Teacher on Two Wheels

Sunday 4/27/08  Bucaramanga, Colombia

Week 29 Stats

Start city: Santa Marta, Colombia
End city: Bucaramanga, Colombia
Total distance traveled: 349 miles
Days on the bike: 6
Average miles per day of riding: 58.17 miles
Longest day: 72.7 miles
Shortest day: 30.5 miles

Money spent:  $103.00

Average money spent per day:  $14.71

Nights spent in cheap hotels:  6 !!!  (a trip high so far)

Average cost of a night in a hotel:  Around $3 US

Nights spent camped out on a 1,000-cow dairy farm:  1

Number of cows we spotted while camped out at the dairy farm:  1 or 2

Number of armed guards dispatched to protect the dairy farm from bandits/guerillas:  8 or 9

Number of times we remarked how suspicious the dairy farm was:  A bunch

Number of times I held on to passing trucks while climbing in the mountains so I could hitch a ride to the summit:  5  (Pius and I decided this cycling technique should be called trucksurfing)

Number of times while trucksurfing that I felt like Michael J. Fox when he sneaks truck rides with his skateboard in Back to the Future:  Every time!

Flat tires:  Uggggh, I prefer not to say.  I had trouble with a tricky puncture on my trailer tire, one that was right on a seam in the tube.  A few stops were made this week to fix the bugger.

Movies watched in a movie theater:  1 !!!  First of the trip!!!  Charlie Wilson´s War–very good.

Sunday 4/27/08  Bucaramanga, Colombia

Trying to force my feet into the beautiful rhythmic stomp that makes salsa the emotive hypnotic dance that it is was like trying to drive a monster truck through a supermarket without knocking a single thing off the shelves.  Hopeless. 

But still, Vanessa, my acquaintance-turned-salsa-teacher tried her hardest to teach me without losing her cool.  I stepped on her toes.  I bumped my hips awkwardly into hers, making her grimace in pain (my hips are bony and sharp like rusty medieval weapons).  I even sweat profusely like a bank teller in a hold-up.  Yet still, Vanessa tried to teach me.

Maybe she did it out of sheer boredom.  After all, we were in St. Veronica, a tiny tourist town on the Caribbean coast of Colombia struggling to stay afloat during the off season.  And it was a weeknight. 

The humidity hung so thick in the night sky that it softened the sounds of the insects, of the waves crashing on the beach two blocks away.

Trying to teach three foreigners how to dance a dance that is completely alien to them but near-instinctual for her had a slight appeal to Vanessa, in a watching-a-three-legged-dog-chase-a-cat sort of way.  For a slow night, it was a passable form of entertainment.

¨No!  No, no, no.  Like this, watch me,¨Vanessa said, laughing and looking into my eyes.

I watched her.

She waited for the beat of the song to come around, for a starting point to emerge from the melody.  When she heard something I didn´t hear, some coded signal, she started moving.  She stepped to one side with her foot.  Her hips swayed just a bit, just enough so I was sure she didn´t even recognize she was moving them.  She took a small step and then moved back.  Then, she repeated the move with the other foot, with the same slow shake of the hips.  She closed her eyes, smiled, and waved her hands in front of her. 

For a long, thick minute, Vanessa slipped into the depths of her own rhythmic steps and hip swaying. 

Lost in the beat of the salsa tune crackling through the small travel speakers on the picnic table beside us, Vanessa morphed from the still, reserved young woman who introduced herself to us 30 minutes earlier into a creature of melody, a fluid, swaying manifestation of the spirit of salsa.  And this movement, this hypnotic swaying and arm waving and smiling and eye closing that could drive both men and women alike crazy with envy, with a type of movement envy, a synchronization-with-the-world envy, was exactly what Vanessa wanted me to watch and replicate with my own body.

There was a break in the music.  Vanessa opened her eyes and floated back down to Earth.

¨Just like that, OK?  It´s easy.  Let´s try,¨Vanessa said. 

We both laughed at the absurdity of this idea, of me doing anything even remotely close to what she just did.

She held my clammy hands in hers and tried to lead me into the first step.  My feet were clumsy and felt heavier than usual. 

Ï can´t get my feet to move like that.  They don´t move like that!¨I said, laughing.  Ït´s impossible!¨ I turned to Pius and Stefan, my Swiss cycling amigos who were watching me sweat, stumble, and make a fool of myself, and felt the need to explain away my dancing inadequacies.  ¨Guys, I´m serious–this is impossible.  There´s no way I can move like her!¨

A few minutes after I said this, however, Stefan stepped up and revealed his salsa prowess, showing Vanessa he was capable of learning all the moves I fumbled over.  Then, after Stefan tired, Pius put on some strange European polka music and showed Vanessa a few dance moves that he claimed were popular in Switzerland.  She believed him, tried to mimic his spastic arm flailing and hip jiggling, and then told him he was a good dancer.  By his own account, it was he first time anyone had ever complimented him on his ´dancing´.

When at last our exhaustion from the day´s cycling caught up with us, we said good night to Vanessa and made our way into our tents.  Camped out behind a closed restaurant on soft grass and within the confines of a security fence, we slept like tired people do in such places–deeply at ease.

*****

The food in Colombia is beyond good.  It´s better than spectacular.  In fact, we don´t have an English word to properly do it justice.  So, with all due respect to Will Ferrell, I´m going to steal a word he invented to describe things that are superamazing–scrumtrulescent.  Colombian food is highly scrumtrulescent. 

For cyclists, I doubt any other country on the planet could provide such perfect cycling fuel.  Arepas, deep fried dough pockets filled most often with a cooked egg, are fatty, filling, cheap, and delectable.  Papa rellenas, one pound fried balls of mashed potatoes, herbs, veggies, and either meat or egg, each cost about $0.50 US and fill you up in no time flat.  The set lunches and dinners served in restaurants, usually a plate of rice, fried plantains, salad, yuca, and either meat or fish, often come with large bowl of soup and a fruit drink and cost around $2-3.00 US. 

*****

I am now riding with two Swiss guys whom I met in Panama City, Stefan and Pius.  Riding with them has been a welcome relief from the cycling and conversational monotony I had grown accustomed to while riding alone.  Although they are both much stronger than me and keeping up with them is sometimes difficult (they like to ride 100 kms, or about 60 miles, a day when possible and push themselves to ride quickly while on the bikes), it´s been a lot of fun spending time with other people at night and during meals.  Usually, we don´t talk while on the bike, as this time is reserved for thinking, focusing on the road, and taking in the scenery.

Stefan and Pius are riding recumbent bikes.  Because these bikes are not common outside of wealthy countries (and even there it´s hard to spot them), the guys draw lots of attention when we ride.  Colombians are constantly whistling, waving, laughing, and taking pictures of Stefan and Pius as we ride.  When we roll into towns at night to look for a cheap motel or fill up on food or water, a crowd flocks to the bikes like bears to honey.  So far, the biggest crowd sparked by a stop in a small town was about 35-40 people. 

These small town crowds always generate a lot of questions, and although we like speaking to local people when we ride, it can be incredibly exhausting to answer basic questions about our ride at the end of a long day and from the middle of a mass of people.  Often, these situations make us feel like animals in the zoo, as most people are pointing at us and staring at our clothing, parts of the bike, or Stefan and Pius´freakishly blue eyes.

But nonetheless, the crowds that form and the people we meet on the road are friendly and fascinated by our trips.  For this, I´m grateful. 

Technology news update thingy:  My laptop is being fixed and will be mailed to me in a week in Bogota. Once I pick it up, I´ll be able to go back to typing at night in the tent (ie. easily creating more content for this site.) 

My friend Mikey will be meeting me in Quito on May 29th to ride with me for a month.  He´s bringing a bunch of camera gear from the states for me.  Until then, hopefully I´ll be able to steal a few pictures from Stefan and Pius´ memory card and upload them to my Flickr page, just as I did for the sailing pictures from Panama to Columbia. 

I hope everyone is doing well.  We are heading out for Bogota tomorrow and should be there in eight days or so. 

more to come as life unfolds,

Andrew

Sunday 4/21/08  Santa Marta, Colombia

Week 28 Stats

Start city: Cartagena, Colombia
End city: Santa Marta, Colombia
Total distance traveled: 158 miles
Days on the bike: 3
Average miles per day of riding: 52.6 miles
Longest day: 55.9 miles
Shortest day: 52.2 miles

Money spent:  $93.00

Average money spent per day:  $13.29

Border crossings:  1

Amount of money I had to prove I had in my bank account to get a 60 day visa for Colombia:  $2,000

Days spent in Cartagena with a Couchsurfing host:  4

School presentations made:  4

Mud baths in a natural mud volcano:  1

Campsite salsa dancing lessons:  1

Number of times I actually executed something that looked like a salsa move:  Maybe once…by accident

Nights camping:  2

4-25-08

I haven´t been posting much to the site lately because I don´t have my laptop.  The computer refused to boot-up last week and I dropped it off at a Mac repair place in Baranquilla.  Looks like I´ll have to replace the hard drive…again.  I thought the new one I put in last year was supposed to last longer than a year.  Doh!  Hopefully I´ll be able to pick it up from the Mac store in Bogota in a week or so.  Keep your fingers crossed. 

Ugggh.  In the last couple of weeks, all the electronical things I brought with me on the trip were either stolen or now refuse to work.  Frustrating.  Everything is getting sorted out, but it´s frustrating. 

I´m about a day away from Bucaramanga, Colombia now.

Monday 4/21/08  Santa Marta, Colombia

I don´t have much time left here in the internet cafe, but I wanted to post a few things:

1.  The northern coastal areas of Colombia are hot.  Really hot.  I´ve been drinking around 6 liters of water a day and sweating all of it out on the roads.  If you knew my scent and could somehow travel with your nose an inch from the pavement, you could track me down in Colombia with only your sense of smell.

2.  I´m now riding with two Swiss guys.  It´s nice having company.  And drafting while riding is a pleasure.  Check out their website (it´s in English).

3.  The other day I learned that when someone turns 16 in Switzerland, if his/her parents are registered Catholics, that person is automatically registered as a Catholic as well and hence required to pay a type of ´Christian tax´ to the government.  In order to be exempt from this, one must officially declare a reason for exemption and ask to be taken off of the government´s list of Catholic nationals.

4.  People in northern Colombia have been amazing.  So incredibly friendly.  When we ride, people are always waving to us, honking and saying hello, riding next to us on their bikes, or trying to get us to stop and talk.  As I expected to be the case, the Colombians I have met aren´t accurately represented by the media that Colombian rebel groups generate.  Just like anywhere else, the people here, too, are people–they smile, they cook dinner with the radio on, they wake early to send their children to school, they adore their children, they laugh, they love music, and they work and rest each week.  More to come as we move on down the road in Colombia.

5.  Arepas, a type of dough pancake found in Colombia, are spectacular.  Sometimes filled with egg or cheese, they are perfect for cyclists–cheap, fast, fatty, and yummy.

6.  My laptop died.  Uggggh.  I know–lots of technology problems for me in the past few weeks.  Such is life.  I stopped at a Mac store in Baranquilla and dropped off the computer.  They are going to do some tests on it, fix it, and then mail it to Bogota where I will pick it up in two weeks.  Keep your fingers crossed.

7.  I´m in Santa Marta now.  We are staying just outside Santa Marta in a tiny village by the sea called Taganga.  Tomorrow we´ll start heading south toward Bogota.  It´ll be a long slog to the city, but one that promises some good scenery.

8.  Thanks again to the students at Colegio Jorge Washington!  Thank you for the comments.  You guys are awesome!

Above:  Me with elementary school students from Colegio Jorge Washington

Yesterday I was lucky enough to visit Colegio Jorge Washington here in Cartagena.  I spoke to four different classes (both elementary and high school level) about planning a big idea and seeing it through to fruition, the importance of cultural tolerance, and the inherent goodness in people.  It was inspiring seeing the kids so excited about my ride.  Two of the classes wrote me letters and cards wishing me luck on my trip and thanking me for speaking.  A few of the older students came up to me after one of the classes and told me they were going to try to learn more about bicycle travel.  It was an awesome day.  If I spoke to your class yesterday, thank you!!  

Some of the more interesting questions that the elementary school students asked me: 

Where do you get your food?  Do you hunt mostly?

Has a bear ever ripped open your tent in the middle of the night?

How do you poop?

Above:  Cheese!

Above:  Me talking about the bike

Above:  Sunset over the San Blas Islands, Panama

Wednesday 4/16/08  Cartagena, Colombia

The ship’s first mate, a clunky ogre of a man with beady eyes and a closely cropped gray Mohawk, reached for his pack of tobacco and rolling papers.  In seconds, he rolled his umpteenth cigarette of the night, a smooth white wand that he put to his face and sparked before tossing the lighter back onto the table.  He leaned back in his chair and exhaled.  He watched as the smoke found its way up into the dusty lightshade of the light swinging gently above us.  In the boat’s tiny lounge, one lined with German sailing books and outdated travel guides for Caribbean islands, he sat like a king on his throne.  He spoke with authority.  And in a sense, he had every right to:  He had been with the boat on and off for 15 years, guiding her countless times over the 240 mile stretch of open ocean that separates the city of El Porvenir on Panama’s northern coast with the historic port city of Cartagena in Colombia.  He was in his element, and he knew it.

“I’m so sick of tourists coming on this boat and asking to use the internet.  No one today can go five minutes without checking his damn email.  I’m sick of it,” he said, exhaling a large plume of smoke into the room like some greasy inefficient factory machine.

“But on the boat’s website it says that you have internet access here,” I protested.

“Yes!  Internet access!  That’s not the same as free email!  Not the same at all.  No.  We have satellite internet access.  If you want to pay two dollars to send an email, fine.  Otherwise, don’t go near the computer.”

“I can see how people get confused, though.  Isn’t saying you have internet access kind of like saying passengers can send email?” I asked.

“No, those are different things.  Nowhere on the website do we say you can send emails.  Nowhere.  I’m sure of it.”  He put the cigarette to his lips and pulled on it like a person underwater pulls on a snorkel.  He exhaled and mashed the butt into an ashtray on the table.  Leaning back in his chair, he looked over at the bookshelf and rested his hands on his bulging belly, a gelatinous bubbly mass that was poorly covered by a stained white tank top advertising some long defunct German music label.

I decided to change the subject.  Arguing about email and internet access seemed silly.

“When was this boat built?” I asked.

“In 1903,” he said, offering nothing more, still flustered with memories of email-craving boat passengers.

“And has she been used to shuttle tourists around since then or has—”

“No, of course not,” he cut me off.  “What tourists were around in Panama in 1903, huh?  None, of course.”  He laughed a little to lighten his tone.  “No, she’s been used for lots of different things over the years.  For a while, she was used on a few different anti-petroleum Greenpeace missions.”  He reached for his tobacco again.  Rolled another smoke.

“Really?”

“Yeah, look behind you,” he said, motioning to two pictures hanging on the wall behind me.  In them, a large black boat, one shaped exactly like the one we were on, bobbed in dark seas with bulging Greenpeace flags on her masts.  “Greenpeace had her painted so she’d look nice in the photographs and videos.  Paid for everything, the rich bastards.  We had a good zodiac, you know, the rubber boat with the outboard motor that we have in the back here, and Greenpeace told us they didn’t want to use it.  Wanted to buy two new zodiacs for the mission.  $30,000 each.  They didn’t care.  They said they had one shot and couldn’t afford to have an old motor die out on them.  They have so much money they don’t know what to do with it all, the fools” he said.

“What type of work did you guys do with them?” I asked.

“We took zodiacs to an oil platform in the open ocean and boarded it.”  He took his cigarette to his lips and took a long pull.  He let his sentence sink into the conversation like a bright falling star, watched and waited for it to widen my eyes, for my jaw to fall a bit, for me to start asking a million questions like some kid lured deep and fast into one of his grandfather’s fantastic stories. 

I waited for him to continue. 

“We climbed up the platform.  We had an expert climber there who oversaw the whole thing.  Got up close to the drilling area and rigged up big hammocks.  We just sat there in the hammocks, as close to the drill as possible, and waited for them to shut it down.  For two days we waited there.  No drilling for two days.  The oil company lost five to ten million dollars a day in lost revenue while we were there.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of money.  Man, a lot,” I said.  Pause.  “So would you ever work with Greenpeace again?  Did you think the protest was effective?”

“Of course not!  Never again will we work with those fools.  They’re nothing but a greedy corporation now.  You know, they even have an ex-oil executive working for them?  How can you trust them now, huh?  No, we didn’t solve anything.   Sure we stopped the drilling for two days.  But after two days, we were all arrested, sent to jail, and the drills started up again.  We as a planet use more oil now than we ever did before.  Nothing changed.”  Pause.  “Have you heard of Paul Watson?”

“No,” I said. 

The first mate rolled his eyes.  I didn’t mind.

“He’s one of the original founders of Greenpeace.  He left Greenpeace because they weren’t radical enough, weren’t getting enough done.  So he bought a huge ice-breaker, you know, the kind of boats they use in the arctic to break up the surface ice?  He bought this big monster of a boat and painted her black.  Jet black.  She was a real monster, I tell you.  He used this big black beast to ram oil tankers.  He rammed them and boarded them.  Once onboard, he would dismantle their equipment.  Hell, he even blew up boats in harbors.  He used to give the crew 30 minutes to leave the boat before blowing it to pieces.  That is protest.  That is fixing the problem.  None of this peaceful Greenpeace stuff.”

*****

Later in the trip, as I listened to the ship’s first mate argue with another passenger and try to convince him that people should throw Molotov cocktails into the lobbies of Swiss banks because of the banks’ customer secrecy policies (policies that sometimes protect known corporate criminals by blocking police inquiries), I didn’t have the heart to ask him how much social change he was bringing about by shuttling tourists to and from Colombia trip after trip, by smoking his cigarettes one after the other in the tiny back lounge of a sailboat and preaching anarchy in late night conversations destined to be dismissed the next morning as unchecked rambling, feverish word blabber.  Like his smoke, his complaints floated up into the air and dissipated, smothered by the soft din of waves crashing to their deaths outside.

*****

Above:  Pulling up a sail on the boat…kind of

The Stahlratte, our vessel for the journey, is a 90 ft. slab of boat with faded sails and a rusty nose.  She’s far from dead, but she’s visibly dying.  Her helm is sun-bleached and tired.  Her cabin’s nooks and crannies are filled with half-empty tubes of toothpaste and grease cutter.  Dirty rags used to mop up surprise leaks dot the floors under her beds like forgotten cow pies.  Frayed ropes are still in rotation on her decks.

But she’s strong, and that’s all that counts.  For five days, she safely carried me and 22 other passengers.  She slipped effortlessly through the reef-riddled channels of the San Blas Archipelago.  She pushed on through two and three meter waves on the open ocean, into the wind without the slightest protest.  And when we entered the thick blackness of ocean night, that quiet hue that makes sailors feel alone, she comforted us with her age, with her history that came long before us.

Above:  We passed lots of these types of islands while sailing off the coast of Panama.

For two days, we anchored in a quiet cove amidst the San Blas Islands.  Around 300 islands make up the San Blas Archipelago, almost of all of which are now covered in coconut trees.  The islands weren’t always iconic palm-lined paradises.  Once covered in mangrove forests, the islands were cleared and cultivated by Panama’s largest indigenous group, the Kuna Yala.  The Kuna living among the San Blas have restricted their settlements to only 20 islands so that they can maximize their coconut crop production on the remaining 280 islands.  They produce millions of coconuts a year that are exported to Colombia. 

Above:  View of a shipwreck through the sails of the small sailboat we took out

I snorkeled until I started taking the ocean’s biodiversity for granted.  I sailed on a tiny four-person sailboat until my hands blistered from the boat’s ropes. I ate myself sleepy.  I talked myself quiet.  The trip was the perfect segue for our arrival into Colombia, a place I awaited with nervous anticipation.   

Above:  Leaving the Stahlratte and heading to shore in Colombia

Above:  The Stahlratte, the boat we sailed from Panama to Colombia

In Panama City, I met two Swiss cyclists heading for Argentina.  We talked and laughed for hours before planning to travel to Colombia together.  The Swiss cyclists told me about a boat that had heard of that takes people from Panama to Colombia.  The boat sounded like a good idea; I called the boat captain the next day.

For five days, we sailed a 30 meter boat from the town of El Porvenir, Panama to Cartagena, Colombia.  The boat had 23 passengers.  The boat was built in 1903 and has a long, interesting past. 

On the first day, we sailed six or seven hours to a small group of islands where we stopped.  We stayed there for about two days.  We stayed there because the water was calm and the area was good for snorkeling, watching the sunset, and relaxing on the boat.  I enjoyed my time here because I got to snorkel (one of my favorite things to do in the ocean), sail on a small sailboat, and talk to many of the other passengers.  Most of the passengers were young people who either were still in college or just graduated college.  We talked about politics in the United States, South America, safety in Colombia, sailing, and our home countries, among other things.  I had so much fun talking to so many people because I have gotten used to spending so much time by myself on the bicycle trip. 

One night we had a barbeque and a bonfire on a small island.  We cooked kabobs over an open fire and watched the sunset.  The scene was perfect—the sky was beautiful, there was a gentle breeze, the water was warm, and everyone was in a good mood.  After the sunset, we had a big bonfire.  Some passengers played guitar and sang songs in German and Spanish.  We stayed up late into the night talking and telling stories.

Once we started sailing on the open ocean, however, things changed.  The waves were a little rough.  The boat was moving all around and it made some people feel sick.  For 30 hours, we sailed across the ocean to Cartagena, Colombia.  During this time, most people slept on the boat and felt sick.  We were all very happy to finally see the buildings of Cartagena!  We had made it to Colombia!  For me, this was a special moment because I had made it to a new continent—South America.  Woohoo! 

Sunday 4/13/08 Pacific Ocean, 100 miles outside Cartagena, Colombia

Week 27 Stats

Start city: Penonome, Panama
End city: Pacific Ocean
Total distance traveled: 18.6 miles
Days on the bike: 2
Average miles per day of riding: 9.3 miles
Longest day: 12.4 miles
Shortest day: 6.2 miles

Total money spent: $1,129.75 !!! (Trip high so far)
Average per day: $161.39

Camera ordered off of eBay: 1
Number of shipping containers on one of the boats I watched pass through the Panama Canal: 1,000+
Days and nights spent in Panama City with a CouchSurfing host: 3
Swiss cyclists met and joined up with: 2
Max speed reached on the sailboat to Colombia: 9 knots
Highest wave height on the boat trip: 1.5—2 meters
Number of total passengers on the sailboat: 23
Days spent anchored in a quiet cove amidst the San Blas Islands: 2
Total cost of the boat trip (including food for 4 days): $320
Total cost of new camera, hard drive, and other odds and ends: $750 eeek!
Dolphins spotted surfing the bow of the boat: 12 or 13
Bonfires attended: 1
Snorkeling sessions: 4
Sharks spotted: 2

Above: Time lapse footage of a boat passing through the Panama Canal

Wednesday 4/8/08 Panama City, Panama

The boat sat patiently and waited for the gates to open, for a chance to move into the lock. More than 1,000 containers sat stacked on her deck. All were colored those muted, faded colors that are so well-suited for shipping containers: bloody rust, gun powder blue, old bone yellow.

An alarm sounded. The gates began to separate. They moved just as you’d expect anything built in the early 1900s to move: slow and steady. At last, the ship could advance. She didn’t lurch forward like a corvette with new tires at a fresh green light. No, she was far too big and bloated for that. Instead, she crawled. She rolled out of bed and dragged her feet. When her tail end made it past the opened gates, the gates slid closed behind her. They clicked shut. Sitting deep in a concrete tank now, the ship began to feel new water rush under her belly. Every so slowly, she rose. Inch by inch. Slow. Impossible to watch the movement in a glance or two. Over time, she rose 27 feet and bobbed at the top of her massive holding tank. When she had floated high enough, when her aquatic elevator took her to the top floor, the next set of gates began to open, just like the first. She pushed out of the tank and moved just a bit closer to the Caribbean Sea.

The Panama Canal is a testament to the endurance and collective strength of mankind. For 50 miles, the canal cuts through dense Panamanian jungle. Each inch of each mile was worked for. Thousands of workers died during her construction. Yellow fever. Malaria. Dynamite accidents. Workers were brought to Panama from many parts of the world to help with her construction. They left homes and families behind for the sake of her creation. The rock through which she cuts is a type of shale, soft and prone to landslides. New technology was invented to help remove the mountains of debris she expelled from her innards. Every step of the way was a challenge. Projects failed. Treaties were challenged. Crews of workers buried their peers in the same ground they fought to move and sculpt.

But one day the Caribbean crew stared eye to eye with the Pacific crew. They shook hands. The water flowed and the canal took her first breath, opened her eyes. Decades of work ended in success.

Today the canal is the aortic valve of Panama’s heart. It feeds her with goods from all over the world. It lines her pockets with the tariffs she demands. It has made Panama the most prosperous country in Central America and will continue to do so far into the future. The canal is going to be expanded in the coming years to allow larger ships to make it through her confines. Considering the fact that boats pay canal fees based on the size of their cargo, and that some boats currently pay as much as $240,000 U.S. for a single passage, the canal stands to earn far more money for her mother country in the future than she currently does.

All the money she brings in isn’t funneled straight into Panamanian banks as profit, however. It takes 250 million dollars a year to maintain the canal.

The key to her success is not only the obvious fact that she connects two vast bodies of water and bisects one of the world’s largest land masses. The locks, or sections of the canal that use water to raise and lower boats, are also key to her continued importance. The canal feeds boats into a large man-made lake that sits above sea level in the middle of Panama. To get the boats into the lake, locks are used to raise the boats dozens of feet above sea level. After passing through the lake, more locks are used to lower the boats back down to sea level.

It takes a cargo freighter about 24 hours to make a complete passage through the canal. A single 24 hour passage shaves as much as 30-40 days off of the previous trans-global shipping routes that used to take boats down around the tip of South America. Much of the boats traveling from west to east are carrying Asian factory goods to the east coast of the United States. Boats heading west take goods from South America to Asia. Opening the canal uncorked a multi-directional flow of goods that laid the foundation for the globalization we currently see creeping across the planet today.

I rode out to the Mira Flores Locks, the most popular spot to watch boats pass, with two Swiss cyclists I met in Panama City. The three of us happened to email the same Couchsurfing host at the same time to ask for accommodation. Miguel, our host, graciously agreed to let all of us stay in his apartment at the same time so we could meet and possibly arrange future plans to ride together (the three of us have similar routes: we are headed south to Argentina). When I met Pius and Stefan, the Swiss cyclists, I immediately felt indebted to Miguel; we got along like old friends.

Granted, we’ve only hung out for 24 hours. But, for what it’s worth, descriptions and impressions:

Pius (pronounced Pews, as in church pews) is a 29-year-old mechanical engineer from Zurich. With a smile that he can’t ever seem to wipe off his face and an energetic disposition that leaves him bopping around and rattling jokes off all day, he’s the type of guy a really depressed person would want to punch in the face. When he was 18, he rode a tandem bicycle with his girlfriend from Zurich to Moscow. After the trip was over, despite getting robbed, an ordeal in which Pius pounced on his fleeing attacker to try to recover his stolen stuff, Pius was hooked. He had tapped into the sacredness of the bike touring experience. Tired, though, and with rattled confidence thanks to the robbery, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever go on a big tour again. Two years passed, however, and he started feeling the same itch he felt before he rode to Moscow. Determined to avoid traveling while shrouded in the type of naivety that made his Moscow ride feel reckless, he planned and studied. He saved his money. He searched for the perfect riding partner. He went to Holland to meet with a custom bike manufacturer and get fitted for a recumbent bike. He did all his homework to make his trip the most rewarding trip possible. Ten months ago, he left Alaska. In 10 months, he hopes to be in Argentina. He’s still smiling.

Pius is riding with Stefan. They met five years ago and Stefan didn’t hesitate when Pius asked him if he wanted to go riding for 20 months. Stefan, a tall 24-year-old triathlete and recent college graduate with a wild mop of hair, vibrant blue eyes, and red glasses, is more soft-spoken than Pius but equally as personable. He, like Pius, speaks near-perfect English in addition to his native German and school-learned French and Italian. Contemplative, Stefan visibly thinks sometimes before he speaks and enjoys keeping a thought journal that he updates each night. In it, he records thoughts that he’s had throughout the day while in the saddle, regardless of how trivial they were. He’s a sponge for new-ness. He’s the type of guy you could imagine laughing with curiosity at the cultural idiosyncrasies that other people meet with frustration. Like, for example, I could picture him being intrigued (rather than revolted) by a decaying Cambodian rest stop pit toilet stamped with footprints of wet human waste. He’d just laugh and think out loud, “OK, how can I work with this??”

In the comfort of Miguel’s massive downtown Panama City apartment, Pius, Stefan, and I talked, schemed, sent emails and came up with a plan. It involves a boat, Colombia, and the three of us. More details to come.