King Croesus: May 2010

Saturday 29 May 2010

Baja California

When hitting the road again after the major pitstop in Seal Beach everything went smooooth as strawberries, which I assume is the smoothed thing around. But then again, we had rebuild two wheels, one tranny and an engine.

In fact it went so smooth that we didn’t see the place we were supposed to hand in our American visas and the temporary import documents. Suddenly we were in Mexican customs. They didn’t want to touch the American papers even with pliers. The trashbin looked hungry at the papers and was ready to swallow them without further questions, but in fear of problems with Uncle Sam later we turned around.

After an hour in the sun we finally reached US&A again, and was met by questions why we wanted to come from Mexico to export the bikes from the states. A couple of hours later they resolved the issue and escorted us back to Mexico for the second time that day.

There weren’t much papers to do in Mexican customs, and soon we were in Tijuana. One of the world’s most charming towns and the claimed busiest border in the world. Here you can find all the drugs you desire, and even so called donkey shows. It’s also a great place to get robbed or cheated if that’s your thing. My mum had said drugs and donkey-shows are no good, and we didn’t have anything to be robbed for either so we just blasted through town.

Outside Tijuana we found Darrel Pitts on his KLR, and he tagged along. Very patient dude that didn’t get mad by over not-so-impressive-speed.

Baja turned out to be very nice. Only problem was that it was tough on my gearbox, so the first day I lost third gear. The second day I lost the first speed, but since we had visitors I had to keep the shame to myself. When Darrel left us in La Paz I broke down and told Klaus the truth. The he admitted his sidecar box was broken to, so we both started crying and hugged each other and realized how fragile life can be.

The good thing was that we had met a friendly dude further up in Baja, Dean, and he was living in San Jose del Cabo. We went down to Dean’s place and he helped us with getting everything we needed. With his fluent Spanish it was no deal at all, so he was of great help.

After a few days everything was fixed and we headed up to La Paz again to take the ferry over to Mazatlan, and everybody agreed it had been a nice trip down Baja.

Alle har vel hørt Lynni Trekrems aldeles grusomme sang ”No vil æ færra te Mexico”, men de færreste gjør faktisk noe med saken. Vi derimot, vi tar handling der andre tviler så når ølet hos familien vi bodde hos i LA var fordampet pakket vi snippsekken og dro. Nå sitter de der og må smøre på brødskiva si selv.

Det meste gikk ganske fint, men så hadde vi nå også bygget opp igjen to hjul, en motor og en girkasse i Los Angeles. Det var i grunn ikke noe særlig som feilet noe som helst, men det er nå gøy å se hvordan leketøy ser ut innvendig.

Grensepasseringen gikk så fort og fint at vi overså stedet vi skulle levere inn amerikanske visum og tollpapirer på syklene. Mexicanerne ristet på hodet, de ville ikke ha noen amerikanske dokumenter. Søplebøtta på den mexicanske tollstasjonen gapte sultent og var klar for papirene, men fornuften tok overhånd så vi dro tilbake til USA. En time i kø i solsteika for å komme inn igjen, og et par timer for å levere to dokumenter.

Litt senere var vi tilbake i Tijuana, en riktig sjarmerende grenseby der en kan både se såkalte esel-show og kjøpe masse flott narkotika, eller simpelthen bli ranet eller lurt trill rundt om det heller er din greie. Mora mi hadde uansett sagt at narkotika ikke er bra for helsa, og om esel-show hadde hun ikke sagt noe, men jeg antok at det var heller ikke bra. Ikke har vi igjen stort å bli ranet for heller, så vi bare blåste på gjennom og kjørte til Ensenada.

Ensenada er starten for det legendariske Baja 1000, foruten et av Jim Morrisons favorittsteder. En ganske hyggelig by, og fint sted å ta den første kvelden i sombreroland. På veien hadde vi også plukket opp en amerikaner på en KLR, så vi var nå et helt team.

Neste dag var det bare å kjøre på med våre moto-burro’er. Det gikk ikke så lenge før jeg mistet 3.giret mitt, men siden vi hadde med oss gjester måtte jeg bite det i meg og late som alt var som det skulle. Neste dag forsvant også 1. gir, men jeg klarte fortsatt å holde maska. Når han forlot oss tre dager og 1500 kilometer senere i La Paz kunne jeg endelig publisere den skammende affæren, og da innrømmet Klaus samtidig at sidevognskassa hans hadde brukket også.

Heldigvis hadde vi blitt kjent med en amerikaner i San Jose Del Cabo litt syd for La Paz. Han inviterte oss inn, og hjalp oss med å finne et maskin- og sveiseverksted så i løpet av et par dager var alt såre vel igjen. Vi kjørte opp igjen til La Paz og tok båten over til Mazatlan, og alle var enige om at det hadde vært en fin tur ned Baja

Tormod

Just south of Tijuana, the worlds most charming town

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Cantina along the Hwy 1, but no Mexican Blackbirds there

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Quanta costa grande cactusa?

Darrel Pitts which we met outside Tijuana and tagged along with us.

Baja Gas station. Using imperial liters as measurement, they are equal to about 0,85 metric liter

Caption

The tranny out again. Getting good at it, can swap tranny in a half hour now.

In Dean's Yard, Cabo San Jose, Southern Baja

Dinner with Dean's family

"If you screw up your picture will end up at this website, and you will disgrace your mama!"

"Hm, with this we could be in Buenos Aires in about two hour..."

Tires for gravel-dragrace

At the machine/weldshop that help us. Cheap and nice work, great guys.

Three guys working on hour stuff at the same time. With our breakdown pace that many mechanics is required.

Finally putting the tranny back together.

Dean with his HD

Dean had this very unique Polar Sheep, mix between polar cub and New Zealand Sheep

When we tried to get the import papers to go to the mainland we accidentally ended up at the army's enlisting office. We thought it was right, and they didn't speak English so we were only a small signature away from being drafted in the Mexican Army forever.

But this was the right office, outside La Paz, Baja. Great helpful girls which spoke good English, very pleasant experience!

Yadira, the star in the office

Buying the darn tickets, about the same price as for similar ferries back home, must be terribly expensive if you're on local wages. Or no wages at all, like we are.

The Baja ferry. We thought we had lost it while we sat on the beach and saw it went by.

Like desperadoes waiting for their boat

In the dark belly of the steel whale, just like Jonah.

Mexican sea-cowboy

The Chernobyl of Capitalism

Quite some people ask me what was the highlight of the trip through the states after dropping by some odd 25 states. Now well across the border to Mexico it’s sort of the chance to do a wrap up of the travel through the states, but I’m too lazy to do it properly. Sorry about that. Not so much.

It was too many great people we met, and great places we saw so I cannot justify to start elaborating on it.

However, there is one thing that certainly made the biggest impression; I’ll never forget Detroit, or “The Chernobyl of Capitalism” which I quickly named it. I never mentioned it on the blog, I found it hard to write something that was worthy the impression it made. Anyway, I guess this is the last chance.

From the Joliet prison outside Chicago we have no contacts before Kevin Lentz in Ann Arbor, a few miles west of Detroit, Michigan. Leaving late from the blues brothers dormitory, taking the Interstate-94 a cold afternoon we only managed to penetrate Michigan with a few miles before it is utterly dark. It is cold enough to make your feet feel like two wooden blocks when stepping off the bike, while the fingers don’t cooperate when you take off the helmet and remove the jacket, temporarily stuffed with New York Times for extra insulation.

You start to wonder if it is worth to keep heading up north to see Detroit while defrosting in the bathtub and feeling the needles steadily punch you while you slowly get back the feeling in your legs and hands. But you can’t abort; it was the town everybody told us to stay away from. The automotive industry’s cradle with the satanic steel mills along the Rouge, the home of a world class white flight, the living ghost town symbolizing the greatness of capitalism and union power.

It is dark again when we have a half hour left to Kevin’s place Ann Arbor the next day. Traffic is growing heavier and faster the closer we get. With hardly any light on the bikes it is an adrenalin rush to cross over all the lanes at the time we have to get off the highway. First challenging, and then rewarding when you see you managed once more without getting run over by a tractor trailer going 1,5 times your speed. It is a relief to get to Kevin’s place.

Ann Arbor for me is the dull highbrow brother of Detroit. Detroit had the heavy industries and history, almost like a working class heroes’ Mecca. Ann Arbor has the intellect and education.

But Kevin’s heart is burning for the history of Detroit and the heavy industry. The rise and fall of the Motor City. When he talks about Detroit he sounds like Dennis Hopper talking about Kurtz in Apocalypse now. It’s the same enthusiasm while talking about the city equally crazy as the colonel. We got the perfect man to take us into the industrial heart of darkness.

Next day is a typical grey December day in Michigan, perfect for underlining the decadence waiting ahead of us. While passing Dearborn, home of Henry Ford’s operations the sad reality becomes apparent. Working our way further in we bypass the Motor City Casino. A casino is probably exactly what the town need.

Downtown is quiet as a political opposition party in North Korea, even on a Friday afternoon. There are hardly any people to see, and empty high-rise buildings are slowly falling apart. There’s not enough cars to even make the slightest traffic jam. Some places steam blows up from the ground from the city’s heating system and gives it an even more industrial, hellish and tragic appearance. The few people we see is only African Americans, the white flight drained the town for all the whites, which was the one that could afford to move when the economy went down.

On the way over to Belle Island we’re going through several neighborhoods with burned out houses, empty lots that the nature have started to take back, and houses boarded up by the authorities to reduce the risk of squatters burning down the place. A short stop at old Fisher’s mansion discloses that one of the richest dude’s former home has been taken over by a Krishna congregation. Though there’s no money left in town, there might be some souls to steal.

A third of the street lights on the bridge to Belle Island have fallen down, like they nod to you to confirm your expectation to find a former playground for the well to do’s that’s empty and falling apart. The oldest yacht club in the states greets you on the other side, all boarded up, dark and empty. The island is empty, the playground is just not fun anymore.

Last stop is the Heidelberg Street, the proof that at least the creativity is living. Tyree Guyton started in -86 to transform empty houses and lot’s into gigantic art installations, just armed with paintbrushes and leftovers from the community. Soon the Elba Street and Heidelberg Street was a massive art installation. The city demolished parts of it in both -91 and -99, but it’s survived and still evolves. It’s one bright spot in an else wise dark town, though the installation is more or less picturing what’s happened in town, and all genious politics around.

Some people shun town in fear of crime. We don’t get any trouble despite flashing heavy duty photographing equipment and hanging out at the worse parts of town. My feeling is that people don’t bother to do any robberies anymore because everybody that had something worth robbing them left decades ago.

I find it scarier with Detroit than Chernobyl which I saw it a few years ago. Chernobyl can at least be blamed on an accident, more or less. Detroit can mostly be explained by greed and politics. It sort of tells a story few people on the western hemisphere like to hear, but I’m intrigued by the honesty of the story Detroit tells. I’ll for sure be back, for me it’s the most unique place in the States.