Author Archives: David Fowler

We backtracked down from the mountain above Cochabamba while it was still dark and found ourselves winding even further down from the mountains. The constant snaking of the roads and the apparent lack of pavement made for a rather stressful drive as we were trying to make up time from our border delays the day before. Unfortunately, every slight acceleration was followed quickly by a tap of the brakes, and the constant stop-and-go made for pretty slow time. While the roads were awful, the scenery was nothing short of gorgeous. The huge peaks and mountain plains gave way to lush mountain rainforest and jungle, and despite the slow going, glimpses of waterfalls and rivers made the plodding pace more bearable. Sunrise on the cliffs was also a beautiful distraction from the road quality, even if the blinding sun caused a few of its own slammed brakes. We coasted down from the first section of mountain running dangerously low on gas as we entered the first town. Thankfully we found the gas station and barely squeezed into filling lane. Bolivia was not made for large American trucks, apparently.

Gas station robbery.

We did encounter our second example of “foreigner-targeting”, one we would encounter many more times, when we first tried to buy gas in Bolivia. There was a disproportionate amount of attempted police bribery in Bolivia when compared to the other countries in South America. For better or for worse, we had learned to perfect the “dumb gringo” defense. The basics of this are: never admit you did something wrong (you usually didn’t have to pretend), and never admit that you understand Spanish. Confidence is key. One example in particular illustrates this strategy. Outside of La Paz we passed through a toll gate and were promptly waved over. An officer walks up behind the car and jotted down something on his notebook, before informing us that we were going 120 kilometers an hour and had to a pay a serious fine. If you read our last post, you would understand that the road quality outside of La Paz is horrific. In truth, I wish we had been going 120 because we would have at least made decent time on the road, but in reality it was physically impossible to go more than 60 thanks to the widespread construction. The officer claimed his “friend” up the road caught us on radar, and showed us our plate number on his notepad – the same plate number he no doubt scribbled down after pulling us over. Business as usual, we had the option of paying the fine back in La Paz, or we could conveniently slip the officer a few hundred Bolivianos to make it all go away.

The roads we were “doing 120″ on…

Now we knew full an well what the officer was trying to do, and despite his gruff authoritative attitude, we weren’t having any of it. So we smiled. We handed over our documents, and with a feigned quizzical look on our faces, we asked 120? No es posible! He countered with some long explanation of what we had done wrong (somehow more in depth than “you were speeding”) and how much we had to pay. We explained in poor Spanish that the roads were bad and there was no way we were speeding. He returned each time to his friend and his radar, and we knew we had him. Ok, Grant said pointing to his eyes, let us see the radar. He fumbled and tried to return to the money, telling us it was a huge fine in town and we were better off paying it there. Calmly and without ever losing our smiles, we said we indicated that we would happily pay the ticket but only if he showed us the actual radar first. That was the final stroke, and the officer knew he was defeated. He handed us our papers and said we were free to go, he was only going to give us a warning. Right… the only warning we actually got was to watch out for corrupt cops. We had encountered quite a few already, but this was a grim reminder that Bolivia was full of corruption, and we had better be on our guards.

View from the side of the road.

We expected to be targeted by the police, but we were blindsided by how universally accepted it was to target gringos. We pulled up to a pump at a gas station and looked for an attendant to ask about the price, which was not displayed anywhere. The price she told us was very cheap, roughly $1.75 U.S. per gallon. Awesome! It was always nice to find cheap gas when you’re driving 11,000 miles! But then she looked at our license plate… Discovering that it was not from within the country, she informed us that, per the government, the price for foreign nationals was more than double that for locals. We thought she making something up, and refused to agree. She then showed us the computer at the station, and, sure enough, the official price was based on your car’s license plate. She told us, apologetically, that she would get in trouble if she sold gas to us at the local price, as in trouble with the local government! Furious, but needing to fill up very badly, we agreed to buy at the foreigner price and were on our way. To our surprise, this ended up being a nationwide law, and at every gas station from there on out, we paid double the local price to fill up. One station wouldn’t even fill us up at all, and we had to use our spare gas tanks to even buy gas! The first time round it seemed like an opportunistic move to squeeze us tourists for some extra cash, but it was so widespread it was basically institutionalized. You would think most nations want to encourage tourism, but Bolivia seemed perfectly content in exploiting foreigners whenever they could!

Bolivian roads, after we finally found actual pavement.

We left the gas station irritated but with a new sense of hope. Despite charging extra for gas, the attendant was very nice and after hearing of our travel plans, she told us the road to the Brazilian border was good! We were making a snail’s pace, but at least the roads would be better from here on out! If our first day and half was any indication, if we were going to make it out of Bolivia on time, we would need all the help we could get. Leaving town, the next section of the trip was beautiful. The jungle around us became thicker and greener with every mile and the mountains, although much smaller than before, became more pronounced as their cliffs and edges stuck out among the dense foilage. Waterfalls trickled down in white lines on distant peaks and we made our way past the beautiful backdrops descending further and further in to the countryside. The road slowly began to flatten out and before we knew it the mountains were behind us and the jungle, dense and lush, swallowed up the land around us. It was nice to get away from the switch-back filled roads and get on some straight highway for once, but the mountains had already taken their toll on the Cruiser. The brakes were failing.

Our savior, Pirata.

They started making a gravely, scraping noise after our first day in Bolivia. The mountain roads and stop-and-go of the construction had done our brakes in. The fact that they had already traveled several thousand miles prior certainly didn’t help, but Bolivia was the straw that broke our camel’s back. We knew they would need some work, but it wasn’t until we tried to stop and couldn’t, nearly having to drive off the road in the process, that we figured we should stop for help. Easier said than done. The first gas station we stopped at, despite several large signs for a mechanic, said that they didn’t fix cars, and that we would have to go back the way we came. We looked at the brakes ourselves, but they were out of our abilities, so we turned on the hazards and hobbled back down the road. We must have stopped at three or four different places before we finally found our guy. Pirata, they each said, You have to find Pirata. The search for this elusive man led us to Pailon, a tiny town with streets filled with mud after the heavy rain from that afternoon. We were directed to a small house with a large backyard filled with cars and car parts, and that’s where we finally met the man himself. Pirata was short, round man with crooked teeth and a screeching laugh. He could fix the car, but he couldn’t do it that night. He told us to come back the following morning. It was getting dark and we had little other choice, so we left the car with our new mechanic and wandered off in search of the only hotel in town. We checked into a small room towards the back and although we weren’t happy to be sidelined, showers and a real bed were a welcome commodity. Clean for the first time in days, we walked to the town center and found a small restaurant to grab dinner and watch Australia vs. Chile, our first game of the World Cup. The food was mediocre, but after our ordeals in Bolivia, we were happy to sit down and finally watch some footy.

It was still freezing when we woke up and getting out of our sleeping bags that morning was an incredibly difficult task. Fortunately, we were headed to our last border crossing before Brazil, and our heightened spirits made the cold that much more bearable. We grabbed our Clif Bars – the supply running low at this point in the trip – and were well on our way before the sun even came up. We were especially eager to cross the border and get that much closer to the Cup, and were thrilled to see only a few people standing in line at the customs office. We arrived just before six, so we would be right at the front of the line when it opened. Or so we thought. The office, it turns out, did not open until 8:30… almost three hours later. Now we know why the line was so short. We weren’t too thrilled about a three hour wait in the chilly Peruvian morning, so we climbed back in the car, pulled up the hoods of our sweatshirts, and shut our eyes as the sun began to rise on the lake.

High altitude footy!

The nap was a great way to pass the time, but by the time we woke up, the small cluster of people waiting for customs to open had turned in to a long line the snaked well around the side of the building. By then, roughly 100 people were in line to enter Bolivia, and dozens of locals were milling about selling coffee, breakfast, and exchanging Peruvian Nuevo Sol’s for Bolivian Bolivianos. We scrambled out of the car and jumped in line at 8:05. We still had some waiting to do, but people were streaming in and the line was growing steadily longer. Thankfully they opened a bit early and Peru didn’t much care how or why you were leaving their country, so the exit process was a quick stamp and little more. The line quickly moved down the building and we were in and out in under twenty minutes. Not bad. We were through migration by 8:35, but naturally the aduana wasn’t open until 9:30. Despite the presence of two or three officers inside the office, we had to wait even longer while they did god knows what to open the office. We wandered to a small restaurant and sipped on some cafés to kill the time and exchanged our remaining Nuevo Sols for Bolivianos and went back to the customs to badger them to let us through. The large line we had been in the middle of to leave Peru was forming the even larger line to enter Bolivia, and we were already hours behind schedule.

Lake Titicaca, beach camping at 1200 feet!

The line to enter Bolivia was not only massive, but horribly disorganized. It snaked back and forth outside before doing the same inside the building itself. We obligingly went to the end and waited. The vast majority of the people in line were clearly either Peruvian or Bolivian nationals. The talked with each other quietly in fast Spanish and waited patiently, clearly used to this type of government inefficiency. The line was dotted with other foreigners, though. There was a German couple, the woman wearing a pink parka, that were clearly having a fight over something the boyfriend/husband had done. We saw what we guessed were a few Eastern European guys, speaking what sounded like Russian, and wearing shorts and t-shirts in the 40 degree morning. It was there in line that we met a couple who were traveling throughout South America playing music and chatted with them for a bit. Aimee was from Argentina and was traveling with her boyfriend John who was from, get this, Durham, NC! He hadn’t lived there in quite some time, but had graduated from UNC in 2005 and knew the area. He commented on the Carolina sticker on the back of the car, and we made small talk until their line wait was over, and we waved as they headed on their way. Excited by the North Carolina connection, we were able to make it through the horrific line and finally get our visas. A few photocopies and an incredibly picky examination of our payment (nothing but crisp, mint condition twenties were accepted) later, and we were finally (legally) in Bolivia. In total, it took us close to 6 hours to get into Bolivia. We rationalized that the wait included a two hour nap, so in all, it wasn’t too bad. But little did we know, Bolivia was just getting started.

At least the scenery was nice!

The ride from the border was gorgeous. We were still in the mountain plains we had crossed in Peru. Snow capped peaks lined the distance and small mountain towns and llamas spread across the countryside. As we headed down from the mountains however, the country began to change. We hit La Paz that afternoon, and after failing to find wifi thanks to some horrible construction planning, we gave up and continued east. Slowly. Roads in Bolivia range from “questionable” to “awful”. For every 100 miles of relatively well-kept pavement, there were 75 of mud and gravel. The highways would not have been called such in the States. The border process had taken 4-5 hours longer than we had expected, so we were pushed to make up time. We had planned on making it to Buena Vista, just outside of Santa Cruz, but that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, we identified a national park on our map near Cochabampa, Bolivia, about 5 hours driving time closer to us than Buena Vista, and decided to aim for that. It was slow going to say the least, but we finally made it into town just after dark. Surprisingly, it was one of the nicest towns we had seen on the entire trip! Well maintained roads, minimal construction, and nice shops and restaurants were a nice change of pace from what we had experienced in Bolivia so far. Unfortunately, we had no time to stop and enjoy the city, and as soon as we had entered we were already climbing a hill outside of town to camp for the night. We made it half way to the park on our map before deciding to pull off on the side of the road instead. It had been a long day and we were too tired to go any further. We had peanut butter and jelly tortillas for dinner that night and enjoyed the city lights below.

LLamarama

Getting up at 5am was nothing new for us at this point, but doing it with 20 other people milling about was new entirely. The hostel Mamallena was begrudgingly alive as folks were packing the last of their things and making themselves pancakes in the communal kitchen. Unfortunately the coffee pot had just been emptied by the time we got into the kitchen and our drivers arrived just as we finished loading a new one. Everyone filed outside where three trucks (one of them an 80 series Land Cruiser!) were waiting to take us up to Carti, where the boat was anchored. They strapped our packs to the top of the cars and we climbed in, our soon to be boat mates alongside. Although the drive boasted some great jungle views and steep climbs, most people slept in what was a quiet three hour drive across the country to the Atlantic. We finally crested a ridge and could see the ocean in the distance, but our descent stopped abruptly at a small shelter next to a river, no ocean in sight. To get to our boat, we had to take smaller boats down the river and into the ocean. Unknowingly they charged us an additional boat fee, but we thankfully had cash on hand, and we set off towards the MS Independence.

Thar she blows, the MS Independence

Our home for the next 5 days was the MS Independence, a large sailboat, about 85 feet in length, that was built in the 1960s. Once everyone was on board captain Michel welcomed us on board with a goodluck toast of rum and fruit juice before going of the rules and how to operate the ship’s pump toilet. The salty Slovenian finished his explanation before his wife and 2nd in command Majo led us to our bunks. We had read online that the best cabin was on the front upper deck and had requested it in our reservation, but instead we were given the front lower deck room. The difference was distinct. Grant and I were to share not only a room with two others, but also a mattress – the top bunk of the already cramped cabin. Oh well. In the end, we slept on one of the mats on the open deck every single night. We dropped off our stuff in the room and went to explore the ship. They had managed to accommodate rooms for 30 people including the crew, and we inched through the cramped corridors to get a feel for the layout. The rooms were tiny but there was plenty of deck space for everyone to sprawl out and enjoy their (semi) personal space.

Straight chillin’

If it was going to a cramped 4 days, we figured it was a good idea to get to know our fellow passengers, and we certainly lucked out in that regard. It was a wonderful group of people and we couldn’t have asked for a better group to spend the journey with. There were folks from London, Manchester, Wales, Ireland, Germany, and Switzerland, an Australian couple, an American couple, a pair of Canadians, an Israeli, and a Japanese motorcyclist. Everyone had their own reasons for traveling and their own paths lined out, but for a few days at least, we were all on the same path.

The shipmates!

With introductions out of the way, we we went to the front of the boat to watch the scenery move past. Before long the ship came its first stopping point between two of the small islands we had been watching slowly grow bigger as we left our initial anchorage. We were gazing off the bow when we heard the first few splashes as people were jumping off the side of the boat. By the time we had our bathing suits on and got to the ladder, a few people had already hit the shore, and we wasted no time getting in and swimming over ourselves. Now, I’m not in completely terrible shape, but after spending two weeks in the car, a 60 meter swim wasn’t the easiest thing to accomplish. I was never a great swimmer in the first place, and was out of breath when I finally trudged up on the sand, but the work was worth it. We lounged on the beach and swam in the clear water, as the locals sat a few yards back and watched us. They had tried to make us pay them to use their beach, but when we clearly had no money with us after the swim, the quickly gave up, and even let us play with an adorable baby pig.

Not bad.

It was another long swim back to the boat, but this time lunch was waiting for us. As we sat around the wooden table on the top deck, we picked up anchor and headed out once again. This would turn out to be the theme of boat ride. Swim, lounge, eat, swim, lounge, eat. Needless to say, it was pretty amazing. And don’t forget about the nighttime activities. It quickly became obvious that we had made one key mistake before the voyage. Each other passenger had brought their own stash of alcohol for the trip! All we had were a few bottles of water, we didn’t realize it was going to be a party boat. Thankfully, Majo came to our rescue with her on board “shop.” We were the first to purchase a few beers and a bottle of terrible-yet-delicious Ron Abuelo rum, but we certainly weren’t the last. After a cookout on the beach and some evening beach volleyball, we cracked into he collective stores of booze and played cards and an eclectic variety of drinking games long into the night. We had been on vacation ever since we left the US, but this was the first time it actually felt like it!

Hello, this is Patrick. (Photo cred Matt Robinson)

The next two days were heaven. We went snorkeling in a shallow reef, tried to climb palm trees for their coconuts, played soccer golf on the beach, and drank beers while floating in the ocean on an assortment of floatable devices. We even had a bonfire on one of the islands, and ended up sleeping on the beach. It was a sobering swim back to the boat the following morning, but an experience I won’t soon forget. Of all of the experiences of the boat, the final day was the one that will stick with me forever. On the last day at see, we crossed the final 200 miles of open water to Cartegena, Colombia without stopping. I had been on the water before, but never on the open sea in an 85 footer. We left the islands at three in the morning, but it was later that day that the reality set in. Large swells rocked the boat up and down, constantly shifting the deck as we tried to stay still on it. I don’t get seasick easily, but I was tested on this ride. I may have been fine at first, but after all day on deck, I started to feel a little bit of a headache creep in. Others fared far worse than I did, but luckily Grant and I came through relatively unscathed, except for the worst sunburn I have ever had on my life…

Ain’t no party like a San Blas beach party! (Photo cred: Matt Robinson)

The rocking on the deck was rough, but it was the crampedness of the ship that made it worse. There was nowhere to go and nothing really to do at sea, so we read when we could and slept when we weren’t reading. This made us all feel more than a little cooped up, so when Michel stopped the boat and told us to jump in, we didn’t hesitate. Jumping in was a blessing, albeit an incredibly surreal one. We were swimming in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, hundreds of miles from shore, and thousands of feet above anything resembling solid ground. The waves propelled us up and gently dropped us down again, a journey of 8 to 10 feet each time. More disconcerting was the fact that the boat made the same trip, each time seeming like it would crash down upon us before correcting itself as the swell shifted. It was amazing, terrifying, and ultimately necessary, as we entered the boat refreshed and ready to tackle the final stretch at sea. One more night sleeping under the stars on the deck and we awoke with land in site! A pod of dolphins seemed to herald our arrival and followed the boat for some twenty minutes as we entered the port. We had survived the opera rise and the ordeal of the MS Independence, and we were ready to go see a man (ok, several men) about a car.

Now that’s a good looking pod (Photo cred: Matt Robinson)

It took us forever to get the import permit, but we finally got across the border into Panama before noon. It was our last border crossing in Central America and we were eager to reach the milestone. Blasting some Van Halen (I’m sure you can guess which song), we headed down the highway towards Panama City. The drive was uneventful, and before we knew it we were crossing the the canal on the magnificent yet deceptively-named Bridge of the Americas. The bridge does not cross over into Colombia as it might suggest, and the border is actually much further to the southeast. In reality, there are no bridges into Colombia, only the Darien Gap. This 150 mile strip of land is the only thing connecting Central and South America, and is filled with mountains, swamps, dangerous wildlife, and, if the rumors are true, Colombian FARC rebels. Driving through is impossible, and getting past it would consume our coming days in the country.

The Panama Canal

We pulled into the Balboa Yacht Club, our de facto home base in Panama, just in time for dinner. Overland forums online had recommended the club for its free parking, showers, and internet, the one condition being you eat at their restaurant. It seemed like a fair deal so we went straight there to set up camp. They had us park down the road a ways, but we found a spot under a shady mango tree and went to go eat. The food was decent and the beer was cold, and more importantly, the wifi was fast. We hung around after eating to surf the web before finally seeking out the showers. Unfortunately, we were adamantly denied the opportunity. We were told quite matter-of-factly that we couldn’t use the showers unless we owned a yacht harbored there. We explained we had driven and were only staying for a few days, but despite our internet assurances, the answer was still no. A few days longer without a shower was fine enough, but you’d think they would at least want their restaurant patrons smelling good!

Our campsite outside the Balboa Yacht Club

The next morning we roll out of the back of the car at 7am to meet Amy, our shipping agent, and to head to the police station to start filling out paperwork. We followed her through the crazy streets of Panama City before pulling into a gravel lot surrounded by barbed wire. This was the police car yard we found out, and had to wait there to get the car inspected. In the meantime, Grant had to run next door to a sketchy office building to fill out a few forms and make what seemed like hundreds of photocopies of every document possible. When he returned we waited for about an hour and finally and man in his mid fifties emerged with a clipboard and asked to check the Vin number and look under the hood. The whole “inspection” took about ten minutes, despite the hour and a half wait, and then we were on our way back to the yacht club, done with shipping preparation at least for the day.

Back at our “camp” we set about reorganizing the car and packing what clean clothes we had left for when we finally had to leave our “home”. We also gave her an oil change in the parking lot, a well deserved (read: needed) bit of maintenance after completing the first 5000 miles of our journey. We left briefly to go make some more copies and get one more form in order, and finally returned to the Balboa’s restaurant for dinner. The following morning we were getting up even earlier to follow Amy to the port of Colon, where we would be loading the car onto the boat and saying farewell for the voyage to South America.

Just us and the big rigs

The drive from Pacific to Atlantic didn’t take too long thanks to Panama’s skinny shape, but we passed through thick jungle and over a few big lakes before arriving at the port. On the way we were passed by brand new Hyundais, unmarked with plastic still on their seats. We guessed they were headed to the Atlantic as well, switching ships to avoid the steep tolls of the Panama Canal. The ports were massive and impossible to navigate, but thankfully Amy knew he lay of the land and led us to the customs building. Inside, a small room was crammed full of desks and although no one seemed to be doing any work, we had to wait 20 minutes for someone to beckon us over. More paperwork, more photocopies, more waiting. Finally we got the necessary stamps and our bill of landing and it was time to say goodbye.

Grant had to go into the shipyard by himself so I was forced to wait with our stuff outside. A nice local who was directing traffic came and took a break next to me under the shade and we made small talk while Grant handled the car. He lived in Colon, had visited Texas, and had great prices on cocaine. I almost laughed when he offered it to me, half in genuine humor and half out of utter disbelief. A military officer with a wiry german shepherd were no more than 30 feet away sniffing out cars and this guy was offering me drugs as freely as someone offers up a smile. Naturally I declined his offer, and he went right back on to directing trucks into port. By now Grant was finishing up with the car and handing over the keys. We were led to believe we were the ones who drove into the container, but apparently that was not the case. I felt uncomfortable leaving he car -still packed with all of our supplies – in the hands of complete strangers, but Amy assured us it would be fine.

Hostel Mamallena in Panama City

Still hesitant, we finally let go and exited the port. We did everything necessary on our end, and now the ‘Cruiser’s voyage to Colombia was out of our hands. We climbed in Amy’s car (which was originally bought in Durham, NC!) and headed back to Panama City. Amy dropped us off at a hostel, Mamallena, and we said goodbye. It was weird being without the car, but at least the hostel had a shower. Finally clean, we ate some ramen noodles and watched a few movies with our fellow travelers before going to bed early. The next morning we had a boat of our own to get on.

The final hurdle out of Nicaragua was the border crossing. Entering Costa Rica was easy enough, but leaving Nicaragua was full of hoops to jump through. First migracion then aduana, then everywhere in between as we had to seek out the proper forms and signatures. We finally got our paperwork in order and after a few hours were headed towards the Pacific coast. We saw plenty of surfboards on passing cars and couldn’t wait to hit the beach. Unfortunately,  we were still a few hours out. We pulled into Dominical, Costa Rica on the back end of a wild rain storm. You couldn’t see a thing other than the outline of the road and the surrounding green of the jungle, but somehow we found the small pull – off just as the rain let up. We drove down the steep hill and passed a few beach bars and a soccer field, locals and gringos alike milling about the streets. We pulled by them and headed towards the beach. It was a gorgeous locale, albeit still a bit grey, with low hanging green trees covering the beach right up to the sand line. A few surfers were watching the waves as we got out for a quick walk, and then we headed towards town for a bite to eat. 

The beach at Dominical.

Our campsite the next morning. No more fog!

That’s where we found Tortilla Flats, a beach bar admittedly aimed at American tourists, but one that still boasted great food and a local charm. We had house nachos and a lengthy discussion over which Costa Rica beer was the best with our bartender. They were mostly the same, but we learned that their perception of a “dark” beer was far lighter than our own standard. Either way, we posted up for a bit and caught up on highlights from that afternoon’s Champion’s League final. We had missed the actual game due to our heavy driving schedule, but the highlights alone did not disappoint. I had hoped for an Atletico victory, but Real turned it on in overtime and deservedly achieved their decima. The night wound on and a few loud drunk Americans began to fill the bar. There was a dance party that night, and as more locals began to arrive we chatted with Jordan, a Dominical native and surf instructor. We had just discovered that we had an extra day to spend in Costa Rica due to a delayed Panamanian port schedule, so he gave us some tips on what we should do the following day. We took his advice – though not that in picking up Costa Rican women – and marked a nearby waterfall on our map for the next day. The party was just heating up, but we retired to the car and drifted off to sleep to the undeniable beat of regatone in the distance.

Climbing rocks near Playa Dominicalito.

We “slept in” until around eight the next morning and took a stroll down the beach. Just outside of town a large river met the ocean, so we watched the two waters merge, then returned to Tortilla Flats for some desayuno. After eating one of the best breakfast burritos I have ever had, we said goodbye to Dominical and relocated down the road to Dominicalito, an amazing beach just off of a point in the Pacific. We climbed about on the rocks and took a refreshing (and much needed) wash in the ocean. Our next stop was the waterfall Jordan had told us about. It was poorly marked and the people we asked each had their own vague recollection of where it was, but we finally turned down a gravel side road, forded a small river, and we found it. The falls were tucked away in the jungle and served as a secluded swimming spot for the surrounding locals. We didn’t take a turn on the giant rope swing, opting instead to rock hop down the river and explore some of the jungle. Grant was the first to slip, soaking his tennis shoes in the cool, clear water, but we trekked on through the wilderness and quickly were out of site from the falls. We eventually found a small path leading up into the hills, and saw a secondary falls coming down the back side. It had been gerry-rigged with a pipe system to supply water to the houses below, and by following the rubber tube we got a fantastic view at the top. Heading back to the car, my flip flops finally have way, and I crashed to the rocky ground. Apart from embarrassing, I also had my camera in tow. Disaster was imminent. By some miracle I managed to throw up my right hand as I fell, keeping the camera safe from most of the water, and getting a nice bruise on my hip in the process. With my right side soaked and the camera safe, we got back in the car and headed out with the windows down.

The local waterfall at Pozo Azul.

A few hours later we turned off the highway again. We had planned to stay the night at another national park deep in the jungle. To get there, we followed a gravel road and then a dirt road as we wound through small houses and farms. And then it stopped.  The clearly marked road led us to one last farm, and then ended abruptly courtesy of a large wooden fence. We got out and looked for a different path, but apart from a nearby river,  there didn’t appear to be one. When we were out wandering around, I noticed a solitary figure watching us from the farm. I waved. Grant waved. Nothing. Finally we yelled an hola and the figure began slowly lumbering our way. The farmer told us that the road was closed for the season. The river was in fact the road, but due to higher water levels,  he informed us, you needed four wheel drive to make it. Well we had four wheel drive and when he saw the car, the man said we would be fine, and we crossed the first section. The water wasn’t too high for the car, but the real issue was sand and gravel that comprised the riverbed. Fortunately, we could make out other tire tracks on the various banks, and quickly picked up on the proper lines to take. After the first few switchbacks across the water, we were feeling good.

Parque Nacional Piedras Blanca’s…. The sign, at least.

Crossing rivers is a lot of fun. You find the line, gain speed, and jet across the water as the wake you create rises on either side. We forgot to roll the windows up and caught a few splashes of water as we passed, a refreshing mistake in the humid jungle air. We trekked on, following the tracks as they made their way upstream. There was no end in sight, and worse, no signs to indicate, well, anything. By now the sun was rapidly setting and we were anxious to find the park and stop for the night. Maybe it was that anxiousness that made us misread the track and get stuck in a hole. We started just fine across the bank, but hugged the left side river bank too tightly, and as a result found ourselves trapped in a deeper pool of water with the tires spinning aimlessly in the gravel below. I don’t mind getting stuck, but when it’s getting dark and you’re in the middle of the jungle with no one else around, it gets a little stressful. I was very concerned but Grant marshaled us through the ordeal. We trudged through the water and found a large tree on the bank, and set up the wench. Our front right tire was off the ground, so with me hanging on to the side if the car as a counter weight, we managed to wench and gas our way out. After finally getting out of our trap was dark and we decided to set up camp right there on the bank. Ironically, the entrance to the park was on the other side of that same bank, but of course it too was blocked by a fence,  and despite lights being on, no one came to see what was going on. We sat outside reading and avoiding bugs, trying to relax after our brief ordeal, but the sound of something large breaking a log in the jungle around us sent us quickly into the car. It was a muggy night, but sleep came soon and our Costa Rica adventure came to a close.

We hit the Honduras border around 7:30am, and the whole hour and a half drive there we were mentally preparing for what was next. From most accounts, Honduras is a horror story. Bad roads, corrupt police, and chaotic border operations highlight the questionable reputation that Honduras holds with overlanders. We exited El Salvador without much difficulty and pulled into customs. Naturally the bank wasn’t open until eight, so we had to hang out in the muggy heat for things to continue. Other than some poorly marked buildings, and things going veeeeeery slowly, getting the vehicle permits and getting into Honduras wasn’t too bad. The first obstacle was crossed, but now we had to drive through it. Here we go. When we passed through our first police checkpoint, we almost passed out from holding our breath. When we got to the front of the line we were ready for nearly anything, but instead faced the last thing we expected: a smile and a handshake. We made through Honduras in just a few hours and zero incidents. Maybe the country caught on that tourists like to visit countries where they can travel without being harassed…

A long day with lots of planning

Nicaragua on the other hand, was a different story. Border shenanigans aside (and there were a few) the transition was relatively painless. The roads were a bit better and we were getting used to the heat, and after the perfect passage through Honduras, we were feeling good. That’s when the first police stop occurred. We were waived down to the side of the road and promptly informed that we had “failed to stop” at a previous checkpoint. We remembered full and well the previous stop, and had given the officer a thumbs up as he waved us through. That thumbs up was likely our undoing, and sensing some obvious gringos, they were going for the kill. The show they put on was Oscar worthy. It was good cop, bad cop, ambivalent cop, and less bad cop. We probably dealt with five different officers, each with their own explanation as to why we owed them exorbitant amounts of money. They took our documents and Grant’s license and refused to return it until we paid up. Fortunately, we were more or less ready than this and had our counter offensive ready. So we played dumb. Grant pretended to not know what they were saying and added lots of “I’m sorry” and “I don’t understands” and surprisingly it worked. In the end, they were far from subtle about asking for a bribe. After twenty minutes they told us to get in the car and give them our cash. We should have refused the blatant transgression, but it was only about ten dollars, and we were anxious to get the hell out of Managua.

We never got inside! Nice guard and safe campground, though.

By the time we stopped for the night we would be stopped twice more, yet again for vague and bogus reasons. This time though, we were well versed in the “no entiendo” defense and got out with only our time being spent on the corrupt police. We finally got out of dodge and headed to our campsite, but thanks to hanging out with our new police friends, it was after dark and the park had just closed. We explained our situation and they still would not let us in, but the man at the front gate was extremely nice and understanding and offered to let us park just outside the main gate near the guard house. It wasn’t perfect, but we pulled the car into some tree cover and set up camp. It was Costa Rica in the morning, and I think I speak for both of us when I say we were unsatisfied with our experience in Nicaragua. I hope we can spend more time there in the future and be proven wrong!

In the final days before we depart, the weather is finally nice in Medford, Massachusetts. The biting cold and freezing winds have seemingly vanished for Spring, but the memories of all of the god forsaken snow I have shoveled is enough to make any venture south seem like a dream come true, especially when South America is the destination. Warmer weather and a nice vacation are great, but it’s not exactly what you think. Most people assume BrazilDrive is just about two crazy brothers pursuing their crazy dream adventure, and to an extent, it is. But what often get’s overlooked is the event we’re actually going to: the World Cup. Adventure and exotic locations are nice, but this trip would never have existed if it weren’t for our unrequited, obsessive love of soccer. Having played soccer for basically as long as we could stand, Grant and I have traveled far and wide to pursue our love of the sport. All of North Carolina, the East Coast, even Germany, Spain, and South Africa, soccer has led us on many adventures before, and now it is taking us on another.

Our playing careers are mostly deceased, but our love for the sport is ever growing. I am a devout supporter of Liverpool FC and can often be found early Saturday mornings streaming games online. Although Grant tactfully (read: annoyingly) claims to support Everton, he does not really have a team. He claims it would be a betrayal to his Green Bay Packers, but I think he just can’t be decisive. He loves teams for players, and will scour rosters in search of the next young star, regularly emerging with a new go-to team when we play FIFA. My passion is more channeled while his is far ranging, but our unbridled love of soccer is the same. But that’s enough about us. Let’s talk tourney.

Grant’s Picks:

Winner: Brazil

Busts: England

Dark Horse: Belgium

Most Intriguing: USA

It’s hard not to consider Brazil favorites in this tournament. The current number one team in the world is in fantastic form at the moment and will be even more motivated to win it all on home soil. Coming off of a Confederations Cup win – including a mastery of reigning champions Spain – they will be chomping at the bit to get to the final. Everyone sings Neymar’s praises (and deservedly so), but you can’t overlook the immense talent on this team. Oscar, Hulk, Paulinho, and Thiago Silva are just a few of the big names Brazil has to offer. With Scolari at the helm and a pretty easy group, a finals run seems inevitable.

What is there to say about England. The nation that boasts the best league* in the world has struggled to make a statement in the World Cup over the past few tournaments, and look unlikely to turn it around. This year they are caught in a transitional period of sorts. The old guard that has been so consistent in the Three Lions kit is showing their age, while the new rank of youngsters have incredible potential, but have not yet proven themselves on the international stage. Do you stick with Ashley Cole, or finally give the fantastic Leighton Baines a shot? And what about Luke Shaw? John Terry and Rio Ferdinand are out, so who holds down the center-half? Sterling and Sturridge, or Rooney and Johnson? England has a wealth of talent but is left with too many questions. Facing the likes of Uruguay and Italy in the group stage, it seems unlikely that Roy Hodgson has the answers.

*Open to debate

Grant and I have debated whether they actually count as a dark horse, but Belgium is nonetheless an exciting team going into the group stages. After not featuring in the 2010 tournament, Belgium dominated their qualifying group by nine points to storm into Brazil. The perfect combination of young talent and players experienced in top-flight leagues, look to see Belgium progress out of the group stages and make a run in the finals. Grant has been singing Eden Hazards praises since his days at Lille, and he has more than lived up to the hype at Chelsea. Backed up by Moussa Dembélé and Marouane Fellaini, and a take-you-pick striking option of Romelu Lukaku or Christian Beneteke (pending a return from injury), you’ve got a young team with more than enough firepower to send a strong message of their arrival in Brazil.

This is an important tournament for the United States. Soccer is on the rise in the states. The talent in the MLS has vastly improved in the last few years and the number of domestic players we have playing abroad is more than ever, all culminating in a strong qualifying campaign that sent us to Brazil in terrific form. Since then, however, things have not been quite as smooth. Being drawn into the “Group of Death” with Germany, Portugal, and regular American World Cup dream destroyers, Ghana was the first bit of bad luck, but the form of the team has also come under question. Friendly wins over Germany and Bosnia-Herzegovina last year showed the promise that this team carries, but since then losses to Austria and Ukraine and a draw to Scotland shows just how far we still have to go. Jurgen Klinsman certainly has the team moving in the right direction, but how they will fare at the World Cup is a mystery. If Jozy Altidore can overcome his embarrassing form at Sunderland, and if Clint Dempsey and Michael Bradley’s returns to the MLS can prove fruitful, the Yanks could have a shot at surprise emergence from Group G. On paper, the odds are not exactly in our favor, but sometimes being the underdog is the motivation a team needs.

David’s Picks:

Winner: Germany

Busts: Netherlands

Dark Horse: Bosnia-Herzegovina

Most Intriguing: France

In my opinion, Germany is the best team in this tournament. You do not need to look much further than Bayern Munich’s success over the past few seasons, as well as that of their rival Borussia Dortmund. Since the 2010 tournament, these two teams between them have 4 Bundesliga titles, 3 Champions League final appearances, and one Champions League trophy. Considering that the majority of the German national team rosters hail from these two clubs, it will be near impossible for the Germans to not have a good run in Brazil. With Bastian Schweinsteiger anchoring midfield, flanked by the undeniable talent of Mario Götze, Marco Reus, and Mesut Özil, Germany boasts one of the most exciting teams to watch. Veterans Philip Lahm and Miroslav Klose will provide the extra experience as the repeat third-place finishers in 2006 and 2010 look to close in on an appearance in the finals.

As much as it pains me to say it, I believe that the Netherlands will be a bust in Brazil. Ever since I purchased my bright orange jersey in the fourth grade, I have always cheered on the Oranje in the international circuit. My hopes were raised and dashed in 2010, but I fear the runners-up in Johannesburg will not repeat their success in this edition. Similar to England, the Dutch are blessed with a wealth of young talent, but the question arises: give the kids a chance, or put your money on the veterans? Arjen Robben leads the list of shoe-ins for the team, as does Robin van Persie. But a rather dismal season at United puts the striker’s form into question. Still, the presence of impressive young talent like Memphis Depay and Bruno Martins Indi will keep them in the mix, likely advancing out of group play. Unfortunately, finding the balance between young and old is delicate, and Louis van Gaal might be too distracted by his flirting with United to make the necessary adjustments.

Bosnia-Herzegovina is my wild card. This is their first ever World Cup, and despite being large underdogs, they have the potential to make something of their time on the world stage. They impressed in qualifying, took the US to the brink in a friendly, and overall have performed admirably from such a small nation. Despite its size, you only need to look at the roster to understand why they pose such a threat. On either end of the pitch they boast two Premier League stars in Asmir Begovic and Edin Dzeko, prolifically stopping and scoring goals respectively. To fill in the gaps, Emir Spahic marshals the back line, while Sejad Salihovic and Miralem Pjanic orchestrate from midfield. With Argentina, Iran, and Nigeria in their group, it is likely that Bosnia-Herzegovina will advance with the number two spot. With a little luck, they may be able to muster a run into the knockout stages.

The US definitely will be receiving my undivided attention during the tournament, but for me, the most intriguing team in this tournament is France. The biggest controversy of South Africa was the very public implosion of the French team. Internal tension between players and then-coach Raymond Domenech spill out of the dressing room and onto, well, everything. Players refused to practice, the media had a field day, and France’s football – despite a talented team – was awful. That, however, was 2010. This campaign has seen a transformation of French football. The old guard has been almost completely replaced, making room for a number of new French stars who have made quite a statement. Pogba and Matuidi provide one of the most menacing holding midfield duos in the tournament, and with an attack of Ribery, Cabaye, Valbuena, and Benzema, the French will be a force to be reckoned with. The combination of young and old seem to work in their favor, but only time will tell if they can overcome the stigma of 2010 and make a statement in Brazil.

Morning comes early when you’re sleeping in a car, but the transition to getting on the road gets a bit easier as you go on. At this point, we had perfected the process of sliding awkwardly from the platform into the front seats, where we had set our clothes out the previous night. Avoiding entering the cold morning air, we quickly found, was pretty crucial to a non-grumpy morning. I’d say cheerful, but even when you love road trips, six AM starts to the day aren’t always fun.

            The next stretch of road led us to San Ignacio, the name of both a small town, and the laguna nearby. Another missed sign and a u-turn later, we exited Route 1 and headed through town. As we expected, the pavement quickly disappeared and a long and winding dirt road emerged before us, but this time we knew that goal that lay before us: whales. We knew the Baja was famous for its whale watching, and being the beginning of the season, we had planned to stop somewhere along the way to catch a glimpse of these wonderful creatures. Word of mouth (let’s be honest, it was Ernie) had steered us in the direction of Campo Cortez, an ecotourism camp on the Laguna San Ignacio, a favorite mating and breeding ground of Mexican grey whales.

            The dirt road continued away from town for several miles as it headed – as far as we could tell – towards the ocean. It was no problem for the ‘Cruiser, and we quickly overtook a silver Prius making they’re way down the path. We waved as they let us pass, and we continued our way down the road. At the end of the road, a series of small shacks and buildings scattered the beach. Small boats and crab pots lined their borders, and a few dogs lazed about in the shade. We stopped and got out, following a sign for whale watching, and approached an old man sitting on his porch. In his broken Spanish, Grant discerned that we were in fact at the laguna, but the campo was a further ways down the beach. Fifteen kilometers down the beach. We’re all for finding new roads, but this was kind of ridiculous.

Finding (dirt) roads.

On we went, down the road while ospreys flew by overhead and mounds of salt formed in the drying water that had pooled in the ditches below. Before too long we passed the same silver Prius from before, but this time we swallowed our pride and decided to ask for advice. That’s how we met Dave and Marta, a couple driving down from California for a long weekend, and our eventual boat mates. They were taking a short vacation to celebrate Marta’s birthday and were also headed to Campo Cortez, and fortunately, they were a bit more prepared than we were, giving us directions on down the road. They also had actual reservation at the camp. Not planning is both the beauty and the pitfall of spontaneous exploration, but after some polite negotiation and the incredible welcoming of our new friends, we hopped on a brightly colored boat and jetted off into the laguna.

The worst part about whale watching is the apprehension. Camera in tow, our eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of life, our gazes darting back and forth to ensure we wouldn’t miss anything. Every slight wave crest or spray of water grabbed our attention, but just as we were ready to scream, “WHALE,” it quickly dissipated and we were resigned to our impatient scanning. Even a pod of dolphins and a few sea lions did little to hold our attention – albeit apart from the initial excited glance. We were after a bigger quarry. We should have just listened to Maldo. Our guide and boat captain had been navigating these waters for several decades, and if anyone knew where to find a whale, it was he. It was like he could sense them coming. Without lifting a hand from the onboard motor, he nodded his head toward the right and uttered a soft “There.”

As we gazed to the patch of blue where he was pointing, bubbles began to materialize and a blob of grey mass began to emerge. It was a mating couple. Not fifteen feet from our tiny boat the duo surfaced and submerged, putting on a show for the four of us. What can I say about whales? Monstrous and gentle at the same time, the remaining hour we spent was just breathtaking. We followed the couple for some time before finally leaving them to their honeymoon. It was their territory, after all, we were just visiting tourists.

After returning to shore, we bid farewell to our boat-mates and got back into the car. We had another few hours of driving ahead of us and were running well behind schedule, though we would both agree it was a detour well worth the extra time. The next section of the drive was inland, so we traded scenic beaches and cliffs for desert and cacti as we headed back towards the Pacific. We had to get to Guerrero Negro by nightfall and the sun was rapidly fading. We got to town right as the sun set behind the ocean, but the campsite we had scoped out on the map didn’t seem to exist. We had found impromptu sleeping places before, but this was the first time we had to do it in the dark. Channeling his best adventuring spirit, Grant had an idea. Passing through a military base on the outskirts of town, he steered the Cruiser off of the highway down a small dirt road headed off into a dark field. Sure enough, he navigated our way to a sandy hill and found a perfect nook away from the road to pull in to: we had found our campsite.

Little coyote in camp.

It was nice to wake up away from civilization the next morning. We were only a few miles from town, but it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere when we made breakfast and packed up camp. A quick gas and ATM pit stop and we were headed further north, this time actually into the wilderness. We were headed to Coco’s Corner, small outpost in the middle of the desert ran by a boisterous double amputee. Imagine the tackiest restaurant you have ever been to and multiply that by ten and you can get an idea of the décor of this checkpoint for the Baja Rally. Surrounded by notes, postcards, and women’s underwear of all sizes and varieties, we couldn’t refuse Coco’s insistence to have a beer and take a load off. But as with all adventures, we still had a long way to go, so we finished our cans, snapped a few pics, and waved as we left Coco gesturing enthusiastically at one of his cohorts.

We drove over rocks, sand, and dirt as we made our way further north in search of the highway. After finally making it back onto a paved road, it was time to make a decision. Do we head west and meet back up with Route 1, or do we take a gamble and follow yet another dirt road north to find a national park for our last night? Another military checkpoint had put us behind schedule yet again, so the highway was tempting, but we’re explorers, damnitt. If you ever have the choice between dirt and pavement, well, you know.

We crept into Laguna Hanson after dark and made our way to what appeared to be a ranger station. It was completely deserted except for one attendant who seemed quite confused by our presence. He sheepishly gave us the OK to camp in the park and headed back to his heated cabin, probably just shocked as to why anyone would want to camp in the middle of winter. And it was quite cold. Our one complaint about sleeping in the car was that it was too hot for the sleeping bags, but that night we wished we had brought a blanket.

The next morning we finally saw the park in light, and boy were we impressed. Massive rocks jutted up from all sides, forming these grand outcrops all around us. We wasted no time eating breakfast so we could scramble on top of them and climb our way about. The views were stunning. In all the desert of the Baja, this laguna had trees, our first real glimpse of greenery on the trip. It was like a little oasis hidden away in the north. Naturally, my camera died after getting a single picture of the laguna, so you will have to use your imagination (or a Google search….). We wanted to stay longer and climb more rocks, but deadlines have the tendency to creep up on you, and we still had plenty to do. We were headed to Mexicali to cross the border back in to the States, and from there, a cannon-ball run from California to North Carolina. We had plenty of highway ahead of us, but here was one final dirt road out of the park. With the car packed up and iPod blaring, we enjoyed every curve and bump.

…Man’s battle with nature will never end. But is it really a battle? Like Sisyphus and his boulder, we build roads, tunnels, and canals, shaping nature to our will. But these are only temporary. Nature will always roll our boulder down the hill at the end of the day. So don’t fight it. Don’t make it a battle, make it a challenge: instead of adapting nature, adapt to it. That’s what is so beautiful about the Baja. It is rugged and unforgiving, yet somehow welcoming and comfortable. Life shouldn’t exist here, yet it thrives. Towns sprout up where they can find water, dried up river beds become roads, and even the goats find food wherever it is available. The desolace of the Baja is it’s beauty. Nature has already won, yet the Baja manages to achieve a wonderful existence on the fringe of defeat. So don’t be upset. Your boulder is always going to fall down the hill. Just try to enjoy the view while you’re at the top.