With every fall we learn something new, and with every rise we stand taller. This only holds through if we accept the reality and move on. And best of all, it gives us a chance to evaluate who’s a friend, and who’s a foe, and who to keep and who to let go. My friends list is much shorter now, but more realistic.

As I have been blessed many times, I managed to meet some of the best people I could wish for in Paraguay. I met a cute and very down to earth girl in Asunción named Leticia. To my delight, she spoke very good English, and showed me much of the city. We became friends and by the time I left, she was like a little sister to me that I never had. I stayed at a flat all to myself, and recuperated. I spent the next few days getting back to shape by force-feeding myself and trying to get a grip on reality, and Leti did her best to cheer me up.  It was nice to have a friend to talk to and fight like teenagers about music and travel. Leti and her mom looked after me, and I’m very gracious for their hospitality.

While I was still in United States, a friendly biker named Robert Rolon from Paraguay sent me an email, and told me to count on a friend when I get there. Robert is a civil engineer and economist who studied in the states, and one hell of a genuine guy. I called him up in Asunción and we all went out to dinner joined by his beautiful wife, and his good friend Christian. Robert works at a sugar mill in a beautiful country town of Teibcuary, and of course he invited me to go visit.

Paraguay is landlocked between Brazil, Argentina and Bolivia and it truly is a lovely country. With only 6 million inhabitants, it’s a wide-open country with miles of nothing especially in the north. Most of Paraguay’s economy comes from agriculture, and farming and it’s no surprise. Everywhere you look, there’s an exotic tropical tree with shiny, and delicious fruits hanging from it. The people are amazing, the weather is almost perfect with a permanent chance of rain, and it’s nice to know that Paraguay is the only bilingual country in South America. Spanish is spoken everywhere, but the native language of Guaraní is predominant in rural areas. Guaraní is nothing like Spanish, and the first time I heard it, I was like what?!! I don’t have a chance in hell in learning it but it’s beautiful.

Although something’s are similar here to Argentina and Uruguay, Matte is definitely not. The tea is almost the same, but they drink it with cold water, and it’s called Terere. It’s a refreshing drink in the sub tropical and hot Paraguay, and I honestly like it better than hot matte in this kind of climate.

When it was time to leave Asunción, I headed out on the open country road to central Paraguay with clear mind, and started to see the country the way it was meant to be seen. I started to notice every cow, every blade of grass and the amazing skies again. Robert welcomed me at his beautiful home and I settled in. As every South American I met, he’s the master of the grill, and he showed his talent the very next day by grilling some serious meat. For the time being I’m enjoying their company, and will get on the road soon for eastern Paraguay to visit a local office of Action Against Hunger, then head to the field for some serious work with children.

Life is what we make it, love is what we give with no reason, and travel is what we do to challenge no one, but ourselves. To give up exploring is inconceivable to me. I’m back. And I’m loving it. Stay tuned.

I usually don’t post random pictures, but i was in an out of this world mood when i took this one today in Central Paraguay.

Is it the struggle towards the goals, which makes mankind happy? Or is the goal the struggle to stay conscious in the midst of ghastly twinges? What is the value of having goals for our own sake? After 30 years of living on this green and blue ball, I know one thing… they all vanish… It is merely a question of time.

All I remember is the screech of the car tires behind me trying to avoid collision, and the sound of metal scraping on the wet asphalt in the Paraguayan tropics. Just moments before the slide, I tried to pull over to the shoulder to wipe off my visor, and that’s when I went flying to the middle of the road.

When I left Argentina for the beautiful Uruguay, I was happy with no worry in the world. The bike was fixed, the hospitality of the locals was top notch, and the weather was glorious if just a little hot. But my mind quickly tuned into the ever-changing state of this expedition, and with that came the thoughts, and agonizingly hurtful memories of my recent relationship. Explaining the causes and details is not something I’m willing to do, but the outcome was devastating nevertheless for both of us. And with every mile, this pain became more tangible to the point that it was unbearable to carry on. Somewhere in northern Uruguay, I got sick. I started to vomit few times a day and eating became a chore. I tried to force-feed myself, but I couldn’t hold anything down, and the burning fever skyrocketed to compound my misery in the already hot weather. But my deteriorating physical condition was no match for the despondent mental state I was in.

I rode day after day with no real destination as my compass pointed north towards Paraguay and Bolivia.  The perpetual fights and indecisions went on with Cynthia via emails and phone calls, and I hoped against hope just to have something to cling on to. I met amazing people on the road and they all showed me nothing but the greatest care and love, but I failed time after time to even take out my camera to snap a photo of them to remember them by.

For two thousand miles I hallucinated. So when I found out that I washed my passport inside my riding jacket in the washing machine for two cycles, I wasn’t one bit surprised. My only identity and my ticket out of this land now looked like a watercolor painting of a shity story as my stamps resembled the famous painting; “Persistence of Time” only more incoherent. My importation papers for the bike looked like a wet clump of toilet paper, and I didn’t even notice that until I reached the border of Paraguay.

I spent hours at the border going from one office to another to beg the apathetic officials for mercy, and at last I succeeded. This was a true test of my Spanish limit and, I was exhausted when I received my entry stamp and stepped foot in Paraguay.

I rode towards Asunción, with nothing on my mind but Cynthia, and I lost my focus on the road and my surrounding. For the first time in my life I hit the ground while riding a motorcycle. I spent years perfecting the art of alertness in traffic, but I succumbed to what I knew too well. I let my guard down, and I simply didn’t think of what any idiot would already know. I pulled into a muddy shoulder after heavy tropical rains at speed, and the rest is history.

I have to get my focus back, and this country is going to be the place to do it. Paraguay is beautiful, but also is one of the poorest countries in South America with a real grip of poverty, and malnutrition chocking its population. Countless skinny and dirty innocent little faces made me realize once again that nothing in the world is ever worth fighting for than standing up for those who can’t. I’m here to stay and I’m here to do what I set out to do. I tried to take a trip, but the trip took me.

We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.- John Steinbeck

My stay in Montevideo was one of the highlights of my travels. Montevideo is a beautiful city with a lot of history. Uruguayans are proud people and one of the most welcoming I’ve seen so far, and Eliseo and his family were no exception. Eliseo’s father took me out on a grand tour of Montevideo. In seven hours, we literally scaled the town, and I was fascinated on how knowledgeable he was about his country. Although he didn’t speak any English, I almost understood every other word and we got along really well.

Eliseo and his father have a very impressive machine shop in Montevideo, and as the internet in his apartment wouldn’t work with my laptop, I chose to stay at the shop. I felt like man. Smell of metals and oily machines was like a pacific breeze to me. We tried to fix anything and everything as I knew I would never find another shop like this anywhere. We fixed the troublesome kickstand again, and this time we made it bulletproof. The new motor had a stripped spark plug hole, and we fixed that with helicoil as well. After 4 days of wrenching on my bike and Eliseo’s Katana, finally everything looked good. We went out for a ride in the city, and tested everything to be sure.

It was so nice staying in Montevideo that I really didn’t want to leave, but I was anxious to get back on the road. I chose to take the long way round, and pretty much covered half of Uruguay by the time I reached the border of Argentina again. The roads were spectacular, and weather held gloriously the whole time.

My plan was to enter Argentina again (I have 8 stamps in my passport just from Argentina for going in and out back and forth. They should make me an honorary citizen soon) and head north on the border of Brazil until reaching Paraguay. This section is long, flat and hotter than hell. And it was made harder by me not feeling well. I started to go down with something, and I kept vomiting and having fevers. Not being able to sleep, eat or drink, every mile felt like eternity, and the tropical climate made it worse. On one of these agonizing sections, a wasp flew into my helmet (my visor was up as it was a million degrees) and stung me on the corner of my right eye. I let go of the handle bar, and took of the helmet off so fast that I almost crashed. Getting stung by a wasp is one thing, but at 60 mph, it doubles your vocabulary (just the cuss words of course.)

Uruguay was beautiful and I truly enjoyed its people’s company. I already miss Eliseo’s family, and I hope to have a chance to meet them again. I made a friend for life.

I’m not feeling well so I’m going to cut this short, but I will cross into Asuncion, Paraguay tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Finally came the time to leave Otamendi and Argentina for good. I double checked everything, mounted the bike after 58 days of involuntary encampment, and left Tati’s farm in Otamendi for Buenos Aires, 500km to the north. The weather turned out to be hellish. Temperatures rose to high 90’s, and high humidity made it impossible to not sweat like a pig. I stopped at every shaded gas station, and dumped water on my head so not to pass out.

After a long ride, I finally reached Buenos Aires around 4 pm, and met up with Adrian. We took the bike straight to his friend’s shop to check out the carburetors and spark plugs. What I feared came through; the spark plugs were as white as Casper, and the lean condition was still haunting me.

To fix the problem, we had to raise the needles in the carbs to adjust the mixture, but the North American CV carbs never had that option. The solution was to add spacers to the needles to fix the height, but the spacers had to be 2mm in diameter. I searched the giant city of Buenos Aires for small washers in that size, but I came back empty handed just short of a heatstroke.

The very talented mechanic, Luis fabricated the spacers on his 1930’s out of shape lathe, and the bike finally started to run the way it should. In the mean time I spent my time with Adrian and his family, and went windshield shopping in the city. The windshield on the bike shredded to pieces in the wicked Patagonia winds, so I replaced it for a better one.

Adrian and his family showed me the utmost hospitality in Buenos Aires, so it was hard to leave the delicious food and comfortable bed behind, but it was time to get back on the long road. On the fourth day, I packed up the bike, and headed for the Uruguayan border town of Frey Bentos. To cross into Uruguay, I had two options. One would have been crossing the Rio de la Plata on a ferry for $200; the fastest and easiest option, but I chose to ride inland along the river until I could find a bridge of some sort to cross the widest river in the world. 270km north of Buenos Aires finally was such a bridge and I crossed into Uruguay.

The border crossing went well, but the officer kept asking about my insurance. I handed him an official looking piece of paper and assured him that it was my “international insurance” (I don’t have any insurance whatsoever). This was the first time that anyone at any border in Latin America asked for insurance, so I suppose I have to make one up for the next border in case I get asked again.

Uruguay started pretty, and it turned prettier with every mile. I was going to Montevideo to meet a GSR member named Eliseo who happened to be a machinist. That would give me a chance to fix all the small problems once and for all, and continue my travels north for the Brazilian Amazon worry free. In his emails, Eliseo suggested a road that wasn’t even on the map but I took it anyway. For 260km, I saw only a handful of cars, and three villages as this road passed through some of the most secluded, but beautiful parts of Uruguay along the Parana River. I was finally out of the overpopulated Buenos Aires province, and the fertile pastures of the quite Uruguay were a blessing. It was a love at first sight. I love Uruguay.

Uruguay is a very small country the size of Iowa, tucked in the far-eastern corner of South America. Being sandwiched between the two South American giants of Brazil and Argentina, Uruguay is sometimes looked at as another province of Argentina rather than a wholesome country. But it’s not. Uruguay is a unique place of its own in my opinion. Majority of the population come from direct Spanish and Italian ancestors, and unlike Argentina, it hasn’t quite mixed in with its neighbors. Blue eyes, blond hair and super tan skins are predominant looks, and a beautiful smile to cap it off comes standard with every face in Uruguay. Every person I met was happy and laidback, and without exception wanted to know everything about me and my bike. At every gas station, I held small press conferences for the crowd as I entertained them with my ridiculous sounding scanty Spanish, telling tales of the far-faraway lands.

I decided to stay for the night 150km before Montevideo as it was getting dark, and I would continue the trip the next day. I stopped at Juan Lacaze, a very small town off the main highway to Montevideo. I stayed the night at the house of a genuinely sweet Uruguayan girl, named Paola, who happened to speak very good English. She made an amazing dinner of traditional Uruguayan meal and educated me on customs and traditions of her country. The bike was running fine, the weather was cooler, and I was welcomed into Uruguay with topnotch kindness. I could relax at last.

The next day, I blazed the short leg to the capital city of Montevideo, and met up with Eliseo at his machine shop. Eliseo received me with his never-fading smile, and ten minutes later we were drinking Matte, and chatting with his father like we were friends for years. He put me up in the guest room at his apartment, and after meeting his beautiful wife and a great meal, I retired for the night. I’ll stay in Montevideo to round up the odds and ends of the bike, and will head north from here for Paraguay. Stay tuned.

I checked very connection, every bolt, every cable, but I just wasn’t ready to push the start button. I lit up a cigarette and stared at the bike for the longest time. It was 45 days since the last time I road this bike, and 44 days that I was stuck in the village of Otamendi in Argentina. The whole world went above and beyond to get a new engine to me down here, so it felt surreal to be only a push of a thumb away from freedom. That’s how prisoners must feel I suppose.

When the engine got here, I immediately got to work and retracted a million drywall screws out of the crate to free the engine. It was so well packed (thanks to Jared’s hard work) that the airliner could have just air dropped it at the farm, and it would have survived. By the time I got the engine out it started to rain, and it didn’t stop for the next two days. But I could care less if concrete blocks came down from the sky let alone a little water. It was like Christmas. There was a complete motor, lots of shiny new parts from Z1 Enterprises, and a replacement final drive to swap out the battered leaky unit. With the help of Juan (my very helpful neighbor at the farm) we pushed and shoved the entire block on the frame, and fastened it tight.

For the next two days I scavenged everything I could from the old motor that was in a better shape, and installed it on the new motor. I swapped the drive shaft, final drive, stator cover, ignition cover, bolts and even the oil pan with all new seals and gaskets, and proceeded to time the engine, adjust the valves, replace the air filter, and installed new plug wires on the coils. Then I fired up the soldering iron and soldered every connection. It looked greasy and dirty, but beautiful.

It was time. I poured a gallon of fresh gas in the tank, filled up the crankcase, final drive and transmission with oil, flipped the petcock to prime and pulled the choke. Finally I pushed the start button. The motor turned a few times and it roared to life. My eyes were wet and I couldn’t believe that I was free at last. Hearing the perfect sound of the new machine was like a lullaby, and I listened to it like a good song. The job was done. I turned off the engine and fell asleep as the skies outside poured their hearts out with rain.

I woke up the next day to take out my baby for a ride. As I pulled out of the driveway the front tire slipped on the mud and I went down. I was baffled. A deep slippery mud covered the driveway, and I hit the ground no more than twenty feet from my room. I picked up the bike and mounted again. Mud or no mud, I was going out for a ride. The road from the farm to Otamendi is 3km long, and the rains turned the soft-dirt road to chocolate pudding with standing water in every pothole. In the first 500 feet I fell three times and I finally gave up. The tires were covered with sticky mud to the point that the front fender was scarping on the mud. With much difficulty, I picked up the bike for the last time, slipping and sliding in the process, and headed back to the farm defeated.

There was nothing I could do but to wait for the sun to dry up the road. I had better luck the next day and I finally hit the tarmac with no fall. I took the bike straight to a carwash and for six dollars; two guys washed the bike for 45 minutes. (I needed it clean so I could spot oil leaks.) Then I went out for a 100 miles test run. It ran great, and to my delight, there was no oil leak, except a little sip from the clutch shaft seal which wasn’t a big deal. (I’ll replace it in Buenos Aires). I checked the spark plugs, and they were all black and whitish with no excessive carbon, no caked white stuff, and no oil. She was ready to roll. I took my time to organize my stuff, fix little things here and there, and wash my cloths before getting back on the road. I said my goodbyes to Tati and his family in Mar del Plata, and threw a thank you BBQ party for Juan’s family which helped me immensely during my stay at the farm.

I’m leaving tomorrow morning for Buenos Aires. The route is set to go north for Uruguay, Brazil, Paraguay, Bolivia, and in western Peru load the bike on a dinghy and float the whole length of the Amazon River to the Atlantic Ocean. From there finishing up Venezuela, Surinam, New Guinea… and finally jump the big pond for Africa.

I can never thank those who helped me get back on the road enough. My gratitude goes to Jorge (Tati) Zmud for putting me up in his mom’s house and his place for 48 days free of charge, and for showing such generosity and hospitality to a complete stranger. I made a friend for life. I also like to thank Juan de Martin and his family for feeding me countless home cooked meals and the much needed help with fixing the bike.

I’m indebted to the GSR community for all their troubles as they literally put together a complete motorcycle in one month, and shipped it down here. It’s inspiring to know that I have so many brothers that I’ve never met, but with a single line, they come to my aid at the time of need. I’m honored and humbled to be a part of this great fraternity for I know that they are as selfless as they come.

I’m also indebted to Z1 Enterprises for sponsoring this expedition and delivering the much needed parts with such short notice. Jeff Saunders went above and beyond the call of duty to order everything he didn’t have in stock from Suzuki, and ship them to Jared for the engine makeover. They are great folks who know our bikes inside out, and serve us with care.

I would be remiss not to thank Matt Hanscom for donating the engine, Cliff Saunders for donating the final drive, Sean Pringle for his magnanimous donation which covered the biggest portion of the shipping cost, and those who covered the rest: Jared Williams, Gregory Quinn, Gib Acuna, Barron Fujimoto, Lynn Minthorne, James south, Tom Kent, Joshua Russo, Brandon turner, Robert Hayward, Eric bang, Merrill Oates, Richard Stiver, Dale Dunn, Howard Fairfield, and Daniel Provencher. Forgive me if I’m missing any names here, I don’t have the updated list.

And last but not least, I’d like to thank Jared Williams for his diligent and attentive service to this organization. Time and time again, he has proved to be a blessing, and he continues to impress us all.

Thank you guys for everything. Stay tuned as I hash through the Amazon jungles.

Jared emailed me with the delivery date of the engine and the waiting was over. The crate would arrive in Buenos Aires on Monday, and it would be ready to be picked up by Tuesday. I packed a little backpack with a shirt, my knife, my small laptop and headed out for the capital city, 500km to the north.

While we were searching for parts in the early stages, Rich Suz, a fellow motorcyclist emailed another GSR member, Adrian Sayanes, in Argentina for help. Adrian emailed me his phone number and offered his assistance, so I took him up on it. He would pick me up at the bus station in Buenos Aires when I arrived, and would help me to get the engine out of the customs.

I had to take two buses to get to B.A. One from Otamendi to Mar del Plata and another to B.A. The main Buenos Aires bus station is the size of the Atlanta airport. With hundreds of bus companies, gift shops, restaurants, and piles of luggage, it was overwhelming for a guy who spent the last two months in one of the most desolated part of the world. The area was packed with Bolivian immigrants who were sleeping behind the fences in the open.

I met Adrian and his brother Esteban at the station. They had to take a long train ride and a bus to get to me, and from the first moment they were nothing but helpful. After a drink at the station, I was relieved to find out that they both spoke very good English, and we got along well. They generously put me up in their mom’s house, and fed me the most delicious pizza I’ve ever had.

I was tired and fell into a peaceful sleep, but woke up at 3:30 am to a racket. The skies were as bright as day, and small rivers were forming in the streets from the massive thunderstorm outside. The rain came down with such ferocity that it killed nine people in a flash. I kept thinking of the poor immigrants that were camped out in a canal next to the railroad tracks under plastic sheets and inadequate shelters.

At 7:30 am, we tried contacting AmeriJet, the airline which shipped the cargo, but there was no answer. We called and kept calling until at 8:30, we finally got through. They didn’t have the engine nor did they know where it was! The guy said that AmeriJet doesn’t fly into Argentina, and they must have put it on another flight. He asked for some info and said he’d get back to me on that. He didn’t sound very promising, so Adrian and I headed out in search of internet so we could call the AmeriJet headquarter in the US to find out what to do. We found a little café with internet, and set up our command center. For the next two hours, I called everyone I could, and we finally succeeded. The engine came on another flight from Florida and it was at the airport already.

With no time to waste, we started our quest at the airport in the hot and humid weather of B.A and it didn’t stop until 8:00 pm. Since we didn’t hire a customs broker, we had to do everything ourselves, and not knowing what to do, we walked around aimlessly and did our best. Actually Adrian did his best. I was just the guy who followed him to the bank, and coughed up money for this paper and that paper. Right off the bat, the airliner charged us $95 for something they couldn’t even explain themselves. It had something to do with the storage and transportation inside the airport. We chased papers one office after another until at around 4 pm; we first got to see the crate. It was monstrous as I expected. The boss man came to inspect the contents, but they had to get into it first. It took a guy with an electric drill a good while to extract twenty or thirty screws from the top cover just to expose the top of the engine. So they weren’t too enthusiastic to dig in further which would reveal the expensive new parts from Z1 enterprise.

The boss man said that importing a complete engine for personal use was illegal in Argentina, but he made an exception; reading Jared’s letter explaining the situation in English and Spanish. He appraised the value of the complete motor at $400 (the new gaskets and seals alone were 400 bucks) and set the tax at 200%.  So we walked back to the bank for the 6^th time and paid the money. As we thought it was over, they charged us another 90 bucks for storage fee, inspection fee, (for the guy who wrestled with the screws to get the top off) and forklift before releasing the engine to us. They charged us for two days of storage, but in reality, the engine arrived at the airport at 11 pm on Monday, and we were taking it out on 6:00 pm on Tuesday, not even a full day! But who can argue technicality when bureaucracy prevails every time. So again I paid the man.

Now that we had the engine, we had no way of getting it back home. Adrian’s car is a small BMW and the crate was as big as his trunk. Opening the crate was out of question. Adrian found a guy and after negotiating, they loaded the box in the back of their van for another 100 bucks to take back to town. (Adrian paid for the van and would not even consider being reimbursed, thanks again Adrian). The van driver suggested for us to go ahead, and he would follow, but I wouldn’t have any of it. I jumped through way too many hoops to get my hands on this engine and I wasn’t about to hand it over to anyone else. I rode in the back with the engine while Adrian took the lead to his house.

If getting the engine out of the customs was hard, we were faced with a bigger problem. The bus company refused to take the engine as my luggage due to its ungodly weight. The train turned out to be full and not going to Otamendi, and renting a car from B.A to Otamendi was $350 one way plus gas. We called everyone we knew for hours, but no solution came out of it. So we gave up for the night.

Adrian invited me to his place to have dinner with his girl friend, and they fed me delicious foods until I was about to pop. He dropped me off at his mom’s house gain and this time I slept the whole night after three days. The next morning I woke up with good news. Adrian found a cheap trucking company to take the engine to Otamendi, but we had to drop off the crate at their terminal. Adrian’s mom called around and found a van with a driver for $45, and once again we loaded the crate and headed for the terminal. Another $40 later, the engine got loaded up and it will arrive in Otamendi on Friday. The madness was over. Esteban, Adrian’s brother, took me to the bus station and put me on the bus to Mar del Plata, and I was home free.

Adrian and his whole family literally spent two days on the phone to make all these arrangements, and I have no clue on how I would have done it without their help. Adrian skipped a day work without pay, (despite getting in trouble) and spent every minute of it helping me with anything and everything.  I don’t know how I could even begin to thank these amazing people who extended their generosity to a complete stranger with just an email.

When I came to Argentina, I was impressed with its vast landscape, towering mountains and beautiful glaciers, but what most strike me is its people. Nowhere in the world have I ever been this welcomed as Argentina. It’s an honor to be in this beautiful country.