Mexico City, Mexico
14th May2005


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Ca-ruizing the streets of Mexico City, one of the biggest metropolises in the known world with a population of 20,000,000 million inhabitants. More people in one city that in all Australia.

The look on this guys face was enough to make anyone empty their pockets, and give him anything you've got, which I did. If he had credit card facilities I am sure he would make a lot more.

Good thought on the way. I am in Mexico. Mexico City. One of the biggest metropolises in the world.

There are more people living in this city than there are in the whole of Australia.

I regret to announce the near death of my motorcycle.

My piston rings have spacked out, and my valves aren't ovulating (producing the goodness they rightly should). Even after my extremely anal maintenance schedule it rooted itself. Why? It is quite obvious that my bike has it in for me. Air filter is always clean, changing oil every 2000kms, recalibrating valves, etc. but no glow joe.

So for the third time I have to reboot my engine. I am only 1,500kms from the US border too. Almost in the land of the possible. Instead I am in the land of Tequila's, Sombreros and no Honda parts.

I, on the other hand am fine. It did not throw me under a semi-trailer and turn me into a doggy meat paddycake. However it did try to.

I am now stuck in Mexico City (20mil people). Oh yeah, and to top it off I am staying in a brothel (cheapest in this 20 million person city), with crap porn and pink bath tiles. The best thing is, when it gets dirty, ya just gotta hose it out.

The Me-hi-cans (Mexicans) are helping me open it 2mo morn first thing. Then I will find out the damage. Hopefully my piston is fine. I will be here for a few days at the very very very least. Hopefully max one week if all goes well. After repair bike will only last a max 40,000 more kms if I need to change the piston.

If all craps out I am going to hitch to the Grand Canyon, then hitch onto KTM (Dream motorbike) headquarters and camp on their doorstep till they give me a bike. Am I giving up? NO would be the appropriate answer. I just arrived at the foot of a volcano. The tectonic plates have shifted right underneath my yellow brick road.
But I am a little frustrated. Actually no I am not. Hmph. Don’t know why. It seems that the harder things get the more I enjoy it. I hate my fucking bike. KTM betta gimme one. Gotta keep on dreamin'

I just discovered that today is Friday the 13th. Figures. So, the bike? Whats the deal? Do you get knobbed out when you get near a motorbike? Quite obviously you’re incapable of having a bike if you have to rebuild it three times in 60,000kms?

15th May 2005
i opened the engine myself. Ha! Finally. After opening my engine 8 times you'd think I would finally get the hang of it. I didn't break anything either. Except of course a few of the engine cooling fins... baah.

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Pirate descendants and Rastafari's mix it up along the sparsely populated coastline of Belize. Within five days I had covered almost every road in the country. The capital city with less than 50,000 people is more like a country town.

I entered via Guatemala into San Ignacio, 12 kms from the border. Met Rasta Dave the tourguide master. Belize people are pure of heart. As per I was skint, looking for a place to stretch a hammock or peg out ma tent and do some work. Straight up he offered his office for hammock space, his desk for work, and some unusual green stuff he was smoking streetside for pleasure. Took all but the last. Marijuana will soon be legal in Belize.

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Argh ma brain is hurting. Pain pain go away. Hassle someone else every other day... Had enough of bein in the rough.

Hayley and I snuck across the El Salvador straight for Monterrico.

Starving at the border we had to pull in for a feed. Sure no problem the madre says. Carne. Just want some carne, salada, frioles, arroz e papas’ fritas. Meat man meat. Plate comes out.

What the hell is this?! Looking suspiciously like stomach lining and intense-tines. Damn. Meat. We passed and waited twenty more for the real McCoy.

30kms down the road, we passed a country boy rodeo and a road turning left. Is this the shortcut? Taxisco? This is it? Yes? Good. We fly.

Finally an easy leg. No hassles, no accidents, no bike failures. End of the road. Where’s Monterrico? There seems to be a rather large forest of mangroves in the way. Gotta catch a boat.

70 quetzals. Isn’t that what it costs for a car? No. N-O. No. The locals are giggling themselves silly.

We played along. 30 quetzals. They laughed at me. So I asked someone else. This got the ball rolling.

Within five minutes we rolled on board. Hayley, Wolverine and me. 25 quetzals. I would have paid 50 quetzals if they didn’t try and play us so bad.

After 25 minutes of mangrove weaving we arrived. Found a random hostal owned by a generous and crazy American. Damn tourist town. Everything is so expensive. Hayley and I had shared paths on and off for the last 8 months. This was our last stop before Hayley flew home. We wanted style, budget style. I thought Guatemala was cheap as chips. Hey mista? What ya got? After giving us a beer, he guided us through his establishment(s). Not quite our style. The sand was thick. With our half tonne motor home on two wheels our chances were slim of making to many other hostels.

Why don’t you take my brand new tricked out 2005 650CC Yamaha Raptor? I’ll look after your bike. Oh. Ok then. Is he serious? He is. Damn. Where are the keys? We torn straight onto the beach, flinging ourselves like kite surfers over the dunes. I did most of the driving without breathing. Hailey had squeezed most of the oxygen out of my lungs. My blood is still caked under her fingernails. Spotto.

Fat pad overlooking the ocean. Spoke to the owner. Quiet times. Split the price in two and made a deal. We made the most of every last second before I chauffeured ma luvva to the airport in Guatemala City.
The three-week escapade with Hayley resting on my behind was just what the doctor ordered. Good good luvvin. All the details are secret squirrel. But.. but nothing. You ain’t gunna find out anything. All a secret. All stuck in ma head the little one said. Just for me myself and I. And Hayley. No broadcast. No communication..

So I headed on. Solo mission to the Artic Circle. Sounds like fun. I returned to the room to turn the last 20 pages of a really awesome book I had been reading. I spent half an hour looking for it. then I spent another half hour looking through my biike panniers. Damn it! Where is it? Hayley didn't have a book to read on the aeroplane. She wouldn't have? Would she? She knew I was loving that book. Ten days later via email I popped the question. She took it! She honestly believes that I gave it to her for the flight. Liar I say. But, they do it so well. Damn girl running rings around me. I finished the conversation, convinced she was angel and that I was wrong. How the hell can she do this.... secret woman powers. I'll never understand.

I left straight after lunch with my computer instruction manual in hand. I had to read something. Flew out of town and into lots and lots of traffic. Lucky its around 40 degrees. I slipped through the traffic with my wide-load-arse load. Getting beeped and honked at. My engine oil is dropping. Why?!?! Who knows. I won't go into detail. But I am so anal about bike maintenance you would think that I had written Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

I love to hate my bike. But I would love to love my bike. Need a new bike. Bike. Bike. Bike..

I stopped every hour or so to check my oil, oil, oil. Lower, lower. I need a bike that can take a good beating. I made it to Rio Dulce. Yes I am sure alot of you are thinking, "Wow! Is that where Dolce & Gabbana came from?" No. It has absolutely nothing to do with it. If you look closely its not even spelt the same. Whats your point?

Rio Dulce is a popular hideaway for RTW (aRound The World) boating psycho's. I stayed at Hotel Backpackers, directly under the biggest bridge in Central America. Its pretty small. This place was run by Casa Guatemala, an orphanage for children. I had intended on paddling downstream for some photos and games with these kidlets. I was quite looking forward to it. But the director wasn't there to grant permission. Bummer. Since Icebreaker had recently shipped me a whole new wardrobe I had alot of gear. So I left every single artifact that I was not using at least once a week in the hands of the ladies who run the joint. I told them of superior yarn that Icebreaker spun into their clothing. She was rather impressed. So was I. The superhuman powers it gives you when you put them on.. the attention you get from the ladies and the protection from earths harsh natural elements. She started nuzzling the weave, and I started my bike.

Onward to Tikal. I arrived 3:31pm sharp. Just in time for my discounted ticket that you only get after 3:30pm. I set up my tent outside Jaguar Inn and made a beeline for the Ancient Pyramids. Couldn't get enough. They had a place named the Lost City! I felt right at home. Sat at the top of the pyramid as the sun fell to the bottom. Waltzed back to camp in the darkness (broke my torch in Colombia - using my nightvision - catch a firefly and put it inside a empty water bottle. Works like a dream). The fireflys here are three times the size of the ones in OZ and three times brighter and three time faster..and they come in three new colours, red, yellow and green. They look very similar to remote controlled flying LED lights. You can only get them at special department stores though.

Made it back to camp and asked the guys inside if they had any DVD's lying around.
"Do you like porno?" The assistant giggles.
"Not really."
"How about group sex? Three men?.. hi hii hiii... You want?"
Another assistant gives me his softporn grin from the shoulder of the first. Why the hell do I always get myself in these positions?!
"No. No thanks mate. I'll be right eh?" I felt my way out of the restuarant, keeping my eyes locked on their movements. Now would the time where they run around the corner of the desk throw a net over me and drag me into the backroom for a No means Yes session.

I ate a solitary meal as I do most days and slipped into something a little more comfortable. My tent. Not however before striking up a friendly conversation with two ten foot german ladies in a 12foot long tent, pegged two metres away. The next day we woke at 4:15am for a sunrise viewing from Pyramid IV. I had prepared myself a really nice breakfast: green sour oranges, over-ripe carrot, a packet of CC's with at least seven chips in it, a bottle of water (with Tang. mmm. Tang), and five boiled eggs. There were six, but I ate one last night. I even had a little sachet of salt. So prepared.

Needless to say we didn't see the sun rise until about 11am. Overcast. And.. and I started my brekkie with a nice freshly boiled egg. Stripped it, dabbed a little salt for flavour and assisted its departure from this world into mine. Good old dry wretching at a Mayan sunrise eh? They were off. Really off. I coughed my guts up as the howler monkeys welcomed the new day. Goodness never tasted so bad. A Toucan just flew by. Another toucan seems to be humping yet another toucan in a tree nearby as bile dribbles down my chin. Ahh, what a view.

Once my body had stopped convulsing I assumed the Zen position, controlled my breathing, gargled some pineapple flavoured tang (oh yeah, I also had a three kg pineapple in my bag) and took in my surroundings. Amazing. Except for a group of 20yr old uber-wealthy safari hat clad young Dutch. Obivously feeling like they owned the place. Then there was the rest of us. Giving them death stares. I've only travelled 100,000kms to experience this mate, I don't mind the gutteral expulsions spattering out your mouth. Punk. With our forces combined.. we told them to shut-up or piss-off. So one of the guys started to get his genitals out and walk over to the end of the ledge, and.. no he didn't really. But they did quieten down to everyones relief.

I spent over ten hours walking exploring the temples. 15hours in total. And it still wasn't enough. But, gotta keep on movin' as Bob Marley says.

Early the next day I had to help a backpack onto one of the ten foot Germans. Utilising a small step ladder I succeeded. No mean feat. She struggled to the door, 80kg pack controlling her coordination. Two steps forward, one step backwards..

I made it to the Belize border later that day.. with just enough coinage to perform a legal border crossing..

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Left Guatemala at 8am 70kms from the border. Got to the border at 9am. Got out of the border at 10:30am. $US50 to single entry visa. All motorcycle expenses included. That’s crap . We were going to slip through the north east of San Salvador back into Honduras to check out the Bay Islands on the Caribbean side. Not anymore.We were staying for three hours.

Charged through the south western coast of Honduras. Around 120kms. Arrived at El Amatillo, a smallish town on the border of San Salvador. Brain’s snot workin’ proper. Took a powersip of Coke. Feel like a bunch of railworkers are preparing my teeth for removal. Bad for you but tastes so good.

Via La Union we slipped into Playa Las Tunas.

After quizzing at least 15 San Salvadorians in the last few weeks I had some well represented knowledge of the hot spots. This was one of them.

A black half-tonner (us) pulled arrived to a dead fishy end. The Pacific Ocean.

Eehhh-hee-heee! Eh Gringo… Wat you want? Room? Beer? Bet you like smokin’ huh? This young gent looks suspiciously like a person who enjoys winding down the day with empty Bic pen, cone, white powder and a lighter. Hooked to death.

The line is almost visable. Getting shorter, faster than the other every people gawking in the background.

Are they going to take the bait? These gringos? I wonder where they are from. Look at all that crap they got on the bike. Eduardo the milk man doesn’t even carry that much on his bike. Hmmph. Idiot.
We polited ran him over and skidded back out onto the main curly drag. Well. This place seems great. Can’t wait to come back here for dinner.

Rolling onwards we pulled up next to a nice San Salvadorian American visiting family. Our previous life history exchange in the local petrol station had forged an irreversible bond.

“Hey mate, do you know where the cheapest room in town is? Like no air-con, bathroom nothing. Just a bed for two. Maybe a fan? Cheapest. Gotta be the cheapest.”
“Yes, yes I do. Right here.”
“Where?”
“Behind you.”
“Oh. Cool. Thanks.”
We rolled in an hour before the sun went down. Confronted the guy at the front gate. The main man.
“Hey mate. We are looking for your finest, cheapest room. How much is it?”
“$20”
“What? For one night? In the cheapest place in town? That’s not cheap. Cheep. Cheep.”
“Was that a bird?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Yes $20”
“Can we camp here?”
“No”
“Right..”
“Yes”
“Its almost dark. We’ll leave before 10am. Can you do it cheaper?”
“No. My boss says that’s the price. Set price. Can’t change. This is tourist season (we are the only ones here). How much do you want to pay?”
“$10-12” He laughs. And goes to close the door. The charade continues.
“If you leave before 6am I’ll do it for $18”

Hayley and I snorted in frustration. Simultaneously I tell you. Hayley was itching to chuck a spanner in the works. Take him down. Playing games with us like this. Poor tired intercontinental adventurers who had changed country, money and cultures three times in the last ten hours. And hungry. And tired. And hot.

After much niggling and jiggling we beat it down to $15 for two. 10am checkout. He wanted us to leave so he could keep the profits instead of giving them to his boss who arrived the next morning.

Ran down to the beach for a paddle. Lots of rubbish in the water. Cool rock island 15metres off shore. Other-worldly rip leashing it to the coast line. About as close to the inside of a washing machine as I have ever been.
Hayley and I battled the lukewarm elements for thirty minutes before returning to our super-shit room with dingy powerless fan attached on to the really high roof. Room smells like the toilet seat flashing itself in all its cracked plastic glory from the “Open plan” toilet in the corner.

Slipped quietly onto Wolverine and traced our way back to the dead end for dinner.

There was one massive wooden deck built high over the waters edge. Seven young gentlemen had pooled their money together, selling clothes and old records and trash to purchase themselves a kick arse stereo system. Tonight was their night of triumph. Scoffing down mussels and Salvadorian beer. Delightful. They glowing with excitement, dancing and singing and drawing on the moment. Swinging each other around the room.

“Do you want to try a mussel?”
“Couldn’t think of anything better.”
“How about some beer?”
“Thanks mate, but we’ll order some.”
“No take it! Take it!”
Hayley reached out for the bottle, flashed a thankyou smile and slugged it down. Fair enough. Hand it over. I savoured the taste and handed it back.
His grin was so wide that his ears were cupped forward at the ends like a Smiley Face. “Do you like El Salvador?”
“For sure!”

Checked out the menu. Lobsters for $6. What the fuck?! I have been hanging for lobster since arriving in Latin America. $6 for a lobster. Just for me. $6 for a lobster just for Hayley. Hayley had never had lobster before. Never ever ever. With beer, on wooden platform four metres above the water, local Salvadorian ethnic tunes dancing onto the beach, hips swinging, people singing. These boys seem to know the meaning of happiness.
We rolled back with fullen laden, showered and passed out enroute to the bed. Legs sprawled on the cement floor, arms reaching for the mattress head arched at right angles to the floor. Ear pressed against the sideboard of the bed support. Dribble hovering millimeters from the ground. Snapped awake, sucked it back up and sidled up next to Hayley. Someone pulled a sleeping blanket over my eyeballs..

The Carr de Litoral weaved its beautiful shape along the rugged dry coastline. Great road. Worthy of a rally. Heading for Playa El Tunco 200kms north west. Passed through La Libertad, famous for its US taught Gang Wars. 18 and…. Are the most infamous. Rule the streets. Passed El Tunco the tourist town and tarried on.
El Zonte has the biggest waves in El Salvador. We pulled into an offshore 8 foot set touring for accommodation. Most were full. Found one, almost empty. $10 for two and the bike. Rode in, ran to the beach, ate, wondered and returned. Sucked the flesh off four mangoes. Two a piece. We had bought six for a dollar. Wedged between the spaces that don’t exist between my teeth.

The night was spent with two fine young Salvadorian twenty-somethings, the music man and surfer kid. The night was spent drinking Chivas Regal stolen from the music mans hippy dads secret stash. Hersheys kisses scattered across the table. Music man was a brilliant guitarist, Santana brilliant. He played all night.

Surfer kid? Hyperactive little man. A voice that had never known volume control. Surfer boy rolls into another story. He generally tells most of them three or four times, usually whilst someone else is talking. Always while someone else is talking..

“Yeah did I tell you my dad was in the army? Yeah, like a general in the civil war. Real hard core (all true), well one day me and my dad and my mum were watching a movie.. this guy was getting pummeled from behind by another guy. Bit crazy ya know? Like homosexual stuff? Yeah, well, he was getting pummeled right, and suddenly my dad jumps up out of his chair pumping his fist in the air…STRIKER! That’s a striker son. A real man..

What! I said?! Dad that guys gay. He started getting all pompous and shit, saying NO SON! THAT’S A STRIKER A REAL MAN! HE gives it! If he took it up the arse that’d be different. Then he’d be gay. No son, he’s a real man, a giver.. A STRIKER! I don’t talk to no gay people son. I’m a striker son. A proud one. No dad, your gay! You are homosexual.. Then he got real angry and smacked me across the face. Yeah my dads crazy.” surfer kid says. “But I love surfing man. My friends call me Onion.

We moved on the next day. Never quite feeling settled in El Salvador. We cruised on towards Guatemala arriving just shy of the border, just after nightfall, in a poor little village. Just out of town we filled up with fuel. Excuse me mate, do you know where the cheapest place in town is?

Where are you from?
Australia and England.

A glowing smile of pure kindness flashes across his face. Follow me. We trail his glowing tail-light into town. Poor poor town. The man we are trailing works with street kids in the area. Very nice man. We found a pad, halved the price, and settled in. We left the room to get more gear from the bike. Looking the door, in my usual super-security conscious way. Having no insurance and your whole life on the back of a motorbike makes you like that.

Still in superstinky dainese (motorbike) gear. Door won’t open. Please. We are really tired. Open Sesame. No. The owner tries to open it with a key, credit card, screwdriver and hammer. No go. 30minutes later, starving, tired and very hungry he kicks the door in. Don’t have any flipflops. He lends me his. Go to eat. Can’t lock door any more. Boss reckons it all good. Come back and pass out.

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Left Nicuragua. Arrived at Honduras border. Two hours of paying, photocopying, spraying bike with pesticides, paying, and paying. In the end we paid just over $50 to get into country with single entry visa. The previous plan was to cut across the top end of El Salvador back into Honduras and back into Honduras. Now that means an extra $50. Nup.

Too much cash for us. We hurled through. And out. Straight into El Salvador. $50 for three hours of riding. Since I don't really have anything to write about this nice country, I will tell you about my first accident on my little RTW adventure..

4th day into the trip ripped around a dirty mountain top around 75 clicks deep in the heart of a Chileno forest (Chile). The Pacific Ocean (wrong side) throws up all over the coastline. I seem to be lost in the moment, riding a bike around the world, let alone South America gets you feeling sorty wispy with emotion. . What a fuckin life. My bike and I weigh 340kgs combined. I am pretty overweight at the moment with my discount two meals a day.

4th day in I swing the bike around a downhill deep left and the tail whips around, moving almost 80 degrees to the right, then slides like a snake back to the left, unstoppable like an accordion.

Crap.

340kgs rears from the back, flipping over my head and separating before two dirty reunions. The bike lands perfectly arse up. Resting only on handlebars and camera case bolted onto the rear.

I stood up, tapped myself over to check for damage. All good. Hang on. I can’t seem to tap properly. My left finger from the knuckle is pointing skywards but I am trying very hard to point it forward. My fox gloves are still on but I can see the disfigurement. (Even writing right now I get this rough-guts shudder pulverizing my insides with cold warnings.)

Before ripping off the glove I heave the motorbike from a upside down downward slant up to verticle. Down in a ditch wasn’t the best place for my side stand. I stood facing the midday sun. Nice day. After shutting down the fuel flow and leaning the bike on my hip I ripped of my glove to inspect the damage.

My finger from the knuckle going against his fellow fingers warning converted to the other side. Right angle wrong way. I pondered the closest hospital. Fucking miles. Geoff! Mark!

Mark passed in a flash, Geoff jittered around the corner, I waved my spare hand and shouted obscenities. He thought I was waving him on. He later told me he honestly thought I was repacking my panniers (their contents spread haphazard within a five metre radius). I wasn’t.

No not knob or noggin but adrenaline was doing the talking. Or maybe it was Mel Gibson. I can do it. I’ll fix it. By the time I get to the doctor it will be swollen and stiff. Impossible to move without a heavy dose of muscle relaxants and pain killers. I guess it wouldn’t be that bad.. yeah, anyways.. I still couldn’t feel any pain yet.

I took a firm grip of my left pointer with my opposable thumbs ringside. Ka-kuck. I broke a sweat. Less than a second after letting go the knuckle it slipped back off Mr Whippy style. Sweating cowboy drops.

Right then. Obviously I didn’t pull it hard enough. Huhhmph.. I yank the throbbing mess to where its supposed to point. A smile cracks across my face. The sun shines, rays beating down on my crackling eyes. Schllllopp! Aw Fuck.
Came off again. Now I am getting a little perplexed. The boys aren’t back. Which sorta shits me. Its been over five minutes. They must have noticed. What if I put it back on and they don’t even see it? They might not believe it. No one will know. Stroppy time. Fuck this. Third time lucky.

With all my strength I eased the defiant blob of blood’n’bones like a polar bear rips the head off a seal. Comes clean. I curl it around into punching position. Hold it in position and pray. For five minutes I held it there. The bike was still leaning on my hip. I eased my right hand off the wankered hand. If only I had hair spray to hold it in position. I huffed the bike outta the ditch and walked over to the other side to chill. Feeling pretty good actually. Adrenaline ramming itself down my veins. I waited for twenty minutes. They still hadn’t come back to look for me. Sniff.

40 minutes later I was thinking, “there ain’t no way I am coming down yet. Where are they? Pondering whether they had deserted me. A distant four stroke lingers in the air. Two. They’re coming. I lay down and pretended to look bad. I don’t know why. Sometimes you just can’t help yourself. Mark bandaged and splinted my finger whilst Geoff gave comical yet sincere comfort. Fuckers. Little smirks crowding their lips. I send out a “You cunts” vibe.
Geoff, Mark and paddlestick fingers fanged it down towards the ocean searching for ice, food and freedom. We got them all. For free. Amazing.

Two days later I made it to a hospital for an x-ray. Twice its normal size but nothing broken.

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Every single tv channel was zoomed into an armoured policeman bleeding death all over his smartly pressed blue uniform hardened eyes frightened in the face of previously unknown experiences.

Blood coveting his mates encrusted uniform. I realize this probably sounds a little airy fairy but that’s what happened.

The traffic bustled onto the footpath with motorcyclists (including myself) and pedestrians zigzagging across the dirt smattered walk way.

A siren waahoo waahoo’d it way smack bang up the arse of the worst fighting inflicted traffic jam since the last civil war in the 70’s.

(I think it was the 70’s. Could be the 60’s, or the 80’. Its definitely one of them).

Fuck me. You’d think they would have sorted a game plan for injured policemen. All they had was a blue pick up police ute. Two in the front. Three in the back.

One with a gun inflicted chest wound the other with arm wound, driving with reckless abandon.

The one uninjured man leapt into the air and onto the tarmac like someone had shoved barbed wired up his arse. Head pulsating with fear, revenge, power, determination and muscle tearing adrenaline. He charged the traffic like a lion tearing through a field of antelope waving a grenade launcher. Slow movement.

Where was the ambulance? I was driving parallel to one a minute before.

We turned right and rolled onto the footpath, sweating and wheeling a ragged path towards some place called avenida Colon.

The roads cowered under burning tyres scattered down various sidestreets. Over six cars were set alight last week.

The locals say the last time it was this heated between the government and public a civil war ensued. History in the making is one version.

Why?

The private bus operators elected to raise the cost of a local bus fare from 3.5 to 4 cordoba’s. An increase of less than 5 cents. In recent times the government directed financial assistance their way. Not enough. Inflation. Rising fuel costs. Three cops were shot today. From recent news I heard one in the stomach, arm and centre forehead. I don’t know if the last died.

We hauled a woman mid step from the road side, quizzing her as to the whereabouts of a random hostel. She waved down a motorbike. After quizzing our origin he revealed his nature. Undercover cop. His badge glinted from his wallet. He offered to guide us there, and he did. We arrived out front, the cop pulled away.

A sweating well kempt 14 year old produced the location of his hostel on a white business card. Informing us that his hostel for the same provided big screen cable tv, personal bathroom, patio and serious motorcycle security. Sounded too good to be true. But it was true. Except the channels were a little fuzzy.

Hayley holed up in the room watching cable. We separated, clutching bubbling stomaches (bad fruit this morning from crap place in Granada which is incidently very pretty.

I ripped down to meet Carlos an extremely nice Yamaha dealer in Nicuragua. quizzing five people en-route and walking into two wrong offices until I arrived at the right place. No road signs.

Greeted by the manager. Very knowledgable former pro push-biker. Born in Columbia, raised in the US and living in Nicuragua. Worldly chap.

Work done at Yamaha Nicuragua
1. Lube crank shaft bearings and rear shock
2. Fabricate new brake pads
3. Buy new bolt for front crash bar
4. Reweld crack in pannier frame
5. Change oil
6. Clean engine fins
7. Reset valves
8. Reattach headlight to front forks (now headlights will move with handlebar

Left my bike in his well trained hands and returned to la casa blanco (The White House). Busting in on some Hayley situps. Busted out for some food. I hadn’t eaten since my crap fruit salad early in the morning. Ate some chicken, rice tomato and beans for $2. The Chicken was frozen on the inside. The Cocinera reheated it for me. Drunk Tamarindo juice until the lady ran out and returned to the room. Hayley was watching Braveheart.

More to come here... some time when I have time.

Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica
th April2005


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A Two Toed Sloth soaking up the sea breeze 30 feet above the sand. Below, monkeys and anteaters meandering around the lower branches and forest floor. Bright red Hermit Crabs snapping the sunshine whilst water iguanas tussle on the shoreline.

Just bussed it back from Manuel Antonio National Park, 200kms South West of San Jose, Capital of Costa Rica.

(Left bike in San Jose: Cleaning out my carbs and waiting for new chain and sprocket from Oz. Mail sucks here. One out of four packages in the last six weeks has arrived)

The bus ride sucked. Arrived to a hot sun. Flip flops melting into the sticky pavement. Got a room and ran to the beach. Rainforest stopped by for a drink. Pounding four foot shore breaks. Wind licking the sacred side of the disc. Light offshore wind waking waves. Swam, ate, explored, surfed for the first time. Played cards, laughed, screamed, imitated various animals, played dominos, chatted with random peepol.

Slept.

Left for National Park the next day. Giant oval shaped exoskeletons scuttled over the rocky shoreline. Snapping their limbs in anticipation of the days events. Every view screaming life. Glowing green cavernous paths meandered beneath the monkey and sloth filled canopy. Seven species of bird visible in a single glance. Anteaters shoving their noses like over-ripe carrots into the organic tidbits littered through the forest floor.

Step onto the beach. You sense movement. Kneel down, looking closer at the sand. Tiny hermit crabs shuttle across their homeland. Clawing at your fingertips when you try to capture one. Wondering what they would taste like in a good soup. Mm. Crab soup, lizard soup, monkey soup, sloth soup. All here for the taking. Losing train of thought..

Across the next craggy rock is a small sandy beach. I swam 100 metres onto shore. Two three foot Iguanas talking to each other. I crawled up to within two metres. They didn’t do much except spit into the air, and imitate old Mr Universe moves..

Lyrics Born. Repeated the process the following day, rinsed for an hour and hung out to dry on the Hills Hoist.

Arrived back at San Jose. Carb complete. New battery. Chain and sprockets didn't arrive. However, a massive box of Icebreaker threads arrived just in time for last threads of my underpants to snap, making a gravity induced bee-line to settle on my holy socks, ready for burial. I spent the following hours parading around my room at Nomada's Hostel in my new gear. To Hayleys sparkling nods of delight. She seems to be impressed.

Four pairs of underpants, six pairs of socks, one singlet, three t shirts, four long sleeve extreme adventure stylee tops and an awesome ultralight weight jacket that kicks ringhole, and stickers. Now I don't have to shave, wash or clean my clothes. Being man-handled by pure Merino wool gives one extreme gratification no matter what the occasion.

I met Wilhelm the owner Costa Rican Adventures, and his brother .... the owner of KTM in Costa Rica upon arrival in San Jose. Willhelm offered to receive my gear, and directed me towards a good store to purchase a chain to pull me forward until my RK chain arrives.

Hayley and I packed the bike with lightning speed (if you are a sloth), and drove through rain, fog, dirt, curving mountain trails, high beam truck lights, tarmac loving night cows, wild horses, cheese country, cloud forest, lakes and rivers. Cowboys lassooing a bucking foals cantering over the blackened volcanic soil as the sun tripped backwards over the foliage edging the top of a distant hill.

We arrived in Fortuna at the base of the most active volcano in the Americas as the clouds camoufloged the spitting lip of a dribbling natural phenomenon. Stumbling into Hotel Sissy we shuffled into the room. The air is sweet, the roads are good, the land is green and the people aren't mean.

Next day, the owner of the hostel invited us to a ATV and dirtbike rally. 30 vehicles tore down a rock filled mud trail we us in tow on Wolverine. Crazy people. We stopped when the rocks on the road were nearing the size of my rear wheel. Right on the edge of fast flowing river. Four bikes got stuck. Got some awesome photos.

Left the next day, stopping for a german chocolate cupcake and an unfortunate motorbike accident victim who had just lost half her front teeth among other things. Always wear a full face helmet. Hayley's face grimaced into 30minutes of shock. Not nice to see an accident.

Bike is squeaking funny. No idea what it is. On our way to Nicuragua. Aim to arrive by nightfall.

San Jose, Costa Rica
10th April2005


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Cruising to the Three Palms on the northern Atlantic coast of Panama.

Photos of Costa Rica coming soon (as soon as I take them)

I finally left Panama city. Thank the lord. On the last day everything almost went to plan.

I paid my bill, opened up the doors to my personal garage and started the bike. Well, I tried to start the bike. It didn't start. A push start will do it I thought. For my final goodbye I was hoping to pull a big wheelie down my home street.

Instead I pushed it down, sweating my nuts off in full moto gear in the 40degree heat. Roll start with the help of Jimmy the street dweller. No go. I pushed it around the block with the help of seven local street kids. Still no luck.

The local hairdressers brother helped me push it to a really big one way street (the cutout switch was severed when the chain snapped two days back, so when I let out the clutch on a hill it cutout automatically).

Thankfully I chose a really big hill and it started. I tore straight to Joe Hummer the moto man's house on the other side of town to pick up my new tire and grips. He let me use his soldering machine and I stuck the wires of my cutout switch back together, replaced what was left of the front sprocket cover and tore off, new wheel strapped to my pelicase. I turned down the hill and realized I didn’t turn the fuel line on. I was coming up to a big intersection and couldn’t take my hands off the handlebars to flick the switch. The bike cut out. My battery was still flat. I found a local gardener to help me push start.

Last stop Phillip Judge the saintly Australian's house. My clothes and Easter Eggs hadn’t arrived so Phillip offered to look after it when it arrived and forward it on free of charge. Amazing and unexpected kindness.
I rolled started my way out of his garage and onto Rio Mar 130kms north. I arrived just before sunset. My bike lost traction. I thought I had lost the chain again. But no! It slipped off the sprocket. Crap $20 chain. I fixed it back on found a local surf hut and slipped off into some hammock dreams.

On a good note, I did manage to purchase a pair of board shorts straight off the arse off the surf hut owner for $15. My old pair were moldy, so I bought pair for $2.99 in Panama City. That same day I ripped them almost in two on his trampoline.

Next stop, the Three Palms, North West of Panama City, an hour before David. I was enjoying the road so much I missed the turnoff by 20kms.

I turned back and turned in to the right path overtaking an elderly police captain in his bright green homemade buggy. He gave me his steeliest smile and iron thumb for the camera. I rolled on 100kms hour. He didn’t care. Good ole’ dodgy cops.

I arrived at the beach and shredded straight onto the sand 3kms north west. The sand spread its wings 100metres deep and 12kms wide. I tore a solitary path straight to the hostel.

Two minutes later the Police captain tore in after me, asking if he could get a copy of the photos. No worries there Captain. I asked if he could take me for a spin along the beach in his homemade machine (photo above). He obliged. We tacked back onto the yellow and made like a jeep down the brick road. I snapped away, he lapped it up with a superior gaze into the sunset. He was loving it.

He slammed the wheel to the left and sprayed a rocky wave into the onshore wind and headed back to camp.
I ran into the water and splashed in the Pacific waves. Returning once my body had returned to ocean temperature. At home in the ocean.

The evening was spent discussing religion and slapping my bare white skin in hope that I would catch the musky little sand flies nibbling at my sides. Occasionally I slapped a few other people pretending I was trying to kill a mosquito just for kicks. You have to make fun some days.

I passed out in the hammock of one of the stilted huts opening onto the ocean front. Waking only when the sun rose up behind me and lay its rays on the water once more. As it does every other day.

This day, I snorkeled, terrorized beach lovers (2) on my motorbike. The northern end had really deep sand. Not so good to get stuck in when the tide is coming up and you are only wearing thongs (flip flops). I jumped off the bike and revved my wheels from knee to ankle deep sand and continued on back to camp. Fitness and a solid face stuffing followed closely behind. Started reading a new book, tossed a shitty old Frisbee and fell into a brief and entertaining conversation with Roy the sex-crazed owner of this lovely residence on South American ladies.

Ate, dozed, swam a km or two dolphin style and ran back. I fell asleep on my hammock and woke first light. Readying myself for Bocas Del Toro on the northern Caribbean coast of Panama. It rained for three straight days. I stayed one, and continued onto San Jose.

The next morning my bike wouldn't start (yesterday). I borrowed some jump leads from a taxi driver to no avail. My carburetor is dead. I convinced a total stranger to help me load my bike onto his ute and drive me to a local mechanic where We cracked it open to discover a few problems. I have to wait until Tuesday to get some new parts. So I am off by bus to a local national park to chase monkeys, sloth's and turtles.

Does anyone know of any lonely brand new KTM LC4's (motorbike) looking for some TLC? I am free for babysitting.

Sha-pinggg.. chrrchrr chhrr chrr chr...

Crap. My brand spankin new $20 chain head butted into my front sprocket housing and sandwiched out all available airspace. Humph.

I stepped off the bike and onto the grotty footpath to survey the damage. A Car Watcher (man who watches your car if you pay him a few bucks) hobbles towards me with a shiny metal link. I still needed to get a new clip to hold it on.

I jumped into a Rastafarian taxi cab and tore through the peak hour traffic, dance hall reggae blaring from the broken windows.

Six wrong turns later I found myself two spare links, $1.50 a piece.

Rastaman guided me back to LOST1 (my bike). Five minutes later I would be away..

I pulled out my tools and set to business. A line of street hermits lined up for assistance, eager to help in exchange for a beer. Quivering away on the sidelines they watched on.

The chain had torn apart most of the housing, locking itself inside. I had to snap the little chain rooter off. With man power on the rise, two guys helped me tilt the bike onto its side. Easier work. Six hands, two screwdrivers, the blunt end of a socket wrench, and an old rusted set of pliers could not wiggle the clip onto my new chain links.

Intoxicating fumes wafted from the lips nearby. Still no luck. Sun disappeared. Shop lights turned dull. Can't see shit. Covered in grease, gutter gunk, and Panama sweat. Too much. I fixed a makeshift clip and rolled away.

Two blocks down the Tyre Puncture Men were still at work. Steering towards the light Idismounted, scrambled in my pockets for the missing parts and found the original link and the last clip.

Lo and behold, it clipped straight on. Thank God for the Car Watcher, Tyre Puncture Men, electricity and good needlepoint pliers. 8pm I sauntered home, typed this here message. Now? Mm. Well. Nothing. Oh yeah, my flatmate couldn't make to the toilet and urinated into my almost finished Red Bull. I came extremely close to drinking urine for the second time in my life. Then I accidentally spilled it on my keys.

And there is some random guy walking around the street outside my balcony with no pants on.

30th March 2005
My one week old clutch cable just broke again. Cheap parts are crap. I need an indestructible machine.

Casco Viejo, Panama
28th March2005


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Scraping for life in Casco Viejo.

The monsoon is chasing me. I knew I've been stuck in Panama too long. The rain and wind knocks itself senseless against the window pane.

Sitting at a polished oak boardroom table for eight. I met an awesome family from Australia on Isla Taboga, 15kms from the Panamanian coast. Their son and daughter were playing around with a new kite. I used to kite surf when I was a kid so I decided to show him a trick or two. I broke his kite.

Instead of flogging me and sending me on my way they invited me to their 23rd story apartment/headquarters of the Anglo Far-East Bullion Company for some Australian camaraderie, serious bandwidth, ocean views and some fine fattening food. A far cry from my 75cent one meal a day life in Casco Viejo.

I have spent the last few weeks fabricating new brake pads (with asbestos – all they have), hacking the teeth off a 520 sprocket and welding into onto a worn Chain Gang 530 sprocket (sounds nuts but it was my only option, they don’t have sprockets for my bike anywhere near here), stealing some kids old bicycle clutch cable (don’t sell them for my bike), rebuilding my air filter (don’t sell them here) and fixing my ScottOiler (with windscreen wiper piping). Much thanks to CJ the self proclaimed Pikey!

To top it off the prostitute from across the hall came around for dinner a few nights back (cooked over my MSR portable stove - I don't think anyone has ever cooked for her before), the hippy living in my room hasn't left his unicycle or juggling gear alone since he moved in two days ago, the crack head who lives just outside the hotel now relies on the second half of my apple juice in a can, which he believes he can't actually live without it, and....

Casco Viejo. Gunshots ricochet down allies every day or two. Occasionally I catch a shootout in progress from the balcony. Sometimes they live, sometimes they die. Protests storm the sandstone streets. Street families hang around for a helping hand. Half naked transvestites whistle from 2nd floor balconies. Coke 35cents. A cigarette 7 cents. Life is cheap, but culture is strong. This is what you see on the outside.

After a month here, I have worked my way into this life. The strength of the people is inspiring. A rich Catholic culture blending the Indian, Chinese, African and Anglo-saxon culture into a mountainous multicultural manifestation.

Many smiles greet every day awakenings. I get a good five handshakes and at least ten genuine smiles just on my way to breakfast. If you chose to live their life, its like they accept you into the family. Hanging out in the street watching life pass by.

I wish there was a way to explain this place. You have to see it to believe it.

Still waiting for some new clothes from Australia and an Easter Egg from my mum (haven't had an Easter Egg in three years). Moving on tomorrow. I could be waiting a month. This is the longest I have stayed in one place for over a year.

*The Argentinean juggling unicycle hippy moved next door as his professional "wheels of hula fire" girlfriend just arrived. They earn up to $70US a day working the streets of Panama. We still share a mate (argentinian tea) most mornings. I am now living with a budding American 20yr old tattooist trying to make a break in the tattooing world. He would have got here sooner but had to wait for his six month probation to end. If you want to meet interesting people. Come to Casco Viejo.

9:01pm... The Judge families Columbiana chef just baked an extremely tasty Corvina (fish) fillet. Whilst Elliese and Carlton secretly wrote me a letter and packed me an Easter Hamper. Carlton however couldn't help himself. Yes Carlton, I saw the chocolate smeared all over the side of your face before dinner. The first Easter chocolate in three years. Very impressed.

Panama City, Panama
8th March2005


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One of my new biker mates arrive on the scene engulfing Nightrider (my bike- back left) at the recent Yamaha Rally in Panama.

I arrived without a splash (of my bike falling into the water) in Porto Belo and tore my way along the shoreline towards Panama City.

The metal shutters of trade rose to the sun as I turned the ignition. Touring every motorcycle store in town looking for new bike parts. Chancing upon Beto, the Manager of BMW in Panama (former Latin American motocross champ) who informed me of a rally the following Sunday.