The walls seemed to absorb the sound of my voice. I took one last brief look around before following the dusty stream of light that directed me towards the opening.

Ducking my head to avoid the dangling hairy fetuses, I emerged once again into fresh air and blinding light. More tourists had appeared and I watched as a group assembled around a few of the shops where tables had been setup, jutting from the sidewalk into the street. The lady I was looking for was busy helping actual customers. I decided to disregard my curiosity and continued my steady stroll down the cobbled road.

Two cigarettes and several blocks later, I reached a gravel stable between two ramshackle buildings where I had left my motorcycle when I arrived in the city. A frail, elderly man who seemed less steady than the surrounding architecture shuffled from his white booth and greeted me with a warm smile that seemed indigenous to the Bolivian people. If only by the Yankees' baseball cap perched on his head, I recognized him as the same fellow I met days earlier when I had dropped off my motorcycle. I liked him based on virtue of instinct although I had only exchanged laconic pleasantries with him. When one is unfamiliar with a different culture and society, he cannot simply rely on reference or reputation, but only on his innate intuition. And for me, after many years of traveling, those practical tendencies became quite seasoned.

He spoke slowly in Spanish, and, although I didn't understand all the words he used in our short conversation, his meaning was quite clear:

"How are you this morning?"

His voice trembled worse than his hands and I wondered if he remembered me too or if he simply treated everybody like an old friend.

"Doing okay, thanks. I'm just here to pick up my motorcycle," I said, louder than I normally would have, suspecting he may be hard of hearing.

He furrowed his shaggy eyebrows, apparently disappointed. "Leaving already?" he said. "But, you've just arrived."

"I'm just taking a quick trip up to Coroico and then I'll be back," I explained, hoping to reassure him.

He looked at me skeptically. "Coroico is a nice town, but it's a place where people go to relieve their anxieties. Surely, you aren't stressed after only three days in this city?"

I admitted that I wasn't. Looking towards the sky, I replied "Well, it's a nice day and I need to make sure I have good weather for the journey. I'm told the scenery along North Yungas Road is fantastic and I wanted to take pictures."

He nodded his head, considering his words before he spoke again. "Ah yes, it truly is, but that which is beautiful is never safe. You'll need agreeable conditions for the view and, of course, for the road itself. Well, let's get you on your way, young man. Follow me."

Not knowing how to respond, I followed as he frowned and limped away.

There was a time in my youth, perhaps because I had been raised watching the Discovery Channel and National Geographic, that I dreamed of becoming a traveler. But the idea of globetrotting by motorcycle didn't occur to me until I met a young Englishman at a hostel in Guatemala who told me of his encounters and escapades. By then I had been backpacking for nearly eighteen months and I found that his epic tales annihilated my own meager anecdotes. Eight months later, while I rested back home in Colorado for a bit, I bought a used motorcycle from a local dealer and, a week later, started south toward Mexico, sure that I was going to die.

Now, the highlight of my travel aspirations lay in an impressive example of ingenuity and fidelity that was revealed in a shady corner of the lot. The substance of my affection, an imposing BMW motorcycle, radiated like a treasure. I smiled when I saw the bike. I always did. But it wasn't flawless. Trivial scuffs and blemishes spotted the plastic and metal from debacles in Costa Rica and Ecuador, but nevertheless, it was a cunning piece of artwork.

"Well, here it is," he said, unnecessarily.

I watched as he grabbed a shabby rag out from one of his many jacket pockets and wiped the seat free of nonexistent, or impossibly fine, dust that accumulated over the past few days. He too looked down upon the silver chrome with admiration, probably, I suspected, because there weren't many large motorcycles in Bolivia, or in the whole of South America for that matter, that he could appreciate at hand.

I threw my leg over the seat and inserted the key. The engine turned but didn't fire as I pressed the red ignition button with my thumb. I tried again... then a third time. The attendant gave a somber look of dissatisfaction since he was impatient to once again hear the roar from the exhaust pipe. I wasn't