How I ended up crossing Amazonia with my motorcycle

When I requested a ramp to board the ferry that would take me and my Honda Africa Twin Adventure Sports from Colombia to Manaus, Brazil, I was not expecting a couple of kids to bring down a narrow wooden plank, measuring approximately 1.5 feet in width. The ferry's deck stood about at least 3 feet above the port. One of the kids tried to secure the plank in place with his flip-flop-clad foot, as if that would prevent it from sliding under the weight of my overloaded Africa Twin. Regardless of his good intentions, it was uncertain whether the plank would hold or give way.

Approaching the plank cautiously, I aimed for a straight line, riding my front wheel onto it and inching forward until my footing became less secure. Anticipating the possibility of submerging both myself and my motorcycle in the Amazon River, I had deliberately switched from riding boots to sandals. With a mixture of determination and trepidation, I muttered to myself, "Here goes nothing," and proceeded to ride in a straight path. By this time, I had attracted a small audience, primarily composed of ferry workers, mostly kids.

As I reached the top of the plank and rolled off onto the metal deck of the ferry, my front wheel made a forceful impact. However, it wasn't until I heard my rear wheel hit the deck that I could truly celebrate my successful navigation of the narrow ramp in the midst of the Amazon. Although the entire process of riding up the precarious ramp lasted only a few seconds, it felt as if time had stood still. The clanging sound of the metal plate beneath my rear tire brought immense relief. I had made it onto the ferry!

At this point, some dude motioned for me to move towards the back of the ferry, guiding me between supporting poles and local families standing beside their luggage. Once I came to a stop, a group of kids pushed my bike, along with all my belongings, behind a tarp that served as a makeshift pantry wall, storing provisions for all the passengers during the four-day journey. They secured it tightly. I decided to set up my camp near the bike, so I could keep a close eye on it—a decision that would prove to be quite overwhelming due to the constant noise coming from the engine room.

So how did I end up here, you ask?

Let's rewind a couple months earlier when I embarked on a motorcycle journey from Portland, Oregon, USA to the southernmost tip of South America amidst the second year of the pandemic. My plan was loosely set to ride south along the Andes, with most Latin American countries gradually reopening, albeit with some restrictions. However, Peru remained under strict lockdown at that time, and I assumed its borders would open by the time I arrived there. Fast forward a few weeks and all Central American countries later, I found myself riding an enormous figure-eight route through Colombia, waiting for Peru to unlock its doors. As my allotted travel time was finite, and I eventually had to return home, I decided to take a detour—a rather eventful one.

Enter my friend Joel, who was/is on a round the world motorcycle adventure riding a KTM 390 from Seattle, Washington. We met at a Panamanian border while heading south and had some fantastic motorcycle escapades together in Panama and Colombia. However, due to differing schedules, we eventually had to part ways. During our shared adventures, Joel regaled me with tales of his prior backpacking travels in the Amazon jungle, hopping on lanchas (small, narrow, fast boats) between villages deep in the Amazon rainforest. That's when inspiration struck me. If there were boats for people, surely there were cargo boats as well.

Without delving much into further research, I retraced my path back to Bogota and arranged for my motorcycle to be transported on a cargo plane to Leticia, Colombia—a town nestled in the Amazon jungle, bordering Santa Rosa, Peru, and Tabatinga, Brazil. It was an intriguing tri-town area with no official borders, yet the moment I crossed one, the language and currency changed. I flew into Leticia that same evening, expecting my motorcycle to arrive the following day. However, it didn't make it on time and got rescheduled for the next flight, two days later. This posed a challenge as timing was crucial. Upon arriving in Leticia, Colombia, I took a COVID test, a mandatory requirement to enter Brazil at that time. Unfortunately, the test was only valid for two days. Without fully considering the implications, I obtained an exit stamp from Colombia in my passport, took a tuktuk to Tabatinga, Brazil, and officially entered the country. Yet, while I found myself officially in Brazil, my hotel was located in Leticia, Colombia, and my motorcycle was still in Bogota.

Welcome to the tri-corner in the middle of the amazon

In the following days, to pass the time, I had breakfast in Colombia, lunch in Brazil, and indulged in Peruvian ceviche for dinner—a relaxed routine until my motorcycle arrived. When I finally showed up at the Colombian customs office with my bike, I learned that I should not have entered Brazil before clearing customs; my actions were illegal. I politely explained that my COVID test was expiring, leaving me no choice but to enter Brazil. Technically, I could have taken another test, but they understood the associated costs. Surprisingly, the officer remained calm about the situation and had to make a call to Bogota to resolve it, mainly due to a regional internet outage. Coincidentally, a massive volcanic eruption on the other side of the globe sent shockwaves that encircle the planet. Without any scientific evidence, I humorously attributed that eruption to the internet outage, causing bureaucratic headaches on my end. Eventually, several customs officers emerged from the office (all business conducted outside) to bid me farewell, amazed by my presence in the middle of the Amazon jungle with such a large motorcycle. With everything sorted, I exchanged remaining of my Colombian Pesos for Brazilian Reals, posed for pictures with a stranger, and rode to the Brazilian customs office, which, unfortunately, was closed on that Friday morning. The guard at the Brazilian customs compound instructed me to return on Monday—an undesirable situation after spending nearly a week in the jungle waiting for my motorcycle, navigating bureaucracy, and eager to move forward. As I left the customs building, fate led me to encounter an individual who appeared official-looking. Intrigued, I decided to strike up a conversation; mind you, I don’t speak Portuguese. To my surprise, he turned out to be the Brazilian customs officer! Due to the lack of internet access, he had to close the office temporarily, but he suggested I return around 3 pm. Following his advice, I arrived as instructed. Although he showed up later than expected, the customs process begun and was painstakingly slow due to the sluggish internet. Nevertheless, he proved to be the friendliest customs officer I had ever encountered. With my bike now officially in Brazil, I headed to the "port" to purchase a ferry ticket to Manaus for the next morning, and that's where the real adventure began.

The morning of the ferry departure was quite amusing, especially since I don’t speak a word of Portuguese. I noticed a massive queue forming and people carrying their own lunches, making me wonder if I should have done the same. All I had was a few beers, and I drank most of them while waiting for something to happen. People started leaving the terminal and walking down the ramp to the "port," which was essentially a floating dock with a large ferry docked nearby. Perplexed by the situation, as I started to wonder about, I encountered an English-speaking motorcyclist, attempting to undertake the same feat of crossing the Amazon a few days later. He spoke both Portuguese and English (being a Brazilian residing in the US) and informed me that I should have already been on the boat. Realizing my cluelessness, he made sure I found my way to the boat, helping me navigate the port guards. As I rode towards the boat, I noticed that everyone was passing through a federal police checkpoint—a procedure of which I had absolutely no knowledge of. The security check consisted of a few tables joined together, manned by three or four federal officers inspecting everyone's luggage and tickets. They appeared very intimidating. I approached the front of the line cutting in front of everyone, perhaps somewhat rudely, and waved my helmet and passport at one of the officers. He directed me to another officer who could speak English. Yes, this officer had a grasp of English. He promptly left his post, accompanied me to my motorcycle, checked my luggage thoroughly, engaged in a brief conversation about my purpose there, and gave me the green light to board the boat. With his approval, the kids emerged with the narrow 1.5-foot plank serving as a makeshift ramp. As it turned out, these kids (they were probably teenagers) were running the boat, acting as deckhands.

Once my motorcycle was securely positioned and hidden behind the tarp, I needed to figure out my sleeping arrangements. I had been forewarned that I would need a hammock or a rented cabin for the duration of the boat trip. However, cabins were fully booked months in advance, so I opted for my trusty hammock, which I had from a previous 12-hour ferry ride between Baja California and Mazatlan, Mexico, several weeks earlier. The boat had three decks: the main deck, where I stood contemplating where to hang my hammock and eventually discovered the kitchen and toilets, which took me a good 12 hours to locate; the second deck with a built-in soccer field, a bar equipped with a pool table, and the pre-reserved cabins; and the third, the smallest area where the locals crowded together with their hammocks. It puzzled me as to why so many people preferred cramming into the third deck, until the engine started and we were on a way.

I set up my hammock near my motorcycle to keep a close watch on it, considering the warnings about safeguarding belongings on the boat. Little did I know that this area would turn out to be one of the loudest and busiest sections, situated near the engine room, kitchen, and a series of toilets. With no other option for relocation, I relied on earplugs to drown out the constant noise during the following days.

During the multi-day journey, I would spend my time watching massive tropical storms pass by from my hammock, exploring the boat, and, of course, socializing at the ferry's bar. It was at the bar where I had the chance to meet a backpacker from Chile, another from Catalonia, and a Brazilian rider who was forced to leave his bike in California at the beginning of the pandemic. After finally retrieving his motorcycle, he was now riding it back to his home in São Paulo. Every evening, we would gather at what we affectionately dubbed the most internationally diverse table on the boat. However, monotony quickly set in as the routine became quite repetitive: wake up in the hammock, brush your teeth on the side of the boat, lounge in the hammock, grab a drink, lounge in the hammock, have a meal on the boat's side, lounge in the hammock, head to the bar, and then doze off once again in the hammock. Throughout this routine, I had the chance to observe the Amazon jungle, catch glimpses of local villages along the Amazon River shores, and make stops at random makeshift ports on our eastward journey. The Amazon River proved to be a surprising hub of activity, with numerous boats, water taxis in unexpected towns, and even people boarding the ferry while it was still in motion! A fast-moving boat would approach our ferry, gently graze its hull against ours, and the passengers would climb aboard using a ladder, a scene that may as well be taken from Mission Impossible, except instead of Tom Cruise, an old lady would climb the ladder.

After four days, I finally arrived in Manaus, Brazil—a bustling metropolis situated in the heart of the Amazon jungle, an extraordinary sight. Upon disembarking the ferry, I quickly learned that the road south (the infamous Route 319) was impassable, and everyone advised me to take another ferry further east until I reached the next accessible road. Following this advice, I went into town to purchase fresh underwear and a t-shirt while arranging for another ferry the following day. The captain was kind enough to let me sleep on the boat overnight, sparing me the need to find a hotel. What a considerate gesture. Two days later and more hammock time, at midnight, I found myself in Santarém, Brazil, where a road (if it could even be called that) headed south. Spending a night in a hotel, on a bed, with air conditioning felt glorious, rejuvenating me for the next leg of my journey. From there, I ventured through the Brazilian Amazon rainforest, heading south until I reached Argentina…