And so it was that we snapped our last selfie along the PanAmerican highway at its official terminus, alongside boats that would be repainted and cajoled into service until their planks would seal out sea water no more. Someday, we would find the film we shot that on last day, when we hopped the watery gap between the deck of the Famiglia Santa and the dock once and for all, and heaved shut its “sliding” red door behind us.
Read moreArgentina: one scoop or two?
Photo by Nathan Sharp.
Ah! Now, look here, said the butcher. You want bife.
It would prove a vitally important term for us. Bife, though a thin and cheap cut, was also ridiculously tender and flavorful. As the butcher handed over my paper-wrapped bundle, his approval of our vagabond dinner plans was obvious—mere parody of the sacred Argentine ritual of parilla though they were. But it seemed to me our official welcome to the country.
Read morePaso San Francisco: From Chile to Argentina
Photo by Nathan Sharp
We had grown so used to consequences that we no longer questioned choices made on a whim. And the open iOverlander app showed us the tantalizing coordinates of an azure-colored waterfall in the middle of this high elevation desert. The officer nodded, observing us amusedly.
Bueno. Just make sure you sleep on the Chilean side. Chuckling, he clomped back indoors.
The dirt roads had proven very manageable thus far. And we certainly could make it in the light we had left.
Read moreEl Salar de Uyuni: Or, How I Became Our Lady of Salt
Photo by Nathan Sharp
Our minds wheeled and sputtered in the blankness, on ground that was neither soil, nor sand, nor snow. The adjectives we had brought with us were not adequate here. Lunar. Martian. Salt of the moon. Salt of Mars. No, they would no longer serve us. For the salar has long glittered underfoot fantastic, yet fathomable creatures—elegantly proportioned vicuñas, fluorescent flamingoes. It has long been mined for minerals commonly used—salt and boron, and now, lithium. And so, somehow, this place was of our world also, of our home.
Read moreClose to the Sun and Always Wet: Snapshots From Bogotá, Colombia's Biggest, Baddest City
Calle 42, La Soledad, Bogotá
The constant juxtaposition of the old and the new here. Nuns in full cream and black habits glide past heavily graffiti’d walls. Hip restaurants, crowding in amongst the ubiquitous fruterias and salones de onces, offer Colombian interpretations of high-low cuisine—waffles, mac n’cheese, and artisanal burgers. At small batch coffee roasters, principled baristas proffer beans ground to order to your olfactory organ before brewing.
Read moreWhere are we going to so fast? My thoughts on the Royal Enfield Himalayan
Nathan and the Royal Enfield Himalayan dress to kill
From the moment the bike was announced, I was smitten. In its graceful profile I saw an unabashedly romantic motorcycle that embraced the aesthetic simplicity of the golden age of machines that hadn't yet been given minds of their own. It harkened back to the early days of adventure motorcycling, when BMW was just beginning to experiment with setting a big bike loose in the sand dunes of Dakar. Then, the motorcycle was a humble beast and the rider, her master.
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