Necochea, Argentina. April 24th, 2010.
I have tried several different days, and several different ways to best
explain why It takes almost 7 weeks to get your bike to Argentina. I can
not. It really defies explanation. To truly explain it would take about 7
weeks, and you still wouldn’t believe me. I don’t have that much time.
I never did. The problem is hidden somewhere between one lazy freight
forwarder who initially sent the wrong paper work with the bike, a way-way
overpaid customs broker who hasn’t a clue, and bunch of undereducated US
Customs Agents, each with a badge, a gun and a strong feeling of
entitlement. How do you fight this? Their stories changed daily. They have
your motorcycle, the title, the keys, copies of your passport and drivers
license, and you are 1000’s of miles away in a foreign country , running
between internet cafes and the US embassy, trying to figure out who is
lying and who is telling the truth. For awhile there I thought I was
dealing with the administration at the University of Minnesota. Really,
which way do you turn? With the clarity of hindsight it would all be
different, but that is not the way life works.
Before writing this I did try explaining the mess to this pack of sea
lobos. They were more than happy to listen, but in the end were very upset.
One of the big ones spoke up. He used my grandmother’s now famous word. I
happen to catch it just at the right moment in this photo. The others made
some of the greatest farting noises that I have ever heard. Being an uncle
and not a mom, I encouraged the behavior by continuing to explain further
the hassles, lies and cheats done by above mentioned scoundrels. The noise
grew to a roar. The smell became obnoxious. The fire department came with
sirens blaring to see what all the gas was about. The police were getting
ready to evacuate the entire city. All the girls in the stands boooooed!!!!
No one wanted to hear any more. No one could believe it. The boys—Ter,
Tom, Barney, Pauly, Liam, Clem, Knut and Mahut would have been proud.
At the end of this week I will only be 7 weeks behind schedule, but I will
be on my way! I to had to wait for my title to arrive. US customs can hold
things up, but not stop it. For example, according to the US government
web-site, only 8 to 9 metric tons of cocaine passes illegally through US
customs in Miami monthly. Not to mention all the marijuana and heroine that
crosses, or worseall the trafficking of young girls into the sex-trade as
well. But, keep in mind, only one motorcycle per month. I am sure all you
are sleeping better, thanks to their excellent work, that there is one less
Kawasaki KLR 650 in the US . I know I am. After all, the legal movement of
motorcycles has to be closely watched.
In the mean time, the road from Buenos Aires to Necochea reminded me of
western Minnesota-eastern Dakotas: flat and green, a few tress, some cows,
and a lot of wind. La Poderosa is running well. It had a bit of a shake in
the front when driving at low speeds or breaking. I took it to the local
bike mechanic and long distance motorcycle traveler, Walter. He runs a shop
called “Motos Walter.” It’s a great little place, well run, clean and
friendly. We tightened up the rear suspension a lot and inflated the front
tire a wee bit. It made all the difference in the world. Tomorrow morning I
will be heading down the East coast of Argentina. The local bikers all
think I can make to Ushuia yet. We’ll see.
Once the ride starts for good, so will the blog. Sorry for the wait.
Uncle Walter
PS. No Mariella, I did not kiss any of the sea-lobos. Yes Mariella, I know
it was an excellent opportunity to do so, but the police wanted the area
cleared before anything else happened. I will try next time.
