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Running A-Muck in Santa Cruz
Day 79 to 81 - Sunday, January 19th to Tuesday, January 21nd Santa Cruz Sunday The house was already a beehive of activity by the time we awoke; Sunday does not mean a day of rest and relaxation at the Salvatierra residence. Breakfast was already on the table and getting cold at that. Everyone was busy prepping their motorcycles for the upcoming day trip to what we were told would be some fun riding. We shook off the sleepies and ignored the dull aches from yet another long drive and joined in the prep, removing Pelican cases, oiling chains, etc.
Contrary to most Bolivianos Jaime opted for all of his children to be educated in the good ol' USA. It must take an extraordinary amount of courage to be able to let your children go off at a young age, far from home and parental guidance, solely for the good of their future. Nicely done, Jaime. They planned a lunch, but before they went anywhere Jaime asked David what he knew about power steering in Bronco's. The steering was out and he didn't want to chance messing it up even more than it was. David knows nothing about steering but together they figured that if the damage was already done all they could do was build better triceps trying to turn the monster in the muddy Santa Cruz streets.
David went back to meet with the others at 3:00 as planned but once he got there no one at all, with the exeption of the bodyguard, was there to greet him. He treated himself to a few motocross videos as he passed out on the sofa. He awoke when the Salvatierras came home and they sat together for awhile discussing their Caterpillar Tractor business. Back at the house, while David was still out with Jaime, the rest of the bikers finally got going in the early afternoon. All in all, there were seven of us riding once again the full range of Team Green motorcross bikes... oh, and one token Honda. We left the pavement about 5 miles outside of town. Rain for most of the night and the morning had turned the dirt road into one big mud slick dotted with wide pits of muddy water, and so the "fun" really began. The first incident was Chavo's spectacular wipe-out on his KX 125. This young man, at the tender age of 15, is a trophied motorcrosser, downhill mountain biker, licensed pilot, and as evidenced by his crash, obviously made of rubber. Despite his considerable skills, Chavo lost his front end in the mud, the bike and him flipped several times and came to rest 50 yards from where he lost control. The whole thing was straight out of one of the videos. Incredibly both he and the bike were fine, much to everyone's relief. We continued a little more cautiously but still pushing the envelope for 5 miles down the muddy road. In this kind of terrain, the KLR suffers a bit in comparison to the pure-breed dirt bikes, and not having the knobbies on hurt performance even further; gradually Gary and Alex fell behind the pack. Gary lost traction while skirting a deep water hole and pitched over sideways. No one was around to help pick up the half submerged bike nor the fully submerged rider, so he hoisted himself and the bike up, wiped off the mud as best as possible, and continued on. Oh well, only way to improve. Finally the road ended and the sand dunes began. How there are sand dunes in the middle of the jungle is one of those bizarre but beautiful natural phenomena. The lighter dirt bikes with their knobbies tore around the dunes like skaters on ice, their speed and forward momentum propelling them on top of the deep, soft sand. The heavier KLRs with their dual-sport tires made it across a few dunes, but the lack of traction and depth of the sand eventually got the best of them and they became entrenched, rear wheel sunk in deep.
The KLRs were dug out on the way back out of the dunes, then more sliding and sloshing around on the mud road. The riders, moving as fast as their abilities allowed, got a bit separated, so when Alex's bike became mired down in a mudhole, no one saw or was behind him to help him get out. His chain had inexplicably come off, but it wasn't broken, just popped off the sprockets. (We think the new chain had stretched some since La Paz and hadn't been tightened yet.) Hopelessly stuck, unable even to push the bike out to the side, Alex did his best to prop the bike up in the water and began walking up the road to get help. Finally, someone waiting much further ahead for the stragglers (being Gary and Alex) decided to go back and investigate. When the rest of the group heard what happened, they scrambled for the proper tools to reattach the chain, but by then, the bike had sat in the deep water for so long, the engine had taken on too much water for the bike to start. A passing jeep ended up towing the bike out of the mud and all the way back to the paved road. Kudos to Alex for keeping the bike upright while being towed, a much harder feat than going under the bike's own power. The bike started up on the pavement, but justifiable fears about water in the oil convinced Alex to abandon the bike at a gas station run by an acquaintance of the family until we could properly assess the damage in the morning. Needless to say, our worst fears were possibly about to come true - that one of the bikes would be damaged to the point of going no further. Alex was supremely bummed out about the whole situation, especially since it had happened while goofing off, the very reason why he never took his KLR out on the circuit track. When David heard the tales of woe and mud, he was glad that he had missed the affair. His afternoon of talking with the Salvatierra's and watching movies on video is what Sunday should really be all about. (By the way, the Riding to the Moon team gives a big thumbs up to Charlie Sheen's performance in "The Arrival," which David saw that afternoon and Gary and Alex saw in La Paz.) Cynthia, Juan Carlos, and Chavo
at dinner Everyone cleaned up and we went out for dinner to a traditional Bolivian churrasco restaurant. Churrasco is a general term for meat cooked over an open flame, similar to grilling. Here we dined on the delicious Santa Cruz specialty of majou, rice with small pieces of dried beef or chicken, and drank an interesting corn-based concoction reminiscent of rice horchata. We had a good time, and for a while we forgot about the day's exhilarating ride and its potentially disastrous consequences. After dinner, we took the big Toyota 4x4 to retrieve
Alex's bike from the gas station. Seeing his baby sitting alone
and hurt and covered with mud, Alex's mood again turned morose.
The thought occurred to us that the water-logged oil may have We awoke again with the household already in full motion. Chavo was already in school, Juan Carlos at the office, Cynthia getting the housekeeping staff in gear and ready to go into work as well, and breakfast was waiting patiently in the kitchen. Only Marcelo of Top Shop, also staying at the Salvatierra's, and in marked contrast to his diligent habits in La Paz, was as slow to rise as us. (We love you, Marcelo.) With the help of the Toyota and several strong hands, Alex's bike was deposited at the mechanic shop of VISAL, Juan Carlos' Kawasaki dealership. David and Alex remained with the mechanics to diagnose the bike; Gary and the two Marcelos took the other bikes in to be professionally steam cleaned. Nervous about leaving the Beefers to be "steam cleaned" (whatever that meant), the others assured him not to worry. The bikes would be ready in the afternoon, so the trio went off on a plethora of errands around Santa Cruz in the sweltering heat and humidity. Ah, how we love it! Back at the shop, with the tank off, the oil drained and the carberator removed and dried out, the diagnosis on Alex's bike was promising. There didn't appear to be any damage to the rings, but as a precautionary measure, we asked Hector in the U.S. to send a piston and rings to Sao Paulo in case we needed them later. Returned to working condition, Alex brought his bike to be cleaned as well. The other bikes were ready at this point and the results were staggering. Cleaner by far than they had been since they rolled out of the factory, we couldn't help but fall in love all over again with the rugged beauty of these tough machines. The Marcelos hated to tell us so, but they told us so anyway. We in turn told them to stop dragging us out on these weekend joy rides and putting our bikes in mortal peril. That night we enjoyed a big churrasco at the Salvatierras on their huge poolside grill. Family, friends, employees, and us gorged on expertly grilled meats and vegetables. The night air was warm and delicious, made even more so by the excellent bottle of Chilean wine from the Salvatierras collection.  Cookout - Bolivian Style Chavo had brought home some more motorcross videos from VISAL. Stuffed from churrasco and buzzing from the wine, we oohed and aahed at the professionals. One video brought us all to tears of laughter - the Blackwater Rally in Blackwater, West Virginia. In this bizarre event, the grueling course across dirt roads, forest trails, river crossings and rock climbs is made even more challenging by the thousands of boisterous and drunk spectators that pack the sidelines. These folks affectionally labeled "the Degenerates" are just as likely to help yank a stuck biker out of the mud and give a push in the right direction as to place huge rocks in the middle of the path and laugh as the riders wipe out. Anyone competing in the Blackwater Rally truly needs to have their head examined, as the participants readily admitted. The hour was late when the last tape finished, and we dragged our tired bones and muscles and full stomachs off to sleep in the luxurious guest accomodations. Lying in bed, we reflected on the incredibly varied circumstances we'd found ourselves in over the past 2 1/2 months. From the lap of luxury in the Crowne Plazas and Westins to the very comfortable and hospitable stays in private homes in Ecuador, Peru, and now Bolivia, from the eclectic and energetic hostels crowded with fellow travellers to the "bare-bones four walls and a bed and if we're lucky a bathroom" lodgings in every country along the way, from the miserable to the sublime, we loved them all (although sipping Chilean wine beside the pool is a bit preferable).
  Alex Trips the Magic Number Well rested, well fed, bikes fixed and clean and raring to go, we still had to figure out how to get out of Santa Cruz and get to Brazil. The guide book didn't recommend driving; the road is infamously bad and can take over a week to go 400 miles, even longer in the rainy season, which it is now. The train was only 13 hours, but those in the know told us it was horribly uncomfortable and often delayed in transit by ridiculous and hopeless circumstances. Furthermore, a research trip to the train station didn't leave us brimming with confidence; the cargo train which would take the bikes was even more notoriously slow and behind schedule. We swore to have a solution by the end of the day so as to leave tomorrow.
We were invited for lunch at Juan Carlos' parent's house, a very informal affair that the whole extended family shows up for every day. Brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, we met the whole Salvatierra clan. Shaking hands and kissing everyone goodbye took as long as the meal.
In the course of the afternoon, the Salvatierra's learned of our dilemna about leaving Santa Cruz. They blithely picked up the phone and called the president of AeroSur, a personal friend. This airline flies within Bolivia and also, as fate would have it, to the border town of Corumba in Brasil. If we purchased the passenger tickets on the one hour flight, the airline would comp the bikes as cargo. Marcelo flies this airline from La Paz to Santa Cruz often with his bike and told us we wouldn't have to crate the bikes or anything, just roll them in with the luggage underneath. Without blinking an eye, we accepted the deal, and immediately got to work on a special webpage thank you to AeroSur and Franklin Taendler, the president of the airline. Problem solved. We ate dinner at the Salvatierra's house and contemplated the thought of going out for the evening. Having to get up at 6:00 am in order to be at the airport by 7:30 for the flight dissuaded David and Alex, but Gary wanted to spend one more evening with the Bolivianos we had so closely befriended. After all, tonight was for sure (cross your fingers) our last night in Bolivia. Gary and the Marcelos cruised the strip only long enough to hook up with Ernesto, a friend who had joined us Saturday night at the disco. The foursome went for a beer and some uncharacterstically deep conversation about love and relationships. Juan Carlos and Cynthia also happened to be at the same restaurant with a group of their friends, a fitting coincidence to this last evening in Bolivia.
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David went off to
visit Jaime, the uncle of Yolanda, who live in Santa Cruz; he planned
to return in time to leave with the group on the daytrip. Since
the time was right, David and Jaime surprised Yolanda back in San
Francisco with an early morning telephone call. Seems the distances
make communications few and far between. While looking at all the
photos around the house, David noticed a particularly precious one
of Yolanda and her brother Orlando from years back.
They went to a typical
bungalow style restaurant for some duck and yucca, surrounded by
kids playing at a playground built so that once kids finished eating
they could go on their way without continually pestering their parents
to be excused. Jaime mentioned to David that he was a pilot and
if we needed any help getting to the Pantanal or any questions came
up, or if we ran into any problems to give him a call. Thanks, Jaime!
Other bikes were offered
up so everyone could share in the good time, racing across the dunes,
making donuts, and even doing a few jumps. Extreme caution and a
knowledge of the dunes were imperative however, as the unseen side
of a dune, which one might think is a gentle slope, might instead
be a sheer drop into the thick jungle that butted right up against
the sand, an awe-inspiring juxtaposition of nature.
damaged the piston
and rings, necessitating a major repair. David, however, was optimistic
about the bike's condition; it takes some serious abuse to damage
the piston and rings, and a few miles with water in the oil wasn't
going to do it. Still, Alex's spirits couldn't be raised. This situation
also meant that we wouldn't be leaving the next day for sure and
there was much work to be done. Hoping for the best, we turned in
for the night.
The Salvatierra's arranged
for the media to interview us in the late morning at VISAL, so we
geared up to make a good impression and drove the bikes to the shop.
Two newspapers and the local TV station turned out. Alex, as usual,
did all the talking in Spanish while David and Gary, new to the
Spanish language thing, just stood around listening carefully to
Alex's explanations, making sure they got in their two cents worth
and looking pretty and nodding. The Salvatierra's posed with us
and the bikes for photos, happy to receive the media exposure for
their business.
Back at VISAL, we struck
paydirt on the office computers. Cynthia's terminal was connected
to the Internet, so David and Gary transferred the necessary programs
from the laptop and spent the rest of the day, writing, e-mailing
and uploading. Alex, on the other hand, totally recovered from his
crushing weekend, went out to the circuit in Santa Cruz to thrash
around in the dirt on Marcelo's KDX. He left his KLR in the parking
lot, of course.