South America on a KTM

I am about to walk into a small house, led by a Bolivian man. He is saying something to me in Spanish, with a big smile. I get the feeling that he’s welcoming me to this part of history. I don’t understand the words, partly because my Spanish is bad, and partly because I am overcome with emotion. Around me is the dense Bolivian jungle – I am at close to 3,000 meters above sea level. The town consists of four houses, one small park, and this very special house. I’ve been travelling for three months to be here, and have lost all my possessions, including my passport. With the last of my money, I’ve managed to make it to this point. I don’t know how I’ll make it back, or where I’ll go from here, but I have made it to a very special place in my life. I am about to step into the small room, where Ernesto Che Guevera was executed in 1967. I remember the time when I saw the preview for The Motorcycle Diaries, a ride through South America on a beautiful Norton 500. The first thing that went through my head was that this is my story – this is exactly what I’ve wanted to do for the last 10 years. From there began my love affair with Che. I bought myself the best possible bike for a trip like this, a KTM 640 adventure, 5-feet high with about a foot-and-a-half of clearance, for any road South America could throw at me. The plan was to fly my motorcycle from Miami to Colombia, and then carry on South through Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, Chile, and Brazil. I loaded up my massive motorcycle with everything I would need for the next four months. There are custom officials around me at the bonded warehouse in Bogota, Colombia. They all speak to me in Spanish, and all I can do is give them the Indian headshake. They are either confused as to whether I’m saying yes or no, or they’re just excited to see me start up my bright orange motorcycle. Either way, there are smiles all around. I am here in Colombia, about to ride my own motorcycle, on my own Motorcycle Diaries. My reasons are part adventure, part chasing Che, part time to myself, and part sheer madness. All these parts come together, and I’m bursting with emotion. I’ve started my KTM, and I am riding in South America. Colombia is all about surviving a nasty fall, running away from the FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia), and camping in a desert under the stars. Ecuador gives me time for some R&R. I meet up with an old college buddy and get to enjoy his hospitality for a week. I head south again, this time on The Routa Del Sol – or Route of the Sun. For me it becomes the route of my soul – the beautiful Pacific, bluer than I had imagined, the empty road winding south through this magnificent country, and me on my motorcycle living my own dream. This is Ecuador. Next comes Peru. Here I look to get closer to Che. He once wrote to his mother saying that when he is riding he feels like he owns the land, and people look out to see whom these renegades are commanding the road, and riding through like adventurers across it. When on the road I feel this energy, I feel the wind on my face, and the elements all around. There is a sense of the land all over me, and to me this is the truest form of experiencing a place. Che and his friend, Granado, traveled down the Amazon on a wooden raft called ‘Mambo Tango’ that they built themselves. I want the same experience. The idea fascinates me, and I think I’m up to the task. I find the most local boat and get a ride. Mine is a cargo boat called ‘Henry V,’ with only villagers on it. There is a lot I can write about this five-day boat experience, but what I will say is that five days on a boat with nothing but a hammock to sleep on, brown river water to wash with, live chickens that keep disappearing just before meals, and a lot of locals who are amazed by an Indian on their boat, is an experience that can fill many pages. When I reach land again, I take the next flight back to where I started – it takes me only 45 minutes. I have a thirty-minute bath, eat anything but chicken, and get back in the saddle – on my motorcycle. I now know this – I am a Land man, and a bike guy at that – nothing more. Machu Pichu comes next, and I sit there and wonder the same things as Che did. How could a civilization, which could build something so amazing five-hundred years ago, be demolished by gunpowder? I sit on a rock and look at Machu Pichu for three hours, and I try and understand what I feel inside. For now I can just be amazed, and be happy that I am lucky enough to experience this. The most exciting country for me is up next – Bolivia, the poorest country in South America. It is also the country that Che was executed in. But I’m forced to stop in La Paz. My motorcycle has asked for a break, her suspensions are leaking profusely, and she needs some R&R. The parts will take three weeks, so I take the next bus to Santa Cruz. In my hostel in Santa Cruz, all my possessions, including my passport are stolen. I have nothing but the clothes on my back, and a little money in my pocket. The next week is all about paperwork, police, Interpol, and embassies. I can’t take it anymore, and at my lowest point I realize why I am here. I had planned to go to La Higuers, the death place of Che Guevara – I must go. It takes me two days to get deep into the Bolivian jungle. I’m in a taxi, with two of the largest Bolivians I’ve ever seen. They don’t stop eating coca leaves, and there is what looks like a golf ball full of leaves in their mouth. I am finally there – it’s a definite sense of achievement to have made it, and a sense of calm comes over me. Nobody but a handful of locals, the two big Bolivians, and me – the Che fanatic – are in this town.

I walk in and stand at the point he was executed, tears swell up in my eyes. What is the power of this man? Despite never having met him, I am overwhelmed by emotion. His place of death has been converted into a small museum, and it’s wonderful. After reading his life history and seeing all the artifacts, I am more in awe of the man, and the legend. At the wall where everyone leaves his or her mementos, I find more inspiration. Here in the jungles of Bolivia, I see that three Indians have reached, and left their mark. I am not the first, but possibly the fourth. We Indians feel a lot, and not only do we feel, we act on our feelings – this is the beauty of us. Down in Villagrande, I see the hidden grave where his body was hidden for 28 years. It took one retired general who had kept the secret long enough, to take a biographer there, and wait for him to ask the question – “You wouldn’t possibly tell me where Che’s body is, would you?” “Yes, it’s right here.” My fiancé Pritha joins me in Santa Cruz – I have a new passport, new visas, and I am set for the last leg of the trip. It takes me five hours, and a lot of begging to cross into Argentina. I am finally in, and I can see the end. I make it to Alta Garcia, the home of Che, where he was just known as Ernesto. His home is now a museum, and Pritha and I spend the day there. More history and more emotions flow through me. We see a picture of Che with Nehru – what a treat! The next morning, as I have breakfast, a lady asks me something in Spanish. I reply in broken Spanish that I am from India and don’t speak Spanish. As usual, she is taken aback and a huge smile comes over her. La India Ke Bonito – India, how beautiful. Pritha and I sit down with her and her husband for breakfast, and the conversations flow. Turns out, he is a childhood friend of Che. If I had a picture of my face at that time, I am sure it would look like a kid when he sees the Five Star wrapper being opened, or a boy when he sees his first sports car go by. This man knew all about Che, and he told me all. He described him as the little kid who did just what he wanted – he did what he felt was right. Sometimes, when you are taken over by an experience, you don’t remember the details, but remember the feeling. The conversations were a blur, but the feeling was something that I’ll cherish forever. As I approach the last leg of my journey, I’ve ridden 12,000 kilometers to reach Buenos Aires. The city is just as I imagined it – beautiful buildings and even more beautiful people. In a few weeks, I’ll return to Buenos Aires to leave for India. I feel it only fitting that I end my journey at the start of another man’s journey. I have taken this trip in reverse of Che’s journey of self-discovery. And I have done it, in order to go back to his beginning. I have learned a bit about how he transformed from a little boy with asthma, to a revolutionary known to one and all. Pritha leaves, and I carry on down south – I miss her terribly and miss looking for Che. My destination is the End of the World, the tip of South America in Tierra Del Fuego – Ushuaia Patagonia, Argentina. I make it here after 15,000 kilometers, six countries, and a few dreams achieved. I plant the Indian flag, smoke a cigar for celebration, and plan my next trip. Che is an inspiration – the more I know about him, the more I feel connected. What I’m going to do after this, I don’t know. But what I do know is that following a legend makes you go through a lot. Achieving your own dream makes you too a legend. I am closer to Che, but more importantly I am closer to myself.