08 Jan2025

CHASING CHE: Motorcycling through Castro’s Cuba

Written by and Photos by Christopher P Baker. Posted in Rides

Eighteen years have passed since I first rode my R100GS to the Bay of Pigs during a three-month-long, 7,000-mile exploration of Cuba as a professional journalist. Eighteen years spent dreaming of leading the first U.S. group motorcycle tours of the island.

Finally… I’m so stoked, I can’t suppress my glee any longer.

“Weeeeeheeee!”

As the group files in one by one, I direct the participants to park their Beemers and Harleys outside the Bay of Pigs Museum and line up beneath the wings of a British-made Sea Fury that saw action defending Cuba against the CIA-sponsored invasion, in April 1961, by a Cuban-American exile army.

Then I ride my F800GS into the midst of the group and have a museum guide shoot a photo for posterity beside a giant billboard that reads: “PLAYA GIRÓN [Cuba’s term for the Bay of Pigs]. THE FIRST ROUT OF U.S. IMPERIALISM IN LATIN AMERICA.”

“Congratulations!” I exclaim. “You’ve just made history. You’re the first yanqui motorcycle group to explore Cuba end-to-end since the U.S. embargo was enacted in 1960.”

CHASING CHE Motorcycling through Castros Cuba Body image 4

Only 90 miles separate Key West from Havana, yet in many ways the Florida Straits is the widest moat in the world. Not least, Uncle Sam bars U.S. citizens from solo travel to Cuba (exemptions exist for Cuban-Americans, journalists, and humanitarian and religious travel, etc.). And shipping a bike from the United States? Forget it! Since my solo journey in 1996 you can count on one hand the number of Yankees who’ve ridden through Cuba.

Fortunately, in January 2011, President Obama inched the door open by creating a new license category permitting any U.S. citizen to legally travel to Cuba for educational cultural exchanges run by companies and institutions that could now apply for such a mandate.

CHASING CHE Motorcycling through Castros Cuba Body image 1

In 1995, I contacted Skip Mascorro, founder of Texas-based tour company MotoDiscovery, for advice on planning my journey. We stayed in touch. Last year he asked me to draft a license application and sample itinerary. Bingo!

In January 2013, 14 eager motorcyclists flew south from Miami to participate in a 14-day all-Cuba program under a special license issued in April 2012 by the U.S. Treasury Department’s Office of Foreign Assets Control (OFAC), which oversees all regulations related to travel and trade with Cuba.

Since the “people-to-people” (P2P) license prohibits recreation and “tourism,” our motorcycles were used for the purpose of transportation between our requisite P2P exchanges. Those slice-of-life engagements with Cubans—from tobacco farmers to Harlistas, owners of pre-revolutionary Harleys—guaranteed a richly rewarding immersion with Cuba’s profound history and culture as we rode a 2,000-mile counter-clockwise circuit from Havana to Baracoa, at the eastern tip of the island.

Because shipping a motorcycle across the Florida Straits is virtually impossible, our bikes—a combination of BMW F650s and F800s, plus four Harley-Davidsons—were supplied by a Danish company, Motorcycle Tours Cuba, that has been offering two-wheel tours for Europeans since 2009 (U.S. citizens are barred from participating). The company also arranged a support van to carry our gear. Cuba’s Havantur state tourism agency supplied a driver and local guide.

The visitor’s first reaction is that of being caught in a 1950s time warp. Cars from the Eisenhower era are everywhere: Chrome-laden DeSotos. Corpulent Buicks. Stylish Plymouth Furies. And other relics of Mafia-era ostentation putter along beside modern Japanese taxis, sober Russian-made Ladas, and dour 650cc Urals with sidecars.

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Then a Knucklehead from the 1940s thunders past. It’s hard to stay focused on the road as we test our bikes along the Malecón Boulevard sinuously fronting Havana’s shoreline.

Prior to the Revolution, Harleys were standard issue for Cuba’s police and the military. Then Cuba spun off into Soviet orbit. No more Harleys were imported, thanks to the U.S. embargo (Cubans call it el bloqueo, the blockade) that still hangs like an axe over Cuba. Thereafter, Soviet bloc Urals, MZs and Jawas flooded Cuba over four decades. Keeping the Knuckleheads going is a testament to Cuban resourcefulness, ingenuity, and indefatigable optimism in the face of shortages and other difficulties we can barely imagine.

“El cubano inventa,” says Luís Enrique Gonzáles Saenz, President of Cuba’s Harlista club, explaining how Havana’s proudly fanatical owners of antique Harleys go to extreme (even absurd) lengths to keep their hogs running.

We begin our tour at the workshop adjoining Luis’ home in Havana’s once tony Vedado neighborhood. “What we can’t fix or cannibalize from other motos or cars we make ourselves,” explains Luis, my co-guide throughout the tour. “We tailor pistons and virtually any other part you can think of right here. Hecho en Cuba, chico!”

The Doobie Brothers’ “Taking it to the Street” surges from the speakers of Luis’ blood-red Street Glide as we hit the Autopista Nacional, Cuba’s only freeway, and crank up to 120 kph, heading east. Luis rides lead. I ride sweep at the rear. Betwixt, our fourteen trip members are instructed to ride at their own pace, although no diversions from the fixed route are allowed.

CHASING CHE Motorcycling through Castros Cuba Body image 5

The concrete eight-laner runs through open countryside flat as a carpenter’s level. We have it virtually to ourselves save for the occasional yanqui jalopy, Soviet tractors, and creaky wooden carts pulled by oxen, dropping long stalks of cane as they go.

I’m thrilled to be back in the saddle, retracing my journey through a country I’ve grown to know well and love dearly. Enraptured, I cook down the highway, the F800 purring sexily as it eats up the hardtop in a sensuous intertwining of glorious harmonics and warm, perfumed air.

After 142 km we turn south for the Bay of Pigs and arrive at the climactic spot where socialism and capitalism squared off in 1961. Cuban families and Canadian package tourists slathered with suntan oil splash about in the shallows. It’s difficult with the sun beating down on a beach as silvery as mountain snow to imagine that blood and bullets had mingled with the sand and the surf here five decades before.

Farther east we stop to get “Sugar 101” from macheteros—sugarcane harvesters—in coarse work clothes and straw hats, slashing at the tall cane with short blunt-nosed machetes. Hard, dirty work. We pass thatched homesteads—bohios—and ox-drawn ploughs tilling the palm-studded land. Then Trinidad comes into view.

Founded by conquistador Diego Velázques in 1514, this cobbled colonial town—a UNESCO World Heritage Site—has sidestepped the currents of time. We slip uphill through maze-like cobbled streets that echo to the clip-clop of hooves. “Horse-whisperer” Julio Muñoz even brings his horse inside his eighteenth-century colonial home to demonstrate “New Age” equine techniques with which he hopes to change Cuba’s macho cowboy culture.

CHASING CHE Motorcycling through Castros Cuba Body image 2

Our route is a magical mystery tour of such fascinating people-to-people encounters: A visit to a rural clinic to learn about Cuba’s community health system… an Afro-Cuban santería religious ceremony… a family-run marble-sculpting cooperative…. In Guantánamo, we even pick up two tránsitos—motorcycle cops—to escort us through the Cuban military zone (the taciturn Policia Nacional Revolucionaria on their undersized Yamaha Viragos eventually thaw as Luis and I coax them to spill the beans about tránsito training).

“The enemy shall not pass our frontier!” screams a billboard outside Guantánamo. Others reading “Patriotism or Death!” and “The U.S. blockade: the longest genocide in history!” leave no doubt that we’re in a Communist nation pitted against Uncle Sam. Images of Fidel are everywhere, too, betraying a cult of personality second only to that of revolutionary icon Che Guevara. I feel like we’re chasing Che down the highway.

Yet everywhere we go, we’re feted. Wherever we stop, Cuban males give us high fives. “Phew!... hombre!” they exclaim, marveling at the exotic Beemers. “What marque is this? How big is the engine?” And, inevitably, “How fast does it go?” You’d have thought we’d landed in flying saucers.

It seems a strange juxtaposition. Rousing anti-imperialist murals offset by three generations of Cubans—most well-nourished, well-shod and clothed, and beaming benignly—sending reassuring waves to us yanquis. It seems so innately Cuban: The considerate expression of a people uncommonly gracious and generous to a fault.

Arriving at Baracoa is its own adventure as we roar up La Farola, a steep mountain highway (completed since the Revolution) with nerve-wracking bends that switchback up and over the Sierra Cristal via the valley of the Río Yumurí. With its bridges cantilevered magically from the mountainside, La Farola strikes me as a marvelous piece of engineering. Beyond the summit the world falls away as the road spirals down to Baracoa, hovering on the distant horizon beneath a brooding twilit fusion of valley and molten sky.

Time-worn Baracoa was founded in 1511 as Cuba’s first city. Cusped within a bay spread-eagled beneath a huge flat-topped formation surrounded by rainforest, it resembles a mini Macondo, the surreal setting for Gabriel García Márquez’s novel One Hundred Years of Solitude.

CHASING CHE Motorcycling through Castros Cuba Body image 6

Cuba is the flattest isle of the Greater Antilles. Our route is mostly level, melding occasionally into uplands with sweeping bends. Well-paved, too. West from Baracoa, however, the shoreline highway whittles down to an unpaved scrambler trail—a real roller-coaster—pitted with potholes brimming with a blood-red bouillabaisse accumulated with recent rains.

This 40-km-long enduro section adds a welcome and adventurous challenge sandwiched between two weeks of non-technical riding. I ride the trail standing up as I haul along in third gear. I’m normally a 1200GSA rider. By comparison, the F800 seems so incredibly light and responsive—a bike tailored for touring Cuba.

Finally in Santa Clara, where Che Guevara looms large over the Plaza de la Revolución, one of our tour group fires an impressive burn-out then pops a wheelie in front of the revolutionary's vast monument and mausoleum. Back in Havana we clamber into ’50s classic convertibles and journey metaphorically back in time to the Tropicana, the world-famous cabaret now in its eighth decade of Vegas-style stiletto-heeled paganism.

As far as adventure motorcycling goes riding Cuba was tame. But socialism and sensuality? Secret police and sexy showgirls? Cuba is nothing if not surreal!

Just 90 miles from the malls and McDonalds of Florida, we’d journeyed to the soul of a haunting realm full of eccentricity, eroticism, and enigma.

Christopher P. Baker is a professional travel journalist, lecturer, and tour leader. His more than 25 books include Mi Moto Fidel: Motorcycling Through Castro’s Cuba (National Geographic), winner of two national book awards. He contributes to CNN and has written and photographed for publications as diverse as Elle, Motorcyclist, National Geographic Traveler, and Newsweek.

16 Dec2024

Riding Winter Conditions in the Extreme South of Patagonia

Written by and Photos by Fabian Borrero. Posted in Rides

Traveling solo by motorcycle for several months is without a doubt a journey for which one must be prepared to confront challenges and overcome unforeseen hardships.

One of the greatest trials of my 2010 journey took place in Patagonia during the depths of winter. My KTM and I endured temperatures as low as -15°C, which obliged me to acquire high mountain clothing in order to deal with this horrendous cold, made even more intense by the fact I was traveling by motorcycle, which easily doubled the wind-chill factor.

Bundled up with six layers of thermal clothing so limited my body’s movement that I felt like a robot. Under my already thick motorcycle jacket was a thermal undershirt, a polar stretch jacket, a Polar 200 jacket, a down jacket, and a windbreaker. And, my lower extremities were covered with a similar assemblage, including two pairs of very thick socks.

I also bought ski gloves and, thank goodness, I’d already equipped the motorcycle prior to the journey with large wind deflectors on the handlebars as well as handgrip warmers. Even so, I felt cold, but at least no longer felt the sensation of freezing experienced during the days prior to arriving in San Martin de los Andes, where there was no city in which I could have obtained technical equipment for these conditions.

After traveling along the southern highway in Chilean Patagonia, I reentered Argentine Patagonia in order to continue southward. I’ve ridden snow and ice on several occasions, which made me believe that I had the hang of it, and so was no longer afraid of conditions like these. However, when I got to the town of Bajo Caracoles, everything changed.

Riding Winter Conditions Body image 2

The temperatures had stayed below zero for weeks, and a layer of ice several meters deep had penetrated the dirt road. Scarcely five kilometers from my point of departure, I went into a skid and was dragged along the ice for the first time on the journey. Luckily, the fall happened at a speed of only 20 kph, and aside from a good bump, I suffered no Injuries.

At this moment, I had no crampons for my motorcycle boots, so my main worry was how I was going to be able to lift the bike from a surface that was more suited for ice skating and all but impossible to stand up on. In any case, I had no alternative other than to try, or risk not being able to get out of there since winter traffic on this stretch of Route 40 south was virtually non-existent.

So, I unloaded all of the baggage in order to reduce the weight and attempted unsuccessfully to stand the bike up. Worn out and frustrated, I sat down to think. It occurred to me that if I dragged the bike along the ice to a patch where there would be a little accumulated snow, perhaps I could manage to get the wheels anchored, which would enable lifting the bike. I tried, and with a lot of skillful maneuvering, a bit of luck, and an hour and a half, I finally managed to upright it.

After reloading the bike, I continued on my way. However, the conditions remained impossible. The bike was skidding constantly, and an extremely strong wind sent me from one side of the road to the other.

When I got to a downward slope of ice and, in order to avoid increasing my speed, I braked, the bike immediately spun around like a top, and I was once again on the ground.

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Because of the slope, I knew that it would be much more difficult than for the first fall. By now, it was three o’clock in the afternoon and I had traveled only 50 kilometers in six hours. The slippery and windy conditions would not allow me to go more than 12 kilometers per hour. And, I had yet to advance 250 kilometers in order to make it to the next town.

To add to my concerns, the daylight was only going to last a couple more hours. With neither tent nor sleeping bag to deal with the -20°C below zero temps, the only thing to do was to go back the way I had come.

From the fundamental instinct to survive, I drew the strength and courage necessary to hoist the bike upright. And, after three more energy-zapping attempts, finally succeeded. My attention now shifted to the problem of backtracking. After another hour, I managed to reach the top of the slippery hill.

Since it had taken close to six hours to travel these 50 kilometers, and with barely any daylight remaining, I knew that if I didn’t get back to the village soon, I would be in big trouble.

Just then, the wind began to blow hard, lifting the snow that had accumulated, making it impossible to see. Everything went white, and the snow stuck to my visor, reducing vision to almost zero. I tried to clean it with my gloves, but the ice seemed fused to the Lucite. With the visor open so that I could see, the wind drove the needle-like ice and snow into my unprotected face and eyes.

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Daylight was all but gone and the panorama dark. In Patagonia, where winds often surpass 100 kph, the mesmerizing conditions were beginning to affect my equilibrium.

Two hours later, darkness fell, and I’d only made it a mere 25 kilometers. But, just as I was losing all hope, I saw a shed and some tractors off to the side of the road. I couldn’t believe it! Hope that there might be others around!

It turned out to be the camp of a road construction company. Inside were the tractor drivers and mechanics, who were just as surprised to see me as I was them. They couldn’t understand what I was doing there on a motorcycle. But, due to the conditions outside, their supervisor agreed to let me me stay the night.

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That night I was the center of attention. We shared travel stories and photographs that generated a great deal of curiosity and admiration from one and all. This camp, that seemed to have miraculously appeared out of nowhere, gave me refuge at the end of the most difficult and dangerous day of the entire journey.

Once more, South American solidarity had smiled upon me.

06 Dec2024

Adventures in KLRZakstan (Kazakhstan)

Written by Graham Field. Posted in Rides

In seven weeks I’ve done 7,000 miles, most of them alone, not very impressive statistics for a truck driver. But I’m not a trucker anymore; I’m just a solo overland motorcyclist. All I’ve taken from my trucking days is an inherent sense of direction and a general contentment when being in my own company. I still have a dodgy load behind me, but it’s my baggage and I’m sure I need it all.

Body image 6 Its Remarkable What You Find on the Road

My own company is becoming a rare thing in Kazakhstan. Every car that passes (and there are many that pass my heavily laden KLR 650) have smiling faces, waving hands and phones pointing at me. This friendliness, intrigue and the open willingness to convey a sense of humanity consistently turns into hospitality whenever I stop and take off my helmet.

It begun at a parched and arid border crossing, with an enterprising kid selling bottles of frozen water, for a perfectly reasonable price. Not that I’m in any position to haggle—I’ve paid more for things I’ve wanted less.

So, wet and sweaty all over but for a numb horizontal strip across my chest where the frozen water was stuffed inside my jacket, my introduction to Kazakhstan begins. I am instantly in a hostile desert, but hostility is limited only to the terrain.

The people are unassuming and have a generosity that raises my western warning levels of suspicion to avoid undesirable situations. It would appear that my self-preservation instinct is not needed in Kazakhstan—although that realization still doesn’t make it easy to relax it.

With evidence of an increasing sense of security, I assess every situation for its falseness. There is none, the people here are as genuine as my momentary paranoia which slowly lapses into acceptance.

Body image 10 Its Remarkable What You Find on the Road

My first meal is in an open air bar, I was approached by a very drunk young man who insists he wasn’t mafia… well, I never suggested he was. He can get me anything I want, he has connections, thank you but I have Wi-Fi in my room and with that connection I too can get anything I want. He excuses himself, “I’m sorry I’ve been drinking for three days.”

“Really? I’ve been drinking since 1979, you’ll get used to it.”

I’m given a local phone and numbers to call, “in case of emergency,” by a man in a cafe whose concern for me I’m beginning to think is unnecessary. Three weeks into the country and that phone has vibrated invitations in Pigeon English texts and occasional checks on my wellbeing. I entered this country a stranger, no knowledge, no language skills and no connections; the reception I have received is not limited to this gifted phone.

I’m heading to Almaty, anywhere with warmth and views of snowy mountains is my idea of perfection. But two things that are bothering me: going south when I’m supposed to be heading east, and staying with people who do not speak English. However, the journey, any journey is all about new sights and experiences, so that is what I am going to do.

It would be easier not to but I know that staying with any native family, wherever I am, is a privileged insight into their everyday lives. A day in someone’s home is far more enlightening that a week in a hotel with a conducted tour every day.

Body image 1 Its Remarkable What You Find on the Road

Sometimes it’s awkward, occasionally embarrassing, often confusing and always exhausting from being on best behaviour… but despite these difficulties, I feel the pang of loss as I say goodbye five days later—it’s like leaving home all over again. I was fed and trusted, treated not as a guest but as one of the family. The only thing I did to offend was to offer to pay my way.

I’m going to meet three Europeans—a Swiss and a couple of Austrians, whose common language is German; connections from the virtual overland community. We will ride north from Almaty together and see how it goes.

I’m the new kid on the bike in this situation. The scruff, the second-hand rider. $3,000 and three months on eBay resulted in my bike, the panniers and everything in them. I own it, it doesn’t own me. Of course I wanted to adorn it in shiny accessories—that’s what you do when you love something, be it a house, a garden or a woman—you buy them shit to make them look even better. We can’t help but display our western wealth in poorer countries… but we can play it down.

Poverty breeds ingenuity, poorer countries have improvisation and mine is recognized and appreciated. A well-placed hose clip through my front fender makes an ideal fastener for a chain oil bottle, it’s practical, functional, it’s good weight distribution, it’s a little bit phallic… but mainly it’s a conversation piece and interaction is a very significant part of the trip.

So, here I am the token Brit, I sit at the back of the group and try to take in this visual overload, six spare tyres, six aluminium panniers, three German bikes and three very different people riding them to one destination. I no longer have full control over my journey. Group meetings are needed, diplomatic solutions have to be reached and… compromises—my cynical definition of which is “now nobody gets what they want.”

Body image 2 Its Remarkable What You Find on the Road

When choosing riding companions, destination should not be the only criteria—budget, riding style, language, objectives, and definitely time schedule are also important factors worth consideration.

German becomes more frequently spoken and I decide this is just fine; my introspective thoughts will not be distracted by mindless chatter… that’s my initial view as I take in this new formation.

A restaurant is full of food but we end up with tea, and four people fumble with strange coins to pay the bill. I think a travel pot is in order. If I offer to be the keeper I’m requesting trust with their money, if I don’t I’m delegating without authority, I think it… but double-thinking it over, I say nothing.

I wonder if I’m meant to wander this planet alone if I’m to find lasting happiness. Company is great but has limited appeal. It sometimes leaves me wondering, sometimes wanting, but consistently reassures me the only company that I continually go back to is singularly my own. I think I’m happiest searching for happiness.

But I’ll willingly share the photos.

I’m finding it very difficult to focus my thoughts. Usually they just wander through my helmet. Recollections, briefly re-lived, re-enjoyed, and then upon the tiniest distraction, a smell, a sound, or an external rhythm that plays a lyric in my head, will change the thought to a different continent, a different time, or a different feeling.

There are people who travel to heal a broken heart; dumped or divorced they tour the earth taking with them the misery they were trying to leave behind. They tell their stories of dejection and unfairness to anyone who will listen, hoping that someone will magically cure their sadness and divert their constant stream of lonely longing thoughts. Then, there are the people who have left their loved ones behind and miss them like a lost limb.

Body image 8 Its Remarkable What You Find on the Road

Be it a lover or a complete family unit, the highlight of their trips will be the reuniting at the end of it. They wish to share every exciting moment with the ones they left behind, and all the dull time in-between would be so much better for them were they in the company of the ones they hold most dear.

I’ve done both those kinds of traveling and they are both shit. I’m not missing anyone; I’m looking forward and enjoying the moment. Well I was… but plans have changed without my knowledge, the common language is isolating me and I’ve gone from riding in ignorant bliss to riding with resentment, the insecurities start to rise. Am I even wanted here? Before I was modestly riding at the back, my self-imposed ranking, now I feel like I’m tagging along.

This is the worst of both worlds, in a group you are less approachable by others, you miss the opportunity to interact with the locals…. But hey, it’s okay, I’m traveling with company, my interaction happens whenever neutral is selected but not in this situation, all neutral does is isolate me further—I am as excluded from group discussions as I am denied opportunities to indulge in my own unplanned schedule.

Lone journeys are full of hellos and goodbyes. Some people you meet are good for an evening meal and a drink and others become travel companions for many miles. People are generally at their best when they travel.

I don’t think these friendships that are born on the road are shallow at all, they may be transitory but are no less sincere for that. Two like-minded strangers, whose paths cross, meeting each other’s needs and heading on their way.

Body image 3 Its Remarkable What You Find on the Road

It’s spontaneous; it may be some divine intervention beyond our comprehension, paths cross… albeit briefly. You tell your best stories and in return receive inspired wisdom and quotes to enhance your own life. It’s genuine, it’s passionate, it’s real and then it’s over.

But occasionally, just like albums, motorcycles and favourite places, one comes along that you know you’ll keep going back to.

I suppose I’m not that easy to ride with, my own worst enemy. I ride alone a lot, whether it’s a summer evening fling around familiar country lanes or a cross-country excursion. And, when I’m not alone I love to indulge in the fantasy of the gang—from childhood dreams inspired by photos in motorcycle magazines, an endless procession of motorcycles ahead of me, framed by fingerless gloves grabbing ape hangers. I want to live inside a Dave Mann centrefold.

My childhood bedroom’s biker poster displayed the arrangement, but not the structure, the camaraderie it implied was my assumption. Individually my companions were good people, but together, in this case, there was bad chemistry.

Well, I’ve always shied away from anything that looked like commitment. The destination for me was reached, with a little more knowledge, experience and understanding, not just of Kazakhstan and its people but of riding in a group, and that it really isn’t for me.

Body image 7 Its Remarkable What You Find on the Road

“Freedom” is a word that is over-used and a feeling that is under-experienced. Alone on my bike on an empty road in a barren land I feel it, it’s the knowledge I, and only I, am responsible for my actions—to make the right choices, and if not making the best decisions, then making the best of the decisions I made. The outcome, the blame, the reward, I’m free to accept them all.
Graham Field is a world solo rider and author of the new book, In Search of Greener Grass. Readers have called it “endearing, poignant, thought-provoking, inspirational and harder to put down than the family pet.” It’s about motorcycles, travel, cynical humour and an honest account of a quest to find that illusive thing we call contentment—discovering kind-heartedness and some kind of enlightenment. In Search of Greener Grass is available on Amazon in Kindle format, or for a signed copy and more about the book go to InSearchofGreenerGrass.com you can also follow the never ending journey on Facebook.
04 Nov2024

The Altiplano Loop Moto Adventure

Written by Bill Dragoo and Photos by Sergio Balivian | Land Cruiser bridge photos are by Oscar Ebert. Posted in Rides

Bolivia is an adventure rider’s paradise. From the Amazon to the Altiplano, every mile is a feast for the senses.

Four lanes of graded dirt are interrupted only by the occasional dozed-up barrier… a small deterrent along this unfinished thoroughfare for anyone hoping to cheat the rougher backroad route to Salar de Uyuni in southwestern Bolivia. A late model Toyota Land Cruiser clings precariously by its bumpers to a pair of bridge buttresses, connecting the void on this apocalyptic highway.

Its windshield hangs impaled on rebar some 20 feet downrange. I trip the latch and am surprised to find the deck-lid unlocked. The radio is missing, but the vehicle is otherwise intact. No blood… incredible. It occurs to me that vigilance is an adventure rider’s best friend.

Body image 5 The Altiplano Loop

We are well into our exploration of the Altiplano, that high plain flanked on the east by the rain forests of the Amazon and on the west by the Atacama Desert, one of Earth’s driest spots. Our week-long dual sport ride out of La Paz is giving us a taste of the history and diversity of this land and a sample of the dirt roads and mountain trails that make this place such a paradise for the adventure rider.

I am riding with Eric Hougen of Wolfman Luggage. The Wolfman spent his formative years in Bolivia, attending grade school in La Paz, the country’s seat of government. Our hosts are Sergio Ballivian, one of Eric’s classmates and owner of Explore Bolivia, and Oscar Ebert, Sergio’s right hand man. We had just skirted a quarter of the world’s largest salt plain, the Salar de Uyuni, on our Suzuki DR 650s, finishing at night.

I had read stories of riders closing their eyes while blazing across this 4,000-square-mile table of white at full throttle, and had seen the distorted proportions captured by creative photo compositions on this outdoor studio some 25 times the size of Utah’s Bonneville Salt Flats. We made our own memories riding three abreast, the countless crystal geometric formations crunching beneath our tires in a staccato beat.

Body image 3 The Altiplano Loop

Before starting our loop, a warm-up ride took us north out of La Paz, over 15,000-foot La Cumbre Pass in a winter mix to The Death Road. Our first view was a thin line of dirt below, belting the lush Yungas Valley where Highway 6 links La Paz to the Amazon. Until recently, this was the only route between La Paz and the resort town of Coroico. Trucks, busses and bicycles were forced together on the serpentine path clinging to the canyon wall like a tree snake basking in the sun.

Drivers would run the gauntlet past slides, inert vehicles, and waterfalls cascading like an eternal, isolated rain shower. Before the paved route was built across the valley it was practically a daily occurrence that some unfortunate soul would die playing chicken, however inadvertently, with oncoming traffic. Now, with an alternate route taking the brunt of business, we enjoyed the infamous Camino de las Yungas nearly devoid of rolling obstacles.

Entering Coroico at dusk, we were met by a sign, “Welcome to Paradise.” Next morning when we saw our surroundings in daylight we understood the sign’s meaning. Coca fields, orchids and other fragrant jungle flowers surround the village and permeate the senses.

Our lodging, the Ecolodge Sol Y Luna, lay among them. Weekenders come here to escape the trappings of the city and relax, lured through the subtropical Cloud Forest by cobblestone pathways. Nearby Cotapata National Park, with its waterfalls and remote canopied hideaways, removes all doubt that this place really is a piece of paradise.

We returned to La Paz to regroup before the main event. As we set out again, Eric and I pushed the pace through the La Paz Valley, railing the dusty double track while Sergio and Oscar followed along, keeping tabs on our progress. When traveling abroad it is wise to partner with locals. Routes, road conditions, even the availability of fuel can be sketchy, especially in the more remote regions of South America. We were fortunate to have Sergio and Oscar as our guides.

Body image 7 The Altiplano Loop

Evening faded black before we could reach Araca, where we would spend the night. We rode side by side on precarious double track to beat the dust. Tiny pinpricks of light began to appear as we neared the village. Our approach to the Hacienda Teneria was like something out of a movie. A narrow, dark and rocky road led us to a closed gate.

We expected bandits to jump out at any minute, but were greeted instead by a small boy who opened the gate and disappeared into a building whose foundations were laid before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. Hans Hesse, our host and grandfather to the gatekeeper, was a fascinating mix of historian, engineer and philosopher. He entertained us throughout the evening with locally discovered artifacts and stories of ancient Phoenicians he believes may have a place in his ancestry.

The next morning, before starting our climb out of the Choqueyapu River canyon, we had to gas the bikes. Oscar stood atop his Nissan Patrol and siphoned petrol from a battery of containers, our lifeline to civilization as we moved farther from the mechanized world. We passed groups of schoolchildren along the way and a mother tending sheep, her baby strapped to her back. I had never witnessed pigs being herded before… never thought it possible, having grown up with many failed attempts.

But, we passed Cholas, indigenous women in stacked skirts and bowler hats, successfully managing groups of swine and keeping them all going in one direction, more or less. Our next night was spent in the green valley and village of Luribay after an incredible climb and descent over desolate, rutted and rock-strewn roads leading to the Altiplano.

Even a lumpy bed and shocking, electric showerhead couldn’t hinder a good night’s sleep. Climbing again the next morning, 21,000-foot Mount Illimani stood over us as we made our way south and west.

Body image 9 The Altiplano Loop

We left the dirt roads and scampered down the paved and bustling Pan American Highway to Potosi, once considered the richest city in the world. It is a long day’s ride and we welcomed the more comfortable, “big city” accommodations once we arrived. Silver was discovered in Potosi during the Spanish rule in 1544 and Potosi Mountain is still active with more than 16,000 miners pushing ore cars in and out of 500-plus tunnels.

A mine tour made us grateful for another line of work.Cracked timbers shored up crumbling rock overhead and temperatures reached 100 degrees F deep within the mine. We chewed coca leaves to ward off the effects of activity at 14,000 feet and brought a supply of the narcotic plant as gifts for the miners along with soft drinks and water.

From the narrow, crowded streets of Potosi, we rode cobblestone roads the short distance to the Hacienda Cayara, tucked into a corner of the village of Cayara, which hides in a valley in the rugged Andean foothills.

This magnificent family home-turned-guesthouse contains museum-quality colonial antiques. It is said to be the oldest country hacienda on the continent, dating back more than four centuries. Original paintings from the 16th century adorn the walls and were enjoyed by generations of nobility.

Priceless artwork, furniture and libraries dating back to the 17th century can be touched by the guests who stay there even now. We drank from the centuries-old, eternal fountain out back and bathed in a nearby hot springs where Inca kings once came to escape the rigors of royal duties.

Body image 10 The Altiplano Loop

We were reluctant to trade the Hacienda Cayara for the dusty streets of Uyuni, but didn’t want to miss the magnificent Salar de Uyuni. We chased the sunset to Fish Island, the only land promontory in the Salar, stopping there long enough to appreciate the uniqueness of this desert oasis, complete with Saguaro cactus, simple accommodations, and a small diner for refugees from the outside world.

Darkness was upon us as we left Fish Island—if riding across this endless crystalline expanse during daylight seemed extraordinary, doing it at night was indescribable. We quickly became chilled since we hadn’t stopped to don our warmest layers, but the sensation only added to the edge as the starlit scene moved in slow motion even as we rode full speed on our mounts.

Our senses were hyperactive. Fear melded with excitement until they were indistinguishable from one another.

It was like a dream when we finally left the salt plains for the narrow streets of Jirira, at the base of the volcano, Tunupa. We encountered the Land Cruiser bridge as we exited the Salar and before continuing to the mining town of Oruro, the final stop of our Altiplano loop. We met resistance there when trying to purchase fuel, but managed to find a good meal and a comfortable bed before returning to La Paz.

No adventure ride would be complete without a little drama. Ours came in the form of a road block by indigenous Indians who had placed stones across the highway about 20 miles outside La Paz. We were faced with taking the long way around through miles of deep silt or trying to breach the blockade… not a wise choice given the conviction of the locals to protest new infrastructure.

We chose the longer, safer route and avoided an altercation. Even paradise needs a dash of adversity or we couldn’t call it adventure!

Body image 4 The Altiplano Loop

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Brazilian Highlands Waterfalls Intro
28 Oct2024

Chasing Waterfalls in the Brazilian Highlands

Written by and Photos by Doug Loynes. Posted in Rides

Deep in the heart of Brazilian, a thousand miles from the nearest beach, lies Chapada dos Veadeiros National Park, a motorcyclist’s paradise in the highlands with a supernatural character steeped in local legend. I picked up a Royal Enfield Himalayan in the city of Brasilia, 150 miles south of the park, and set off in search of the Chapada’s secrets.

Brazilian Highland Waterfalls 1Stunning landscapes await any intrepid motorcyclist who ventures to Brazil’s highland paradise.

It’s fitting that any trip to the ethereal Chapada starts in Brasilia, a city so meticulously designed in the modernist tradition, with its clean lines and curved edges, that it could have crash-landed on the spaceport set of a sci-fi movie. Locals joke that Brasilia is so well planned that anywhere in the city is 20 minutes or less away and that was true of my taxi ride from the airport to Galpao 17, a popular bikers’ haunt on the outskirts of the city where live music plays and drinks flow. Think Star Wars’ Mos Eisley, but without the scum and villainy.

When I arrived at the bar, Flávio Bressan was just finishing attaching a set of heavy panniers to the flanks of an immaculate 2021 Royal Enfield Himalayan. Something of a local legend, Bressan is a motorcycling enthusiast and the founder of Projeto Estradas Amazônicas, an ambitious project which aims to map all the Amazon region’s underexplored roads. After chatting about bikes and the best routes to and from the Chapada, Bressan handed me the Himalayan’s keys and waved me onto the highway.

Brazilian Highland Waterfalls REThe Royal Enfield Himalayan made light work of the tricky terrain on some of Chapada’s tougher trails.

Riding the BR-010, Brasilia’s cityscape soon fell away, replaced by rolling meadows and pastureland as the highway penetrated further into the interior. A couple of hours later, I passed through the town of Alto Paraíso de Goiás, the gateway to the Chapada, where the real fun began. Heading west out of town. I found myself cutting through the cerrado, the Brazilian savannah, on a dramatic highway that could easily pass for one of the more iconic stretches of Route 66 were it not for the hazard signs warning of roaming anteaters and prowling maned wolves. I opened the throttle on the empty straights, letting the Himalayan rip through the stunning scenery with a growl that would send even the most fearsome wolves scuttling for cover.

As the sun began its descent, I cast my eyes skyward. Locals claim that Chapada dos Veadeiros has a supernatural energy, owed to its geographical position on Paralelo 14. This latitude line is 14° south of the equator, upon which the former Inca kingdom of Machu Pichu can also be found. Alien enthusiasts insist that the Incas were an extra-terrestrial civilization who built a cosmic highway along Paralelo 14, which is why reports of UFO sightings in Chapada are unusually common. I scanned the sky for any sign of supernatural activity, but it must have been a quiet night for alien traffic.

Brazilian Highland Waterfalls viewpointThe Rio Preto Falls from one of Chapada’s most famous viewpoints.

By nightfall I’d reached my accommodations, an eco-camp on the edge of the isolated village of São Jorge, a popular jumping-off point for many of the region’s natural attractions. Chapada is often referred to as the “Cradle of Water” on account of the network of rivers that descend in a succession of spectacular waterfalls throughout the national park, many of which can be reached by dirt tracks that branch off from the highways. Bressan warned me that while some of these tracks would be easy enough on the bike, others would represent a sterner test of my off-road capabilities. Buoyed by the confidence born of an easy day’s riding, I slept certain that I could handle whatever the Chapada threw at me.

The next morning, as I hauled the Himalayan off the ground for what felt like the 100th time, I cursed myself for not properly heeding Bressan’s warning. This trail, which had snaked for 15 miles through fields and forest, was a happy blend of packed dirt, loose gravel, treacherous potholes, and ruts carved out by 4x4s during the rainy reason. The latest obstacle, an impossibly steep incline dotted with rocky outcrops, was proving to be a bridge too far.

Brazilian Highland Waterfalls funIn Chapada, the real fun lies off the beaten track.

The sun grew more relentless as the midday heat crept up. Dripping with sweat, it was sheer stubbornness that stopped me from turning back. That, and a baseless optimism that my destination, the spectacular Cachoeira Macaquinhos (Little Monkey Waterfall) was just beyond this final ridge. With a flourish of effort, I took the Himalayan to the bottom of the incline, picked up some speed to gather a little momentum, and chopped the throttle on the climb just enough to plot a course for the bike around the larger boulders so that it could pull me to the top. My smug sense of achievement lasted a matter of seconds before I saw a sign that told me that the waterfall was still another 12 miles away.

The sight that awaited me when I finally reached Cachoeira Macaquinhos was more than worth the sweat spent getting there. A narrow path followed the River Marquinho as it cascaded through a series of cataracts, each more breathtaking than the last, with crystal blue pools a-plenty for a filthy, road-weary traveller like me to dip into.

Brazilian Highland Waterfalls cachoeiraOne of the countless cascading waterfalls along the Cachoeira do Macaco trail.

For at least a couple of hours I enjoyed the run of the place all to myself before a gang of tourists were jettisoned from a 4x4 and the spectre of the difficult ride back to camp to loomed over me. I asked the car’s driver how he’d found the journey getting here. “Tough,” he told me in Portuguese. “But it’s a lot easier now they’ve finished the new road.”

“The new road?” I asked.

The driver laughed as I told him about the route I’d taken to the waterfall.


“That trail has been closed for months!”

Over the course of a week, the Himalayan and I tackled countless more trails of varying levels of technical difficulty in pursuit of more of the Chapada’s hidden waterfalls. None were quite so bad as the notorious discontinued route to the River Marquinho, although at one point the Himalayan’s front tire slipped into a narrow rut in the track at speed, catapulting me sideways and adding a flailing gringo to the list of unidentified flying objects that have been spotted in the region.

On my last day in Chapada, safely back on terra firma, I found myself heading north along a highway bisecting the picturesque “Zen Garden,” the exact point at which Paralelo 14 crosses and supposedly the location of a portal that marks the entrance to the Inca’s secret road to Machu Pichu. Leaning into the highway’s gentle, meandering curves, a smile escaped my face as I became entranced by the magnificence and mysticism that sums up Chapada dos Veadeiros. This natural wonderland, hidden away in the Brazilian highlands, boasts a blend of open, empty highways and tricky trails that seem tailor-made to give motorcyclists privileged access to its best-kept secrets. Aliens or not, there can be no doubt that riding through the Chapada is an out of this world experience.

Brazilian Highland Waterfalls p14Posing at the 14th parallel, where it’s said there lies a secret portal to the Inca’s hidden kingdoms.

Doug Lynes portraitDoug Loynes is a teacher and writer from Manchester, England. He owes his passion for motorcycling to the eight-year-old bully in Bali who goaded him into returning his “hairdresser’s” rental scooter and exchanging it for a Kawasaki dirt bike. Since then, he’s journeyed the world seeking stories at the intersection of adventure travel and culture which place the local at the heart of the feature. Doug now lives in Sao Paulo and likes to spend his weekends on two wheels in the Brazilian backcountry. Follow him on Instagram @Instdougramm.

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