Wilsons Sandbox

Dear Friends around the world: Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New year, I m sending out a resume of the first part of my south American journey. I`ve been welcoming in my country, Ecuador, plenty of motorcycle travelers heading south,. I m counting 23 so far this season, being the last one, American Rider Glen Heggstad, who is enjoying freedom in touristic Quito s, while he waits for his new KLR, after experiencing a terrible ordeal with the Colombia guerrilla, which he managed to overcome by sheer determination and mental skill. Also my good friends, Lew Waterman his dog Punky and their KLR, are doing OK, while recuperating from a bad fall in Colombia. I rode Lew s KLR from the Colombian border to Quito and even though the bike is top heavy due to ther huge overload Lew is subjecting her to, she`s a great bike with an incredible strong motor. Also to let you know, there is a great photo of my trusty Honda and me in Bolivia in the November issue of American Dirt Bike magazine, check it out! -------------------------------------------------- A very special Thanks to my Sponsors they make this incredible adventure possible: AEROSTICH, www.aerostich.com SALUD S.A., www.salud.com ECUAFAST, www.ecuafast.com WEB WORKS, www.mywebworks.com Ministerio de Turismo del ECUADOR, AUTOMOVIL CLUB del ECUADOR --------------------------------------------------- A MOTORCYCLE FOR PEACE, South America, Part 1.- I always dreamed about riding a motorcycle around the world. When I retired from racing, this dream became an obsession. I put together a project, for Peace and against drug abuse, prepared a Yamaha Super Tenere and after overcoming many obstacles, I departed from my home country, Ecuador, back in April 2000, starting the first part of the journey, around South America. The first big impression was the Peruvian desert. In Peru, I admire the desert. The sand dunes, sensually contoured by the eternal wind, remind me of the rounded silhouettes of voluptuous women. I cross Peruvian territory in a hurry trying to make it down south before the cold weather would make it impossible to get to Ushuaia. In northern Chile, the environment becomes even more arid and hostile, the populations skimp and the temperature increases. Steep and abrupt rocky hills replace the soft sand dunes and the landscape becomes tedious, constant, windy, then the road approaches the coast and arrives into the town of Antofagasta. In the high Atacama, the strong wind of the night decreases the temperature drastically. A majestic full moon, fills the sky with a strange shine, illuminating the arid desert steppe. The chilly wind penetrates the bones, debilitating the skin and compromising human entirety. When the energy and fuel reserves skimp critically, a humble petrol station appears, as a mechanical oasis in the middle of the desert. In the Chilean south, the route penetrates into the morning fog, which wraps everything around. For moments it clears up, letting me see thick pine forests, while we enter the great region of the lakes. In Puerto Montt, the day dawns clouded and cold. Suddenly, the sky opens up and I discover amazed, the Chilean Andes as they seem to fuse with the Pacific Ocean, creating fiords, bays and peninsulas of incomparable beauty. Weather forecasts predict snow farther south, to ride down to the Patagonia would be foolish and plainly, suicidal. Already in Argentine territory I ride from Bariloche, by the spectacular Route of the Seven Lakes towards San Martin de los Andes. Then, I enter the north zone of the Argentine Pampas. I visit Neuquen, Mendoza and San Juan, then ride through some of the most challenging roads of this trip, to Ishigualasto, the Valley of the Moon. After attending the World Rally race in Cordova, I go towards Buenos Aires. I pass near Rosario s city, while it gets dark and the dark sky becomes even darker. The rain throbs from all angles. My motorcycle floats on the asphalt, every variation in direction is a scare, every change of rail, a torture. At midnight, the storm worsens, huge trucks splash water in torrents, to surpass them is a test of skill as it is of courage. Finally, at 2:30 a.m. I distinguish the first signs of the great city. At 3 a.m., I arrive into Belgrano s neighborhood. What a relief to get off the motorcycle! What a good fortune to have survived the worst storm of the century! In Concepcion del Uruguay, headquarters of the annual Motorcyclists' international Meeting organized by clubs of Argentina and Uruguay, they give me a prize for being the rider who covered more distance to come to the event and I meet the motorcyclists Grandma , whom with 72 years old, is the oldest female motorcyclist in Argentina and probably in all South America. In Asuncion, Paraguay, I arrive not knowing anybody and I end up spending a week in this marvelous country, without even spending a dime, due to the incredible hospitality of its great people. When someone travels in a country like Brazil, he/she must be prepared for the most varied emotional experiences. Iguazu, Curitiva, Sao Paulo, the beautiful Rio and Vitoria, Salvador, Maceio, Recife. . Exotic names for lively cities and sun, beaches and sea. In every city: motorcyclists clubs greet the traveler with extraordinary friendship and brotherhood and the people s humanness, impress the soul of a humble motorcycle adventurer. Brazilian women, can steal the heart of an unprepared traveler, and keep it. In the coast; the scene repeats itself once again: The beach of Fortaleza is crammed with people, a coconuts seller installs me under a straw parasol. Nearby, a group of young playing women, force me to the sacrifice of comparing who is wearing the smallest bikini! On the road: there is a lot of poverty, I observe the misery in the form of temporary settlements of people without land . I also feel like a landless being so long away from home, my sense of belonging is pretty deteriorated. The landscapes: A line of reefs, spreads parallel to the beach, absorbing the impact of the waves, whereas to the other side of this natural barrier, the blue green water is calm and quiet as a natural pool. Farther up, the sand dunes of all the colors sand can have: white, brown, amber, stand capriciously with surrealistic forms. It s Canoa Quebrada, the thin sand beach where it seems that the big masses of sand got scared upon meeting the immense ocean and broke into thousand of pieces forming incredible shaped lime stones. That huge rock where the beach dies, is Brazil s nearest point to the African continent. A road sign greets me saying: " Ben Venido a Natal; A Novia du Sol " (Welcome to Natal, the Sun s Bride). The sky spreads from the immense cleared blue to the north, passing through every meteorological condition up to exploiting in furious tempests in the southern horizon. The only human presence is betrayed by the presence of the highway. The late afternoon fresh air wakes me up of my daydreaming. I hop on my trusty mechanical horse and, slowly, go towards civilization. In the Amazon: The light full moon reflects in the calm waters. After securing my bike in the cargo compartment of the old ship, the fluvial voyage begins. During the day, the heat is unbearable, at night, the darkness reigns over the deep jungle, just letting me guess the silhouettes of the mysterious Amazon. After crossing the equatorial line, 300 km. north of Manaos, I arrive to the indigenous reservation of the Waimiri Atroari. A few unwelcoming signs welcome me. Do not stop. Do not take photos. Circulation prohibited between 6 pm and 6 am. What a friendly people! I take a photo next to a sign that read: "Do not take photos nor video", and then run! Leaving the Amazonian jungles behind and after crossing the gorgeous Canaima region of Venezuela, I get to Puerto La Cruz on the Caribbean coast. Useless to find a hotel, everything is full being a holiday weekend and it s not safe at all to camp. The night falls, and I m riding towards Caracas. Suddenly, the sky breaks and a nourished downpour falls down. I have no option but to keep riding. At dawn, I`m way to tired to keep going and I have to stop under a ramshackle roof by the side of the road. I try to sleep a bit, in the middle of nowhere, my motorcycle and I, alone against the world. At 6 a.m., four drunk Negroes appear. I get hold of my hunting knife, my only weapon. They are drinking unmatured brandy out of a carafe that contains, among herbs and flowers, a serpent, a scorpion, a centipede and other vermins. One, calls himself "Marijuana" and wants me to drink with them. It s dawning and it continues to rain, but I have to say goodbye to my "friends" and leave in a hurry. After passing by empty Caracas on a holiday Sunday early morning, the route goes towards the plains of the Venezuelan llanos, where the heat is unbearable. To the west of Barquisimeto, I`m again to tired to continue and have to stop for a rest. A trucker offers me a humble hammock hung under his trailer. I sleep a repairing siesta, under a truck. Incredible! Arriving into Maracaibo, I have traveled more than 1.500 km in 32 hours. Once again, local motorcyclists welcome me, put me up in a nice hotel, help me repair my wear out motorcycle and show me the way out of town, towards Colombia. After visiting the Guajira, beautiful Cartagena and being present at the World Convention of recovery from drugs, I take the route towards Medellin. I stop for breakfast in a small hamlet and observe on top of the adjacent hill, two rachitic crosses. I ask the waitress what that means. She answers that those crosses are in memory of two soldiers killed by the guerrillas. I have difficulty swallowing the last bite of my breakfast while hearing this. I m in the Pan-American road between Cali and Popayan. Surprisingly, cars and trucks are blocking the road. With horror, I glance at a woman dressed in military uniform, with a red badge in her right shoulder and a pistol in the hand, jumping off a truck. I ask a car driver what s going on. It s a blockade of the Army of National Liberation (ELN). Other guerrillas, heavily armed, are searching the vehicles. Suddenly, I hear gunshots and see them fleeing on board of 4X4 vehicles, after they have crossed a truck along the route, shooting its tires, to cover their retreat. When the last jeep is fleeing, they see me, turn back and force me to go with them. " If you try to escape, we fill you with lead " is their final warning. I don t have a choice and have to accompany them, along with other hostages. We penetrate deep in the mountains and come to a hamlet where the ringleader checks my baggage, finding the folder of my trip for Peace and against drugs. They order me to speak with the commander . When I thought my life was over, I get surprised by the chief of the insurgents, when he congratulates me about the project, offers me some food while he improvises a political harangue. At dusk, they let me go, saying goodbye with hugs and good wishes. The way back to the main road is terrible, enormous stones and deep pot-holes cover the route. I ask the peasants for directions to get back to the Pan-American highway, they all look at me as if I m a ghost, and probably I am. Not everybody gets away from the claws of the Colombian guerrilla, and lives to tell it. After 5 months and 33.000 km. I am getting back home. In the suburbs of Quito my family and some motorcyclist friends are waiting for my arrival. The satisfaction of completing the trip around South America is only eclipsed by the emotion of hugging my children again. Ricardo Rocco Paz Around the World for PEACE www.andesmoto-tours.com Phone (593) 09 9722 408 Quito ECUADOR PHOTOS and PRESS in: http://communities.latam.msn.com/AroundtheWorldforPeacePhotos ===== "Around the World for Peace" A motorcycling experience to promote world peace Ricardo Rocco Paz El D a 384 y El Tel grafo Quito ECUADOR Fax (5932) 263440 _______________________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Yahoo! Messenger Comunicaci n instant nea gratis con tu gente. http://messenger.yahoo.es