We got together our rental gear and modestly shouldered our packs, joining the throngs of mochileros in the Mariscal Region of Quito.  Bus routes were closed as the city prepared for it´s Ano Nuevo celebrations, promising lots of debauchery and the tradition of burning effigies of the old year, life size muñecas that sat languidly in front of shops and houses across the city.  For three dollars we got a taxi that took us to La Terminal, a rather terrifying conglomeration of transportation services, stacked on three stories.   Stench of urine filled the air as we passed the cascade of busses and approached the entrance to the complex. Inside, single file lines weaved in zig zags through the vendor booths set up chaotically throughout and we tried to maneuver across these seemingly impenetrable lines of aggressive travelers.  Ice Axes and crampons protruded from our packs and commanded a bit of space to allow us through.  Our challenge was figuring out which bus we needed, information we neglected to acquire beforehand.   All we really knew was we were headed to Volcan Cotopaxi, sitting south of Quito some 50 odd kilometers, and we wanted to climb to the top.
            
Even when we found out which bus we needed, we were still stuck, because the assistant responsible for taking tickets and packing cargo underneath wanted nothing to do with us.   As if my pale face and gringo clothes were completely invisible, he refused to acknowledge my existence.  I asked a woman waiting nearby why he wouldn´t help us and she responded simply that he´ll only let you on if he can´t fill the bus.  I tried to get more from her, curious what was wrong with me, but before I could another bus attendant offered to let us on.  We threw our bulky backpacks underneath and got on the already moving bus, standing room only.

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Photo Gallery of our climbs up Cotopaxi and Chimborazo. 

Click on one of the photos to see the rest.

Here is a shot near the summit when I climbed up solo. Whiteouts and highwinds made it difficult to enjoy the view at the top (or capture many photos).

Goat and Jacob just got finished with their climbing trip. Simon joined up for a bit, but after getting elevation sickness the first day, he decided to head to the beach for some surfing. They used a Spot Tracking device to show their progress on the hikes and it´s pretty cool to check out with Google Map´s relief feature. You can usually follow along on their progress with their SPOT MESSENGER Tracking Page.

We have arrived in Quito, Ecuador. Country number 10 of our travels. JJ is currently in Panama working on a kayak trip and Sean is relaxing on the coast of Ecuador with a friend of his. Simon arrived in Quito yesterday and put his Xtracycle together in his hotel room, much to the annoyance of the management.

Goat, Simon and I are leaving  in a few days to climb Cotopaxi and Chimborazo.

Photos and updates are soon to come.

Cool bike statue in Ecuador.

Christmas gathering roasting up Cuyes, tasty roasted guinea pigs.

I’ve had a bit of time to make some updates. Got around to adding some more photos from the Cricamola River Exploratory to the Panama Photo Gallery. Click the photo above to see the updated gallery.

We think it must have been somewhere near the town of Quimbaya where JJ was bit by a mosquito that carried Dengue Fever. Cycles of fevers and chills swept in and out each day and he knew he had more than just an average flu. A clinic diagnosed him with Dengue and recommended a lot of water and rest while his platelets are restored . Here JJ is trying to get some rest (and raise his platelets) in a park while mobbed by the usual crowd of curious locals.

Waiting behind a sheet of rain draining off the roof of a small tienda were a group of stranded travelers.

“It is far too dangerous to cross right now, please wait for the bulldozer.” Somebody offered, even stepped aside to make room under the shelter.

It was true.  Rocks were continuously tumbling down, some encouraging smaller slides to pile up against the mass of earth slowly taking over the final piece of road.  We waited for about five increasingly uncomfortable minutes; our clothes of course dripping wet, our bike shorts like soggy diapers.  Rocks kept scrambling down the sloppy earth.

Against their wishes I decided to go for it.  I backed around to get some momentum, hoping to get through the slide as quickly as possible.  A path large enough for a motorcycle or bike remained, but was filled with boulders, larger than my head.  Smaller stones sunk below the huge flooded puddle that marked the path to follow.

I watched the rocks sliding down from the very top and started pedaling across, trying to time my entrance as cleanly as possible.  Once in the slide, I could no longer watch the falling rocks, as I had to pay attention to the technical riding in front of me.

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To enter the port of Turbo, we paddled through the maze of mangrove forests, a twisted conglomeration of roots and branches rising out of the water. Shanty houses edged up against the water and began to turn on their lanterns as night poured in.

Merchant ships that run products up the coast to-from the Panama Canal squeezed into the narrow channel that was lined with houses on one side and the streets of Turbo on the other. Smells of diesel fuel, sewage, and fish saturated the heavy tropical air as we paddled through the filthy water looking for a ship known as the ¨Nuevo Jerusalem¨. Arrangements had been made to carry our kayaks back to Capurgana, a beach town and tourist resort further up the coast.

In Capurgana, Juan David let us “kombuchar” in front of his vacation home. Drinking a bit of rum “en caja” (from a box) later that night, we told him about our plan to paddle until we could sell the kayaks, and that we imagined the most likely place would be Cartagena. Many calls were made, and eventually he agreed to buy them, putting us back on our bikes in Turbo.

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                     Our final crossing of the Gulf of Urabà was nearly complete. Turbo was close enough to make out the trucks and buses spewing exhaust along a coastal frontage road. The most striking characteristic the mystical fantasy world known as the Kuna Comarca was its absence of automobiles. We hadn’t seen a car in three weeks, yet Turbo had been waiting all along to reacquaint us with reality.

                      It was the home stretch of our Kayak trip, but fate would have it that our last day at sea would be no walk in the park. There we were, pushing hard in the blistering midday sun. Usually, around noon, we pull over in a shady beach for lunch. In this part of the Urabà Gulf, along the Mouth of the Rìo Atrato, vegetation was sparse. For the first time on our Kayak trip there was not even a hint of breeze, no cloud cover, and not a single palm tree to be seen.

   Just an hour ago, Goat and I had beached in front of a Colombian military base to ask if we could rest for a few hours. Our reception had been less than welcoming.

            “What’s inside this Kayak? Take everything out and show me piece by piece.” ordered the base commander.

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We got the Colombian photo gallery updated with photos from our most recent stretch of riding. Click on the photo below to check them out.

Part Two: Recovering from Blindness

I was ready to go at dawn. Fishermen were already trolling close by, and the sounds of livestock wailing and townsfolk awakening drifted from Mamitupu. Goat yelled at me from his hammock as I packed my Kayak; “Are you not going to cook breakfast here?”

“NO,”I growled, grumpy and wanting to eat. “Once we reach Mamitupu, I’ll cook. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday morning.”

“Are you mad…? Do you realize how miserable it’ll be, the whole village swarming around our stove…”Yelled back Goat from his Hammock. “You know, it took that police unit till noon to get off their ass and inspect our scene.”

Goat had a point of sorts but I decided to ignore him rather than argue further.

The inevitable Kuna greeting party was there to meet us on the shores of Mamitupu. It consisted mostly of women in their gowns of intricate geometric patterns (called Mola) cradling, without rest, their small children. A man, presumably the most fluent Spanish speaker at hand, stepped through the crowd to decipher our needs.

Goat carefully related the terms of our predicament including how we had spent much of last night searching the nearby bay for our friends.

“Ah, so it must have been you guys who were scaring the hell out of all the boatmen.” our helper said with a grin. “Everyone’s afraid of the eye robbers… Have you heard about this?”

“We have heard.” I answered, “and we are terrified.”

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Part One: Out of Sight

Goat was in the lead. More accurately he was far ahead of the pack, and completely unaware of the span of choppy sea separating him from me.

With my left foot I pushed in the rudder control foot peg as far as it would go and paddled till my front made the 180 degree change. The Kayak rotated with the grace of a battle ship, yet still responded better than the muscles in my back, which cramp and spasm every time I turn my head to face backwards. For some time I squint directly into the setting sun, searching for the two miniscule figures of Jacob and J.

Minutes later two paddling figures emerge, unfortunately from the opposite direction. Two young Kuna men in their Cayucos were returning it seemed from a deep sea fishing trip. Their Payloads however told a different story.

“Nuedie!” I greeted them with the word that encompasses all variations of salutation.

Neither of them responded so I shouted louder.

“Are those Rocks in your boat?” I asked. Curious about the huge mound of broken corral heaped within their boats.

“Yeah, rocks.” They replied, politely smiling.

My head buzzed with questions; how the hell did they dig up all that coral? What would they use it for? Does the entire Kuna Yala Comarca plunder their reefs like this?”

Usually fishermen in the Comarca are baffled by the sight of our small gringo boats weighed down by dismantled bicycles of all things. Nearly everyone we’d encountered had paused and made an effort to figure out where we came from, where we were going, and why we chose to travel unassisted by motor. These rock gathering boatmen, however, were in a major hurry. They bolted right past my idle vessel and continued on to the town of Ustupu leaving me to admire the fluid form of their oar strokes propelling them so swift and straight.

“Damn, where are they…?”

Though the sun was softened by low-lying clouds, still my search was directed into the center of its brilliance. I pulled off my sunglasses, rinsed the sweat streaked lenses in the ocean, looked again, but could not find the characteristic flash of paddles arcing through the air.

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Here is a little vignette of our kayaking trip from Panama to Colombia. The music in the background is from a Kuna Villager who invited us to stay in his house. Enjoy.

Click Here To Download the Video in better quality

We have arrived in Turbo, Colombia.  Somebody offered to buy our kayaks and so we are now busy building our bikes so we can continue our journey. 

I´m working on a video and a few entries to post.  Until then, I got a bunch of new photos posted check them out.