Mi Moto Loca

When it came time to hit the road, his wife said "Choose!" and he kicked the starter

Eladio Irala arrived in Miami in early October with a simple plan: He wanted to ship his motorcycle to Haiti, take a boat or plane there himself, and island-hop all the way home to South America. He had no idea exactly how to do this, and he didn't know anyone in Miami.But the problem didn't seem too daunting to the 36-year-old Brazilian. After all, he'd just ridden (and pushed) a 1989 Honda 250 motorcycle for over 20,000 miles, from his native Brazilia to Tierra del Fuego, all the way back up through the Andes and stinking jungles of Colombia, Panama, Honduras, and Mexico, and then up America's west coast to Alaska. After that he angled south again in a dusty, bisecting arrow to Miami, the revolving door of the hemisphere. He'd been on the road for ten months.

"For me, it's very important to travel," Eladio says, with the same mild earnestness he uses to talk about battling malaria in Suriname, and evading Indians in the Guyana bush. By now he's a celebrity of sorts in Brazil, where he first became famous in 1991 after a two-and-a-half-year motorcycle trip that took him around South America like Che Guevara in the Fifties (though not for the same purpose). News crews and a thundering convoy of big army and cop bikes accompanied the bookstore owner for the first 100 kilometers of his trip.

Irala doesn't seem like a road-worn traveler, though; he's got a hint of gray in his sideburns but otherwise could be a peaceful, happy 25. And this helps for a guy who has to depend on strangers for shelter. To hear him tell it, people come out of the woodwork just to feed him and lend him money: "For Brazilian people, traveling is no problem," he laughs. "Everybody loves Brazil. It must be the soccer!" Eladio's permanent impish grin makes it hard to tell how deep his tongue is planted in his cheek, but his face attests otherwise: He's a dreamer, a real believer in basic human kindness. This is a pretty refreshing thing to encounter on South Beach at 2:30 p.m. on a Thursday in 2002.

"I didn't believe there were Indians like that anymore, except in movies"
Steve Satterwhite
"I didn't believe there were Indians like that anymore, except in movies"

In fact his optimism knows no bounds: He expects to find the same goodwill he encountered in Argentina and Oregon in some of the smoking holes of Africa and Asia, his next planned motorcycle nightmare tour. Actually, before he's through, Irala hopes to hit every country on Earth: "Africa is very dangerous," he says, a glint in his eye hinting at the particular madness that drives a man to take on crumbling roads, impossible bureaucracies, tsetse flies, Ebola virus, and mad teenagers toting AK-47s and channeling Salif Keita and Youssou N'Dour tapes -- "It took about four hours to get all my paperwork done getting into Honduras, and three hours to drive through the whole country." ... Then there was the family discord that a ten-month-long absence can bring: "My wife divorced me," Irala says, tongue firmer in cheek than ever. "She didn't like this trip."

Wife Walkiria -- with whom he started the bookstore and has a thirteen-year-old son, Alan -- told Eladio that it was her or the trip. He says it wasn't a hard decision. "For me, the trip is the most important thing."

Irala says he doesn't mind sacrifices -- leaving his business in the hands of his brother, leaving his wife and child behind -- for the sake of adventure. His grin widens when he talks about a harrowing three days pushing his motorcycle up a streambed in Guyana, when the road he was following ended unexpectedly. "Through the night I listened to the Indians" -- Irala imitates the sounds of natives and their drums, whooping and grunting -- "I spent three nights sitting up in my tent scared to death, but I never saw them. I didn't believe there were Indians like that anymore, except in movies."

But he made it out of the jungle, having blazed a new trail for extremely ambitious off-roaders.

The Honda, diminutive by the standards of American bikers (many of whom seem to prefer the La-Z-Boy on wheels model), stands in contrast to Irala's boyishness and Territory Ahead-catalogue wholesomeness. It's blackened with the grime of two continents, and carries every possession that Eladio cares about. Two tents are mounted on the front of the bike, and a metal-frame box is bolted to the back. On the back of the box is a map of the world, visible beneath a scrim of dirt.

The Honda company gives Irala a limited sponsorship, maintaining his motorcycle for free, and that helps finance his trips. He also lives frugally on the road, eating canned food and catching fish. (Eladio admits that maxed-out credit-card damage is another of his survival skills.)

For shelter Irala camps where he can, and stays in hostels and relies on the kindness of strangers elsewhere. A Brazilian couple in Los Angeles noticed him reading a map in Portuguese at a gas station. He wound up staying with them for a month (he actually prolonged his stay in L.A., preferring not to travel during the World Cup).

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