Epilogue - ETA: 32 Hours

B

en Franklin once wrote, "If, when you're dead and rotten you long not to be forgotten, then do something worth writing or write something worth reading." To that, I say let's take a little from column A and a little more from column B. There was a National Geographic author, codename: The Most Desirable Job, who was asked how he got his start. You can either plug away, he said, working your way up from mail room to corner office . . . or you just jump off and do something crazy. Jump off and do something crazy? He said before his job, he had just finished a masters in Anthropology and went off to South America with a friend to pretend to be foreign correspondents. Is that so? So did I get something out of my system? You bet. Do I know what that 'something' is, or if it relates to any next step? No, not the faintest clue. Could that something return and would I do it all again? Of course!-- so stay tuned for "Where's That Music Coming From . . . Asia Edition".

By the Numbers: The Rundown

Inifinity: Inside jokes crafted, swapped, and retooled by two old friends. These got really weird. Like calling the guidebook the Oracle. Or amassing gangs of stray animals and telling them to go fetch other gangmembers to help implement our turbulent revolution, one comprised of stealing the morning paper to incite a news blackout. And terror in the hearts of scrapbookers.

Or joking how Linda, Andy's six-foot mother, has an amazing array of basketball skills, but becoming really specific with it. "Right, I understand that her windmill still brings the thunder and her footwork in the post is good -- good, not great -- all I'm saying is that if she wants to remain viable later in her career, she needs to develop her midrange jumper. Like Jordan." One million: Lessons learned, like mending, some Portuguese, simple motorcycle maintenance, drafting technique; but only a couple learned the hard way.

5559.6: Distance covered in miles (8967.8 km).

1945: The first four digits of my license plate.

630: Cost of motorcycle, in US dollars.

332: Most miles in a day.

125: Size of engine, in cubic centimeters. This is the smallest possible motor able to do what it needed to.

70: Length of trip in days from bookend to bookend. Precisely 10 weeks meant easy managing Week 1, Week 2, etc.

66: Top speed, in mph.

50ish: Miles per gallon.

30: Strength of sunscreen, in SPF.

24: How old I said I was.

23.2: Hours it will take to fly from Rio de Janeiro to Seattle.

21: How old I actually am.

15: Total nights spent camping, or about 1.5 times a week.

11: Largest number of days between these dispatches. Ironically, Santiago where I had been in the interim, got hit with an earthquake. The family was unenthusiastic in my lapse. Perhaps this three post flurry can reconcile that. Eight: Most consecutive nights camping. Seven: Hmmm, seven . . . lucky seven.

Six: Amount of weight gained, in pounds, after eating like a fat cat embezzler. Not too bad, really.

Five: Countries visited.

Three: Time zones crossed. Number of guages I had on my bike; Gas, Tachometer, and Speedometer. By the end, only the speedometer (the least crucial one, at that), functioned. The tach spun in a hilarious circle. The gas guage ... that I won't get into.

Two: Plenty of these. Two days, both long rainy ones, when I wasn´t having fun. I also covered my left hand in superglue twice. But it's most important to note the two lives irrevocably changed for the better.

One: Close call. I saw the whole scenario play out. We were riding through Uruguay at a modest pace, Andy in front and I following closer than usual, when one of the ropes lashing down both his bag and fishing pole to the bike broke -- snapped clean. A large backpack hits the pavement, ropes went flaring, and the new graphite fishing pole locked crookedly between the chain and rear tire. The tire locks and Andy autographs fifty feet of road via squealing tire tread in a dreadful slide crosswise. I run over the backpack and, terrified, careen past to a safe stop off the road. I will forever be amazed that he was able to muscle his diagonal slide safely onto the shoulder without falling. The fishing pole, which was a real beaut, was destroyed -- Andy was not. This was the day after Thanksgiving. (He later got a net.)

Zero: Regrets. Not a one.

We Go No Further

RIO DE JANEIRO -- Success. We're here. The motorbike has hung up its wheels in retirement. The most trying day was saved for last, too, with all signs pointing to danger. Walking in heavy rain the night before, I saw two motorcycles, one man more similar to myself and one Scooter Babe more similar to Andy, lose their balance, fall, and skid to a cruel halt. There was no blood or fractures but the lasting lesson was an obvious omen: They're two motorcyclists, we're two motorcyclists -- hmm, better watch it. All along, it's been a pair of rules etched deeply in stone: We stay off the roads at night; we don't ride in the rain. The chance at a Friday night in Rio sanded that stone clean. The final day left me short 100 miles from Rio with only a slight drizzle to spar with, the very type I have infinite patience for. The road had really degraded at this point. I kid. That's some jungle we ambled down. (I saw a Toucan. He was not making cereal.) The last week has been riding through a paradise. That paradise did not stretch to Rio. That concluded with Poseidon finally getting his revenge for me shouting his name in vain that one time. Then, just as the rain begins to pick up with only 15 miles to go through favellas, an ambulance wails by the opposite side of the highway. Then another one. Then 23 more. They kept coming, their catcall whine preceding the flashing lights, until I lost count. Something ugly had transpired and to this moment I don't care to know what it was. I kid you not, by the time we found a garage even willing to shack up a pair of bikes, which took a fair amount of time, the weather had turned into a tropical deluge torrenting from a dank, evil raincloud. Mom would be really disappointed right about now, I thought. The mindset by now was one of a gloomy pessimism: Be careful. No, even more careful than that. We've made it too far. Drenched, dripping, and finally out of the saddle, I was close to towering over the motorcycle Ali-over-Liston shouting, "There! Are you happy?! You fought and fought but I won!" Now it's a done deal. We're here. We go no further. And if I could implant a lasting image, it would be of me riding a motorcycle. Me riding a motorcycle across South America with billowing scarf and funny pilot goggles. Wait, me riding a motorcycle of questionable reliability across South America with scarf, goggles, and rickety sidecar. And in that sidecar is a plump pink pig named Peaches. She too has a billowing scarf and funny goggles; she also has a sour countenance, like a girlfriend taken on an awful date. Yeah. Me and Peaches. That one will do just fine.

A Dash of This, That, and the Other

This, that, and the other: Now that, ladies and gentlemen, was one phenomenal day.

Lo, We Came Upon São Paulo

PARATAY, BRAZIL -- Then drove right through it, right through one of the biggest, most violent cities around, right through the dank underbelly of Brazil's teeming megapolis. It couldn't have been smoother either. Right in the midst of a raggedy seven-laner, we ask Scooter Guy (grizzled stranger; age, name and whereabouts all unknown) where São Paulo keeps its swiftest escape. This time, we want nothing doing with his town. He plotted the route out with more courtesy and hand gestures than steering a scooter along a raggedy seven-lane highway suggests. And as a clincher, he silently wove well ahead. Peculiar. We come upon the proper exit only to find he had stopped inside the striped triangle between the exit ramp and thruway, just to check that we got it right. Who thinks to do that? He nodded his approval and remerged into traffic. That gesture speaks volumes to Brazil. These small courtesies have checkered everyday life. The nefarious violence and danger seems to set root within the major cities; in the rural between, nothing but placid. After pushing hard to put São in the rearview, we could see the sallow doggedness in each others faces. Too much. Much too much. Yet worthwhile. Pushing hard yesterday means today mingles with leaning back in the chair to prop up the feet in the deep repose of relaxation. So since blowing through São so fast the signs spun (zooooom ... fweee), we've slowed our clip considerably, taking time to stop, wander down virulent jungle paths into the very antithesis of wheelchair accessible. In doing so, we have stumbled upon another gem, right into an absolute masterpiece adorned with the breed of friendship that's saddening to leave. All of today was spent hopping off tall cliffs, hollering off mossy ropeswings, all into clear indescribable rivers. Indeed, worthwhile. Movies and pictures to come. Promise.

I Present to You --

Iguazu Falls. Second only in size to Africa's Victoria Falls: Out of jungle, the earth opened into a deep chasm letting an entire river disappear into chimneys of steam. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen before.

Reason 3,212: They Root for You

There is the obvious danger and the occassional brutal exposure to the elements but the good reasons still keep pouring in. A stoplight means you head to the front of line. A drawbridge means you congregate to banter at the bridge precipice. So why a motorcycle? I´m fresh off an eight-day camping binge. Some of the sites were magnificent . . . facing the crashing, turbulent surf with backs to a freshwater lake and not a soul in sight . . . as far as camp sites go -- knockout drop-dead gorgeous. There is no way -- none -- that I could navigate my way halfway up Brazil´s coast, not stay in a hotel, sleep in some of the past outstanding nooks with, let´s say, a bus, car or helicopter. Time and time again, I´ve ferreted this small, simple engine over sandy paths, into thin brush, and through neglected muddy roads gloriously into a chunk of woods (or beach, or bluff, or Patagonia) that would be otherwise elusive, too remote. Getting there, going where you wouldn´t think to go, returning to what I know best -- it lights a certain pride. Maybe it´s a Pacific Nor´West particularity. Maybe everyone has it. The manageable motorcyle really helps out. That´s just reason one. It´s also an admission ticket into a loose fraternity. I might draft behind the slipstream of a truck with another rider. We're unable to exchange a word. When their exit comes up, they'll flash a thumbs up or the "Hang Loose" before drifting off the highway. (Close your fist. Extend just the pinky and thumb. Rotate. Yup, "Hang Loose", that's the one.) Then, topping off at a gas station, people see the backpacks lashed in as passenger and come up to explain an adventure from their past. They might recommend a good sight along our way or even a shortcut. One guy just wanted to prattle on about the dozen different types of motorcycles he had once owned. All of them part with the same blessing: "Suerte." ("Good luck.") It's not just other bike owners. Everyone else is aboard. In two of the hotels, the workers seemed to like the trip we were trying to piece together. Sure, just park ´em in the lobby, they said, no need to search for a garage. Push it right through the front door and prop it back in that corner. It´s not like the thing will beep when you pop it into reverse. It doesn't even have reverse. Or the two construction flaggers. The first knocked his hat off as if my ferocious current of wind blew it off. (I was slowing down.) The other flagger further along twirled his flag in a rapid figure 8, as if I were first to cross the black & white checkers of the Indy 500 finishline. (I was going really slow at this point.) That's rattling off a couple of reasons. Scooter babes wink at you, too. I hear helicopter babes are more frigid.

The Brazil 101: Roadwork for the Next Forever

FLORIANOPOLIS, BRAZIL -- The fine country of Brazil is apparently slamming down a superhighway, engorging any remaining two-lane road into four and any four-laner into something more. It's a superb idea considering Brazil, with it's eighth-largest economy, has been self-sufficient in it's fuel production made mostly from alcohol for some time now. Except that the project is only halfway there. Once done, the BR 101 is much like the US 101: It hugs the coast and it's a main artery connecting oodles of ports. Serious. Oodles. But it's a main artery plauged with the plaque of roadwork and trucking traffic everywhere. More shades of trip, less of a vacation and I do love a challenge. So the pace of remaining journey (seen here in whole) has bogged down though perhaps deservedly. We are, after all, your type of tourists that other countries loathe. We buy simple groceries in supermarkets and purify water from clear streams. We ride around on the most economical motorcycles possible. We camp in fields without the farmers knowing. And when one headlamp's batteries will die, we'll prop the other just precisely so both can read from the same bulb. Congested traffic and perpetual roadwork be damned. Day by day we're striking through portions of the remaining road. We cut today short to relax and sink into some turquoise ocean. . . . It's also extraordinarily curious seeing Christmas decorations hanging in a feverish heat.

Dear Uruguay,

I´ll miss you. Heartfelt and sweetly, I´ll miss you. Look, it´s not up to me. My bud, Andy, just landed his Brazilian visa to finally pass on through to the last step and so we must. This dispatch comes from right at the border --

-- Brazil and its Portuguese on the left, you with your lilting Spanish on the right. And, sorry, we´re turning left here. That´s life so I better get on it with it. You´ll linger though: all those clean cities filled with courteous people, all those well-kempt roads filled with courteous drivers, your vast tracts of untainted shore, watching errands ran upon horse and cart even though the car is gassed up and ready back in the garage. And of course those beach bonfires. Yep, I´ll miss you. Again, thanks. I am Sincerely yours, IPE

The Last Stop

ALMOST BRAZIL -- It´s close. Heck, the final country is even in sight if I crane my neck just so. Riding up to the border, signs inexplicably begin drifting into a Portuguese until -- SHAZAM! -- the roadside distance markers cease ticking down to zero and spring up to 600. Now, however, is not the time to talk about what lies ahead. Sure, a day or so will be whittled away getting paperwork cleared; but I´m talking ¨1200+-miles-to-Rio not the time¨. The remaining road lies long yet. Instead, a Thanksgiving recap is in proper order, no? For once, I made light of a heated boast and discovered that sandy beach, found that driftwood to prop against. Even the hammock was put into play!

Admittedly, I didn´t have the opportunity to lash it to palms or bore into a coconut from the same tree but the weather only gets warmer farther north. It´s certainly a start. Dinner, concocted of what can be made on a single burner of mediocre heat, was simple. In the true Turkey Day spirit, we made juuuuust enough to leave leftovers. Slap together a crackling fire, uncork some fine, fine wine, and all that´s lacking is the family and the dark meat.

With no one in sight and only the swell to talk back, I can´t exaggerate how relaxing a beach holiday can be. Give it a shot sometime.

Say Hello to . . .

. . . Thanksgiving dinner. Those groceries -- ´cept no turkey -- will be prepared with backs resting up on some tide-worn driftwood, faces pointed towards the oceean.--Not may, nor could. Will. I can´t think of anyone whom has had a holiday camping let alone a Thanksgiving in Uruguay. Happy Thanksgiving.

Some Sapphire

MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY -- In thinking over the logistics of the trip, I kept skipping over Uruguay, paying it no mind. Squeezed between two regional superpowers, it´s no bigger than North Dakota. As the story goes, their economy crashed five years ago, everything became affordable, travelers became interested, visited, came home and told their friends what a great time was had. Well, no one told me -- so I´m telling you: Uruguay has much going it´s way. Powdery beaches. Rolling golf course greenery. A whole country is secretly steeling themselves against the hotheaded Latin stereotype. And those border problems in Argentina, remember? This was a cakewalk! Cruising through any customs may never be easier. In the coming days, the agenda is to curl up Uruguay´s east coast, hugging the water as tightly as can be, right on into Brazil. Somewhere along the way, Andy got his fishing pole and I my harmonica. Both will be essential.

Jerry Guerrera?

Everyone has got their story. I love hearing them; there´s nothing better than getting an animated account of another´s triumph or turmoil. It´s the reward for trying to be a people person. And travelling around, hostel after hotel, sleepy dirt village after asphalt jungle, I´m hard pressed for a better way to absorb the intriguing streams of humanity. Really, nothing better. Except when it comes my turn. I go over my home, my family. Then comes this trip, those motorcycles. Every North American has a run-of-the-mill expression: ¨Hey, like Che Guevara, right?¨ Every time, spot on. Each reaction the same. My response has evolved after weeks of this middling whitebread. First, I explained, sure, I suppose there are similarities but now now -- Che Guevara couldn´t possibly have been the first guy to ride a motorcycle around South America. Just the most well known. I certainly won´t be the last. Time and Bolivia pass. I consider typing prepared responses. Handing them out would have been absurd and offensive. (¨I thought you may say that and,¨ handing over an envelope, ¨took the liberty at preparing you this.¨) But now I play dumb. I play so dumb it´s become an inside joke and a hilarious one at that: ¨You guys are like the Motorcycle Diaries, huh?¨ another American might ask. ¨Not following you.¨ ¨That movie? The Motorcycle Diaries?¨ ¨Hmm,¨ quizzical head scratching. ¨Sorry -- just not ringing a bell. Wait, I keep a journal . . . more of a captain´s log, actually.¨ ¨You´re kidding, right? Like Che Guevara?¨ ¨Well,¨ Andy says. ¨I went to highschool with a dude named Jerry Guerrera.¨ (He didn´t.) ¨Jerr made a helluva cheese pizza.¨ (Also not true.) ¨But I don´t see how you could know him much less read his diary.¨ ¨No. He´s Castro´s friend? This is unbelievable! He went -- I, uh ... nevermind. Forget it.¨ To my brother Phil: In this game, you would be indispensable. I know who he is, have read a biography, seen the movie, and even part of my route has been the same as his famous excursion. And if I was spreading subversive literature, it would have a progessive tilt, not communist. And if someday Hollywood wants to make a movie on behalf of this adventure, well cool, I´m living a screenplay. Only sometimes I give in to admit I know precisely who they mean; still, it´s usually not. It helps sort out meeting the mediocre people with their foreseeable stories.

Bs.As!

B.A. -- This is a big place. Nice, too. Forty million people live in Argentina. One in three live here in the port. And why not? Buenos Aires is the self-proclaimed cheapest metropolis in the world (so far, so good); it has the parks, subways, and sleepy bookshops a major city should and the weather is comfortable. Somewhere along the way, someone had the splendid foresight to plant leafy deciduous trees along the broad avenues. They´re now huge, so immense, in fact, that negotiating around this seething metropolis on motorcycle is like carreening through a gridded forest grove. Though the trees are large, the very streets they line are even more so. The main drag spans some sixteen lanes. Coming across the continent to get here has paid off in spades. Yesterday, Sunday, most with family or at church, became a day for a polo match: Four on four, each rider armed with a sleek croquet mallet mounted on a horse (heck, stallion!) more glistening and muscled than the next, trying to push a grapefruit-sized softball into an undefended goal. It´s like hockey on pedigreed horses with an infusion of fine wine. The whole affair was curiously upper-middle class. Like a jam band concert, the throngs of people cadging beers and chattering outside the match were a healthy part of the spectacle. Sunday is indeed also a day for leaving the backpack behind and going exploring. The adventure of going to and from the match -- that is, romping the throttle off a stockcar countdown green on the widest boulevard this side of the equator -- leaves Buenos Aires the finest megacity I have ridden in. I would balance the bike and begin quickly stretching my bones at a red, like a boat waiting for the water to begin rising. The sweep down stream starts slow and builds as the furthest signals flick green. In rushed concentration to navigate the stream of traffic, the very same streets would seem completely different while on foot the next day. The night before was exhausted until sunrise in a churning multi-floor dance club settled twenty minutes outside the city center on the river delta. I´ve never, ever seen hips move like that. Tonight, we tango. (No, not like that! Not together! Watching! Maybe a lesson! Sheesh ...)

Slungshot Crosswise

MAR DEL PLATA, (Argentina) -- I´m here! I´m here! It´s been awhile, I know. Long, hard days have been logged (one day: 330 miles!) to see both the oceans. (Both?) Yup. Both: That, with the Atlantic in the background, was taken today. Here, I´ll explain. Going on the month without ´er, we had to see the ocean. It started becoming an all-consuming obsession, even almost moving Andy ¨I was born to be on the ocean¨ Lemberg into hysterics. Lo, he happened to have a college friend, Ide, pronounced (ee-DEE), working in Chile some ten hours south of Santiago. The only thing between us and the Pacific were the Andes with her scooting up the coast to intercept our expedition in pre-earthquake Santiago. We stashed the motorcycles in Argentina on the other side of the Andes. Maybe it was for a smoother border experience or not wanting to chance a slip from the mountain roof of this continent, but for the first time in weeks, we caught a bus. The Chilean border was nestled back in the thin, frigid air. From the onset, there was a dogged exasperation to Chileans. From the border agents on the way in, to anyone over forty along the way, right up until the same agents on the way out four days later. I think it had to do with living through a dictator. Pinochet or not, they let a new pair of jokers in. After the money exchange, we fancied ourselves filthy rich fat cats, hoity toiting around like monocled Monopoly men, just in time to rendezvous with Ide and realize no, 500 pesos per dollar is no wad to be brandished.

She fit right in. Or, I fit in with Andy and her, so to speak. The lewd brand of joking smoothly transitioned without skipping a beat. Heck, even having a woman around, one well-put-together and aware of her outward appearance, was good for a pair of weary bikers. We´re at least half as haggard now. Maybe a third. Plus we made it to the Pacific. Standing ankle-deep in the biting surf, I shouted, ¨Poseidon!¨ I´m still not sure why. Right then and there, a decision was made. We would autograph some vast tracts of roadway blistering our way across the continent into the waiting surf of . . . yet another ocean. Straight from the Chilean shore, we pulled taut like two humans in an immense sligshot and cut the guide wire to be hurled east. An overnight bus threaded back over the Andes. We were dropped off back on the Argentinian side of the mountains very early. We walked back into the garage at the top of the clock, right when they opened. By now I thought it more a gravel stable that I paid to house my little metal pony for a few days. I even talked like it: ¨Hey there, darlin',¨ I said. ¨Ready?¨ Ho!--Four days later, we´re here, clear across the seventh-biggest country in the world. Items along the way included: - Flamingoes - A flock of green parrots - Andy getting his fishing pole, I getting my harmonica - and some tumbleweed. The middle of Argentina hasn´t been very eventful, meaning one more reason to rattle off a string of trying days to get here. It was just one Standard after the other. Next stop, Buenos Aires.

¨We´re slightly slightly salted, there´s tangles in our hair

We´re slightly slightly salted, you can taste it in the air.¨

--The Pounding Serfs

The Arsenal II

Except for that hammock, each item has come in handy and if it´s waterproof, it has been critical. The longest day of travel thus far has been stacked up, knocked down, and tallying some 240 miles . . . about Canada to Oregon. It followed the pattern, one we call ¨The Standard¨. (¨Wanna pull a Standard today?¨) Start in a city. Hoard food. Leave. Find a river. Eat, camp there. The sturdy river was suitable enough with flat flashflood-susceptible banks and just few enough people. Andy ¨I was born to kill fish¨ Lemberg was wishing for a pole, or at best a net, anything to trump the other fishermen howling over their catch writhing in plastic grocery bags. The same day he gets his pole, I´ll land a harmonica to fully recreate a whitewashed Twain tale once and for all. Anyway. Dinner had concluded, the tent was staked, and a night of sleeping on sand (more relaxing than it sounds) next to the sound of water (more relaxing than I can always remember) was brutally interrupted by the upheaval of thunder and bleach flashbulbs of lightning. The sound of water is only soothing in a riverflow, not a downpour clattering off a tent. We´re a pair of Nor´westerns conceived among drizzle -- heck, proud of it! This was like nothing we had ever been in. Relentless gusts of wind and water crippled the tent into leaning over like a table with two legs kicked out. The whole sordid affair might have blown back to Kansas right then. Instead, we got up, dusted off the windblown sand, rigged some oatmeal, rolled smoothly into Cordoba and (guidebook be praised) right into the first all-you-eat buffet. I thought about how to strategically attack such an opportunity for many hours beforehand, like avoiding potatoes and concentrating the early plates on seafood. It was a phenomenal quality. Here, in the Land of Steak, there was a man, very serious with his work, who´s sole job is to roast as much steak as anyone wants. Afterwards, and I´ll be honest here, I wasn´t okay. I staggered back to a bed and, after the prior night´s torrent, into a coma. There was little breakfast the next morning.

Rubber Hooves

As Andy's Uncle Norm once wrote, himself an experienced motorcycle man: ¨(Everyone else) may as well be watching the Travel Channel.¨ Riding a motorcycle for the inexperienced (me) takes a squinting concentration. It takes all four limbs to crank the throttle, press the brakes, toggle the signals, and shift the gears -- to say nothing of keeping your head on straight to steer the thing past a truck. Given time, the whole process soon melts down to a liquid parallel of your instinct with this loud machine and the road. In short, I got the hang of it. Andy had it already. But, still, none of that excavates into the trove of senses being redlined: You discover a smooth crease among the Bolivian gravel, everything ceases from the washboard chattering to a smooth glide. Someone´s cooking with a wood fire, you smell the wood smolder. A semi-truck grinds by going the opposite way, there´s a flicker of calm air right before -- hold on tight! -- the trailing storm presses your chest lifting your body up. But the sounds. Oh the sounds, those are my most prized, bar none. The sounds are one of two types; neither are ever, ever quiet. On an open straightaway, two twin bikes side by side drifting in and out of twin speeds . . . harmonize. A combustible chorus at 55 mph.

And the other sound? Just wind. The hefty breeze of wind. There´s a particular, lone silence to having only a gale of wind to keep you company. Perpetually smothering your ears, it´s not long before your mind starts off on it´s own into some deep reaches. The closest cousin to this effect, I think, is sailing or listening to the air on a blustery day. When you hear the wind equally in both ears, you know you´re faced straight into it; headed up, as sailors say. Like that, only all day and borne on the back of rubber hooves. . . . And all that, even still, doesn´t quite compare to being able to pull over anywhere whenever to fry up some tasty sausages.

The Arsenal

CORDOBA, ARGENTINA -- We´re right in the middle of Argentina´s second biggest city and, believe me, with Cordoba´s seven (count ´em seven) universities, it ripples with a welcome young energy. It´s a suitable time as any to rattle off an itemized list of what all I´ve been toting across all these latitudes: -Shirts (4) -Wool Socks (3) -Pants (2) -Motor Oil (1 qt.) -First-Aid, Toothbrush, etc. -Patch Kit, Spare Tubes, Air Pump -English-Spanish Dictionary, Maps -Rope -Camp Stove, Pot, Pan -Plate, Cup, Fork -Knife -Tent -Sleeping Bag -Flashlight -Water Filter ...and a nylon hammock. I´m fiercely determined to carve into the meat of a coconut while swinging in the Atlantic breeze -- that coconut coming from the very palms I've lashed the hammock between. Go ahead, call me a dreamer. I dare you. The hammock will hang.

Straight to Setrocana? Tempting.

Scorching south has meant a descent through crooked swithbacks into thick, humid air and precious steps closer to sweet, sweet sea level. There´s more water, more trees, and more . . . life: We´ve managed to set up shop along sandy banks -- the very locales that sit many miles outside town where no bus can take you: Since getting in, we´ve put no less than 400 miles between ourselves and the border. The southern equivalent of the hometown? Not that far away, in the scheme of things. Indeed, scorching.

Covering Ground

... It´s time to point towards the Pole, head south, and visit Argentina. And, hoo boy, have we taken to it. As the wealthiest South American country, the roads are more soundly paved, supermarkets exist, and the locals are less apt to stare. Getting here, though, was a gladitorial battle with the bureaucracy of a border. Valuable days slipped by in Villazon, the border town, as the right papers doddled into the right order finally allowing a tired civil servant (tired of working, or tired of seeing our faces -- not sure) to squish an ordinairy stamp and clear the way for two guys just hoping to see a new country. Flatly put, it was an ordeal. But in the successful efforts, we fell in with a bank manager who, in the end, was a savior. Her and her husband, Susy and Miguel, himself a Bolivian border agent, have two sons of similar age, both off in college, whom they very evidently miss very much. Empty nest syndrome, right? Without even knowing it, I believe we filled for the sons they had been missing. On each occassion a problem would arise -- and believe me, it was again and again -- we would visit Susy, hard at work at her bank, in search of an answer. After all was said and done, we had lunch with Villazon´s mayor, became all too well acquainted with the Argentine border agents, and began referring to Susy and Miguel as a second family. They turned out to be the best connected couple in town and can expect a bottle of wine at Christmas for their friendship. Plus we eventually made it into Argentina. Southward, not downward, stretches the journey.

200+ km: Sand, Cobblestone, and once in awhile, Pavement

Still in Bolivia, we´re at the very precipice of Argentina. A border town is much the same across nations. If I´d ever been to Texas, I´d surmise that the Villazon - La Quiaca relationship, where I am, is a smaller version of El Paso - Ciudad Juarez. There´s even a special bridge where certified carriers, some old women and some teenage boys, tote heavy packages in a binge of free trade. It was tough to watch. But nevermind that. Getting here was far more intersting. We alternated days between a heavy 200 km stint or a light one-hundred km day, and nights between cushy accomodations or camping in some of the most unforgiving hinterland I have ever laid eyes on. On the longer days, the thirsty bikes are fed fuel in mid-journey by a untrusting 10-year old armed with a pail and a funnel. This has happened three times already. In between all this thankless terrain were some hotsprings, except the thing was the size of a pond and the temperature of a hot tub. Diving down upped it to a hot shower. The bottom must have been scalding. Descending southward, remember, we´re still over 10,000 ft high, the air thickens and the landscape becomes far less forboding. Even intriguing: Bolivia has been swell and, at times, magical. I once wondered aloud about wanting some ice cream and, sure enough, around the next corner was a little old man dishing my wish out for a nominal pittance. It´s time to change time zones, swap from the poorest South American country into the richest, and continue on into hopes of finding both the world´s best steak and a polo match.

Should Have Stocked Up

UYUNI, Bolivia -- We`re in a frontier town, plain and simple. 150 years ago, the Presidente founded it for military purposes as an outpost replete with broad promenades, a clock tower, and dust everywhere. With one hundred miles until anywhere, it`s got some natural fortification: It skirts the world`s biggest salt plane. Over a ragged earthen road, we went into less than a mile into what may as well be the surface of the moon. You could feel the white glare, similar to snow burn, rippling off a white sodium surface that stretched for miles as far as I could see. No buildings, no vehicles, no vegetation, nothing . . . just this girl mining a fortune. Then came a saltball fight and salt angels. The usual.

Come Clean, Elvrum

It´s been the plan all along. Not a withdrawal from the Lake Titicaca foray, not a brash decision just to make light of some heady boast, but a well-tallied move befitting of two travelers who, let´s face it, are anything but typical. Little under a week ago, we slapped down the gravy and (sorry, Mom) bought motorcycles. Not rented -- bought outright. And if an oh-seven -- brand new! -- single-cylinder 125 cc can take me to even one rural village, dirt floors, thatched roof and all, then Lady Two Wheels is worth every dime. Even so, I say you can´t put a price on setting your own agenda. We´ve spent the past days landing very nice helmets, acquiring supplies (patch kit, spare tubes, etc.) and, most vital yet, getting comfortable in the saddle -- both rural and urban. So not to fret, especially to all the grandmothers in the audience. We´re doing this properly. Tomorrow, we get Bolivian license plates -- the best souvenir -- and soonafter we take to the road. It seemed important to bring up this whole escapade sooner than later. By the way, she´s light blue.

. . .Oh, right, I shaved my head right before leaving without showing anyone. My hair has been wayward before, sure, but never this cropped.

C'mon! Doing that then leaving for over two months isn´t funny! It´s hilarious!

Hiatus Day

From the strong-chinned investment banker (just finished ¨Bonfire of the Vanities¨) down to the salt of the earth, we humans are very similar. We eat a few meals, go to work, sleep away a third of the day, and if someone trips, you ask if they´re hurt and lend a hand up. Bolivians are no different, even more cordial that I anticipated. (Shorter than I expected, too. My offer at a pick-up game of basketball, billed as Muggsy Bogues vs. Izak the Goliath, still stands.) There´s fewer hassles than other Latin American countries: A soliciting vendor understands ´no thanks´ means just that. There hasn´t been any burgeoning prices contrived on account of my paler skin; I´ve even hung back at a hamburger stand only to hear a local get an identical price. No one is out to hang you up by your ankles to see what comes out. There is of course litter but what seems to be a concerted effort to consolidate that litter. Bolivia also has one the highest proportional native populations. A proud symbol displaying lineage is, get this, a hat -- and, yes, I´ll come forthright with it, I fancy myself a hat person. The men have your regular Fifties Era ¨Honey, I´m home!¨ Sinatra hat. The women are far more perplexing. Their keen derby-style bowlers (like Charlie Chaplain) seem to balance at the absolute precipice without ever shifting no matter how quickly they move nor tumbling off no matter how strong the wind. With no special clips, I just don´t understand it. Yup, not too different -- except Sunday. Bustling markets and noisy thruways cease. The sidewalks are barren. Only the churches shudder with activity. Welcome to Catholic Contry. I´ve met countless people who clock in a dozen hours a day, six times a week but no one -- not one -- that works all seven. Unless you plan to run willynilly through the deserted streets, it´s arduous to get anything done.

The Lone Ferry

Washington State has the only state-sponsored ferry system in the country, right? Leave it to a couple of Northwesterners to find the only state ferry in landlocked Bolivia.

North Meets South

It came and went. The Day of the Woman. Dia de la Mujere. With nary a clue, dropping into unassuming Cochabamba led, subsequently, right into one very agreeable holiday. Night. ¨What are you two doing back here?¨ says the toadfaced hostel deskman. ¨--Everyone is out tonight.¨ Shoo, fly. It´s true. The narrow, craggy sidewalks are swarming with vigor so we duck into the first joint we can find, one crowd to the next, if only to avoid spilling into the streets. The light is deep streetlight orange with matching dank tobacco-smoke air to boot. Anyone tending bar has three orders at once. Teenagers are trying to sell roses to anyone, everyone. And there´s the whitenoise acoustics of thirty conversations prattling on at once. We take a table against the wall for something to lean against and watch the spectacle. Right across the aisle? A bouquet of Cochabambinas nattering on and -- every so often -- glancing over at a pair of outtatowners. Andy gives the waitress a tap and a quick whisper in her ear. Moments pass, smiles continue to meet and ho!--the stunned masks cast across the entire table when -- voila! -- they´re assailed a round of drinks compliments from across the way. The waitress coyly points from whence they came. The jig is up. A boisterous hoist, ¨¡A Dia de la Mujere!¨ ¨To the Day of the Woman,¨ the tables braid together, and North meets South. Ah, surprise, surprise.

Concrete Jungle

COCHABAMBA, BOLIVIA -- We´ve journeyed eastward, roughly the distance across Washington State, to the next major city, about the population of Seattle proper. (We?) It´s high time I introduce you to my travel chum, Andy. Stretching back to fourth grade, he´s my oldest friend second to Kari Sherman, and very much on my same wavelength. (Take that however you may. For instance, I´ve been told my brother, him, and myself all have the same heavy tossback laughter.) But he comes with an invaluable boon -- fluent Spanish. Where I understand much yet speak slowly, deliberately, and poorly, he´s finely tuned after living in Barcelona for 10 months. ¿Qué es palabra para ´lifeline´? More Chochabamban roguery -- especially Chochabambinas! Developing...

Wind & Wheels

L. TITICACA -- I´m still at brisk altitudes on the shores of one the largest highest lakes. Out of the gates, the day began traditinally enough: weak coffee in a joint burrowed into the plaster, a malaria tablet, and ruminating about the next move. For a few days, we added a British fellow whom we met in the airport. He´s saddled with an theater profession, a strong currency, and zero Spanish. We dubbed him Lord Montague. (Both had caught phantom nose bleeds, too.) A bit of a lamb in the woods, but lambs, too, can speculate on the next move. Motorcycles. Some haggling later and I´m straddling a shrimpy bike, Andy ahead of me with Montague on board, rolling along toward the Peruvian border. Rural people sowing their fields wave, sheep bleat, and I try to hide my immense grin. Not happening. Around a bend, a net of schoolchildren interlock hands in a Red Rover traffic stop demanding money. I can´t pony up a dime because, let´s face it, one . . . maybe two kids will get their mitts on whatever I dole out. It wouldn´t be fair to others. A package of wafer cookies, spread out one by one, comes in handier than you think. Time for the getaway–shades down, RPMs up. Andy and Montague had already gone. My engine wouldn't start–a rental, right? Fugheddaboudit. I dropkick, kick, and kick some more. Nothing. It won't turn over. The pack of school kids have turned ravenous with sugarlust and start circling with frenzied eyes. I´d already been bled of all my sweets and this show had to get on the road. I pop the gear into neautral to start coasting downhill, carombing my feet off the gravel like a skateboarder. My scent had already been cast though. The wolfpack are chasing after me in their school uniforms screeching. ¨Help!¨ Andy stops, turns, laughs, and doubles over to laugh some more. The predators had caught me and . . . wait, what? . . . their little hands began pushing. Just the boost I needed; I slip it into second, pop the clutch and continue along the dusty path to bleat back at any obstacle sheep. Three hours of pretending we're Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid pass. So do ten miles of lake shore . We´re back in town slapping palms in jubilation. We can´t stop now, dusk isn´t nigh upon us. We could just slow down. The transition from moving fast to slow ended up being: A sailboat. These leasors were far more skeptical to let some foreigners – two reared on an island, one lamb on the Isle – take out their boat on a lake so boundless deep and wide, it may as well be the sea. Claiming islandhood was the coup de grâce. ¨This isn´t like sailing you´re used to,¨ they tell us. The boom (smoothed piece of hardwood) wasn´t attached to the mast, no daggerboard, and the rudder (hewn plywood) was dangling on three scraps of rusted rebar. In the name of safety, we had lifejackets and oars. Deep out of the marina the wind picks up and we have to use a paddle to swing through the tack. Someone on shore must have seen us luff for those minutes because a local ancient with deeply cut weatherworn creases in his face paddles out in a kayak to check in. Move your rope here, crank the rudder then, he says. The pointers turn the sordid first half into a relaxing second half. We were twenty minutes past our rented hour. But that extra twenty minutes meant we watched the sun sit down over the Peru side of the lake in a stark gradient of color. And that´s just day four.

10K High

LA PAZ -- Landing here was a double swipe of fortune; of the three planes taken to get here, I walked right into two of 'em (cutting it very close) without so much as resting in the terminal. A quick descent later and I'm wondering if I can avoid the inevitable by bating my breath until this whole altitude thing subsides. No such luck. But there was an effort at clinging to the last vestiges of home by eating an apple, one yanked right from the branch, waiting in the Customs line. I'm truly in the nosebleed section of the world. No, really, that happened. PLINK! -- "What the?!" -- sanguine liquid drains across my cheek and suddenly I'm one napkin short of clotting an accident. The air is so thin it's emaciated and my ol' ticker is clocked in at doubletime just trying to keep up. I can even hear the lungs making adjustments in the breathing pattern of my comrade, Andy, sleeping in a hostel: breath, breath, breath, GASP. Trudging up a set of stairs means resting halfway, stricken, and embarking for the summit later. Having made it, and already been swept downstream by a democracy protest, we tried to make a normal event of the first night. Swilling frothy beers about the abandoned streets, a HUGE band with brass section, rumbling drums and all, strikes up a peppy number. It was very much off-key and arythmic but scent to follow. Tracking the drifting sound through the day-glo lights, we stumble right into a military band, practicing right in front of the National Capitol in full uniform. It was a ritzy stoop to relax on and stare perplexed at the Bolivian version of the goosestep.

Prologue: ETD - 14 Hours

Free time fleets. Whether it's restarting school, a new job, or hopping on a series of planes to cross the equator, the span until the deadline blazes. Three weeks. Four days. Tomorrow. If my medieval notions hold up as predicted, everything will be outwardly backward when I cross into the southern latitudes. The next time you hear from me, I'll be speaking backwards, walking about on my head, and writing right to left. Or it's more likely that I'll be hilariously debilitated from the acute altitude. La Paz is the highest capital in the world, more than double Denver.