Crackers. He must have had dry crackers for breakfast. Now his mouth’s all dry and that’s why he’s talking like it’s full of sand. It might also explain his mood. I don’t catch much of what this little Napoleon of a government functionary is saying, but he keeps pounding his finger on the stack of papers I put in front of him and saying something about a letter. He has my passport, title to my motorcycle, drivers license and a huge stack of papers from the company that shipped the bikes. What would he need a letter for? With the way he’s talking and my bad Spanish, I can’t understand what he´s after, so to divine this mystery I repeat a rudimentary line of questioning that goes something like this: “Letter?” “What type of letter?” “What letter?” He started out impatient and this is quickly driving his mood south, so maybe I should retreat a bit.

Turning to relay what little info I’ve garnered to John and Shannon I find they are talking to a guy in a white T-shirt and woven reed fedora. Papers pass from hand to hand. They’re way ahead of me on this. Under the fedora is George. Hes Mexican and is in this customs office in the center of Cali for the same reason we are. He and his friend Salvador are riding a BMW Dakar and a Ducati from Mexico City to Terria Del Fuego and they shipped their bikes on the same plane we did. ´The paper George gives us is a hand written letter of intention saying that we promise not to sell the bikes in Colombia. Cross our hearts. It’s a fill in the blank so I take that, along with our other documentation, across the street to make copies.

Now, armed with our letters, I storm the Bastille a second time. Napoleon is ready for me though and thwarts my attack by waiving my letter in the air and yelling “mas copias!”. 

Back across the street for copies and now a third foray.

SUCCESS! Napoleon eases into action entering info into the computer, and stamping and stapling papers. He leans back, reviews his work and deems it good. He keeps his stack of documents and hands me a copy of my letter of intent telling me that I have to go out the building, around the corner and up the stairs with this copy. There, they will know what to do next.

So off we go, past armed guards weaving through throngs of vendors in the street selling magazines, fried mysteries, fruit, sodas and belts, up the stairs to Lilly. And it was true. She knew exactly what to do. She signed the copies and told me to bring them back down to Napoleon.

Reverse the path and Napoleon trades my documents for Lilly’s signature.  And tells me that I need to bring the stack back to Lilly. At least this time I know where she is.

Back at Lilly’s she takes our papers and shoos us into the hall where we sit and wait. And wait. A deliveryman with lunches in hand passes us and goes into the office. This doesn’t bode well. About and hour and a half later she  opens the door and calls our names, hands us our papers and tells us that we have to hurry to the airport because the inspector quits for the day at 12:30 -and its already noon!

We fly down the stairs and get a taxi to the airport. On arrival we attack from the flanks. Shannon goes upstairs to the office, John rattles the gate at the warehouse and I go over to the customs house. George and Salvador are already there getting their bikes cleared -and we have no more problems with paperwork! Our spirits are running high as we repack gear, get our boots and jackets on and fire up the bikes.

Then they come crashing down when we’re told we have to take these 600 pound machines down the front stairs.

WHAT?!

No.

Seriously?

F&*#!

OK…. Lets try it.

And we do it. I’m amazed.

It feels so good to be rolling again. Out past cane fields and cows and horse carts on good roads with the mountains rising hazy in the distance. We bypass Cali to the South East and head to Papayan, a colonial city where all the buildings are white. In our hotel we watch as the election results push Red to Blue and wake up with President Obama.

—-

From here we ride into the Andes where the vistas expand across valleys inconceivably deep. The light green of the mountainsides is broken by darker greens of hedges and white houses with terracotta-tiled roofs dotting the fields. Its beautiful and I want to open myself up, absorb it through my skin, I want to take it in and make it a part of me. I want to remember forever how this looks and feels and smells.