Apart from sweeping generalizations, actual events have occurred since I last wrote. Funniest was getting another ticket. Apparently, I crossed a double yellow on a curve to pass a truck. I don't remember exactly, but since I've paid zero attention to double yellows since Mexico, he was probably right. Regardless, I still argued with him because these assholes are just plain wrong in so many ways. I don't know why government would hire so many goons to hassle their own people. Anyway, since I know the consequences are absolutely nothing, I just let them give me a ticket so I can be on my way. The best was when the cop straight lied to me and said I should pay the two hundred dollar ticket now, or else I'd have double the fine at the border and wouldn't be allowed to leave. Sí, señor. I'm totally going to pay at the border. (Shyeeah right!) Now give my fucking ticket so I can get continue on living my life.
That was my first day back on the road solo. The second day, which I assumed would be my last day by motorcycle, was of course another cliché. After a terrible night camping thanks to a bunch of stupid cows and a thunder storm. I manage to hit the road early knowing I had about 500 miles (800k) to reach Buenos Aires. It was a Friday and I was rushing to my good friend Mariana's birthday party. At about noon I'm going my usual slow and steady when my chain snaps off. I know immediately what's happened, so I roll over to the shoulder and assess the damage. I smile at La Chupacabra, just like old times. Without hesitation, I stick my thumb out and start walking back to town. An hour and a half later I've got the new chain installed and I'm heading south stupidly determined to see my Argentinian bestie. I ride in the chilling night air, but somehow make it in time to reunite and drink Fernet with all my Argentinian friends. It was definitely nice to be back in my South American home.
Once back in the city it was business time. And by business time I mean time to get home because I'm broke. Within a week, I have a buyer (sucker) for La Chupacabra and I'm headed to Uruguay to sell my bike between borders. Just one problem: I've lost the document (title) to my bike and have to drive through a stretch of road ridden with notoriously corrupt cops. I get a sick feeling because I know there is no way to sneak by a dozen checkpoints with out my documents. I'm so damn irresponsible that at least this "adventure" (AKA inability to plan and organize) always stays interesting. I'm forced to leave without even a forged document because of time constraints. I was feeling pretty cocky six hours later when I managed to slip by the first eight or so checkpoints. Then about twenty miles from my destination, I'm flagged down. I took a second to calm my nerves, then cheerfully start bullshitting with the two officers. The most disarming thing in a situation like that is confidence and a big goofy grin. They buy all my crappy forged documents, and before I know it we're chatting about which country has the hottest chicks (Colombia). What a one eighty from the week before. I politely tell them I have to go, and ride into town just in time for a palm treed peppered sunset.
The following day was spent forging new title documents so we could do some border trickery. Thanks to it being Saturday and an always fun siesta time a simple task took me and the buyer a whole day. On Sunday we head for the border and I leave Argentina with the bike in my name, and we switch the papers between the two desks of Argentina and Uruguay. The bike checks into Uruguay in his name and it's sold. Definitely way easier then shipping my bike anywhere. And I sold it for three hundred less then I bought it. I won't mention how much I money I threw into parts and repairs. Anyhow, I spent a grand total of thirty minutes in Uruguay eating some Sunday barbecue and chatting with locals about soccer. Then we returned through the border without a hassle, and once I returned to the hostel it was over. I had a emotional moment holding my girls handlebar for the last time, but sucked it up and said goodbye forever to La Chupacabra. Six hours later, I'm back in Buenos Aires to wait for the inevitable plane flight home.
Once back in Buenos Aires I had very little to do and see since I'm so familiar with the city. Last thing on the list was to see a soccer game of the most loved team in the country: River Plate. I made the safe choice, and decided to watch the last game from home because too much was riding on the game. The game was tortuous to watch because the most popular and expensive team in the country was getting their ass kicked by some no name team. It was the last game of the season and if they tied or lost, River would be essentially sent to the minor leagues. The minutes rolled on and River folded under the pressure and tied. Imagine the Yankees being sent down to a league where you couldn't watch the games, and they'd have to move out of their big fancy stadium. Yes, it is a big deal. Riots after riots ensued, making the recent hockey riots in Vancouver look like gentle peaceful resistance. They burned the opposing teams bus to the ground, players from both teams had to be protected by an enormous security / special forces teams. Grown bearded manly men were bawling their eyes out. Soccer is much more than a game to Argentinians. The fiery passion is a staple for their society, and translates effectively through the people. Just don't go to a game wearing the wrong jersey.
On my last full day in South America I went to a huge street fair in the city. I bought a few things I had wanted, but mainly tried to enjoy the colorful culture that I was emerged in. While traveling slowly on a bike you get to see the cultures change quite gradually. When I was walking in the heart of the city, I saw a great mix of Latino culture. Mexican paintings, a Peruvian flute player, girls selling Colombian coffee out of a huge metal backpack, black Brazilian guys beating samba on the drums, and plenty of sad Argentinians forgetting the game and just trying to enjoy the fair. A casual observer could have easily mistaken the cultural variety as wholly Argentina. But when you see the cultures melt together slowly with the gift of time, there's a great cultural awakening. Apparent is the loving and welcoming warmth of strangers across borders and languages. The Latino community is a wonderful culture with a variety that expands across two continents. I've been truly lucky to have had the chance to explore, meet people and places that have helped me grow and understand things far beyond words and simple definition. Being part of this wonderful planet is truly awesome, and I would be happy and blessed anywhere along that almost endless road. Except Honduras; fuck Honduras.
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| Taylor out. |
