So we try to write some words in English, although it’s a lot more fun to write in my own language that’s called Dutch. But apart from Dutchies, some retards in Belgium and some racist farmers in South Africa nobody in the world speaks this colorful language. And Jason wants to know what this circus is all about so today we mutter some words in English. Are you near Knoxville yet my friend? I want you to know that you’re ‘on air’ now with your ‘coming out’ story. Jason is a cool British biker, coming on his slightly modified KTM 950 Adventure from Buenos Aires. He’s heading north to the States to Knoxville of all places. We’ve met in Máncora, a small beach resort in the north of Peru. I was pretty bored in this town. Had to do some work, cause money is surprise singly low after I bought the new Apple computer in Quito. Anyways, Máncora was a deadly bore until Jason and his driving mate Guido (FastGuido) from Switzerland showed up in the hotel I stayed in. It’s nice to meet bikers now and then. In two years time I’ve met only a few. We had Bob in Mexico, Marco in Medellin and the Dutchman Jan in Quito. I miss bikers now and then, especially when they come from far, like Jason and Guido and have a story to tell. Oh yes, the three of us exchanged ‘biker stories’ and sometimes they were funny like Jason’s close encounter in Argentina with a horse. With thirty miles an hour he drove his 950 straight up the horses ass, wasting the cooling system of the bike. He could live with that, but not with the fact that the ‘damn animal shit all over my bike.’ Jason is a different type of motorcycle traveler. He likes speed for example and long wheelies and jumps. While my Guzzi moves around like an old cripple man with a fatal heart disease, the 950 Adventure jumps over sand-hills and stuff.
The nights in Máncora weren’t as wild as the three of us expected: empty bars, empty streets, cheap beer. It’s a populair hangout for surfers and they hit the sack early I guess. It was for me the first time since Cartagena (where I was a year ago) that I saw so many ‘white people’. To kill some time we ended up talking about making babies. No fucking lie. We want to make babies! Hooray! I mean forty-year-old bikers have a right to make babies as well right? The outcome was that we feel like settling down. Look at myself 43 years old, exactly two years on the road, no house, and possessions or what so ever. I mean its time for the car pit, a serious relationship, a dog, two weeks vacation each year, responsibility and hell we buy a color television as well. Jason’s quest to a 9-5 life will lead him all the way to Knoxville; to his girl he had met in Mendoza (Argentina). She’s the reason for his speeding up while I take the slow boat to… hell I don’t know I’m lost anyway. So here comes Jason’s confession. He friends will be stunned, his mom pleased.
I’m always alert when people call them selves fast this or crazy that. But FastGuido on his KTM 650 Adventure (single cylinder) seems to be fast, or at least he has a long breath. He drove in three days from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia. The same trip will take me probably another six months. He started two years ago in Switzerland and worked him self down to South Africa where he took a plane to Buenos Aires. After the Americas he’ll continue his trip in Australia, Asia and than back home. Total trip will take him four to five years. Obviously FastGuido doesn’t want to make babies like Jason and myself. But that’s okay with me. We still like him. FastGuido prefers to drive around in circles. Here’s Guido’s statement, made with the little Canon Power Shot SD450.
While Guido searched his way back home and Jason probably took a wrong turn ending up with the Eskimo’s in Alaska I was heading towards a deep dark depression although the sun was shining and the sea breeze refreshing. I missed Maria from Ecuador too much, you see. But she is tough lady to make babies with, since she’s married to Don Dickhead, this lousy creep. Life is unfair, I tell you. So, just before I decided to step into the ocean and swim all the way to Iceland or beyond this young lady showed up at the breakfast table and things took a decisive turn. Seriously, she just dropped out of the sky like a drifted parachutist. Good for me, cause I started to hear the birds singing again, saw that the sun shone bright as never before and realized that Iceland was too far anyway. But more important was that I learned my first words in Swedish: knull ruffs. I saw Sara’s knull ruffs for three mornings in a row and decided that God exist, no lie. Halleluiah. Praise the Lord. I decided too that it is better to burn up than to fade away, I guess.
Knull ruffs – the disorganized hair of a woman after she made love with a guy. Long life Sara!