From: owner-klr650-digest@lists.xmission.com (klr650-digest) To: klr650-digest@lists.xmission.com Subject: klr650-digest V2 #441 Reply-To: klr650 Sender: owner-klr650-digest@lists.xmission.com Errors-To: owner-klr650-digest@lists.xmission.com Precedence: bulk klr650-digest Thursday, May 27 1999 Volume 02 : Number 441 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 11:48:18 -0400 From: Chris Subject: Re: (klr650) Andres Carlstein Trip Report 6a...NKLR Kurt Simpson wrote: > > Update 6: El Salvador to Nicaragua > > I was perched high up on my seat, and the wind was blowing steadily over my Clearview screen > and splashing against my helmet. When I leaned my head slightly to the left, eddies of air > would whistle across it, making a noise not unlike the crying of a kitten. ...incredible tale foreshortened.... O.k. I admit it, I would be afraid to go to that part of the world in a HMMV well armed. Wow! I can even speak reasonably serviceable street Spanish... Wish you all the best. Oh man, what a pathetic day mine will be carrying this story around now.... ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 08:49:56 -0700 (PDT) From: dan shaw Subject: (klr650) aerostich dry saddle bags hey everyone, are the aerostich dry saddle bags the same thing as the ortileb dry bags? is it possible to mount these bags on a klr without a rack? i dont mind if they scuff up the plastic...its already pretty banged up. thanks dan _________________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Get your free @yahoo.com address at http://mail.yahoo.com ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 09:49:56 -0600 From: "Kurt Simpson" Subject: (klr650) Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 09:50:27 -0600 config klr650 2347 ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 09:54:02 -0600 From: "Pokluda, Gino F" Subject: RE: (klr650) aerostich dry saddle bags >>is it possible to mount these bags on a klr without a rack? i dont mind if they scuff up the plastic...its already pretty banged up. thanks<< If you put any appreciable load in the right bag, it will push the plastic panel against the muffler. You can put a few layers of moto-tile between the plastic and muffler and that should help. Gino ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 09:59:54 -0600 From: "Kurt Simpson" Subject: Re: (klr650) aerostich dry saddle bags >are the aerostich dry saddle bags the same thing as the ortileb dry >bags? > >is it possible to mount these bags on a klr without a rack? i dont mind >if they scuff up the plastic...its already pretty banged up. >thanks >dan Yes they are the same. Some folks have run without the racks but I wouldn't. If you do I would at least buy or make a muffler guard from DualStar...My point is that you want a trouble-free, effortless install with no surprises. You have these wonderful racks from Obi that with the Ortliebs provide just that. Sorry for the sermon but I just feel strongly about the combo... Kurt ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 10:24:37 -0600 From: "Kurt Simpson" Subject: (klr650) Andres Carlstein Trip Report 6b...NKLR I said goodbye to Marco, got on my bike, wished all those border creeps a nice eternity in hell, and started to ride off. The sun was setting. I had about a half hour of light left, and I kept hearing the number one rule of motorcycling Latin America in my head over and over: NEVER RIDE AFTER DARK. I was also hearing Marco's last words of advice. "Don't stop for anything. If you see a guy laying on the road, blocking your path, duck your head low, accelerate hard, and run him over.""Come on Marco, I am not going to hurt anyone." I said, trying to laugh off his suggestion. "Do you want to be hurt?" He looked me in the eyes, deadly serious, and I could instantly tell that he had seen a lot of unpleasant things in his life. "If you stop for someone, even if they seem hurt, they will suddenly get better, get up, kill you, and take all your stuff just because you were a 'nice guy' and stopped. Promise me you will not stop." I was hearing these words when I realized I might never see him again and I had no way to show my appreciation for him being so nice to me. So I suddenly turned around, went back to the border, and rode up to where he was still sitting, on top of his junk pile in his pickup. "What's wrong?" Marco said. "I forgot something." I opened up my topcase and pulled out my Crazy Creek "super chair." It was taking up too much space in my luggage and I needed to unload it—I had decided to give it to someone cool I met along the way on my trip. Unfortunately, I had forgotten all about it as Marco and I were passing time with the delightful border folk. "You can use it to sit on top of your junk" I suggested. [An interesting note--I am writing this in Bogota right now, and I just hurt the sound of a gunshot from outside the apartment building.] "Man, you drove back here to give me this?" Marco said as he took my small gift. He seemed a little bit flustered by my show of appreciation. "You're a good guy and I wanted to give you something." I replied. "I am not a good guy." He said. The way he said this stopped me short for a second. He said it in a creepy, sincere, terse sort of way, as if he had done something (or things) terribly wrong in his life, and had resigned himself to what he had become. He was not a bullshitter, and he would not pretend to be one just so he could graciously accept my gift. He seemed hardened beyond that sort of social posturing. "Take it anyway." I said. "You better get out of here or it's going to be night." Marco said as he took the chair. I spent the rest of the daylight following the trail of my two estranged companions. I stopped at a hotel where the owner had seen them, but they had decided to move on. I rode as far as I could, and ended up in San Lorenzo. It was now completely dark, and I was sure I would see someone lying across the road just about any second now. I turned into the first place I saw and asked for a room. They were completely full, but I begged and managed to get a spare room that was used for the hired help. It was about 95 degrees in my room, and I was sweating in boxer shorts with the fan blowing on me at full blast. There was no air conditioning, but there was HBO, so I watched the movie Selena, until I felt sick to my stomach and turned it off. I didn't know where Robert and Peter were, but I knew that if they had not tried to cross two borders in one day, then maybe I could cut them off at a place where I knew they would be. I woke up at five the next morning, packed, and rode straight to the border where I thought Peter and Robert were going to cross. I got there at 7 am, which I figured was sooner than they would get there. It was a long 5 hours that I waited, surrounded by the same type of people that I had learned to hate so much at the El Salvador border: tramitadores. After the initial half hour of pestering by every tramitadore in the place, I managed to convince them all that I was not going to go anywhere until my friends showed up, so they should just relax and wait. In the time I was there, they asked me all sorts of questions--about my bike, the US, my trip. I got to know two of them pretty well, a skinny sixteen-year-old named Hensy Adalid Funiz Mendez, and a pudgy, unshaved guy of about 24 years named Richard Nixon Escalante. His parents were admirers of ex-president who, according to Richard, had done a lot of good things for Honduras. These guys all gathered around and I slowly learned a bit about how the tramitadore system works. There is usually a head tramitadore, who oversees the operation of the underlings. The administrator of the border gets to decide which of the local populace, mostly younger kids, gets to be a tramitadore. It’s a highly coveted position that has lots of perks. It also requires several recommendations from notable people in local government, or you need to be a personal friend or relative of someone who works there. Depending on the border, the administrator is in on the deal, and it can be a real pain in the ass getting around the system. Most people just can’t take the hassle, and fork over the cash to the tramitadores. A tramitadore’s dream is a rich old Canadian or American who has no idea of the border system or the Spanish language, and will get so flustered by all the filthy little beggars, vanishing paperwork, and endless delays that they will pay anything to get out of there. And as for the beggars, they are actually the children of the local vendors—their job is to wander around all day looking for handouts. Their parents dress them in rags, and bare feet, and they are in desperate need of a bath. This is all part of the grand scheme to make people pity them. They are great actors too. A brown-haired boy of about four came up to me after I had learned all about the system. He asked me for some money, and I asked what for. “To eat.” He said. I laughed and told him “why don’t you go ask your parents across the street who are watching our conversation from the fruit stand?” He was caught. Discouraged, he wandered off and sure enough, he came back soon after eating a ripe, peeled mango that dripped juice down his arms and was about as big as his head. The other variety of street rat, also not orphans, though they swear they are, are the “watchers.” They approach your bike and offer to watch it for some small change. Usually, there are about 12 of them climbing all over your stuff, and it can be quite depressing to see them handling your precious ride with their grubby fingers. They operate on the fear you have that if you don’t pay up, they will do something to your bike while you are gone. I learned form the Hensy and Richard Nixon that if they actually did do something to your bike, the administrator would have them thrown in jail. The administrator doesn’t mind them trying to get handouts (they are usually selected by him as well), but if they actually did something to the bike, he would have no end of headaches from the tourists that pass through. Ultimately, he doesn’t want to discourage the tourism industry—just leech off it a little. So there I was learning all about the little world these guys live in, and I realized I could write a book just about my experiences in their company. In four short hours I had become accepted by the community, welcomed as one of them. I could not help but feel a bit like Jane Goodall after her breakthrough with her Gorillas. Then abruptly, it all ended. Robert and Peter were approaching on their bikes, and this crowd of tramitadores and shoeless street rats ran off to greet them, with dollar signs flashing their eyes. Both Peter and Robert had very surprised looks on their faces. “I read on the internet that you guys were looking for a riding partner.” I said. “Does the offer still stand?” ------------------------------ Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 10:32:06 -0600 From: "Kurt Simpson" Subject: (klr650) Andres Carlstein Trip Report 7a...NKLR From: Andres Carlstein Subject: Update 7: Nicaragua to Panama City Date: Wednesday, May 26, 1999 11:02 PM Update 7: Nicaragua to Panama City So we were on our way, reunited. Robert and Peter were both crying from joy to have me back. Actually, only Peter was crying. Well, he really just had some dust or something in his eye, and was rubbing it with the back of his hand. Clearly, the guys were just afraid to express their true emotions and tears in front of all the locals. Understandable. It would hardly be appropriate for the tough-looking bikers to break down and cry like little girls, even though I could tell that is what they really wanted to do. So we managed to get out of the border after 1 pm, and rode hard all day through Nicaragua and by nightfall made it to the Hotel Monte Limar, a 5-star joint with all the meals and drinks you could force down included in the price. It was on the Pacific beach, which had an incredibly beautiful black volcanic sand. The hotel complex consisted of different clusters of small building here and there, with stone paved pathways between them. In the center of the site was the enormous turquoise pool, which was so big that waves actually formed across the water. In the center was a huge bar where you could swim up and drink as much as you like, and then swim off completely smashed. To the right of the pool was the giant lawn chess set. We played a lot of chess and drank and ate and swam in both the ocean and the pool. It was a difficult choice before each day, and sometimes we had to compromise and swim in both the ocean and the pool. Who was I kidding? For the next three days, we stayed there, ate ourselves silly, and would have a decent buzz going before two in the afternoon. I was feeling like a real poser at this point, because I was expecting my trip to be one of hardship and sacrifice, traveling to places where there was precious little food or gas, let alone a five-star international resort with a pool bigger than my entire high school. Helge Peterson would be laughing himself silly at us. I was getting pretty depressed, because this was not the adventure I had signed up for. How was I going to write a book about all the trials and difficulties of my journey, when our biggest problem was that our giant lawn chess set was missing a rook? And speaking of chess, Robert and Peter have many skills, but the game of kings is not one of them. I sat there watching those two struggle over that ridiculously huge board for over an hour. It was like watching two giant Galapagos tortoises having sex. We eventually got ourselves out of there and left early on the morning of April 20th. We saw the famous volcanic mountains in the middle of lake Nicaragua. We stopped in Grenada for lunch, and had some local kids shine our boots while we ate. I normally wouldn’t do such a thing, because I find that shining my hiking boots looks quite pretentious. We felt bad for the kids, since they were really just trying to make a living, and I felt okay about giving them our money because they worked really hard for it. One of the kids did the boots of Peter and me, while the other was stuck polishing Robert’s boots, which went all the way up to his knees. The cost in shoe-shining materials for so much leather must have meant the kid broke even or lost money on Robert. So we left Granada a few pennies poorer, and with ridiculously shiny boots. We made it to the Costa Rican border, and stamp, stamp, stamped our way through clusterfuck heaven. At least that border didn’t require tramitadores to get the paperwork done. Along the road to Playa Tamarindo, Peter hit a rock, about the size of a huge brick, while passing a truck. The trucker was trying to signal him about the obstacle, and Peter thought the guy was just waving in a friendly manner, so Peter waved back with a big stupid grin on his face and nailed the brick. The rock shot out from under his back tire, right at me, but luckily landed and bounced out of the way before it could hit me. We stopped at a gas station to inspect the damage to the Virgin Queen, and saw that the rim was badly bent, but at least it wasn’t leaking air. Peter was pretty upset though. We got to the beach, after some rough night driving on very bad roads, and secured a great deal at a place called the Hotel Tamarindo. The hotel was charming and beautiful, right on the beach, and covered with palms and gardens of exotic flowers. The patio in the back overlooked the ocean, and had an enormous tree with interwoven stalks that formed the trunk. The tree was so big that its umbrella could have sheltered the entire patio full of customers from the rain. The trunk circumference could have held about four people holding hands around it. I was having an allergic reaction to something, which was odd for me since I have never had allergies in my life. My left eye was swelling shut, and I had a rash up and down my arms. I went to see the doctor the next morning. Dr. Hermes Quijada treated me for about US$30. He thought I had picked up scabies, which is a tiny arachnid that burrows into the skin and feeds, reproduces, and lives out the course of its life there. Pretty nasty. I suspected that I got them from one of the tramitadores or beggars that I shook hands with. After visiting the doctor and feeling depressed about the creepy things living happily in my body, I had a great lunch of chicken, rice and black beans in a tomato and herb sauce, with steamed carrots and steamed melon. I washed it all down with an Imperial beer, went back to my room and watched “Gattica” on HBO, and tried not to scratch. (Continued) ------------------------------ End of klr650-digest V2 #441 ****************************