Avast! The Sea to Colombia

Post date: Jul 17, 2010 1:15:35 AM

Rain! Heading out of Gamboa was another soaked, lost in the city ride. The nice thing about the rains in Central America (at least in the lowlands), is that you don’t have cold to complicate things beyond the standard worsened driving conditions. My bike handles supremely well in spite of these conditions thanks in part to my onroad/offroad tires and the weight of the bike, which really presses the road for better traction. I never slip unless there’s a visible sheen of mud.

Or gravel. I think I hate gravel more than the chunk rocks like I’d traversed through the mountains in Costa Rica. The road north from the Panamerican highway to the launch was a memorable adventure! Having failed to connect with the other riders for the ride to the launch, I ventured forth solo, which I’m used to anyways. Up and over these super steep hills just north of the infamous Darien wilderness, the road was 50% nice pavement, but at the bottoms of the hills there was typically gravel, which is at least better than driving over logs and boulders, but hazardous nonetheless. You have to go SLOW to avoid a wipeout, especially considering that the bottoms of the hills are usually the beginnings of turns. Turns, ups and downs… have to keep focused on the road, which is hard when surrounding by spectacular forest. I hit my most challenging road yet on this road to the Caribbean coast. The pavement disappeared, replaced by pure pea-sized gravel that is just screaming for blood, it feels like. Let me tell you, it makes your focus razor sharp. Adrenaline is a wonderful chemical. As tempted as my sickness gets for disaster, I’ve learned by this point that racing is not the most efficient way to get from Point A to Point B, so it was slow going over the gravel.

On this road I caught up with the riders with whom I’d planned to share this leg of the trek. Their a terrifically entertaining Belgian couple on a massive street bike they also use to tow a self-designed and welded trailer for their crate. I admire their determination for travelling such a road as this. How nice of them to so conveniently appear when they did; I assumed the lead/guinea pig role, and while I was climbing a particularly steep gravel road I made the mistake of shifting to a lower gear. This is a hard but necessary lesson to learn: never shift gears while climbing a hill, especially on a gravel hill, because doing so immediately halts your motion, and thanks to gravity you immediately begin to slide back down the hill, and if the hill is curved, you end up in the ditch. I didn’t end up in a ditch, but I did slide down a ways and ended up leaning too much. The bike laid down without any damage, but it took all three of us to stand back up. For several minutes we worked to right the bike, get it started, and try to push uphill, but the ground was too loose to get the traction and push needed to move; I was spitting rocks with the rear wheel and still sliding downhill. Without their help, it would have been a real but doable-alone chore to get back in action, but together we guided the bike back down to level ground, and I was back in the game.

Then the river! Yeah, the bridge wasn’t complete, so the three of us pulled to a stop at the river bank, which was rushing menacingly. I laughed at the ridiculousness of the thought of passing through it. We waded into the middle, gauging the depth and bottom structure, and seeing that it was knee deep and racing, figured it was hopeless. Then one of the bridge construction workers pointed further downstream. We waded that way and found a shin-deep, u-shaped path that looked half-possible to cross with a heavily loaded bike. I knew I was going to drop her, have to call in a tow truck to drag her out, miss my ship, and spend another week in a motorcycle shop. But I tell you I was giddy at the hilariousness. See the video my Belgian friend shot for me with my camera. It is an experience I hope to never forget. In the middle of the river I couldn’t believe the power of the current. The bike felt like it was going to float away! I paused in the middle of the U (why is it never just a straight run?... such is life. I’m reminded of McCartney’s “The Long and Winding Road.” That rush I got as I throttled onto the opposite bank… what words can describe that? It’s the reason I got the bike I did, why I chose this trip.

The launch was at a pier at the end of an abandoned airstrip. The Kuna people, the natives of this region, were hanging out for who knows what reason. Some fisherman were in their hand-carved canoes, which they’d bail periodically, or fill sometimes in order to pleasure the crabs and lobsters that they offered to sell us for $1 for a small lobster or $3 for a nice sized crab. Tempted to buy one, one of the Stahlratte crew informed me we would be eating plenty of lobster onboard the ship. He tethered the bike and they hoisted without a problem, but it was nervewracking.

What a crew. See www.stahlratte.org for info on the history and info on the boat. It was just me and the Belgians loading this day; they like to handle this task before the non-motorcycle-travellers boarded the next day. Felt like we were the VIP guests, getting the tour, meeting the crew, meeting the ship ahead of the others. The captain, Ludwig, a wild, creative German, and he leads a crew of an Austrian, another German, and a Swiss, and they know how to entertain. My kinda people, really. They have wild, hilarious imaginations coupled with commanding intellects. Free spirited life lovers, life livers. We shared some memorable conversations about travel experiences and culture.

The Kunas. Some interesting factoids: the population is growing on the 365 San Blas Islands they all home, and so some of the Kunas are migrating to Panama City or the mainland forests while others are making islands. That’s right, they’re hauling sand and rocks from the mainland, dumping it in a pile in a shallow area, and then building atop the island. One such island pointed out to us was settled too soon; the house was sinking! Another bit: if a family has all boys, the last boy is raised to be gay. Gays are treated well here because they are treated as women. This is a matriarchal society; the women have the power over property and other privileges. So, it’s economical and powerful to have female children. Obvious question is how does become gay? I’d love to see just how successful this conditioning is.

The food on the ship is incredible. Some of the best meals I have had yet on my journey. Fresh apple, mango, banana, watermelon, fruit juice, cheeses, baguette bread, sausage, bacon, chicken, salami, lobster, tomatoes, peppers, homemade fries, dips, sauces, pasta, and all matter of gustatorial goodness. And it’s all-you-can-eat. This is better than a cruise. It’s a 1903 German-made sailboat originally used for commercial fishing. I love it. I climbed to the crow’s nest, which was terrifying. I got a tour of the engine room. It’s mostly manually controlled, which is awesome. The engine was built in 1956 and chums along with a danceable rhythm. I joked about making a song to it. There’s a nice bathroom, a washer, a kitchen sufficient to feed 20-25 bellies, and plenty of storage for bikes. It’s on a world tour and owned by an association of 120 something members, I believe. Their next pitstop for business will be Caribbean islands around Cuba. They’ll be there a year or two, then move on around the globe. The crew are all volunteers. The tourist travelers each assist with chores one day out of the trip, doing dishes, helping with night watch, and even participating in the sailing of the ship.

Last night we barbecued on our empty paradise island. This has to be the prettiest island paradise on earth. It has the soft white coral sand, coconut trees, warm turquoise water abundant with starfish and lobster, year round temperatures suitable for bare chested swimsuit wearing, no mosquitoes, and the temperature drops only 1-2 degrees at night. Walking the beach I could not find a trace of urgency in me. I could not find a desire clawing at my insides. Profoundly peaceful here, and profoundly boring for me, I imagine, over time. All pleasure is pleasure only when contrasted to pain. Give me work, give me city stress, then give me tropical bliss. Give me assignments, give me a sore ankle, then give me a Costa Rican jungle. Give me a hard ground to sleep on, and in one week that bed you give me will be a treasure handed from angels.

I want to shishkabob and grill more when I return to settled living. That’s what last night taught me. I also had the deepest conversation I have had in perhaps years with a gentleman from New Zealand who is on a spiritual journey to Colombia in hopes of living with a tribe that raises it’s shamans-to-be in caves, isolated and in darkness for 7 to 14 years, depending on the rank the shaman is designed to hold. He encouraged me to consider mystery schools and to find a shaman close to my home to do some self-discovery exercises. What I appreciate most in such people is not the formalities or structures of their beliefs but the sheer passion with which they are seeking Truth, God, and How To Live. I hear that Argentina will be a good place for me as the people there are passionate and the women are stunning. Nothing wrong with either of those things in my book!

The conversations here in general have been outstanding. The New Zealander last night told me a story about a time he took mushrooms, thought a firefly was flying towards him on the road, stuck out his palm, and then a motorcyclist drove straight into him. The light of the motorcycle was the firefly. The rider stopped cold from the palm strike, the motorcycle continued forward, pummeling the New Zealander, sending him 10 feet through the air, and he landed on his feet with only a scratch on his hip. He then picked up the riders sandals, tapped them on the rider’s face, and said, “You know it’s not safe to ride motorcycles with sandals.” !!! How do you respond to such a story? I believe he was truthful.

I wish I could remember some of the other equally astounding stories, but they get lost in the moment.

One night we watched a movie called “The Boat That Rocked” atop the “poop deck,” the upper deck of the ship where the Captain’s wheel is at. They had a school-type film projector screen and a film projector to show the movie. Just needed popcorn. We got saltine crackers instead. Those didn’t do the trick. Before the movie we played a game where we were supposed to blow toothpicks over a pan of water. Whoever got their toothpick across first won a bottle of wine. Just as we were poised over the water with our toothpicks, ready to drop them and commence the blowing, the Captain and First Mate threw rags into the water, blasting water into our faces. If anyone was angry, they didn’t show it.

After touring the islands for a day and a half, we pulled anchor and chugged along with the motor for Cartagena, a trip of 27 hours. We hit 20 degree tilt sometimes even though the seas were relatively calm. The Captain, who, by the way, wore his blue boxer briefs and a t-shirt the whole trip, said that the boat doesn’t rock any more than that during a storm. He also said a steady tailwind would help straighten the boat because it would stabilize the top of the ship. So, some people threw up. I just got drowsy, and spent much of the time laying down, daydreaming. I cannot remember the last day I was so unproductive. It was nice though, in spite of the boredom. I’ve had an incredible life, I realized.]

The unloading of the bikes should have been a cinch, but it wasn’t. A Panamanian Customs officer boarded the ship the day we departed Panama and completed all of our exit documentation. Our passport to enter Colombia was similarly worry-free, but there was a whole mountain of miscommunication when it came to getting our bikes legalized for entry. At this time, after one full day of waiting, my bike is off the ship, stored down by the port, and it cannot be driven until I return to Aduana in the morning to complete the paperwork. So, I’m here at the hostel but craving my motorcycle’s presence. Same with my Belgian rider-friends. Not sure what we’ll do the rest of the evening. Most of our belongings are still on the ship. It seems to me that the Captain, whose poor planning contributed to this situation, should have offered us another free night on the ship. We should have and could have had our bikes legal and with us this afternoon at the latest, but nobody is perfect. Not even a German, however passionately they may argue the contrary!

All in all, the ride to Colombia was terrific. I’m excited as ever to explore this continent.