panama and Colombia. We chose to sail on the Melody, a yacht owned by Mark, a Californian ex-pat who has been doing the Colombia-Panama trip for almost five years. We spoke with several of his passengers who had no complaints about the trip and praised his sailing ability. When Mark came to meet us at our hotel we were pleased by his easygoing manner. The cost of a one-way fare is $250 per person, plus $250 for the bike. FYI, Mark told us that he and other yacht owners will be raising their prices soon due to fuel costs. The boat would not be leaving for a week, and in the mean time Valerie wanted to learn to SCUBA dive. We headed north to Taganga, and within four days Valerie was a certified SCUBA diver.

We arranged to meet Captain Mark and the boat at the Mobile gas station in Cartagena at 7am on the day of our departure. We had to use Mobile’s dock facilities since the yacht club forbids the loading or unloading of cargo at their dock. Taking a bike on a yacht from one country to another is technically illegal, and Mark stressed the importance of a quick load up. As mark pulled up to the dock we heard him yelling and screaming like a maniac at his passengers/crew, admonishing them for not understanding his barked orders, who were all native Spanish speakers. Somehow, they were able to secure the boat to the dock without capsizing it, and the bike loading process began.

Getting the bikes on the boat was a lot of fun. Mark used the mast, a half-inch line and a hand winch to raise the bikes into the air with a line tied between the dock and the bike to control the bikes movement towards the boat. I was a little nervous at first, but the whole process was too much like tree work for me to worry about an accident. Mark secured the bikes to the boat with short lengths of ropes, scoffing at my “puny” tie-downs. Mark was very agitated during the whole process. I thought he was stressed because his wife would not be accompanying him on this trip, and because he was paranoid about being caught smuggling our bikes. We all hoped the “careful captain” would simmer down as soon as we left the harbor.

Loaded up, we pointed the boat towards Panama and began motoring at the astonishing speed of 6 knots per hour. Mark assured us the boats speed was exceptional, even fast by yacht standards. I don’t know what I expected, but I soon appreciated the distances and speeds involved in the trip. The distance from Colombia to Panama by sea is 300 miles, meaning 50 hours of motoring at the boats top speed, or six hours if it were possible to drive the motorcycle. I began to question the wisdom of our choice and my tolerance for boredom.

Once we were underway and some distance off-shore, Mark sat us all down like a bunch of kindergarteners and explained to us the various idiosyncratic rules of the boat. For example, we were not to use the lord’s name in vain or take meat without asking. We were also not to leave cushions in undesignated areas or use fresh water for anything but drinking. Mark next explained to us that he couldn’t remember all the rules at once so he would remind us of them as the rules came to him. I thought it was a bad sign that he couldn’t remember all his rules yet he expected us to remember them. As rules came to him throughout the rest of the trip he would bark them loudly and impersonally to anyone within earshot as if he had already told them the rule a dozen times.

Between Colombia and the San Blas Islands we would have to sail for 36 hours straight, meaning a night at sea. I had no idea what a “night at sea” was until I woke up at around midnight and stumbled above deck to find Mark sleepily steering the boat. He told me it was my turn to steer. He left me half asleep at the wheel while he climbed to the front of the boat to take down the mast. During my time asleep the weather had taken a turn for the worst and the swells had gotten big. The flashes of lightning revealed a tormented sea and thunderstorms all around us. I could see the swells were coming from coming from the right side of the boat, and the wind was coming from the front. While I was trying to wake up and steer the boat at the same time I accidentally steered the boat in the wrong direction, sending mark into a rage. I knew I had steered the boat incorrectly, but I was hesitant to make any corrections while he was in the front of the boat working on the sail for fear of knocking him off the boat into the ocean. I managed to restore the boats heading to due west, and mark went below deck to sleep. It was just the open sea and me at midnight, only thunderstorms and rain for company. Swells coming from the side caused the boat to rock back and forth violently, and I had to hold on tight to keep from falling over.

Mark left without telling me what to do about the thunderstorms all around us, and my only exposure to thunderstorms thus far has been in an aviation context where they are to be avoided at all costs. At one point I was heading directly into a thunderstorm, my mind racing as the time between lightning and thunder became shorter and the thunder more powerful. I decided that the up and downdrafts so feared by airplane pilots would not be a problem for the boat, and that a lightning strike would be unlikely, so I headed right into the storm. The thunder and lightning got really intense and the rain poured down in buckets, but the boat was easy to handle and mostly unaffected by the storm.

Sailing was a completely new experience for me, especially alone at night. I managed to steer for three hours, keeping the boat on a westerly heading before I succumbed to exhaustion. I woke up the next steering victim before going below deck to try and sleep in the cramped quarters and stifling heat.

One thing that is hard to get used to about traveling on the open sea is the total lack of visual reference. You have nothing to gauge your progress by, or to steer towards. I awoke the next morning after our night at sea and everything looked the same, water everywhere. At about mid-day we spotted the Panamanian coast and South America was officially behind us. We followed the coast until dusk when we finally pulled into the southernmost islands of the San Blas Archipelago and set anchor at “the pool”, an ex-pat yachtie hangout surrounded by sandy coconut islands and coral reefs. This would be our home for the next 36 hours.

We awoke the next day and swam to the closest island with snorkel gear and snacks. It was great to be on terra firma after 48 hours on a pitching boat. Valerie and I walked around the island and swam out to the reef to snorkel. We saw lots of brain coral, barracuda, and even a nurse shark. I was really surprised to see all the marine life so close to the ex-pat community. We stayed on the island for most of the day while Mark conducted business on his boat. In addition to hauling backpackers back and forth between Panama and Colombia, he also takes food, fuel, medicine and anything else the sedentary yachtie-cruisers want for a 30% markup. The whole deck of the boat was covered with supplies destined for the yachties, making for cramped quarters for the backpackers. We met some interesting characters living in the pool. One family of four, two parents and two young girls, had lived on a small boat in the pool for the last year and a half without leaving. Another, a rich guy from New York known as “the mayor” had been in “the pool” for 10 years, only leaving every few years to go to Cartagena to have his boat bottom painted. I was stunned by their lifestyle. How could anyone live on a small boat without doing anything for years at a time? Valerie and I agreed that their lifestyle was like a self-imposed prison sentence.

The next day we weighed anchor and headed for customs, taking a nice 3-hour cruise through the archipelago. We stayed the night off another island, and then woke early to head for Portobelo, our final destination. Our last day on the water took 10 hours and was full of adventure. A few hours out of port in heavy seas, two of marks fuel jugs flew off the boat. He tried to turn around and get them, and in the process ran over the 400 pound-test fishing line trailing behind the boat, severely tangling the rudder and propeller. I ran below deck and got Mark a mask and snorkel, and in a flash he was over the side, armed with a knife to cut the fishing line loose. My job was to keep the boat steady while mark was under it. The whole process took well over an hour as I watched the jugs get pushed closer and closer to the reef. Finally, the jugs were out of sight bringing relief to all of us knowing that Mark couldn’t go after them again. Mark later told us that he didn’t tie the fuel jugs down properly; he just tossed them between the motorcycles, so when we hit heavy water they flew over the side. We ended up losing the jugs. Darn.

We pulled into Portobelo at dusk and started unloading the bikes. It was the same process as loading them, only this time we unloaded them onto a skiff. The skiff pulled up to the dock, and five or six guys muscled the bikes out. It was all remarkably easy. After all the unloading excitement was over, Valerie took off for the hotel carrying our backpacks and helmets and I was left to ride the bike back. I tried to start my Bee, but she was out of gas. I had to push Bee fully loaded a quarter mile to town in the dark with locals chasing after me trying to figure out what I was doing. I arrived at the hotel drenched in sweat and took my first shower in a week.

Early the following morning Adam set out for Colon by bus with Mauricio the moto-adventurer from Argentina. They had to do the customs work by bus as captain Mark warned them of horrible consequences if they rode their bikes without proper papers. While they were gone I rearranged our sea-scattered luggage for our journey through Panama. Five hours later they returned exasperated but successful. I had Bee gassed and re-assembled (mirrors and windshield and luggage for the trip) and we headed for Panama City within the hour. It was great to be on the road again after our crawl-pace at sea. We made more miles in one hour on Bee than we made in 24 hours at sea.

In Panama City we stayed at a highly recommended backpacker hostal. The brochure boasted air-con and TV, which was true for the living room. After Adam and I were all settled in our separate dorm rooms (No coed rooms without a reservation), we went and had a stroll through the neighborhood. That night after a few hours of stifling heat the storm of the decade began. It was the loudest thunderstorm we had ever heard. The acoustics were incredible as the thunder broke right overhead, the sound reverberating off the skyscrapers and into the hotel. I thought we were in Baghdad for a minute. The storm raged into the next day, pissing rain. There was no leaving the city on Bee in that weather so we hung out one more day. When the storm broke we set out for Bocas Del Toro where we would meet Adam’s dad for a week long Caribbean vacation. We rode over 400 miles in one day from Panama City to Bocas Del Toro, refused to stop for two police officers, and got a ticket. When we reached the continental divide at 1100 meters elevation we could see the Caribbean. We were definitely out of the Andes.

We arrived in the ultra-seedy port called Almirante at around four in the afternoon. As soon as we pulled into town locals began chasing us like a dog would chase a car. We were quickly informed that there was no way to locate lodging or parking in this eight street town without hiring a guide. We angered our first potential guide terribly by informing him that we had found our way across six countries without a guide and we intended to continue that way. He furiously informed us that we were taking his job. Oh well. We were able to find a restaurant all by ourselves, and had a great supper. The ferry we needed to transport us with Bee to the island where we would meet Adam’s dad Jim only left for Bocas at eight a.m. each morning so we had to stay the night in to catch our ferry.

We had a great time in Bocas Del Toro. I got my Advanced scuba certification, we went island hopping looking at property, we met some great people, and enjoyed hanging out with Adam’s dad and his friends. Tomorrow we head for Costa Rica.

Cartagena, Colombia.

Taganga, Colombia.

Ro ho ho! Our pirate crew.

Believe it or not, the BMW is lighter than the Africa Twin behind her.

Bee is airborne, Cartagena, Colombia.

Sunrise in San Blas, Panama.

View from the Melody in "The Pool", San Blas, Panama.

"The Pool" retirement community.

San Blas, Panama.

Valerie and the Captain.

Would you let this guy drive your boat? San Blas, Panama.

Panama City, Panama. Thanks to Dad for the picture.

View of the mainland looking back from the ferry to Bocas Del Toro.

Bee at the divide, 1100 meters.

The Caribbean from the continental divide in Panama. What a puny country after all the Andean states.

Jim and Derek seeing Bocas by bike.

Bee by the sea.

Relaxing, Caribbean style. There are alot of hammocs here...

Jim's new bike...

Quito to Cartagena - MAP

To say we had a lot of fun in Quito would be an understatement. One night, Rocco took us to his brother’s disco, The Blues, where we were treated like royalty and drank all we could hold. When we first arrived, Jeroen went to the bar and ordered us a round of drinks. Rocco saw him at the bar paying the bill, rushed over, and calmly informed him that "We don’t pay for anything here." Damn, what good news. Instead of handing over cash for every drink, we handed the bartenders a "these guys can drink all they want" card. Too cool. Rocco had to work the next day, and went home early. The three of us, on the other hand, stayed until 4am, slam dancing to Metallica and White Zombie, drinking Jack and Cokes, and generally having a fantastic time. Rocco’s cousin JJ showed up at around 3am, totally obliterated and playing the three tambourines hanging from cords around his neck with unbridled enthusiasm. JJ is a party animal who reminds me of Uncle ‘E in his wilder days - loud, crazy, and a lot of fun to be around.

Another night while we were peacefully barbequing lomo and liver, Rocco called and told us he was bringing home 15 girls to audition for a place in his moto-expo, and it was up to us to decide which girls would make the cut for the show. All the biker guys got really excited and rushed for the showers to cleanse themselves. When Valerie heard about the girls she too ran upstairs and put on her cutest outfit. When she came back downstairs and resumed cooking, Jeroen and I assured her she had the competition squashed. Rocco told all the girls (and as we later learned, their boyfriends to) to expect to be fed and imbibed by his resident gringos. We had only bought enough food for the six of us, and we were worried that we wouldn’t have enough food. Thankfully, the meat took forever to cook, and after the girls were picked through, cell phones started ringing and bodies started leaving. In the end, we were able to feed 15 people. It was almost biblical, like Jesus with his loaves and fishes. None of the girls stayed for the gringos, though.

I mentioned to Rocco that I was thinking of getting an alarm installed on my bike. "You want an alarm? No problem! My friend has an alarm company" The next day Rocco and I went to his friends company, which turned out to be "Bunker Alarms" world headquarters, I spoke to the owner, who also owns a 2003 BMW 1150 GS, and within 24 hours I had a professionally installed alarm with a pager. Now all the bike needs is a slight shake or bump, and the horn starts blaring loud enough to scare off almost any cracked-out-bike-thief.

Valerie has to get back to her school, and after a week in Quito it was time to head north. It is true what we have heard from other motorcycle travelers – you need more time than money – with no time constraint, we could easily travel for a year on our funds, but we have to keep heading north. We were very unhappy to leave Jeroen behind, as his antics, misadventures and friendship had made our trip together unforgettable. Valerie and I were leaving a great friend behind, although the three of us had already made plans for another trip in the future together (how does Amsterdam to Australia sound?) We were very sad as we parted company, knowing our journey as three was over.

We managed to leave Rocco’s by 11am, which in theory should allow enough time to cross the Colombian border by dark. By 1pm, after getting lost several times trying to find the equatorial monument, we finally found latitude zero. We had crossed the Equator for the second time on our trip, the first time being in an airplane. I have been to southern hemisphere several times, but I had never actually stood in the two hemispheres at once. It felt good to be in the northern hemisphere again, and for some reason I felt much closer to home.

We managed to make the border by dusk. The Ecuadorian-Colombian border crossing was by far the busiest border we had been to yet. There must have been 200 people waiting for their stamps, and only three immigration officials stamping passports. Summoning all my patience, I made it to the front of the line with our passports. They stamped my passport, but wouldn’t stamp Valerie’s passport since she was not at the window- there’s a first time for everything! I ran and got Valerie (she was watching the bike), and told her she had permission from the officials to cut to the front of the line. She believed me, cut to the front, and was back in minutes. Of course, the immigration official had told me no such thing, but I wanted to get to a hotel before dark.

We were finally in Colombia, the land of Pablo Escobar, cocaine, paramilitaries, guerillas, and, as it turns out, friendly people, excellent roads and unbelievably cheap prices for everything. Our first Colombian town was Ipiales, where we found excellent bike parking and pizza. We were still unsure of the exchange rate at that time, so we had no idea what we were spending. A kid on the street told us it was 1500 Pesos for a Dollar. We went on for a few days using 1500 as our reference before I went to economist.com and found the real rate. You actually get 2400 per dollar. Christmas time!

We rode hard for three days, stopping in first in Popayan and then in Salento, where we had an action packed day. We planned to visit the Valle de Cocora, which boasts the tallest palm trees in the world (60M). We set off in the morning and had gone about 15 kilometers into the countryside on a windy dirt road when we realized we must have taken the wrong road. We got a couple of nice photos and headed back into town for a tasty trout lunch and to make our next attempt at locating the Valle. This time we asked directions and it was easy to find. We rode into a lush valley on a fun cart track, and before long we began to see the tall, wispy outlines of the palms. We never saw the 60 meter one, and I would never want to climb one of these palms. They are so thin I am sure they would break off by the time you were halfway up. The road through the palms even had a minor river crossing (always fun). The river crossing turned out to be 6-8 inches of water rushing over a poured cement underwater dam. Some Colombians had parked their vehicle in the middle of the dam, and I was forced to stop in the middle. When I put my foot down to stop the bike, we almost went over. Thick algae was growing all over the cement, making stopping and balancing extremely difficult. Val got off and walked while I maneuvered around the truck.

After crossing the river, we rounded a bend and passed through a big ugly red gate. We had gotten about 100 meters past the gate when we met a truck whose passengers told us to turn around because the property we had entered was a pasture filled with bulls that would love to chase and destroy a motorcycle. It’s a good thing we didn’t have to find that one out the hard way. As we road back, we noticed the warning sign on the other side of the gate. That’s South America for you.

We went on a hike up the valley and visited the nearby trout farm. We got to feed the fish and watch them jump around in frenzy for the food. Those were the largest trout we’d ever seen- some more than two feet long. We hiked a bit further into the valley and got some more great photos, then headed back to Bee. The ride back into town was fun, and I managed to get the bike airborne over a jump (sorry, no photos)

From Salento, we rode north through hot and humid Cali, passing through endless sugar cane fields, and finally up into the mountains towards Medellin. We had a hotel-tip from the bikers we met at Rocco’s house, but unfortunately all they gave us was a phone number and a street name. We tried to call several times during the day to get directions, but no one was answering the phone. Finally, when we got to Medellin, the receptionist picked up the phone and gave us enough information to find the hostal. "Casa Kiwi" is by far the nicest place we stayed in Colombia. Great showers, kitchen, internet, laundry, pool table and wide screen TV. The owner, Paul, is from Seattle and got stuck in Medellin after riding his motorcycle from Colorado to Alaska to Colombia. He also has a great website.

When we arrived at Casa Kiwi, we noticed one of the latches had fallen off our side-boxes. We headed for Ruta 40 motorcycle shop where Camilo helped us locate a skilled machinist to make us a new one. By some act of Allah, Ruta 40 also had a Remus y-pipe catalytic converter replacement in stock for $150 less than in the US. When riding slowly or when the temperature is above 25C, the catalytic converter heats up and cooks the engine, the rear tire, and my feet. It also presents a fire hazard in grass or near fuel.

Leaving Medellin was the greatest challenge we had faced in Colombia. It took us three hours to find the "good" road to Cartagena. Everywhere we stopped to ask directions, the locals assured us we were on the road to Cartagena. It turned out that all roads lead to Cartagena, but the minor roads we found ourselves on were twisting cart tracks leading through questionable (guerilla) controlled territory. We wanted to stick to the safe roads and eventually found the main highway. We managed to make it 150km that day, and ended up in the lovely town of Valdivia. Our hotel was on the side of the highway, and had a shallow swimming pool filed with noisy kids and their parents. We slept well despite the slightly warm temperatures.

Valdivia was our first encounter with real heat on our trip. For almost five months we had driven through the Andes, enjoying the cool climate, never expecting the rancid, foul, soul destroying heat of the lowlands. As we descended from Valdivia, we started to heat up, and were soon roasting in the prison of our riding suits. I tried to ride as fast as possible, hoping in vain that the air would cool us, but even at 80mph we were still miserable, melting and mad. When we stopped for breakfast at 10am, the true gravity of our situation became apparent. As took off my jacket, I almost died of heat stroke. I reasoned that our riding suits were necessary for protection in case we had an accident, but I also realized that riding like a maniac increased the odds of us having an accident. We rode on wearing our heat creating and absorbing gear until we reached Tolu on the Caribbean. We arrived sweating and miserable and took a break at a restaurant where I quickly inhaled three beers, hoping to take the edge off the heat. Valerie and I decided to strap the riding gear to the back of the bike while we hunted for a hotel with parking. Luckilly, we found a hotel with "good" parking. We set out for our customary stroll to explore, but were soon driven back to our room with fan by the extreme heat. We stayed in our room until the sun set. I hate hot.

We decided to stay an extra day in Tolu since our boat would not leave Cartagena for another week. Staying turned out to be a big mistake. We spent our second day in Tolu hiding from the evil sun in our room, and after night fell, we headed out to the sidewalk for a few well earned drinks. We were soon accosted by a group of fresh high school gradates who insisted we sit with them at their table. There were about 15 students and teachers, all living it up, and they soon had us partying right along with them. They kept insisting that we accompany them to a disco, and finally we relented, thinking that one more day in Tolu would be fine; besides, we were having fun. Tolu has very few proper taxis and an abundance of "bicycle taxis." You have to see these taxis to believe them. The taxis hold from 2-8 people, and have either one or two people peddling them. In addition, each Taxi has a 12 volt stereo pumping loud, thumping, rhythmic Caribbean music at a volume that drives you nuts. It is common to be within hearing range of five or more of the taxis, all playing different music. The effect is as startling as it is insane. We climbed into one of these dreaded taxis and were peddled off to the disco, the three taxis in the group peddling furiously to be the first to unload their cargo, dodging and weaving between souvenir peddlers and street urchins. Somehow we ended up buying the whole group drinks and had a great time at the disco. We stumbled home at around 2AM, and slept heavily. We were awoken at 8AM by a loud, persistent knocking at the door. I stumbled to the door only to meet the hotel night-watch-guy. With rude gesticulations he indicated I should check my motorcycle. Through a thick haze I saw poor battered Bee lying on her side in a rock planter box. Buenos dias gringo.

As I stumbled over to fallen Bee my anger began to swell. The tank was resting on a rock that had left a fist size dent, and the rear foot-peg had been bent and twisted like spaghetti. I asked the night watchman what had happened and he replied the bike had fallen over on its own at 4AM. The "cement" under the bike was crushed. I was sleeping too well to hear the alarm. What made me the maddest was that the hotel owner had insisted that I park my bike in the place where it had fallen. I had wanted to park it closer to our room on the tile, but was unable to. The bike parking zone was actually a thin layer of mortar over sand that was unable to support my bikes weight. Of course, the hotel owner claimed no responsibility for the accident, saying my bike was too heavy and that I should have parked elsewhere. He refused to acknowledge responsibility for the accident, so I asked him a few questions just for the fun of it: If he had insisted that I park on a bridge, and the bridge fell, would, would that be my fault? If he had insisted that I park under the roof, and the roof fell, would that be my fault? He had no answer to my questions, the logic being beyond him, so I had him call the police for me.
The police arrived within minutes and after seeing the damage and hearing what happened, told the hotel owner he was at fault. The hotel owner was outraged, citing the "no responsibility" clause posted over the reception desk. The police called their inspection unit, and within hours they had drafted papers detailing the accident. The only problem was to get the hotel to pay for their mistake I would have to take them to court. A lawyer at the police station told me resolution could take weeks or months.

Dejected, we left early the next day in a vain attempt to avoid the heat. We decided that we would not wear our riding gear for our last ride in South America. We were still pretty hot, especially as we drove around Cartagena, but we were safe. When we were In town we took our helmets off while we were stuck in traffic crawling along like snails, when the most amazing thing happened: almost everyone idiot we saw on a scooter insisted that we wear our helmets. Scooter operator after scooter operator drove up to us demanding we pull over so they could explain why not wearing a helmet in traffic was evil. One especially retarded scooter guy was yelling at us about our lack of helmet while his passenger was without a brain bucket. His hypocrisy astounded me and for the first time on our trip I experienced road rage at his paternalistic whining; who was this guy or any of them to tell me what to do? at first we thought there must be some city law mandating helmets until we stopped and asked several different police officers for directions and their only comments for us were in praise of the bike.

The heat continues. Next, Colombia to Panama by yacht at the hands of "The Careful Captain."