ONCE MORE INTO THE BREACH, DEAR READERS

views from the house

DUTCHESS COUNTY, NEW YORK: MONDAY, JANUARY 14, 2008
I have been blessed with the joy of staying with my adoptive daughter for the past three weeks. Most days views from the farm have been sun-lit and superb. Snow fell last night and continues to fall. I leave for the City tomorrow and on by air to San Jose, Costa Rica. From there I catch a bus down to Panama to retrieve my bike.
How do I feel?
Sad at leaving.
Sad not to have been home to see Bernadette and my sons and Sarah and my grandson, Charlie Boo, and my brother and his wife...and all my friends...Yes, and Herefordshire with its villages and green hills and ancient woods and cattle. I have been away eight months. Part of me is desperately homesick.
And I am nervous of the road ahead.
I am also excited by thoughts of the road ahead.
I will see friends.
I will cross stupendous country.
Finally I will ride north from the Mexican border to the Great Lakes.
I understand Hispanic America. I know how it functions. I share thoughts and opinions and language with Latin Americans.
Small town USA is very different - unknown and unfamiliar territory.

JUMBO SIZE SHRIMP COCKTAILS

CARTAGENA: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 6
The historic quarter of Cartagena displays Hispanic Colonial architecture at its best. The fortifications are immense. Churches and official buildings are superb. Houses range from humble and charming to magnificent. Magnificent describes the mansion where I stay. The mansion belongs to Anglo/Colombian friends of Anglo/Colombian friends back home. My room opens off a ground-floor patio where opulent breakfast is served by kindly maidservants.
Motor bikes are forbidden within the city walls. I have booked my Honda a night in the patio of a backpacker's hostel beyond the walls.
Evening and I wander the streets and admire the buildings and walk out through the gates to the Parque Centenario. I sit at a kiosk in the Parque and order a cold beer and a jumbo size shrimp cocktail. The shrimp are delicious. This moment has been in my dreams for the past six months. I have completed my circumnavigation of South America.

Tomorrow I will find a yacht for the passage to Panama.

Two elderly Colombians draw me into conversation.

"How are things?" I ask.

"Better, a little better."

ECOLOGICAL DISASTER

TO CARTAGENA: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 6
The highway divides, left to Bogota, ahead to Cartagena. I followed the Bogota road last year and stopped at Giron and Villa de Leyva and Tunja, a wonderful journey - though, on a bike, viciously cold over the passes at 4000 metres in altitude. Now I follow the coast.
The highway crosses a vast lagoon. The lagoon was tidal prior to the building of the road. Now the water inland of the road is stagnant. Scum glistens on the surface. The stink is sickening. Fishermen's shacks on stilts huddle in the putrid water. Those who commissioned the road are responsible for an ecological disaster.

LOVE FOR COLOMBIA AND COLOMBIANS

TO CARTAGENA: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 6
Having only one case makes loading the bike easy. The small case went on the gas tank. Turn the bike when parked and the klaxon button always hit the case. I stop at a bike mechanic on the way out of town and have the chain tightened. A bunch of bikers congregate, enquire how the trip has been - no charge for tightening and greasing the chain, nor for a cup of good coffee. I love Colombia. I love Colombians.
I wish that I were younger and able to clamber up the few thousand steps leading through the Secret City.
Riding the coastal highway must suffice.
In places the sierra soars almost vertically from the coast. Other parts, there is a narrow coastal strip. The strip that surrounds the sierra harbors the most beautiful ranches anywhere on any continent. Shade trees are immense, rivers are clean, grass is lush, views to the sierra are magnificent, cattle and horses are plump. Even workers appear well fed.
Even five years ago this road was dangerous.
Now army and police are in command.
Today's newspapers carry front page photographs of a newly surrendered band of FARC guerrillas.

FAREWELL TO A SUITCASE

SANTA MARTA: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
Santa Marta is a big city, a major port, and a popular tourist destination for Colombians. I enter Santa Marta at dusk and search for a hotel close to the seafront. School holidays and the first two hotels I try are full. My ankle gives way on the steps of a third. They have a vacant room on the third floor. The room is dank, dark and noisome. The receptionist kindly telephones a fourth hotel right across the street. I hobble in the wake of a kid carrying the small case that contains my books and diary. The room is fine. It is on the fourth floor. The elevator functions. I fetch the bike. Two men lift it into the lobby. I unstrap the bag from the rack and the concierge carries it to the elevator. I unpack, shower, change. I will write up my diary while eating dinner. Where is my dairy? Shit! The small case is missing.
I ask at the desk.
I ask across the road.
The case is gone.
Maybe the boy who showed me across the road from hotel to hotel?
Frankly, I don't give a damn.
I am too happy to be in Colombia - happy to be somewhere where eye contact earns a smile. I feel safe as I hobble on my crutches beneath Christmas lights on the seaside esplanade. I find an open-air cafe, drink cold beer and watch the crowd. I have one less case to carry, one less case over which to worry. Great...

GUILT FOR GLUTTONY

RIOHACHA, COLOMBIA: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
Guilt for gluttony drives me back to Escuela Britanica. An indigenous gatekeeper, eight years old, directs me to park in the shade of a mango tree. He shows me to the Principal's office. The principal is the owner, a Mrs Cohen. She is Colombian from Cartagena. Her mother is Catholic and she was raised a Catholic.
English is an essential of executive employment. English is a low priority of State schools. Private lessons are way beyond the financial reach of indigenous students. The Escuela Britanica is Mrs Cohen's attempt to fill the gap. It is a one-woman charity. It is admirable. Mrs Cohen is a warm intelligent woman. Her funds are limited. She needs a volunteer teacher. She can house and feed a teacher. A volunteer can obtain paying work at the two Universities where Mrs Cohen has good relationships.
The job offers an opportunity to interact with the indigenous population.
Riohacha is a safe town.
Beaches are good.
It is a great base from which to explore the Secret City to the west and the Guajira peninsular.
Readers, please pass the word...

THE GOD OF MATHEMATICS IS ON MY SIDE

RIOHACHA: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
A restaurant serving sophisticated Italian food strikes me as unlikely in Riohacha. I enter the Gourmet Italiano with few expectations. Fresh flowers, thick white cotton tablecloths and napkins hint at a discovery. Stout matrons in tight dresses and fat men in suits occupy six of the ten tables - serious eaters. A waiter dismisses apologies for my appearance, seats me at a table against the wall and places my crash helmet and document bag on a vacant seat. I order lobster ravioli followed by a creme brule. The pasta is perfect and perfectly cooked, the lobster filling tastes of lobster as does the sauce. The creme is feather light beneath brittle caramel. I drink one glass of a crisp white wine perfectly chilled.
The offices of the Insurance company are open: the system is down. Maybe tomorrow...
Tomorrow I will reach Cartagena where I won't ride the Honda.
No need for insurance.
The saving more than pays for lunch at Gourmet Italiano.
The God of mathematics is on my side.

WHEN THE GOING GETS TOUGH, MEN GO TO LUNCH

RIOHACHA: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5
A State University and a private University are side by side on the left hand side of the highway a few kilometres prior to the coastal town of Riohacha. The Universities compete for students from Colombia's indigenous population. The ESCUELA BRITANICA is across from the Universities on the right hand side of the road. Bougainvillea and hibiscus spill over a once-white wall. The wall encloses a tree-shaded garden, untidy buildings.
The school nags as I ride on into Riohacha. A proper writer of fact would have investigated.
The offices of the Insurance company are closed for a two hour lunch. I sit a while on the steps beside a fruit cart, drink juice, eat a melon and chat with the cart's owner. He is a young man, married with two children. He scraped a living in Cartagena for a couple of years as a freelance tourist guide before returning to Riohacha. The drop in violence brought him back. Guerrillas and paramilitaries are in retreat. Most of the country is safe. The economy has picked up. He can support his family.
And he gives me information: Colombia, the clocks an hour behind Venezuela.
I must wait a further hour for offices to open.
I recall a friend's motto: When the going gets tough, men go for lunch.

GUAJIRA PENINSULAR

WEST FROM GUARERO: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5

The highway cuts across the Guajira peninsular. This is indigenous territory, a dry land of sand dunes and scrub. Sun shines. A creeper spills pale blue flowers over thorn bush. The Honda runs perfectly. We are freed from Venezuela. I am immensely happy.

PATIENCE AND COURTESY

GUARERO/MAICAO: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 5

Frontiers demand patience and courtesy.

I am first in the queue at Customs. A clerk issues a temporary import certificate for the bike. I require a signature from the Military and insurance. The Military commander hasn't arrived. I am directed to the Army post the far end of Maicao town. I stop beside a biker at traffic lights. He points me to an insurance office on the next block. They issue certificates for a minimum of three months. A different company in the next town, Riohacha, issues monthly certificates. Fine.

I find the army post. The Captain has left for the frontier. I ride back to the frontier. Ten drivers now queue outside Customs. 11.30 AM and Customs closes for lunch at mid day.
Midday and the Captain appears with the Customs clerk. The clerk spots me, speaks with the Captain. The Captain beckons me in to the office, signs and stamps my papers.