#73 This Is It - The Final Blog

The final photo of the bike

We rode into Bogota with the knowledge we may not ride out again. This was where we were to, fingers crossed, sell the bike or ship it back to New Zealand. It didn't take long while held-up in a bedraggled hostel to acknowledge the issues we were facing and appreciate that our stay in Bogota may be longer than intended.

Issue #1: The inability to sell the bike to a Colombian. It was not possible to nationalise an overseas registered bike so whoever bought it would be doing so with the knowledge they could not replace the plates. That left sale on the 'black market', whatever that entailed, or selling the bike for parts. Given V-Stroms are actually made in Colombia we thought there was a real possibility of the latter option although it wasn't exactly financially enticing.

Since this is the final blog, I thought I would include some of our favourite images from the trip - this one is after our first border crossing from Chile to Argentina over the Andes. Note we had significantly less stickers at the beginning.

Issue #2: A multitude of travellers are trying to sell the bikes they have toured on, usually within a limited time frame and therefore at reduced prices. However, there are not too many people interested in buying, and we certainly hadn't had too many bites on our Hubb advert placed over a month prior. Even with my basic knowledge of economics, I knew this balance of supply and demand didn't bode well for a good sale price. While we could have left the bike in Colombia with an agent to sell, that involved a cost in itself and losing control over the whole event. The last thing we wanted was for another six months to go by during which time we were paying for services and storage only for the bike to remain unsold.

Issue #3: Shipping the bike. The company we used in New Zealand to fly the bike over had indicated it was possible and we knew their rates were pretty reasonable. When they told us they couldn't ship out of Colombia we started to feel a little panicky at our rapidly diminishing options. We even considered driving back to Ecuador at one point and shipping from there as it was said to be cheaper. However, after numerous skype calls to other companies, it became clear shipping was not a viable solution, no matter where the boat sailed from. Particularly after factoring in New Zealand’s unknown import costs and the costs of re-warranting and registering the bike back in New Zealand without even knowing whether it would pass an inspection.

During a camping stay in an Argentinian National Park.

What it really boiled down to was a reality check on the money we could expect to receive in a sale. Our goal now was to get anything over $0 for it. With few ideas left we put posters up around the hostels hoping some adventurous traveller may just take the bait.

Our other option was the 'black market', not that we really knew what this even meant. It's not like you just ask someone 'hey do you want to buy my bike illegally?' Well after much discussion, and a lot of thought, the only way we could think of was to go up to people and say 'hey do you want to buy my bike illegally?' So we decided to approach the local Suzuki dealership and give it a try. We found one on google maps, got on the metro and headed that way armed with our google-translated poster, a photograph of the bike and a rehearsed selling pitch.

While hiking the W Trek during the Chilean summer!

An hour or so later we found ourselves in an industrial area of the city, right outside the dealership - this was a lot farther than either of us expected to get. I laid my schpeel on the first person we came across who seemed friendly enough but probably thought we were a little crazy (this Suzuki shop had a lot of policeman around as V'Stroms are the bikes used by police). He said he would hand around the posters and wished us well. Clearly this was not going to get the bike sold. I pushed on a bit, and he seemed to take pity on us. Next thing we know he is telling us his name is Johnny, and we are being ushered to a seat, offered coffee, while a whole lot of guys stand around looking at our posters, and making phone calls. We had no idea what was going on but it seemed that some of the mechanics out back recognised what we were offering as a pretty good deal.

Of course then they wanted to see the bike. So unconfident were we of this plan succeeding we hadn't thought it necessary to bring the product we were trying to sell! I just kept repeating that it had no damage and was a great price ('bueno precio, bueno precio') explaining we had to leave the country shortly. The next thing we know a guy shows up in a pretty slick Kawasaki and our friend Johnny explains that he is some sort of bike dealer (sounded dodgy but what did we care). He wanted to follow us to the hostel to see the bike! I don’t think we could believe our luck; I even started worrying we had set the price too low. On the taxi ride with Johnny it was difficult not to start imagining what it would mean for us should the sale go through.

The winds on Ruta 40 were a killer,
Argentina.

Johnny's friend seemed impressed with the bike; he looked it over, checked the speedometer, and then started asking about the make. We explained it was second hand, originally from Japan which is when he asked the year it was made. Things quickly spiralled downwards. Apparently because of the bike's year and because it was not Colombian made its parts were of no use to him.

Our devastation was apparent. The whole week had been an emotional roller-coaster and this had to be the lowest point yet. We had to go back to the drawing board and there was not much to put on it. Johnny told us of a Colombian 'trade-me' website for motorcycles. Our bike was so much cheaper than others of the same model and year that we thought there was a possibility of interest, even with foreign-registered plates. Unfortunately the latter meant we could not advertise on the website so that plan was out.

With no real options we returned to the dealership the following day knowing Johnny was to be working elsewhere. This time we rode the bike and what a difference having it with us made. There was a lot of interest, but more along the lines of, 'if I had the money I would definitely buy it' but no one seemed to have any money. Then the dodgy dealer from the previous night appeared. Strange we thought. Perhaps he had been playing us all along, we didn't know nor really care. He was still interested, albeit at a reduced price, but we were hardly in a good negotiating position. That morning we thought we would be leaving the country without the bike sold. We shook on a deal and yet here we were with an agreement. He took our number and we returned to the hostel arranging to meet him later that afternoon with his American dollars.

Playing around on the Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia. You all remember the images...

Even though our last drive on Lady Eleanor (a name that has never really stuck) was through the smoggy traffic of an overcrowded city of nine million, it was still an emotional one. We had experienced so much over the last nine months. We often discussed how the trip differed to our expectations, with regard to the bike we had both expected to have more mechanical issues, to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with no cars in sight at least once, and about a 30% chance of kidnapping or at least a robbery of some sort. While there were plenty of challenges nothing of the sort had ever eventuated. The purchase of the V-Strom had been the best decision of our trip: she had been comfortable, caused us very few issues and most importantly she had kept us safe (I guess the driver may have had a little to do with that too). We took our final photos on the bike outside the hostel, a backdrop that did not befit the places we had seen on our adventures, and said our goodbyes with tears in our eyes.

Perito Moreno Glacier, Argentina.

That should have been the end of it but as the clock struck 1pm, no one came. As the day drew on, the feeling of dread rose. We wondered if the deal had fallen through. We had been too excited to take our buyer's number. Our only contact point was through Johnny who was not answering his phone. We couldn't believe how stupid we had been. Then, there was a knock on the hostel door and he arrived. Evidently there had been a problem obtaining American dollars. I managed to up the sale price with the inclusion of our helmets, despite Reece’s being covered in chips and nicks, and a broken visor thanks to me dropping it on a boat crossing in Bolivia; we were told by an exchange house the dollars were legit; and then the bike was driven away bringing a close to an unforgettable period of our lives. Things were looking up.

There was still much to organise. We had our panniers, motorcycle clothing and camping gear to get rid of and no idea how to go about selling them. I'm not sure how this happened, but again we seemed to get lucky striking up a conversation with someone in the hostel who put us on to a taxi driver he knew. The taxi driver told us he would take us around some hot spots to see if we could sell this stuff. We started off in a mecca for motorcyclists: a huge warehouse divided into hundreds of stores selling nothing my bikes and gear. Of course we only had to approach a couple to realise the last thing they wanted was some foreigners used, muddy gear. At this point I wasn't sure if the taxi driver expected payment for his terrible idea.

Reece's wardrobe (and hair) got
more ludicrous as the month's passed.

I'm not sure how the next part came about but one person approached, then another and before you know it we are standing on a back street behind a warehouse with Colombians surrounding us haggling over the price of our gear. The panniers went quickly, a tent was picked up for a few dollars, and other items slowly followed. At one point a man approached offering to shine my boots for a better sale. There was the potential for things to get out of control as there were people all over the street holding different items of our stuff. One guy in particular felt legitimately aggrieved after I had offered my gloves to him for $20, only for Reece to insist on $30 before the sale went through. We hadn't really had a chance to form a united front on pricing given we hadn't envisaged selling a thing! Next thing the taxi driver decided we had done our dash and he had another spot for us, giving us a tour of Bogota's red-light district on the way. A couple more spots really only eventuated in the sale of Reece’s jacket and pants, but cost us a fair bit in metrage! All in all we were able to pay the taxi driver, and the hostel for our stay, with money to spare. It was worth it anyway for just another crazy experience.

Oh Bolivian roads, how I do not miss you.

Though there was still Cuba to come, after 9 months on the road the motorcycle trip we had planned for more than a year had come to an end. Obviously with the delay in our last few blog entries I have had much time to reflect on our experience and what has struck me the most is the personal nature of travel - how quickly 9 months of one’s lives can be boiled down to a 5 minute conversation! I am gratified to have Reece whom with I can recall the special moments and these writings to look back on in years to come. Thanks to all who have kept up with the blog, especially those who have read to the bitter, long drawn-out end! I'm not going to finish with a gushy, reflective piece on how travel has broadened me, although of course it has, save mentioning the satisfaction I have taken in keeping this blog. Well I haven't detailed every single thing that happened to us in those 9 months (you'll have to ask us in person what wasn't shared), I recognise it has been a 'comprehensive' account and I am humbled by those who continue to keep our page views climbing!

Adios, Charlotte