Ribs, horns and Bum Bum

Ahoyhoy,

To answer a question: Yes I will be making a book of the trip on my return. This blog is just brief edited highlights with photos mostly. Although I`m feeling verbose tonight and think I owe a detailed update after my too brief a one last night. I´m also finding writing a bit uncomfortable and can`t be arsed to tonight so this is also my diary entry for today and yesterday.

OK so where were we? Oh yes Zipaquira, Columbia. Well having blogged you up to speed I set off in the rain to get as close to the border as I could but the late start of 11.30am muddied the water. Initially all was well as we blasted down beautiful duel carriageway before, at Tunja, I ignored Emily the satnav as I assumed she was taking me through the town for no good reason but 15mins later it turned out that for the first time in a long time she happened to be right as I was heading decidedly in the wrong direction. I turned around and let her be in charge. The problem with a satnav out here is if it knows there is a road it doesn`t know what sort or the speed limits (and often its direction of traffic flow) therefore it is duff at route planning. This was well exampled when Emily rerouted down what she though was 30miles of good road and turned out to be 60+miles of terrible road that barely deserved the title road.

In fact it barely deserved to be called a cart track. Emily thought it was straight when it was never so for more than 30feet. If I`d been a horse and asked to pull a cart up and down it I would have whinned `you can farrier off mate`.These are rubbish pictures to illustrate my point as this bit of road was not a problem at all but they are the only ones I have:

Nevertheless I`m not one to turn about if I am heading in the right direction and to be honest I was enjoying it as I hadn`t had any tough riding for a while. For 50miles we had great fun then I am not entirely sure what happened. I hit a deep muddy hole at the wrong speed and completely compressed the front suspension which then helped Sir Humphrey`s pointy end head skyward. I then do not understand what caused us to veer violently to the left where we ran up a bank, stopped suddenly, fell rightwards and I was thrown through the air to the front and right. I honestly had time to think in mid-air `this time its going to hurt`. I landed on the right side of my back. For the first time my first thought was about if I was OK rather than my usual instant concern for Sir Humphrey. It took a while to get my breath and when I did breathe I had phenominal pain where I had fallen on my chest/back. I found Sir Humphrey and managed, thanks to the yet to subsuide adrenaline, got him upright to reveale a buggered right front indicator but not much else to worry about. I repaired this with gaffer tape and the plastic from a pack of weather proof matches as I couldn`t, despite searching for ages, find the bits of the indicator housing. The buld stilI worked so I reckoned we were still road legal. I am the worst biker in the world. Although I guess that makes it more of an achievement if I complete this trip as a total bike numpty than if I was Dougie Lampkin? Doesn`t stop the embaressment or maybe I`m just being hard on myself? No. I am a complete twat and anything to suggest otherwise like my puncture escape was just remarkable luck.

I took a large amount of painkillers from my supply and did my best to carry on as I was seriously in the middle of nowhere. Anyway, as with all my other disasters, I am always surrounded my beauty when things go wrong:

I headed on but the pain made every bump and turn of the handle bars agony. After 20mins I didn`t feel any better and decided to stop for more pills. As I did so my right foor slipped on some mud and as I had no strength on my right side we fell over again with me landing right on my injured ribs. I lay on the ground for a while then rolled myself onto my front and got up that way.

At least both falls were onto the right side from Sir Humphrey`s pint of view although my Heath Robinson repairs from the truck crash seem to be holding together well. This time I was far from being able to pick him up but eventually a shepardess gave me a hand and I then came across her flock:

I was by this time praying for tarmac. I had assumed for some reason or no reason that the turn Emily had been telling me about would be a turn onto tarmac but when it turned out to be more rough track I nearly cried but with no other option I carried on and eventually found some better road and then blacktop. The difference in pain was dramatic once I could sit back on the tarmac. The large dose of three different painkillers finally getting in my system probably helped too. My next challenge was where to stay as I was incapable of erecting the tent and still seemed to be in the middle of nowhere with the sun starting to set. At last I started to pass a few road side restaurants and was about to ask if I could sleep under one of their porches when I saw a sign for a hotel. At first I thought it was still under construction but I had to be sure as I was getting desperate and feeling a but short of breath so I turned around and found it open. Never since my back going out has it taken me so long to undress. I lay on the bed, dosed my self up and failed to sleep much for the next 12hours. At least all this stopped me smoking!

The morning at least brought a surprise as well as more exhaustion and a lot of pain. An Indian Jones bridge in the hotel`s garden. Hobbling, as I`d also banged my right hip in the accident, I made it across and felt glad a hoard of zombies weren`t following me and particually glad that Kate Capshaw wasn`t screaming in my ears:

All bikers love twisty well tarmaced roads in the sun but I would have given a digit or two for some boring highway that morning. At least the twisties come with a good view though which didn`t quite make up for it puring with rain for 1/2 an hour:

It was starting to get jungly and the jungle is massive!

Just to make things more fun my front brake pads looked a tad thin and my back brake was fading in and out. I seemed to be able to pump pressure into it. All very odd and kicks & giggles all the way. Whilst taking one of my now frequent stops a big two up cruiser passed me and turned around to join me for a break. The people were a lovely couple called Daniel and Alejandra, Venezuelan bikers from the Bulldog motorcycle club. Is this common bike club name universal worldwide? Its always great to swap stories and advice as they were heading south where I had just been:

Despite the handicap of the possibly broken ribs I made it to the border where I fortunately completely missed the Columbian migration office and was told by a lovely Venezuelan customs officer that I had to have insurance first and I had no chance of getting this before the 4.30pm close of the customs office. I decided to get a head start and rode on into Venezuela as an illegal immigrant. I found a Mapfre insurance agent who had photos of all the international bikers she`d insured. The customs officer was right, it took over an hour to get the insurance but I am well covered in Venezuela for a year for $28 helped thanks to some black market money exchanging at the border! I then tried to sneak back into Columbia but drew attention to myself by riding in the car s only lane and hitting the pole separating the bikes only labe when told to get in it. I think I only managed to get waved through as a Brit on a huge bike with little Spanish is just a pain in the arse for a border guard. Thanks to my missing of the Columbian migration station I was free to ride back into Columbia as if I had never left assuming I got though the border and as there was noone there I could see I easily did.

I found the first open hotel I could, downed more painkillers and set about changing Sir Humphrey`s front tyre (now tending to bald and I`m not taking the risk considering the amount of rain I`m getting) and examining his brakes. I think there is an old Greek tale about a man sent to Hades who has to change motorcycles tyres for eternity with two bruised/broken ribs. It was at least a different challenge to when I started as I know what I`m doing now and had been getting quite slick at it. After a long while the new tyre was on and inflated. The owner brought me drinks as I lubricated the ground with sweat and swearwords. The front brake pads had almost no friction material left but the rear looked OK. I used some liquid gasket to reseal the rear brake fluid reservoir as I had a guess that it had a small leak and then went to stand under the shower for an hour.

Later that evening I went back downstairs to put Sir Humphrey in the hotel`s garage at found it to be a furniture workshop. The owner, Jorgin, then showed me around the showroom. It was jam packed with handcrafted wooden furniture that hand real weight to it. Chunky, functional but beautiful. It was wonderful stuff and would happily have a house full of the stuff.The doors they make were astounding.

My delight was easy to see and I got talking to Jorgin (a former biker obviously) and his son, Jorgin. It turned out the son was the guitarist in a band called Corto Circuito (aka Short Circuit) who played rock/pop and he showed me the videos for the two singles they had made. Its a shame the Atlantic is in the way or I would have booked him for the wedding there and then. He was a great kid and let me use his computer to let the family know I was OK.

After this I went straight to bed and slept a little better. God bless the poppy and piriton! The next morning, this morning in fact, I set off for the border at 7.30am. I was 1/2mile from it and 4 hours later I was 1/2mile past it and cursing Venezuela and everyone in it. Things started off favourably with a black market money exchange at twice the official rate and then in the immigration queue I met a group a Harley and cruiser riders. Only Venezuelans have bigger bikes than Sir Humphrey. As usual these were lovely guys and girls as all bikers are:

Immigration stamped my passport and I went to customs. I was then struck with an unusual ferocity of horniness which surprised even me. There was an absence of any pretty ladies and I have no idea where it came from. It was shockingly distracting and I would have happily exchanged the rest of my fingers and toes to have been teleported to wherever Sam was at the time. Even if I could have done so I couldn`t have done much as any movement was seriously painful. I did my best to focus and queued at the mirrored window number three with a glazed expression. I had a good stretch and that took my mind of anything other that not falling over with  the induced dizziness of agony.

I apparently need photocopies of all my documents and some Venezuelan money stamps or something like that. I met the same customs officer who had helped me the day before and my pained and confused expression (he didn`t twig it wasn`t all pain and confusion) induced some sympathy in him and he had an assistant photocopy my stuff and I never got charged for the stampy things. A long while later I had my customs document but was told I must get it stamped by the police. He kindly wrote down instructions and directions for me in broken English. What a star! I followed these, asked a bypasser and was directed into an office several blocks away which, despite showing my friendly custom officer`s instructions to the guard outside, turned out to be the wrong officeand the clerk started speaking loudly too me when it became clear this was another immigration office and I had my stamp already. I shot him such a look that he shut up instantly. I`ve never managed to do that before! Eventually I found the transit police office round the courner who stamped the back of my customs form and I headed off to buy some legendary cheap Venezuelan petrol. At every petrol station I found I was told that they wouldn`t sell to me without a `chip` which looked like a 1x2" piece of laminated paper. They kept pointing to white plastic things above the fuel pumps that looked like large white BSB squariels (remember them?). In fact a couple of the station attendants were quite rude about it. My look, so effective earlier, didn`t work so I told him to.... err.... `go away please` or something to that effect. At a third service station I was told I had to go to customs to get a `permission to by petrol`, which I assued way this `chip`thing or more multiply stamped paperwork. Starting to get a bit irked I rode back to customs. At customs I was told I had to go to the transit police for this petrol buying thingy. I went back to the police station and parked where I had before when a David Hasselhoff looking rozzer asked me which bit of the police station I wanted. I said transit and he told me to move Sir Humphrey to over the road. Irkedness rose to disgruntled. In the police station I was told to go to customs. Disgruntled got kicked out of bed my pissed off. I stayed where I was and tried to point out that customs had sent me there. I was then told to go to something something international. `Where?` I exasperated. `Please can you draw me a map?`. The Rozzer had just started to do so when a colleague offered to show me in person. There is always a Plod with not much to do in South America. I followed this helpful one on Sir Humphrey behind his little motorbike with his left indicator on the whole time to a petrol station right next to the border. In South America, especially northen South America indicators seem to have different rules to back in Blighty, in fact they are vestigial devices. If someone is going to make a turn they do not indicate and just do it and often suddenly and at the last minute. If they are indicating this is from when they checked they worked when the bought the vehicle and has nothing to do ìndicating`anything. The Peeler gesticulated I should go in there. I thanked him and did so but I couldn`t find any one the offices open or occupied. I then returned to my most useful of thoughts, `now what if I`ve got this all wrong?`. I asked the pump girl if I could buy some fuel having noticed that there were no squariels here and she said yes but only 40litres. I breathed a painful sigh of relief. Sir Humphrey needed exactly 40litres of fuel and I was on my way at last, 4hours after setting out. The fuel didn`t seem that amazingly cheap costing me just over a tenner. I had to do a u-turn at the border to aim the right way which caused more flailing of my left arm and cursing Venezuela and its people in exasperation but eventually I was riding East as I needed to be. I hereby apologise people of Venezuela. You didn`t deserve it but at the time I really meant it. 5 mins later I pulled over still feeling uncalm and decided to take a break and restart afresh. I open my bottle of cola which gushed its foamy contents all over my last remaining cigarette. I screamed then winced, then realised this was for the best as to cough was the last thing I needed. I ate an empanada and restarted my day listening to the second half of Homer`s Iliad. I know this was a bloody annoying morning but Im sure that without the pain I would have been a calmer Tigger.

After more mountain climbing the road levelled out and the scenery flicked between jungle, rivers, more normal looking forest and a 10mile flatter area that looked exactly like Kent! The rear brake seems much better today despite a slight squeek.

At least the road, whilst not great tarmac, was not that bumpy and lots of painkillers were keeping my chest pain subdued to a level I could give enough concentration to the road. Despite all of this I still have my childish sense of humour and hurt myself laughing at this road sign. I though better of parking Sir Humphrey up in this area and carried on.

Whilst I was have a break and a stretch by the side of the road a big sedan thing pulled up and the two guys started talking to me. They were Max and his son. Max has a BMW 1200RT but he wants a GS next. They were heading home to Caracas and have offered to help me get some new brake pads when I`m there and store Sir Humphrey safely. Hopefully I can at least kip with him; Sir Humphrey not Max! Bikers make the world go round. I`ve got Max`s number and he said he`d love to help in any way he can.After 200miles I had another go a buying fuel and this time bought 25litres for about 50pence. This is so satisfying it almost takes away the annoyance at the posters of Hugo Chaves that are everywhere. Chubby wazok.

For the rest of the day the traffic, which had been holding me back, thinned out and I made good progress getting to within 200miles of Caracas. I can`t manage great long days in the saddle at the moment and if I up my dose of codeine any more I won`t be safe to ride and may never pooh again. I found a hotel with secure parking. Did a few Sir Humphrey house keeping jobs like check on repairs, tighten bolts, retighten the pannier mounts and lubricate the chain. I then showered, the best part of my day, and came to a huge internet shoppy and typed up this tedious account of my last two days. I hope you haven`t been too bored and I hope my family will not worry any more than they were. I and Sir Humphrey are fine. My ribs may just be very badly bruised but if they are broken it makes no difference, management is just the same as I often tell people in A&E as I push them out of the door with a prescription for codeine.

Sam has researched me some bike shops in Venzuela and I´ll try to get some new front brake pads tomorrow. I´ll also look at rear tyres as the hugely expensive Continental TKC 80 I`ve got on at the moment doesn`t look like its going to last 5000miles. I could get a normal road tyre for post-French Guyana and apparently they are crazily expansive in Brazil. I very much look forward to meeting up with Jean, the fantastic Brazilian biker I rode with in Southern Argentina. Anyway that`s enough of that. Its gone 9pm and therefore past my bedtime.

TTFN,

Tigger with an unhappy thorax