Day 8

Awakening from a sleep not induced by Tequila has us both us feeling good. We have to return our two steeds today. We thought we could source some metric bolts to repair the bike but upon disassembly discover that they are a special hollow shoulder bolt.

We remove some body work and using our luggage straps create support for the rear frame.

Charles with the tools of the trade zip ties and a multi tool.

We have been using GPS throughout this trip and once again it proves invaluable. We make our way through narrow streets and roundabouts in a way that would be difficult with a map on a bike. The first gas station has no fuel so we move on to the next. It is a multi level affair and as the Super flows we notice several men prowling the grounds with 12 gauges at the ready as well as automatic side arms. These are not sleepy security guys leaning against walls. Their heads are on swivels, the guns are held with the finger on the trigger guard. No one else seems to notice. We the weave through some rough looking areas, some with piles of smouldering trash at the roadside until we are greeted by Hernan’s smiling face. His smile doesn’t last as we point out the structural failure we encountered. As the company mechanic I’m sure he wasn’t happy to have yet another bike join the two others he was already repairing. One had been in an accident and another was a bundle of exposed wires as he was trying to trace a pesky electrical problem. Nonetheless he waved us off and the shuttle bus returned us to the Britannia. We quiz our driver about the safety of the hotel area and he mentions that this an area frequented by the local transvestites. Charlie had mentioned to me on the night we arrived that he thought the tall woman on the corner was a man. Good eyes. We head into the city square for food and souvenirs. It’s Saturday and everyone is out. We meet a man at a shop who speaks good English and has spent time in Montreal. With a quick shoulder check he lets slip that he prefers us to our neighbours to the south. Mexicans are apparently the worst… Stocked up with trinkets we seek lunch. The shopkeeper’s recommendation looks a little touristy to us so move one. Then in a city of over a million who do we see walking towards us? Tony our hydroponics expert pops out of the masses with a look of surprise on his face to match ours. We make our excuses and shortly thereafter see a little corner restaurant where we try to bluff our way throght the menu. I end up getting a big plate of chicken and rice with a side salad. Charles receives a tiny stuffed pita like sandwich. The waitress seems to appreciate the humour when she is flagged over and another order is placed. Going with the non tourist theme we find a back alley bar where we soak up a little local flavour before nap time. For dinner we stroll down the street half a block where we are the only patrons at a Moroccan themed resto in an old mansion.