Upon first site of an automatic rifle signaling our motorcycle to a halt, my heart took great leaps in my chest, nearly throwing itself through the padding of my Gortex jacket. The 10th time this happened, my heart only yawned; I reminded myself that I was in no hurry. Edgar Pedersen, the photographer who traveled for 10 years on motorcycle said, “You will need far more patience and time than money.” We had five months to ride 20,000 miles from Tierra del Fuego, Argentina to San Diego, California. Many of those hours were spent with men in camouflage.
We drive by large spiral notebooks that have been placed along the highway at regular intervals. Uniformed guards armed with rifle, ruler and pencil, wave us to the side of the road, "Ah-ha, foreign red motorcycle! Pull over to the side of the road. We want you to sign our guest book." They are the Corps of International Receptionists, and they do not care that the motorcycle might fall over because we have to balance the 250kgs on a slim metal kickstand on the side where the road slants downward. Nor do they care that their compatriots, 10 km up the road had just stopped us to fill out their guest book, and that we have to fumble through our motorcycle clothing and reach into our hidden money belts to produce our passports. They only think about filling the columns of their register with our passport numbers, country of origin, preceding city, next destination, occupation, sex, age, and marital status. They have a column titled, "Comments", but they never ask us for what we think.
Do they crosscheck these registers between towns? We made up professions and changed our address. Finally Enric refuses to show his passport to one guard, "I will tell you my passport number. But I do not see why I need to show it to you." The guard resisted. "But why do you really need to see it?" Enric asked. No answer. No passport.
When several guards block the road without waving a spiral notebook, we are in for a more thorough inspection. Will this be the one that wants us to open all of our bags? Will they make us strip us naked? Will we have to give them money? From Argentina to Paraguay to Bolivia, Peru and Colombia, it seems that they only really want to talk. A typical day in any country a stern looking official approaches us with a stance that shows we are trespassing on someone's private property.
"Papers for the motorcycle please."
First Enric removes his helmet so that he can dig beneath the gortex for his money belt and motorcycle papers. This takes to long. The stern face fires the second question:
"Where are you from?" Spain
"Oh yeah, I can tell from the accent. You pronounce the c like th. Where in Spain?"
Barcelona "Ah-ha. A Catalan! And where are you going?"
The stern face has not touched a single document. Enric asks, "How is the highway up ahead?" "Oh. Really good. Completely paved." He steps back and admires the emblem on the deposit. His hand falls from his gun strap. He touches the handlebars of the bike.
"Soooo. How big is the motor on this thing?" "It's German, eh? Yeah, saw some Germans on one of these about a year ago." "How much does it cost?" "For how long are you traveling?" "Wow - this is your honeymoon?"
It has been five minutes. He looks askance at the document in Enric's hand and nods. His hand never leaves handlebars. He leans in for a closer inspection.
"What is that thing?" he is looking at the GPS.
Enric begins explaining how the GPS works. I address the second wave of camouflage uniforms that have crowded in for a peek. We have given up trying to leave. Our documents have met their standards, but they keep talking. To pass time, I get off the bike and take pictures. They trumpeter of the squadron in "El Chaco" of Paraguay asks that I send a copy - just as soon as I make it home. "Are you going to drive by again?"
The only saving grace for all of the fruitless inspections was one young guard's explaination of why he pulled us over: "It's just that I have never seen a motorcycle this BIG before!" we are told looks like a "big red plane on two wheels".
It is not a one-way dialogue. They advise on road conditions, and suggest towns to visit. Preoccupied for our safety, Colombian officials told us "drive only by day, and only on the roads we tell you."
After two years of living in Mexico we learned that to those who want to take, learn to part with as little as possible. Enric followed a sour-faced Brazilian to his highway "office". He had just passed three trailers on a two-lane highway right in front of a police checkpoint. I stayed with the bike praying that the 500 lbs balanced on a tiny stick would not topple over. Fifteen minutes later Enric walked toward me. "Give me 40 Reales," he said. This was our first infraction of the trip, and we were both nervous. Could we negotiate more? We joke that we should have negotiated a lower fine, but $20 was not so bad and we were on the road in 20 minutes.
When a small Peruvian motorcycle official pulled us over and told us that we had just risked the lives of hundreds of children by blasting through the 45-kmh-school zone at 90 kmh. We felt guilty. His "partner" pulled along side of us to show us the radar detector readout and a little pamphlet that indicated that we should pay 300 Soles (=$100). He put his hands on his hips and asked, "Now what are we going to do about this?" We realized that we had never actually seen a school. Enric mesmerized by the beating sun listened to officer's indiscrete hints for a bribe while I turned around and hid all the cash in my wallet. We apologize profusely and gave them "all the money that we have."
Our drive through Venezuela was interrupted by military checkpoints at 30 km intervals. These guys were up to "official business". They cross-checked the motor number and serial number of the motorcycle against the title document, verified our passports were stamped and that we had the correct importation papers.
“Your police are a bit strict and annoying," Enric commented to one Venezuelan in a truck stop restaurant. "Annoying? Oh - to you a tourist. With the Colombian guerilla over the hill, we don't mind them too much".
We figure that we are all animals in a zoo. We stare at them and try and drive by. They stare at us. They have one up on us; if they like, they can just wave us on over to the side of a road for a closer and lengthier inspection. No problem. We have time.
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