Isla De Margarita - off
the coast of Puerto Lopez...about 400kms north east of Caracas Every fence on the island is over two metres and
coated in barbed wire and broken glass. To get into our room I need
four keys starting from the front gate.There is a host of 'old fogies'
cruising through the night and day taking a swing at anything that
comes their way. Long time removed from a different society. Seems
similar to raping and pillaging.
Santa Elena, Venezuela - Me
testing my Parkour
skills on the top of Mt Roraima
4th January 2005 - Late To cross from Guyana to Venezuela it is necessary to pass through Boa Vista. Stopping only to bend my handlebar back into shape after an incident in Guyana. 200kms into a 600km muddy virginal tract of road one giant rippling patchy brown Puma sauntered across our sandy path 40metres ahead. The biggest cat I have every seen in its natural environment. This was the predominent reason for the Guyana detour (big cats, Papillion and REAL VIRGIN RAINFOREST!). It was the final animal on my personal list of large carnivorous things with teeth I wished to see before exiting this wonderful place. Jumping around like an idiot five kilometres on I lost control of our overloaded 409kg bitch from hell bike hurtling us to our ultimate destination, bumping and sliding ten metres into a dirt wall. This area of forest houses one of the most concentrated puma populations in South America. Less than 100kms further we arrived at a river halting all progress until a truck (approx tw per day) came to cross. They only use the pontoon for cars or trucks - motorbikes are free hence the lack of interest in crossing just for us. We sat in the waning light praying for a large ten wheeled beast to roll our way, passing the time I hurtled head first into the darkened waters lapping at the steel walls of the pontoon fused for flotation, after checking with 16year old boat captain that there was nothing interested in eating me underneath the glistening surface. He shook his head with a winning smile. Hayley was desperate for a paddle. We sat watching as a trail of bubbles swivelled up to break the surface right in front of us. I am pretty sure it wasn't a scuba diver. I assaulted the pip-squeak captain with my thoughts, querying as to what exactly lives in this river. His eyes glinted with delight. Hmm. What the hell lives in this water? 20 foot caimans, giant river otters, various piranha and other very large fish with very large teeth. His head rocked back in delight as his body shook with this expulsion of local knowledge. They only live 100metres up river and down river as they are scared of the pontoon. Bloody hell. Hayley didn't go for a swim, or anywhere near the waters edge. Images of Linda bending over for a drink in Crocodile Dundee flashed through her mind. We set up camp ten metres from the waters edge. A local wise man waddled down to inform us we would be eaten if we slept in our current location, recommending we stretch a hammock in his shack. A few minutes after the cold sweat of shock subsided we moved camp. Under four tons of weight we could not bend the pro tapered bar badly mangled after our incident. We bounced our way down to the local "difficult metals" man who decided to apply a bit of heat and managed to weld a giant hole into it. Awesome. Still, cheap fix and we were on our way to Mt Roraima. At least I didn't need to scrounge around for a new handlebar. Return to top...
2nd January 2005 We goin places tomorrow like. We be leavin this fine city of God. Tha blessed place where da lonesome traveler replenishes his soul. Woke up, got outta bed, dragged a comb across my head…. We saw an international football match last night between a local Guayanese team Fruit Conquerors vs Saint Lucia. Local pickup lines… 1. Ya wanna chicken or some lickin’? 2. You got sumwun ta share that pineapple with? I was taught the bearclaw yesterday afternoon. The fist is for fightin the Rastafari man says. The Bearclaw is the true Rastafari welcome. Place your opened palm towards the other parties opposite hand, who them grips the open palm with his each finger sliding into a space on the other, one finger wedged between the other. Then to confirm respect you bang your chest with the thumbside of your fist. There are a hell of a lot of Rastafaris in this town. So the game last night was nuts. Totally nuts. There was a guy selling nuts. “Who wants sum a’ ma hot salty nuts? Warm salty nuts! Get ya nuts right here! You want some nuts I got ya nuts!” And some other Homeboy yellin’ “You want some bling, I got da’ ting! Whatever that means. The game churned out the absolute best that Guyana has to offer. Thousands of black and beautiful people straight out of Puff Daddy and Missy Elliot film clips and some very hard looking men looking similar to someone who might own a jail. Amin the DVD renting guy who hangs out on front street just came around to deliver the latest reggae, dancehall and hip hop in the caribbean. Return to top...
29th December 2004 7:17pm The most dangerous city in South America. We woke to a Niew nickedew dawn and were on the bike and down the sandy dirt road to the river border 30 minutes later without breakfast which has become a normality. I have grown used to starving. We had one Indian meal on the Guyanese side of the border today at about 1pm. One meal in 24hours. I have become a skinny rake and my fitness regime has gone out the window, but I am healthy. Hayley sorta seems to secretly enjoy the one meal a day. Some girlI think I have experienced my fair share of suffering on this kind continent. I am dreaming of luxury. Every day I don’t stop thinking about luxury: a new motorbike, a camera that worked, a bike with more space, a bike that didn’t break down in every country. Suriname was almost the first country that I passed without needing to fix something on my bike. On our way back from the only beach in Suriname which incidently sucked something happened. Nothing extraordinary – just a broken clutch cable. Thankfully I have had a spare cable taped to the current bike cable just in case this occurred. Even more lucky, I found out 2 months ago when I was giving my bike an overhaul I discovered it was too long. Anyway, this is taking way to long and I am losing my train of thought. I started squeezing the puss out of my infected left knuckle. When I bend my forefinger a scab pops open and a yellowish muck slurps it way out in to a puss ball perched effortlessly on the skin. Its beautiful sight. Hayley continues to ask my not to do it as if will make it worse but I can’t help myself. Its addictive. When I first burnt my finger melting plastic in Goibal, the liquid was clear and shot out like a water jet. Not any more my son. Sidetracked After the cable breaking I decided to keep on moving a bit closer to town to find shelter in case it rained. 20 minutes later we stopped at a small mechanic servicing scooters on the rain side. A Indian jumped out of nearby building and started asking the problem, then informed me he would like to help. I had a spare and it was not hard to change but I nodded nonetheless. He moved like a little QuikeeMart attendant after sneaking one to many Red Bulls. Arranging instruments on the seat of nearby scooter he set to work. We walked to a nearby shop selling everything metal. But it wasn’t a music store. Hayleys nipple has just popped out the top of her towl. She is writing in her diary and has absolutely no idea. For some reason I find that very attractive. She just reached for the Coke… she noticed it. Crap. Now really sidetracked Long story short, Boy repaired the original cable and we were away in 30minutes. It cost 1.75 Suriname Guilders for the piece of metal and services free. Don’t even know what I want to talk about now if I even want to talk at all. But since I am not actually talking I guess it is no real cause for concern. My boots stink. I walked into a store an hour ago and noticed a reflection looking remarkably similar to me. Except his hair was matted and dirty, his shirt, shorts and skin were stained with oil, his beard was erratically shawn in his sunken jaws. There also seems to be a small piece of dogshit stuck to his left dirtied white Haviana flip-flop. Return to top...
25th December 2004 Woke up to Hayley making two metre stumbles towards the toilet bowl, throwing forth stomach lining in ten minute intervals. We celebrated Christmas Eve in style. Christmas presents!!! Steve received o One camel brown commando firearm, which slides forward with each pull emitting real bullet sounds. The package says “ Go ahead, pull my trigger” o One bright orange strainer o One can of Crown chunky peanut butter o One flying balloon thing with propellers that we saw in Santarem three weeks ago that I marveled at for hours and Hayley bought after she preoccupied me with an ice-cream and internet. Hayley received o Two oranges o A funky little camouflage backpack o One giant 12 shot firework bomb o Four Thunder King Double Voice rockets o 12 mini rockets o 80 Jumping Jacks o Chocolate chip cookies o Nut Crunch Granola stuff o Two more oranges o A stripped coconut o Choc filled mint lollies o Four butterfly rockets Return to top...
Cayenne, French Guiana -
Alex from Polymeca motorbike store showing French Guianas stand
on Australia
Somewhere between Macapa,
Brazil and Cayenne, French Guiana - on a road that does not
quite exist
Rio Amazonas - Macapa, Brasil
... Old river man waiting for his time to come... I have called ahead to new found friends Diego and Xavier from Polymeca Motorbike store in Cayenne, French Guiana who are very kindly sorting me out with new front and rear spokes and other such items to get me on my way. Diego also sent me an awesome photo of some geezer riding around Amazonas on a motorbike in 1982. (I just found out that the photo is of Xavier, the owner of Polymeca in Cayenne, French Guiana. He was the first man ever to arrive in French Guiana by land over 30 years ago) Over and out like a boy scout. Onwards and upwards
as they say. I should be crossing the Equator again later on today.
Got to try that sink thing... clockwise, anticlockwise...
Rio Amazonas - Macapa, Brasil Mum would be proud. Sniff. I have managed
to haul my 200kgs+ motorbike and my own skin and bones the full
length of the Amazon
from the piddly little Rio Napo in Ecuador, down towards the jungle
capital of Peru, Miss Iquitos, through the drug pedalling pedal
pushers haunting the streets of Leticia in Columbia, straight through
the heart Manaus, ending on the upper lip of the Amazon in Macapa.
There are not really drug pushing pedal pushers in the streets of
Leticia, they have been over run by the pineapple and watermelon
pushers.
Rio Amazonas - Santarem, Brasil We explored the coast line by foot for miles north and south of our little pueblo (village) then heaved our way by motorbike through the fine silky sand that occupies every crevice on my person to Maguari. Barely a soul frequents these indescribable nieghbourhoods. Friendliness pours out their eyeballs. We edged our way through the primary forest of Tapajós National Park. Saw a tree wider than my first grade school teacher. At least 12 metres in diameter. Massive tree. I couldn’t see the top.Then beatbopped it down to the bottom once more. I have acquired many new scratches and rashes. Proud as punch I am. Forming quite an extensive collection. Paddled across the small river near Maguari to
camp on the sandy finger perched on the otra lado (other side).
Fell asleep naked one metre from the fire. Later passing out in
the best hammock camp in the world. IN 40 HOURS I WILL HAVE TRAVERSED THE FULL LENGTH
OF THE AMAZON FROM MOUNTAIN TO MOLEHILL WITH MY TRUSTY(ISH) MOTORBIKE!!!
- With my limited funds I will celebrate not with beer or wine,
but a few well directed fist pumps in the air.
I picked up my bike. A piece of paper was directed to nostril view
with a number on it. The manager got hammered by Honda head office
that very morning rating very low on his three month management
review. Hence my new 50% payment. Passing the buck.
0930, Friday 15th November 2004 Running around like a motorised mouse being chased by a coked out cat. I made it. Leticia, one of the most dangerously renouned pueblos (towns) in Columbia. The former drug running capital edges onto the border of Peru and Brazil. A pleasant town with a feel good vibe. There is a certain edge of hardness visible in the pupils of the local people. There is history in their veins. Most of the drug running has been pushed into the darkened corners, occasionly squinting through the darkness for unlikely prey. I felt safe. The 45year old man who owns our hostel used to make a cracking business buying Coco paste from the the local Indians. Who were forced to grow coco leaves to survive, as the return was much greater than fruit and vegetables. They used to stay in the same hostel I am in, and sell their coco paste to the owner. Who after testing the quality and weighing the contents escorted them back to the river for payment. Where he shot them dead and let them float home. This was the basis of his business. I dont think they have ever had a bike like mine ever in Leticia. I had the doctor, veterinarian and other local dignitaries passing by for a perve. The bike services here suck. I had some old codger fix puntures in my front and rear wheel. I had to redo both of them myself, plus he damaged my axle. The lovely Miss Hayley (view Ecuador photos) is arriving this fine and breezy Friday afternoon from Bogota to share in the Amazonian adventures coming to the frontline. Miss H will be accompanying me for the next few months through the mystery tour department. The state of Macapa in northern Brazil, French Guiana, Suriname and Guyana. More words when the words arise. Return to top...
The Lounge Bar- Iquitos, Peru
Hostal Leydi, Iquitos - Peru
Moto Uno – Quito, Ecuador Apple Store - Quito, Ecuador One month later, We left the premises en route to conquer Salar De Unuyi. We wound our way to Potosi, the highest city in the world en route to Salar De Uyuni, and set up camp for the evening. The highlight of the night was Geoff attempting to mount the curb on his moto in front of a few hundred people in front of our hostel and the local night market. He managed to wrestle his two wheeled friend to the concrete which rose to slap him in the face. Luckily a local strong man lifted Geoff and his bike back up to eye level. I came out to discover a tired and battered man and rode his bike in for him. The poor little fella. We continued to Uyuni the next day rolling in way after the dark
colours splashed their hue across the horizon. Why? Well, I don’t
think we have ever really has a smooth transition from one town
to another. 40 kilometres from Uyuni young Geoffrey ran out of fuel.
The sun had just disappeared. It was about -15degrees, no food,
and we wus tired. As Geoff rolled to a holt, I continued on in search
for some combustable fluid – also low on gas. If I didn’t
make it back the Gman was to set up camp, stay warm and await my
return with gas. 24kms on I found a small hut housing an elderly
lady willing to sell me gas for 130% of the standard price. Good
enough. I trudged back to Tomma and we trudged forward. Arriving
in Uyuni around 8pm. The next day we departed for Salar De Uyuni. It started as your everyday Bolivian Barbeque. Buckets of meat lined the glowing coals. Food, wine, beer and cocktails coveting every inch of tablespace. Owen “No Pants” Aussie and Hannah were to venture with us through a night of extreme randomness. Tommy boy and I have hung out with Owen and Hanna almost every night. Regularly removing clothes, whipping each other, and singing Barry Mannilows greatest hits. To warm up we ventured to the local football field (dust bowl) for disc action to find the local Bolivian girls football team had taken over the premises. This didn´t stop Owen from running up and down the sideline with his pants down screaming “go whities!! GO WHITIES!” We guzzled some longnecks and proceeded to spin the disc up and down the sideline. Owen was determined to decapitate a local Boliviana. Hanna in the meantime scoured the premises with Llica (fancy old camera) in hand snapping happy snaps and picking up local adolescents. She later told us they were picking her up. She was lying. Game over - Owen charged onfield chasing the disc. Ten minutes later we were rooted at 3000metres. Hanna managed to capture another brilliant snap of Owen with his pants down catching the disc. Returning to Gerts, we devoured several kilograms of meat, cooked by the finest mechanic in Bolivia Mr ex-Honda racer Nicky sporting a naked image of Caesar emblazoned on the frontside of his apron. We later stripped to the waist side and swapped t-shirts with his wifes approval. The night was mixed with dutch, aussie, english and bolivian banditry. At nights end twas all minus the Bolivians. We moved to Gerts loungeroom to consume more wine. Taking it in turns to whip each others naked buttcheeks with Erik´s (another dutchy) leather belt. Raging success. People were fighting for their right to be whipped. Dancing naked to 80´s music the party couldn´t possibly get any better, until Gert brought in the icecream and proceeded to dob a delicate scooop on my nipples and lick it off. These dutch have a way with hospitality. Hanna couldn´t deal with it. So she sandwiched herself between the mixed bag of boys on the floor under cover of Gerts blanket. Geoff and I proceeded to groove our rectums around the room until
Geoff passed out on the couch. An hour later we exited the premises.
Love-in in full motion. Geoff and I proceeded to coat various surfaces
of the household with pickles, nutella, butter and chilli sauce
and exited for a satisfied nights sleep. The first 24hours of Tomma´s arrival involved being barraged
by commentry regarding his love bunny Tai. He would actually wake
me in the night to inform me yet again just how special she was.
We spent six weeks apart. On his first day he racked up five and
a half hours. Mostly cybersexing, professing love, parading his
stomach and genital areas to the webcam. Back to San Javier, I left and made tracks for Santa Cruz. Around midday I ran into a roadblock near San Julian. The fun never stops. The locals were complaining about teachers pay. They had lopped down a couple of hundred trees over 45kms to stop traffic until the pay was increased. (Bolivians have a fascination with roadblocks and protests. Which resemble giant street festivals…... People drinking, yelling, partying and occassionally raising their fists in defiance. It is said that a Bolivian protests success is based on how long they are able to keep up the road block rather than how the government or president reponds.) The traffic stretched for a few hundred metres. ***I met a Mennonite girl on a small motorbike who within one minute informed me that she was 15years old, spoke German, English and Spanish, and was married. I asked her what her religion was, she said she didn´t know. Her mum kept on telling her but she didn´t really care too much. Her husband a blond pint sized 15 year old walked up, took control, kick started to bike and rode off back the way they came. With her peaking over her shoulder waving goodbye. A modern day mennonite. (I met a lady in Santa Cruz named Catharina from Amsterdam who is writing a book on mennonites in Bolivia. You can email her for more information at cathbont625@hotmail.com. She has some awesome photos. I was one of the first to arrive at the scene along with a busload of elderly german vacationers. The detour was an extra day. Or I could drive straight through in 40 minutes. The locals informed us the protest could go on for days. Often the people get aggressive, throwing rocks and other blunt objects at anyone who attempts to pass. Fuck it, I thought. So far everyone has waved or stared in shock when I careen past their field of vision. Hopefully they would stay in a state of shock until the wind changed. I figured if I took it slow and smiled, threw in a few waves they wouldn´t throw any stones or scalp me. I meandered around and over various trees (challenging routes) passing piles of beer cans, people carrying active chainsaws, push bikes, stranded cars and one car that had been set alight in the middle of the road. A little further on there was one kid walking alone in quiet stretch of road. I stopped to ask if he wanted a lift. He accepted. The ten year old clamboured up my leg and slid in behind me. We tore our way through the felled woodwork till a huge crowd appeared. We tiptoed our way towards the waiting masses. Here was the tester. The heart of the protest. Initially they stared, then they laughed and I even got a few high fives... these guys were cool! I cruised at a snails pace as a couple of hundred protesters parted Moses style for me and my new protege perched at rear mount. I think they were so confused as to how the hell I got through. None of the local cars or local bikes were able to make it through. I was the first. They seemed so impressed with my effort they forgot to assault me. We continued on until 20kms later the freezing little local lad
tugged my sleeve to inform me his house was near. He was icy cold,
wearing thin pants and a tshirt. Earlier I gave him my gloves which
reached past his elbows and tried to give him some clothes but he
refused. His shivering shoulders and bulging eyeballs (We were going
pretty fast in some parts) thanked me for the ride and I continued
on to arrive in Santa Cruz. 23 May 2004 The other guy got his genitals massaged by his certain camp leader when he was 14 years old. Six years later he accidently bumped into him overseas on new years eve, and ended up reuniting for a history lesson. Not what I was expecting. Makes for interesting conversation. Every day a new story unravels itself from a strangers heart. The next day I pushed on for Valle Grande, the burial zone of Che Guevara. Cruising through the undulating foothills I arrived at dusk and
made camp on the floor of a local Kawasaki teenagers restaurant
floor (who had assisted me collecting items for my faulty Korean
nit removal potion). 22nd May 2004 I made a break the next day for Santa Cruz. Befriending three Bolivian farmers en route. Great guys. At Conception we met for lunch where they insisted I share lunch. They insisted on paying, refusing cash or sexual favours. I pulled into San Javier for coffee. Enquiring at a local bar if coffee was on the menu. A Korean 50 year old woman gave me the nod. Dr Lee Sook lived in Brazil for 25 years and San Javier for five years. A professional acupuncturist practicing for 30 years. I enquired if she could shove a few needles in my back. Dr Sook says “First, fermal baaf (thermal bath - with Korean/Brazillian/Bolivian accent). Deal. 15kms by dirt road. How do we get there? “Moto.” Alrighty then. She ripped out a picnic hamper, shoved some random implements in, strapped it to my bike and we beat it down the bitumen. She didn´t look the risk-averse character, so I kept it slow. We hit the dirt, “faster! FASTER!” yelled Dr Lee. With a 50year old Korean bouncing on the back seat we hovered over dirt, sliding around corners at 100kms an hour. The world is full of surprises. Arriving at the natural spring I entered the misty green puddle
to rest my weary limbs. She instructed me to lie down, on my stomach and proceeded to stab me with sharp implements right there next to the water. Phew. Not so bad after all. She used a combination of acupressure (little suction cups with a whole lot of suck placed on your back in various meridian positions) and acupunture (needles inserted directly in the centre of these points). I had only ever had one or the other. Never combined. It was a mind bending experience. She placed eight cups on my back and jammed in some needles, then instructed me the reenter the water. It felt as if someone had pinned my shoulderblades together. If I flinched the skin would have ripped clean from my trapezoids. I eased to my feet and precariously entered the water. I could barely suck air or gasp a word. Head spinning...this was repeated three times. On the third time, as I entered the water a local family arrived to share the watery myriad of bubbles that gyrated to the surface. By this stage I had had 24 suction cups and needles placed on or in my back over the last 90 minutes. My head softly spun around sliding cerebral thoughts. Barely aware of the frolicking family warming their waists at my rear. I was submerged when they arrived, so they had not viewed my bloodied back. Neither had I. After five minutes my head was spinning in the wrong direction. Focus was no longer my forte. I imagined maybe this was the plan and she was going to render me unconscious before cutting me open and selling my kidneys. I swivelled my eyes left, noticing for the first time a pile of bloody cotton wool balls. Last time I had acupunture and acupressure there weren´t no blood damn it. There was alot of it. My head hummed. I realised if I stayed submerged much longer I would faint. I have never fainted before. I have been knocked out... many times (all self-inflicted), but never fainted. (***I have been recently been informed by the older sister of Miss Shagmiester, Miss Peta Shagmiester, that it normal for blood to come out of your pores when receiving acupressure) I reached around to touch my back, fondling huge welt marks that had commanded the attention of my entire back. I unsteadily attempted to exit the water. Glancing dizzily towards the local frolicking family I took note of their faces seared with shock as they locked eyes with my bumpy back. My feelings of intensity heightened and I crawled (literally) towards the towel where I lay, heaving in relief. She removed the cups and finally, I was able to breath a little. We made our way back to back to her hostel/ acupunture centre/ karaoke bar/ restuarant where I was given a room to rest my soppy skull. I was the only person here. I lay down for ten minutes, sleeping for 12 hours. I woke once to a surprising scene. 2am and music was pumping. I stepped outside the door and peered into the bar. Dr Lee was singing a duo (Newton-John vs Travolta) Grease love song with a four foot five inch Bolivian whilst three other little Bolivians were swinging their hips in the background. Rightio then. I slipped quietly back to my room and passed out. The next morning I woke Dr Lee as I prepared for departure so she could unlock the exterior door to the outside world. She insisted on making me coffee (with a little whisky to warm the heart). Best coffee I ever had. Then wrote down some ingredients to help me get rid of my nits. Yes I still had nits. Here was the tonic. One tablespoon of olive oil Shake ingredients, place a small amount on four specific points on my skull leave it over night, next day dead bugs. I left with her secret lice removal tonic embedded in my diary. Skip four days ahead….. I didn´t find time to concoct the brew until I reached Valle Grande, the burial site of the famous Che Guavara four days later. A local lad offered me his restaurant floor where I was able to shiver myself to sleep for free. We spent half the night sailing the streets to create the special serem. I bathed my skull in this cryptic mix of dodgy produce, splashing it on my sleeping bag, in my helmet, on my jacket. I was desperate to rid myself of these critters (a special Permithrin-resistant strain). The next day my head still itched. I left the mix on my scalp for three days. (I was meant to wash it the next day). Still they rampaged. Finally upon arriving in Sucre, something had to be done. I quietly
consulted a new found dutch friend Gert, who runs the best bar/restaurant/hang
spot in Sucre. He took me for a spin on his ATV (All Terrain Vehicle)
to the local hospital, who mixed me up an ancient concoction. I
needed someone to remove them too. I was in Sucre alone. ***¨My I-Pod died. Why? Dunno. But it is killing me, softly. It seems that Bolivia is not the epicentre of the Macworld. I have spent many weary hours searching for a solution. There aint one. I need music. Damned I-Pod. Skip four days back to San Javier The friendliest country I have laid rubber on. I entered on the
20th of May heading from Caceres, Brazil, to the Border town of
San Matias, one of the most dangerous parts of Bolivia due to a
high level of cocaine trafficking into Brazil. The friendly peoples
at the Australian Consulate in Brasilia (Capital of Brazil) informed
me that the road into Bolivia from here is often used as a runway
for drug smuggling planes which land, purchase insane amounts of
Cocaine and depart in a jiffy. SAN MATEUS, BOLIVIA BORDER TOWN. Average street meal: AUS95cents. I entered Bolivia intending to arrive in Santa Cruz that night. I arrived four days later. Dirt road for 500kms. On numerous occasions I was warned by the Australian Consulate not to stop for the first 200kms. I passed three groups of people trying to wave me down, and one particular limp body laying unnervingly still on the edge of the dirt road. Perfectly carved hills dominated the Pantanalian (made that word up) marshland ahead. The lip of each hill specifically designed for launching Honda Dominators into the air. On occasions airborne for five to seven metres (in length). After 150kms my left pannier (aluminium box) was flapping in the wind. My airborne antics had cracked the pannier support struts in two places. My 49 litre box was held at two points along the bottom edge. One handed I continued 50kms whilst the other wrestled the metal. I arrived at a random township two hours before the sun ran away, quizzing a local farmer regarding my support issue. He pointed towards a shifty little mud hut near a team of rib rippling horses. “Wait there I´ll be back. I can fix it.” Good sign. He returned, albiet an hour later, and proceeded to worsen the
situation. Dripping hot metal all over my supersmooth Staintune
pipes, then welding over the holes used to hold the pannier in place.
Utilizing various homemade tools and kitchen implements and his
daughters coloured pencils the job requirement was satisfied. I
hammered towards the horizon utilising the inkling rays that radianted
on the northern tips of green to direct my handlebars. SAN IGNACIO Would you like airconditioning? No. Would you like a bathroom? No. What do you want? Sleep. The owner of the hotel pointed to a hammock laced up next to the dinner table. Thumbs up. How much? Nothing. Breakfast at 7am. Bolivia is full of extremely honest people. The second night I shifted to a bed. At 7pm, Davids son tickity-tapped on my windowpane. Two guests arrived wanting a room. Would I mind sharing a room with a randy brazillian girl (who had earlier enquired without a single drop of alcohol in her veins if I wanted to roll in the hay) or the hammock for free. I chose the hammock. After Geoffs rape stories (Gboy as the victim) I dont know if I could deal with any midnight confrontations. After a few beers in town, I was escorted to my hammock by a guy
who was drinking at our table. Nice gesture. As I said goodbye
at my door he revealed his true mission. He wanted gringo infiltration. I had been in San Ignacio for less than 24 hours and offered sexual favours from both sides of the fence. I thought these people were under control. INTRUSTIN´ FACT: The local church originally built in 1748
was the largest and most elaborate construction of its time in
Bolivia. It was later knocked down, rebuilt, knocked down, and
rebuilt again, finishing a few years before I arrived. Each pillar
towering 20-25 metres skyward, constructed of single trunks. The
interior housed a mosaic display of intricately carved walls, roof,
chairs, statues, paintings, portraits, etc all wood. The most impressive
wooden church I have ever seen. A Bolivian circus was in town, 10B’s entry (AUS$2). I couldn´t resist. The security guard was horse trainer, clown and labourer, the fairy floss lady was dancing girl and lion tamer assistant, etc. You get the picture. Half the animals were lame and couldn´t perform on cue, if at all. The lion almost munched the head off the tamer and the protective fence almost fell down. The finale trapeze performance, a single flip in the air was doomed. Three attempts, none successful. It reminded me of the circus I was in in Western Australia back in ´97. Good óle XXXX (dont want to destroy their reputation) Circus, oldest and shittiest circus in Australia. But admittedly even though we all had multiple roles at least we performed on time, in sync, and the animals werent dying. INTRUSTIN´STORY (HISTORY): When I worked in the circus years back, tigers, donkeys, camels and shetland ponies were housed in the same carriage, separated by a sheet of welded metal. One sunny desert day a toey tiger was particularly fiesty and started charging repeatedly into the metal divider. Cruising down a random West Australian desert highway, the big cat broke through. The semi-trailer ground to a halt, the driver and passenger helpless. Usually a gun is located in the cabin rear for extreme emergencies, but not today. Two minutes later the next truck arrived. The tigers salivating jaws were caressing the sinuous neck of the white shetland pony, in the process of crushing vertebrae. The shotgun arrived, cocked and aimed. BANG! The tiger didn´t flinch. BANG! Point blank skull. The tiger thrashed, throwing the pony against the bars like a paper mache pinyada. BANG! BANG! Muscles retracted, releasing their vice grip. The shetland shivered in shock and intense pain... blood sloshing from various puncture marks around its blood stained throat. The big cats eyes glazed over, two steps, (drunken tiger Bruce Lee stylin´) and it slumped to the floor. Animals scurried helplessly, descriptionless sounds screaming across the sand dunes. Crushing each other with their hooves, attempted to flee the scene. Nowhere to run. That night the metal divider was reinforced. END INTRUSTIN´STORY My physically abused moto was moaning for a few tweaks. I entered the premises of Caceres Honda, the most impressive Honda store I have even seen (in the state of Goia, Brazil, on the border of Bolivia). After salivating coffee stained saliva all over my motorcycle - not many bikes over 450cc´s here - they got the party started. Four hours later I was fully serviced. The manager instructed the lads to polish every surface. My bike was superskanky after sliding through excessive amounts of mud and dirt in the Pantanal and other backroads of Brazil. Caceres Honda donated two tshirts, three caps, a keyring and an arsepack, asking for nothing in return. Mr Japon the official Honda bike washer man chauffeured me around town facilitating and negotiating the purchase of various items on my behalf. We happy snapped at the store front and I wheelied my way into
Bolivia. I love Brasil. Brazil - Itacare Chillin' like Bob Dillan Rain, hail or shine Steve arrived in Itacare that day, the 18th of February. Two days before carnival began. Geoff and Mark arrived four days later with stories literally pouring over the esplanade. Since this day, we have had trouble leaving. Thanks to the abundance of fruit that flourishes in this district Steve has finally been able to lay his wretched butt bubbling to rest. No more sprinting to the nearest dark corner when no-one is looking or quick crouch when Geoff's back was turned. He's healed! He has been a healthy little chap until this morning. His head was getting itchy. He scratched. He found. Bugs damn it. He got some nasty little bugs hanging out on his nice healthy scalp. Geoff knew he should have quit spinning the local kiddies on his skull top at the beach. No more playing with children. They are all dirty and should be sterilized before being placed in contact with us old people. Dirty kids. Steve used a bug treatment earlier today designed to kill the little varmints. Two hours later whilst seated in the internet cafe tapping away at the keyboards he had a fresh scratch. Something squirmed at the end of his fingertips. Another critter. Chemicals can't even kill them. He mentioned something about shaving his head. That'll teach them a lesson. Itacare is the most formidable jail we have ever entered. We cruise around on the bikes in boardshorts and thongs (for your feet), teach kids how to play Frisbee at one of many beaches, go walking in the forest, drink, make friends every day and sit on our sweet arses. How are you meant to escape? Steve had his butt planted in an internet cafe in Itacare yesterday. Three local Brazillian girls crowded the computer next to him checking out man porn. The ladies over here have such a different perspective on sex, sexual fantasies and all that. During research on a particular project Steve came upon a site that proved to entertain them for hours. www.ratemycock.com. Do a search for the little General. That would be Steve. Since we have been in Itacare we have discovered much about life in Bahia. It is wild. Everyone is passionate about everything. Everyone seems to do what they want, when they want, how they want unbeknownst to others. Some actually get in trouble for it. Generally this is a good thing, but not as a rule. The local gents are so forward they almost fall over. They are like oversized penises parading the tourist strip hunting for the converted tourist. They say that once you go black you can't go back. If there is a lady within one thousand metres they sniff them out and pester them until either they or a mate has entered the premises. They wait until his back is turned and try again. If you attend Forro (local dance night) expect to be stabbed in the thigh. No, its not a knife. The game is not over till the game leaves town. If you leave a girl, friend, lover or wife on the beach for more than thirty seconds, you will come back to find her receiving a massage, dancing lessons, surfing lessons and Capoeira lessons simultaneously. She will be semi lubricated with beer being poured down her gullet. Her ears will be filled with brazilian love songs and her eyes bewildered at the packages on display thanks to the lads swimming attire. These guys are professional budgie smugglers. Often packing three of four birds at once. The local ladies will launch their lingua's (tongues) down your ready or not throat. They will sabotage the condom to ensure the seed is sent, tell you they are pregnant, whether it is yours or not. Then the second day you see them to break it off, they secure your email and start sending you semi-naked photos to lure you back. They stalk you day and night, hunting you down. The next day is spent touring local real estate to select your new premises for the next three years. She pops out a baby. It looks nothing like you but she is insistent. You have a blood test at her brothers friends doctors surgery. It comes back positive. It's yours (Is it?). By which stage she will be sneaking out of the house, to snag another tourist. You get the shits, and try to divorce her. She takes everything you have. The local law is on her side - so is the local mafia, then moves in with her new flame. You get chased out of the country - thankful that all you lost was your little pinky finger. Tourists are never hurt, unless they hurt themselves, get a local girl pregnant or get raped by the local seven foot transvestite. Two local people have been murdered in this small town in the last two weeks. One man, the local owner of the video store, had been penetrating marriages with more than an open hand. No longer is he capable. The local husbands of the molested banded together, dismembered his member and wedged the pulsating muscle between his teeth where it stayed. Local justice. No longer able to peruse the local talent or destroy the relationships or those that did not have any need to be destroyed. Many would question whether this course of action was appropriate. Everything is done different here. It is a different world with different rules. One thing is known, the lesson has been learnt. Do not be perturbed. Itacare is as close as you can get to heaven. Everyone stays. Nobody leaves. I have spent a total of three months of my life here (including my last visit). Since I was last here it has grown tenfold. I am afraid to see it in another five years. Maybe it will lose its appeal. Maybe it will stay. Either way, if you have a choice, come. More tales on Itacare to come later.Whilst in Itacare the team
ventured up to Salvador, the capital of Bahia for the second half
of Carnival. Heaving, sweating, stolen, maimed, bedridden, hosed
and comatosed. Many stories from Carnival currently being pumped
into the keyboard. The ride from Foz Do Iguacu to Sao Paulo was relatively uneventful.
I am proud to say on the other hand I rode the whole way without
a map by reading the local road signs, which incidentally suck and
are generally incorrectbr> Edging my way towards Rio De Janeiro the rain fell incessantly.
Never in my life have I experienced such catastrophic conditions.
Word of advice - never ever rush. It could be the end of you. I was pissed that I was in such a rush to make it to Itacare for Carnival. Very dangerous. The weather was not for riding in. Every two or three kilometers there was a crash, puddles big enough to cover the bottom half of a car wheel and potholes much larger and longer the bike itself. When I pulled into a petrol station people stared at me in disbelief. In a main city this is unusual. They obviously had similar feelings regarding the weather conditions. Rio De Janeiro and it was hailing on my noggin. I finally arrived at the first natural wonder of the world and it was pretty average. I couldn't see anything. It was lame ass. I was miserably disappointed and didn't really want to stay for a second longer. It was 9pm. I was cold. My balls felt like they had been sitting in a fishbowl for three days and dragged across the roughened pebbles swimming on the fishbowl floor. I shot some footage at a petrol station, to prove that I had made it. Then left. I visited Rio De Janeiro in 1999 and had tangoed as a tourist around the various sites that maintained their existence within the realms of the magnificent city that is Rio De Janeiro. I snaked my way out of town and fought Thor till my eyes wore into Eskimo slits and I was barely able to squint out of my drenched vista. I arrived in a nameless town and scored a room for $4 with four beds, TV, bathroom and the rest. I shot some footage in the bathroom and at 1am passed out. For 200kms I skirmished with Thor the previous night and therefore assumed I had 800kms left before arrival. I dreamt of rolling into Itacare that night. If only it were true. I rode about 1000kms every single inch wet and still hadn't arrived. I ran over a three foot lizard, I saw in excess of 20 crashes, two little puppys dead - one being eaten by vultures, and two people still sitting at the steering wheel very much dead after a head on collision. I discovered the accident occurred less than one hour before I arrived. One guy looked as if he was asleep at the steering wheel. The other was not wearing a seatbelt. His whole body was squashed like a concertina under the steering wheel pressed hard against the foot pedals. His head was peeping over the bottom of the steering wheel like he was attempting to spy an advancing soldier. I doubt if he had spotted anything he would be able to utter a sound. His jaw had been partly removed from his face and was hanging limp on his neck. A truly awful sight. Always wear a seatbelt. Every day I had ridden into the night usually finishing at about 2am. The last stretch of the day had potholes bigger than my motorbike. These roads are shithouse. I broke camp early. I wasn't arriving in Itacare today. I found a swish hotel looming in the gloomy darkness barely visible from the roadside. I entered to ask if they had access to the internet so I could contact the boys and understand their location. In Bahia internet providers are few and far between. They did.I convinced the undersexed homosexual assistant that he should let me dripping wet and stinking like overripe fruit behind his leather counter and sit in his nice clean seat to use the hotels computer. After much discussion he subjected to my advance and my time on the chair was secured. Upon leaving, a puddle had managed to form under the chair. Big enough that I was able to notice the streaks of grease plastered across my mottled forehead in the reflection. Water was still trickling down the chair leg as I exited the premises. When I look back on the last 10 days of my adventure it was undoubtedly rushed. I know we have three years to circumnavigate the globe. But I often wonder, is this enough? What's a man to do? Rush a dream? I don't know if this makes sense. Only time will answer this question. The gents later ventured to Morro De Sao Paulo off the coast of Salvador to celebrate Steves birthday. The birthplace of the Bogga Mane. Sweatsville USA, bedridden, open wounds, the Israeli wave anda whole lot more on the way. After returning to Itacare for a few weeks for recovery Steve and
Geoff ventured down to Rio De Janeiro. Steve for his third time
and Geoff for his first time. Adventure riddled shenanigans will
pour from the premises. Hold your horses. One of the most formidable waterfalls the world has ever known. It doesn't quite have the same mass as Niagara Falls, it isn't as high as Angel falls nor as massive as Victoria Falls but it is almost as good as all of them put together. Iguacu Falls manage to combine a little bit of everything to make it one of the most beautiful natural wonders that exist on this planet. (Note: Itaipu Dam was good, Iguacu falls were awesome!) This magnificent array of waterfalls is located in Southern Brasil in the state of Parana on the border between Argentina and Brasil. The falls stretch over four kilometres plunging 82metres into Iguacu River. Numerous rocky and wooded islands on the edge of the escarpment over which the Iguacu River plunges divide the falls into 275 separate waterfalls or cataracts. The name of the falls comes from the Guarani Indian word meaning 'great water.' In 1986 Iguacu Falls were declared a Natural Heritage of Mankind by Unesco. If you venture to Iguacu Falls make sure you visit Garganta Del Diablo (The Devils Throat). The one perspective of the falls you cannot miss. Phenomenal. From Foz Do Iguacu Argentina I made tracks to the Brazilian border.
The most time consuming border crossing yet experienced. Two hours
later the border official still hadn't located the appropriate papers
to even begin the process. I had to help him scour the office to
find them and then instruct him how to use his computer to fill
in the forms. The government has recently streamlined the process
of border control in Brazil. They changed the system in an attempt
to modernize and streamline border crossings. They forgot to train
their employees to work the new system. The efficiency of the Brazilian
system is...crap. Still, they are always smiling. Who's complaining? Since last in South America over four years ago I dreamt of making it to Brazil for Carnival. I departed with support from the lads to ensure my dreams were realized. Man on a mission. Eight days to cover 5500kms. My intent was to travel from the rubbish tip styled town of Comodoro Rivadavia, on the southern coast of Argentina where plastic bags strangled terrain on all sides - to Itacare, Brazil. Located in the southern sector of Bahia (most Africanized state in the world outside Africa) where forest chases earth to sea edge. I intended to arrive before the 18th of February. I detached myself from the almighty trio, and reclaimed independence for the remainder of the journey to Itacare. I wheelied my way away up the Argentinian desert highway with Mark and Geoff melting into the horizon at my rear (I have a newfound fascination with wheelies - actually its oldfound. I have always liked wheelies). On that first riding session I rode 450kms in one clean sweep - eager to get a groove on. I did not remove sweaty cheeks from lathering leather for a moment. Amounting to a total of five hours without stopping. I was so proud I celebrated with a tyre change. Removing myself from the pavement I set up shop on the roadside next to a giant patch of sunflowers gazing at the sky. Changing my second hand rear tyre bought in Rio Gallegos for $15 Australian dollars (it lasted almost 6000kms). In an state of apparent unconsciousness I left my visa card at the next petrol station. I can hear my family's voices ringing in my ears... 'Forget his head if it wasn't screwed on.' (I left my spare visa card at the following petrol station. F*#$in moron. No other word can describe it.) There were three checkpoints necessary for our record breaking
world adventure; Itaipu Dam, the Statue of Cristo Redentor and the
Bays of Rio De Janiero. I cruised down the highway far into the night chasing thunderstorms across the darkened horizon. Very surreal, I never knew if I was going to catch up, as the lightning swerved its way back and forth across the desert silence. I later passed out in my tent on the side on the road, which has become a regular occurrence, due to time constraints. I arrived in Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina with no maps or place to stay at midnight. I found a Hostel to rest my weary bones. I rode 1000kms on this day and was basically rooted. Entering, I smelt similar to a street peddler who had fallen over in his own excrement. I was pulling crowds left right and centre. In no time I was invited out for pizza across the road - done deal. Fifteen minutes later I was showered, deodorized and ready for pizza and beers. At 6am the next morning I was sinking beers with some random Aussie character named Rodger (you know Rodger don't you Philby? Rand?). Everyone from my hostel had left the club. At this drunken phase I realized my misfortune. I had no idea where the hell I was. I had no idea what the name of the hostel was, nor the street, suburb or approximate area it was located. After four hours, two cabs and about seven kilometers of city peddling I was getting closer. How did I know? I have no idea. Luck four hours later was on my side. I finally found the location by accident and passed out in my dorm about 10am. Four hours later my energy levels were replenished. I cruised the streets for bike parts securing everything I needed for the next 10,000kms. Buenos Aires had a whole street dedicated to motorbikes. Cool eh? The following day I rode from 9am until 6am the next morning. For the final three hours I searched for a reasonable place to stay and found jack shit. The rain was battering. Ringo Starr was camped out on my helmet. I had reached drowned rat status. I pulled into a fuel stop for a coffee and a stretch (I hadn't eaten anything for 36 hours due to an unfortunate bout of Brazillian Caganeira (butt flow) problems. I later found that some nasty amoebas had been hanging out in my rectum for almost two months. Resulting in one aggressive asshole determined to punish any porcelain that got within 100metres of my naked pulsating sphincter. There were fifteen trucks lined up alongside the same fuel stop and one red light glowing like lost embers in the distance. I advanced, almost passing out at the handlebars with tiredness. I was approached by three young barely legal ladies who softly draped themselves like curtains over me and my humble steed. Brothel? Yes. Would I like to be groped by three semi-clad boozed young females? It wasn't on the agenda. There was sex in the air and it stank like shit. Not my kettle of fish. I quizzed one young lady who was looming particularly close whether
I could just get a room to sleep. She was adamant that she would
have to be part of the package. Nope. I continued on weathered and
weary. I rode for three more hours weaving back and forth until
I came upon a police check point. I explained that to the kindred
coppers I was so tired I had started singing Simon and Garfunkel
songs to keep awake, and just wanted a place to sleep. All smiles
they pointed towards their garden and told me I could camp wherever
I wanted... cool eh? I had gone from sleeping in an Argentinian
police cell to sleeping in their garden. Things are definitely getting
better. So here I passed out. I woke four hours later refreshed
and ready to continue towards my goal. Jan 1st - Jan 6th, 2004 Easter Island is situated in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean. The Island's closest neighbour is the even smaller island of Pitcairo located 1900km west with the South American coast of Chile located 3700km east. This vast remoteness makes Rapa Nui one of the most isolated places on earth. There are many theories as to how such a small island became inhabited and even more speculation as to exactly how the enormous stone sculptures, Moai, were erected. The most accepted explanation as to how the Moai were moved from where they were carved at Rano Raruku volcano to their Ahu dotted around the coast is the use of wooden runners. The use of timber and huge numbers of Islanders helping to move the statues may explain the complete lack of trees on the island. There were almost no trees left on the island hundreds of years back. The Chilean government imported gum trees to Easter Island to help maintain stability. Now they are like weeds. Everywhere! They also imported a lot of gum trees into mainland Chile. Interesting eh? Steve had visited Easter Island back in 1999 and loaded the boys ears with amazing stories about the mysterious island many times over, so our expectations were high. As soon as we got off the plane and got rid of our luggage we had a wander around. Instantly we were taken back with the beauty and peacefulness of the place. We agreed it would be very easy to set up shop on Easter Island for a few months if not more. Plus they had awesome dirt-bike tracks all over the island. Moto-Nirvana. The local Rapa Nui were amazingly friendly. As soon as we arrived we were inspired by their generosity, honesty and enthusiasm for life. They were some of the friendliest people we had ever met. We guessed the isolation on such a remote island was a reason for bringing the people closer together. Easter Island is a pretty expensive hood to be hanging out in. Thanking Mr Mike from Snowgum we had three tents hidden in our aluminium capsules. We hailed a taxi for Anakena beach, one of two beaches on Easter Island located on the far side of this beautiful mass of land lumped in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Being New Years Day, even the taxi lady was hammered with grog.
On the way to Anakena the taxi lady was weaving back and forth across
the road like snake whose head had been hammered by a backhoe. She
even passed out on a few occasions. Dribble mounting charge from
her lips dangling listlessly over her spare tyre (stomach). Steve,
having experienced his fair share of car accidents offered to drive.
Smiles all round. Straight away she accepted and Steve drove the
Taxi the rest of the way. Interesting way to start the day.br> WARNING: If you choose to party with the local Rapa Nui you have to be prepared to right-off the next day entirely or just keep on going, as we discovered for ourselves first-hand. An Example: We all learnt the local dance which was the 'Suko' and got pretty mashed. The club closed at about 5:30am. Steve was wondering the streets rambling in Spanish with some locals, pisco in hand, whilst the Bogman and Geoff unbeknownst to themselves were about to embark on one of their most memorial experiences from the whole trip with some cool local guys who insisted on drinking some more. Geoff went back to their house on the back of a random guy's horse and Bogga went on the back of the other dude's motorbike! Having arrived at the house, there was only two bottles of Pisco, nowhere near enough for a big night/day of drinking. So Bogga galloped bare back through the streets on the back the same random horse to find a house that would sell more Pisco. After waking the resident, five more bottles in hand, Bogga swapped the horse for a motorbike somewhere in the street and made his way back to the house for some serious drinking. They began drinking Pisco and Coke and swapping stories in broken Spanish and English before a VW Combi rocked up with about 16 people inside and more Pisco. Everyone jumped out and started drinking while the guy driving the Combi pulled half a cow out of the boot and began cutting it up for breakfast. Apparently all these people were family and after 8:00am the details of what followed were sketchy as both Bogga and Geoff were heavily boozed. However, despite there inebriated state the following details were as clear as day: 1. Bogga got extremely drunk and started challenging people to arm wrestles. He kept showing everyone his forearms which he reckoned were papa-large and began to make gorilla like grunts before he passed out with his hand down the back of his pants (that's another story - This can only be told by Bogga). 2. We all enjoyed the cow at around 9:30am (except for Bogga who had been relegated to the mattress inside for excessive sweating and fear that he would morph in to the silver-back gorilla he was impersonating). This tasty dish was served on a few banana leaves as nobody felt like washing up. It was open slather as everyone dove straight in eating with their hands like a pack of lions feasting on a zebra carcass. 3. At some point Geoff passed out on the bathroom floor after trying to have a shower fully clothed. In his quest to cool down the silly idiot forgot the basics of shower etiquette - taking your clothes off before turning the water on. When Geoff woke from his bathroom slumber he was dazed and confused. In utter disbelief. The shock experienced was intense. He discovered a creature on top of him that you could possibly call female if you were looking at her in the right light. This Rapa Nui local had locked the bathroom door, taken her top off and was trying her damnedest to kiss Geoff, amongst other things. Geoff stresses that he had all his clothes on during this hideous encounter. He was wondering at the time why they were ringing wet, evidently from his morning shower earlier. He came to and reality set in that he was being raped. He clambered to his feet with what little strength he had whilst a member of the desperado girls family came to his aid after busting the door open. The guy started an onslaught of abuse towards this girl and with what little Spanish Geoff understood he got the feeling she had done this sort of thing before. As the argument continued the shouting voices became dimmer as Geoff retired to the same mattress Bogga had been ordered to only hours earlier and was comforted by the sight of Bogga, still with his hand down the back of his pants. 4. The estimated time Geoff hit the sack was midday. The boys did not rise until 8:00pm that night. Wondering where the day went they walked outside to discover a small number of dedicated locals still drinking and singing songs together. These guys were on no sleep, but still kicking on, what dedication! Bogga and Geoff said goodbye and began piecing together the events of the night before as they went in search of Steve who had his own stories to tell! Steve's day was relatively peaceful in comparison. He managed to hitchhike his way back to Anakena beach and pass out in the morning sun. He spent a lazy afternoon splashing in the ocean with the Marcela (Miss Extremely Sexy) and Francisca (Miss Chile). Two of the most beautiful young ladies we have had the pleasure of hanging out with on our journey so far. Can't complain. Our last full day on Easter Island was spent tearing around on some rented Honda's - two XR 250's (1999) and a mighty XR 650 (2001). Boy can that XR 650 thump. We were missing our Dommie's badly and to help settle our need to ride we spent a day checking out the various Moai sights dotted all over the island. Half the time was spent admiring the island, the other half admiring how good the island is for a place to ride. Some famous and inspiring sites we has the pleasure of visiting are listed below: 1. Ahu Nau Nau at Anakena: A row of Moai with a stunning backdrop of Anakena beach - one of two sandy beaches on the Island. 2. Ahu Ature Huki - A Moai statue standing all on it's lonesome. 3. Ahu Tahai - Three restored Moai located not far from the centre of Hanga Roa. Ahu Ko Te Riku positioned furthest north has a eyeballed and top knotted Moai. 4. Rano Raruku - An extinct volcano and the site where the Moai were cut from the ground and dispersed over the island. Scattered around the volcano is more than 600 moai - some standing, some lying and some just hanging out. At the slopes of the volcano we could see where Maoi had been cut out and even a few which were partially carved, never to be completed. After climbing to the top of the volcano we looked in to the crater below to discover a lake which we were told by locals was sacred and had healing powers. Needless to say we stripped off and swam in the lake naked to heal our sore muscles from the day of riding and to bless our dongers! 5. Ahu Tongariki. Easily the most stunning site we found on the island. The site contains 15 huge Moai lined up with their backs to the ocean on top of the largest Ahu ever built. The site had been restored in the early 1990's due to a tsunami in the 1960's. Former casualties of the event (Moai's chilling out in the grass - eyes to the sky) are to be found scattered all over the site. Walking on the Ahu is strictly forbidden. However not for the Lost On Earth Crew ;) We met some cool locals working on the site. They were reinforcing the front wall of the Ahu and after brief conversation they invited us on top of the Ahu, next to the blessed Moai statues themselves for closer investigation and photos - A truly unforgettable experience. |
   
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