​Have you ever wondered how long it takes to get to Machu Picchu by motorcycle, well according to my GPS, about fourteen months! I know, I know, all the slackers use regular plane service, but that whole process seemed a little hum-drum to me. I also enjoy the leg room of the motorbike a bit more than that of a 747. This particular part of the adventure had its ups, about 15,000ft, and its downs, like the little incident when four people needed to haul an upside-down bike out of a cement ditch. Nothing a little string and adjustments to ones riding style couldn’t fix. In the end, it was just like the photos you see online. A hidden wonder, reveling itself as it pleases and built to mystify the ages. There are however, a few things I wouldn’t do again...

​​Due to some paperwork conflicts with the Colombia government and my motorcycle, I decided it would be easier to smuggle the bike out of the country rather than pay an obscene sum of fines. With the help of the internet, I found two possible options,​ one via a series of boats that would sneak us to the most Southern and remote parts of Leticia Colombia downriver into Iquitos Peru. The next option, a more remote border pass on a less used roadway into Northern Ecuador.

​  There’s a little town in Ecuador who’s sole tourism purpose is a high-risk train named La Nariz Del Diablo, or The Devils Nose. The train runs passengers namely to and from Quito, or as a tourist, you can hop on and risk your life a bit as this thing cuts mind-bending switchbacks up and down the mountainside. 

Over a three-way phone conference they asked me what my special skill was? I fumbled for an answer as I didn’t think “bull-shitter” was an applicable volunteer attribute. They seemed a little surprised I could not produce one viable skill that I might be able​ to transfer to another human being. I suggested “being awesome”?, this seemed to need a less vague description for a presentable letterhead.

Often times I feel that my grasp of the Spanish language is bang on and I’m chatting up a storm about motorcycles and plantains with the gas station attendant like I was born with a native tongue.  Other times I’m given a bit of a reminder that my comprehension might be half imagined and I’m just enjoying the bliss of what I think is going on in the conversation. This would be one of those moments.