November 5, 1997
Santa Fe de Bogota (Bogota), Colombia {Hotel Dann Av 19}

We got up between 6:30 and 7:30, finished packing up.  By the time, we
finished it started to rain, and rain.  Unlike the usual quick pass
cloud, this rain just got heavier and heavier, and it seemed to come
from the Pacific.  We temporarily interrupted Taylor's 73rd time viewing
Jurassic Park, to turn on the weather channel.  Panama has a
continuously updated Doppler weather radar giving up to the minute cloud
status. We could see a huge intense rain cloud just off shore, and
extending for many 10s of miles moving our way.  Since it didn't look
like it was ever going to stop, we decided to take take off during the
first lull.

During the past two weeks in Panama, we've gotten a good feel for the
weather pattern.  In the morning it's usually dry often partly cloudy,
with an occasional isolated rain cloud that usually only lets loose if
an unprepared motorcyclist happens to pass under.  I've learned to
always carry my rain gear with me on day trips.

This morning was different. All of Panama city, and the suburbs were
covered in a continuous rain.  We drove out to the cargo airport which
is the old Tocumen just past the new Tocumen airport.  Servi Carga was
to be our carrier for the motorcycles.  Two independent sources had
recommended Servi Carga as a good air cargo shipping firm.  Phone number
for Servi Carga 223-1144, 238-4165, 238-4162, 238-4286, 238-4230.  It's
not clear to me why I have 5 numbers for them other than that in this
area, they don't have rotating phone systems.  When one didn't work, or
no one answered, I tried another, and it seemed to get me through.  I
had called yesterday afternoon to confirm for the third time the
destination, price, schedule, and procedure.  The price varied a little
between $283 to $293, and the procedure varied from do nothing, to drain
oil, gas, remove battery. and deflate the tires.

When we arrived, I sought out Marco who I had last talked to and
confirmed that I would be bringing the motorcycles.  When I arrived, he
shook his head.  He asked to see the motorcycles.  I walked him over to
them. When he saw them, his eyes bugged out... not a good sign.  Since my
arrival, he had stopped speaking English with me which he had done over
the phone, and now only spoke Spanish, so I only caught part of what he
said.  He said he had no more room on tonight's flight, but then called
over to another cargo carrier, Girag air cargo, who had room.  They
would fly them tonight for $250 each.

We brought them over, filled out the paper work.  The clerk needed a
copy of my vehicle transit paper, passport front page, and title.  I
paid $500 cash, and got an air bill in return which was necessary to
have the motorcycles removed from our passports at customs.

We drained the gasoline into some plastic milk jugs that Heidi had saved
for us.  I handed the 1.75 gallons of gas to a loader who was glad to
take it off my hands.  He seemed even happier when I told him it was
super gas.   I deflated the tires a little since their pressure was
already near max at sea level. And then we left taking the air brush
painted chicken bus from the cargo airport to the new airport.

We didn't want to think about what we just did.  We just left our
motorcycle behind to an unknown company that will _supposedly_ ship our
bike to Bogota.  And the only thing we have to show for it is a piece of
paper called an air bill, with no idea of what amount of legal
responsibility the shipper incurs should our cargo just happen to
disappear.  Hopefully the bikes will still be there when the shippers
get around to loading them on to the air plane for the flight that takes
off around 1:00am.  Hopefully, they won't be dropped during the loading,
and hopefully they won't stack lots of crap on them which could break a
mirror, or pop a starter switch off, snag a throttle cable, etc.  I
can't think about these things.  I just have to trust that the bikes
with most of our luggage locked inside arrives safely, and deal with the
shortcomings if and when they happen.

At the old Tocumen airport, we stopped in customs to have the stamp in
our passports for our motorcycles canceled.  I handed over our transit
papers we had gotten upon entering, and our air bill.  5 times I told
the two customs clerks that I was going to Bogota or Colombia.  They
spent an hour typing up a form for me.  When they were done, they handed
it to me only for me to realize that they had just typed up another
entry form.  Since I had handed them my entry form, and my air bill, and
told them I'm going to Bogota now, I have no clue how they could have
been confused.  When they realized their mistake, they quickly tore up
the new entry form, and then wrote in our passports cancelling the entry
stamp.  4:00pm was quitting time, and at 3:59pm they were turning out
the lights heading out the door before me, finishing with me just in
time.  Unfortunately with all the haste, the customs clerk had written
in Sharon's air bill number for her motorcycle in both of our passports.
We didn't realize this until three days later at the Colombian customs
which cost us much pain as they are sticklers for paperwork
inconsistencies.

We flew Aces from Panama city to Bogota.  We left out of the American
Airlines gate which didn't show any sign of the airlines insignia. Since
there were about 7 people in the terminal, and we had seat number 3a &
3b, we assumed we were going to be on a little prop jet jumper plane.
Boy where we surprised.

The snack for our just over one hour flight was served on ceramic dishes
set with a four piece flatware set including a butter knife.  Instead of
a tiny paper tube full of salt or pepper, our dinner came with real
glass salt and pepper shakers.  Nice wine, champagne, scotch, etc.  was
served free of charge in appropriate glasses.  Actually I could care
less about the eating utensils of an airplane meal, but I was surprised
to see in contrast so many little niceties that are lacking among
American domestic carriers.  The thing I did enjoy the most were the
wide roomy seats for this coach flight.  All of the seats were the same on
this Boeing 727-200.  They were all roomy first class seats.  No one
asked me to put away my palmtop computer during takeoff or descent.  I
still remember an American Airline flight attendant arguing with me that
should the plane stop suddenly, the computer could decapitate someone as
it flew through the air...

We got off our flight, walking through the beautiful new looking airport
with pre-Colombian gold objects displayed in the halls that seemed in
style, but even more intricate than the ones we saw at the gold museum
in San Jose, Costa Rica.  At immigration, there must have been over a
hundred people waiting in lines, however the room was incredibly quiet
since no one said a word.  The woman in front of in line asked if this
was our first time in Bogota, We said "Yes." She asked if we had friends
in town.  "No."  I could see her concern for us building.  She asked if
we had a hotel and where we were staying.  She offered us her telephone
number, and told us to call any time day or night if we have any
problems.  And all I had done for her was to help her put her heavy
luggage in the overhead compartment on the plane.  She talked with the
customs agent about our hotel about whether our hotel was in a safe area
or not.

Just outside of customs, our driver was waiting with our names on a
placard ready to take us to our hotel in his Mercedes.  Since we were
arriving so late in what everyone calls a dangerous city, we had asked
our travel agent to book us a hotel.  The "trusted secure" driver was
supposedly the same price as a taxi might have been, so we paid for all
of this ahead of time in cash in Panama.

Driving through the city at night, my first impression was this is a
well dressed society.  Practically every man on the street wore a suit
or sports jacket, and every woman wore some sort of dress or suit.

We arrived at our hotel (Dann Av 19).  The driver said, one moment
please.  He stepped out, announced our arrival at the hotel, and in
seconds the surrounding area was swarming with half a dozen hotel
personal and guards.  I felt like an arriving dignitary with secret
service agents swarming for protection outside.   Our bags were carried
for us into the hotel, and were well watched by several clerks as we
checked in.  This hotel was equivalent in quality and price to a nice
Marriot hotel back home.

It was 10:00pm, and I was in the mood to explore the near by area, but
with all the concern presented to me by strangers, and so many guards
standing outside, we decided it might be wise to stay in.

We have a thick down comforter on our bed with down pillows which is the
last thing we would have wanted during the past couple of months.
Driving to the hotel, I saw a sign claiming it was 59 degrees
Fahrenheit, quite a contrast from the 92 degrees we just left at sea
level in Panama.  The plane we flew in pressurized the cabin to 8,000
feet which never depressurized since Bogota is at 8,000 feet.  Our guide
books says the temperature is usually constant year round near 58
degrees.

Bogota is on 150 Volt current.  Fortunately, there are several stickers
on each of the outlets and light switches warning guests of this at the
hotel.


November 6, 1997
Bogota, Colombia  {Hotel Aragon}


In the morning we had our nice complimentary breakfast on the dining
floor.   It was served with a nice cup of Colombian coffee.  Out of the
corner of my eye, I thought I saw a smiling man with a sombrero and a
donkey in the corner of the dining room.  When I looked again, all I
saw were business men dressed in suits.

Our driver picked us up at 9:00am and took us to the cargo area at the
airport where we were scheduled to pick up our motorcycles.  We stopped
at a gas station to pick up some gas for the empty motorcycles.  Texaco
sells plastic gas bags for about $.60 which can carry about 2 gallons
each.   Finding the cargo pickup was not a problem as it was right next
to the airport.

With great anticipation and relief we spotted our motorcycles in the
warehouse.  They looked exactly the same as when we left them at the
cargo drop off in Panama yesterday afternoon.  The first thing I did was
dump the bag of gas I carried into the gas tank, as it was not possible
to set it down.  I filled up the gas tanks, checked the oil, and
reinflated the tires back up to riding levels.  Everything looked fine
with the bikes.  The person in charge with cargo told us that it was not
yet possible to take them because they first had to clear through
customs.  He expected the officer within an hour or two, and suggested
that we wait.

We walked over to the airport, and looked at the shops.  We found a
jewelry store, and spent some time checking out and learning about
emeralds which Colombia is famous for.  This particular store had quite
a selection of emerald jewelry. and also the individual stones up to 5+
karats priced in dollars at about $10k per stone.

Being an XY chromosomed individual, I think I am not capable of
appreciating the difference between a nice green tinted $10k green
quartz, and a nicely cut and polished multi-faceted piece from a $.10
returnable 7-Up bottle.  I'd rather have a 7-Up and a Ducati
motorcycle.  Sharon doesn't share my point of view.   I told her that
because of her green eyes and blond hair, gold set emerald jewelry
looks very nice on her....  (shmooze points :-) ).

We called the cargo freighters and discovered that the customs officials
hadn't arrived, and were told to try back between 3:00 and 5:00pm.  This
blew our plans to drive out to the nice safe pueblo of Fusagasuga 70km
out of town before sunset which is at 5:38pm.

We found a nice clean safe hotel with character priced an order of
magnitude less than the price they wanted for another night at the Dann
Hotel.

[Notes:  Our hotel has a sign posted in our room that, "Under no
circumstances should you show your passport or money to anyone claiming
to be police.  There are many 'fake police' robbing tourists.  Leave
your valuables and passport with reception at the hotel.  Any police
asking to see identification must accompany you back to the hotel.  No
business should be conducted in the street, and the real police know
this."   Today we had asked a taxi driver a general question about the
police. Strangely, he went into great detail explaining how the police
can be identified.]

After a nap which was needed likely due to the sudden change in
altitude, we explored the surrounding area.  We came across one of the
largest book stores we've seen since leaving the US.  While we had seen
several in Mexico, in Central America we rarely came across any.  In the
US, shop clerks when they're board might be seen reading a novel behind
the counter.  In Mexico, almost always an adult comic book.  South of
Mexico it was either stare at the television, or stare into space.
However with illiteracy as high as it is, I'm not surprised.  Brain rot
from boredom apparently isn't a concern.  Several times I've been amazed
to see an office clerk pull open a drawer and have thousands of paper
clips perfectly aligned in neat rows.  It seems that since Mayans
knocked off their intellectual elite ruling class between the 9th and
12th century, education hasn't really been a part of their culture
(Dave's layman hypothesis).  This caused the decline and collapse of
Mayan culture, and their prosperity relative to the outside world has
been hurting ever since.  Travelling through these countries I observe
an interesting correlation between Mayan influence and economic
prosperity.  Whether or not economic prosperity is linked to a majority
of the population never having completed primary school is another
issue, but one I do believe is closely related.  In Costa Rica, and
Panama where little or no Mayan cultures existed, their societies are
doing much better economically relative to the rest of Central America.
The state of Chiapas in Mexico which still retains a majority of Mexican
Mayan culture is the poorest of all Mexico.  The Yucatan which is rich
in Mayan culture, I believe is an exception due to it's ability to lure
tourism through Cancun.

Colombia is not Central America in more ways than one.  Although I've
only been in the capital city for two days, it's apparent that it's a
more educated society with a much more prosperous economy.  Walking down
the street I'm surrounded by well dressed white collar workers.  The
hotel clerk here is reading Don Quixote de la Mancha (unabridged) when
he has nothing better to do.  Barely running pickup trucks on the
streets are a rarity rather than a norm.  Again though, this is the
capital city.   Outside my hotel window, I can see intermixed in Spanish
colonial buildings there is a small Art-Deco building.  Further down is
a another small building adorned with life size bronze statues in action
poses.  We never saw such things in Central America.


We walked around looking for some dinner.  Considering the dangers told
to us by the locals here, we were content to get back to our hotel
before dusk.  We walked through a business district of downtown Bogota,
and came across a jewelry section where every other shop sold jewelry.
We looked at more emeralds.  We saw some interesting kinetic jewelry
rings.  In one jewelry mall we came across a couple hardware stores
that catered only to jewelers selling hardware such as electroplaters,
digital scales, small precision hand tools, heating devices, wax melting
and carving equipment, thermoconductivity diamond testers, etc.  Peering
into some stores, I could see people purchasing large quantities of
small green emeralds on folded white paper.  People noticing my
curiosity I could feel scanning me over for criminal elements.  Today,
I've noticed this awareness in people on the streets.  I can read
"street smarts" on many people here.  I can't recall seeing any wallets
in the open, or flashy jewelry displayed on the streets. People walk
fast, and look aware.

At 5:15 as sunset was approaching, shops were becoming vacant and
closing up.  Restaurants looked empty, and people on the streets were
walking fast as if they had a place to go in a hurry.  Dwadlers are
easier prey for muggers.  The speed at which people moved was perceived
by me as anxiety amongst the crowd which was like static electricity in
the air raising our level of awareness.  Not wanting to be held up in a
restaurant past dark, we opted for stopping in a grocery store for
dinner.  It was like being in a vampire movie trying to get indoors
before dusk before the boogie men wake up and creep onto the streets..
We picked up some fruit, cheese, crackers, and wine to have back at the
hotel.  On our way back we came across a rolling street vendor making
pizza in the street and picked up a couple fresh large slices.


[Notes:]  Spanish is back to normal here.  South of Mexico, we found the
Spanish more and more difficult to understand and to be understood.  The
most difficult to understand being in Panama and El Salvador.  We've had
several easy conversations with our drivers here.  We find it as easy
to communicate again as we did in Mexico.   Communication in Central
America in Spanish I think would be equivalent to a non English speaker
talking to someone from South Carolina.

We are now 4 degrees North of the equator, and after lengthy
experimentation in the bathroom, I've concluded that water will drain
either clockwise or counter clockwise.



November 7th, 1997
Bogota, Colombia {Hotel Aragon}

We didn't sleep well due to traffic noise, and also probably due to not
having yet acclimated to the altitude.   Sharon slept in while I spent
the morning getting the last two weeks of journal caught up.  Meanwhile
we attempted several times to get in touch with our contact at the cargo
freighters.   By 3:00pm, we got through and they told us they had been
waiting since morning.  We told them we would be right over.

When we arrived, they told us we would need to customs to complete the
paperwork, which we could find at the airport.  We walked over to the
airport and went into the customs office.  We talked to five different
people attempting to tell them we have two motorcycles in cargo that
need to be cleared through.   Finally, they brought out a new employee
who had spoke English only because her former job had been in the
restaurant business at a fancy restaurant.  She called the cargo
service, and talked to the our contact.  It was conveyed to us that
since we didn't have a libretto (a sort of passport for the vehicle used
throughout South America), it would be necessary to hire a customs
agent.  These agents are people who do all the necessary paper work for
you, and work independent of the customs office.  I asked where we could
find a customs agent.  Since everyone in the office was a government
employee, it was forbidden for any of them to tell us since that would
be favoritism towards a particular agent.  Our English translator
empathizing with our situation, whispered to us to wait outside the
airport, and she would take us to one near by.  She suggested we wave to
her boss as we left so that he would see us leave.  A couple minutes
later, she appeared pretending like she didn't see us, but indicating to
follow her from a distance.  She led us to a cargo area near the airport
and from a distance pointed us in the direction of an agent.

The custom agents typed up the 86 question form with 6 carbon copies for
both of our motorcycles, while another agent went off to the cargo hold
to check the motorcycle serial numbers.  When the form was finally
completed, which took a while, the handed it to a young customs clerk who
looked at it, and said he didn't like the flight number listed on it.
They argued, and then seeing no other way, went back to the typewriter,
and was about to type up another form with the only change being the
flight number.  The other agent came back and said he couldn't find the
vehicle numbers on the motorcycle.  The cargo area was closing since it
was now past 6:00pm, and so we would have to try again in the morning.

November 9, 1997
Bogota, Colombia  {Hotel Aragon}

We were suppose to meet back at the airport cargo area at 8:30.  We
arrived at 8:45.  At 9:15, they showed up, and began the paperwork
again.  There was a different customs clerk working, who didn't seem to
have a problem with the flight number on the form, so they went with
that.  Another problem that came up was the numbers on my bike.  On the
frame is engraved half of the VIN number that appears on the title.  In
another spot, there is a sticker with the rest of the numbers.
Unfortunately, this sticker has taken some abuse since it was put on 16
years ago, and is barely legible with all of the oil running over it and
stones hitting it.  This was a problem.  Sharon's bike the '92 has the
entire VIN number engraved in the frame.  We rubbed carbon paper over
the VIN numbers and then clear scotch tape to make a sort of fingerprint
of the VIN number for the customs officers to see on the form.  Not
being able to read the first part of the VIN off my bike was a problem.

In the cargo hold, another traveller's motorcycle had arrived last
night.  There was another R80G/S in the warehouse.  taped on to the
windshield was the business card of Dr Gregory Frazier, I had been
talking to Gregory by E-mail during our trip.  He had told me that him
and some others were planning to meet in Ushuaia (Tiera Del Fuego) on
Christmas Eve.  That would be 7 weeks to cross all of South America.  I
told him we planned to take a little longer.  As it is, I think it will
be tight schedule for us to be there in 15 weeks since we want to do
some cultural exploration on the way.

Since we couldn't make a good finger print of the beginning VIN sticker
off my bike, I had the idea of making an imprint off of Gregory's.
Unfortunately, even though his bike is the same model as mine, the
beginning VIN's are different due to being different years.  We made do
with the bad print off of mine.

Another problem that came up was in my passport, the Panamanian customs
officer in his haste had written in the air bill number for Sharon's
bike in Sharon's passport, and in my passport.  Since the air bill
number written in my passport didn't match my air bill, I was screwed.
The cargo air service then typed up a letter apologizing and stating
what the correct situation was.  This was presented to the customs
clerk, who then rejected the letter since the letter didn't have my
passport number in it.   Again we walked back over to the cargo service,
which is a 1/2 mile away.   The cargo service typed up another letter
with my passport number.  Back over at customs, they said that they
wanted a police stamp.  Well being Saturday afternoon, this would mean
waiting until Monday when the police office was open.

We were having to deal with petty clerks who were afraid to accept any
responsibility, and who could care less the how much red tape hell they
dished out.  We walked over to the other customs office (also 1/2 mile
away), looking for the big boss.  The other office was closed.   Back at
the cargo customs office, my customs agent had just given up until
Monday handing me the papers when he spotted the big boss.  He explained
the situation, showing the correction papers.  No problem, that's fine
he said.  Now all that was left was a custom inspector to double check
the forms and cargo.  We waited around the cargo dock.  I bought my
agent, his daughter, and assistant agent some empinadas as we waited
since we had no idea when he would be back, and we weren't comfortable
leaving without our passports.  Four hours later the inspector returned
only to find out he didn't get to ours.  Come back on Monday.

We just spent our entire day sitting in an airport cargo dock running
between offices dealing dealing with petty office clerks.  At 5:30 we
caught a Taxi and went back into the city.  We walked down 19th Avenue
which is alive with night life in the evening.  We found a nice
restaurant that served Arabic food with Egyptian pictures on the wall,
and a waiter who wore a muslim beanie cap.  After having such a dull
mindless wasteful day sitting out in the 58 degree overcast weather, we
splurged and treated ourselves to a nice dinner.

Whenever we've been in a place to long, we begin to think about missing
home.  We've traded off a comfortable home and known comforts available
for interesting adventure. Today excitement of exploration wasn't there.

Some of the things we miss that came up during our short bout of
whining:  Having clean clothes.  Not having to wash clothes in a sink
and worry if they will be dry before we leave the hotel.  Wearing blue
jeans.  Having more than 3 t-shirts to wear.  Being able to cook,
Various ethnic foods.... central america was very homogeneous in
restaurant menus.  Hanging out with friends and family.  Weekends now
suck since things close down often causing delays in our plans.  Sharon
misses routine life.  I miss the news, computer world, tracking
financial world, surfing the net, and making waffles on the weekend.


Note:

There are several lottery stores where behind a booth usually an
attractive woman picks lucky numbers for you for the lottery.  These
seem to be popular at night.

November 9, 1997
Bogota, Colombia {Hotel Aragon}

Today, Sunday was a break from customs at the airport.  We grabbed some
breakfast at Dunkin Donuts, and then went over to the gold museum.

Like the gold museum in San Jose, Costa Rica, this museum houses
pre-Colombian gold artifacts in a giant walk in vault.  The first floor
told about history, and aspects of various Indian cultures around the
Colombia i.e. weavings in cotton or llama wool,  deceased relatives on
clay pots on the mantle, or in shaft tombs up to 120 feet deep, maize
agriculture, trade with Incas to the South near Ecuador, etc.  They did
a better job of presenting how the gold was crafted.  In this area, they
also worked with platinum, gold-platinum alloys, and gold copper alloys.
The craftsmanship presented in this museum was more impressive than that
of San Jose.  Also on display were two huge uncut emeralds.  They were
still in the shape of hexagonal cylinders approximately 2 inches in
diameter by three inches long.   There's a story of immaculate
conception associated with these.  A daughter of a chief held the stones
up to her abdomen for a while, and poof she was pregnant and gave birth
to a future ruler who was considered a god.

We walked around town.  Roads were blocked off for a bicycle ride
through town.  On the the plaza in front of the museum, there must of
been 200 cub scouts.  They don't differentiate between boy and girl
scouts here.  They were crawling in a giant translucent (100 foot by 8
foot diameter) snake that was kept inflated by an air pump, and painting
the inside.

Parts of Bogota remind me of New York, while older parts look more
similar to probably Madrid due to the Spanish architecture. However,
this city of 6.3 million is back set by sharp mountains with a monastery
overlooking the city.  We wandered into a more seedy area of town where
we saw pawn shop after pawn shop for several blocks selling VCRs
stereos, old calculators, and Osterizer blenders.  It didn't look like a
good place to be in the evening.  I could read the "You're not from
around here, are you?" look on people's faces.

We're having a difficult time finding restaurants other than fast food.
I'm sure it's due to the area we are in.  Again we had McDonald's for
lunch, and pizza for dinner.  It was not our first choice,  The other
choices were fried chicken or empinadas both of which we've had too much
of.


November 10, 1997
Bogota, Colombia

Not looking forward to another day waiting around the cargo docks, we
climbed in the taxi to take us to the airport arriving at 9:00am.
Within an hour, our agent was done acquiring most of the remaining
signatures and stamps.  Now all that was left was to get the inspector
over to the bikes, to check them out.  My agent feared my bike wouldn't
make it through because of the barely legible VIN sticker.  We waited
around the cargo warehouse reading our guide book.  At 1:00pm, the
inspector finally showed up.  The inspector looked over the bikes.
First the R100GS, no problems... then the R80G/S.  Our agent asked me
for a flashlight which I dug out so that they could look at the sticker
which was on the bottom side of the frame.  Since the inspector was
dressed in a suit, our agent put down a piece of plastic for him to
kneel on, and then offered himself to get down and read the VIN.  Our
agent then read the VIN off as the inspector checked them over in the
papers, however not off the illegible VIN sticker, but rather from
memory pausing occasionally for effect.  It worked beautifully, the
inspector said fine, signed his name, and we were through with the
problematic part.  Three more hours of our agent running between offices
for more paperwork, and we were done by 4:00pm.   After all paper work
was completed, and we had our ticket to freedom, we paid our agent,
Cesar, US$150.  This paid for 2.25 days of service, forms, and his 2
others assistants.  I'm sure that we could have saved a day if the
Panamanian customs had written the correct air bill number in my
passport, and the VIN was legible on my bike.  I hope to find a place
that can pound out a little metal placard with my VIN that I can glue on
to the bike.


The afternoon went by fast as we met up with Dr Gregory Frazier who just
happened to use the same air cargo carrier we did and arrive two days
afterwards.  He had last exchanged E-mail when we were about to enter
Belize, he had heard we were just ahead of him when he met the Israeli's
on motorcycles that we had met in Playa Brasilito, Costa Rica.  Gregory
had left from Montana, USA on October 1st and travelled 5,000 miles to
where we now were in 5 weeks.  We had taken 5 months and 10,000 miles to
get here, exploring along the way.  However his time frame was to be at
the Southern tip of South America by Christmas eve which is when eight
other world motorcycle travellers, mostly German,  where due to meet
there.  We had lunch together at the relatively nice airport restaurant
area, and spent the afternoon talking exchanging stories as Cesar, our
custom agent, and crew worked on all of our paperwork.

We later met for dinner and ended up drinking beer until midnight
exchanging stories.  Gregory who has approximately 50-60 motorcycles is
a writer usually on the subject of world tour by motorcycle.  He has a
mail order business which distributes "The whole earth motorcycle
catalog" where he sells books and videos related to motorcycling around
the world.  It's a small niche market, but one that we both follow and
have various acquaintances in common.




Note:

40's, 50's, 60's vintage American cars and trucks are not uncommon here
and are still in use.  They don't appear to be preserved for their
antique value, but rather have been kept running.  I'm sure the constant
cool climate does a lot for preservation of these vehicles.



November 11, 1997
Fusagasuga Colombia - {Hotel Panorama}
R100GS 21763
R80G/S 31224

We got a late start.  Around noon, we went down to the airport, and got
out bikes out of the warehouse.  Gregory had finished customs.  He had
lucked out.  There was some demonstration with TV cameras at the cargo
customs, and due to all the distractions, he got off with out needing to
wait for the inspector.   This step wasted a day for us.  If the
demonstrators were protesting the speed and paper work, I would have
been there.

There is a four foot drop out of the warehouse such that trucks can back
up and be loaded.  Unfortunately, there is no ramp for unloading
motorcycles.  No problem.  They dropped a couple palettes down and we
had a rough ramp.  With the help of seven people all three of us got our
550-600lbs motorcycles down the ramp.

We said our goodbyes to Gregory who was staying in town for another day
or two.  He had been having problems with his clutch.  Denver BMW had
sent him a clutch, and talked him out of replacing the clutch spring,
which of course now he needs.  He had ordered this, but upon arriving at
the mail address provided, there was no clutch spring.  He called up
Denver BMW who told them that they hadn't sent it because they needed a
phone number at the receiving end in order to send it.  Logistics of
receiving something from the states are complicated enough while touring
the third world without a constant address.  It's really useful to have
a competent creative person back home to handle logistics like this.
Blowing a window like this due to a phone number really shows a lack of
care or understanding of how difficult it is on the receiving end.   As
a result, Gregory is going to attempt to weld a clutch spring together
using used parts from a BMW enthusiast in Bogota.  ...not recommended,
but he has little choice other than to wait a week+ for the part.  He
has already pulled off his transmission two times, and has to do it at
least one more time.  This can take up to a day to do, 4 hours if one is
really fast.

We wished him luck and said our goodbyes.  At the speed he is travelling
to Tiera Del Fuego.  He'll likely be passing us very soon.  We left town
and headed for Fusa 70km  South West.

Fusagasuga is a weekend resort town for Bogotaoans who want to get away
from the constant 55-65 degree temperature.  It's lower in altitude, and
so the temperature is in the 70's.  There is hiking in the area, but the
terrain is nothing special.  There is the Tequendama 436 foot waterfall
of the Bogota River, but the water is so polluted that it smell like a
sewer.

We checked into our hotel on the outskirts of town, and looked for some
substance to eat.  We ended up at the Gourmet Mediterranean restaurant,
where we had a nice creamy cheese covered onion soup.  Sharon had
grilled chicken breast fillet while had the same but with a mushroom
sauce.

November 12, 1997
Ibague, Colombia, {Residencia Tirona}
R100GS 21809
R80G/S 31278

This morning, I got stung by a scorpion. I was pulling off the cover on
the motorcycle which I put on every night for security.  As I was
wadding it up to put in it's storage bag, I felt an intense pain in
between the base of my thumb and the rest of my hand.  The stinger of a
scorpion was lodged in there causing great pain.  Fortunately, It was
not perpendicular to my skin, but rather lodged in at an angle only
piercing part of my skin.  I pulled out the stinger, and I could see a
clear liquid around the wound which I assumed was excess poison.  I
wiped this off, a moment later, there appeared to be a crystallization
of something around the wound.  Sharon got out the first aid kid, and we
put on some topical analgesic antihistamine cream.  Later my hand and
lower arm felt weak, and the wound area became discolored.  The next
day, my thumb down to the base of my hand was inflamed and swelled up
feeling crampy and itchy.  The prick point grew into a blister.  I think
I was lucky that much of the poison spilled outside of the wound rather
than entering my body.  Also, I think the scorpion was only medium to
small in size.

It was a beautiful day for a drive...  Descending into the Magdalena
river valley was steep and beautiful.  The temperature quickly rose as
we descended.  We drove along the curvy river road under the devil's
nose which is a rock formation over the road which looks similar to an
old man's nose.  Further down this river road, we drove by a road side
painted statue of Jesus as a child caged in an Iron cage with a sign
describing "Jesus as a child".  Later, we drove by a road side painted
statue of Mary.


>From the time we arrived in Ibague, to the time the bikes were parked
and we were checked into a hotel was five hours.  The first hotel I
checked out advertised little cabanas.  I turned off the highway into
their drive area and discovered it was one of those love motels.  Our
first night in Mexico was our first and last time in one of these.  The
only nice thing about them is that the vehicles are secure hidden from
sight of the highway so that spouses can't see them while driving by.  I
asked about the price, emphasizing "for the whole night".  She told me
the price for three hours.  I asked again for the whole night.  She
didn't know.  She asked another clerk who also didn't know.  They got
out a calculator, and came up with some ridiculous high price.  I asked
them where other hotels were that I could stay the whole night at.
Understanding what I meant, they told me that they are in the center of
town.  The clerks I've seen working in these hotels always seem to have
an emotionless apathetic sour face.  I'm not sure it this is due to not
getting any sleep due to all the noise and constant cleaning between
check-outs, or because of the fine clientele they meet everyday.

The second hotel I found was nice.  The open air lobby was right next to
the drive in area.  I drove in pulling up to the desk with my beaten up
once white motorcycle covered with mud from North and Central America.
I pulled off my helmet, scratched my head causing my wet matted hair to
stand on end.  My unshaven face was accentuated by the sweat around my
chin.  I didn't realize it at the time, but my face and neck was covered
in diesel soot.  Not just powder soot, but the flaky kind that builds up
in an exhaust pipe, and dislodges itself from an aggressive step on the
accelerator.  Freshly cleaned people in business suits looked at me as
if I came from mars.  I walked up to the desk, and asked if they had a
room.  They said yes, and the with out my asking, they told me the
price.  That's when I realized I must be looking a bit rough.  I asked
to see the rooms.  They were nice, but lacked in value.

I searched several other hotels, came up with some options, and then
retrieved Sharon who had been parked at a gas station at the other end
of town.

We parked our bikes in a public secure parking area, where the old man
who was the owner and full time guard had one clouded over cataract eye,
and was partially deaf.  However he was friendly, nice, concerned, and
slept there all night locked in with his wife.  Regardless of whether
the bikes were safe, I could be assured that I would be warmly greeted
the next morning.

We checked into our $5 a night hotel which was the 7th one I had checked
out.  It shared an inner door with a bakery, and so always smelled nice.
The bathroom had a mild smell of sewage gas.  Washing the soot of my
face and neck in the bathroom sink, I looked up and peered directly into
a tube bent down over the sink.  This was the shower.  It was a pipe
sticking out of the wall above the sink bent down.  No shower head and
cold water.  It was identical to taking a shower under a garden hose
except with little water pressure.  Of course, everything in the
bathroom gets wet when one takes a shower.  That would explain why the
bathroom door is actually a translucent plastic aluminum framed shower
door.


We spent an hour and a half looking for a nice dinner and ended up at a
bar having beer and mediocre pizza that we carefully picked out small
chicken bones.


Sharon's quote of the day:
"It's pretty bad when your treasures are clean underwear and socks"


November 13, 1997
Bugalagrande, Colombia {Esso gas station hotel}
R80G/S 31494

The tale between two cities....  It was the best of roads.  It was the
worst of roads.  From Ibague to Armenia is among one of the most scenic
twisty motorcycle roads we've been on, comparable to the Sierra Nevadas
in Mexico between Oaxaca and Port Angel.  The road winds along the side
of the mountains approximately 1,000 feet above the valley and a
thousand feet below the mountain tops. The road passes through the
scenic town of Cajamarca which is built on a flat cliff which drops
several hundred feet to a rapid river below.  The road is beautifully
paved, with little traffic *until* BAM!  The worst possible traffic jam.
Quindio pass is where the roads does a rapid climb up to 10120 feet.
The road is full of hair pin turns which would be fun on a motorcycle
except that trucks can not make the numerous turns without entering the
oncoming traffic lanes.  As a result, at many turns trucks and busses
must alternate going around, blocking traffic in both directions.  This
road, Highway 40, connects Bogota (pop 6.3 million) with Cali  (pop 1.8
million), and has a lot of commerce passing forth.  Since this pass is
so high, clouds constantly pass over the road reducing vision sometimes
to 20 feet, combined with a continuous light rain.  We spent more than 2
hours driving 6 miles over this pass.  Traffic would stop for several
minutes, where we would then sit on our motorcycles in the rain. We
would turn off the motorcycles to keep them from overheating.   Towards
the end, The volt meter on Sharon's motorcycle was registering a nearly
dead battery.  She must have restarted her bike 50 times  with the stop
and go traffic.  After reaching the top, I just coasted down in neutral
with the engine off.  However the front disk brakes on my motorcycle
were so hot that rain would instantly vaporize when it hit.  My rear
brakes aren't working.  I suspect that some oil has spilled over on to
the pads ruining them during the flight from Panama city to Bogota.  I
haven't been able to find any brake cleaner which I'm not sure will even
work on pads, and of course, I only have a spare set of front pads.  The
spare rear brake shoes were tossed out because of size.

The long wait in the rain, bad brake situation, possible dead battery,
Sharon's stopping an oversized heavy bike that's too tall for her on a
hill 50 times, continuous passing in the fog, and crazy Colombian
drivers that rival Guatemalan chicken bus drivers, had raised anxiety
levels to a high.  We stopped at a gas station in Armenia just after the
pass to rest and release tension.

We sat at this gas station with outdoor snack cafe and ate an ice cream
sandwich full of raisins.  This gas station was plagued with cows.  They
would descend the hill constantly mosying through the station where a 12
year old African boy gas attendant would chase them away with his home
made whip made from a stick and twine.

We decided to stay somewhere North of Cali rather than go the full
distance.  We had not expected to take an hour to find our way out of
Ibague this morning, nor the two hours to drive 6 miles over the pass,
nor the hour to recover from it.  The roads past Armenia were nice,
scenic, and with low traffic and with beautiful cloud formations above.
One of the two aggressively driving tanker trucks carrying kerosene that
we had seen in Quindio pass we later saw on a grassy plane turned over
on it's side off the road fortunately still in one piece with it's
contents leaking out.  Whether tanker trucks are carrying gasoline or
milk, they still drive like they're in a Ferrari.

By 4:00pm we passed by a highway stop with a big restaurant.  Other than
our ice cream sandwich, we hadn't eaten since 7:30am.  Next to it was a
super Esso gas station which had a sign claiming a hotel.  We checked it
out.  It was a nice hotel.  The kind we normally pass on by due to
price.  Considering the day we had and that yesterday I spent 5 hours
looking for a hotel, and we ended up in a $5 dump we decided to splurge.
We checked into a suite.

First thing we did was take a shower in our luxurious bathroom which has
a pink fury shag cover around the toilet tank which matches the floor
mat that wraps around the pedestal sink.  What stands out most is the
lack of aroma this bathroom has.  Usually we smell sewer gas, or some
other similar light stench.  While never as bad as an outhouse, I've
caught myself breathing a special way when entering hotel bathrooms.

Afterwards, I walked over to the kitchen area of our suite, opened the
refrigerator and pulled out one of the hotel stocked cold beers.  I sat
down on our leather couch and caught up on the news of market crashes
and devaluations of currencies around the world.

We had dinner at a drive up cafeteria.  This restaurant is a chain with
a touch of Americana that looks like it would fit in well in Orlando,
Florida.  For miles there are advertisements of a 20' giant size chef
who resembles Chef Boyardee such that drivers can't miss it.  The
restaurant is a huge circular one story open air restaurant such it
could easily feed 300 people at a time.  Inside there is a nice
cafeteria, with your choice of beverages including a selection of beer
or wine.  In addition this great flying saucer shaped building also
houses a bakery and a tourist souvenir shop.  Around the parking lot are
barrel garbage cans topped with a hungry looking fiberglass alligator
head.  ...Feed your garbage to the alligator.

We both had a bowl of lasagnia and a beer with a side order of salted
whole potatoes with a Leona beer.  Not bad.



I asked Sharon why she seemed so happy this evening.  She said, "the
positive side of near death experiences is being happy to be alive".
Obviously, referring to the crazy truck and buss drivers of Quindio
pass.



Ľotes:

What I've found on other trips too is that the international edition of
Newsweek is so much better than what is domestically distributed.  It's
similar to comparing USA Today to the New York Times.  I think the
international edition costs 4 times as much as the domestic one though
for a subscription.


Colombian driving.  As in Central America, people pass wether or not it
will get them anywhere, The person being passed is expected to yield to
the passer as well as oncoming traffic.  That is, it is very common for
a person to pass when he sees oncoming traffic.  To prevent collision,
the person being passed, and the person heading in the opposite
direction should slow down to let the deufus go by and prevent a
catastrophe amongst all parties.  Deufuses are very common.

Shoulders are used for extra passing space.  The whole point of driving
on the highway is to pass as many people as possible.  Arriving at one's
destination alive is a secondary consideration.

Lanes have absolutely no meaning.  They are a waste of paint.  Lane
markings indicating what one might think means "no passing zone",
actually mean 'exciting pass zone... pass here'   Division lane that
divide oncoming traffic from outgoing traffic have no meaning as people
drive where they like.  It's not uncommon to see an alone truck driving
on the wrong side of the road around a blind curve.  why?  who knows...

The police force are equipped with enduro motorcycles usually 125cc
sometimes 250cc, and rarely larger.  They easily can get anywhere in the
city through traffic jams, however on the open highway, there is little
or no law since cars and trucks can easily outrun such small
motorcycles.  Unlike Central America that keeps speeds in check with a
generous helping of speed bumps, there are no speed bumps in Colombia,
and highway patrols are few or none.


----

Dave Thompson

thompson@pdnt.com      www - http://sdg.ncsa.uiuc.edu/~mag/Thompson

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