Allan F. Karl: Travelogue

Africa Tonight on ABC News & NightLine

Thu, 23 Mar 2006 00:12:11 GMT

While I haven't made it to Africa quite yet on my WorldRider Journey, it appears my brother Jonathan beat me to it. A couple weeks ago he wandered around Algeria, Mali, Chad and who knows where else. His mission? Spending some quality time with US Special Forces as they trained anti-terrorist militia groups from various African Nations for ABC News.

Jon's crew peforming sound and lighting check in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

His photos from the journey are posted here. Even better, tune in tonight to ABC News or NightLine and watch his report on this unusual plight of our military in its never-ending efforts to stomp out terrorism worldwide. Check out his photos and tune into ABC tonight! ------------
UPDATE: Jonathan has posted a blog entry at ABC News. Check it out here.

Welcome Back To The Digital Tavern

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 17:41:35 GMT

It's like coming back to your hometown and running into an old friend. While times has passed, the conversation, familiarity and common ground makes it seem like yesterday. That is time apart has been scrunched up and the difference between now and then is irrelevant. I'm talking about The Digital Tavern: For The Sake of Clarity. I've been away and focused on my travel blog. I will continue to focus on the travel blog and encourage all of you who have not visited to take a moment and read some of the exciting stories form my Around The World Journey of Adventure & Discovery on a Motorcycle. I haven't made it around the world. Yet. Please continue reading forward here and you'll learn of a bit of a bummer. That is a mishap I had while riding the Bolivian Altiplano. I had to be evacuated back to the United States. I'm here now and you'll read the story. Meanwhile, I'm going to try to bring more non-travel writing back to The Digital Tavern. I started this blog before most knew what a blog was -- back in early 2002. Today blogs are ubiquitous. That is perhaps except for the Digital Tavern. Though it was intentional to leave this blog hanging in the balance while I focused on learning a bit about MovableType and developed a blog focused on my around the world motorcycle tour. Yet occasionally I'd post a few duplicate entries from the WorldRider blog here just to keep it somewhat fresh. Are any of my readers out there? Did you follow the WorldRider blog? Fact is I'm in recovery and the downtime gives me a chance to pick up some of the pieces here on the Digital Tavern. I may move this yet to MovableType. I'm so frustrated with Radio, I'd forgotten how bad it could be. Just posting today's stories on my evacuation out of Bolivia the upstreaming server at Radio Userland took seemingly forever. Well that's my story for now. Hope all of you are well and will tune in.

From Admitting To Surgery In Four Easy Screws.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 16:34:44 GMT

Glorious ocean view private room and the sunset taken from my hospital bed.

Hoag Hospital sits on the bluffs in Newport Beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean. In the north end of this Southern California playground that has captured the country's attention through the silly TV program "The O.C.", the hospital is the tallest structure around. Angie pushed me to the nurses' station after checking in. Sitting in a wheel chair with my Bolivian splint in this modern, high-tech and clean hospital, I suddenly felt I was checking into a four-star resort rather than a hospital -- quite the contrast from my last couple days at Daniel Bracamonte in Potosi, Bolivia.

My room wasn't quite ready, so we slowly wheeled down the corridor until the nurse's assistant prepared my bed in my private room with a view of the ocean. Amazing.

Soon I was stripped and put into a hospital robe. And why is it these things never cover your back? When the nurse tried to start my IV she gulped. And I said ouch. A second try yielded the same results. It's the small vein, big heart syndrome, I guess. She wasn't about to put me through another needle in the arm for a third time, so she recruited another nurse. They said maybe I was dehydrated and therefore making it more difficult to locate the vein. I had a nice vein at the end of the elbow. But she explained that it's important to start the IV closer to the hand, because if there are problems the IV must move up the arm. Starting at the elbow would be doom if a problem occurred. The new nurse shook her head and said this is a job for Lydia who was recruited form the 10th floor. A thing and charming redhead in her late 30's showed up and in seconds fluids were flowing into my vein. Morphine was too.

The little button I got to push would send a drizzle of morphine into my body and smooth out the scenery while making the pain take a back-seat.

Reviewing my x-rays and Dr. Chang's plan. Other photo above clinching onto my morphine button.

As I noted before, my favorite and best damn orthopedic doctor in Orange County had fallen ill. Later I learned that he ironically was diagnosed with bone cancer. I felt so bad. But I was nervous as it was clear that my leg was going to require surgery with hardware. I was referred to Dr. Chang. Speaking on the phone I could feel his defensiveness as I interrogated him about his experience and why I was so adamant about Dr. B, my "regular" orthopedist. We agreed we needed to meet each other and during his lunch break from his clinic he stopped by the room. About 5'8" with a very boyish round Asian face and a disarming smile complete with clear braces, he introduced himself, reviewed my x-ray and told me his plan. I was still nervous.

"I'm not sure, Allan," he tried reassuring me, "but you still seem hesitant, maybe you should get a second opinion from another doctor." I thought about this and the timing and the hassle. But he was right.

"Maybe," he jumped in with an off-the-fly idea, "I can get Dr. B to give you a call. He's very sick and I'm 'just not sure, but I'll try to call him."

Several hours later the phone by my med rings. It's Dr. B. "Hi Allan, it's Chuck," i was amazed. It was my friend and my doctor. He explained how he wanted to be there for me but that he was just not well and could not perform the surgery. He reviewed with me the details of my fracture and Dr. Chang's plan. He agreed. And he gave glowing reviews for Dr. Chang. I wished him a

successful recovery and in moments my anxiety and apprehension disappeared.

Chang didn't think they could get an operating room that day, but at 7pm I was wheeled out of my room, down the elevator to the operating room. It was 7pm. Once again the plan was reviewed, I answered the anesthesiologists questions. My girlfriend Angie and good friend Rob stood by the bed as they fitted me with another silly surgical cap and prepped me and my caretakers of the process. Taking all the precautions to make sure surgery would go smooth, they took a black Sharpie to my right (good) leg and scribbled "NO" on my skin. They just want to keep Dr. Chang honest and make sure they don't go after the wrong leg. Surgery would take 1 1/2 to 2 hours. I'd be in recovery for an hour or two. Then I would go back to my room.

(L) Angie and Rob by my side until being wheeled through the O.R. doors; (R) Preparing me for anesthesia. Love my hat?

Dr. Chang assured me things would be okay. "You've got a real tough fracture there," he said referring to the break in my tibia close to my knee." I'm going to put a plate in there. And for the other fracture in the tib, I'll put a rod," he calmly reviewed his plan which sounded like he had to make a stop at Home Depot for some hardware before joining me in the O.R. "We're not going to touch the break in the fibula," he said, because there is a nerve that controls the lateral movement of the heel and foot which was in jeopardy if compromised.

"if you come out of the surgery with a splint below the knee, I'll be very pleased with the surgery. If not, well it's a longer road to recovery and the operation was more complicated. Great words and hope and fear as I closed my eyes.

The anesthesia starting doing it's business. Then I was out.

The only thing I remember when still three quarters out of it and moving from recovery to my room is yelling at the nurse interns to "take that tube out of my dick." I'm sure they were laughing, but it wasn't funny to me. "Take that tube out. I don't like that. Why'd you do that." Angie later told me they pacified me by saying it would only be in there temporarily because coming out of surgery I couldn't go to the bathroom. The nasty catheter would be my urinal drain, I guess. Good god. Turns out it was there for more than two days. Liars!

As for the operation: The splint started below my knee!

A rod and four screws. The only way to put Allan back together again.

Chang told Angie and Rob that he was extremely pleased with the procedure. He had started to use the plate in the upper tibia, but was able to stabilize and secure the fracture with three screws instead -- a much better option. Another screw anchored the rod close to my ankle. When I asked Dr. Chang the next day how he felt about everything, he told me that he was energized coming out of the operating room and it was one of those procedures he felt like telling all his peers about. I could see Chang with his youthful exuberance excited and talking shop with his ortho friends as much as we motorcyclists or macintosh users like sharing new discoveries. I knew I was in good hands and was confident things would work out alright.

I soon had the morphine button, a beautiful girl by my side and an ocean view. Things seemed to be going alright for me. I'm very lucky.

Goodbye Bolivia (for now) Three Flights Back To Los Angeles.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 16:32:14 GMT

When I woke up from the anesthesia I was back in my hospital room with my roommates. A crowd of visitors had gathered by the elderly man in the corner diagonally from me. Last night my moans of pain didn't bother him as he muttered and spoke in his sleep. But he didn't speak Spanish. Must have been Quechua, the native language of the Incas and other Andes people. A frail frame with boney limbs, every time he had to go to the bathroom he went about a laboriously and seemingly painful process of getting out of bed, then bracing himself with one hand on the side table and the other holding his bedpan. I thought he'd collapse and fall on the floor. His visitors elevated his spirits for before he was just a lump on the bed. Combing his hair and cleansing his face, his visitors brought small gifts and surrounded his bed. His eyes glowed.

The other patients received visitors too. For me, slightly out of it from the anesthesia, I was comforted by the fact that my leg seemed to feel better and instead of a heavy cast, i was splinted very professionally and not too tightly wrapped in gauze. No more cardboard box and ace bandage. Once again, the water splash lady paid a visit to our room and mopped it clean. Later she returned with a plate of food for me -- soup of some sort with chicken, noodles and vegetables -- I ate every drop.

I longed for visitors, a call from MedJetAssist or some sort of sign that I will be making progress to heal and get out of here. Later, two men appeared at the foot of my bed. They inspected my splinted leg, mumbled a bit and then approached me. "En la manana a la seis y media vamos al aeropuerto." Tomorrow at 6:30am we are going to the airport. I was hoping to get out of there today or tonight. But my wish would remain unfulfilled. I'd spend one more night in the Daniel Bracamonte Hospital here in Potosi -- the highest city in the world.

The plan was I'd fly to Santa Cruz from Potosi where I'd catch an American Airlines flight to Miami. From Miami I'd be transferred to a flight to Los Angeles and from there an ambulance would take me to a hospital of my choice in Southern California. I provided MedJetAssist with my doctor's information, hospital, insurance and instructed them to communicate and field calls from my girlfriend Angelique who'd coordinate with them and handle the logistics of insurance and doctors from California and help get me home. Together Angie and MedJet would arrange for me to be admitted and alert my doctor (broken bones were not new to me, and I insisted on an excellent orthopedist who operated on me before). According to plan I'd be in the Hospital in the States by late Tuesday night -- tomorrow.

The hours ticked by slowly as I fielded questions about airplanes and flying to the United States from my roommates. I was the talk of patients and hospital staff. They'd mutter "he's going to fly to the United States". None of my roommates had ever been in a plane. My attention switched to Doc. I tried to contact a noted Honda dealer in La Paz who i hoped would be able to retrieve my motorcycle and store it while I mended stateside. My efforts were futile as I couldn't connect with any of his phone numbers. Oh well. Time for sleep.

The morning didn't come soon enough. But at dawn a police officer and the ambulance driver showed up at my bed. The two of them tried to move me to a rolling stretcher that sat only a few inches off the floor. I pleaded that they get more help -- someone to hold my leg while the others heaved me over. Getting into the ambulance was more of a challenge. Without a gurney the two struggled to lift the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, pushing me into the back at a 45 degree angle. With no straps on the stretcher I started to slide but they somehow managed. Securing just one corner of the wheeled stretcher to the floor of the ambulance, the ride was a challenge as I tried to grab the window frame to keep the other three wheels from sliding and rolling the stretcher in the back.

First ambulance riding cop pulls me through Bracamonte Hospital in Potosi.

Getting ready to be loaded into my Bolivian ambulance

After a quick stop at the emergency room to pick up all of my bags, which included everything i'd been carrying on my bike since July 2005 including the Jesse Bags, BMW top box, tank panniers, dry bags and an extra duffel which contained my riding gear. The streets of Potosi were fairly quiet as we made the 20 minute trip to the airport on the outskirts of the city. When we arrived the gates to the airport were closed and locked. The terminal building sat dormant and vacant a quarter mile past the gate. There wasn't a car or airplane in sight. The cop and the driver hovered outside the gate, periodically blowing their hands to keep warm in the chilling mountain air. Then they joined me back in the ambulance. They said there was no one there and asked if I knew anything. I was in the dark too. So they started honking the horn. Then blasted the siren.

Just as they were about to give up a man on a bicycle heading our way appeared in the distance. Soon he was unlocked the gate and the ambulance sped toward the terminal where my bags and my stretcher were unloaded and moved inside the cavernous terminal building. I laid there just inches above the tiled floor. The building had all the usual hints of an airport with signs pointing to departure gates, arrivals, baggage claim, ticketing. But the building was void of life. Not a light on, no signs of airplanes, passengers or employees. Just an ambulance rider, cop and a bicycle riding airport caretaker. A huge mural of flight related imagery towered above me. Then echoing through the empty building was the sound of a telephone ringing -- a traditional analog ring that's virtually extinct in any office, home or public building in the States. Bicycle man jets up a set of stairs running after the phone.

(L) Caretaker locking the airport gates after granting ambulance entry.
(R) Reflection of Bolivian ambulance through windows of Potosi Airport.

When i asked about the airport, the ambulance driver told me that only one flight a week lands or takes off from here. I asked why such a big and fancy airport for a town of barely 25,000 people. He shook his head in disgust and mumbled something about the government. The airport was built about 10 years ago and my driver was disgusted with how much money the government spent on this project. He lamented that people in Potosi just don't have the money to travel by air. I wondered if drug money was involved in its construction. Plus, if Potosi was the highest city in the Andes, chances are this airport ranked as one of the highest in South America. As such, it was one of the most difficult to fly in and out of due to climate changes.

Something was wrong. Within minutes they were loading me and my bags back in the ambulance. Turns out the airplane coming from La Paz couldn't make a landing because the clouds were hanging too low. Soon I was back at Daniel Bracamonte Hospital with my roommates and the pail splashing squatty lady. So there I waited. And waited. Water lady brought me another bowl of soup and a banana. Several hours passed. Then at 12:30 another cop and elderly ambulance driver appeared at the foot of the bed.

Once again I was wheeled along the ground to the ambulance parked outside the hospital. This crew had an even rougher time getting me into the back of the ambulance. At one point I feared they'd drop me. Before I knew it we were whisked past the hospital gate and on city streets heading toward the airport. None of my bags were in the ambulance. I panicked and screamed, "Donde esta mis cosas?" Confused and showing signs of panic that we were short on time they flipped a u-turn and retrieved my bags.

When we returned to the airport the gates were open, but the airport was void and vacant as before. The bicycle-riding caretaker was no where to be found. There was no plane and the doors to the terminal were locked. I could hear an airplane. Or at least that's what I thought I heard. The clouds were still low. Looking the same as the morning. I feared another night in Potosi. Craning my neck from the back of the ambulance trying to get a view through the windows. I didn't see a plane. But I heard one. Then in the distance I saw a truck heaving itself up a steep incline just outside the airport. Was it the truck? Then from the direction of the airport control tower I saw a bicycle riding our way. It was the caretaker. I guess he serves as the air traffic controller too. They drove the ambulance around to the runway where an orange tiny 6-seater Cessna 337 was parked.

Looking at the small and aging plane I wondered if I could sit in it with my leg extended and slightly elevated with all my bags. But I kept my spirits up and remained confident that we'd be out of there soon. However, due to the weather delay early this morning I missed my connecting flight bound for Miami from Santa Cruz, Bolivia. MedJetAssist was scrambling to find another flight where they could get a first class ticket to get me, my splinted leg and earthly belongings back to the States.

My view from the floor Inside the vacant and eerie Potosi airport terminal building.

My MediVac plane sitting on the Potosi runway while the clouds hang low and rain pelts the runway.

Getting loaded into the tiny Cessna 337. (click photos for bigger images)

Bicycle riding airport caretaker rides to control tower to give my plane clearance for take-off.

The cop asked for my passport while the pilot and caretaker exchanged paper work. With his documentation demands satisfied the caretaker hopped back on his bike and rode back to the airport control tower. Minutes later the Cessna was fired up and we prepared for take-off. The pilot told me he took his chances landing here this afternoon. Per the book, he shouldn't have landed. But he knew I needed to get to Santa Cruz, so he went for it. I dreaded a turbulence ridden bouncy flight. But I was gratified that the hour long flight to Santa Cruz hovering above the Andes was magnificently scenic and incredibly smooth.

Vacant and bizarre Potosi airport from the air. (big parking lot, no cars; no people)

Glorious Andes from my MediVac plane on way to Santa Cruz, Bolivia.

When I landed in Santa Cruz I was met on the runway by a stretcher, an ambulance and Shane West, an Atlanta-area native, firemen and EMT medic sent by MedJetAssist. With a bag full of painkillers and medicine and instructions to get me back to the States safely and comfortably he calmly coordinated getting all my baggage cleared through customs and checked on a flight that would depart Santa Cruz for Sao Paulo, Brazil on Varig Airlines. We would connect in Sao Paulo for another Varig flight bound for Los Angeles. But there was one slight problem. Even thought MedJet Assist had purchased first-class tickets, this afternoon flight to Sao Paulo was not equipped with first or business class seating. It would be impossible for me to sit in a standard coach class seat. My leg was splinted in an extended position, and to keep swelling and pain controlled I had to keep it slightly elevated.

But Shane and the Varig managers worked wonders and eventually accommodated my challenging predicament by securing three seats in the bulkhead in the front of the plane. My medic Shane with his bag of tricks would sit behind me. All during the flight he monitored my vital signs, and did his best staving my pain with Toridol injections. While not perfect, I managed to remain somewhat comfortable by spreading out across the three coach seats. In Sao Paulo we were met with a wheel chair and ushered quickly to the first class VIP lounge while we waited a couple hours for our connecting flight.

Landed in Santa Cruz, Bolivia being transported to the terminal.

Missed my first connection and first class seats. Bulkhead gets me to
Sao Paulo where I get comfort of first class seats to Los Angeles.

In Sao Paulo I learned that while that my chosen orthopedic, Dr. Belleti had gone through the motions of admitting me and arranging for a bed at Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach, it was cancelled because I didn't show up last night. Even worse, Dr. Belleti was hit by his own medical emergency and all his patient appointments for the next week or two were cancelled or referred to another doctor. Angie and I exchanged numerous text messages keeping me abreast of her challenges trying to get me admitted into the hospital with a new doctor referred by Belleti. But I had to board my flight and simply had to cross my fingers and hope that Angie, MedJet and the hospital were all in sync by the time I landed.

Thanks to the first class seats and my growing weariness, I slept most the entire 11 hour flight from Sao Paulo to Los Angeles where my only real challenge was figuring out how to go to the bathroom. Since leaving Santa Cruz I've been whisked around airports on wheel chairs. Sans crutches it takes two or three people to lift me and my leg to get me in and out of the airline seat or wheelchair. My medic handed me an empty water bottle which failed to work after I attempted to discreetly do my business under the big airline blanket. The flight attendant took the bottle and cut off the top. This worked.

Once in Los Angeles Shane retrieved my bags and we were through customs, immigration and into a stretch limousine heading down the freeway to the hospital. Getting in and out of this monster car proved challenging, I think an ambulance would've made an easier journey. Plus it seemed apropos to be riding down the 12 lane freeway in this oversized vehicle while passing masses of SUVs, luxury cars and all the other trappings of excessive consumerism -- big box stores, massive retail centers, malls -- quite the contrast to where I've been over the last 4 months. Am I ready for this? I guess my leg is.

In less than an hour at 9am on Wednesday I was admitted into the hospital and my things checked in with hospital security.

Home. But a long road ahead.

Waiting & Waiting For The Bolivian Operating Room.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 16:26:42 GMT

I wake up to the sound of water splashing on the floor of my hospital room. A squatty lady in a smock holding a bucket of water hanging on her arm flicks water over the floor with her other hand. She leaves and quickly returns with a mop which she pushes through the room, under the beds and out the door.

What do you expect from a hospital in the middle of nowhere? The place is clean, the bed is comfortable and the only annoyance is whenever I ask for my urinal jar to be emptied, they never bring it back. I guess I have to ask permission to take a piss. My roommates get breakfast. I don't. Haven't eaten or drunken a thing since that last Vicadin. The doctor says they'll put me under anaesthesia so the trauma doctor can reduce the fractures and re-splint the leg for my long journey back to the States.

(continued below the photographs that follow)

* * * * *

More shots from WorldRider's last day in the saddle on the road from Potosí to Uyuni.

Rocky cliffs and canyons. (photo by Miah)

Dynamic Duo hours before muddy bike dump (photo by Miah)

Spectacular ride through sand, dirt, clay and desert scapes. (photo by Miah).

* * * * *

Around 9:30 Doctor Rolando appears. He looks disappointed and tells me the trauma doctor is here but won't be able to attend to me until after he does his morning rounds. It might be 11:30 or noon until I can lose this cardboard box and get a real splint. Meanwhile, calls to MedJetAssist assure me that they are working on finding flights back to the United States. Last night they had asked for general information about the airport in Potosi, such as the length of the runway. I didn't have a chance to measure it while in town, and the hospital personnel shook their heads and said not very long. They were considering another ambulance ride, but it would take 2-3 hours to get to Sucre and even longer to Santa Cruz where larger airports with commercial flights could be used to evacuate me.

Last night, Doctor Sylvia stayed with her parents who live in Potosi. Today she and Jeremiah were to take a bus back to Tica Tica where Sylvia could attend to other patients and Jeremiah would arrange to have Doc, my motorcycle, trucked back to Potosi. I suggested he get it back to the hotel we spent a couple nights before taking off on that fateful morning. They had underground parking and it seems would be open to storing the bike for a few days until I could figure out what to do with it.

Later, Jeremiah appeared at my bedside slightly panicked. "I can't find her." Referring to Sylvia who had told us that she would take the 7:30am bus. Jeremiah had been wandering the streets of Potosi this morning in search of an internet cafe, Doctor Sylvia and a bank that would take his ATM. Ever since arriving in Bolivia the ATM card issued by his local Colorado bank had given him problems. After three attempts in La Paz he finally succeeded in getting cash. In two days in Potosi no ATM machine worked.

Later the intern who masterfully managed to set up my IV checked in with me and in rapid fire Spanish with a difficult accent asked me for money. Geeez. Not a beggar in the hospital? No. But I couldn't understand him as he pointed to one of the other patients in my room and talked about medicine from last night. Later Dr. Rolando explained that the local anaesthesia that he shot in my leg last night had been paid for and belonged to the other patient. In the early hours of the morning, when my groans, moans and severe pain were alleviated with the help of scissors and the shot, the pharmacy was closed. Accommodating my need for relief they used this patient's medicine. It was up to me to provide the funds for reimbursement so it could be replaced. I also learned that the IV and pain medicine I received after my x-ray were borrowed from the intensive care unit. It amazed me how they kept track of all this. I was also happy that they were resourceful enough to accommodate this patient given the bizarre requirement of payment up front for goods and services.

Just before lunch my squatty lady appeared once again splashing water over the floor from the bucket hanging on her arm. Gotta keep that floor clean. Dr. Rolando showed up again, this time with a more positive look on his face. "They are preparing to take you to the casting room," he said assuredly. "We must buy the anaesthesia and pay for the operating room. And you need another IV," he asserted looking at the depleting sack of IV fluid hanging above my bed. I pulled a handful of Bolivianos from my neck pouch wallet and he shuffled off to the pharmacy only to return moments later with a bagful of goodies which he placed next to my bed.

another view of the two breaks near my knee

A couple more hours pass. Still no word from MedJetAssist nor had I visited the casting/operating room. It was pushing 3 o'clock. And I was still waiting. Jeremiah and Sylvia showed up. I thought they were long gone, though in the back of my mind I couldn't imagine him leaving without saying goodbye. At one point he said he'd stay until he was confident that MedJetAssist had a definitive evacuation plan. "She needs her blanket," Jeremiah quipped as they stood bedside, "it belongs to the clinic." Great. And I thought they came back to check in on me and say good bye. The blanket that they threw on me in Tica Tica had kept me warm and comfortable all night. But today I'd have to kiss it good bye. With the help of a nurse, Jeremiah and Doctor Sylvia wrested the blanked from under my frame and tucked it under their arms. Then they were off.

Now I was truly and officially alone in Bolivia. In the Daniel Bracamonte Hospital. Still no sign of the trauma doctor, but my bedside table was loaded with anesthesia and I had a receipt form the casting/operating room. Things couldn't be better. Or could they?

Dr. Rolando appeared an hour later. "There's a young boy who hasn't eaten in two days. He must go first," he apologized but stemmed my impatience and building anger from waiting with a bit of guilt. A young boy hasn't eaten in two days. But I'm next in line. An hour later my water splashing lady came by my bed and handed me a cap that I needed to wear when in the operating room.

When they wheeled me into the operating/casting room sometime after 6pm I was greeted by an army of people dressed in blue scrubs. An elderly man sat on a bench in the corner. His mouth covered by a blue mask and beads of perspiration speckled his wrinkled brow. His eyes looked tired as he sat with his palms pressed deep into the cushion. Our eyes locked for a brief moment, then I swung my gaze to a women in a similar mask holding a syringe above her head. There was no sign of Doctor Rolando. I suddenly felt scared. Alone. This wasn't the last thing I wanted to see should I never wake from a dose of Bolivian anesthesia.

"Esperar", I cried. "Tengo que saber lo que usted va a hacer."

Silently I wondered what were all these people doing in here. I counted 7 or 8. The lady with the syringe assured me she was the anesthesiologist. Just then Doctor Rolando blasted through the swinging doors. I heaved a sigh of relief when I spotted a familiar face. He assured me this was light anesthesia and that I'd only be under for 10 minutes while they splinted my leg.

"Are you sure," my voice slightly trembling.

"Claro!"

They injected the anaesthesia into my IV and put an oxygen mask over my face.

I'm in Bolivia and I'm going under anaesthesia. And the last connection to my homeland was well on his way on a bus to Tica Tica. The unknown killed me. Then I was out.

From Tica Tica To Potosi. Waiting For Help.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 16:23:53 GMT

In a state somewhere between awake and sleep three hours had passed. The rain, thunder and lightning added dramatic effect to my sprawled body with my left leg in a cardboard box splint as I laid in the Tica Tica medical clinic. Still no ambulance. In a town with one telephone, one restaurant and no motel I wondered if I'd ever get out of Tica Tica. Doctor Sylvia and her assistant Jacoba checked in on me periodically while Jeremiah braved the rain, secured our bikes, and worked wonders getting my gear consolidated and ready to join me on the trip home.

Waiting in the Tica Tica medical clinic for a plane or ambulance. My leg splinted in a cardboard box.

Doctor Sylvia studied medicine in Sucre for six years. Now she was the only doctor for miles and tended to a primitive impoverished population base of more than 2,000 people. Many of them in villages accessible by only dirt trails. When I saw her running down the road to the muddy mess where my bike and I laid desperately, I wondered; why not drive? I guess she would have if she had a car -- or a motorcycle. Serving hundreds of patients with many too sick to get to the clinic, on foot Doctor Sylvia hikes hours, crosses rivers and braves inclement weather carrying her medical bag to treat sick people, deliver babies and bring medicine to villagers.

I learn later that her father and brother are miners working in the horrible conditions of the cooperative mines in Potosí. Her mother is dying of kidney failure. There's a transplant available, but they cannot afford it. Suddenly my broken leg and my sullen let down of an interrupted journey around the world on my motorcycle seems petty and miniscule in the scope of things. I'm happy I'm in her care and with Jeremiah's cool demeanor, professionalism and somewhat calm if not frantic at times handling of things. It's expected. I'm in good hands. And as long as I lie in this bed and don't move my leg, I feel no pain. No drugs either.

Four hours passed since the ambulance was called. Sylvia and Jeremiah grab my umbrella and brave the rain once more to hike to the only phone in town. When they return the concerned look on their faces distresses me -- slightly. The ambulance should be here. The rains have made the road very difficult and very slow. And it was getting dark. Did the ambulance get into an accident? Just as we were falling deeply into a fit of doom a Toyota Land Cruiser wagon pulls up to the clinic. Three young men hop out and cart a low slung wheeled stretcher into my room. Not quite a gurney, but with all hands they slide me onto the it and wheel me to the front of the building. As the group carries me my leg swings back and forth sending bolts of pain messages to my brain. Ouch. They don't have any straps to secure me to the stretcher. Nothing. Thinking fast I guide Jeremiah through my bags and direct him to my stash of tie-down straps. Working as best as he can, he straps and secures me and my leg to the stretcher hoping to prevent much movement as we make the four-hour ride in the pouring rain over rough dirt roads, through rivers, scaling switchbacks to Potosi -- where I had left just 12 hours earlier.

The true color of friendship shines under the worse circumstances. Unable to fend for myself Jeremiah took control of the situation and handled requests barked from me without hesitation. We are both on our separate journeys. Meeting in October in Creel, Mexico we rode together for a couple weeks before bidding farewell In Oaxaca. We reunited just over a week ago in Peru. Today he was putting his trip on hold while helping me. He asked if I wanted him to ride the ambulance with me. Sylvia offered to come too. I wanted the company and until MedJetAssist was fully commissioned, I wanted strength in numbers.

The ride from Tica Tica back to Potosí could have been a nightmare. With a bag of coca leaves sitting on the dash of the ambulance, my driver and his two buddies kept stuffing the natural stimulant into their mouths giving them the energy to make the four hour ride. They'd have to turn around once in Potosi and ride 6 or more hours back to Uyuni. With every rut, rock, bump and groove in the dirt road my leg bounced, rocked and pulled from side to side and end to end. Jeremiah, the legend, hunched over my leg with one hand above my knee and one hand below did his best to brace my leg and reduce the shock and jolt of the bumpy ride. He did this for the entire three hours of the journey. His back ached as he writhed and wiggled trying to remain somewhat comfortable. The ambulance rolled on as these boys made good time. They obviously made this trip before. With windshield wipers flapping and the suspension working overtime, we passed the gray walls of a canyon where I noticed the reflection of the emergency lights flashing. I didn't even notice that the ambulance actually had such gear. But no straps nor gurney. Hmmmm.

As the hours clicked by and the miles added up my foot became numb. Miah would rub and kneed it trying to stimulate circulation. The ambulance seemed to jump off a couple drop-offs sending my leg in the air and crashing down. I'd scream. "Ouch!" Jesus, that hurt! But Jeremiah like a statue, steadfast and secure just held onto my leg, minimizing its movement and my pain. Sylvia spoke of her clinic, background and patients. The driver and his buddies pulled another handful of coca leaves and stuffed them in their mouths. I finally pulled a couple vicadin from my pocket and sucked them down. This is one long ambulance ride. Bounce. Jolt. And shake.

When we finally pulled into the hospital at 10pm Sunday night the ambulance team wanted their stretcher, pillows and payment. And they wanted to get out of there. My things were unloaded and stashed in a hospital office while a crew of people rushed around looking for a bed they could move me to. I simply I laid on my stretcher in the middle of the lobby of the "emergency room" of the Daniel Bracamonte Hospital in Potosi, Bolivia -- the highest city in the world. That's when I noticed the short thin doctor with glasses, dark hair and dressed in a casual windbreaker carrying a messenger bag walk out the door of the emergency room. I thought he was leaving for the night. i was wrong. This was my doctor.

Before I was moved from the lobby I had to pay for my x-ray and my hospital bed. Coughing up the equivalent of about $8 in Bolivian currency I was then wheeled through the dark and quiet hospital corridors toward radiology while Jeremiah and Sylvia dealt with my things and the coca leaf-chewing ambulance crew. As I was ushered into the x-ray room an intern who had the demeanor and look of a janitor and the x-ray technician started pulling and tugging me onto the x-ray table. I screamed as they tried to lift my 155lb mass up six inches from the bed onto the table. Any slight move of my leg sent zings of pain through my leg. They ignored my screaming and please in Spanish to stop and wait for more help. Someone HAD to hold my leg stable and level. My vicadin was wearing off. Actually, I'm not sure if it ever did any good. Just as they were flopping my limbs onto the table Jeremiah showed up and provided better late than never help.

My be-speckled and windbreaker donning Doctor -- Doctor. Rosando -- had a good command of the english language. He reviewed the x-ray. So efficient and fiscally prudent was the radiologist, he got two views of my tibia and fibula on one piece of film. The doctor confirmed what I already knew. "Your leg is broken." Then he added the new information. "In three places." We looked at the x-ray. Sure enough the tibia and fibula were both broken close to the knee with a third break in the tibula halfway between my knee and ankle. Damn heavy motorcycle. Would have stronger boots prevented the fractures? The what ifs didn't matter. My leg was broken, my trip interrupted and I needed to get back to the States for proper medical care. Meanwhile the rest of my clothing is cut from my body. My BMW ComforTemp long underwear and my Patagonia capilene underwear. All victims to my fateful muddy bike dump.

Fortunately my cell phone had service in Bolivia. I was on the phone to MedJetAssist as they wheeled me into a room with three other patients. I sent text messages to my girlfriend in California. Jeremiah got clearance from the hospital to sleep there. But he couldn't have a bed. I directed him to my sleeping bag and mattress in my things and he set up camp on the floor in the hall just outside my room. It was getting close to midnight. My Doctor Rolando wanted to set me up with an IV and pain medicine. But first they needed to be purchased from the hospital pharmacy. Apparently nobody gets credit at the pharmacy. I stuffed a handful of Bolivianos into Doc Roladno's hand and he served as my medicine messenger and trucked over to the pharmacy. I wanted to know more about the pain medicine and was worried about syringes and needles in my arm. Dutifully questioning every move, I'm sure they thought I was the biggest pain in the ass. But it's my life. My leg. And I'm in a place that is arguably the poorest city in the poorest country in South America. I'd better watch out. Meanwhile Miah drifted about the hospital and when he returned to my side he said "this place is scary," and offered other words of encouragement regarding the patients and conditions he witnessed. But it was all I had. I was simply turning back -- and this was a momentary pit stop.

I hadn't even begun to think about Doc, my bike.

My intern prepares my IV at the hospital in Potosí.

MedJetAssist quickly took the information necessary to start the research and process of evacuating me out of Bolivia and getting me to a hospital in the United States. I put my girlfriend Angie in touch with them so together they could communicate and coordinate. MedJet connected me with a doctor in the States who informed me the pain medicine Dr. Rolando had purchased was a high-grade of ibuprofen (Motrin/Advil). I asked if they had something stronger like morphine. "Oh no. We don't have anything like that. It's controlled by the government." Great. The third largest cocaine producing country in the world and I'm getting Advil for a leg broken in three places. I sucked down another Vicadin under the orders of the MedJetAssist doctor while the janitor looking intern gracefully and in one easy step found a vein in my left arm and started the IV. My doctor said that a trauma doctor would be in the hospital in the morning and he would look to further stabilize my leg, reduce the fracture and prepare it for the long journey back to the United States. Until then, I'd try to get some sleep and ignore the pain.

The lights went out in my room at just after 1am. It's been a long day and the peaceful serenity of the solitude of riding the wide expanse of the Bolivian altiplano seemed so distant. Yet here I lay with my leg inside a cardboard box, wrapped in gauze and an ace bandage. I slowly closed my eyes.

As the clock ticked on my foot grew numb and hot. I couldn't move my leg. I started to moan. First silently to myself. Then more vocally. Soon i was unleashing at regular intervals strings of profanity. "Shit!" The list goes on. After a while one of my roommates starts repeating and mimicking my English words. It makes me laugh hearing the swear words with his Spanish accent and I wonder if he knows what he's saying. I'm sorry I'm keeping them awake with my groans and moans. But the pain just got stronger and stronger. My foot felt like it was on fire. But the pain wasn't coming from the broken bones. Or at least I thought so. Perhaps my makeshift splint was too tight. Circulation felt cut off. I finally can't handle it and I raise my voice trying to awake Jeremiah from his resting place in the hallway outside my room. One of my roommates reaches for his buzzer to call the nurse.

Jeremiah's hospital hallway bed in Potosi.

Jeremiah inspects my leg and sure enough there are problems down there. Seems the cardboard box had slowly slid down my leg and now was digging into the top of my foot which by now was beet red as the edge of the cardboard had dug a canyon sized gouge in it. Soon the intern and an assistant nurse are in the room wiping the sleep from their eyes. Jeremiah quickly gets them scrambling for a pair of scissors pointing to my circulation deprived foot. A small pair shows up but can't get through the cardboard. The intern says he's going to get some local anaesthesia to help reduce the pain. Finally a sturdy pair of scissors cuts through the cardboard and in seconds I feel relief. Wow. It was that easy. The doctor still injects a dose of local anaesthesia which comforts me as he assures me that I can now get some sleep.

Thankfully within minutes I'm in dreamland. And my roommates get their well deserved sleep.

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Some shots of my last day riding before breaking my leg in three places!

Letting air out of the tires for the rocky dirt ride to Uyuni.

Changing gear, earplugs and hanging with llamas. Note the pools of water.

(l) Self portrait of yours truly and legendary Jeremiah. (r) Miah shoots me while checking the scenery.

The Ride of the Trip & The Unexpected Change of Course.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 16:22:19 GMT

What can you say about the unexpected? Sometimes such events bring joy. Other times pain. The unexpected. Whether good or bad, smart or stupid, ugly or beautiful or even happy or sad, unexpected events evoke undeniable emotion. Today, little did I know that after embarking on a early start under blue skies and bidding Potisi a fond farewell that today's events would dramatically change the course of my journey.

Miah and I prepared for the worst weather. We layered our clothing, fitted our rain gear, and pulled out our warmest and heaviest gloves. The chilling air of the highest city of the world at 6:30am was one reason. Rain was the other. Despite the blue skies littered with few puffy white clouds we knew the chance of rain was 100%. Then Doc started acting up again. Over the past few weeks riding the high altitude plains (altiplano) of the Andes, Doc's been a bit temperamental. Seems my bike just doesn't like to start without a little coaching or attention. Even pulling over to take pictures Doc would stall and give me trouble starting up again. Jeremiah had some bit of trouble with his Dakar, exactly the same bike as mine, but not to the degree of my starting hassles. Obstinate as Doc could be I'd eventually get the bike started.

Often when traveling through Latin America people would inevitably want to know the cost of my motorcycle. I'd beat around the issue as best I could because the cost of this motorcycle is more than many of the curious make in a year. Sometimes I'd simply reply, "Oh, I'm sorry, you want to buy it? It's not for sale." But when I did divulge the approximate cost of Doc, I'd footnote my answer with some basic facts:

"Mi moto es mi casa," I'd say explaining that this motorcycle is my home.

"Mi moto es mi cama," I'd further explain that this bike and my things are my bed.

And finally, I'd explain "mi moto es mi mujer", that is my motorcycle is my woman -- my wife.

This of course would follow with much laughter and after explaining some of the problems and joys the bike gives me our conversation transcended from one of a monetary discussion, to one of a more common ground -- women. And these mornings my woman had a bit of issue with the cold weather and high altitude. But she'd always give in after some needed attention.

A blissful ride through one of the best roads in Bolivia.

Here I take one of several water crossing as we head to Uyuni in Southwestern Bolivia.

Llamas scurried off the road when the motorcycles came roaring around the corner.

The ride to the tiny town of Uyuni which lies on the fringe of the Salar de Uyuni would take 5 or 6 hours. We winded past the Potosí hospital and up a dirt road to a guard shack and a road block. Hanging on the walls inside the shack were pictures of scantily clad and even bare breasted women. I asked if I would find these women in Uyuni and was simply told "buenas suerte" (good luck). The gravel and dirt road climbed over brown rocky hills with very little vegetation. The scenery brought back memories of eastern California and western Arizona as we followed a river and up and over lime and sandstone hills. There were barely any cars as the dirt road carved and curved along cliffs and dropped into small valleys.

We stopped and greeted a llama herder who wouldn't stop reaching his hand out to shake ours. And never once did he ask for money. He allowed us to take his picture and of his llamas. Later we ran into other smaller herds of llamas. And always sitting nearby were a few men and women just staring at the road and watching their herds. They seemed happy and content in their simpler life and eagerly returned friendly waves as our two odd-looking motorcycles swept by their view

Soon we dropped into a valley and through a grove of cacti and tiny trees - almost shrubs. Doc was running exquisitely and as the heat turned up we pulled over to shed some of our layers. While there was plenty of evidence of the rainy season -- we passed through several muddy patches, crossed a few rivers and saw pools of water on the road -- the sky remained blue with no evidence of impending rains. Yet rounding one corner we encountered a bus that had slid in the dirt and mud off the road.

Mud and loose dirt proved a bit tough for this bus.

Jeremiah rounding the cliff hanging corner as we make our way to Uyuni.

Beautiful desert scapes and amazing cacti.

Serenity and bliss. Riding to Uyuni.

But for the next two or three hours we didn't pass through a single town, see another car or truck. Instead we were treated with the blissful scene of herding llamas, geological wonders and the living desert and rushing waters. After cruising through the cactus grove we came upon the first village. We slowed and rode through exchanging waves with the local people sitting or standing about. Leaving town and winding around a series of hills with sheer hundred or more foot drops and a few switchbacks we soon seemed to be in redrock country with eroded sandstone gorges. The riding was phenomenal. I felt secure and meditative in the vast emptiness of the desert. My bike felt comfortable, I was dressed perfectly and the weather was giving us much needed relief. Even so, I couldn't imagine riding this road in the rain or just after a heavy rainfall. Today under the sun the rocks, dirt and occasional sand and mud meant an average speed of 40 mph or below. But this was no problem. The journey isn't about speed. The faster you go the more you miss and your reaction time is cut exponentially if something were to happen.

We passed through one town of muddy streets. A new central plaza and church were under construction. The town was rather empty, vacant. We passed other groupings of adobe buildings with thatched roofs. We'd been on the road for nearly 5 hours. But frequent breaks for photography or just taking in the expansive scenery meant the ride would be slightly longer today. Yet as long as the weather held up, we didn't mind. After all, today was perhaps one of the best days riding in several weeks. it packed in all of the elements that define adventure motorcycling: dirt roads, desolate wilderness, water crossings, canyons, gorges, and the wonderful feeling of solitude -- nobody had passed us from behind and only a few cars passed us from the other direction. Riding bliss.

Miah rolling into the tiny town of Tica Tica, Bolivia

Rolling into the town of Tica Tica I was immediately taken by the scenic narrow street lined with brownish red adobe buildings with the ubiquitous thatched roofs. A beautiful Bolivian girl locked her eyes on me as we slowed into the outskirts of town. I pulled out my camera to capture Miah as he rode into Tica Tica. I noticed the road ahead deteriorate into a muddy mess. I put the camera away and pressed on.

At one point the entire middle of the road was a pool of water and mud. Jeremiah pulled to the right. If there was such thing as a sidewalk, he was riding it. I decided to go to the left. My tires swished and slid a bit as I gripped the bars with apprehension and continued moving slowly. Then in a matter of seconds without warning my bike slid out from under me. As I fell I watched my left leg in slow motion as the Jesse bag lands on top of it and I flop into the mud. Everything is still. My leg was caught under the bag -- I was worried. Something felt funny. I gently pulled my leg out from under the bike. My senses started reeling. Funny alright. I knew it immediately. It's broken.

Jeremiah pulls over on the other side of the road. "My leg is broken," I yell to him. "It got caught under the Jesse bag," I explain. "Get your camera!" He idles his pace makes a U and grabs the camera. "My leg is broken, I know it," I explain to him. "Take a picture." He grabs a quick snap and leans over me. By now a small group has gathered around. I'm lying face up in the mud.

"Allan, we are in Bolivia. We're in the middle of fucking nowhere. We've got to figure out how to get you out of here," Jeremiah whispers to me while verifying that I'm okay, conscious and in control of pain. Pain. Hah! What pain?

"My trip is over, J.J.," I say to him using the nickname he has kindly requested I avoid. "I'm so pissed."

This shouldn't and couldn't happen, I thought. I've fallen off this bike in sand, mud and dry pavement before. Never has my boot or leg been trapped. As I laid there with the sun beating down on my face with my left lower leg most certainly broken, my mind spins trying to understand what happened.

Even though I was lying in a muddy mess of bad luck, two things were going right for me. The first was having Jeremiah as my riding partner here in Bolivia. Before starting his clothing business in Colorado Jeremiah (Miah) served several years as a ranger for the National Park service. Trained in EMT he exudes a calm sense of control and action when speaking to the local people. He knows what he's doing. Soon his patience is taxed as more and more locals ask how they can help. In Spanish he simply responds we're fine, we've got it taken care of.

The second thing that was going right for me was to land in the mud in Tica Tica. By some twist of fate the town where I took this muddy dump happened to be the only town between Uyuni and Potosi that has a medical clinic. Staffed by a 27-year old doctor, two medical assistants and a janitor, locals direct Jeremiah to the clinic. The crowd thickens around me. A young boy about ten years old appears at my side with an umbrella shielding my eyes and face from the beating sun. Acting swiftly and determined, Jeremiah moves my motorcycle and tosses me my Camelback hydration backpack and my camera which was sitting in the open on my bike. "Drink lots of water, Allan. Keep drinking. I'm going to secure your bike and make sure nothing disappears and go find medical help." it's hot. And I'm in the mud.

The crowd is deeper now. And another young boy pops open an umbrella and shields the rest of my body from the beating sun. It's 1pm.

Just minutes after I crashed a local tends to me.

The crowd gathered while I told jokes and waited for Miah to return with medical assistance.

My umbrella boys keeping the sun from my fair skin.

With Jeremiah on his mission I start talking to the crowd in Spanish. To know me is to know that I rarely let anything lower my spirit. This was no different. Broken leg or not, I started making jokes. People move in for a closer look and to hear this crazy gringo talking. I keep saying "gracias" to the boys holding the umbrellas. I follow Miah's advice and keep sucking the water. As for the crowd, I'm amazed at how quickly they appeared and reacted. Fully aware of the affect of the high altitude sun at midday they were quick to protect me from further harm. More people offered their help. I simply said Jeremiah was taking care of things.

The clock was clicking. I was running out of jokes and starting to feel tired. Where was Jeremiah? Was the clinic in another town? I was worried. But then again -- I wasn't Before I embarked on this trip people would often ask me what are you going to do if something happens to you in the middle of nowhere? I'd reply that things always work themselves out and that wasn't a concern.

Here I was in the middle of nowhere. With a broken leg. And we were working things out.

Self portrait while lying in the mud.

I sense come commotion so I craned my neck up only to see a woman in a white smock running down the road. In one hand was an orthopedic boot, in the other a 3 foot long cardboard rectangle tube. She appears at my feet and asks me how I'm doing. I'm worried about Jeremiah and ask his whereabouts. In minutes he shows up and takes charge. He tells me that he just took a dump on his bike on rough terrain near the clinic. Two women helped him get up.

Miah and the female doctor confer. My boot must come off. I dreaded this. Worried about swelling, pain and what's next, but working together the three of us successfully remove it. Then comes the scissors and soon the pants of my Rallye II suit have a slit and my swelling appendage is exposed for all to see.

The ortho boot the doctor brought from the clinic will be useless but the cardboard tube becomes my splint with the help of gauze and an ace bandage. Miah, Doctor Sylvia and nurse Jacoba carefully splint my leg. The boys still hold up the umbrellas while Sylvia, the local doctor and jeremiah discuss evacuation options. There is a place to land an airplane just a few miles down the road. Or we can summon an ambulance from Uyuni to take me back to Potosi. Sylvia explains that the plane could take me to Santa Cruz where a more modern hospital may be better equipped to handle my injury. We decide to get the plane. Sylvia disappears and then returns and says the plane is busy now but we are awaiting to hear. Meanwhile a local good samaritan has retrieved the stretcher from the clinic and is offers his truck to take me to to the clinic where I can rest in a bed while waiting for the plane.

Miah, Doctor Syliva and Nurse Jacoba tend to me and splint my leg with a cardboard box.

Preparing to be loaded into the back of a truck for a short ride to the medical clinic.

I kept thinking. My mind playing tricks. How did this happen? Perhaps I was going to slow and with the sudden stop in the heavy mud there was no forward motion to throw me further from the bike. Or perhaps I should have been standing up. I'm sure I was sitting and moving slowly. I've never been caught under my bike before. How did this happen?

Clouds started to move in and daylight slowly dimmed under the black billowing beasts. We worried that the plane might not be able to land due to the weather. Should we consider the ambulance?

At the three room medical clinic which I must have passed on my way into town the evacuation plan is discussed further. More calls to the medical plane aren't encouraging. I could be here awhile. Sylvia explains there is an ambulance. But it would take several hours to get here and then another 4 hours to get to Potosí. Jeremiah retrieved the Vicadin's I had my doctor prescribe in the event of an emergency, but he suggested that I hold off until medics were able to evaluate my injury and understand my pain. I obliged.

Sylvia returned and said the plane might not be able to make it until tomorrow morning. What did I want to do? Jeremiah was lost for a decision. Did we want to spend a night in Tica Tica? He was stuck here with me. I could tell he didn't want to go back to Potosi, but he wouldn't leave until he was confident I was in good hands. I asked him to pull my Medivac information from my bike. Every traveler should carrying some sort of medical evacuation insurance. I signed up with MedJetAssist before departing in July. Little did I know that I'd have to call on them 7 months later.

Just then a huge bang of thunder shook the building. Then another. It was just after 2pm on Sunday afternoon when Sylvia came back from one more call over the radio telephone in the clinic. The reception was getting worse due to the weather and communication extremely difficult. But it appeared that the medical plane wouldn't be available until Wednesday. I decided that we better call the ambulance. With the radio phone practically useless I asked Jeremiah to go with Sylvia to the only "true" telephone in town to call the ambulance and to also call MedJetAssist and put them on alert that I'd need to be evacuated out of Potosi tomorrow. I asked him to call my girlfriend Angelique in Southern California with the news and that I was alright.

The rain started pouring buckets. Had I not slipped in the nasty mud of Tica Tica we might have pulled into Uyuni before the rain. At least that is what I thought until I learned that a river just a few miles down the road was running high -- over 4 or 5 feet -- making a crossing difficult or impossible. A few days later Jeremiah would encounter this river and be forced to return to Potosi on his bike. We would have turned around and got caught in this rain.

The rain pounded on the roof of the Tica Tica medical clinic while we waited for the ambulance to arrive. Uyuni was just over an hour away, we expected the ambulance in a couple hours. Meanwhile, Jeremiah pulled all my gear off Doc and started consolidating my things. The two spare fuel cans would be added to his tank. And as he sifted through my stuff a few other items caught his eye. I'm not going to need that for a while, referring to a small dry bag I used to carry my pocket digital camera. He added this to his pile. I offered him some of the food we bought in Potosi in preparing for camping on our long journey to Uyuni, Laguna Verde and south to desolate northern Argentina -- places I'd have to wait to visit when I continue my journey sometime in the future.

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Note: clicking any image brings up a larger image in a new window.

Mining & Minting In Potosi.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 16:20:52 GMT

I'm getting tired of the rain. I know just a days ride away is perhaps the driest place on the planet - the Atacama Desert in Chile. Though I imagine the scenery will be much like northern Peru - flat, uninteresting and fast. But to the south volcanoes, salt flats, flamingoes, hot springs await for me, my bike and my camera to experience and capture. Even further south I look forward to Mendoza, Argentina - where the best wines in South America are crafted. And even further south my mind spins in wonder and desires the long summer days and the glacial wonderland of Patagonia.

But for now, I'm in Potosi - the highest "city" in the world. And at one time the richest. For it was here that the Spaniards mined enough silver, as legend has it, to build a bridge of silver that could span from South America to Spain. Generations ago the indigenous people of the Altiplano named the mountain where the silver was mined "beautiful mountain" or in the Spanish translation "rich mountain". Today the mountain is neither beautiful or rich. It's sad to see the community that was once the richest and most prosperous in Latin America now one of the most impoverished. It is still trying to hang on to what little of its legacy is left. There's no commerce here other than tourism and mining. The mines are depleted and it's only a matter of time that the mountain caves in after more than 500 years of pilfering and plundering. Potosi claims not only the highest city in the world and its history as once the world's richest, it also must list high in the ranks as the city with the most churches. For with all the wealth the Spanish built churches. Many of the old houses of worship are schools or other places of business today.

(l to r) Miah climbing deep in the Potosi cooperative mines; local miners working the mines; Allan climbing deep down

The conditions workers must perform their jobs in the mines are depressing. Once owned by three individuals the mines were liberated and controlled by the state after a "revolution" of sorts in the 1950's. But as the price of tin plummeted as the world moved from tin and metal containers to plastic, riots, strikes and conditions in the mines grew worse. The state eventually had to close down its mines. Today the mines are owned by a handful of cooperatives in which the minors participate. If by some stroke of luck a rich vein is uncovered everyone shares the wealth.

Watching these minors use primitive hand tools in dusty, dark and claustrophobic tunnels deep in the mountain weighed heavy on my head and heart. Especially since the life expectancy of these miners is 15 or 20 years. Chewing on coca leaves to staid off their hunger while working 12 hours or more deep in the mines. It takes too long to get out, so they rarely eat anything but coca leaves. Generations of Bolivians have worked in the mines for centuries. Sons join their fathers in the mines at 10 years old in some cases. They grow up in the mines. They die in the mines. The mines are life. And this is Potosi - once the richest city in the world.

Joining a tour group with a bunch of Argentinean college students and befriending several as we made our way to the mines, I finally was rubbed in the face with a hard fact that I knew and always tried to overcome. That is the double standard for cost of goods and services. Miah wasn't clued in when the tour operator asked for our payment of the tour - 30 Bolvianos (about $3.20), we had negotiated at the hotel a price of 60 Bolivianos after being told that the normal price was 90 Bs. The girl trying to collect figured we were with the Argentinean group and in seconds one of the other employees came over to correct the price, with Jeremiah in agreement. I guess Miah thought I was trying to negotiate again. Oh well. But it does grate hard when the locals apply this double standard. We do our best in speaking the language. Respect the culture. We shouldn't pay more just because of our nationality.

Fitted with hardhats, tall rubber boots, headlamps and coveralls over our clothing, we traipsed through muddy passageways with low ceilings while breathing a potpourri of dust and chemicals -- I'm afraid to ask. We started our tour at the miner's market where we bought offerings to give to the miners as we intruded on their space. I stuffed a bag of coca leaves, a couple packs of cigarettes and crackers in my pockets. Others bought dynamite. Still others bought 97% proof alcohol (pura). On the last Friday of the month the miners engage in a fiesta of drunkenness where they down what is the equivalent of rubbing alcohol until they can't walk. My tour was on a Saturday and one miner must've breached the last Friday ritual as he grabbed me and stuffed his face up against mine with a dirty hand held out.

Courtyard at Casa Real de Moneda, Potisi, Bolvia

Minting machine on second level, gears turned and coins minted by horses pulling pulleys in room below.

At least at the Casa Real de Moneda (house of money), the former Spanish mint that was in operation from 1753 until the 1950's and takes up an entire block in the center of Potosi, a sign posted fixed prices regardless of gender or nationality. This building is packed with history as it was one of 3 or 4 mints in Latin America that minted coins for the Crown and Spain. The building is quite the fortress with walls more than 3 feet thick. At one time it served as a prison and a base for the Bolivian Army. But walking through the maze of rooms and guided through the fully restored building we see and experience the equipment used to mint coins by hand, by horse drawn pulleys do modern machines shipped here from Ohio and New Jersey.

But the biggest irony of the whole mining and minting experience lies in where Bolivia's coins are minted today? Take a guess? For more than a hundred years coins for Spain were minted here In Potosi Bolivia. Today, the Bolivian coins are minted in Spain -- nothing is minted in Bolivia. Tables turned, huh?

The entire city of Potosi was named a Unesco World Heritage Site in 1987. A monument to this affect greets visitors as they enter the city near the Plaza de San Francisco. It's understandable and visible that this city once heralded in riches, culture and architecture. Today it's trying to hold on. Tomorrow I head to Uyuni.

To The Highest City In The World: PotosÌ, Bolivia.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 16:18:37 GMT

Pouring over maps, weather forecasts and intelligence culled from other travelers, internet sites and local people Jeremiah and I decide to make a break for the Salar de Uyuni, the highest and largest salt flat in the world. By taking this route we'll have a chance to spend a day or two in Potosí, the highest city in the world (though there is a town in Tibet that's higher), and once the richest city in the Americas due to its massive silver and mineral mines. This route would take us to the Salar and then we will head south into Argentina through Laguna Verde and ultimately allow us to relax in the hot springs of San Pedro de Atacama before heading down through the mountains to Mendoza then on to Santiago.

A solid plan, but it means blowing off the most dangerous road in the world.

The journey to Potosi could take anywhere from 8-10 hours we're told depending on weather, number of stops and average speed. We get an early start and stopping toward the top of the rim of the crater that overlooks the city of La Paz I smell guess. And it's not the first time. When I stopped in that small market in Peru on the way to Puno I had smelled it, but figured it was from a beat up old pickup parked next to me. Then I smelled it again when I pulled over to take photos of the snow covered road outside of Copacabana. And finally, the ferry captain had commented that he smelled Peruvian gas as we wheeled my bike off his dilapidated boat.

This time I would take no chances. It had to be something with my bike. I feared my gas tank leaking. But pulling over just outside La Paz and after negotiating to buy a handful of dishtowels from a street vendor, I soaked up a pool of gas that gathered under my seat near the intake and return hoses of my gas tank. It seems that the hoses weren't snug and therefore not tight. A couple twists on the clamps with the screwdriver and we fired Doc back up. Taking the opportunity of this unplanned downtime, Jeremiah and I performed routine chain maintenance and checked tire pressure. The fix for my small gas leak was the easiest repair to date on my bike. But the whole ordeal robbed us of nearly two hours. We had to get to Potosí by twilight.

For the first couple hours we seemed to dodge the massive storms we could see surrounding us. Huge thunderheads, massive rain and bolts of lightening added the drama for the ride. But wherever the storm moved, the road appeared to move away form it. Lucky. Feeling confident and cruising at a good clip we passed this beat up mini-station wagon with llamas tied to the roof and stuffed in the back. Poor guys. I guess headed to higher elevation.

After a quick lunch in Ururu we were pelted by a massive hail storm complete with the ubiquitous golf-ball sized stones pouncing the pavement, our appendages and bikes. As the thunder shook the road and lightening bolts were littering the road ahead of us we make a prudent decision to turn around and wait for the storm to subside at a nearby gas station.

Proud of the hats that define the heritage local indigenous people of Bolivia,
this sculpture greets travelers atop a traffic circle in Ururu, Bolivia

Impossible to capture the massive hail stones on camera,
but use your imagination as we took shelter at this gas station.

Tiny adobe village on the Road from Ururu to Potosí.
The red rocks bring back images of Southern Utah and Northern Arizona in the USA.

for the next 4-5 hours the rain played with us. On. Off. On harder. Off. Then pouring. Then hints of sunshine. Problem with rain like this it makes me very hesitant to stop to take photos. All my mind can think of is get me out of here. Riding through valleys and the altiplano we finally started climbing slowly. The terrain reminded me of northwestern Arizona and in parts like Southern Utah. Deep red rock canyons, and foliage starved rocky mountains. Passing remote villages at one point we come to a road block that turns out to be a toll. The rain is falling hard, it's freezing and I can barely get my fingers nimble enough outside my gloves to pull a couple Boliviano coins out of my pocket to pay for the toll. Peering through an opening in the rotting wood structure the attendant with fingerless gloves exchanges a couple receipts for my coins and we move on.

The scenery is breathtaking and we finally ride into Potosí just at twilight. Success.

To The Highest City In The World: PotosÌ, Bolivia.

Wed, 15 Feb 2006 16:18:27 GMT

A solid plan, but it means blowing off the most dangerous road in the world.

Tiny adobe village on the Road from Ururu to Potosí.
The red rocks bring back images of Southern Utah and Northern Arizona in the USA.

The scenery is breathtaking and we finally ride into Potosí just at twilight. Success.

Lago de Nicaragua

Sat, 24 Dec 2005 07:11:01 GMT

The recommendations for staying on the island of Ometape (Isla de Ometepe) were overwhelming. I originally planned to spend more time in Costa Rica, but with stories of pot-holed ridden roads, higher costs and lots of rain I was easily convinced to take in the majestic beauty of this island sitting gracefully under two volcanoes. Getting to the island required simple but careful logistical planning. Many boats take passengers to the island from just outside Rivas not far from the Costa Rican border. But the ferry that could take my motorcycle had a limited number of departures daily. My new Canadian father-daughter riding team, Linda and Jan (pronounced Yan) accompanied me to the ferry landing. They too were planning on heading to the islands, only a few days later.

By 3:30 I was on the ferry and heading to the tiny island named Ometepe from the language of the indigenous "Chorotegans", the original people of Nicaragua, meaning "the place of two hills." The two hills in this case are steep and scenic volcanoes. I wouldn't have the time to climb any of this legendary peaks, but cruising across the Lago de Nicaragua and watching them grow in size as we approached the tiny port town of Moyogalpa was extraordinary.

I follow a dirt road, through a farm and land nearby the lake and the Laguna Charco Verde - Green Lagoon. For $10 I negotiate a nice cabin with a fan and proceed to have one of my nicest evenings under the tranquil setting of the volcano and a magnificent sunset. Interestingly enough, I find nearly a dozen other travelers from nearly every continent (Australia, Asia, Europe and America) staying at Charco Verde, too. Martin, a colorful vagabond traveler with a guitar strapped to his back entertains us as we deplete the restaurant of all their bottled beer. AS the crowd moves to cans I decide to call it an evening. But not too soon until I have my chance at belting a couple Allan Karl originals for the eager crowd of travelers.

I wish I could spend more time here. The price is excellent, scenery perfect and the hotel offers the use of kayaks, bicycles and hiking trails to the lagoon and nearby volcanoes and waterfalls are just a short distance away. If you go to Nicaragua don't miss a chance to spend a week on this island -- you'll have no regrets!

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Photos: (1) Doc tied up for the 1 hour ferry ride for San Joge to Isla de Ometepe; (2) the volcanoes of Isla de Ometepe; (3) a familiar scene in Nicaragua; (4) gorgeous sunset from Charco Verde; (5) The beach front and grounds of Charco Verde on Isla de Ometepe in Lake Nicaragua; (6) traveler friends met at Charco Verde, guitar player Martin is leaning on the top box.

Lago de Atilan to Antigual Guatemala: Worlds Apart

Wed, 23 Nov 2005 21:19:19 GMT

Lago de Atilan to Antigual Guatemala: Worlds Apart

I started to climb the road out of Pana toward Solola eager to gaze over the lake from the hilltop town and experience the road I missed when riding in the dark a couple nights back. But when I pulled into a lookout Sacha blasted up behind me and ripped off his helmet yelling, "there's another faster road out of here." He was pissed I had pulled out of the gas station impatient waiting for him fidgeting with his things and headphones.

"I wanted to see the lake from up here," I explained. He started speaking with the armed policemen stationed up her over amazing expansive views of the lake and its three volcanoes. He interrupted their comments as the better road would be the one he'd chosen. Though after he stormed away without waiting for me to do any more talking, the cops replied to my "loco" comment with a simply "bastante". Simply meaning the guy is nuts. I learned later that the road was a rough one with many parts washed out from the rains. Instead, I took the road through Solala and headed south to Antigua, a mere two hours away.

Along the road women dressed in colorful woven fabrics carried bundles of wood, small limbs about 4 or 5 inces in diameter in need bundles. Fuel for cooking meals for their family. Small children with dirty brown faces somewhat curious yet seemingly confused watch me cruise by. I left my left hand and offer a wave. Sometimes it's returned, otherwise their heads turn as if on a swivel as I continue.

Along the way I again witnessed the remains of the destruction hurricane Stan lashed on Guatemala. A roadside café all but buried in mud. A new bridge here. And piles of mud and dirt on the side of the road. Then at one site of a mudslide I saw a gathering of 50 or more traditional indigenous Maya peoples gathered around a yellow dump truck. The truck was filled with clear cellphone bags containing basic living stables such as food and the like. I stopped to learn more. The government sent the relief here but nobody seemed to know when another would arrive. I'm sure that earlier in the month another truck made a stop, but I couldn't get a clear answer. A man bearing a clipboard shouted names and the bags were claimed one by one. Pointing to something in one man's bag I asked "Que es?" (what's that). He simply replied "Mush". I said that's the same as in english. it was a bag of oatmeal.

Women surrounding the truck were dressed in those same colorful woven fabrics I saw crusing this road. Even more, nearly all sported an entourage of little people: children, almost always with one wrapped in a blanket and slung over their back with little eyes peaking out. Some completely wrapped. I wondered if they were carryingn offspring or bundles of wood, coffeee or fruit. One woman barely 5 feet tall with dark wrinkled skin and deep black eyes and through her parched lips her smile reveealed receding gums, gold teeth and a hungry mouth let me peak inside her blanket. Sure enough a 3 month old girl with her eyes gentle closed, tiny nose, mouth and ears and a bush of black hair. Sleeping sound.

One of the woman told me she had seven children. All girls. An hour later I found myself in the beautiful town of Antigua with its streets littered with tourists and shops packed with high-end gifts, plentiful food and people driving high-end cars. I thought to myself that just an hour from here it's a different world. People waiting for handouts from the government not knowing when the next would arrive. Their homes destroyed by mudslides. Yet here in Antigua locals tout tours up volcanoes and Spanish classes, while tourists whip out Quetzales by the hundreds to take in expensive meals and fancy coffee. The dichotomy of the two locales tears me up as I wait for Sacha to find his way to Antigua.

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Photos: (1) View of Lago de Atilan, Guatemala from outside Solola; (2) Roadside cafe buried after Hurricane Stan mudslide; (3) Guatemala government sponsored aid truck filled with plastic bags of food and essentials for those people left homeless after hurricane damage; (4) One family reviewing the contents of their bag of aid supplies; (5 & 6) Mayan mothers with their most precious cargo slung in colorful garb wait for their names to be called to retrieve a bag of stuff.

Have You Tuned Into WorldRider?

Mon, 21 Nov 2005 19:46:16 GMT

If you haven't been following my round the world tour by motorcycle, please tune into more regular updates on http://www.worldrider.com travelblog... Drop me a note sometime!

lago de Atilan - Guatemala.

Mon, 21 Nov 2005 18:17:32 GMT

I'd read about it in the guidebooks. Nearly everyone who'd been to Guatemala raved about it yet arriving in the dark last night I had no idea until I woke the next morning and gazed over this beautiful lake flanked by three ominous volcanoes. For two nights I stayed in Panajachel where I saw more tourists than perhaps anywhere else on my journey. Though Oaxaca comes close. A beautiful volcanic lake sitting about 7,000 feet above seal level Panajachel has long been on the travelers circuit since the 60's. Its early years perhaps tainted or praised for its easy access to drugs, today Pana, as it's referred to by travelers and locals alike, is a shopping mecca for Guatemalan handicrafts. Restaurants are first class and accommodations run from the cheapest to the most expensive in Guatemala. But it's the cheap living that attracts most travelers. The main drag that starts or ends on the lake is littered with handicraft shops, cafes and restaurants. Mayan girls and older woman taunt tourists in restaurants with weavings, necklaces and other handicrafts while young boys 9-14 years old tote shine boxes looking to polish the boots and shoes of travelers for a mere 3 Quetzales (about 40 cents).

Waling down this busy street I heard a familiar voice, "Allan!?" It's Dave Welton of the infamous Dave and Deb duo I met and rode with from Creel to Zacatecas. I hadn't seen them in nearly two weeks and here they are in Panajachel. The two of them are taking the world on BMW F650GS's. After selling their home and all of their possessions, they mounted their bikes and headed south. They are not sure how far they'll go or where they go next. But both are alive with an adventurous spirit and braving the villages and cities of Mexico. While our time together amounted to merely a few days, it feels like running into old friends after only a few weeks of wandering the villages of lands unknown.

Yet despite the constant sales push of the local people, Pana is a place one could hang for a while. Dave and Deb plan to stay for a week taking Spanish classes. Nearby, other villages such as San Pedro, Santiago Atilan and Santa Catarina on Lago de Atilan are accessible by road but to truly experience the villages of Lago de Atilan is to take water taxis or charter a boat. at about 12 miles long and 6 miles across the shores are punctuated by steep hills and three volcanoes. Depending on the position of the sun, the lakes water changes from deep blues to steely grey and green. Unfortunately, Hurricane Stan in early October unleashed its wrath on Pana and many of the 14 villages sitting on the shores and in the hills above the lake. A small river running west of town couldn't handle the massive rains and its shores collapsed taking with it dozens of homes, businesses and the only bridge carrying pedestrian and vehicular traffic to the outskirts of the town. Even worse, a small village of Panova (spelling is not accurate) made international news as a huge mudslide took out hundreds of houses and killing anywhere between 500-1000 people.

In my trip to the site of the mudslide I was sickened by the site of lime spread on the ground. While I know the bodies of many buried deep in the mud were never excavated, I'm just not sure of the effect of the lime. I could see just the roofs of buildings and timber strewn everywhere. Crosses and small monuments covered by the remains of corrugated tin roofs dotted the landscape of a large clearing where many homes were buried. One man I met was chopping would and tending fire around a small enclave walled by the corrugated tin. A woven blanket and a few items of dirt clogged clothes were piled in the corner. He explained to me that he lost his home, his wife and two of his children. One boy with him appeared to be a surviving son. I couldn't must the Spanish to ask him how he survived. My heart sank deep and I handed him the loose Quetzale coins that were clanking in my pocket as I wondered through the wasteland of destruction and death.

I learned that rather than rebuild the community under the mudslide, the local people and government have agreed to dedicate the area as sacred ground. As I walked back toward the lake I couldn't help but notice the elevated spirit of the children kicking balls, riding their bikes and laughing and giggling. Older people climbing down from the mountain with sacks on their back carrying fruit from coffee plants bring their harvest to homes still standing to have their take weighed and converted to cash. A large sack of coffee sitting about 4 feet high and four feet in circumference fetches $20 or $30 depending on the weight. My guess it would take days to fill one of these sacks.

I made my way back to the boat glancing over my shoulder at the gouge in the mountain above me wondering if those people buried ever saw what was coming.

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Photos: (1) The captivating evening over still waters at Lago de Atilan, Guatemala; (2 &3) The colorful moto-taxis and classic Guatemalan buses set the mood for journeying through Guatemala; (4) Panajachel river damage from Hurricane Stan in October 2005; (5) The fatal path of the mudslide that buried Panava, Guatemala on the shores of Lake Atilan taking 1,000 or more lives with it; (6) To be decreed sacred ground, remnants of homes lost form the frame for the buried alive; (7 & 8) innocence and smiles, these kids play ball and goof around on the dried mud that took neighbors, family members and friends, note the sacks of coffee the girl in photo 8 is leaning on; (9) school drowned in mud. note the basket ball court, only about 4 feet from ground to hoop; roof-line almost dragging on the mud.

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more to come

Sea To Sky Highway - British Columbia

Sat, 17 Sep 2005 15:24:58 GMT

The sea to sky highway is a small two lane road that winds its way from Horseshoe Bay near Vancouver to the grand ski resorts of Whistler and Black Comb, this scenic byway hugs the cliffs of a magnifiscent glacier carved landscape. With the Howe Sound to my left and the tree-covered Coast Mountains to my right I piloted my bike through blissful turns. Carefully keeping my eye on the highway was difficult with the dramatic drops to the island dotted waters far below. My plan was to get to Whistler, spend the night with an ice pack on my aching foot. I dreamed about opening one of those bottles of wine from Washington and a nice dinner. I reasoned to myself that I needed to slowly ease into the rough wilderness of Canada and Alaska and as a premier World-Class ski resort which will play host to the 2010 Winter Olympics, feeling sorry for myself and my bone-head move in Seattle that left me in a precariouis position where I couldn't walk to far from my bike. Normally, I'd pull off in a wayside, hike a bit, shoot pictures. But tethered by my new cane and a brokena and sprained foot, I was rooted close to my new best friend -- my BMW F650 GS Dakar. Rounding a corner and getting within 20 miles of Whistler I soon found myself under the watchful eye of Stawmus Chief, one of the largest granite monoliths in the world sitting high above the scenic village of Squamish. the chief attracts climbers from all over the world. I am happy to wind the road to Whistler just below it. In Whistler I played on my own personal pity and decided to splurge for one last dinner before I'd once again join the ranks of campers, canned soup and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and decided to dine at Araxi in Whistler's lower village. The meal was fantastic. Key to Araxi's culinary concept is using all local and naturally grown ingredients and foods in each of their dishes which change daily. I was blown away by my meal and figuring it'd be my last fine dining experience for sometime, I thought I'd share the menu and wine selections and strongly urge you visit this restaurant if you find yourself climbing the sea to sky highway or skiing in Whistler.

Purple & Golden Beat Salad - Buffalo mozzeraella, basil sorbet, beet & orange vinaigrette Herb Crusted Queen Charlotte Halibut - Globe artichokes, eggplant puree, Across the Creek Farm wax beans (white), verjust, olive oil, grape juice and lemon and tomator vinaigrette The beets grown locally up the road and the Halibut from just north of Vancouver all were fantastic. My mouth exploded with flavor and that basil sorbet - who would have thuought anything sounding so silly could taste so good. I paired these entries with local British Columbia wines which pleasant suprised me: 2004 Qual's Gate "Limited Release" Gerwurtztrameiner, Okanagan Valley 2004 Gehringer Brothers "Optimum" Pinot Noir, Okanagan Valley I couldn't stop their, my server tempted me with locally grown berries from Pemerton (a town I'd drive through on my way to Prince George) Pemberton Berry Napolean - fresh rasberries and sable pastry with Tahitian Vanilla Ice Cream. I hobbled my way back to the room and slept in a Murhpy Bed until 6am when my alarm was greeted by my hand for a number (I lost count) of "sleep" slams. Photos: (1) Queen Chalotte Halibut; (2) Quiet dinner good place for self pity for my broken foot and to catch up on my journaling and notes; (3) Pemberton Berries and ice cream. Yum.

Crossing Borders - International At Last

Sat, 10 Sep 2005 20:56:09 GMT

As gracious and helpful they could be Jeff, Eric and Carrie at the Apple Store in Lynwood delivered me the bad news. My PowerBook didn't make that morning's DHL delivery. Per the information available from Apple's depot repair facility in Texas, a part for my computer was back ordered. If I wasn't going to let a broken foot delay my journey, there was no way I'd let a broken computer get in the way of moving onward to the Last Frontier. I made arrangements to call with an address in Canada so that upon receipt of the computer the store could ship it to me on the road. A couple hours later after riding through the strongest winds of my journey to date, I was greeted by the young olive skinned Canadian border customs agent. After the typical where you going, where you from, what's your citizenship questions, the border guard moved to the nitty gritty. "Carrying any tobacco or alcohol." I confided in the two bottles of wine Jonathan had sent me with -- not that I needed the extra weight, but there I was sitting at the Canadian border with two cigars and two bottles of wine. "Any weapons, firearms?" Nope. "No weapons? Not pepper spray?" Nothing. "You sure?" Yes. I have no weapons. "Aren't you worried, traveling alone and camping, about bears?" No. Should I? "Yes. You might want to get some bear spray." Should I get some pepper spray? I couldn't hear him too well because of my earplugs. "No pepper spray is illegal in Canada. But you can use bear spray." He sent me on my way thinking about bears and the need to defend myself.

Only A Foot

Wed, 07 Sep 2005 22:12:24 GMT

I was extremely lucky to have the opportunity to have dinner at one of Seattle's finest Italian restaurants with a great bottle of wine and a beautiful woman last night. Walking the streets of downtown Seattle through Pikes Market and the cozy tony Belltown Neighborhood. Everything was going right for me when it happened. Riding a motorcycle around your home can be dangerous. Riding around the world can be dangerous. When you're miles away from the comfort zone of your own community the last thing anyone wants or expects is a major disaster or a mild hiccup. My hiccup happened last night. Not that I really needed new material for this blog relating to the Swedish Medical Center from "Pill Hill" in Seattle. But maybe this emergency room would be slightly different. The cabbie worked as an intern at a competing hospital also located on "Pill Hill", he strongly suggested that we go to the Swedish Medical Center. "It'll be more comfortable and quicker," he assured us as I handed him a $!0 bill and limped toward the sliding glass doors. About 30 minutes later my name is called. "What happened?" Forget motorcycling. Walking can be dangerous. I decided to take in the water sculpture, fountain and walkways of a city scape courtyard feature on 4th outside a couple tall buildings. A couple steps up and I walked across a short walkway elevated above the water just slightly so to still experience the thrill of misting fog and water. Angie didn't want to get wet, so she stayed below and watched. And as I made my u-turn to return to solid ground, I stepped down and something went awry. My right foot buckled under my ankle and a jumped up grabbing my knee and slowly setting my foot down. "Shit!" The pain was moving through me faster than a bullet train. All I wanted was a glass of port and an espresso. I knew I sprained the mother... maybe worse. I've twisted, turned and flopped both my ankles around enough over the years that I know the drill. But this time the pain seemed worse. We hobbled to the White Horse near Pikes Market and ordered a glass of Port and called our cabbie.

The ER doctor a tall woman in her late 30's was tall, auburn hair pulled back and wore a long dress with a short slit and has she walked revealed a completely tattooed leg. She handed me a bottle of ibupropen and a handful of Vicadins. "Don't let this interfere with your trip," she consulted with me as the intern wrapped an ace bandage around my ankle. "You've got a convulsion fracture -- a really bad sprain. But people with worse injuries have done more physically demanding activities than ride a motorcycle." These words didn't settle well with Angie as revealed by the look in her eye as the doctor delivered her advice. "Just don't put your foot down. It's too bad this happens in the middle of your trip. But don't let it interrupt or ruin it. I know. My husband rides a bike." Sure. Why not head into the last frontier with a broken foot and move like a gimp through the tundra while scouting caribou, moose and grizzly bears. Sure. Sounds good to me. All I could think is thank god it was my right foot. Had this happened to my left foot I'd be temporarily stranded. With the weight of the bike on the side stand which leans to the left, I'd never be able to pick the bike up off the side stand if my left foot had incurred the injury. I downed the ibupropen, through a big bag of ice on my foot and closed my eyes. Yes. The adventure has begun. Tune into www.worldrider.com for more frequent updates!

Where The Pavement Ends

Sat, 30 Jul 2005 00:27:56 GMT

"You must be the bravest man in Oregon," he said to me after pulling off my helmet. "Huh?" I ripped the earplugs from my ears. "You must be the bravest man in Oregon," he repeated as his wife and another elderly couple walked toward me. "Oh really. Why's that?" I asked flattered but confused and wondering did I do something crazy on the road that these folks saw earlier, or even yesterday? "To come up that road on this," he said pointing to my motorcycle, "didn't you see the sheer drop offs and cliffs?" Using his hand in a stiff karate pose moved it down from his chest down to his knee. "And all that dirt and gravel... weren't you scared?" I felt like I was talking with my grandparents as the two couples billowed with a verbal stew of excitement and concern. "It was a little sketchy at times," I acknowledged, "but it's going down that really scares me." They laughed and then hopped in their SUV and headed down the 5 mile road that brought me here. I sat atop Paulina Peak which sits high above the caldera of the Newberry Crater just 30 miles North of Bend. Part of the Newberry National Monument, a 500 square mile preserve of exciting volcano created natural wonders including Lava Butte, Lava River Cave, Lava Cast Forest and two lakes sitting in the crater of the Newberry Volcano, Paulina Lake and East Lake. Like many of its famous brethren Mt. St. Helens, Crater lake, Mt. Shasta, Mt. Hood and more, Newberry Volcano sits in the Cascade range. More than 7,000 years ago this area was a hotbed of volcanic activity. While at one time there may have been one lake as Crater Lake, but today Newberry Volcano has two lakes separated by pumice and lava.

Sitting atop Paulina Peak I gaze into the rich blue lakes, watch eagles soar and cast my eyes upon the jewels of the Cascades. From here I can see Mt. Batchelor, the Three Sisters, Mt. Jefferson, and even Mt. Hood more than 100 miles north. These snowcapped beauties stand proudly above the Oregon plains and valleys. While not paved, the road to Paulina Peak is in good condition and offers amazing views as it ascends to the top of the world. But as my elderly friends cautioned, don't let the beauty distract you from the road. It's a big drop. And the winding and switch-backed road requires intense concentration or it's only one car wide -- and there are some very wide cars in Oregon. As magic lighting hour occurs (5-7 pm) I ride through forests of Ponderosa Pines where the sunlight causes the golden amber bark to glow amongst the non-descript pines that surround these beauties. I finally make it to The Cascade Lakes National Scenic Byway (I think this was originally called the Cascade Lakes Highway, but things change). It's a nearly 70-mile ride along the Cascade Mountains passing through forest of pine and ponderosa and 6-7 lakes and a plethora of hiking trails.

I come winding around a swooping corner when I spot an elk casually trot across the highway. Later I cruise up a dirt road to a trail head where the sound of my engine through the excellent Adventure Pipe exhaust scares another elk into the woods. I would have liked to camp by one of these lakes but my lake of preparation has left me without food so I continue along the highway pass Mt. Bachelor and Sparks Lake and into Bend where I find a cheap motel and relish the memory of this beautiful ride. With less than 70,000 people, Bend, Oregon impresses me with its cozy downtown district, central Mirror Lake area where rafters float and families fix dinners and picnics and lovers walk hand in hand along the winding Deschutes River. Nice restaurants, unique boutiques and galleries and outdoor cafes create an ambiance often obliterated in small towns by development gone out of control and big box disease. I'm excited to stay one more night here.

Crater Lake

Sat, 30 Jul 2005 00:26:53 GMT

When one think of travel perhaps the feeling of letting go, freeing up your mind and the ultimate temporary relief of stress. Unless you travel for business, of course. But I'm talking about vacation. It's vacation time that stirs wanderlust in the minds of most of us. For some this might be umbrella drinks on some tropical beach, for others it might be hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, mountain climbing or fishing. No matter your escape, it should give you peace from the speed of everyday life. Unless you lose your wallet. I woke up in Grants Pass and followed my continually improving process of packing my stuff, loading the bike and moving on to the next destination. Before leaving my room I run through my list like an airline pilot preparing to take off: chain lube ready, tie-down straps, luggage compartmentalized, GPS ready, camera, phone, dummy wallet... but wait. "Where's my wallet." I race through my room looking under the beds, in drawers, in the bathroom. Then I panic. I look in the shower, the trash cans and behind the dresser. Panic more. I empty out all of my luggage when fear sends a cold chill through my body. I feared the wallet fell out of my riding jacket after I paid for take out food the night before. I even pull my laptop out of the pannier and log into my bank fearing someone on Grants Pass Wal-Mart shopping spree. Then I pulled back the bed spread. Sitting still and smiling in its full glory was my wallet. Winding along the Rogue River the road to Crater Lake gently winds and climbs toward the five mile lake that sits inside a crater left by the tremendous volcanic eruption that sent the top of Mount Mazuma soaring into the sky nearly 8,000 years ago. In many places the road is under construction. Rather, the road is gone. I humor myself as I skirt along the sand and gravel sucking the dust from some SUV with kids watching DVDs in the back seat thinking that I've got 400 miles of this type of road from North of Fairbanks, Alaska to Prudhoe Bay -- except the road even as dirt won't be in this good shape. In a quarter mile I'm back on pavement. This happens several times as I climb to 7,000 feet to Rim Village. It costs automobiles $10 to enter this National Park. As I approach the entrance station I contemplate the annual park pass. AT $50 it gives you unlimited access to every national park in the country. So I do the math. Olympia, Denali, Glacier, Zion, Bryce and the others I can't remember. Perhaps I should get it. My thumb clicks the red switch on the handlebars and the 650cc engine comes to a numbing stop. [base "]That'll be $5 please." I'm thrown for a loop. What? My math goes haywire, I don't have time to think and as I pull an Abe out of my wallet I ask here "Is it $5 for motorcycles." She nods. "Is that the same for all National Parks?" "I know it's for this one," as she hands me leaflets and a newsletter that I can't really take, "I don't know about other parks." The engine rumbles to a start and I pull away confused.

"Sure you can swim," quipped the woman Ranger with the gold tooth, "it's 38 degrees." And if the temperature doesn't scare you the climb down to the lake will. Peering over the edge of crater you watch the caldera drop 1,900 feet steep and fast. There's only one trail down to the lake. "Every year someone has a problem. So know your physical condition and take it easy." "And if you like to fish," she asserts as her long fingers fix the brim of her hat to shade the sun from her brown eyes, "we encourage you to do so. Fish all the fish out of this lake. They're not indigenous you know." She explains that the Park Service stocked the lake before they knew anything about managing parks. Today they know better. So she says. A crowd gathers near my motorcycle. Some bikers. Others merely quenching their curiosity. "How much fuel does it carry?" "How long you been traveling?" "Where you going now?" I spend 20 minutes chatting with friendly people from Maryland to Vancouver and many places in between. I guess I ask for it. The WorldRider decals on my panniers hint to my ambitious endeavor. I've been to Crater Lake once before when 20 foot high snow drifts blocked views to the lake. I had to walk down a 30 foot snow tunnel and pear through a small window to get a glimpse of this incredible sight. This time I get to ride around the rim of the volcano. What amazes me the most is how many pull offs at this park that are unencumbered by unsightly guard rails or ill placed rocks. I pull over at one wayside and the pavement ends abruptly like a horizon pool at some high end resort. I peer down the cliff when rush of vertigo takes over and I think to myself, Gee... horizon pool or Crater Lake? Looks like Crater Lake wins.

A couple hours later after a ride through the high desert I land in Bend, Oregon. Tomorrow? Sisters, Mt. Bachelor or ??? We'll see.

Sat, 30 Jul 2005 00:25:40 GMT

I'm up much earlier today than yesterday, but I'm going to spend time this morning gathering those loose items I through into my top box and stuffed into pockets and cavities on my or the bike before leaving John's yesterday. Today's plan is simple. Get to Crater Lake and then move toward's Bend, Oregon where I will adore three sisters. Mountains that is. Faith. Hope. And Charity. Back is a little sore this morning. Don't know if it was the hotel mattress of the nearly 300 miles of riding yesterday. I'd like to think the former. We'll see. Just a note on the packing. Leaving Southern California on July 6, I had a tank bag and a seat bag. The seat bag is a low profile, but expandable bag that sits on the seat behind me. I have a dry bag where I keep my gore-tex liner for the riding suit for easy access if the rain comes pouring down. Also in this bag I keep walking shoes, my electric vest and a few layers of clothing. On the first leg I had this sitting on top of the seat bag. Unfortunately on Day 2 of the journey it just didn't feel right. So I blew it off. So I'm minus a couple storage places which will reduce my temptation to fill them up. On to Crater Lake. See you there! Ok?

When The Digital Tavern Turns To WorldRider

Wed, 20 Jul 2005 07:09:54 GMT

Ever dream about taking time off to see the world? Yeah, me too. So have you been wondering what's up with Allan and his pathetic lack of posting on the Digital Tavern for the past several months? Sorry for the lack of content for the last few months, but I've been busy planning the big trip. I've actually been planning this journey for more than two years. Fact is, last week I packed up some of my belongings, sold my car, rented my house and left Southern California on my motorcycle. I'm setting out on a journey that will ultimately take me from the top of the world to the bottom and then all the way around -- 50 countries and 50,000 miles on a motorcycle -- around the world. The Digital Tavern will continue to live and the archives area cemented into history. But you'll want to link, blogroll and subscribe via RSS to my new blog at http://www.worldrider.com/blog you can also visit the placeholder site that's been up for several months here. So if you've got The Digital Tavern bookmarked, in your blogroll or subscribed, please add the new site where you can travel vicariously with me around the world. Currently, I'm on my way to Alaska to ride the Dalton Highway which leads to Deadhorse and Prudhoe Bay -- and is the northernmost road in North America. The WorldRider blog will feature podcasts, engaging travelogue writing and photographs from around the world. Stay tuned. It's going to get fun. The posts that follow are from the WorldRider blog. So read them here or go on over to the new blog! Thanks for tuning in!

WorldRider Posts From First Week

Wed, 20 Jul 2005 07:08:24 GMT

June 30, 2005 The countdown begins. Not that the last two years of planning, reading, dreaming and anticipating haven[base ']t served as a slow burning fuse leading up to d-day. But today I[base ']m homeless. Someone strange has moved into my house. Now this feels real. I stood staring at the few bags and boxes sitting on my driveway. Filled with either stuff that will be packed on my motorcycle or things representing stragglers and fragments from closing up my life in Southern California still needing some of my attention. A strange feeling took over my body as I thought about my impending life over the next couple years. Nothing I did prepared me for this. Though for the last two years of my life I[base ']ve focused on research, planning and preparation for my journey around the world on a motorcycle. With no home I tried to cram the remaining possessions into my car. Those that wouldn[base ']t fit in the car I stuffed into the trunk of my old classic Pontiac GTO. The huge cavity of this 1971 Detroit legend would serve as a temporary storage bin until the car would find its new home in Huntington Beach in the garage of my auto and wine enthusiast friend Tom. Phone is disconnected. Mail is forwarded. What am I doing? Four days until Independence Day. No turning back. This is for real. July 1, 2005 I don[base ']t think I[base ']m ready. Though I[base ']ve been working on this plan for more than two years, I realize that nothing can prepare you for the dichotomy of feelings and thoughts that run through my body. Excitement and Anticipation and sadness and loss I drove down the street where a new family has moved into my home. The garage is open and packed with I don[base ']t know what. I wonder how my tenant will fit it all into my house. As I retrieve the final items from the trunk of my GTO. Getting out of my house yesterday was a real fire drill. My new tenant had to be out of his house on the 29th of June and we agreed that he could begin moving in at noon on the 30th. Yesterday[base ']s chaos began when Bill[base ']s (my tenant) massive Mayflower moving van rolled down the street literally thirty seconds after another trucked picked up my storage container from my driveway. Like a well executed just-in-time process except that I forgot to buy a lock to secure my container. My friend Chuck zoomed to the local hardware store and made it back just as the driver finished securing the container to the truck platform. Sweat dripping down my brow as I labeled a few boxes to be shipped to Northern California where I[base ']ll regroup in a few days and make further modifications and enhancements to my bike and packing strategy. I cocooned my pile of boxes and bags from the stuff the movers were bringing into my house. July 2, 2005 Am I ready? My mind races through the long daunting list of to-dos that put me on edge. Friends and acquaintances that catch me either on the phone or around town grin ear to ear when they see me. [base "]You must be so excited![per thou] Others say [base "]I don[base ']t have to tell you to enjoy life [^] you[base ']re doing it![per thou] Some speak with envy others think I[base ']m crazy. Truth is, I thought I[base ']d be excited. But the process of selling most of my possessions, storing those I think I[base ']ll need on my return and then handing my house keys over to a stranger increases my anxiety. Am I ready? No way. That to do list hovers like a harbinger of doom just waiting for me to forget an important detail. Still to do: Sell car Immunizations Malaria prescription and pills Carnet de passage Pay final bills [^] hell, call utilities and tell them where to send final bills (a tough thing for a homeless guy) Make calls [^] those voice mails Return e-mails (386 and counting) Finish website Test pack motorcycle And on[sigma] Today this website is only a fragment of what it will be over the next two weeks. I[base ']ve had a ton of support from sponsors, friends and family. And soon I[base ']ll post lists and detail of all of those who have supported and encouraged me on this journey. And to all of you [^] thank you so much. I[base ']m excited but still much to do. Stay tuned! July 3rd My final night in Southern California. I[base ']ll spend it with someone very special. We[base ']ll have one final quiet evening and a long goodbye at The Ritz-Carlton in Laguna Niguel. We order room service from the fine dining restaurant. Swim in the pool and chill in the Jacuzzi. We gaze over the Pacific. The white water crashes on the beach. Surfers wait for the next set. My wait is over. I can[base ']t believe that I[base ']m leaving. It[base ']s finally here. Independence Day. The start of my motorcycle journey around the world. 50 countries. 50,000 miles. My journey of adventure and discovery. July 4th All my possessions are scattered everywhere in Angie[base ']s bedroom. Water purification tablets over there. A mosquito net here. There[base ']s the thermarest and the sleeping bag. Wait! Where[base ']s the tent? I know I brought it. Is it still in the back of the GTO? Shit. Did I forget it? Did it get packed into my storage container? I run up the stairs to the other bedroom and rip through the closet. Ahhh. I had stashed a few more boxes here. And there. There[base ']s no way all of this is going to fit on the bike. I[base ']ve still yet to make a tool box out of 3[per thou] PVC and attach it to the front of the bike. This will bring more wait to the front in an effort to maintain balance to the motorcycle. The fireworks above Legoland are glorious. I can[base ']t help but thinking this is for me. But as I gaze over the families, lovers and children craning their necks to see the colorful splendor and realize that no one here knows what I[base ']m about to do. Would they care? Jaws would drop. But as the fireworks red glare and burst in the air I hold Angie tight next to me and I think about the hardest part of leaving. Nope. I[base ']m behind schedule. Looks like I[base ']m leaving tomorrow or the next day. July 5, 2005 Attending to final business of closing up life. And then working on packing strategy. I acquired many items in the last two weeks that I haven[base ']t even opened. My time for the last couple weeks was focused on moving out of my house and selling my possessions. If my motorcycle had feelings and could express such it would feel lonely and alienated. Though we[base ']d be together for a long time and become quite intimate with each other, I had hoped we[base ']d spend more time together prior to the journey. With only 1,750 miles on the bike our relationship is still new. We[base ']re still testing the waters and understanding the limitations. No this isn[base ']t my first BMW F650GS. In 2003 I bought my first dual-sport motorcycle specifically for my journey around the world. That bike and I spent thousands of miles getting comfortable with each other. Journeys to Wyoming, Utah, Arizona and Mexico were test runs for the big trip. But a slight mishap last summer and a realization that I[base ']d be better off with a Dakar model (beefier suspension and larger (21[per thou] vs. 19[per thou] front wheel.) Plus the new 2005 BMW dual sport thumpers came with a dual sparkplug engine. The fuel-injected powerplant would run smoother and run better on lower octane fuel. I picked up the bike from BMW of Santa Cruz County in mid-April. One long but quick jaunt to the Phoenix area was my only true test ride with the new bike. In one day I road over 800 miles to Al Jesse[base ']s place where he installed the best panniers in the business. Soon as my website takes life I[base ']ll provide a detail list with explanation of all of the modifications to my motorcycle. You[base ']ll get a chance to see what preparations I made to outfit the bike for a worldwide adventure. This website/blog will come alive over the next couple weeks as I work with Jessica to make this happen. Just another to-do. As dusk settles into Southern California I realize that today will not be departure day. July 6, 2006 I carry the panniers to the bike. Then the dry bags. Then the tank panniers. And the tank bag. I stuff items of questionable purpose or utility into the top box. Loose ends get stashed in the tank bag. Other items are jammed into the pockets of my riding jacket. I gotta get out of town. I[base ']ve pushed my luck. Ready or not. All I can hope for is time in Northern California to regroup and tweak the bike and the packing. Riding a motorcycle is the ultimate freedom. It truly the captures the spirit of travel and being on the road. As I pass push on through the traffic of Los Angeles the smell of rubber on pavement, spewing diesel and drivers holding cigarettes out there window turns to sweet sage, onion, garlic and finally as I make it to Los Banos on the 5 freeway toward San Jose the stench of thousands of bovine. As the sunset over the coastal range a large flashing highway signs warns me of strong and gusting winds on route 152 which will take me to Highway 101 to Mountain View. My plan is to stay with my friends Ken and Robin and get an early start the next morning. My GPS tells me only 50 minutes until I arrive in Mountain View. But a long line of cars stacked up on the winding and twisting Pacheco Pass forces me to halt. It[base ']s 9pm. After a few minutes of waiting I cruise to the head of the nearly half-mile line of cars and trucks. As ten or more fireman and policeman scurry across the pavement it looks like a war zone. I can[base ']t recognize the car. A fireman with his yellow coat flashing and reflecting in my fairing he brings two body bags to the alien looking vehicle. I turn my head away and motorcycle off. Not what I wanted to see. I felt for the families who are still wondering why loved ones are late coming home. The police officer tells me two people died because of a drunk driver and advises me to take an alternate route to Mountain View. I arrive at 11:30pm. July 7, 2005 I decide that with such a late arrival last night that I really want to spend time with Ken and Robin before heading north. Ken and I do a bunch of errands and he helps me figure a better packing strategy. I felt that the bike was a little [base "]back heavy[per thou] on the trip up. I need to shift more weight to the front of the bike. We weigh everything I[base ']m carrying. It[base ']s 200 lbs even. And at 155 lbs that means passenger and gear are 355 lbs. I thought I[base ']d carry about 150 lbs of gear. Looks like I[base ']m a bit overweight! To be sure, there are many items that were thrown into bags on the bike that would be trimmed by the time I arrived in Garberville where my good friend Johnny A is waiting for me with a few DHL packages I shipped ahead. July 8, 2005 I[base ']ve arrived in Garberville. Johnny A lives down a dirt road and as I navigate the rocks and ruts in his steep driveway I feel the front tire go a bit squirrelly. I flash back to the desert training I did with Jimmy Lewis out near Las Vegas. Riding in the sand always tenses me up as the front wheel moves and jumps as if it has a mind of its own. Key to handling the motorcycle in these situations is to simply maintain speed and loosen up on the handlebars. As I descend down John[base ']s driveway I tighten up and imagine dumping the bike on the first dirt of the trip. Then I remind myself that less than 10% of the roads in Bolivia are paved. Get used to it Allan. But for me, it[base ']s the weight of the bike that has my confidence waning a bit as I safely pull into Johnny A[base ']s place. I realize I have to trip the 50lbs and tweak packing even more. July 9, 2005 Today I go with Johnny A and his girlfriend Kendra to pick up Sienna, Kendra[base ']s 9-year old daughter who will return home after two-weeks at Camp Winnarainbow. These two-weeks were the first time Sienna and her mom have been separated for such a time since birth. Camp Winnarainbow is a joint venture of Wavy Gravy and Patch Adams (the Dr. played by Robin Williams in the Hollywood film of the same name). This camp is designed to teach children to experience and participate in the performing arts. Walking into the camp I see a dozen or so teepees, children on unicycles, stilts, walking troubadours with guitars and faces painted as clowns. Older kids greet us with [base "]Welcome To The Future[per thou]. We watch an amazing show where the talented youngsters juggle, sing, dance, perform poetry, act and perform music. If I had a kid, I would definitely send them here. Very cool. My motorcycle is safely tucked away and unpacked in Johnny A[base ']s garage. A box of Touratech parts awaits my attention and will have to wait until Monday to be installed. All is well in Northern California. Now I can truly regroup and work on the next phase of my adventure. In a few days I[base ']ll head through Oregon, Washington, Vancouver Island and then on to Alaska.

Are you going or traveling?

Sat, 02 Apr 2005 08:48:50 GMT

Seems that the Digital Tavern sees most activity (my writing) when I travel. Though I still try to keep up and provide insight and musings on music, wine, macintosh and whatever else inspires me. But it's the traveling the keeps me fresh, opens my eyes and infuses my spirit while stimulating my creativity. There's a difference between going somewhere and traveling somewhere, even nowhere. Traveling. I've made my mind up to travel even more. Explore and discovery the world. Learn more about our planet and myself. But I've diverged. What's travel to you? Vacation or holiday. Sitting on a beach with an umbrella drink, climbing a volcano or trekking remote village of a distant land? Have you heard of someone complaining that their vacation was too much and they need to take a vacation from their vacation? Or something like that? I can't understand it. Yea, there's a cold turkey I go through when I return from a journey. My anecdote is planning for the next. Seems to work. What works for you? Where's your next travel destination? And how long will it be? I learned today that Liz is taking a year sojourn. Though Liz looks at this as a temporary relocation. I might see it as a journey. Travel but not traveling, perhaps. Yet new experiences nonetheless. She'll spend a year in the Pacific Northwest. What a terrific opportunity. I wish her luck and enlightenment in wherever it may be dark. Though I guess Rochester and Seattle are pretty close to the same amount of sunless days. A newfound nugget for me. < Then there's Joi. I think he's the only person I know who criss-crosses the glove more than I do. New Delhi, Taiwan, Argentina. Busiest and most productive person I know -- never ceases to amaze me in his perceptions, contacts and activities.

Back In The House!

Fri, 01 Apr 2005 07:05:33 GMT

Okay. I'm back from Costa Rica. And unfortunately internet access was sparse in the areas I traveled and my constant quest for monkeys, the elusive Quetzal, tabers and the monarch butterflies kept me in the outdoors and the sun. The glare on the laptop so intrusive and unyielding that my writing was confined to my analog journals. If I'm motivated I'll translate some key thoughts here over the next few days. But so you know the highlights of the trip included Dominical and especially Corcovado on the Osa Peninsula. But let me diverge. Back in my Wirestone days I had the chance to meet the principal of 415 in San Francisco, Grace Stanat. We connected on many levels and though our paths haven't crossed much over the last couple years, I was happy to hear he found the love of his life, got married and now is doing the most amazing thing.

" [...] Instead of taking a honeymoon, we decided to fulfill a lifelong dream and travel the world for a year (13 months, actually). We started slowly saving soon after we met, and with the proper planning, it all turned out to be more affordable than we originally anticipated (let us know if you'd like more info on this). With a few exceptions, we have opted to stay in each place for about a month. We think this approach allows us time to immerse ourselves in the culture and experience how different people live. We've also found it to be less stressful (not to mention cheaper) than traveling constantly for a year. We hope that it also allows some of our friends and family to visit [...]

Spending thirteen months going around the world, Grace and his bride Susan are spending a month in each of a diverse collection of global destinations. With an excellent travelogue, great photographs and a love story that will make you cry, you need to check in with them. I'd start here and then move on. Congrats Grace! I've got my own around the world adventure in the final stages of planning. Perhaps our paths will meet again, in person.

Adventure Starts Here: Costa Rica Pura Vida

Tue, 08 Mar 2005 17:54:58 GMT

Saturday, March 5, 2005 It's addicting. And it's time for anonother fix -- traveling, exploring, learning, immersing, moving and experiencing. Waiting for the midnight shuttle to take me to LAX I run through the motions. Passport. Itinerary. Reference numbers for 4WD auto reservations. Jungle Juice (90% deet). And a host of clothing and accessories that will make my trip to the jungles, rainforests and beaches of Costa Rica pleasant. "It's going to be hot," many have quipped. "Don't forget to bring lots of sun screen," others strongly suggested. "Costa Rica? Yuck, bugs and bugs and bugs." Adventure travel is not for everyone. Those who prefer the cocooned all inclusive resorts with every American amenity and the trappings of consumerism might be ill-equipped to take a journey to a land where one's command of the language may not be great and where reservations for accommodations are non-existent. In our case, we know where we'll be the last three nights of this nearly two-week odyssey: Osa Peninsula at the entrance of Parque Nacional Corcovado. Taking a red-eye flight is another good "get the most out of your trip" strategy. We would land in San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica at 7:30am. This means we could be on the road toward our destination -- a decision we'd make by 9am -- and ideally settle into accommodations by late afternoon. The five-hour flight was non-eventful. We slept most of the way after downing a half-bottle of Opus One I'd had kicking around at home. I finally figured the strategy to getting a bottle of wine opened on an airplane. And do note that the United Airlines attendant who discovered my bottle on my flight to China last April assured me this was against the law and that they'd coulda turned the plane around and force me to deplane. This information didn't dissuade me from acting responsibly and impeccably prudent. The trick? Well, the half-bottle isn't a bad idea and my first experience. Second? Since corkscrews are not allowed on these flying tubes, pull the cork before leaving home. Replace the cork with a cap from a bottle of port or sherry. These contain cork material and sit flush with the top of the bottle. They're easy to pull off and fit snug and secure. Costa Rica immigration and customs was a breeze and this is the first time I can remember that my bags were x rayed leaving the airport. Within 15 minutes we were shuttled to the Budget rental car counter where Alayna, a cute round-faced plump Tico asked us about insurance. "This is mandatory," she explained the $11 per day liability insurance was required by Costa Rica law. I quickly declined the other insurance options and as she ran my credit card for a $750 deposit I recalled the Budget agent in Lisbon, Portugal who required a $15,000 deposit when I declined insurance there. The roads in Costa Rica are challenging. Not to this driver, but to the vehicles who are pounded and abused by the unending potholes, bad asphalt and sharp rocky byways to just about anywhere. Of course, I didn't know this when Alayna explained that the car we'd rent was just returned and that they needed to check it over and wash it. Nearly an hour later I'm walking around the car with Carlos and a clipboard pointing out scratches, dents and other damage. Concerned for my $750 deposit I was careful to verify with Carlos each and every thing. And then it occurred to me well if someone buys the insurance why aren't all these nicks, dings and dents repaired. And if I were to lose my $750 deposit by contributing to the malaise that had infected this Toyota RAV4 would my money go to repair or simply the bottom line? After a couple hours driving north toward Fortuna and Mt. Arenal, one of Costa Ricas most active volcanoes it was time to stop and have a beer. Thus the adventure started. Within a few hours we were rappelling down a waterfall where the largest drop as 150 feet. Having never suited up a mountain climbing harness, So when Eduardo opened a hatch on the suspension bridge the swung casually high above the pounding waterfall, I swallowed and my stomach let me know that my nerves were talking to me. I straddled the hole in the bridge, worked the rope and started my descent. A quick rush as I sped down the line short-term memory loss set in and I forgot how to slow down and break. Then BAM. I was back. As I hit the waterfall the soothing cool water washed the sweat away and in minutes I was totally comfortable in my harness and feeling like a master as I hoisted myself down a series of drops, often letting loose and jumping into several pools on the way down. I had to remind myself I just landed in this country three hours ago. Nothing like forgetting about the time change and literally jumping right in. The rappel down the falls was exhilarating, but I was sure the climb up would be taxing. No worries our guide had a couple horses at the bottom of the falls. And after letting us swing on a long cable suspended from a branch high in one of the trees we started our 30-minute horseback ride back up the hill. Welcome to Costa Rica. Pura Vida! Sunday, March 6, 2005 The couple we met in downtown Fortuna said they tried five or six hotels up the road and everyone was sold out. Okay. So perhaps not having reservations can have its toll. Especially after a late morning adventure and driving winding and twisty roads to the rain forest that sits tranquilly in the shadows of Volcán Arenal. But I'm an optimist. I'd read about the beautiful hot springs of Tábacon and was determined to get a room at the resort that bears that same name. The massive red and white gate blocked the entrance to the property and a short dark-skinned man with a fine trimmed haircut asked if we had reservations. "Sorry. Sold out." With a circular motion he demonstrated the dexterity of his finger while indicating the change of direction necessary for me to take. In my best Spanish I asked him for a recommendation for a hotel. After flustering ourselves in the conversation he pulled up the gate and suggested I talk to reception. It didn't take long for the front desk clerk and me to convince each other that there might be a room available. And in a few moments I was signing check-in papers while the bellman grabbed our luggage from the RAV 4. Ahhhh. Yes. Optimism and determination. Sure, it might not always work. But karma was on our side. While the room was gorgeous and offered a patio looking onto the rainforest grounds, perhaps the best seat in the place was on the toilet. Opening the dark wood shutters one could contemplate the natural wonder of the world or the amazing fact that Costa Rica is the only Central American and South American Country that has no army. That's right no armed forces.

Soon we were wading through the natural jungle landscape and basking in the natural heated water of Tabacon Hot Springs. Soothe those muscles after a day of adventure. Photos: (1) Beautiful flowers in rainforest near Volcan Arenal; (2) Yours truly rappelling down the waterfall; (3) Volcan Arenal from Fortuna, Costa Rica; (4) Angelique wading through the hot springs at Tabacon.