May 22nd, 2007, 9pm local time
Panama City, Panama
GPS: 

Today started out awesome.  We got to sleep in a little bit, since we didn't have to get up and ride and the plane we were flying to Panama City on wouldn't get in until about 10:30.  Last night, Dad phoned our customs broker, and he asked us to meet him at the VIP lounge in the airport at 9am, so we all volunteered Dad to go there in the morning.

Keeping with the spirit of losing important things, I managed to lose my GPS.  We tore the hotel room apart, and i stripped my luggage three times but couldn't find it anywhere.  I distinctly remember taking it off my bike and putting it in my jacket pocket, and then taking it out once in the hotel room 'cause i was considering washing the jacket.  I ended up not getting it washed 'cause we didn't want the Milano for Men decals to get ruined.

Dad went for a walk and a haircut, and didn't get back until about 9:30am.  Just prior to him arriving, our taxi driver from last night arrived with our laundry.  Which was still wet.  Apparently, they took us quite literally when we said 'lavado', which is 'wash'.  We started to dry it out on the bed, but Dad and I had to go to the airport, and we left Justin and Rob in charge of it.

At the airport we met this awesome guy named Wilmares, who breezed us through the bureaucratic hassle that is every border, tripled at airports.  Cajoling and convincing, he got people to do things they didn't really want to do (in one case, he stopped a customs agent from sending us to a town nearby called Manga to get our Carnets stamped, and convinced her to do it at the airport.  That alone saved us at least an hour).  Apparently it was a slow day for the customs agents, too – one guy was falling asleep watching The Lion King on the television.

We finally got some paperwork done at the airport.  We headed back to the hotel to gather up Rob and Justin, and to get everything packed and back to the airport for a pre-board inspection.  Rob and Justin ended up getting the hotel's laundry service to dry our clothes, so that was nice.  I hadn't been looking forward to rotting, damp clothes all the way through central america and mexico.  We frantically packed, and managed to get to the airport two hours after we said we'd be back.  Oh, yeah – Justin found my GPS wrapped up in his bedsheets, which I'd searched.  Twice.

When we got to the airport, Wilmares met us at the corner and informed us that the policia officers wouldn't be available until 2:00pm, so we had about forty minutes to kill before we could get our bikes inspected.  We headed over to this old fort (this area of the city is called Old Cartagena) section of town to snap some photos and do some shopping.

Justin has a nasty habit of not looking in his mirrors, and I have a bad habit of following him too closely, so when he stopped suddenly to catch a left into the Old Cartagena section, I narrowly avoided missing a small motorcycle when I lurched to a stop, and dropped my bike in the middle of the street.  At least I wasn't moving, and this time I didn't even break anything.  I'm sure hard on Patricia.  

We found ourselves in this open square not far from the entrance to the old town section, and before we could even park our bikes, we were beset upon by vendors hawking their fake sunglasses, counterfeit cigars, and lousy paintings.

Justin and Rob both purchased a pair of sunglasses, and Justin and I went halfers on a box of Cuban cigars.  While Justin and I are bargaining with the cigar guy, Rob's doing laps in the square, yelling at us all the while about how stupid we are to buy fake cigars and we can get them in Mexico, while Dad's loudly whining about how hot he is (it was 34 degrees and brightly sunny at this time).  

We had all stripped our bike jackets off, 'cause it was just too dang hot wearing all that black.  This turned out to be a mistake.  When you enter Cartagena, there should be a sign that says: “Welcome.  Sunburn guaranteed in thirty minutes or your money back.”  Seriously, we weren't riding around for more than thirty minutes and we were all burnt.  At least mine has already faded to a tan (i don't burn easily), but Justin was wearing a muscle shirt, and has coloured nicely to a shade reminiscent of a crab in a pot.  With brilliant white tan lines.  He's gonna peel, and I think he's gonna blister.

We were struck again by that South American fondness for having six or ten one ways in a row all in the same direction, and got lost down cobblestone sidestreets before we finally found our way back to the airport (the GPSs have been essential for getting un-lost in unfamiliar cities).

The cops were mad 'cause we were ten minutes late, and ended up telling us to go to the gate at the airport we'd been at before.  Once at the gate to the secure section of the airport, Wilmares met us and explained that we couldn't turn our bikes on any longer, 'cause they were supposed to have the gas drained and the batteries disconnected prior to getting them on the plane.  We snapped some pictures and I had some time to read before the policia were ready for our inspection.  

We pushed our bikes several blocks to the inspection station and were met by about a dozen officers armed with guns, explosive detection swipes, and dogs.  That pooped everywhere.  I stepped in a fresh doo doo, which was actually quite sticky and pungent, and scraped large divots in their lawn removing it.  

This was the most extensive search I've ever been through – we had to go through metal detectors twice, and our luggage was stripped, swiped, sniffed, and opened.  The gas tanks in our bikes were inspected, and they had dogs smell the air in our tires before they finally let us put it all back together.  While I was getting my stuff inspected, lighting shattered in the distance, and the thunder was so loud that I jumped and let out a high pitched scream, much to the amusement of our thoroughly macho inspection squad.

After that, we got to go hang inside the blissfully cool airport for passport stamping before once again marching out into the blistering heat.  Except in the short time we were in the airport, the thunderstorm had rolled in.  I had time to think 'I should have kept my rain gear' before my underwear was wet.  We pushed our bikes I swear three miles across the airport tarmac towards our plane.  It was this TINY little thing dad keeps calling a Twin Otter, but i'm not sure if that's what it really is.  I thought for sure there's no way we're getting these bikes in the plane.  

They brought over this mobile conveyor belt used for tossing luggage on to a plane, and lined it up with the cargo hatch at the back of the plane.  The hatch was just slightly too short for our bikes to go on with windshields and mirrors, so those had to go.  We only had to take the mirrors off my bike.  

Safety is obviously priority number one.  Once the bikes were rolled up onto the conveyor belt thing, with four of us holding it at the apex of this long ramp, they started adjusting the height or the belt, lurching around while we all held onto the bike for dear life.  We were about ten feet in the air at this point, with no footholds should we lose our footing.  

It took us about an hour to get everything loaded up.  I've never been that wet in my life while fully clothed, and to top it off, the cheap watch I bought in Tacna lost its' crystal face somewhere along the line.

I should mention here that after we'd gotten three bikes loaded, Wilmares told us there was no room for the fourth bike AND us, so they'd be making a second flight tomorrow.  Sorry for the inconvenience.  He let us fume for a minute, then told us he'd been kidding.  What a funny guy!

At long last, we were finally aboard the plane and ready to take off.  Justin and I had to climb in through the cockpit to the row of three seats at the very front, 'cause the bikes completely filled the middle ¾ of the plane.  Rob and Dad were crammed into the back.  We could barely see them over the bikes – the ceiling of the plane couldn't have been much over four and a half feet.  Keeping with the safety-as-a-priority spirit, they didn't strap the bikes down, and instead the pilot asked Rob and Sean in the back to brace the motorcycles during takeoff in case they shifted under the acceleration.

Soaked and steamy, the pilots started taxiing down the runway in the slowest takeoff of my life.  Exceptionally noisy plane it was, too.  And, incredibly, once we'd reached our cruising altitude of nine thousand feet, and a speed of slightly more than three hundred kph, our pilot opened his window.

Seriously.  The temperature in the cramped cabin plummeted, and the four of us, soaking wet, shivered and suffered in silence for the rest of the flight.  Even Justin was quiet, absorbed in a movie on his ipod.

We landed in Panama too late to get our bikes out of customs, which dashed our hopes for getting a little further on the road, and we ended up staying in a little motel one of the airline employees drove us to.  The girl at the counter spoke some english, and told us that all four rooms (they only had rooms with one bed apiece) had air conditioning, but one of them was noisy.  What she really meant was that they ALL had air conditioners installed, but only one worked, and that one was noisy.

The mattresses are terrible.  Rob, Justin and Dad are out getting food while I write this.  I'm exhausted – it's time to go to bed.

Ryan Noble,
Panama City, Panama

PS – they forgot to get me food.  Bastards!