Hello friends!

Just a quick live update, and a reminder to some who have recently joined my crazy adventure (at least virtually): I just arrived in Peru! 55,000km and almost 3 years on the road brought me to country number 14!!

The stories on here are a bit backlogged but they will catch up in the next months i think
If you ever want to know exactly where I am you can check my website:
www.alexandertolchinsky.com

Hello Friends,
I have been remiss in posting what, to us, is most important: maps!
In the next days I will post my maps from Central America, starting with Mexico:

And this is what a fast week through Belize looks like:

3 Crazy months in Guatemala:

The flash of El Salvador:

Circumference of the World



Nicaragua was only the 8th country on my journey, but it had taken 2 years and 40,015km (the circumference of the earth) to get there.







As El Salvador and Honduras before, Nicaragua proved to have little to offer which could not be found in Mexico or Guatemala. After leaving Mexico people have been progressively less friendly and open, the food less tasty, roads less curvy, and the landscape less impressive. Maybe it was because I had been on the road for so long, maybe it was the loneliness, or perhaps the residual weakness of dengue that plagued my time in Nicaragua, but whatever it was I had to work at staying alert, staying interested and engaged in what was going on.







Nicaragua flew by in the glimpse of a couple of weeks. There were a few highlights, but little to keep me there for long. Ometepe Island, with its twin volcanoes was a lovely retreat. I finally found good food, and passed the time with other intrepid travelers. San Juan del Sur was an exceptional place, with some of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. It was my last stop in Nicaragua and I treated myself to a nice hostel, with nice food, and a view of the Pacific from the top of a seaside mount.










And as quick as I had surfed down a volcano in Leon, walked the colonial streets of Granada, rode around Ometepe, and played with the resident monkey at the Oceanside hostel, I was heading for the Costa Rican border.








Costa Rica

I was caught in the rain again upon entering Costa Rica, and by the time I arrived at my host’s place near the beach I was sick. The dengue destroyed my immune system and any tolerance for strange food that I had developed so that every bit of rain made me sick and every meal made me nauseas. I was in for a rude awakening when I went to the market to buy some fruit and ended up paying $40 for a bag barely big enough to last a few days. It felt like being back in New York. Costa Rica is in fact the most expensive place in Central America. Once I was healthy there was little else I could do but ride around as park entrances and activity fees were astronomical (for me). If you are on a 2 week vacation, and going back to a decent job, Costa Rica is not expensive, but when you live on a motorcycle with no income for years on end the lovely tourist trap is a huge drain.



Costa Rica is a lovely country, with some of the biggest bio-diversity in the world. It is a tiny strip of land that is home to thousands of species of flora and fauna. I wanted so badly to go on tours and see incredibly colorful, and rare, birds and reptiles and sea mammals, but the budget only allowed me a glide through the canopy. In truth I’m not sure I could have handled anything more. By the end of the first week I knew I had to do something to recover from the dengue, so I bought a ticket to fly to the states and recover at my mother’s house.



On my way to stay with David, a guy I had met during Dia de los Muertes in Mexico, my clutch cable broke while riding up a hill. I managed to flag someone down and use his phone to call David. Within an hour he, his father and neighbor were there to pick me up with a truck. We lifted Georgia up (no small feat – she’s a big girl) onto the back of the truck and brought her to David’s place where she would await my return from the states. David’s family welcomed me in as though I were a lost son, and all my pain seemed to disappear while staying with them. David’s brother gave his bunk and went to sleep with his parents. It was a tiny, humble house which did not represent the hard work of David’s father rather the persistent inequity between the classes in Latin America. The medium standard of living in Costa Rica is higher than other places, but for those who do not work in tourism the gap between the lower and middle classes still appears insurmountable. Of course that was not something I was made to feel while staying with them, they allowed no sign of poverty while we ate and passed the time together.






After a few days with my new Costa Rican family I boarded a plane to Minneapolis to recover and visit my mother. I wish I knew then that it would be the last time I would see her, the last time I would hold her face in my hands, the last time I would listen to her stories and eat her incredible cooking. I wish I knew…

Dengue Country Map:

The Land of Gorgeous Skies:

Life on the High Seas

Panama City

A month in the states went a long way to my ultimate recovery from dengue. I was a few pounds heavier from my mom’s cooking, and my soul was satisfied with nights of jazz bars and the New York Philharmonic. I flew back to my Costa Rican family, fixed the clutch cable and hit the road to Panama.

Costa Rica would save some of the most beautiful riding for my last days just to make sure I knew well what I was leaving. Giant, almost unbelievably colorful, parrots flew over me whenever I would pull over along the coastal road. Rolling hills, interspersed with mountains to the east, and gorgeous bays of the pacific coast to the west. I never knew there were so many shades of green! Tiny strips of beach, not yet victim to development, lined the coast, with palms throwing a cooling shade over ceviche vendors, inviting me to stop and pitch my tent at every turn. The peace and simplicity were so inviting, the hope of a reprieve from the scorching heat kept loosening the throttle, but I had a boat to catch to Colombia, and missing it would mean having to pay $500 more for another one.

Norm welcomed me to Panama and his home – my first time staying with someone I met through motorcycle clubs (I met a MCY gang on a ferry in Nicaragua, and they put us in touch). His home was a tiny paradise of fruit trees and flowers and monkeys and tropical birds – all there by choice, but who knew as well as I the rarity of such a place. It was a short stay, but filled with proper cups of tea and stories from the road. The following morning I was on my way to the disappointment of Panama City.



I ‘ve always had an image in my head of what Panama City would be – linen suits, panama hats, cigars, business done in cafés with handshakes. What I found was a mostly abandoned old city, filled with tourists and surrounded by dangerous slums. There were still some intact remnants of the French and Spanish colonial buildings, and some lovely Art Deco ones as well, but they quickly receded into hurricane and time damaged ruins, and eventually slums. I decided to at least see that part of Panama City, but was accosted on every corner by police and soldiers who would tell me to turn around and not enter the slum. My friend and I persevered and entered the periphery, but were eventually forced to leave by the soldiers armed with dual pistols and machine guns.








The Panama Canal was of course the highlight. Watching a ship the size of a large village rising and falling right before my eyes left quite an impression. The locks at Miraflores are not to be missed! As impressive and formidable as nature is, every once in a while man manages to control it – and that is always a sight to see.






After a couple of days in the city I rode to my last point in Central America, Porto Bello, to catch my boat to Colombia.


Portobello




In Portobello I met the 5 other riders who would share in my illegal crossing into South America – my second continent.



500 year old canons point out to the bay at sailboats floating on the crystal clear and lake calm water of the Caribbean. 300 years ago they were pointing at hundreds of Spanish galleons waiting to be filled with silver and gold which had to be stored outside in giant heaps for it could not all fit inside the customs house. And as many years ago they were firing on countless pirate and buccaneer ships sacking the city.



The night before sailing we loaded 6 motorcycles onto the Canadian ship, flying a U.S flag, commanded by a Dutch sailor (of sorts). 3 KLR’s, 2 DR’s and an F800GS. Loading the bikes was easy but nerve-wrecking. Loading them first into little dingys was scary as the little boats moved and swayed from even a wink, then came the ride to the Mother Ship, and finally hand pulling the boom to get them onto the boat. We worked with bated breath knowing that a mistake would mean an inglorious end to a journey. But all 6 steeds made it on board, were sprayed with oil to keep off the rust, covered in tarps to keep off the spray, and winched down to keep them from diving overboard. All was left was to load the food and ourselves, find a flat surface on which to sleep (as there were enough bunks for only 2), and wait for the sunrise.






3 Australians, a Canadian, an American and myself, along with the Dutch captain and his Slovak lesbian ex-girlfriend – quite a crew! We were an interesting collection of characters, with wildly diverse, and often illicit, histories. Our reasons for being on the road also varied greatly. One other was a veritable gypsy like myself, others just seeking the thrill of the road and the embraces of Latina beauties. However we all shared the joy of the ride, the wind, and the inevitable lessons we learn about ourselves. We all got along instantly and the following days passed pleasantly in the company of new friends. We passed the time telling stories, playing cards, watching movies, but mostly lounging on deck – in a hammock or in the bird’s nest – enthralled by beauty and immensity of the sea.














Life on the High Seas



Our boat sighed and swayed with the indifferent swells of the Caribbean. I climbed the mast to look over miles of water – in the distance the ocean looked calm, almost glassy. But as my eye was drawn closer the water began to take on more character: occasional white caps from breaking swells; the apparent chasm between the swells as the ship dropped from one and faced the wall of another; the countless ripples covering every inch of the water’s surface. The day too played its hand upon the ocean and changed the bright, silvery shimmer of the morning, to a deep denim at midday, then a slow return to the mercury of evening and the final, inky black of night.



Dolphins raced against us, darting right in front of our bow, leaping in the happy knowledge that they were faster and more agile. And then, as unlikely as it was beautiful, a hawk came to perch on our mast, 100 miles from the nearest land. He came and inspected us and scared away the sea gulls who, just as unlikely, came right before him.



Our boat and her passengers had their lives in my hands 4 times as I took my place behind the wheel in the pilot house and attempted to hold a true course towards Cartagena, despite the wind’s and current’s best efforts to drive us into the Darien. Because the boat has no real crew it was up to us to rotate every four hours and take the helm – day and night.



Of course I had a cold, was seasick for 2 of the 3 days, and barely managed to string together a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep.



We stopped by the San Blas islands for a quick dip and some snorkeling in the crystal clear waters which surround the idyllic palm and white sandy beaches of the Kuna people. We then left the calm waters of the bay and embarked on a slightly nerve wrecking, and painfully slow, cruise towards Colombia.



We were fortunate enough to avoid the storms which we saw passing all around us, and only twice felt the drops of relatively light rain. The six steeds stood firm and true throughout the journey and were not the worse for wear, unlike some of their riders. Really only two of us, including yours truly, were sea sick. Even the questionably cooked lobsters we bought off some Kuna divers, minutes after they were brought to the surface, failed to induce the rest of the crew to rush towards the rails.



I was feeling the effects of 4 days without a shower, after constant sweat, and the remnants of our salt water dip. We were all feeling it I suppose, but as we are all bikers, and are accustomed to grime and sweat, no one complained – though quietly and anxiously we all awaited or first shower in Cartagena.

3 days later we were safely in the bay looking longingly at the shores of Cartagena. Because we were not on an official passenger carrier we could not dock and had to wait for some more dingys to come bring our steeds to land. I’m not sure I can describe the sensation of sitting atop of Georgia, my feet keeping her steady on the sides of what is little more than a canoe with a motor, praying that the waves from passing boats would not topple us into the bay and put a sad end to my journey. But all 6 of us landed safely in Colombia and began the next phase of our journeys through the wonders of South America.

Last stop in Central America:

2 years, 10 months, 56,000km and still on the road!
Currently in Huaraz, Peru looking up at 6800m glacial peaks, and jade glacial lakes, trying to breathe as the place leaves one breathless, literally and figuratively.

Though I am still only as far as Panama on ADV, if you want to see some photos of where I am now, check out my website:
www.alexandertolchinsky.com

Now that I have finished with my tales of Central and North America, I will commence with South America, but it may take a bit before the next story. Thanks for your patience guys, as some of you may know living on the road is a crazy thing and moments of writing often must be wrought from the insanity of quotidian happenstance which is often completely absorbing.

A Few weeks shy of 3 years on the road, and after 61,000km crash #2 puts a screw in it all!
I was hoping to start posting stories from South America, and all the great pictures I have now that I have a real camera again, bu that will have to take a little time as the body heals and the work on Georgia begins.

It was one of those stupid days, full of stupid decisions, and then an encounter with a deep patch of gravel - the only one on the road. And at about 60mph I went flying, and Georgia went tumbling.
The picture doesnt look as bad because you cant see that, broken as i is, the front end is actually 45 degrees off, and the radiator is blown. The helmet too is done and I'm not sure how to replace that.

It was bitter cold on the high plain, around 10k ft, but slowly I got the bike up with the help of a local who happen to be passing this middle of nowhere stretch. I loaded her up again after gathering up my scattered goods, and rode her to Arequipa (Peru).



I hope to start posting real soon as there are some great stories and shots from South America.

A lot of people have told me to put a donation button on my site for the last 3 years, and I always resisted, but I finally broke down as a project of this undertaking is not something I can do alone... especially if I have to rebuild the bike every 6 months.
Thank you all for your support!

www.alexandertolchinsky.com

Here's the whole story of the crash:

Travel Log: May 17th, 2015
Arequipa, Peru

The Crash - 2
I wasn’t looking for adventure, just the highway. I left Yauri, half way between Cusco and Arequipa, with the idea that I would be in Arequipa in time for lunch. I had gotten off a nice paved road to spend the night in Yauri, and for the life of me could not find it again. Looking at the map I figured I would eventually join with it again, so I picked a road and started off.

I was on the high plains, and I mean HIGH: 4400m (14,500ft). It was an overcast day, with a bitter wind, made all the worse by the fact that I was riding. Even with my warm gloves and heated grips my hands were freezing within minutes. I rode along cursing the fact that I was not on pavement. Usually I seek out the back roads, the interesting twisties, but my legs were still sore from Machu Picchu and I just wanted to get to Arequipa, again, I wasn’t looking for any adventure.

I was freezing and in a crappy mood and the desolate highland landscape was not making it any better. I kept riding and riding, and still no pavement – just dust, gravel, dirt, ruts, and construction. I was in the middle of nowhere and the few and far between towns I passed barely had a dirt street let alone a place to eat. After a couple of hours, I saw a town large enough to maybe have a restaurant, so I pulled over. I found a little place, downed a thermos full of mate de coca, warmed up slightly, and got back on the road. The cold gripped me instantly again, and yet pavement was nowhere in sight. I needed to relax, I needed to accept it, and from time to time I did. But every time I ran into a construction stop the frustration came right back.

And then, on a perfectly flat gravel road, in the middle of nowhere, Georgia started to fishtail. I had no idea why, the gravel did not look deep at all, so I didn’t really even think of trying to move her over. It got bad in an instant and I saw myself flying off of her, so I had to make one of three (or so I thought) decisions: ease off the throttle, gently apply the rear brake, stand up and keep a constant throttle, or speed up a bit to try to stabilize. I chose the last and I chose wrong. The very next second I was whipped to the ground at about 90kph (55mph). I eventually stopped about 30-40ft away and Georgia stopped right next to me (thankfully not on top of me).

I can still see it, just like I can still see the moment Georgia slipped from under me on a mountain curve in Guatemala. I knew it was going to happen, I was almost ready for it, but the fall was so hard there was nothing I could do to control it and for the first time I actually hit my head. I always prided myself on being able to fall well (and considering I have never broken anything (tfu, tfu, tfu) maybe I still I can) and never letting my head hit the ground. But that all changed with my cracked helmet.

As I came to a stop I began to quickly analyze my condition. My head was throbbing, but the helmet was still on it and I could (barely) move my neck. Good. It took a few seconds but I got my arms and legs to move as well (again, barely). Good. Nothing severed, nothing broken, maybe a concussion, some lacerations, bruising, some inflammation, whiplash… the normal stuff. Good. But I still couldn’t get up. Everything hurt, everything was stiff. I could see Georgia out of the corner of my eye – she was on her side in the small ditch. Maybe she was leaking gas, but I couldn’t move. It was hard to breathe at the high altitude which made everything all the more difficult.

I eventually unsnapped my helmet, got to my feet and stumbled down the road to get my phone (which flew off), then stumbled back to get one of the bags that flew off, and the GoPro that snapped off my helmet at the point of impact 30ft away. I then stumbled back to Georgia and collapsed by her side.

A few minutes later someone actually drove by and stopped. In the following minutes a few more trucks drove by, no one stopped, and then it was deserted again. I couldn’t talk at first, I just moaned and pointed to my water bottle. One of the guys helped me up, I stumbled back to one of my bags, found a bottle of Aspirin, and swallowed 4. Of all the pain the head was the most debilitating and intense. We then unstrapped the bags and got Georgia on her rubbers.

The key was bent, so I got out a spare, pressed the starter and Georgia came to life! The front fender (or what was left of it) was bent 45 degrees to the right, most everything on the front end was smashed to bits though. But the wheel was in one piece and seemed more or less straight, so I figured I would ride her out. There was nothing else the guys could do so I thanked them and said they could go.

To the shame of all Peruvians, they asked me for a tip. I still can’t get over it. Forget the fact that they were only there for 5 minutes and only helped me lift up the bike (which is very easy for 3 people), that is not important. They stopped to help out a human being who had survived a crash, and they wanted money for it. I don’t care how poor you are, that is disgusting. I always stop to help people, and even if I use up things that I have that cost money I never ever, ever, even think of asking for anything. I’ve also been saved and helped by people just as poor as these guys, and when I offered something (mind you they have never asked), it was adamantly refused – always. I know what it’s like to be poor, but I could never even dream of asking someone for money for giving them a hand – I see it as a privilege to be there for another human being. Shame on them. And sadly this is a relatively accurate reflection on the poorer classes in Peru – but that’s for another time.

I had no choice but to pack Georgia up again and be on my way. It was a painfully slow process as I lifted one bag at a time onto the bike, stumbling back and forth from the little pile I had made. I don’t even know how long it took, I was dizzy and weak and running on auto-pilot. If only I were not sore from Machu Picchu, if only I was at a lower altitude so I could breathe… if only I had made a different decision when hitting that patch, if only I had asked more people about where the paved road was…

Every movement hurt, and my left hand was swollen from the impact which made shifting quite an effort. I managed to get my leg over the seat and set Georgia straight. She started right up again and I began the very long and very cold ride to Arequipa.

At first I kept her in first gear to make sure she could go straight without falling apart, but eventually got her going normally. The funny thing I noticed about the road I was on was the fact that there was no deep gravel anywhere else, just right in the line of my tire. Nice. It took a lot of effort to not pass out and to keep my eyes open and focused. Snowy peaks eventually appeared around me and the desolation became a little lovelier. Of course I could not enjoy it at this point, and could only focus on the road, the pain, and the cold.

I eventually did find the paved road, and cursed it and my maps. I stopped at a truck stop for a giant bowl of mutton soup to warm up. Every movement cost me, every moment of not lying down seemed like torture. But I could not give up, because I knew Georgia was doomed, and if I were to lay down I would not get up for days, so I had to make it to a friendly place.

It took another 4 hours to get to my host in Arequipa – 4 hours that I remember much less clearly than the moment I was slammed against the ground. But I made it. I don’t really know how Georgia or I made it, but we did. As I shut off her engine she dumped her coolant as the oil and gas boiled away – her sign that she got me to safety but that was as far as she was going without some serious TLC. We were both done I suppose, and so I took my turn and collapsed on the bed in a daze of frustration, confusion, and gratitude.

Sorry to read about the crash, sh!t sometimes happens. Glad youre OK though.

Good luck!

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My travel blog: http://rooson2wheels.blogspot.com