After my last deal fell through on Tuesday, I was discouraged, annoyed, and restless to sell my bike on Wednesday morning. If I was back home and had the time, I could just wait until I found the right buyer. But I was in Cusco, traveling, on vacation, and I didn’t want to spend every day trying to sell the thing when I should be out enjoying where I was at.

I headed to Parque Industrial where everybody sells their vehicles near the airport and prepared myself for all the interest the bike would generate. “Dos mil siete,” “Kawasaki seis cincuenta,” “Quince mil kilometros.” My spanish got better but I wasn’t happy with the guys making their low ball offers and just the way they acted. One young guy was overly aggressive, annoying, and put me on the defensive. The guy from the previous day who I had a deal with showed up, too, dropped his price and wanted all my gear. That was annoying after we had agreed on a price the previous day and I wasted my entire afternoon waiting for him. He eventually became unreachable that day.

I left around 10am, a bit frustrated, and was surprised that the sketchy, young guy, who wanted my bike very badly, was following me on some old, old Honda 500 dirtbike. He pulled alongside of me at speed and tried to get me to pull over to negotiate on the bike. I kept waving him off with a no, no, no, but he persisted. I sped up, he sped up, I slowed down, he slowed down. We were close enough that a small swerve would have locked us up for an ugly crash. Finally, he pulled off but what a psycho!

I returned to the hotel and ran into the guy that bought Roar’s bike. He was interested in my bike for his brother but his offer was another low ball offer like the others and much lower than what he gave Roar for his bike. I negotiated the offer a little higher and then left for the Honda dealership in hopes of standing outside and selling it there. After standing there for a few minutes I asked, why am I doing this to myself? I was holding out for a better price which I could surely get on the big market day on Saturday but at what cost? Time, money (hotels, food for extra days to stay), and peace of mind.

I returned to the hotel and called up the guy that bought Roar’s bike. Even though it was a lower price, I liked the guy and I knew that he could close the deal. The biggest problem with selling the bikes was that they were not registered in Peru. To make them legal, the buyer accepted the responsibility of paying the import taxes which were 40% of some number of the value of the bike. Who knows how that is determined.

I went with the guy to the bank while he withdrew the money (another problem since few people here have the means to buy what, essentially, is a large, luxury motorcycle). We went to an English center to get a translation of the title. Finally, we went to a notary to sign a two page contract (I was listed as “Don Andreas Osman” which was really cool) and translations of the title. The brother and I placed a fingerprint by each signature and we waited while each of the three copies was stamped by at least five different stamps to make them official.

This process (including the money and motorcycle key exchange which occurred at the hotel) took all afternoon. At the end, the guy took us to his museum for photos of his brother, me, and the bike “para recordar.” After the photos, he took me for a tour of his museum, and they both walked me part way back to my hotel before giving me big hugs and wishing me luck. I’ve never had a sale of a vehicle happen like this before and I felt good about the whole thing, even the price, and even the way they smooth talked me out of my helmet for $200.

These guys had been riding their whole lives and in their late 40s, early 50s, they were like little kids about these motorcycles. The guy kept talking about how the bikes would be together and you could tell how excited they both were. I could just imagine them riding out in the Valley where they lived and how people would look at the huge bikes in awe and how they would tell the story of how they bought them from two gringos who road them down from California. Although I’m not emotionally attached to the bike at all, I like the idea of these two guys continuing to ride the bikes together.

Thursday, we joined the sheep of other tourists, and rode a train to Machu Picchu. I had to contain my feelings for hippies, dirty backpackers (and even some clean ones, why do they carry so much stuff with them?), and super lib travelers, but it wasn’t too hard as Machu Picchu is really such a unique, amazing place. Beautiful, impressive, awesome, just like everybody says it is.

Without the bike, I felt that a part of me is missing. I can’t just get up and go wherever I want to. God, I am just like every other traveler again. I have to take a taxi, a train, or an airplane to get from place to place. Until this trip I was always one of those people and I don’t know if I can go back to that (well, maybe for short trips). But the freedom of having your own wheels, your own means to get from one place to another when you want and how you want is fantastic. You experience more of the land, the beauty, the people than you can when you are rushing by on a night bus or hopping by plane. It will be nice to go home for some normalcy but I’m hooked. I’m doing this again. I want to do the original South America loop but I don’t know what will be next. Africa, Asia, Norway, Australia, New Zealand. They all beckon and they are all on my list….

In a couple of hours, Roar and I fly to Lima and will spend the weekend there for one last hurrah before heading home. I know that he intends to post a lot more pictures when he gets back to his own computer with a good connection and I will probably do the same. But sadly, this trip has come to an end and I know that I will dwell on the experiences for a long, long time.

Here’s to the next trip and to anyone else out there who makes their own next trip…

Salud! Prost! Skal! Cheers!!!

Andreas Osman