I can't necessarily apologize for the delay in posts- even I am entitled to a little R&R during my own trip and that's exactly what happened in The Lake District(s).

While not known so much throughout North America, there's a general consensus among Europeans and South Americans that one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring areas to travel is located in southern Chile and Argentina; simply called the lake district.  Essentially taking up space in northern Patagonia, a millennium of shifting plate tectonics, volcano's and mountains have shaped an entire region in both Argentina and Chile, full of impressive and pristine lakes.  Especially among the status elite and wealthy, these lakes are outfitted with 1st world familiarities and accommodations.  What's equally impressive, is this region is also the ski/snowboarding regions as well- so in the middle of the summer you feel a sense of winter as you stroll the streets of these cabin-infested areas as they do double duty; serving ski-bumbs during the winter and tan-aholics during the summer. 

There's an interesting and dynamic feeling attached to the realization that the journey is coming to an end.  I spent most of my trip saying in my inner dialogues, "Just get to Ana's house, just get to Ana's house...".  Ana being a dear friend whom I met years, along with her two besties, on a plane from norther India en route to Nepal.  It was Ana and her friends that inspired me to learn (which I'm still trying by the way) Spanish and spend one of my off-seasons in Santiago, the capital of Chile.  As for this trip, we were both expecting that I'd revisit her and her family at their lake house in Lake Rupanco.  While that unfortunately didn't turn out, I suddenly found myself in the lake region and realizing my final push from the lake region to Buenos Aires would signal the end of my journey.  That was difficult to digest, and suddenly I found myself looking for more adventure within my adventure.

I spent quite a bit of time in the so-called capital of Chile's lake district called Pucon.  As it was high-season and bombarded with Chilean vacationers, I attempted a more peaceful, quite stay in the small lake town of Lican Ray.  After that, it was time to make my final border crossing into Argentina, with targets set on Bariloche.  I'd heard so much about Bariloche, and after a successful cross into Argentina and a splendid ride around several lakes, I reached Bariloche and left after one night-- simply too touristy and there wasn't even an access point to swim in and enjoy the lake.  I headed for the wonderful San Martin de Los Andes.  Often in life things come down to one simple decision-- do I stay straight on the road that is on the beaten path, or do I turn left and see what happens.  On this particular day, I decided to turn left and discovered another world just waiting to be explored and I spent 7 hours enjoying sublime, off-road beauty before finally arriving to San Martin.  As the lake slowly had carved out a beautiful canyon, San Martin was it's zenith; a small, beautifully-kept lake town with sun, wine and food.  It was my final resting place before making the attempt to reach Buenos Aires, effectively ending my time on the bike, but not necessarily the trip. 

And then, after 3 days covering more than 1,300 miles, I found myself only 124 miles from Buenos Aires.  The air was warm, my spirits high and I had dear friends waiting for me to celebrate not only my arrival to BA signaling the end of another successful and joyous trip, but also my birthday. 

And then suddenly everything went to shit.

I ran out of gas twice trying to reach San Pedro de Atacama (SPdeA) in northern Chile.  Driving through pure desert at such high temperatures and high elevation (above 2,500 meters) actually improves my fuel economy.  For instance, last year when I drove in sub-zero degree weather departing from Chicago, on a full tank of gas I could get no more than 115-125 miles before the gas light went on.  In the deserts of Peru and Chile, I was getting close to 200 miles on a full tank before same.  So running out of gas twice means I was covering more than 500 total miles (I can squeeze an additional 40-50 miles on the reserve gas after gas indicator turns on) and not encountering on average at least one gas station in between.  Who do I have to write in Chile to discuss this? 

While my resolve was clearly being tested, there was no mistaken that SPdeA would surely be worth it.  From Colombia down through Peru, anybody and everybody that realized the route I was driving was quick and sure to point out SPdeA as a highlight.  Besides, any place that has a "Valle de la Luna" (Valley of the Moon) must be spirited.  And SPdeA did not disappoint.  I intended to stay 2, maybe 3 days.  I spent 5.  If I wasn't on a motorcycle and able to sneak away and avoid the ridiculous number of tour agencies as such, I probably would have had to stay 8-10 days.  It's important to point out the SPdeA is one of the driest desert in the world, therefore with such infrequent cloud cover it makes star-gazing an actual attraction and activity.  For a city kid, it's quite special to feel overwhelmed by the sensation of a twinkling, starlit sky.

From thermal rivers, geysers, pink flamingo gatherings, salt lakes, martian terrain, sandboarding, sunsets, waterfalls to cactus mountains, SPdeA has something for everybody.  The pure raw beauty that you run into in every direction is certainly worth two tanks of fuel and then some.  Impossible to describe in words, I hope these images can mirror the visions of a moon like no other.

Peru has left me with a whirlwind of emotions.  On so many levels, it's simply a country I'll never, ever forget.  I've never seen or witnessed anything like it in countless ways.  The lovingkindness of its people and the sheer size and beauty of it all, stretching from north to south, east to west including some of the worlds highest peaks and passes, driest deserts, pristine beaches and countryside landscapes.  In some ways, it's conflicting.  In one day you can be as hot as a pancake and by nightfall as cold as a polar bear; you can be as healthy as an ox and then wishing to never eat another ceviche the rest... of... your... life.  Peru challenged me on so many levels; physically, spiritually and emotionally.  Fortunately not financially as you'll rarely stumble upon such a beautiful culture, geography and spirit as you will in Peru and struggle to spend so little.  It's beyond affordable and destined only to become less so as time ticks ever so slowly down here.

Peru also brought me wonderful hello's and even harder goodbyes.  In all my years of traveling to officially now 36 countries (professional, anyone?), I've never traveled for as long in terms of time (almost one month) and distance covered (exactly 3,489 miles) as I did with one Paul Kage of Germany.  We both knew it would end.  There would have to be a time where our schedule and timing simply wouldn't allow it.  I learned more from Paul on how to be a better man, friend and one day perhaps father or husband than you could ever imagine.  A 60-year old Bavarian whom I met on the top of a mountain deep in the trenches of Colombian rain-forest at a  mudslide will forever be near and dear to my heart.  Each day I wake up and head to my hotels' "Free Breakfast Included", I am painfully reminded that Paul is not there to greet me anymore with his big smile and always-in-a-good mood energy.  I won't follow him to the exact address we're seeking with his nifty GPS.  I shall not learn how to become an even better rider from his countless lessons.  And I won't hear his over-usage of regular words that he so often used like "cute" and "in fact" anymore.  It downright hurts to say goodbye to the people we care about and care about us, and Paul was no exception. 

Paul, if you're reading this; thank you.  Thank you so much for showing me that the youthful spirit of any person, regardless of their age, can take any man or woman to extraordinary heights and adventures.  Your life is one hell of an adventure and I'm so honored to have been and shared a part of it.  Your family is lucky to call you father and husband.

These images below will always serve as a reminder of our friendship, as he stood next to me for each and everyone of these clicks.

"I don't know Paul.  It doesn't seem like a good idea.  We just passed through the main square and we're in the middle of nowhere now!"

Paul knew a guy who knew a guy that gave him a business card for a "great" place to stay in Ollantaytambo.  Here's the thing; getting to Machu Picchu is quite the ordeal.  You can't drive to Machu Picchu; the Peruvians make sure you must find an alternate way to spend even more money to get to the Crown Jewel.  Write that down; you can only take an organized trekking tour known throughout the world as the "Inca Trail"... or you must take a train.  To be honest, I didn't even know there existed a train that could take you to Machu Picchu, appropriately named Inca Rail. 

"There's nothing here; it looks like this is where the locals live, Paul.  We're never going to find a decent hotel this far away from the main plaza." 

I was so disgruntled and tired after the long day of driving although a beautiful one at that.  Still hovering around 4,000 meters for most of the day, there were some quite difficult and challenging ascents/descents as we worked our way through the beautiful valleys leading to Ollantaybambo.  An overwhelmingly large percentage of visitors to Machu Picchu stay and organize their excursions in/from Cuzco, the proverbial launching pad to Machu Picchu.  Seeing as we were on motorcycles, we were able to get that much closer by settling into Ollantaytambo, considered the closest inhabitable town to Machu Picchu, almost a full 2-hours difference (train time) in closeness and proximity to Machu Picchu than Cuzco.  In a nutshell, that would mean we'd be able to arrive that much earlier than the throngs of people coming from Cuzco.   

"Shane, I have the map on the back of the card.  It's just through here.  Follow me!"  Sure, no problem I remember thinking.  I've been following Paul the entire time we'd been traveling together, so what was another 50 meters.  And there it was.  An open field full of green pastures with a mountain backdrop to boot as beautiful as anything you've seen in a romance novel cover.  A large, ornate gate greeted us with a German and Peruvian flag.  Zee Germans. 

By the time we settled into undoubtedly the most comfortable and glorious rooms we'd seen in months (Paul and I always take separate rooms), we'd already received the "Biker Discount".  Turns out, the owner of the hotel was a German who many years back similarly drove a KTM (BMW Motorrad's Austrian rivals) through South America before stumbling upon the romantic, idyllic Ollantaytambo.  Then the rather played-out Gringo story unfolded; he fell in love with a local, moved with her back to Germany and many years later proved his love of her and her heritage by building a "surprise!" lavish place to stay, also doubling as a hotel.  We celebrated Paul's innate ability to find a kick-ass German in every part of the journey with a delicious dinner in the town center before retiring to bed in order to be up and ready for our 6:30am train. 

Not even 45 minutes after we left the restaurant, the churning and bubbling began.  I wanted to die my stomach hurt so bad.  For the next 6 hours straight, I didn't go more than 25 minutes without an acute attack of diarrhea.  It was so bad and sensitive that even swallowing one swig of water would pass entirely through my body in less than 90 seconds.  I'd never experienced anything like it.  At one point I even ate a Tic-Tac, one damn Tic-Tac, and it completely passed through me in less than a minute.  To say I was concerned that we were catching our train in less than an hour was an understatement.  Of all the days, time and hours to be in such bad shape, why the day I'm off to see the Crown Jewel in all its glory; Machu Picchu?

MACHU means old.  PICCHU means hill or elevation.  The name of Machu Picchu applies to the old Inca buildings which were named in very ancient times.  Sometimes called the "lost" city of the Inkas, truth be told it was in fact never lost.  It was simply covered with vegetation until cleared and explored by the National Geographic team and Yale University in 1912.  The question since then has always been; What was it built for?  There are many explanations that are derived purely from speculation so its important to entertain and appreciate them all. 

What I can offer is the following advice- go see Machu Picchu, and soon.  There are rumors that in the coming years it will be completely closed off the public as its health and state is deteriorating (like mine was when I arrived there) from the massive amount of tourist interest in the past decade.  I've been fortunate to see the ruins of Tikal (Mexico), Natural Bridge (Virginia), Taj Mahal (India), Statue of Liberty (duh), Angkor Wat (Cambodia); but nothing, I mean nothing prepares you for the awesomeness that is Machu Picchu.  Although crowded by tourists more interested in saying they've simply been, I took the time to feel Machu Picchu.   And it's a feeling that I can't describe in words or pictures, though I do dare try with this transmission.  There are historical civilizations that were simply beyond their times in productivity and ingenuity; the Egyptians with the Great Pyramids, the Chinese with the Great Wall of China, the Europeans with Stonehenge, the Polynesians with Easter Island.  But dare I say nobody, absolutely nobody was as thoughtful, intelligent and caring with their choice of materials, location and purpose as the Incas and Machu Picchu. 

Simply a mystical experience, even when suffering from fatigue, a rapid weight-loss program and severe, debilitating dehydration.  Enjoy a few snapshots below:

As you drive south along the Pacific coastline of Peru, you are amazed at how much vast openness there is, all completely full of sand; sand dunes, sand mountains, sand-huts, sand windstorms… you get the point.  Mile after endless mile you can (most often) visibly see the Pacific Ocean to your right, but you rarely see anybody living near the water in large droves were this coastline in the United States or Europe.  Sure there is a pocket of tourist and local beach-towns just south and north of Lima, but hundreds of miles away, especially to the north,  it’s just vacant beach land.  Nothing.  Nobody.  My suspicion is a combination of lack of vegetation (afterall, it’s just sand and then more sand), jobs, infrastructure and money.  Having been in Peru for so many weeks, while I am still amazed and astonished at the various styles of landscapes and authentic beauty, it is rivaled by the sheer poverty that exists in every direction you turn save for the larger cities.   

Like Lima. 

Coasting into Lima, I felt that somewhere between the sand dunes only a few miles back I’d entered into a wormhole and transported to a new dimension, a new galaxy.  “Surely this can not be Peru?”, I thought to myself.  BMW dealers.  Real highways.  Gorgeous tall buildings.  Giant billboards in English.  In German.  In Portuguese.  And the absolute, bar-none worst drivers ANYwhere in South America.  It was barbaric, I was scared to death.  I remembered thinking I survived Colombia, Nicaragua and even Mexico, and I’m going to go out in Lima due to these crazy drivers!  There is no respect for the lane you are in, it’s a giant morph of bikes, motorcycles, tuk-tuks, trucks, lorries and cars driving without any regard for their own safety or any "code" of driving that is understandable and Universal.  It was beyond offensive driving, and I just wanted to be off the bike and in Miraflores, the tourist capital of Lima.   

The business districts and tourist districts along with the seaside suburbs in Lima are Europe away from home.  A stark contrast to the shantytowns on the edge of the city which look and feel like the developing world.  The gap between those who have and those who do not is made quite clear with the overpopulation of an already massive city.  By the time you finally walk along the boardwalk areas that lie upon the cliffs overlooking the Pacific ocean, it’s impossible to deny the charm that makes Lima the heart and soul of Peru.  As you watch the perfect sets of waves come in from miles and the surfers eager to ride them onto shore, you simply can’t imagine what this place would have looked like thousands of years ago; a big sandlot I'm sure.   

Lima is strong on great restaurants, nightclubs and museums; there is something for everybody.  The landscape is eerily similar to San Diego or Carlsbad, CA in conjunction with the great weather and laid-back nature of its inhabitants.  Of course that great weather is sometimes hard to see although you can feel it; Lima is blanketed in a coastal fog most of the year, but when the sun is blazing, all the tourists and Limenos head for the beaches.   

Lima is truly an international city with a cozy, small city feel just waiting to be explored.  Judging by the overwhelming amount of English I heard all around me, it seems the secret is out the world over. 

[See where I am along the journey, live with Google Maps]

What's so spectacular and invigorating about traveling by motorcycle is simply accessibility; access to tough(er) roads, access to stop and take photos whenever I want, access to pristine landscapes off-the-beaten-path of which most, if not all, fellow travelers simply can't reach.  Cañón del Pato (Canyon of the Duck) is no exception.  The canyon is on the Rio Santa at the north end of the Corridor of Huaylas in north-central Peru.  The mostly rocky canyon walls are too steep and dry to grow or cultivate much plants or vegetables, so this is as remote as you can get.  The canyon was formed by the river where the north end of the Cordillera Negra range converges with the Cordillera Blanca mountain.  In fact, within the Cordillera Blanca range exists the Alpamayo mountain which has been declared "The Worlds Most Beautiful Mountain" several times (although Mt. Fitz Roy in Argentina might give it a run for the money).  There are sixteen 6000 meter peaks within Cordillera Blanca and many are visible along the off-road path through Cañón del Pato.  As my confidence overall with the motorcycle continues to rise, I was overly excited to face almost 60 miles of off-roading through the Canyon, in a place that few get to visit, few have access.

The drive was simply breathtaking; I've never experienced anything like it and venture to say I never would again.  As you drive through the Canyon, the endless dirt and dust at first is assuming, but eventually it's beautiful.  Along the unpaved road, there are more than 35 one-lane tunnels (more like caves) that were built only to fit a small dump-truck for the crew who constructed them to haul away dirt and debris.  As there is not much traffic along the route for obvious reasons, there was limited danger of colliding with oncoming traffic coming from the other direction unable to see what or who is in the tunnel(s). 

At the end of the day, when it comes to traveling, there are really only 3 ways to "feel" and "access" the purity of a journey as long as this one.  1) Walk 2) Bicycle or 3) Motorcycle.  These three modes of transportation allow you to literally feel and touch the air around you, mile after mile, which you could never do in a bus, in a car or by plane.  Walking is reserved for the true hard-core travelers.  I've only met a handful in my day who literally walk across countries and continents.  They are a different breed.  Bicycle is also extreme in my book and my hat goes off to the few I've already encountered during this trip (and last year in Central America).  But wow, how impressive to bike your way from North America to the southern edge of Patagonia (if you have a minimum of at least 1.5 years and an incredible amount of patience, stamina and determination). 

Motorcycle is almost cheating when compared to walking or bicycling across a continent, but it still makes my list of three and provides unparalleled access to landscapes that even my imagination can't dream up.  Like Cañón del Pato, a taste below:

[Follow my journey and movements at Google Maps]

From Quito Paul and I drove to Baños which is known as the adventure-sport headquarters of Ecuador.  It's also known for it's thermal baths; essentially volcanic activity deep in the surface beneath Baños heats underground water which once tapped into, can be directed into man-made pools whereby people from all over Ecuador come to soak in the nutrient-rich water.  We got there early before the large crowds for the night session and quickly realized indeed how hot the water was.  As we were relaxing, we started chatting up with another older gentleman who mentioned he had lived in Chicago for 30 years before recently deciding to move to Baños and open a hotel with his wife.  He invited us to stop by as his son recently had just arrived (age 33) from Chicago to be the resident Chef and was experimenting with making in-house beer.  Done!  What a relief to have an Amber Ale and a Pale Ale.  It doesn't take long to realize that inside of Central and South America, the art of brewing beer is anything but.  Now, I'm not a heavy drinker at all; I usually can't consume more than 3 beers in an American setting in one day/evening.  But in this part of the world, even I could have a six-pack and keep an intelligent conversation going.  Everything is so watered down and everything is called "Pilsner", regardless of the brand.  On our last night in Baños, the Chef-from-Chicago was insistent that Paul and I stop by for some delicious foods from his menu (he used to work at Peoples Restaurant for my Chicago peeps reading this); and he delivered.  It's like I always say- when visiting a new place/town/city, you always have two questions:  1) Where am I going to stay? and 2) Where am I going to eat?  Fortunately, Paul shares my passion for finding the best off-the-beaten-path food locations no matter how, when or why. 

New Years was quickly approaching and we still had to make it through the Ecuadorian jungle.  We decided to take some road(s) much less traveled by Ecuadorians and/or especially those traveling on motorcycles.  We were excited to drive straight through the Amazonian jungle that hugs the eastern part of Ecuador, which is directly next door to Brazil.  Aside from having to stay a night in a no-name town that only had one hotel (if we'd even call it that) and an 80km (approx. 50 miles or so) of rather dangerous, wet and slippery off-roading, we arrived to a mid-size city called Loja on New Years Day.  Unfortunately, I continue to learn that the size of the dot next to a city on my driving maps doesn't necessarily correlate to the size (or fun!) of the actual place.  The "dot" next to Loja on my map was only slightly smaller than that of Quito, so Paul and I were sure we'd find some good times on New Years Eve night.  The sad truth is we walked around for over an hour-and-a-half trying to find ANY restaurant that was open so we could have dinner.  We found a rather gross fast-food place that served their version of fried chicken.  After we left, we walked aimlessly hoping to find that one of the city squares would be having some kind of festival, party or fireworks; instead we found a plethora of men dressed up as women dancing in the streets and forcing all the traffic that goes by to pay them a small amount of money.  Hey, I'm all for some outside-of-the-box type of fun, but we didn't really understand it (still don't, actually), but evidently after asking around, it is a tradition in Loja. 

Paul and I were back in our respective rooms by 11:30pm.  For us, it was simply just another travel day; both the day we arrived (New Years Eve) and would be again the next day as we pushed hard to make it not only across the Peruvian border, but all the way to the Pacific Ocean.  You might recall our horrible experience in terms of total time to cross from Colombia into Ecuador, and therefore Paul and I were quite cautious about crossing into Peru.  I can say that between exiting Ecuador and fully entering into Peru, it took about 20 minutes.  And it was almost like Peru and Ecuador knew what they were doing when they decided to draw the borderlines; as soon as we left Ecuador and entered Peru, the landscape immediately changed.  Things became a bit flatter.  People became a bit poorer.  There was less color than we were used to.  And goats were everywhere, running onto the street like we were in some kind of twisted video game.  As we got to within about 100 miles of the Pacific Coast, everything turned to desert.  As everything went by quickly through my helmet visor, I was immediately reminded of another country with similar sights, smells and settings; India. 

By the time we were within reach of seeing the Pacific Ocean, the landscape had evolved into endless sand mountains as far as the eye could see.  There was no green, no vegetation; just tan-colored sand dunes and beautiful "mountains" of dried earth, dirt and sand made from years and years of wind and lack of rain.  Our goal was to reach Mancora and we couldn't have chosen a worse day of the year to arrive to to Peru's worst-kept secret that is Mancora; New Years Day.  We were immediately forced into a traffic jam unlike anything I've ever seen; everybody who was trying to leave was pitted against everybody trying to get in on a two-lane road.  Between the time we arrived officially into Mancora (just shy of 6:15pm and dusk was settling in) and when we finally found a hotel (8:45pm), over 2.5 hours had transpired and we'd visited over 30 hotels, none with availability.  We were getting desperate, anxious and hungry.

If ever there was a just reward for having a less-then-stellar New Years Eve and driving 10-hours on New Years Day, it was waking up on January 2nd and realizing that in the darkness of the night and checking in to the only hotel we found with availability, our rooms were literally overhanging the Pacific Ocean. 

I didn't leave the confines of the hotel for 3 days straight, sustaining myself only on a diet of Mango milkshakes, beer and ceviche.  Ahhh, Peru.

[Follow my progress live on Google Maps]

Paul and I arrived late in the afternoon on Christmas Day into Quito.  In the process, we had crossed the actual equatorial line (which, by the way, the name Ecuador is equator in Spanish), which is always a special accomplishment by land, air or sea.  Quito is essentially split up into two main areas where the majority of the history, architecture and "action" is; Old Town and New Town.  The New Town is anything but authentic Quito, but after an exhausting search in Old Town produced no hotels with availability (it was Christmas Day after all), we headed to New Town to sort out hotel rooms.  The difference between the look and feel of Old and New Town was hugely evident; New Town boasted a “Times Square” feel within its centrally located Koch Plaza.  New, urban bars, restaurants and hotels were plentiful, which were supposedly created for the tourist pool.  The interesting lesson learned during the 3 nights staying in New Town was, generally speaking, the local Quitonians heavily outnumbered the tourists on our account almost 15 to 1 within the modern and at times luxurious New Town.

Since there were so many hotel options within a short walking distance, Paul and I determined (as usually is the case) that he would watch the bikes while I trotted around to find availability in hotels, talk pricing, determine if they have parking, etc.  Interesting enough, earlier in the day over breakfast before driving to Quito, Paul had shown me the blog of two other motorcyclists whose bikes he had seen in Panama and subsequently he had written down their blog URL (http://www.oneworld2explore.blogspot.com/) from the stickers on their panniers/side-cases as he did not meet them in person.  I remember seeing a few pictures of the two motorcyclists, a woman and man who were married and hailed from Canada and South Africa respectively, and enjoyed quickly reviewing some of their pictures and posts while reading that they were driving from Canada to Argentina, then shipping their bikes to Africa and driving the vertical distance north and then across to the Middle East, then Europe, then Asia, and finally home; a 2-year endeavor.  Pretty darn impressive, I thought, while also serving as fuel that I still have so much more left to do, see, learn and accomplish.   And in a strange twist of coincidence (or the Universe transpiring to assist me), as I had finally secured a hotel and was walking back to meet Paul in the Koch Plaza to get him and our bike back to the hotel, I noticed a man and woman walking on the other side of the street staring at me.  As I stared back, I realized it was the same two motorcyclists from the blog Paul had shown me just that very morning!  (I realized later why they were staring at me; I was still dressed in my motorcycle gear.)

I couldn’t believe it, and belted out, “Hey, I know you guys!  Uhm, but you don’t have any idea who I am, do you!? But I saw your blog just this very morning and my friend that I’m riding with knows you guys.  Or, at least he knows your blog!”

They couldn’t have been any nicer, Darryl and Angela.  As we quickly exchanged pleasantries, I told them to follow me to Koch Plaza where coincidentally they were already headed to meet 3 fellow BMW riders originally from Quito they had been in contact with over email.  As the three of us reached the Koch Plaza, what a special sight: Paul, while waiting for almost 30 minutes while I shopped hotels, was patiently sitting and guarding our motorcycles in Koch Plaza and ended up meeting those 3 fellow BMW riders who hailed locally from Quito that Darryl and Angela were heading to meet for the first time.  As Darryl, Angela and I arrived, suddenly there was a pack of us laughing, embracing and admiring how we had all come together through our shared passion for motorcycles and traveling, all on Christmas Day nonetheless.

As Paul and I were still dressed head to toe in our motorcycle gear, we set off to park our motorcycles, unpack our bags and check-in to the hotel while agreeing to meet with the others as soon as we finished.  Christmas just got a whole lot better, Paul and I said to one another.

And so, there we were on Christmas Day in a foreign land, a foreign country sharing drinks, languages, stories of our journeys and a nice dinner with 3 Ecuadorians, a German, a South African, an American and a Canadian (by way of Netherlands).  And that is life; a string and succession of moments, one after another, where some are meant to last forever.

Just like this one.

Paul and I tried to get as early as start as possible to make the exit from Colombia and import both ourselves and our motorcycles into Ecuador and make a push for Quito, the capital.  We weren’t sure what to expect at the border as it was Christmas Eve and either it would be very busy or very quiet.  From Pasto, Colombia we reached the border with Ecuador in less then an hour.  We were both quite excited that we’d easily reach Quito after successfully leaving Colombia and exporting ourselves and bikes in less than 10 minutes. 

 

That was until we reached the Ecuadorian border.  Call it laziness, call it corruption, call it what you want, but it ended up taking more than five hours to enter Ecuador.  Five hours.  During my entire motorcycle trip last year through Central America and crossing borders more than 12 unique times, I never experienced a border crossing that lasted longer than 2 hours.  We were told during the entire debacle was due to their entire Passport Control system being down within Ecuador.  When we arrived, the line in front of us was only about 25 persons.  To simply import ourselves took 3.5 hours (ie receive our entry stamp).  As we finally funneled into the office where they were doing all the paperwork by hand, we started to put the puzzle pieces together.  It was our interpretation that the head boss of the entire border patrol office gave his entire staff the day off save for 3-4 persons to assist him.  When it was my turn to finally receive the entry staff, it was a scene stolen out of a classic Western movie—there was the Jefe (Boss) sitting back, fully reclined in his office chair with a sneer of a smile on his face in his paltry, dirty office as he puffed his big, fat Cuban cigar.  One of the officers delicately put my passport in front of him and the Jefe leaned in and put a stamp on my passport.  The entire incident took no more than 15 seconds. 

 

Fuming mad, annoyed and deflated as Paul and I came to the realization we would not make it to Quito, but we then started the process of importing our motorcycles.  We went to the Import Office and were told (gasp!) that the Import Office system also was down.  In fact, the system never, ahem, “turned on” again that same day.  Instead, we convinced one of the Import Office workers to guide us into the next town where there was a satellite Import office.  Rather reluctantly, he agreed.  We followed him about 20 minutes to the next town past the border and somehow, as though it was pure magic, their system was working!  The entire process to import our motorcycles took over 1.5 hours, capping the entire experience at just over 5 hours. 

 

Christmas Eve wasn’t going so well and our spirits were as dire as ever.  We made it within an hour and a half of reaching Quito before it started to get dark so we settled for the town of Ibarra to spend Christmas Eve.  We found a hotel with rooms for $10/night near the center square.  While Paul rested and tried to make contact with his family on Skype to wish them Merry Christmas (as by then it was already 3 or 4am in the morning in Germany of the 25^th), I set my sights on finding a certain Ecuadorian pastry shop that was came highly recommended because I was in serious need of a snack. 

For the life of me, I couldn’t find the pastry shop even though I was standing directly in front of the address that was provided to me.  It was almost 7:15pm and I was to meet Paul at the hotel shortly to find a place for Christmas Eve dinner.  I decided to ask the next person that walked by, which happened to be a young lady, where the cafe might be.  Here is the transcription from Spanish of what happened next:

SK: Can you tell me where Café Dieguito is?

Girl: I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.  You sure it’s not there?

SK: Yes I’m sure, here is the name in my travel book and address.  But I don’t see it.

(A door opens suddenly where we are talking, and out comes a teenager and an older woman who happen to be the young girls Mother and brother)

Girl: Mom, do you know where Café Dieguito is?

Mom: Oh, it moved a couple of years ago.  Son, do you know where it is? 

Son: No, I don’t.

Mom: I am pretty sure I know where it is.  It’s around the corner, up a few blocks and then take a left I think.  Or maybe a right? 

Son: Listen, my mom, sister and I are walking around the corner now to pick up a cake.  Why don’t you walk with us and we can talk more about where the Café is.  OK?

SK: Uhm, sure.  OK.  Thanks!

(Ten minutes pass as I tell them where I am from, that I am traveling alone on a motorcycle, etc.  I walk with the family to the cake store and even help them pick out a cake that they will share with their relatives later that night for Christmas Eve)

(Outside the cake shop)

Mom: Well listen Diego (my Spanish name), now that we have the cake, please get in our car and we’ll go look for the Café. 

SK: Oh no, that’s OK, I can just go look for it.  I apologize for all the trouble and really appreciate your help.

Girl/Daughter: Diego, please get in the car.  We really want to help take you there.  You are by yourself and it’s Christmas Eve.

Son: Yes, please Diego, get in our car and let us take you there.  We figured it out while we were in the cake shop where it is; it’s about ½ a mile from here. 

SK: OK then, uhm, let’s go then. (I say rather hesitantly and still in shock this is happening.  As I get into the car, I become rather uncomfortable as I realize everybody took their natural seating positions in the car, save for the daughter. Instead of sitting in the back-left seat as I had sat in the back-right seat, she sat in the middle-seat right next to me.  While I sat in the car, I kept my head looking forward even though I could feel her staring at me the entire time.)

Daughter: So Diego, how old are you?

SK: (Nervously) I am older than 30.  And you?

Daughter: 15.

(Perspiration begins to increase as the Mother turns back and lets out a big, happy smile.)

Son: Really?  You don’t look that old Diego!

SK: Thanks, I think.

Mom: You’re not too old for my daughter, you know. 

SK: Oh, you have other children?  How old are they?

Mom: No, just my son and daughter here.

SK: Are we getting close yet? 

Mom: Oh yes, I think it’s just around this corner.

Son: I am driving, I know where it is. 

Mom: There it is!  What a shame!  It’s closed. 

SK: That’s OK, thanks so much for your time and for the drive.  I’ll just get out here and head back to the town center.

Daughter: Mom, can Diego join us for Christmas Eve dinner?
Mom: That’s a great idea!  Diego, you have no family and you’re far from home.  You must spend Christmas Eve with us.  We are going to our family’s home about 40 minutes from here. 

SK: Well I’d love to, but really I need to be getting back.  I have a friend who is also traveling by motorbike and we are to meet for dinner at 7:30pm.  I really must get back.

Daughter: It’s almost 7:45pm, you’re late anyways.  I’m sure he’ll understand if you came with us.

SK: No.  I need to go back now. 

Son:  OK, we’ll drive you back to the center square.

SK: Thank you.

 

Sure, this episode was a little sketchy to say the least, but nothing I couldn’t handle or control.  When I made it back to the hotel, my heart sank when the receptionist/attendant told me that Paul had already gone out looking for me.  I shrieked with panic for letting him down and possibly having to eat alone on Christmas Eve.  I literally ran through the small but effective Ecuadorian town looking for Paul.  How hard could it be to find a 60 year old German with perfectly flowing gray hair and a mustache to match? 

 

It took almost an hour, but I found him.  He was looking for me too, and what a sense of relief when we encountered one another and set out for a delicious meal.  I told Paul the entire store of my “inside the Ecuadorian family car” episode and he simply couldn’t believe it.  We stopped by a funky art bar/café and had a beer with the owner who said he wasn’t serving food that night (he had no employees left in town).  He recommended two restaurants and where they were located.  The first one he recommended was closed.  The second restaurant, to my utter astonishment, was the exact same location as where the Ecuadorian family had purchased their cake.  La Gloria. 

 

In the end, though both skeptical the meal would be just another failed attempt at a westernized menu with Ecuadorian flavors, it was by far the best meal I’d had during the entire trip thus far.  After sharing good conversation, a great bottle of Chilean wine and the absolute best lasagna I've had in the last 10 years, we both went to bed ready and eager to arrive into Quito the following day, Christmas Day, while in the process passing the official line of demarcation for the equator.

My wonderful Mother always told me, "The world operates in 2's and 4's, not 1's and 3's".  And she's right; while traveling alone affords me the liberty and freedom to travel at my discretion, I'm not exactly a magnet for other locals and/or travelers to connect with were I with somebody else.  And some days you're just so damn tired from the mental and physical exertion of operating a machine for up to 9 hours straight that you just can't even try to connect with anybody.  You simply need some down time to recuperate, which is astonishingly ironic since I'm already traveling by myself and therefore alone almost 95% of the time.  And sometimes you don't realize how much more meaningful such an adventure like this can be until you have somebody else to share it with; to reflect back upon with; to pull over and say, "Did you *&%$@* see how beautiful that was???" with.

Most friendships can't say they were started at a massive mudslide in Colombia.  But then again, this is no ordinary friendship which is exactly why Paul Kage and I did in fact meet at a mudslide on the side of a mountain in Colombia.  I left the quaint, colonial-feel city of Popayan (few photos below) in Colombia with the goal to reach Ipiales, the border town across from Ecuador in one single day of driving.  I had already heard rumors in Popayan of a massive mudslide deep in the mountains on the pass that connects Popayan to the border with Ecuador.  As I approached this pass, I was astonished to see as I ascended a line of almost 2 miles of cars, trucks, buses, etc all completely in the parked position.  It's impossible to explain in words-- but imagine a 2-lane road going up around steep bends, turns and peaks of a mountainside with all vehicles parked, one after the other, for over 2 miles.  Now what you have to understand, is on the other side of the mountain (where I was trying to go), the exact same situation is occurring; all the cars, trucks, buses, etc are parked in the upwards direction of the pass as well.  Both sides of the mountain in terms of traffic at this juncture had been building up for over 3 days without moving.  This was all due to a massive mudslide near the peak of the pass.  What that meant was all traffic was stuck in the right-hand lane on both sides of the mountain with nobody driving any cars, trucks (ie 18-wheelers) or buses down the mountain on either side; everybody was simply trapped.  So that left the entire left-hand lanes open on both sides for 2-way traffic of motorbikes and motorcycles only to reach the pass where the mudslide had occurred.  So try to imagine to my astonishment as I essentially flew up the mountain in an effort to reach the landslide by passing almost 2 miles of uphill traffic in the left-hand lane where normally oncoming traffic would endanger me.  And then finally, I reached what I can only call organized chaos. 

Over 500 motorcycles and motorbikes (see sample pictures below) were being blocked from attempting to cross the mudslide by the Colombian military and police officers while they tried to organize massive trucks to carry thousands of pounds of dirt and rock to the mudslide area to create an ad-hoc road that would essentially help to dry up the mud just long enough for about 20 trucks, cars and buses (of the total 2 miles of traffic back-log) to pass along with about 75 motorcycles; just enough cars and motos before the mounds of dirt and rock were basically squished back into the earth and they had to start the entire process all over again.  Now this is an important time to quickly mention something of significance- my motorcycle on average has about 4-10 times the engine power in terms of CC's/ then any bike in all of South America.  It also therefore outweighs every and all bikes in this continent by about 250 pounds on average and looks/appears about 1.5 to 2 times the size of all motorbikes here.  As I like to say, when I enter the party, people take notice.  There are virtually no European brand motorcycles on the road or anything with such "sleek" design, so when I pull up to a landslide on the top of a pass in Colombia where trucks/cars/buses have been literally stuck waiting for 3 days in a row and join the throng of over 500 waiting motorcyclists waiting at the very front, you can imagine the paparazzi feeling I have to deal with.  If anything, it allowed me to head literally to the front of the line; who is going to say anything to me if I do?  The local people are virtually hypnotized and thus can only then naturally start the countless and never-ending questions; How much does it cost?  Where do you come from?  How many Cc's does it have?  How many cylinders?  Will you give me one of your gloves?  How much does your helmet cost?  Why do you speak Spanish?  I decided to leave the bike with everything on it and walk away from the army of bikes, sounds and confusion and find some water and also try to find out what was going to happen, if anything.

I had walked no more than 30 meters around a slight bend in the mountain-side and I saw an older gentleman with a kind face riding an older BMW with full BMW gear (suit, gloves, helmet etc) sitting patiently on his bike.  You can imagine HIS surprise when he sees another person walking towards him also wearing a BMW suit as well in such a nerve-wracking setting.  I immediately said to him, "Hi Paul!  What the hell is going on here?!?!"  He was slightly startled until he realized that he has his name stitched on his jacket, and then we both laughed amid the chaos that was surrounding us. 

I bought him a Coke (and one for me too) and for about 15 minutes we caught up on our recent travel history and decided that if/when this scrum were to finally end and we could make an attempt at passing the landslide, we'd ride together and go as far as we could towards the Ecuadorian border knowing we'd not have enough time to actually enter into Ecuador this same very day.  As we came to this conclusion, suddenly there was an cacophony of sounds and then an overwhelming scent of gasoline fumes in the air; the military and police guards were going to allow a portion of the cars/buses/trucks and motorcycles to make an attempt at passing the landslide.  I ran back to my motorcycle and nervously put my gear back on, started the bike and watched as an Army officer indicated that based on my position in the line of motorcycles, I would be the last one who would attempt to pass the mudslide.  It was at that same instant I saw Paul race right smack in front of me as to ensure he'd make the attempt with me-- the officer didn't even bat an eye; he was completely spellbound at seeing not one but two massive foreign motorcycles in front of him and waved us on.

Paul and I did make the treacherous pass literally over the mudslide and continued on a beautiful, winding and mountainous journey to a city called Pasto where we arrived soaking wet, exhausted and a bit deflated that we didn't make it closer to the border with Ecuador.  That night we would become fast friends as we learned more about one another.  Paul is 60 years old, which I must say is incredibly inspiring on so many levels.  Paul is German and has been married over 30 years all the while living in Munich (Munchen).  He has two children; his son is 26 and his daughter is 24.  Here comes the coolest part- Paul recently retired after working 33 years at B...M...W.  BMW!  He worked at their corporate HQ office in Munich.  He speaks perfect, fluent English and is one of the kindest, charming and most thoughtful men you could care to meet.  And he's on a 6-month motorcycle trip, away from his loving and supportive wife (and children) to embark on a wonderful journey that started with him retrieving his motorcycle in Los Angeles back in October, driving through all of Central America by himself on through to South America and will finish in Argentina where his wife will meet him in April (and consequently he will air-freight his motorcycle back to Germany).  A nice benefit of working at BMW for so long is he has and will continue to have brand-new BMW cars and motorcycles... for... life!  About every 6-9 months or so, he simply puts in a request for a new driving machine of his choice; style, color, year, etc.  He elected however on this trip to use his older 1992 1000cc BMW motorcycle because it's a beast and it's much easier to fix any mechanical problems should they occur.  It's also less flashy and therefore avoids more attention (wish I would've thought of that when I was making my purchase decision-- the difference is I have no mechanical skills so I decided to buy brand-new to basically avoid any and all major repairs and/or issues and just deal with the "flashiness" issues as they happen).

I went to sleep on Christmas Eve Eve knowing I wouldn't be spending the Holidays alone this year.  Paul and I decided to cross into Ecuador together the next morning on Christmas Eve, a journey worth reading in the days to come.