Monday, December 01, 2003
Special delivery from Panama- Franky goes to Ecuador
Squinting my eyes and vigourously rubbing the dome of my quickly swelling knoggin I hear Andy giglling behind me. "If we were in America that pipe would have at least of been painted yellow or something."
No blood, thankfully. I nailed an angular pipe jutting straight down in the middle of the hangar's winding foot traffic path leading us through the cavernous walls of cardboard boxes and plastic wrapped pallets bound for shipping.
It is pretty clear to me that freight forwarding cargo hangars in Tocumen, Panama are designed for boxes and the people that love them, not customers looking to ship their motorcycles. But here we are, looking to pawn off our bikes to the lowest bidder. You see, we have reached the end of the road in Panama. Literally, for economic reasons (cocaine trafficking), political reasons (cocaine trafficking) and saftety reasons (cocaine trafficking), there is no road that connects Panama and Columbia. The North and South Americas are split, thus, all commerce and traffic must navigate the bottleneck of the Panama Canal or go through air freight. Either way, things are generally accountable for, except of course the cocaine traffic.
A little known fact; there is a 75 mile stretch of jungle aptly named The Darien Gap that separates both ends of the PanAmerican Highway. The Columbian Army will not go into it, so the Contras, coca refiners, snakes and insane have it all to themselves... seems fair to me.
Either way, I have plans on the flip side and need to get my body and my horse around the Gap. Shipping via boats can be a risky business as they can be held in port until their cargo decks are full (weeks) or they could be redirected across the world once on the water to pick up more cargo wherever that may be. So my options boiled down to jungle crossing, sailing away, or air freight.
We did our due diligence on the web and finally rode out to the desolate cargo fields on a road called The Red Devil, since the locals use it as a speedway. Once past the gates, ubiquitous armed guards and heavy diesel carriers, we found our company, Girag Cargo.
After a brief discusion with our agent Esteban he came back with a quote for me of $700 plus some other unnamed charges to ship to Quito, Ecuador, and double that for Andy to ship to Miami, FLA. Waiting for Esteban to draw up the paper work I meandered around the hangars checking out the odd, but necessary business of international cargo shipping.
I watched as fully loaded trucks crashed into each other and into boxes waiting to be palletted. Forklifts spin about with rear-wheel steering, effortlessly lifting and carrying America's televisions, washing-machines, Stairmasters and high gloss acrylic paint vats about.
Palleted, shrink-wrapped, lifted, weighed, stickered and trucked to the airstrips and to a Walmart near you.
"Senor, please you put your Manuel Noriega on the line."
Now, after my agent has spent the past hour writing up my shipping form in triplicate, I tell him I think the fee is too high and am going to look for a cheaper rate. At $500 however I offer to help load the bike onto a pallet...deal!
(I think I was supposed to drain the gas, unhook the battery and deflate the tires like the contract instructed, but removing my windscreen and mirrors seemed to get me by without any argument.)
While I was performing this minor surgery on the bike a heard the distinctive sound of a Harley pulling into the hangar. This guy looked so cool..., been places. His ride was not the shiny, waxed and fetishized Harley-Davidson specimen you find in the driveways of Long Island and Quincy. The man and the machine were hardly distinguishable from each other, a clear sign that he has been in the saddle a long, long time. There is one of those circular country stickers on the rear fender- "J". Where the hell...?
With a quick kick, his side-stand takes a low slung position and he dismounts with the familiar shoulder and back reallignment maneuver common among 10+ hour a day riders. From across the field of boxes baking under the presure of the noon sun, I see our rider is donning full leathers, black jeans, double and triple metal studded belts (not in loops ala Billy Idol), and bandanas tied off at wrists. The package is completed with his jet black, mid-back length, windsweapt (eat your heart out Farrah) hair that hangs under his weathered half helmet.
I finish what I am doing and I walk over to meet a brother on two-wheels looking to jump the Gap as well. Wipping off his wraparound shades the intrepid road warrior salutes me with a quick bow--
"I am Seigi, hello!"
I intruduce myself and start talking about the people he is going to need to find and hustle, where he can score some empanadas if he is hungry and....
"I no speak English..."
"Spanish?"
"He he hah, NO!"
I call Andy over to meet a fellow traveler and collectively we get the story. He is a twenty-something japanese guy that has been travelling the world alone for the past 6 months, only speaks japanese, is shipping into Bogata, Colombia and loves Harley culture. Best of all, he loves traveling in America because he can save money by sleeping in rest areas on the highway without fear of robbery.
This guy is the most hardcore Harley rider I have ever met with impeccable manners and guts to spare-- GOOD MAN!
We help each other get our bikes on the pallets for shipping and we are about to call it a day when I realize that my bike is bound for Bogata and Seigi's Ecuador. I bring this to the attention of the guy who wrapped our bikes in plastic and he assures me that it will be forwarded once it arrives in Colombia to Ecuador.
That would have been a barely sufficient enough answer if we were in America (north), but the huge bump on my head reminds me that we are definetly not in America. Here, danger, hazard and interminable frustration awaits the complacent and unaware. So I decided to call out the foreman who confirms the orders were screwed up. A simple packing error could have found me riding a Harley to Ushuaia and the 5' tall Seigi trying to swing his leg over Franky in Colombia.
Hopefully getting my bike out of the Ecuadorian receiving station on Tuesday will not warrant a Road Log...stay tuned, fingers crossed.
P.S- Andy, I will see you on the road someday. The best to you back in the USA.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 8:40 PM
No blood, thankfully. I nailed an angular pipe jutting straight down in the middle of the hangar's winding foot traffic path leading us through the cavernous walls of cardboard boxes and plastic wrapped pallets bound for shipping.
It is pretty clear to me that freight forwarding cargo hangars in Tocumen, Panama are designed for boxes and the people that love them, not customers looking to ship their motorcycles. But here we are, looking to pawn off our bikes to the lowest bidder. You see, we have reached the end of the road in Panama. Literally, for economic reasons (cocaine trafficking), political reasons (cocaine trafficking) and saftety reasons (cocaine trafficking), there is no road that connects Panama and Columbia. The North and South Americas are split, thus, all commerce and traffic must navigate the bottleneck of the Panama Canal or go through air freight. Either way, things are generally accountable for, except of course the cocaine traffic.
A little known fact; there is a 75 mile stretch of jungle aptly named The Darien Gap that separates both ends of the PanAmerican Highway. The Columbian Army will not go into it, so the Contras, coca refiners, snakes and insane have it all to themselves... seems fair to me.
Either way, I have plans on the flip side and need to get my body and my horse around the Gap. Shipping via boats can be a risky business as they can be held in port until their cargo decks are full (weeks) or they could be redirected across the world once on the water to pick up more cargo wherever that may be. So my options boiled down to jungle crossing, sailing away, or air freight.
We did our due diligence on the web and finally rode out to the desolate cargo fields on a road called The Red Devil, since the locals use it as a speedway. Once past the gates, ubiquitous armed guards and heavy diesel carriers, we found our company, Girag Cargo.
After a brief discusion with our agent Esteban he came back with a quote for me of $700 plus some other unnamed charges to ship to Quito, Ecuador, and double that for Andy to ship to Miami, FLA. Waiting for Esteban to draw up the paper work I meandered around the hangars checking out the odd, but necessary business of international cargo shipping.
I watched as fully loaded trucks crashed into each other and into boxes waiting to be palletted. Forklifts spin about with rear-wheel steering, effortlessly lifting and carrying America's televisions, washing-machines, Stairmasters and high gloss acrylic paint vats about.
Palleted, shrink-wrapped, lifted, weighed, stickered and trucked to the airstrips and to a Walmart near you.
"Senor, please you put your Manuel Noriega on the line."
Now, after my agent has spent the past hour writing up my shipping form in triplicate, I tell him I think the fee is too high and am going to look for a cheaper rate. At $500 however I offer to help load the bike onto a pallet...deal!
(I think I was supposed to drain the gas, unhook the battery and deflate the tires like the contract instructed, but removing my windscreen and mirrors seemed to get me by without any argument.)
While I was performing this minor surgery on the bike a heard the distinctive sound of a Harley pulling into the hangar. This guy looked so cool..., been places. His ride was not the shiny, waxed and fetishized Harley-Davidson specimen you find in the driveways of Long Island and Quincy. The man and the machine were hardly distinguishable from each other, a clear sign that he has been in the saddle a long, long time. There is one of those circular country stickers on the rear fender- "J". Where the hell...?
With a quick kick, his side-stand takes a low slung position and he dismounts with the familiar shoulder and back reallignment maneuver common among 10+ hour a day riders. From across the field of boxes baking under the presure of the noon sun, I see our rider is donning full leathers, black jeans, double and triple metal studded belts (not in loops ala Billy Idol), and bandanas tied off at wrists. The package is completed with his jet black, mid-back length, windsweapt (eat your heart out Farrah) hair that hangs under his weathered half helmet.
I finish what I am doing and I walk over to meet a brother on two-wheels looking to jump the Gap as well. Wipping off his wraparound shades the intrepid road warrior salutes me with a quick bow--
"I am Seigi, hello!"
I intruduce myself and start talking about the people he is going to need to find and hustle, where he can score some empanadas if he is hungry and....
"I no speak English..."
"Spanish?"
"He he hah, NO!"
I call Andy over to meet a fellow traveler and collectively we get the story. He is a twenty-something japanese guy that has been travelling the world alone for the past 6 months, only speaks japanese, is shipping into Bogata, Colombia and loves Harley culture. Best of all, he loves traveling in America because he can save money by sleeping in rest areas on the highway without fear of robbery.
This guy is the most hardcore Harley rider I have ever met with impeccable manners and guts to spare-- GOOD MAN!
We help each other get our bikes on the pallets for shipping and we are about to call it a day when I realize that my bike is bound for Bogata and Seigi's Ecuador. I bring this to the attention of the guy who wrapped our bikes in plastic and he assures me that it will be forwarded once it arrives in Colombia to Ecuador.
That would have been a barely sufficient enough answer if we were in America (north), but the huge bump on my head reminds me that we are definetly not in America. Here, danger, hazard and interminable frustration awaits the complacent and unaware. So I decided to call out the foreman who confirms the orders were screwed up. A simple packing error could have found me riding a Harley to Ushuaia and the 5' tall Seigi trying to swing his leg over Franky in Colombia.
Hopefully getting my bike out of the Ecuadorian receiving station on Tuesday will not warrant a Road Log...stay tuned, fingers crossed.
P.S- Andy, I will see you on the road someday. The best to you back in the USA.
posted by Xavier - RoadWarrior on 8:40 PM
