THE DECISION
It was as far back as the second big lockdown, in late 2020, that we first thought seriously about buying a bike in South America. Returning for Part II was still a long way off but thankfully we didn’t know that at the time. Pferdi was even older now and while he did have a new engine, his other bits were over 80,000k old. The idea of going without him broke our hearts; it would never be the same or as much fun with another vehicle. But reliability was our main concern and South America has no Ural dealers. The scramble for parts in France dispelled any doubts we might have had about leaving him behind. We decided we’d buy a bike whenever we got there, and sell it when we were finished with that continent.
What we didn’t realize was how hard it would be to find any information on the subject. Researching produced single-digit blogs and ex-pat advice and while useful many were years old. I should mention here that what’s written below is only what I found in the course my searches, none of it’s official and some of it mightn’t even be true.
The big question was could we as foreigners buy a bike in one South American country and legally drive it across multiple international borders on that continent. After comparing prices in various countries, the places we were most interested in were Peru, Argentina and Chile. Peru was where we’d hit the Covid-pause button and I found only one mention: they had tricky and convoluted export rules. Argentina seemed pretty clear-cut, we could happily purchase a bike there but we couldn’t take it out. Colombia was the one place that cropped up positively and the owner of a Honda dealership in Cali generously gave us the most solid information to date, but we’d already spent six months there and it was 3,200k north of where we’d left off. Finally Chile. At first glance it seemed promising as we’d been told you can bring a Chilean-registered vehicle out of the country and easily cross borders. On deeper inspection however some cracks appeared. To buy a bike there a Chilean tax number (RUT) is needed, but they’re only given to residents. So…you have to find a Chilean resident willing to sponsor you. If this isn’t possible, there’s a company who seems to be in business purely for this reason. They’re called Suzi Santiago.
We’d come across this name before and it did sound like a distinct possibility. We almost convinced ourselves but the biggest downside was the borders. Some of them could be problematic and even with possible remote help from the Suzy team, you could be forced to detour to another crossing. Also, it seemed that driving from Chile into Peru was not allowed at all for foreigners and this was exactly the route we’d planned to take first. An additional document called the “Declaracion Jurada” supposedly makes crossings easier but in the end we decided against it. There are enough unknowns on the road without starting the journey off with definite known unknowns. And so we returned to the Colombia option.
THE PURCHASE
Never in our wildest dreams did we imagine we’d return to Colombia, but here we were, planning to buy a bike there and retrace at least some of our steps from the pre-pandemic months. After seeing several Royal Enfields running around South America and being impressed, Fran decided to go semi-native and buy a Himalayan. After writing to the various dealerships in Bogotá and receiving no response, we asked a friend for help. Within a couple of days he came back with contact information for Maribel, a salesperson at the store in the Zona T section of the city. Through various back-and-forths it transpired that we’d have to pay for the bike upfront, after which an order would be sent to the factory. A few days were spent debating the wisdom of sending several thousand dollars across the ocean to buy a vehicle we’d never seen. God forbid we should arrive at the address only to find the “Virgin Mary Hair and Nail Salon” in business. However, it soon became clear this was the only way it was going to get done, even if it felt like giving our bank account to that Nigerian prince who’s still roaming cyberspace looking for a place to park his millions. There was nothing for it but to dive in. In for a penny, in for a Himalayan.
On the day of the financial transaction we called the credit card company not once, but twice. Hey guys, you’ll see a charge go through, for $21,290,000.00 Colombian Pesos. Yes, that’s right. Don’t reject it. Going through the electronic payment system that evening in Portugal, the process went smoothly, until it didn’t. Alarm bells were ringing a non-stop Latin beat at the Visa offices somewhere on the other side of the world. There were more rejections and several calls to the Fraud Department, begging them to accept a twenty-one million plus payment to an entity called BEGO in Bogotá. What’s not to like?? It had all the signs of one of those awful scams, but in reverse. In the end it went through and next morning Mr. Francis got a text to say his order had been sent to the factory and would be ready at the dealership in a fortnight.
Over the next few weeks we selected top boxes and panniers as we packed-up again for a life on the road. There wasn’t much we could bring. Pferdi may be classed as a motorcycle but for us he was an armoire on wheels. Nothing was going to replace that, especially not a little 411cc moto from Chennai. So we threw a few pairs of knickers and fleeces, old Spanish language notebooks and various electronics into two large suitcases and waited for the 3:00 AM taxi.
THE DETOUR
Leaving Europe we stopped in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was our first time back on US soil in over six years and a world away from our old California home. There were enough similarities however to make it feel familiar: busy traffic, fast food restaurants in every strip mall and huge cars. We were visiting family and buying new, much-needed bike gear since we’d been knocking around in the old stuff for literally decades. For old times sakes we dined one evening on catfish and fried okra at the Cracker Barrell. Its shop still sold Goo-Goo Clusters and boxes of Salt Water Taffy, the porch still had its rockers and the cicadas were still a-chattering, though with “Ma'am” at the end of each sentence. The Tar Heel state must be the most polite in the country but the friendly manners contrasted sharply with America’s dark underside. Magazine stands sold “Recoil” (Winter Warfare – Are You Ready?) and “Guns and Ammo” alongside “Good Housekeeping”. Outside a large modern hospital a sign greeted patients with a “Welcome To Our Tobacco-Free and Weapons-Free Campus” and next to it was a Safe Baby Drop. When we couldn’t eat one more shred of pulled pork or force another hush puppy onto the fork, we said our goodbyes. The two suitcases were now bursting and looking quite pregnant with the helmets at one end. At the airport, passengers were swingin’ low in white rocking chairs and listening to the baby grand piano playing below. As the old trucker used to say: “Ain’t no place finer than Nokalina.”
THE RENDEVOUS
We arrived in Bogotá late on Friday night. The air was warm leaving the airport and we spent half the journey into the city searching for seatbelts in the back of the shuttle. (There weren’t any.) Even though it was close to midnight we could see the traffic hadn’t improved. We couldn’t believe we were finally here and the relief granted us the sleep of the dead. On Saturday morning we walked over to Zona T. It was very ritzy: Cartier, Carolina Herrera, and…..a Hooters (ick!). And of course Royal Enfield. We walked in and there he was, our new boy, sitting waiting for us in the window. We met Maribel who was as nice in real life as on WhatsApp, and Max the store owner. Then Guillermo arrived, our good and faithful friend, who had made this gathering a reality. It was as if we’d arrived back at the beginning, the one that started in Turbo, when we thought all of South America was before us. Hopefully this time it really is, but whatever lies ahead, one thing’s for certain, there’s no turning back now.
Slideshow: Click Arrows