Where the Autopista Ends
Two motorcycle bloggers in the San Francisco Bay Area.
The swing…
Posted on February 1, 2014
…at the end of the world.
On a mountain, above a sleepy town nestled in the mist of the Andes laying in the shadow of a volcano, waits a man. He listens to wind, feels the restless earth, and is every watchful of the volcano, a constant guardian of the city and a very special swing.
Dangling from La Casa Del Arbol, a house in the only tree on the mountaintop, is the swing at the end of the world. Travelers have been known to come, from far and wide, to swing over the edge and see what their destiny holds. Whether it is the thin mountain air or the rush of going over the edge, many have left the mountain changed.
Carlos, the volcano watcher, never swings. He sweeps the grounds, herds his two cows, has family visit once a week, but he never swings. He smiles at the weary travelers, as they appear out of the mist and then dissolve once more into the quiet countryside, but he never swings.
The travelers donate what little they have to help maintain the swing of their dreams, that others may come, as they have, to see into their futures. Carlos replaces nails, tightens loose rope, and checks the foundations of La Casa Del Arbol, but he never swings.
Carlos talks about his life living on the mountain watching the volcano above Baños Ecuador. His family visits him once a week (on sundays) but other than that his everyday company are his two cats, two cows and the tourists that float through. Photo: Alex Washburn
Occasionally he will talk to one of the travelers. He tells of the volcano and of the house, but rarely of the swing. To those he likes, he invites them to leave a message in his journal, for the lonely hours he spends on the mountain, watching the volcano, but he never swings.
For those who will come and those that have gone, their paths were their own. But for Carlos, he is the watcher of the volcano and the guardian of the swing at the end of the world. That is all he needs to know. So let others come and swing, he is fine smiling and watching and guarding.
(The above is just a fictional interpretation of Casa Del Arbol, feelings that I had while we were there. Carlos is real, he is the old man that watches the volcano and signals others if there is activity. He does have a book he invites some to write a message in for the long hours on the mountain and his family does only come once a week to visit him. He is the guardian of the swing at the end of the world. –Nathaniel)
The Colombians
Posted on January 25, 2014
Our group of riders stands at the top of a hill in ‘Tatacoita’ as our new friends called it. Photo: Alex Washburn
Our motorcycles tend to have a cult following in the United States and I quickly learned many months ago that KLR love stretches across borders, languages and hemispheres.
I was never afraid of what would happen to Nathaniel and I once we rode off into the sunrise from Oakley California towards I-5 and turned south. But, I did spend a lot of time worrying about how to properly prepare for the trip e-mailing people like Wes Siler (of Ride Apart), Brian Frank (fellow photojournalist and motorcycle enthusiast) and Alex Chacon (of Expedition South).
Wes, Brian and Alex were all awesome (none of them told me we were idiots!) but in my preparation obsessed craze I found several KLR owner groups on Facebook. The most lively seemed to be TEAM KLR COLOMBIA so I sent them a join request which they quickly accepted.
Nathaniel stands amongst the Colombian riders as they chat in Spanish. He can’t hold a conversation in Spanish or form full sentences but he is understanding a surprising amount at this point in the trip. Photo: Alex Washburn
TEAM KLR COLOMBIA was really helpful in answering a few questions for us along our route south and I announced on their wall when we had arrived to Bogota and asked if anyone wanted to ride with us to the Tatacoa desert last Saturday. People responded saying there was already a ride planned for Tatacoita on Sunday so Nathaniel and I quickly decided we should hang out in Bogota an extra day so that we could ride with them.
I should at this point mention that adding ‘ita’ or ‘ito’ to many spanish words miniaturizes whatever you are talking about or can be used to create a pet name. So, when the riders called the desert Tatacoita I just assumed they were speaking about it with love, it never crossed my mind they would be going to a different desert than the one we wanted to ride too…
The night before the ride we tried to go to bed early because we wanted to have our panniers packed and be ready to roll out the hostel door by 6:30am. It said on the motorcycle invite to meet at 7:30am so after getting direction clarification from the girl at our hostel we decided we should leave an hour early. Our hostel was on Calle 9 and the group was meeting at Calle 193!
With almost a two-hundred blocks to ride in a foreign capital we of course left 30 minutes late on two empty tanks of gas. Once we got on the main road heading north out of town we started driving aggressively (speeding) and were pulled over by the cops with just 10 minutes to spare. Luckily for us they weren’t interested in how fast we were going but instead wanted to give us a sobriety test. They were testing all the motorcyclists coming out of town and had already loaded one bike onto their tow truck.
Thankfully we got gas and arrived to MAKRO supermarket on Calle 193 only 5 minutes late. As we pulled up, I saw a line of bikes parked waiting and smile spread across my face so big I’m surprised it could fit under my helmet! I had been waiting months for this!
Everyone re-positioned their bikes for a photo opportunity and the organizer of the group gave directions about how they planned on keeping us together and safe during the ride. Photo: Alex Washburn
As soon as we pulled up a local named Hernando came up to us smiling and introduced himself. He was really excited when we told him how we heard about the group and that we had ridden our KLRs all the way from the US. He took a lot of photos of us while we were there and he introduced us to some of the other guys.
One thing about the group was that although it had been organized through the KLR page, it was the most diverse group of bikes I have ever seen riding together. Usually in the United States Harley guys ride with Harley guys, the BMW guys ride with other BMW guys and so on. This group had KTMs, Kawasakis, BMWs, Suzukis, Yamahas, Hondas, at least one Triumph and we were later joined by a quad. I was just so impressed that this group meets up and welcomes everyone from the GS 1200 riders to 125 cc dirt bikes. They are just guys with motorcycles that want to ride and they show equal acceptance to everyone on two wheels.
One of the small dirt bikes got a flat so we waited for them to put enough air in the tire to get it to the next town. Photo: Alex Washburn
I keep using the word guys because I was the only female out of 19 riders.
We lined the bikes up against an orange wall for a photo opportunity, took a group photo and got directions from the ride organizer about staying safe and how they were going to keep us together. At that point we all got on our bikes, rolled up to the exit of the parking lot, waited for some people to make a few tire pressure adjustments and headed north.
We had realized at this point we were going to a DIFFERENT desert than the one we had wanted to visit, nevertheless we had waited too long to meet them to not do the ride to ‘Tatacoita’. We were only disappointed that we had all of our gear packed on the bikes. It’s easily an extra 80 lbs. and we were going to be doing off road riding with them, something Nathaniel and I hadn’t truly tackled yet.
Our KLRs are considered dual sports, which means they aren’t the best at off-roading or the best at long distance cruising, but they are good enough at both to be perfect for our trip, they are a jack of all trades. Obviously we couldn’t keep up with the the 1200cc bikes on the open highway, but the organizers were really excellent at keeping everyone together. We waited at the highway exit for the little dirt bikes to catch up and for the quad rider to join us before winding through a small town and hitting our first dirt road.
The Colombians (all great riders) were going 40 and 50 mph over the gravel and I tried my best to keep up, however riding that fast on loose material just freaks me out.
One of the smaller dirt bikes got a flat and everyone wanted to help… since that’s impossible most of us stood around talking while they worked. Photo: Alex Washburn
Just before we exited the gravel for pavement again one of the little dirt bikes got a flat tire so the rest of us waited on the side of the road for them to pump his tire full of enough air to get to our breakfast spot where they could properly fix it. Every time we stopped people were whipping out their phones to take pictures of each other so my camera wasn’t out of place.
We got to the little breakfast place in a tiny town I do not know the name of and the Colombian posse went to work. Some people immediately began searching for bricks to use as a center stand while other people began unpacking the tools they thought might be useful to fix the tire. Through the whole ordeal people were teasing the young kid who had the flat, though it was all good-natured, like big brothers teasing a younger one taking up a new hobby.
As Nathaniel and I talked with people (at least half of them spoke English to some degree) I told myself that everything would be okay if the road stayed like it had been. I hate gravel, but it’s not hard to ride on and I was sure if I just gritted my teeth and said a prayer or two I could try and keep up more than I had been.
On the road with the Colombians. Photo: Nathaniel Chaney
What. A. Joke.
As they were about half done fixing the tire on the little dirt bike someone noticed one of the other KLRs had a flat front tire. A mechanic nearby was open so Nathaniel dug the extra front tube he carries out of his pannier and gave it to Miguel so that he could replace it to get the group on the road quicker. We lost a lot of riding time hanging out waiting for the tires to be fixed (the grease we carry also came in handy), still it was a lot of fun to soak up the atmosphere and bond with people.
Once we were mounted up and moving again, they took us (VERY QUICKLY) down another gravel road and then we all pulled over as a few of the bikes and a quad scouted ahead of us up a somewhat steep hill. One bike came back and told us the route had been approved so up we went one by one to where we re-grouped at the top.
Next up for us was a decent dirt path and some nice hills that we both really enjoyed. Puttering along on those I could keep up much better than on the gravel, however the texture of the road started to get a little insane in places. There were big loose rocks in the road, but worst of all people had filled in places that get muddy in the rainy season with what looked like bricks (just big loose bricks) and sharp looking shards of roof tile.
(Keep in mind through all of this Nathaniel and I haven’t done true off roading and our panniers and top boxes are loaded with all of our gear.)
I felt fairly confidant over most of the places with brick and tile because I could weave around the worse bits, still there was this one spot about 10 ft. long in the pathway that I couldn’t see a way around. I didn’t want to ride straight over a pile of loose bricks! I panicked and killed the bike in the middle of the bricks. I was stuck with my tire wedged against one of them and I couldn’t get enough momentum to climb over it. One of the other riders helped me move some of the debris out of the way, which I was really embarrassed about. He didn’t seem frustrated and told me to just relax and it would be okay.
Here is an example of some of the material we went over during the ‘easy’ part of our ride with the Colombians. Photo: Nathaniel Chaney
Meanwhile the group of motorcyclists was waiting up ahead out of sight and they started teasing Nathaniel about having abandoned me. One of the guys that wasn’t comfortable in english made a joke and as everyone else cracked up someone translated the joke for him in a very serious voice: Well, now that we’ve got you out here we need to have a talk…
Colombians are very aware of their country’s reputation in the United States and many of the Colombians we met were comfortable with openly talking about it or even yes- making jokes about it.
By the time we caught up to the rest of the group the scouts decided we should turn around because the path had disappeared. In my mind I was like “SWEET, now everyone gets to watch we ride down that same part again like a dork!”
One of the riders leaned over and asked me if I had fallen. I told him No – that I had just gotten a little afraid because I wasn’t used to that kind of riding. He nodded in acknowledgement and sat back up on his bike.
*Sighing* I turned my bike around and filed into the middle of the line weaving its way back down the hill. Some of the better riders on true dirt bikes went off the path completely, however some of the men rolled their bikes into a little ditch next to where I had gotten stuck and walked their bikes past it.
I was relieved to see them do that and followed their example.
We went over some more pleasant rolling hills till we came to a gate that marked the start of some sort of park. We all parked and pulled out our wallets to pay the $1,000 peso (50 cents) entry fee. As they all pulled out their phones to take more pictures of their bikes I turned to one of the group leaders and told him:
“¡Ustedes toman mas fotos de sus motos que sus novias!”
He couldn’t hear me so I repeated myself loud enough for more people to hear me and they cracked up in agreement telling me yes it was true – they do take more pictures of their bikes than their girlfriends.
It was time to get back on the bikes and then the road started to get really intense.
At the top of the BIG hill one of the group leaders called out “Okay – who has an iPhone to do a pano?!” Photo: Alex Washburn
It started easy enough with a slow climb up a small hill that had some ruts in it, yet few rocks.
On one of the hills one of the guys went over so the rest of us paused while they helped him get upright again. I was ashamed to secretly admit to myself that I was both glad he was okay and glad that I wasn’t the first to fall. Nathaniel soon went over as well and I took another deep breath knowing the inevitable would soon come.
Eventually we came to a steep gravel decline that turned immediately left at the bottom becoming a gravel climb with a hairpin turn to the right half way up to the top. I got almost to the hairpin turn, however the rider in front of me had slowed down so much… I lost my momentum and over I went into the gravel. I turned my bike off and thanked the guys that helped me pick the bike up. They held it stable on the incline as I got back on and put it into first – I pulled away from them trying to gain enough speed before I reached the turn, but couldn’t quite get going enough… I fell over again not 10 feet further up the hill and the same guys helped me pick the bike back up again.
I apologized profusely, though they were the epitome of caballeros. They told me not to worry, breathe and it would be okay. Calm down they said – don’t worry!
The three of us made it up to flat grass field at the top without further incident and I announced to everyone after Nathaniel asked what happened that I had fallen DOS VECES. One of them asked me if the bike was okay and I responded in Spanish: “Oh of course, the KLRs are mules!” They seemed really surprised that I was still stoked about EVERYTHING.
And why wouldn’t I be? I wasn’t doing very well on the terrain, nevertheless I was riding around the Colombian countryside with a whole group of locals and my boyfriend. We were exactly where we wanted to be at that moment and it was glorious.
The weather was perfect and we were enjoying the freedom of it all.
At the top of our biggest hill everyone took photos and relaxed. Photo: Alex Washburn
It was a really friendly joking group in general. The organizer of the ride came over to me and patted me on the shoulder saying loud enough for everyone to hear his joke “It’s okay, today is your baptism!”
They laughed.
“¡Si – de acuerdo! Después de Colombia estoy preparada por todo!”
More Laughter.
After everyone took their photos at the top it was time to head back down and Nathaniel decided to follow behind me in case I needed help again. I gave the rider in front of me a lot of room as I started back down the hill of doom, but I slowed myself too quickly on the gravel.
I felt my back tire start to slide out from under me as I fell again in almost exactly the same spot I had fallen the second time I was going UP the hill. I turned my bike off and stood up quickly as Nathaniel tried to park his bike on the steep decline. He and another guy once again helped me pick the bike up and I got back on (probably cursing).
I started down the hill again and not a minute later hit a rock or something that forced my steering column violently to the left and threw me to the ground. I felt my leg get smashed between my bike and the rocks as I fell onto my elbow with most of my body weight.
I shot an iPhone photo of Nathaniel over my shoulder as we waited to move onto the next section of trail. Photo: Alex Washburn
I’m not sure what I was thinking about as I indulged in a few seconds of self pity laying there like a child but I’m sure they were all adult words. It hurt – but I was mostly worried about looking like a loser in front of all our cool new friends.
I sat up and started tossing the shards of broken mirror off the path as I heard Nathaniel coming up behind me. With the boxes on it I can’t pick the bike up by myself so I had to wait till he got there anyway – that part was not self indulgent.
We caught back up to the group (they weren’t that far) and I announced as cheerily as possible that I had fallen DOS VECES again. A few guys came and looked at my bike and I showed them how I had broken my mirror. One of them took some phone photos of me as I gave him a thumbs up.
I knew that they could forgive me for slowing them down (especially since I was such an anomaly), but they wouldn’t be able to forgive a bad attitude.
We left the park (spoiler alert – I didn’t fall again) and stopped one more time at a small store a few miles away. We all grabbed cokes and cookies and had our last conversations of the day as people started to slip off into the afternoon. A lot of people came to say goodbye to us and a few hugged us as we put our helmets on to ride back to Bogota.
People exited the highway in small groups and finally one last rider honked and waved and it was just Nathaniel and I navigating our way through the streets back to the hostel all alone.
My ankle and shins are now some really awesome swollen shades of blue and I have a few inches of skin missing from my forearm, still the day we got to go off roading with the Colombians is going to be one of my favorite memories of the trip.
Perfecto.
Hernando indulged me and took a photo of the group with my camera too. Photo: Hernando Herrera R.
The Coastal Highway
Posted on November 21, 2013
This video was shot on the Coastal Highway in Belize, the road that all of the locals told us not to ride. I shot it all with a GoPro Hero3 silver edition and edited with the new GoPro suite.
Three Roads
Posted on November 20, 2013
Nathaniel prepares to record me crossing a bridge along the gloriously named ‘Coastal Highway’. Photo: Alex Washburn
It is impossible to get lost driving in the country of Belize. It’s tiny – at only 8,867 square miles in size it is barely larger than the state of Massachusetts.
In addition to this; a large percentage of this tiny country’s land is still untouched and they have minimal infrastructure. This has negatives and positives for the country as a whole, but what it meant for us as we looked at a map on Sunday is that there was only one obvious route to Placencia from Belize city and really only three major roads in the whole country.
A Canadian very familiar to the country had warned us about how terrible a fourth road (the coastal highway) was but we took the warning with a grain of salt because foreigners from first world countries sometimes have a skewed perception of what a ‘bad’ road is.
Sunday morning several Belizeans at our hotel confirmed that the coastal highway (which by the way is neither coastal nor an actual highway) was a terrible road. However – when we came to the turnoff where we could take the unpaved coastal highway or continue on the road most traveled we decided to have a little adventure (video coming soon).
We were on the coastal highway for less than 10 minutes and I could feel the smile slowly spreading across my face. It was rocky, dirty, muddy bumpy and everything our Kawasaki KLRs were meant to handle when we decided they were the best bikes for the trip. It took us 2.5 hours to drive 37 miles and it was fantastic (even if I tipped over twice and got super muddy).
A group of locals concentrates on their game of dominos in the shade next to the only gas station in Placencia Belize. Photo: Alex Washburn
As we attempted to leave we ended up hanging out at a gas station for about twenty minutes with some of the locals. I was feeling really dehydrated and I didn’t want to start the three hour ride to San Ignacio before drinking some water so we filled up and chilled out. The taxi drivers and gas station attendants were more than happy to let us share their shade and laugh at their brisk games of dominos.
Belizeans have been super friendly towards us no matter where we’ve gone. There were a lot of homeless people and panhandlers in Belize City, but everyone we’ve met from gas station attendants to hotel clerks, fellow restaurant diners and random people on the street have been welcoming and talkative. The men at the gas station accepting our presence so quickly is just another example of this.
The ride to San Ignacio up the Hummingbird Highway was the most beautiful stretch of road we’ve come across in Belize. The hills are so overgrown with palm trees, flowers and vines they resemble the scenery in Jurassic Park. The asphault on the “highways” is generally in great condition and it isn’t until you drive through the cities that you encounter insane potholes. I have never experienced potholes like they have in Belize.
They are epic pits appearing from nowhere waiting to swallow your front tire whole. In many places swerving around one hole just dumps you right into another so it’s best to just ride straight through and try not to break your teeth as you grit through it.
When we arrived to San Ignacio we had our first meal of the day at Hode’s where this flute player provided the soundtrack. Photo: Alex Washburn
Our bikes parked in front of Hode’s restaurant in San Ignacio Belize. And yes – that is a giant red umbrella attached to my bike. Photo: Alex Washburn
We are both eager to (hopefully) cross the border into Guatemala after our appointment and continue our adventures in Spanish speaking Latin America.
RECOMMENDATION: If you are riding bikes from the US through Latin America it might be hard to get your bike serviced in Mexico depending on what you are riding. If you come to Belize – Motor Solutions in Belmopan is a well stocked shop that should be able to help you out and English is the official language of Belize which should be a relief if you don’t speak spanish.
Hello Belize
Posted on November 14, 2013
A map documenting our progress through Mexico. Photo: Alex Washburn
After waiting a day in Chetumal for the Banjercito to open, Monday morning came and the rain clouds cleared to reveal the humid boiling sun. We packed the gear, counted our remaining pesos, and fueled up at the last Pemex of the trip.
Nathaniel packs his gear, getting ready to cross the Belize border. Photo: Alex Washburn
Chetumal ended up being closer to Belize than we thought, and it took us less than ten minutes to get to the border crossing (we might have been able to cross on Friday, but after all the paperwork I think we may have gotten stuck in limbo). With all the issues we had in La Paz we knew we had all the needed paperwork, but were still ready for some bureaucracy.
First stop was to turn in our FMM cards and get stamps out of Mexico (check). Next off to the Banjercito to get our deposits back and release the bikes from Mexico, we went to the wrong Banjercito first but found our way eventually (check). Next we had to get the bikes fumigated (what?!) and get insurance for Belize.
The office where you get your fumigation certificate is also where you can purchase insurance. However, by the time we got there we were running low on money and Alex had to make a run to an ATM while I hung out with the attendant. It was during this time that a heavy rain moved in, and I discovered that the first language of Belize is English. Once Alex got back, we got the insurance slips and were informed we didn’t need to be fumigated because of the rain (sweet!).
After this it was off to immigration at the Belize border to get the bikes and us into the country. It took some time (the officers were in no hurry to fill the paperwork out to get us processed), but there were no hiccups in getting it done. Once all the stamps had been pushed, I walked over to join Alex in Belize, only to have a middle-aged man approach us.
I didn’t know who it was as Alex introduced me to Hector. The continued to talk in Spanish, and I was afriad this was a scam trying to get us to buy something before we crossed (or worse, be drug mules). I was later to find out that this was one of her Uncles who was running a load from Belize up to Huamantla. It’s such a small world, where you can run into family even at a border crossing. It was fitting, we had family at the beginning, middle, and end of Mexico, the best book ends.
As we left the immigration office we were all smiles walking back to the bikes. As we packed our documents back into the bikes, I saw another bike pass by and head towards the border, but he was soon directed (as we had been) to the immigration parking lot. This is when we met, Thiago Berto who is driving from Alaska to Brazil (or maybe all the way to Argentina, he hasn’t decided). He flew from LA to Fairbanks, Alaska and found this motorcycle (which was driven years ago from Brazil to Alaska and then left by another Brazilian, which it why it has Brazilian plates) that he is now riding down the continent.
We exchanged stories, he questioned us about the process of getting across the border, we asked him where he was going. There is a respect that fellow travelers have for each other, and that camaraderie is only magnified when they are also motorcyclists. Bikers like Thiago make us feel less bad-ass as he was riding in just a light jacket, regular pants, boots and his stuff heaped on the back of the bike, but to each his own (I seem to fall a lot so my choice of gear seems fitting).
Thiago is riding from Alaska to Brazil, trying now to get through the Belize border (Photo: Nathaniel Chaney).
We wished him luck, readied our papers and made our way for the border crossing. The guard asked me if I was hot in my gear and I replied it was hot, but protective. He responded that that is true, but that falls don’t happened that often. My response? More often than you would think. And with that I was waved on.
We ran into Hector one more time after we crossed, he gave us some final directions (though there is only one real road in Belize) shook our hands and we were off.
About an hour down the road we hit the worst rain of the trip. It wasn’t just raining, it was pouring enough to work its was into our helmets and for me felt like pinpricks as the droplets hit my jacket. Knowing now that Belize is only 174 miles long, would have helped in that situation of knowing how far Belize City was, but we drove on, not worried about the gear getting wet because we knew we would have time to let it dry.
For a while, each time we broke through the black clouds and towards the blue sky the road would veer off back into the heart of the darkness. However, we finally blew past the storm and made our way to Belize City. It took a little while to find a place (Alex gets all the credit for finding the Palm Inn), but when we did and it was amazing. It had parking in the back behind high walls and under an overhang so we were out of the rain.
I will skip the details of Belize city (we were only really there a day and a half), but needless to say it isn’t the best city. It is mainly used as a stopping point for cruise ships and people heading to the Cayes (think of keys, but no bridges) and it shows. There aren’t many restaurants, and there is a hustle to the city that clearly denotes that a main portion of its income is derived from tourists.
Alex and I were happy to plan our escape to Caye Caulker the next day. We spent some time at the Belize Museum and walking around the city, but really we were just biding our time and the moment was coming to escape!
Where the Autopista Ends 