Thursday 1 July 2010

Central America to Colombia

We've finally reached Cartagena, Colombia after a five day sailboat trip from Panama. The reason for no updates is an impeccable combination of internet shortage, tight schedule and not to mention a dead laptop.

The laptop died under tragic circumstances in El Salvador. We were driving in a terrible tropical rain with hardly no vision, and the entire street was flooded. The sidecar fell down in a drain which was hidden under the water and swallowed the entire sidecar, leacing the bike in a 45 degree angel at the edge.

The laptop was packed in the sidecar in a more or less waterproof laptop backpack, which turned about to be more less than more water proof, and the internals were not to happy about the water.

With a tight schedule the coming weeks and no laptop it's not likely with any proper updates before Buenos Aires, but I'll try to post a few lines here and on Facebook.

We'll leave Cartagena tomorrow and take the Pan American highway down the west coast, so if anybody is along the route drop me a line at tormod.amlien@gmail.com. Also, if anybody works in a generous computer company that wanna donate a laptop I could probably get talked into it and pay back in fame by being a sponsor.

So long,

Tormod
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Due to a terrible rain here I got time for a small update:

Since the last quasi-dramatic update from Antigua we’ve now moved on through Guatamala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. These countries are so small that you spend more time on red-tape at the borders than actually driving.

Central America is far from as bandit-infested as people like to believe, all in all people are gruesome friendly and not too concerned about looting or killing you. Even in Nicaragua they’ve buried the revolution and become fantastic poor and peaceful.

The corruption is not too bad either. We had one severe corruption case in Honduras, which would have been more suitable for Monthy Python’s Flying Circus than the open road. They stopped us, and as we had all papers in check they had to find something else. The solution was to try to explain that we did not have reflectors that were according to the internationally recognized Honduran standard for reflecting equipment on pre-war motorcycles in the 750 cc class. We didn’t understand this, or rather wouldn’t understand as they didn’t speak English or Norwegian.

The tactic changed to make serious facial expressions and showing papers used for writing tickets, but we just smiled and laughed it off. The despair caught up on them and they asked straight out for dollars, which we refused as money for nothing is taboo for Norwegians. Then they lowered the request to some cigarettes, so we gave them one to share, but no light.

Else wise El Salvador could offer dramatic in the Ewan McGregor-class. The afternoon we should cross the border to Honduras some cows had dug away the road with their fierce shiny horns. We had to go back about 150 kilometers, and suddenly got harassed by a tropical storm in a small town. With the hard rain the entire street were totally flooded and hid a flood drain, big enough to swallow the entire sidecar, which it of course did. The bike was left at the edge in a 45 degree angle, while the sidecar was under water and got its content washed thoroughly, including my laptop that was packed down to avoid the rain. Needless to say, the laptop never became itself again, it so to speak died.

In a week or so we got our self to Panama where we checked out the canal and tried to get transport around the Darian Gap, the infamous part of the Pan American Highway that’s just a swamp capable of swallowing even John Rambo. The end of the story was a German named Guido who had a sailboat.

Guido was very adventurous and included a trip to the infamous island group called San Blas where the even more infamous Coonass Indians live after they got thrown out of Lousiana. It was fairly dramatic with Indians in small boats attacked us, but we paid them off with glass pearls and mirrors so they attacked other boats instead and saved our scalps.

Currently we’re in Cartagena, Colombia. We’ll be heading down the Pan American Highway on the west coast to Bolivia. We’ve made a friend here that asked us to bring some thick bottomed Adidas-bags to a bag-collector there, and friendly as we are we said yes. The bags are heavy for being empty, but what don’t you do for friends, right?

Tormod

Sentral-Amerika til Colombia

Etter den siste dramatiske oppdateringen fra Antigua har vi nå kommet oss gjennom Guatamala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica og Panama. Landene nedover her er så små og grensepaseringene så sirupsaktige at man bruker like mye tid på å krysse grenser som på å kjøre, noe som er en tålmodighetsprøve for en som er mer glad i å sprenge grenser enn å bare krysse dem.

Sentralamerika er langt ifra så røverinfisert som folk skal ha det til, i det hele tatt er folk ganske hyggelige og ikke så opptatt av å lure eller drepe deg. Selv i Nicaragua har de gravlagt revolusjonen og blitt fantastisk fredsæle og fattige.


Korrupsjonen er ikke så ille heller. Vi hadde et tilfelle i Honduras, og det var egentlig et humoristisk innslag. Vi ble stoppet av politiet som ikke snakket et ord engelsk, og da vi hadde alle papirene i orden måtte de finne på noe annet. Løsningen var å prøve å forklare at vi ikke hadde reflekser som tilfredstillte den internasjonalt annerkjente Honduriske standarden, noe vi ikke skjønte, eller mer spesifikt ikke var interessert i å skjønne.

Så kom de med blokka med bøter og laget strengt fjes, men vi bare smilte og snakket til dem på engelsk. Så spurte de om dollars og da sa vi bare nei. De marsjerte oppgitt i ring og diskuterte en stund før de spurte om sigaretter. De fikk en sigarett på deling, men fyr fikk de ikke siden vi anser oss selv som reisende korrupsjonsjegere.

Ellers bydde El Salvador på dramatikk i McGregorklassen. Om ettermiddagen da vi skulle krysse grensen på tur ut var veien forsvunnet. Vi måtte tilbake 15 mil for å finne en alternativ rute og ble plutselig trakassert av en tropisk storm i en liten by. Grunnet regnet var veien fullstendig dekket av vann og skjulte en dreneringsgrøft som var dyp nok til å glupskt svelge hele sidevogna mi, noe den følgelig gjorde. Syklen sto igjen på kanten i 45 graders vinkel, mens sidevogna fikk vasket alt innehold inkludert laptopen som var pakket ned for å unngå regnet. Unødvendig å legge til, PC’n ble aldri seg selv igjen så om noen har lyst til å donere en laptop for å sikre oppdateringer så er det plass på sponsorlista.

Iløpet av en drøy uke kom vi oss til Panama hvor vi beså kanalen og prøvde å få frakt rundt Darian, den berømte strekningen hvor Pan American Highway rett og slett er bare en sump som er i stand til å fortære selv Lars Monsen. Enden på visa ble en tysker med seilbåt og stor appetitt på dollars, faktisk ufyselig stor noe som gjorde kraftig inntrykk på reisebudsjettet.

For at tyskeren skulle kunne forsvare ågerprisen måtte vi innom noen øde øyer med ville indianere. Indianerne rodde ut i kanoer og angrep oss så fort vi nærmet oss, men heldigvis hadde vi med nok glassperler og speil til at vi fikk stagget gemyttene.

Nå er vi i Cartagena, Colombia og på tur sydover langs vestkysten. Vi møtte en veldig hyggelig kar i dag som lurte på om vi kunne ta med noen spesielle tykkbunnede adidasbager til Cocabamba i Bolivia til en Adias-bag samler der. Hjelpsomme som vi er sa vi ja selv om de var veldig tunge selv tomme, men hva gjør en ikke for venner.

Tormod


In El Salvador the road suddenly disappeared. The result was a 150 kilometers detour and a broken laptop.

And how did it happen? Some evil cow-mobster carved it out with their shiny horns. Cows these days.

The Hondurian border

Some local Hondurians showing respect

We used this rubber deer for tarpaulin weight. Very stylish.

However, the staff did not appreciate my innovate skills, so I put it nicely back.

Aaron travelled with his Virago from the eighties, and it did not run. Our contribution was to tow him a few miles. Pretty stupid to go on a long trip with such an old bike.

Hondurian cops. Either they wanted dollars, or to sit on the bikes and gettin photographed.

At all the Central American borders there is shitloads of men working hard on doing nothing. If you need expertize on nothing this is the place to find it.

Fumigation before entering Panama. Saves thousands every year from HIV, syff, tumour and God knows what not.
One of the helpers at the border that proved useful. The borders can be messy and there is info only in Spanish

Jesus were guarding Colon in Panama, but it seemed like he had forgotten it.
This ship had missed the canal with a mile and stranded

Banana-Boat at the Gatun Lock, the easternmost lock

Note the train dragging the ships through

Old Black Joe was loadmaster on this feeder vessel that he had inherited from his grandfather. He had carved it out from one piece of glassfibre tree that used to grow in the Panamanian rainforrests but is today extinct forever.


It isn't full as long a the boat floats says Joe.

The first wave on Coonass Indian attackers-

They might look harmless, but they are not that ducking funny when you stand in the heat of the battle and try to fight them off.

Some glass pearls and mirrors in bribery made them attack another vesses. The tactic is to throw so much rubish onboard the boats so they sink, then the retrieve the good wit specially trained and RC controlled dolphins.

The San Blas Island, translated to English it means "Sand Blasters Islands" or something like that.


Mike, Carlos and Elenize eating mic dead animals from the sea.

Some Indians put a spell on Mike and upgraded him.
Our co-captain got poisoned by a brew from the Indian witch-doctor they call "Pilsener". Luckily the effect last a few hours before you turn human again.



Guido, our salty captain took us safely over the ocean.
A misnavigation though led us to Somalia where we had to fight off pirates.

Mike after he turned back again to original Mike. It costed us 10 glass pearls, but we had no other option as his mother was meeting him in Cartagena and we were afraid of getting blamed.


Elenize from Belize is from Brazil and not Belize, but that does not rhyme.
Finally in Cartagena

Fritz the Cat, an Austrian Buccaneer that invited us while working on his boat. Friendly dude.

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