I looked up from my book toward the hostel’s front door that had just been thrown open with a muted thud of wood on cement.

A silhouetted figure stood supporting the shadow of a motorcycle as the sun glared behind them. A short exchange of words was given between the obscured figure and the woman who worked at the hostel. The end of their conversation was signaled by the kick start of the cycle and a gear shift over the hostel’s threshold. As the mounted figure came closer to where I was sitting, with feet pushing the now idling bike along the freshly waxed inner courtyard ground, the shadows ran from the features and I could make out the rider’s appearance. The rider had on well worn and softened black leather riding pants and a thick jacket in spite of the midday heat. He kicked out his motorcycle’s stand and let it gingerly balance on the metal bipod in a hallway that led away from the courtyard I was sitting in. His hair was California surfer blond and he sported a Burt Reynolds “Smokey and the Bandit” mustache, giving him the air of an icon from the 1970’s.

He was given a key to a room by the same woman that opened the door for him, unhooked his bags from the bike, and went in to his room. I sat not more than six feet away, having had pretended to read my book through my sunglasses as all this had transpired. I had often wondered about foreigners driving cars around Latin American countries. I found bus schedules confusing enough and had always wondered how foreigners were able to navigate roads that even locals found themselves driving on the wrong side of. More troublesome than that to me was the thought of corruption. In South America there are extremely long stretches of empty road, where human souls are few. In the event something goes wrong, be it a flat tire or a police roadblock set up more for personal and capitalistic purposes, your chances of emerging on your own free will, is dramatically decreased. That doesn’t mean I don’t envy them their freedom and increased adventure, but I will admit they are braver than I.

I wondered where this person had come from and what he was doing driving a touring bike through Peru. It was inevitable that I’d ask him. While I waited for him to emerge from his room I stole an inspection of his motorcycle. I am by no means an expert when it comes to bikes, mountain or motor. From watching my father work on his bike long ago, and keeping my ears pricked at the passing conversation, I did know some basics. I knew for example that this bike came equipped to travel South American roads. The shocks looked of decent quality, the leather seat fit the bike and rider like a western saddle would fit a horse, and its size made for a more comfortable ride along long stretches of nothing. Dressed all in black, perhaps to match its driver, the BMW F650 was a bike meant to go for long stretches giving the rider relatively little mechanical problems. That’s not to say that driving along I-5 in the US is the same as driving the Pan-American highway in South America. The well-placed middle of the road fissure or rock-strewn mile is much more common down south, and much more likely to hasten the ultimate death of the bike. By all accounts, the bike was one of Quality. Having just finished the novelized epic of a man on a motorcycle who travels through the US and himself to remember the meaning of quality (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance), I was tempted to push him for his views on the neo-philosophised subject. I felt that trying to slip in neo-philosophical thoughts into our first conversation might not bring him into a comfortable conversation, leaving my curiosity about his travels left to rage like one wondering if they every turned the stove off or locked the front door.

While inspecting the bike I took note of the license plate. I had expected to see the average white Peruvian plate with black lettering and numbering, but was surprised to find that it didn’t have any kind of South American license plates at all. The bike had been registered in New Mexico. Epiphany. This was one of those guys you always hear about in urban legends. One of those guys that’s doing what your buddies back home always talk about. “Man, It’d be awesome if I could just buy some cheap car and head all the way down the globe,” but then never make an actual attempt to see it to reality. Who can blame their indulgence and lack of effort into the seemingly fruitless pipedream. This guy though, he was actually doing it. Affixed to two metal lock boxes, where saddle bags are usually mounted, were pasted some of his life philosophies: bumper stickers. There were two of prominence. One showed a healthy salmon giving its profile for those that followed close enough. On the other lock box was a sticker I had seen quite a few of back home: "Attack Iraq? NO!" in blue and white. Probably supporting his beliefs, as well as acting as a talisman to ward off the rest of the world that overall happens to be against the war.

I sat back down on my wicker chair under the afternoon sun in the open courtyard and again pretended to read, waiting for the new arrival to come out of his room. When finally he did, I introduced myself from where I sat. He introduced himself as Edward. We talked briefly and I found out that he had stayed at this hostel a few nights before but that he had just got back from a one night trip into Colca Canyon (a canyon near Arequipa that boasts being the deepest in the world, and showcases great condor sightings). He invited me to go with him and two of the other hostel residents for dinner that night. Wanting to find out more about his trip I greedily accepted.

While walking through the lamp-lit glowing streets of Arequipa, I began to indulge my curiosity. His plan? Quit his job as the Director of New Mexican Wilderness Alliance, buy a motorcycle, and head south young man, head south. Hopefully heading south until the money runs out at Brazilian carnival, and not before. Edward had been traveling for about a year on his bike, "El Cabroncito," (The Little Jerk ) as he had christened it. "El Cab" had carried him into and out of a few difficult situations while traveling. Starting in New Mexico and riding south through Mexico and Central America he finally found himself in Arequipa, Peru and heading for Chile. Like me, he is electronically chronicling his travels. His site (www.edsgonesouth.com) was just ranked by ¨Forbes¨ magazines as one of the most visited travel blogs online.

Ok Eddy, enough with the background. What about the nitty-gritty? Tell me some horror stories. All travelers have them, especially emerging world travelers. Am I wrong to suspect that because you’re traveling on a motorcycle by yourself you have had more problems than I? Tell me some...

Edward had been in Bolivia just before the northern border was closed due to the encroaching oust of their president by popular demand. In Sucre, Bolivia’s official capitol, Edward met a 12 year old girl on the highway, letting her kiss the road with a hug from his bike at 50 mph. Edward knocked her down as, without looking, she crossed from the median into his front tire. This introduction earned her a quick and frightening trip to the hospital. As the little girl was taken to the hospital, El Cabroncito was taken to the impound.

Luckily the little girl had an insurance policy, the name of the policy being Edward. The girl was held in the hospital under constant supervision to “make sure she wasn’t bleeding out of her ears,” Edward informed me. According to Bolivian doctors, it takes up to seven days for blood to leave its own blood-brain barrier and seep onto the white pillow that would mark her surrender to brain damage. During those seven days Edward became well versed in bribery. He bribed the father not to press charges and take him to court with a sentence that might earn him an intimate relationship with a Bolivian prison cell and Eduardo, his doppelganger and new Bolivian boyfriend/cellmate. The hospital was not apt to hand out medications, especially not for just a little bump by a giant German motorcycle running a pre-pubescent girl down. In Bolivia, Ibuprofen is apparently encapsulated in precious metals, too expensive to waste. A normal day went something like this: "Ok gringo," the girl’s father would say. “She needs Ibuprofen. Lets go down to the corner drug store and you buy some.” “OK” came Edward’s still guilt-ridden reply. Later, when it was found the girl would not be hearing the rush of her own blood out her ears, she was released. Edward’s bike however, still needed to be ransomed. A few hours and US dollars later, he and his bike were driving off into the Bolivian sunset, making sure to stay clear of bike loving children.

The next morning Edward had scheduled himself to take to the road again for the border town of Tacna, Peru, en route to Chile, where hopefully the pedestrians have a more natural fear of speeding gringos.

I thanked Ed for the talk, watched him finish picking the meat off of the guinea pig I had talked him into trying, and wished him the best of luck. He looked to the small fried rodent, then to me, and looked perplexed for a moment. He saw I probably meant with the trip, and smiled a guinea pig’s greasy sweet smile that told me he had no worries about the bike. The rat sized rodent before him though seemed to give him a bit more pause. In typical adventurous style, however, Ed picked the pig clean with gusto. What’s a little rat to a man who travels three continents on a cageless crotch-rocket?