The time arrived to ship my truck. The shipping container showed up still attached to the back of a semi-truck. A flatbed tow truck arrived right behind the semi. The tow truck’s job was to lift my truck up and align it with the opening in the shipping container so I could drive in. In reverse I climbed up on the flatbed. The tow truck driver leveled out the bed with me still on it and he slowly backed the tow truck up to the shipping container opening. My foot was glued to the brake. I pulled in my sideview mirrors. A pair of oil stained wood blocks were used to bridge the gap between the flatbed and the container. I slowly pulled ahead into the shipping container.
Once my truck was tucked inside the container, I had to get myself out. I couldn’t fit through the gap between the partially open door and the container wall. I ended up doing a reverse Dukes of Hazzard through the open driver’s side window and climbing down the off front wheel. To keep costs down, I shared my container with another traveler. My container buddy, Adrian, was heading home to Brazil in his blue Ford van with California plates. He had spent the past year surfing his way through Central America. Within half an hour both vehicles were strapped down and locked inside. I took a picture of the numbers stenciled on the container’s faded red rusty exterior. I’m not sure what I thought I was going to do with that information, but it made me feel better to have it.
It took me 45 minutes to fly to South America, it took more than a week for the truck to be unloaded and handed back to me.
With the truck en route, I was able to purchase a plane ticket to Cartagena, Colombia. My flight to South America took just 45 minutes, but it took more than a week for my truck to be unloaded and returned to me. During that time, I explored Cartagena on foot. I woke up early to avoid the heat and wandered the city. My favorite part were the narrow streets of the Old City. I admired the colorful murals in Getsemaní and stopped for a fresh-squeezed juice or a coffee whenever I could.
Then I received a message from Alejandro that my truck was ready for pickup. I headed to the Puerto de Cartagena, a massive fenced lot filled with row after row of shipping containers, stacked five or six high. Peeking out from behind them were even taller cruise ships. A man in dark blue coveralls, a safety orange vest, and a white helmet came to greet me. He handed me a vest and helmet to put on. We passed the guards and walked to a container set off to the side. I cut the lock, and inside were Adrian’s van and my truck. It would take another day of paperwork before I could drive the truck out of the port, but it had survived the journey.
It was the end of February and I was back on the road. It happened to be one of the first triple-digit temperature days of the trip, and I noticed the engine stumbling when driving uphill, accompanied by an audible pinging sound from under the hood. I bought a bottle of octane booster from a gas station and brought it back to the hotel where I was staying. I poured the entire bottle into the tank. The gentleman who owned the hotel saw what I was doing and came out to talk to me. “Mala gasolina en todos lados,” he told me. He said the country was full of bad gas. I decided to buy another bottle of octane booster.
