North across the pampa

After completing my journey from Prudhoe Bay to Ushuaia, I couldn't escape the feeling that the trip was all over, that the journey up the coast to Buenos Aires was just going to be a long, straight, dull ride across the flat pampa with nothing to see. It was all of those things, but if there is one thing I should have learned by now, it's that nothing on a trip of this nature is ever easy.

I'd left Rio Gallegos later than planned as I was tired from the previous late night. I wanted to try to get to Buenos Aires by the 22nd December, to allow myself time to get the bike organised and hopefully make home for Christmas, so I knew I had three days to cover more than two and a half thousand kilometers.

Mother Nature had decided it was time for me to leave the continent anyway, at least that is what it felt like as enormously strong north westerly winds tried to blow me into the Atlantic Ocean. Having filled up with fuel in Rio Gallegos, I was shocked at the rate it was depleting at. I started to worry there was a fuel leak, and stopped to check a couple of times. It couldn't be the wind that was affecting things that badly... could it? I didn't have enough fuel to make the planned stop at Puerto San Julian, but fortunately there was a garage about halfway so I was able to top up, the wind dropped and the bike made San Julian with something like it's normal fuel economy. Hmmmm. North of San Julian the wind was much worse, and again it became apparent that I was not going to make the next big town because of the decrease in fuel efficiency. However, I knew as I had passed this way on the way south that there was fuel in Fitz Roy, so I could let the bike plow through the fuel until then.

To give some idea of just how vast, flat and empty the pampa is, I saw the three tiny hillocks that gave the small outpost of Tres Cerros it's name fully twenty miles before I came in sight of the town itself. The bike threw up the first low fuel warning after 160 miles, I am normally disappointed if I get less than 240. The wind was simply hammering my fuel supply. I filled up again at Fitz Roy - the same garage where my chain had jumped not so long ago - and knew then that I was safe until Comodoro Rivadavia, my stop for the night, because there was another town halfway. Of course, there were other things than just fuel to worry about.

I sat on the bike in the garage at Fitz Roy looking at the ominous dark clouds north, and wondering if I should sit out the rain. But the storm didn't seem to be moving much despite the incredibly strong wind, and of course the only place to sit would be in the fuel station. So I thought I would press on. The next few minutes became the tensest of my life, I think.

I rode north watching huge forks of lightning lance down into the flat grassy plains in front of me to the left, fascinated and thinking that I was lucky I wasn't under that little lot, when the road bent round and headed straight for it. My fascination turned to horror as I realised the next highest thing, other than me, for miles in any direction was shubbery that wouldn't cover my knees. I could see rain a long way ahead up the road but it was the lightning that had my attention, it seemed to be right at the very front of the storm so I gassed it and hunched as low as I could over the tank, hoping it wouldn't strike a rapidly moving target. I'd cleared the first of the dark clouds and was nervously glancing behind and left when an enormous purple-tinged fork came down not far from the road on my right. I squashed my tank bag to one side so I could get even lower, and put the throttle to the stop. It seems silly now looking back, but at the time I know I thought at least once "I don't want to die".

But it was my own stupidity that was nearly the cause of something bad happening. The rain came down hard and was being blown into waves of spray by the wind that made it difficult to see. I've not experienced conditions like it. I was looking up at the clouds often, and as I went around a gentle bend the back of the bike went right, then left in a huge wobble. That made me sit up, and I realised with a shock I was doing more than 90mph in the pouring rain, on horribly worn knobbly trail tyres. Added to that there was a chemical sheen on the surface water, maybe some diesel on the road. The imagined danger of the lightning had almost resulted in a very real accident.

Then suddenly there was a gully, the road dropped and I was no longer the highest point. I caught up to a coach and sat behind him for a while, although it had been maybe ten minutes since I last saw any lightning. It wasn't really until I reached the town of Calleta Olivia that I relaxed though, the sun was starting to peek through the clouds and the wind had switched directions, and was now coming in from the Atlantic. By the time I reached Comodoro Rivadavia the easterly wind had reached storm force and was battering the hotel I stayed in. I was glad to be off the road and felt at the time that never riding again might not be such a bad thing ;)

The next day I was reluctant to leave and got on the road a little late again. The skies were blue though despite the very strong wind, which had my neck and left shoulder aching within half an hour. I couldn't imagine twelve hours like that, with nothing to see but flat grass again and the odd Guanaco, but somehow I got through it. My biggest worry when I pulled in to Viedma, after 11pm, was the state of the tyres. The centre strip on the rear was worn totally slick, and the front tyre had been worn into a strange uneven pattern that meant the bike rumbled over the road rather than riding smoothly. I hoped they would last the almost 1000km I had remaining to get to Buenos Aires the following day.

Monday 22nd was all about watching the kilometer signs gradually descend. I'd done so many long days that my butt hurt before I even left Viedma in the morning, and my neck hurt as soon as I got into the wind. Viedma had kind of marked the end of Patagonia, and I figured on a map I would be about opposite Osorno in Chile, where it had started. So that made sense. There were a few outlying "suburbs" around the town, contrasting with Patagonia which was either small towns or sheep ranches. Heading towards Buenos Aires, the landscape quickly became farmland, fields of gold as far as I could see, which brought on a new problem.

The immensely strong wind was creating dust storms across the road, which started out ok but quickly became really dense. The thicker dust clouds would have me trying to cover the gap at the neck of my helmet, to stop the wind blasting dust up into my eyes. At a couple of points the storm was thick enough to blot out the sun and bring visibility down to a few metres, my world became the solid white line at the side of the road - it was all I could see. After what seemed like ages but was only really an hour or so, the surrounding land started to become less sandy and more grassy, so the dust clouds lessened. For hundreds of kilometers south of Buenos Aires, there was field after field of cattle. Not surprising that Argentina is famous for beef!

I stopped for fuel about 300km from Buenos Aires and realised with a shock that I had bought my last fuel on the trip. Next time I had to buy petrol I'd be in the UK, and gasping at the expense, no doubt :) I don't know if it was due to all the dust south and west, but sunset was particularly red and beautiful. It had been dark for a couple of hours or so when I finally turned off the autopista into downtown Buenos Aires, too exhausted to even be cheerful let alone celebrate. I'd been in the saddle another thirteen hours, and putting my watch forward an hour for BA meant that it was after midnight when I found an hotel.

I will be in Buenos Aires for Christmas. If you've managed to stay with it this far, thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I did. Wherever you are I hope you have a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful and prosperous 2009. No matter where your travels take you, may you always have a full tank of fuel and the sun on your face ;)

Best wishes,

Frase.

PS I will write up an epilogue once I get home and update all the pics

The bottom of the world

Having arrived in Ushuaia at almost 10pm the previous evening, it was very hard to get up the following morning. This part of the journey was always going to be tough, as I'd not left myself enough time to spend more than a day on Tierra Del Fuego. Getting onto the island had taken a lot longer than expected, so I wanted to make an early start.

Ushuaia itself was not actually the end of the road, although the southernmost city in the world. Ruta 3 left the city and went a little further south, almost immediately becoming a gravel road. In a kind of mirror of Alaska's Dalton Highway, the last few kilometers of the road are in Tierra Del Fuego National Park, so you have to pay a fee if you want to get to the very end. However I was happier paying a fee to the Park service rather than oil companies :) The park was nice, with snow capped peaks and many small lakes, although it was windswept, cold and rather desolate. The road got narrower with tighter bends and a few rickety looking wooden bridges that I worried might puncture a tyre.

Finally, after just over four and a half months on the road, I rounded a bend and saw two signs marking the very end of Ruta 3, and the end of my journey from Prudhoe Bay. There was a small turning circle and a car park with two empty cars. Other than that it was deserted and the only noise was the wind. My odometer read 23,307 miles, and when I left Prudhoe Bay back in August it had read 2,480. Total distance 20,827 miles. Of course there were still a few more to add :)

I'm not sure if I expected something more (although a welcoming committee or a chequered flag might have been asking a bit much) but I got off the bike and wandered around in a bit of a daze. I knew I should be feeling a sense of accomplishment, or joy, or something, but all I felt was tired. I went down to the water's edge, sadly not the South Atlantic or the Southern Ocean, but a quiet inlet of the Beagle Channel, and stood in the water reflecting on how Jim and I had done the same in the Arctic, all those long miles ago. I went and found a "lucky" pebble again. It just wasn't the same.

And here it kind of hit home that what made the trip, even though I had set out just to see all the geography in North and South America, was the people I had encountered along the way. The pebble I picked up in Alaska and the volcanic rock I was given in Costa Rica made me smile because of the memories attached to them. The pebble I had in my hand on the southern shore of Tierra Del Fuego was, sadly, just a pebble I'd picked up.

I decided to stop being a sadcase and explore a bit around the small, remote peninsula. Along the shore there were so many fragmented shells that the beach had a kind of pink tinge. Two geese of some sort eyed me warily. It was so quiet, when the wind dropped, and I spent a pleasant hour wandering and lost in my trip memories. Eventually a few spots of rain made me think about leaving, and looking at my watch I realised it was almost midday. I had two border crossings and a long stretch of gravel ahead of me... it was going to be a late finish again.

As I headed out of the park, riding north again finally, I realised that I would one day have to return. Ushuaia itself is a lovely city, surrounded by some great scenery, and I would like to see more of Tierra Del Fuego National Park. Only next time I might fly in ;) I made good time to Rio Grande, where again the wind was not as bad as expected and I stopped for a coffee to wake myself up a bit. At San Sebastian the Argentine border crossing took around half an hour, then a few kilometers across the gravel I got a real shock at the size of the queue to get into Chilean Tierra Del Fuego. It was massive. It took a full two hours to get through and although I knew I would be ok with the ferries running until 11pm, my Patagonia guidebook said that Chilean customs closed at 10pm, so the second border crossing, just south of Rio Gallegos back on mainland South America, would be very tight indeed.

I got to the ferry dock and parked in a line of cars as the ferry was out in the Magellan Straits and nowhere in sight. The resident genius in me decided that I should have a cuppa while I was waiting, so I went in the small cafe and came out two minutes later with a coffee and chocolate bar, to see all the cars gone and my bike on it's own in the middle of the road. Argh. The coffee went in the bin after two sips and I rode around the corner to see the ferry docked. I needn't have worried though, none of the cars were allowed on and all the space given to lorries, even some that turned up after me. I sat and fretted... it was 9pm and the next ferry would be 9.30. Twenty minutes to cross and then another thirty to the border, which would be shut by then.

I got the next ferry and stood watching porpoises roll through the water, whilst thinking about the border. I knew the Argentine side was twenty four hours, maybe if the Chilean side was shut but unguarded I could just plow through it? That would cause me issues getting back in but as I was leaving Chile for the last time (on this trip) I could worry about that later. Would it cause problems getting into Argentina though? It was raining, there was an incredibly strong westerly wind and it was almost dark. Camping would be next to impossible. There were no hotels in the area. In the end, as normal, it turned out I was worrying for no reason. My guidebook was wrong, and in summer months both Chile and Argentina borders were open twenty four hours. As I left Chile for the last time I tried to think about why I liked it so much. Stepay had said that Chile is just there, they keep themselves to themselves and no one knows much about the place other than Pinochet. I thought the border crossings in Tierra Del Fuego summarised things nicely - the Argentine side was showing a looped tourist video of Patagonia, whilst the Chilean side had The Simpsons ;)

I made my final entry into Argentina a little before 11pm and found an hotel in Rio Gallegos by simply riding into town, seeing a sign saying "hotel" and stopping there. Despite this method it turned out to be a halfway reasonable place to stay.

There are kilometer markers all the way up Ruta 3 to Buenos Aires. When I left Lapataia at the bottom of the world, I had 3079km to the end of the trip. Only 2650 more to go ;)

Frase.

Percussa Resurgo

A week is a long time to be stuck in Punta Arenas. I filled it mostly with looking around souvenir shops, drinking coffee and reading. I did a lot of that, especially on Sunday when the entirety of Chile closes. There was one coffee shop - which served the best coffee I'd had in Chile - where I got talking to the waitresses and after asking me if I like to dance for some reason, there was a bit of hustle and bustle and one of them came back with a notepad and pen. On the pad there were several questions in English about me, to which I wrote the answers as best I could in Spanish. She went back to where all the others were watching, and a few minutes later came back with a second set of questions, the last of which was my phone number. I let them down gently (I think), explaining I have no phone. To this day I have no idea which of them it was that was interested :)

From time to time I would drop in on Gonzalo to see how the bike repairs were going, it transpired I would need a new clutch pin made. By Wednesday the replacement o-ring chain had arrived and Wednesday afternoon Gonzalo went off to pick up the clutch pin. His friend Stepay, who I had first met on Saturday, volunteered to take me to a duty free shopping mall in his truck. Stepay was a huge, friendly guy and it would be difficult not to like him. As we chatted I started to wonder what I'd done with my life... he'd been a miner in the desert, he'd been in the navy, and now worked in the oil industry. He left me in a guitar shop whilst he tried to get family Christmas presents, and just ended up getting himself a pair of shoes. I think guys are the same the world over ;)

Back at the garage, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Red 5 was fixed. She had a waxed new chain, the clutch worked and all was right with the world. Gonzalo looked very tired and very stressed. He had a lot of work on - I think he must be the only person in Chile who works Sundays too :)

But the trip finale - Ushuaia, on Tierra Del Fuego - was back on. After settling up with Gonzalo and thanking him for a great job, I said my goodbyes and went back to the hotel, noting how nice it was not to have a death rattle from the chain at every set of lights. Punta Arenas seemed to have a large amount of dogs hanging about on street corners, and there was nothing they liked more than chasing motorcycles. At one point I had three chasing me, and in typical dog fashion when I had to stop at a set of traffic lights, all they did was stand there barking at the bike :) I suddenly realised on Wednesday night that it would be my last in Chile, I had a couple of border crossings but no more planned stays, so at dinner I made the most of aji, a sort of chilli sauce, and Cerveza Austral beer which is really good. I got talked into dessert and the waiter returned with a full one eighth of a very sickly cake the size of a small coffee table.

Thursday morning I set out knowing I had a fairly long day ahead of me if I wanted to make Ushuaia. I had taken Stepay's advice and rather than catch the ferry from Punta Arenas, which runs once a day and takes a couple of hours, I headed north to Punta Delgado and caught the ferry there. I was incredibly lucky to turn up as they were about to lift the ramp, so I rode straight on and the ferry left. By the time I had got the bike sorted the ferry was in the middle of the Magellan straits, and I had just enough time to spot a couple of black and white porpoises and have a quick chat with the deck crew (they were surprised I was English - almost all the bikers they see are German, or American). Approaching Tierra Del Fuego, I tried to imagine what Magellan must have thought as he sailed up these desolate waters, and saw the Ona fires on the shore which give the island the name "Land of fire". If my thoughts were anything to go by it was probably "Blimey, everything is grey". The only break in the colourless monotony was white caps on the waves, driven by the strong wind.

As far as the Ona were concerned, their fate mirrors one that seems to have repeated all the way down this huge continent. They lived on Tierra Del Fuego, subsisting off the land for centuries until the coming of the Europeans who by turns hunted them or arrogantly tried to convert them to Christianity. No Ona survived the 20th century.

Riding away from the ferry I was soon on gravel roads again, which got progressively tougher on the bike until San Sebastian. There are two San Sebastians on the island, one is the Chilean border post and the other the Argentinian border 7km further on. Arriving at Chilean San Sebastian, there was another bike coming through the border in the opposite direction, so I jumped off and went for a chat. The guy was German, and had been on the road around the world for SIX YEARS. I felt like a numpty amateur cricketer meeting Sir Garfield Sobers.

After clearing the border formalities, I walked back to the bike and my two gallon spare fuel canister - my FULL two gallon canister - was gone. I immediately grilled the customs officials, assuming that as I'd had problems before it had been "confiscated". They professed to know nothing about it, and told me it had probably jolted loose on the road. It had survived the worst that the Carretera Austral had thrown at it... I just couldn't see it, and started hunting around. Stupid. Eventually the SAG guy asked if I was going to ride back and find it, and I realised that it just wasn't worth it. It could have been stolen, it could be anywhere along the 130Km gravel road. The worst thing was I didn't mind the wasted fuel so much as the thought that I had carried the container since Fairbanks, and now it wouldn't make the end of the journey with me. Sentimental AND stupid :)

The northern part of Tierra Del Fuego was desolate - just grass, sheep and Guanacos. Dotted about on the Argentine side were a few estancias, sheep ranches, and a few official-looking signs proclaiming that Las Malvinas were Argentina, the islanders obviously have some depth of feeling. I'd been warned about the wind across the island, but to be honest it wasn't really as bad as around Calafate or Punta Arenas. The landscape started to change from flat or rolling grass into hills and then mountains, part of the Cordillera Darwin. There were even trees. The wind was cold now, and it seemed a long time since I had been sweating on the Carretera Austral. It was getting late, too, and I knew the sun would soon be setting. I was counting down the kilometers to Ushuaia and thinking how like Deadhorse in Alaska it was. There was a pass across the mountains, and then the final run into the town.

Crossing the "Ushuaia" sign, there was no jubilation, no cheering, I was just tired and wanted to find an hotel. It was about 9.30pm when I got off the bike, stiff from the wind and the long ride. I managed to catch sunset though, across Isla Navarino on the other side of the Beagle Channel. Reaching the very end of the road would have to wait until morning :)

The title of the post - percussa resurgo - means "struck down, I rise again" and it is meant to be the Jordan family motto. As a child I remember seeing it over the kitchen door in my grandparents house. It kind of seemed appropriate after recent issues.

Frase.

The End. Or maybe not...

There is nothing quite like the sinking feeling of looking down to see a puddle of oil and bits of crankcase under your engine, after the bike just ground to an unexpected halt. I can say this with confidence since it happened to me Saturday.

Having got to El Calafate with a sore backside, and neck pain from my head being blown about in the ferocious winds across the Steppe, I then got in the shower to wind down from a hard day and slipped straight over, injuring my knee too. I must have looked a sight hobbling around the hotel, clutching my neck and trying really hard not to wince when I sat down. Why do you never read about these things in adventure books? ;)

I got a tour bus out to Lake Argentino next morning. Calafate exists solely because of the tourists looking at the glaciers, and all it is good for is t-shirts, beer and glacier tours. There was no way I was going to get the bike looked at, or obtain a new chain. I tried to push my worries about the bike out of my mind and enjoy a day off, but the nagging doubt that I had to make Punta Arenas somehow just wouldn't go away.

The bus took us the 80km to the national park, then dropped us at a dock where we got on a catamaran which took us out to the glacier's south face. Perito Moreno glacier is odd for two reasons - firstly it occasionally is long enough to cut Lake Brazo Rico off from Lake Argentino, resulting in one lake higher than the other until the glacier finally breaks spectacularly - and secondly because unlike almost every other glacier on Earth at the moment, Perito Moreno is not retreating. Scientists are all over it trying to figure out why.


The noise as we sat a hundred metres or so from the ice face was the amazing thing, lots of cracks and splitting noises going on. At one point I saw a huge section at the centre fall away or "calf" into the lake, but was so busy gawping that I forgot I had my camera more or less in front of my eyes. After the boat ride the tour group spent a lot of time at some observation platforms with loads of other tourists, but it was nothing compared to Peru and I was quite happy to see how many people were interested in a cool natural phenomenon.


Heading back in the bus I more or less passed out for the whole journey, I was very tired for some reason. Back at the hotel I managed to find someone, finally, that still wanted to talk to me after she found out I was English. Since arriving in Argentina I had started to become a little paranoid that when people asked where I came from and I replied, they quickly lost interest. Added to that I had noticed it was possible to buy stickers or badges with the flag of more or less everywhere in Calafate - even Belgium for goodness sake - but not the UK. No hotels had the Union Flag outside either, but had most other nations. I thought about the Falklands war that was all over the TV when I was a kid and guessed that some grudges die hard.

Having adjusted the chain as far as it would go on the bike, it was still slack and I reluctantly left Calafate next morning, knowing there was little chance it would survive the 550Km to Punta Arenas but not having much of a choice other than to try. If I was lucky it might just keep jumping the sprocket, but the worse case scenario was the chain snapping or jumping and mangling the engine at 60mph, causing untold damage to the bike and more importantly me, maybe in the middle of nowhere. It was going to be a tense day.

I resolved to try to slow down or stop as little as possible, as slower speeds meant more slack chain. Against that I had to weigh up the fuel situation, and I knew I would need to stop as often as possible to fuel the bike as it was going through fuel so fast. I also needed to stop at the border as I was crossing back into Chile to get to Punta Arenas.

The first 150Km or so went ok, but as I slowed down to make my first fuel top-up I could hear the chain rattling even with my earplugs in and the fierce wind. In the petrol station I got off the bike and had a look. The chain was the same shape as a capital D, or a big cheesy mocking grin. Chains aren't meant to look like that. It didn't do anything much for my confidence, so I sat next to the bike on the forecourt steps and ate an ice cream while I pondered my options. I pressed on.

I crossed the border at a dull looking industrial town called Rio Turbio. I was a little upset that I was going to miss out on Torres Del Paine, one of the planned highlights of the trip, but it was up a gravel road and there was simply no way I could risk going there with the chain in the state it was. A little before Rio Turbio however, I got a view of Torres Del Paine in the distance and the peaks were all covered by low cloud, so I didn't feel quite so bad.

Leaving Argentina was no problem, in fact they probably couldn't wait to get rid of me judging by most folks I've met ;) but entering Chile, I was stopped by SAG customs officials because I had a couple of gallons of fuel strapped to the back of the bike. I politely pointed out that there were also 5 gallons IN the bike, but they weren't concerned about that. They told me that a few years ago a car carrying a plastic can of fuel crashed, and everybody died in a fire because of the split fuel can. Now it is illegal to carry fuel in a plastic can. Unusually for me, I resolved to argue the toss on the point. I needed the fuel, there was nothing between the border and Punta Arenas 200 plus km away, and I think I was a bit stressed about the chain. I got off the bike to pursue the matter, but at that point an official came over and in very good English told me that they understood I was on a long remote trip, and they would waive the issue for me. I like Chile ;)

So it was I found myself riding the entire way to Punta Arenas head down watching the mileage fall, almost completely ignoring everything around me but the wind, which was starting to reach simply unbelievable levels. I've always known that Punta Arenas was about as far south on the mainland Americas as you can go, but what I wasn't prepared for was how bleak and remote the peninsula it sits on is. There is simply nothing there, except wind. When Shackleton failed to reach Antarctica in 1914 and survived two winters on the ice floes, the rescue finally came from Punta Arenas. Judging by the bleakness of this place in summer, I cannot comprehend what Shackleton and his men went through further south.

I rolled into town hugely relieved that I had made it, and found an hotel for the night. The staff helped me track down a couple of bike shops, but no one had a chain in the size I needed. One of them however pointed me to a bike mechanic, so I figured on Saturday morning I would take the bike for him to have a look at. I got three blocks from the hotel before there was a thump, the clutch lever went slack and the bike died. Looking down there was a gathering pool of oil and engine parts. Oh.

My first thought was actually relief - I was glad it didn't happen out in the wilds of Patagonia. I was also glad I was barely crawling along at the time. As I pushed the bike up the long hill to the mechanic I figured that worst case, the engine was damaged and that would probably mean the end of the trip, and me flying home from Punta Arenas without the bike, unless I wanted a long wait in South America while the repairs were carried out.

Arriving at the garage I started trying to explain what had happened with the chain and the resulting damage. The mechanic looked at me and asked if I spoke English. It turned out that Gonzalo, the mechanic, spoke really good English which was helpful since I have enough trouble ordering lunch, let alone bike parts ;) He took one look at the chain and told me the problem was that the chain was a cheap one with no O rings, and he showed me how loose all the links were. Hmmm, thanks Promoto. In fairness, I had bought the chain on recommendation from a different shop, but it would have been nice if Promoto Suzuki had told me I needed an O ring chain when they fitted it. Some VStrom experts they turned out to be!

Gonzalo said I had snapped the clutch pin, and the crankcase around it which would be easy to fix, but that ordering the chain would take time I didn't have. He thought Thursday 18th maybe I could have the bike back, fixed. My chances of Christmas at home just evaporated.

So - the bike is dead but appears to be in the hands of a decent mechanic. I am stuck in Punta Arenas, which to be fair is not New York City. There isn't much to see or do. If I really do have to wait here until Thursday I may try to get a coach tour back up to Torres Del Paine, or over to see the penguin colony at Seno Otway.

When I find out more about the bike, I'll post it here.

Frase.

Shapes in the wide Patagonian sky

I was a bit hasty when I said I had seen the most beautiful sunset I'll ever see, way back in Arizona. The last two evenings in Patagonia have definitely rivalled the Painted Desert. The immensely strong winds here paint the clouds into strange elongated shapes, unlike any artist could imagine.

I'd managed to get the ferry from Puerto Ibanez at the second attempt, I turned up half an hour before sailing, paid a uniformed official and rode on board. The ferry was like a military landing craft, so I ended up sitting on the bike on deck for the two and a half hour crossing, as it wasn't tied down, fretting about the official having taken my money and not given me a ticket. Or any change. As the ferry docked in Chile Chico, like the shopkeeper from Mr Ben the official magically appeared again and gave me a ticket, and my change. Um, thanks.

I rode out of town and almost immediately came on the Chilean side of the border, which was straightforward enough, but between Chile and the Argentinian post was a stretch of gravel road. As I rode onto it, there was a clunk and the bike ceased forward motion. It was in gear, I was revving, and nothing was happening. Oh @%$&, I thought, I've snapped the chain. I'd been aware the chain was a weak point in my armour ever since Alaska. I had no spare chain, no chain rivetting tool, and was therefore completely reliant on the chain holding up - which was why I had got it replaced in Santiago. Should have thought a bit harder about it really ;) Plucking up the courage I looked down, and saw to my relief that the chain had jumped off the rear sprocket, but was otherwise ok.

A few minutes fiddling and the chain was replaced, I was covered in grease, and I made a mental note to adjust the chain at some point as it was too slack. At Argentinian customs I tried not to look at the officials as I smeared black all over their important-looking forms. Oops.

In order to make up some time I had decided to hammer down the paved Atlantic coast road rather than take gravel roads, then I would turn inland and head towards El Calafate to see the glaciers near Mount Fitzroy. In order to get to the coast road, I had to cross mile after mile of pampa. Tufty clumps of grass as far as the eye can see, completely flat in all directions, for hours on end. The only living thing I saw outside of the occasional car was a small armadillo which I almost ran over.

After turning onto the coast road, I left the last big town there would be for several hundred kilometers and realised I would be riding after dark unless I got a move on. The bike seemed to be going through fuel a little quickly so at a tiny town called Fitzroy I pulled into a petrol station, and as I pulled back out up a gravel slope there was a clunk, a bang, and the rear wheel locked up. I was lucky to stay on.

Why - WHY do I always put off stuff that needs doing immediately??

This time the chain had jumped off the rear sprocket and coiled itself around the axle, locking the rear wheel up. About half an hour was required to extricate the chain and finally loop it onto the sprocket. Firing the bike up to see if all was well I was rewarded with a whirring noise and not much else. My first thought was that I had mangled the gearbox, but on closer inspection the chain had jumped the front sprocket too. That was harder to sort, but having got the chain back where it should be, I took all the luggage off, got the tools out and adjusted the chain there on the side of the road. I noticed there was a small garage nearby and a guy was standing patiently in the doorway watching me, like a vulture watches rabbits trying to cross a road ;)

I put the bike in gear and was rewarded with something approximating final drive once more. Looking west the sun was not far from the horizon, and I realised I was still two hundred kilometers from Puerto San Julian, where I was going to spend the night. It would be dark soon. I figured I had the tent, and if I was going to pitch that it would need to be in the light, so as I rode along I looked for likely spots to camp. It was all so flat... I didn't want to be visible from the road.

Sunset seemed to last forever. Riding through it was an experience that will stay with me for the rest of my life. As the sun sank beneath the western horizon and the moon rose behind me, the perfectly cloudless sky became orange and purple in the east, and brilliant orange in the west. Overhead was a magnificent deep blue, with the brightest stars and the planet Venus becoming visible gradually. As I looked up the road, a large meteor plunged through the sky and broke up right before my eyes.

In the deepening gloom I could see shapes moving out in the pampa, they could have been sheep for all I know but all thoughts of camping vanished from my head ;) After a time I passed a small hill with two Guanacos silhouetted on the top, maybe they were the mystery shapes. It had been dark for some time when I reached San Julian, so cold that I didn't care where I stayed as long as it had blankets! The chain, worryingly, appeared to be very slack again.

In the morning after another adjusting session, I headed south before turning west towards El Calafate. The bike appeared to be going through petrol way too rapidly, and as there were no fuel stations I started to fret I was going to run out of fuel. With fifty kilometers still to go to Esperanza, where I hoped there was a garage, the fuel light started blinking at me. The furthest I had ever been on a blinking gauge was about thirty five km, in Canada. I was going to run out of fuel. The last twenty km into Esperanza were spent waiting for the bike to cut out and leave me with a long push across the Patagonian steppe.

Finally, cresting a rise I saw the telltale blue sign of a fuel station and whooped that I was going to make it. The garage didn't take credit cards and I only had enough cash for about ten litres, but it would get me to Calafate. Just. I adjusted the chain again, worried that one more adjustment would be all I could manage if the chain kept stretching. When I finally made El Calafate in the early evening, as I pulled up I could hear the chain rattling on the swingarm, it was so loose again :(



I ate dinner in the hotel and sat next to a huge window overlooking the Andes behind Lake Argentino. The sun was setting behind the mountains and the tortured, stretched shapes of clouds slowly danced in the sky. Several were edged with fine rainbow colours, all looked like the brush strokes of some giant master artist. I was happy that tomorrow, at least, I would be off the bike as I was going to see the Perito Moreno glacier. I could worry about what was for lunch for a change :)

Frase.

The hardest part

After the events of the previous day I wasn't sure I would be leaving La Junta at all :) But at least the bike was fixed. Leaving was made harder because Connie and Alan, the couple that ran the hotel, had been so kind to me and the hotel was lovely too. In English the name meant "Space and time", and it was a small oasis away from the dusty Carretera Austral. But I needed to get a move on, and wanted to try to complete the remaining gravel highway between me and Argentina.

Connie had mentioned a little about the road north and south of La Junta, and I was disappointed to hear that actually I could have ridden through Chaiten, instead of diverting through Argentina. Although there was nothing there since the eruption, ferries and the road were in operation. South towards Coyhaique I was told there were many beautiful wildflowers.

What I didn't know was that the roadworks I had encountered the previous day were just the very start of a long, long section of works between La Junta and Puyuguapi, the next town. The Carretera Austral was a pretty demanding gravel road, and I'd been averaging maybe 30mph over most of it to La Junta. The Carretera Austral with roadworks, however, was another beast. Most of the roadworks sections were either dirt, or more commonly very deep gravel/rocks. I found myself at a complete crawl over those parts of the road, and I frequently had to stop altogether as trucks came barrelling past in the opposite direction, amid huge clouds of choking dust. Hmmm, I thought. This is definitely the hardest part of the ride so far. It makes the Dalton Highway look like Disneyland.

It got worse. My map showed that there was a long section of paved road down to Coyhaique from Villa Amengual, but a little before I got there the road climbed away from the river valley I'd been following, and hairpinned it's way up to a pass across the mountains. The bends were deep dust and rock, and at every one the bike would slide alarmingly, at one point almost firing me off when I got on the throttle too enthusiastically. I kept thanking Matias back in Vina Del Mar for recommending the trail tyres I'd put on, the road tyres I'd been using would have been impossible on the Carretera Austral. Having made it to the top of the pass, just for fun the descent was all hairpin bends and as bad as the ascent in every way.

Having assumed that the hardest part was over with, the road started to follow the river again and there were more roadworks. By this time I was stiflingly hot, my legs hurt from all the standing on the pegs and there was a big knot between my shoulder blades from fighting with the bars. Added to that I was suffering severe sense of humour failure, so you can imagine how I thanked the roadworks team when I rode into a long stretch of deep sand mixed with pebbles, kind of like the ballast you put in concrete. The bike would slew sideways if I went more than a walking pace, and I thought I was off more times than I could count. I found that I could go for maybe a hundred metres, then I would have to stop, rest, look for a line ahead, and then do the next hundred metres. I passed a cycling couple pushing their bikes. It looked like very hard work. As I slewed past, too worried about colliding with them to risk a wave, the
girl looked over and raising her finger to her temple, shot herself in the head. I nodded agreement. This was definitely the hardest part ;)

But oh boy was it ever worth it. When the paved section started I was throwing the bike into bends at 60mph, really enjoying the ride. There were lupinos as they call them in Chile lining both sides of the road with purple for more than a hundred kilometers, the smell alone made it worth all the aggravation. Plus the scenery was outstanding - sometimes Alpine, sometimes more rural, always in bloom. Approaching Coyhaique there were entire islands covered in wildflowers out in the river. I have never seen so many flowers.

As the road from Coyhaique was paved, there were a few tourists about and it was no longer a rare event to pass a car, but it was still very quiet. Coyhaique itself was a surprise when I got there, it looked big on my map but I rode in one side and out the other in a few minutes and had to turn around, as I was planning to stay the night.

The following morning I was planning to catch the ferry from Puerto Ibanez on the north shore of Lake Buenos Aires, to Chile Chico on the south shore, before crossing into Argentina again. I thought about asking the hotel manager what times the ferry ran but didn't, so it should have come as no surprise that after the hundred or so kilometer ride to get there, there were no ferries as it was some sort of public holiday Monday. See you tomorrow Indiana Jones ;)

Frase.

Going nowhere on Carretera Austral

Having picked the bike up out of the gravel I pull the clutch in and hit the starter button. Nothing. The kill switch is on, the bike is in neutral. Try again. The bike won't start. I'm on the Carretera Austral, probably one of the remotest roads in the Americas, and the bike chooses to let me down for the first time. Oh good.

I'd left Esquel after arriving at 9pm the previous evening and a night in a smelly hotel. I had the choice of following Ruta 40 on the Argentine side of the Andes, or crossing back into Chile and taking the much tougher Carretera Austral, but I chose Chile because my guide book assured me that Ruta 40 was just mile after mile of pampas. A little before the frontier I passed the tiny Welsh enclave of Trevellin, but resisted the temptation to stop for traditional Welsh tea!! After Trevellin the road became gravel, and I knew it would stay that way for 500Km or so. Crossing the border again was painless, at Argentine customs they warned me about the spare tyres I was carrying, I have absolutely no clue what the guy was on about but I was in a hurry so assured him I completely understood, and thanks very much ;) I assumed he was telling me I might have to pay import tax on them in Chile, but he could just as easily have been asking if I thought Frankie Goes To Hollywood should make a comeback tour :)

The bike was searched again going into Chile, they seem really keen on stamping out drugs. No fancy x ray machines at the tiny border post, but they had a sniffer dog. I'd heard they even take a dim view of tea bags, but mine made it through unmolested. I got a little lost coming into Chile and almost made it all the way back to Argentina, before finding a signpost and heading towards the Carretera Austral. The gravel was easier with the new tyres, but still really tough on me. My hands started to go numb with vibration, and my back muscles started to knot with effort. Several times before I even made the Carretera Austral I thought I was going over in deep gravel, but the tyres allowed me to throw the bike around more and letting it slide about became easier.

Turning onto Ruta 7, the Carretera Austral, was kind of a small milestone as I'd read so much about it, and also because the bike passed the 20,000 mile mark for the trip (since Vancouver). Built by General Pinochet as a kind of exercise in making sure Argentina didn't misappropriate parts of Chile, the road linked many villages and gave them all a new lease of life. The scenery makes it one of the most amazing tourist routes anywhere - if you can handle the gravel.

I stopped for fuel and ice cream in La Junta, and enjoyed not being shaken around for the first time in hours. I was hoping to make the next town and had plenty of afternoon left, so after a leisurely chat with a schoolkid called Constanza, who's Dad was CYCLING the Carretera Austral, I got back on the bike and headed south. I got to some roadworks about a mile outside of town and followed a diversion sign up a deep gravel road, which was closed at the top. Some clown had obviously reversed the sign, so I went to turn around and yet again, dropped the bike in the gravel. And that was the end of that.

I couldn't pick the bike up as it was on a slope covered in gravel. After a couple of tries a young local lad came to the rescue and we righted the bike. Petrol was everywhere from the full tank. And the starter wouldn't work. I tried a couple of bump starts and nothing. I tried changing the ignition fuse, the extent of my mechanical skills. Nothing. Finally I tried percussive maintenance, the last resort of the inept, and a good thumping later, nothing.

I decided I would have to walk back into La Junta, and look for an hotel and a mechanic. There was a signpost for an hotel in 1Km so I thought I would try there first.

I checked into the hotel I'd seen and must have looked a state from trudging all the way back into town in the baking heat, with all my gear on, because the lady hotelier gave me a cold can of beer on the house. Then she ran me in her car down to pick up my heavy bag off the bike. She explained that her husband had a flatbed truck and we could get the bike when he returned home later.

After a couple of hours the husband, Alan, had managed to round up a few employees and we all went down with the flatbed and a plank to load the bike. Four of us got the bike on the truck and then ran it down to the town mechanic. By this stage it was gone 6pm but the mechanic was still ok to work on Red 5. His "shop" was a shed with no front, and it was surrounded by rusting junk and old car parts. He seemed to know his stuff though, and while he took the left side of the bike apart I made myself useful and helped his wife open jam jars ;)

It was getting dark by the time the guy found the issue - the clutch has a kill switch and is required to be pulled in to start the motor. The cable of the switch was out, and simply replacing it fixed the issue. The bike roared into life. I'd explained to the hoteliers that I had no cash and they had told the mechanic they would pay him. I could then settle with them on VISA. As I was about to leave the garage, some friends of the mechanic spotted the heat rash on my leg and wouldn't let me leave until they'd dressed the wound. So there I was, tired and hardly able to stand straight, balanced on one leg having a bandage applied by the lady while her husband found his camera and took pictures, much to the general amusement of everyone :) That'll teach me to wear shorts.

It never ceases to surprise me just how things have a way of working out. Solutions always seem to present themselves in the end - someone is always there to lend a hand.

Frase.

The kindness of strangers

Promoto Suzuki did a great job of patching up the bike. I left it with them for a few hours and they replaced the 20,000 mile old chain, replaced the broken-and-duck-taped-since-Alaska short windscreen with a taller one, and replaced the bar end I somehow lost. They also put the fairing back together properly, a job I'd been meaning to get round to since it was damaged in the crash, nearly 19,000 miles and four months ago. Any gaps left were then duck taped, which would have been great if they hadn't pressure washed the whole bike ten minutes later ;) I had a chat with the owner, who spoke good English and explained that they rent bikes... giving me the kernel of an idea for the next trip!

I left Santiago knowing I had the best part of a thousand kilometers to get into Patagonia. I'd decided to head to Osorno as it would allow me to pass into Argentina through the lake district, then turn south and go around Chaiten, where the road was closed. The day started ok, getting used to the bike again after the modifications. The tall screen was a great plus, in fact I couldn't understand why Suzuki sell the VStrom with the shorter screen. No more buffetting, I could cruise along at motorway speeds and hear myself speak (not that I talk to myself much ;) ). The tyres were another matter, having spent 50km or so scrubbing them in, I still hated every corner and roughly surfaced road resulted in many a brown trouser moment. I shuddered at the thought of riding over gravel.

Thankfully days here are long as it is approaching summer solstice. The road south from Santiago was as dull as a double glazing seminar, but there was so much of it. I rode the equivalent of London to Glasgow on the M1/M6 - over 900Km of motorway and the only interesting bits were ice creams in service stations ;) As the sun started to set I was struck by just how much the landscape had changed, I was riding through pine forest again and a rural land very much like England. So much so, that I started to sneeze and my eyes started to itch. I've never suffered hayfever outside the UK before (let alone in December!).

It was very dark when I arrived in Osorno, but after a few minutes I found an hotel and wandered in, to be told they had no rooms. Wandering out again, I was stopped by a very European looking guy and he told me that there was an event in town, a shopping centre was opening and all the hotels were full. He introduced himself as Jose, and his friend Guido was much more Hispanic looking. Jose explained that Guido was a biker, on his way to a big meet in Bariloche, and they would not see me go without a bed for the night. While Guido picked up a local phone book and starting phoning around all the hotels in town, Jose explained a little about himself. He said he was German, but on further investigation it turned out that most of the Chilean Lake District was German. The Germans had come to clear forest there a hundred or so years ago, and stayed. He asked me about my trip and as seems to be normal in Chile, asked me if there were any dangerous parts - like Colombia. I seem to have spent my time in Chile telling people to visit Colombia and change their opinion.

Guido found a cabin and after spending a couple of minutes drawing directions, they figured I looked tired so volunteered to lead me there in their car. The cabins turned out to be really nice, a sight for sore eyes at 11.30pm after 920Km on a motorbike. The owner couldn't apologise enough for not speaking English, which I tried to explain was perfectly ok as we were in Chile and I should be speaking Spanish. I had bad heat rash and my butt was so sore I thought it might get up in the night and sneak off, hoping I wouldn't notice. The thought of ever riding again hurt, let alone riding tomorrow.

Jose and Guido said their goodbyes and left me to it, saying that if I was in Bariloche on Saturday I should stop by at the bike meet as I was bound to win the prize for coming from furthest away! The people of Chile had managed to amaze me since I'd arrived and I wasn't looking forward to heading into Argentina in the morning, even if only for a day.


Leaving Osorno a little late, I headed through the Chilean lake district towards Argentina. The scenery was outstanding, lakes and snow capped peaks and south, one solitary snow capped volcano cone. Leaving Chile and entering Argentina was simple, the only delay was having to wait in a long queue. However I knew I needed insurance cover and typically they didn't sell it at the border. I was assured there was a town 25Km into Argentina and I could get insurance there. Riding away into the Argentine lake district, the reason everyone goes on and on about Patagonia became immediately apparent. The lakes and mountains reminded me of Canada, but the whole place was in bloom. Lupins lined the roads in purple, while whole verges of Jasmine made for a beautiful contrast with the blue sky. I was desperately low on fuel but had to stop to soak in the view. I pulled up at a lakeside viewpoint, and bumped into a handful of riders from Majorca. They had rented bikes in Buenos Aires, and ridden across Patagonia... nice. After some photos and a chat we went our separate ways and I finally found the town I had been told about at the border.

I tried asking in the fuel station, and a shop but no one seemed to have a clue about insurance. Eventually I tried the local police and almost immediately started to regret it. No one spoke English and my pathetic attempt to explain what I wanted in Spanish resulted in having all the bike documents examined, whereupon the cops decided all was fine. At that moment a guy walked in that spoke excellent English and within two minutes everyone was on the same page. I was told of an insurance agent in town, and after a brief ride down a gravel track I found they were closed until 4pm. That would leave me about 300Km to do before it got dark. Hmmm.

Once open the insurance was straightforward to sort out and at 90 pesos much cheaper than somewhere like Mexico. I rode south in a hurry, determined I didn't have time to visit the bike meet at Bariloche. When I rode through town there were many Harley type bikes and I rode right past the meeting site without stopping. I just couldn't afford to wait a day :( I took Ruta 40 all the way to Esquel, riding parallel to the setting sun as it sank behind the Andes. My shadow, always seeming to be on my left, lengthened away into the pampas. There was nothing, no one around for miles at a time.

Without wishing to sound too much like a tree hugging hippie, the road seems to have become a mirror for my life. I seem to be following it to it's conclusion, unable to turn around and go back, just waiting to see what the next corner holds in store. I have no idea what I will do when I reach the end. Only somehow I know that a part of me will always be riding in that beautiful Patagonian sunset.

Fraser.

Preparing for the end of the world

Rodrigo is a quiet, friendly Chilean biker from Concepcion. Whilst patiently waiting for the tyres to be replaced on his BMW GS, he asks me my planned route to Ushuaia after Santiago. Despite my appalling Spanish I manage to explain and all is well until I mention taking the ferry from the island of Chiloe in the south of Chile, to the town of Chaiten to start down the long road called Carretera Austral (southern highway). He tells me Chaiten is "gone". It was destroyed by a volcano and the road there is impassable. All the people fled. Rodrigo's identical-GS-riding friend nods vigourously and when I produce a map of Patagonia, they help me find a route with lots of scenery, avoiding the problem. I love Chilean people.

I'd left Copiapo and headed south towards Santiago, but having read of a Suzuki repair centre in Vina Del Mar on the coast, I decided that would make more sense than asking around in a city the size of Santiago for a dealership. South of Copiapo the Atacama desert finally started to give way to greenery again. It had been almost a thousand miles, 1600 kilometers of sand and nothing else since crossing into Chile from Peru. A desert longer than the United Kingdom... no birds, no trees and about enough people to fill a small Bermondsey housing estate. I couldn't imagine living in Arica in the north and having relatives in Santiago. The transition was interesting, first grasses, then shrubs, some wildflowers and a few butterflies. Finally trees, and just north of Vina the first of the famous Chilean vineyards.

Vina Del Mar finally came into sight as the sun was sinking into the Pacific Ocean on Friday evening. It had been the second longest day of the trip, just under 800km, and both butt cheeks had long since gone completely numb. I'd been yawning all afternoon, maybe the tiring ride but I seem to have struggled ever since going forward two hours at the border. The first three hotels I tried were all either truly booked or their staff didn't like the look of the scruffy biker :) But finally I found a place and crashed out. On Saturday I wandered up to the Suzuki dealer and found out that they don't do servicing on the weekend, so I probably needn't have rushed down to Vina. Sunday was spent chatting to a guy in the hotel who hopes to be an English teacher one day. He told me of a place on the Chiloe peninsula where an earthquake drained all the water from a lake, leaving all the boats in it stuck at weird angles in the ground. I added Chiloe to the visit list.

I'd agreed with Matias, an English-speaking guy at the Suzuki garage that I would return at 9am on Monday morning for the service, and he was waiting for me when I arrived. It turned out the service would need to be all day, so my plans to head for Santiago afterwards were dashed. Matias, however, was superb and offered to drive me to an hotel in the area. I checked in, dumped my bags and told Matias I would be back to check on the bike at 6pm.

I was sitting in the hotel cafe when an elderly lady walked in. She went to the front desk and started asking them questions, but no one there spoke English, and the lady didn't speak any Spanish at all. The receptionist kept looking imploringly at me, and not knowing what else to do I offered to try to translate.

Viera it turned out, was Canadian but originally from Czechoslovakia. She'd been part of a big organised tour round South America, but when it came time to go back to Vancouver, she'd said no thanks! She'd been wandering around Vina and had seen the hotel - which was called Hotel Vancouver - so she wandered in. I liked her straight away, but boy could she talk :) It was very obvious she hadn't had any English conversation in a while anyway. Over the next hour or so, I learned about Vancouver past and present, the Sunshine Coast and what it was like to flee Czechoslovakia during the Russian invasion. And unbelievably, I ordered her coffee, and arranged her accomodation for several weeks. I guess compared to her strong accented English, my bad Spanish was easy to interpret!

When I got back to the bike, it was short the necessary spark plugs but the service was ninety percent complete. I was assured they would arrive the following morning, so I said I'd be back at 11am and then I would hopefully have time to head to Santiago. Tuesday morning was spent trying to fix the hotel Internet and chatting to Viera and a Scottish Australian I'd met called Frank, who was in Vina looking for a place to live. When I finally got to the garage, the plugs were sorted but the back brake was leaking fluid and felt spongey. If the brake didn't stop the bike on it's own, I wouldn't like to be on board with all the luggage at 100 kph! Fortunately the garage managed to sort the problem and I was soon able to leave. Matias had been kind enough to download Google Earth and show me the route I needed to a dealer in Santiago for a new chain, and some replacement tyres, so I left Vina actually knowing where I was going for once :)

The road to Santiago was only an hour or so, passing vineyards and through tunnels in mountains. I followed the directions Matias gave me and passing up a wide street I saw a Kawasaki dealership that had Metzeler tyres in stock, so I thought I'd at least get the tyres sorted and then look for the Suzuki dealer. Everything was going far too well, the shop had two sets of the tyres I wanted in the size I needed. They even had a replacement chain. The gear was stacked up on the counter and I produced my credit card, to be told cash only. I politely pointed out the large VISA sign on the front door, which was only there for decoration apparently. I didn't have anywhere near that sort of cash on me, so the next hour was spent trawling around for ATMs in the area. Having finally paid for everything, I then had to take the tyres to another shop to get them fitted, at additional cost. However it was whilst there that I bumped into Rodrigo and his friend, and another guy on a TDM900 who spoke a little English, and we all had a good chat over my map, which was soon scrawled all over :) . The guys even wrote the name of their bike dealer friend in Ushuaia, which might well come in handy. It became clear though that they thought my tyre choice, Metzeler Karoo trail tyres, was a bad one. They told me that Ruta 40 in Argentina was madness on my own and along with the closed Carretera Austral, not a lot of the route would be gravel. Plus the tyres would only last 5000km, not so much wearing out as unwinding ;) The Trailwing road tyres that were just being thrown in the bin had been punctured and still covered 18,000km.

I also met a chap named Harold who worked for Motorex oils. He was stunned I'd never heard of them - especially as they sponsor UK racing bikes - but impressed I was more than 30,000 km from Alaska on a Suzuki VStrom. He said that a lot of people do the trip on BMWs, but none on VStroms, and he took pictures of me posing with the bike, trying not to look embarrassed. He said he would send them to Suzuki Chile as they would be interested! The bike is a great advert for Suzuki, so far it has been marvellous.

Finally at around 6pm I loaded up the bike with luggage and spare tyres and headed off, with great directions from Harold, to the Suzuki dealer. I found it straight away and they promised that they would be able to fit the chain tomorrow morning, as well as repair the bar end I lost and finally replace my broken windshield. I only had to ride two blocks to a hotel Harold recommended, but in that time I got a lot of stares from passers by. The spare tyres strapped on obviously make me look a bit hardcore, a bit Dakar Rally. Or stupid, one of the two ;)

Frase.

Alone again

I'm in Copiapo, Chile. It's been a few days since I left Puno - twice :)

The infamous Insight fleximap of Peru showed a road leading from Puno to Tacna, near the Chilean border. What it failed to mention was the type of road. Ten minutes after turning off the main road to Bolivia I was bouncing over rocks and potholes and sliding around on gravel. I asked directions several times and was told this was the road to Tacna, so I persevered for some 50Km before deciding that all 450Km of road was going to be like that. I was worried about the already-repaired-once-and-quite-worn-now tyres and the battering the bike was taking, and as there were no alternate roads, I turned around. I was almost back to the main road when the bike slid off into the deep gravel at the side of the road. Trying to climb back onto the road, the bike stuck fast. I was stuck with the front wheel on the road, the back buried in deep gravel and the bashplate under the exhaust grounded. The rear wheel was so deep the bike could stand up on it's own without me on it. At almost 4000m altitude it took me maybe a minute or so of struggling to free it before I was heaving for breath, much to the bemusement of a farm hand nearby.

He eventually wandered over, looking somewhat reluctant, and offered to stand behind the bike and push whilst I gave it some throttle. No dice. Our combined efforts just resulted in some wheelspin and gravel spraying everywhere. Another guy turned up and between the three of us we freed the bike, and I was able to ride up onto the "road". I checked the bike over and the chain was very dirty, but other than that all seemed ok. I'd hardly been able to understand a word the two guys that helped me had said, but holding your hand out rubbing your fingers and thumb together is universal, seemed their assistance came at a price. Thinking back to all the people that have helped me out of kindness made it easier to give them a few Soles with good grace.

I was now pretty exhausted, thirsty, and it was 1pm. I'd been on the road since 9.30am and was a total of about 50Km from Puno, where I'd started, so I decided to go back and regroup. Rubbish Peru map 2, Frase 0. The hotel staff were mildly surprised to see the whacky Englishman reappear, when I'd said hasta luego to them that morning, I'd meant it as "goodbye" ;)

The Insight Peru map went in the bin as I found that my Bolivia map had the relevant sections of road on. It showed the road I had taken in the map key as "cart track". I found that I had two options, either to head to the Bolivian border and then cut south, or go through Bolivia into Chile. I decided to try cutting south before the border.

The following day I left Puno, again, and took the same road out to the Bolivian frontier. Leaving town I got caught up in some sort of demonstration, complete with loud hailers and banner waving. An inauspicious start to a long day. This time, however, my road map proved accurate and the road south from the border with Bolivia was a good one. In fact, it was an awesome one. From the area of lake Titicaca at about 3800m, it climbed into the Altiplano. I was a little concerned about fuel, as since leaving Puno there were very few fuel stations. As the road cut south I knew I was approaching the Altiplano, which is desert to all intents and purposes, and I knew there would be no fuel. So I had to fuel up in the last town. This turned out to be harder than it sounds.

There was one fuel station in town. It had only 84 octane unleaded, the combustible equivalent of evaporated milk as far as my bike was concerned, but it was petrol and I needed it. Unfortunately, the pump managed three dribbles into my fuel tank, and then it was dry. The lady happily charged me three Soles, but I now had to risk crossing the Altiplano with enough fuel - just enough, if careful - to make the 300Km to the next town. The Altiplano itself was amazing, the road climbed and twisted through real desert, yellow and red sands and salts, dry lake beds, some Alpaca farms, some small lakes with Flamingoes, lots of wind driven dust devils. All at altitudes up to 4800m. However I was trying to conserve as much fuel as possible, and had one eye on the fuel gauge the entire journey. At one point I came across a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, it had a petrol station but it had long since closed. My fuel gauge was on the last segment, I had a gallon of fuel to get me 80Km. It was going to be close.

About 20Km from the town I was trying to reach, the road started to descend from the Altiplano and I started to relax that I wouldn't be on my own in the middle of the desert, out of gas. Until the realisation struck that the town on my map may not have a fuel station, or like so many others that morning, it might be shut too. I pulled into Torata with the fuel gauge flashing at me, the bike running on fumes. There was a petrol station, but as feared it was closed. I got off the bike, banged on a couple of doors, no one home. There was a fuel truck parked out front and I found a driver in the cab. He told me there was another fuel station out of town on the main road, maybe 4Km away. I figured I could get there, but the next town was 45Km away so this was my last chance. Fortunately, the out of town garage was open and I could breathe again :)

From there the road dropped into coastal desert all the way to Tacna. The sun was setting but I knew both the Peru and Chile borders were 24 hour crossings, so I pressed on to Chile. Leaving Peru was not too difficult, I had to fill in another form for the bike which had to be copied, then obtain a passport stamp and after checking that I was actually leaving with the bike, I was free to go. Chilean immigration was the model of efficiency, a helpful customs official guided me through the stamps I needed on the bike permiso, three of them, then my luggage was all x-rayed. If I thought they were tight on me, there was an SUV full of surfers crossing in front of me, when I arrived they were being searched and when I left, the car was being pulled apart and searched with torches. Nothing like stereotypes ;) But after the painless crossing I only had about 20km of riding in the dark to reach Arica.

When I got there, rather than try to find my way around in the dark I pulled into a petrol station and asked for the hotel I had Googled earlier. A kind lady in the queue introduced herself as Cynthia, and volunteered to lead me to the hotel in her school bus. I jumped on the bike and followed her, noticing as I did that I had lost a handlebar end off the bike somehow. The handguard was flapping about. No idea when that happened, or how. Hotel located, I thanked Cynthia for her help and she wished me a pleasant journey. I liked Chile already :)

The next morning I was awoken by booming surf and realised the hotel was on the beach. I wondered idly if the surfers had cleared customs, and put their car back together ;) Leaving Arica I knew I had a long day again to get to Antofagasta. I had seen a sign the previous night indicating that Santiago, where I planned to get new tyres, was 2085Km away. Ouch. I hoped the tyres would last that long :)

By now I was used to riding across desert, and it was just as well because all of northern Chile is desert. The Atacama, driest place on Earth. I rode more than 700Km into Antofagasta, hardly seeing another soul, and certainly not any trees or birds. Just sand. The boredom of riding enormous distances with nothing to see was offset by the Km signpost game, which I invented. Basically the distance to Santiago was shown on Km posts every kilometer, and from 2008 downwards I tried to think of something that happened on that year in history. I sang a bit. I waved at the occasional passing truck. I yawned an awful lot. The wind was vicious and constantly from the west, forcing me to ride with the bike at an angle and my neck was taking a real battering trying to hold my head still. The day's excitement came from trying to outrun a very large dust devil that was converging with the road ahead. It was really a small tornado, a twisting column of sand rising into the blue sky. I passed it within about 20m, and as I went by was buffeted by very warm winds compared to the cool wind in the surrounding desert.

Just before Antofagasta I crossed the Tropic of Capricorn, and managed to completely miss the monument there. It seemed like I'd only just crossed the equator, but it seemed centuries since I crossed the Tropic of Cancer, let alone the Arctic Circle. I got off the bike with a stiff neck and sore butt. Sitting in a comfy chair to eat was painful, I couldn't picture doing it all again the next day.

Leaving Antofagasta on Thursday morning was tough, and I laid in too long. I knew I had to shorten the day slightly so decided to try for Copiapo, just under 600Km away. I'd parked the bike next to another VStrom the previous evening, it had Brazilian plates. When I got to my bike I found the owners had left a little sticker on my fuel tank, wishing me a happy journey :) When I left I was straight back into the desert, the towns of Arica and Antofagasta on the coast are surrounded by nothingness. A little south of Antofagasta is a sculpture called "Mano Del Desierto", desert hand, picture at top. I thought the sculptor would have done a better job if the hand had been doing a Vulcan salute. At least drivers passing south on the long, dull drive would get a laugh ;) I was saddened to see that the hand is covered in graffiti, some of which had obviously been put there by fellow travellers. What makes people think their journey is so important they have to scrawl about it in indelible pen on someone's art work??

The day was spent much as the previous one, passing through an almost Martian landscape of reddish rocks and sand, in the howling wind.

Crossing the Tropic of Capricorn has sort of hammered home how far south I am, after all it crosses Australia, the other side of the world as far as the UK is concerned. And there is still a long, long way to go.

Frase.

Lake Titicaca and cheese, por favor

I'm in Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world (at around 3800m) and tourism capital of the Universe.

Saturday morning Mo turned up at the hotel I was staying at slightly later than planned as he had a friend, Josh, who decided to come with us to Puno. There was a minor problem in that Josh was touring around Peru and didn't have a bike, so they had spent their morning hiring a little 400cc Honda. So around 11am two heavily loaded touring bikes and one tiny Honda with a rucksack left Cusco. At least they tried to - about forty metres down the road Josh pulled up and realised he had left his iPod at the bike hire place. While we were waiting for him, Mo and I were hassled by shoe shine people appalled at the state of our boots, and when we told them no thanks, they offered to clean the bikes instead.

Finally getting out of Cusco, the main road to Puno headed down a fairly straight and very picturesque valley. The lower peaks on either side were carpeted in a yellowy green tufted grass, and the effect was like brushed velvet. It reminded me a little of Colombia. The higher peaks were snow capped, and given that we were already at more than 3000m in the valley must have been very high indeed.

We stopped for lunch in a small town called Sicuani, a little under halfway to Puno. There was a little restaurant and they served set menus, so we had soup, followed by a small chicken leg in green sauce, with rice and a potato. Along with a litre of Coke between us the total bill came to about 13 Soles, less than 4 Dollars. There was a table full of cops next to us, and Josh cheerfully pointed out as we were eating that one of them had a sub machine gun laying across his lap, and the barrel was pointing right at me. That was the most uncomfortable meal I can remember in a while ;) Still, when the cops were done eating they went outside and stood by the bikes, I get the impression that they really don't want anything bad happening to tourists in this place.

Setting out again it was gone 2.30pm and I started to worry we would arrive in Puno after dark, but we picked the pace up for a bit until it started to rain. I was ok in my waterproof gear, but Mo and Josh needed to stop to put waterproofs and thicker gear on. Plus Josh had no gloves so I lent him my thicker spare set. Riding on the rain didn't last but it got very cold indeed. After a stop for petrol a strong side wind and some more rain set in, and the last 60Km or so into Puno was spent with my teeth chattering, and I seem to recall there were a few promises that I would have a good, hot shower as soon as I found an hotel ;)

We wound around Puno town centre for a short while before I decided to stay in a place on the main square. Mo and Josh said they would find a place elsewhere, so I said I'd see them later and ran for the shower ;)

I'd decided to go to Puno as it was the embarkation point for boat trips out onto Lake Titicaca, so the hotel were able to book me on a tour out to the floating reed islands of Uros and the island of Taquile the next morning, again at a silly time when all sane people should be sleeping. I was glad of the electric heater and thick duvets in my room, I'm really not used to the cold anymore.

I got up at 5.30am again and met a minibus which took a small bunch of us down to the harbour. We got on a boat and a guide rattled off what was going to happen in quickfire Spanish and English. Interestingly there was no safety brief, no "the fire extinguishers are here, lifejackets are there" and no liability waiver to sign as seems to be the norm now. About twenty minutes out from Puno were the islands of Uros. These islands were constructed entirely of reeds and float on the lake. They are home to the Aymara indians, who apparently suffer terrible rheumatism and don't age much over 60, a combination of the humidity and walking around on a surface that feels a little like a mattress.

There are many dozens of islands, and each visiting boat is assigned to an island so all the islanders get their fair share of tourist cash. The island we visited was called Chumi, and was home to ten families. The island president gave a welcome talk in Spanish, which is a second language to these people, and it was translated into English by our guide. Then the islanders sang a song and got out the gift selection. We were given fifteen minutes to look around the island, which was enough time to lap it four or five times ;) Most people bought something, and then were offered rides in the community reed boat, for a fee. I noticed some solar panels on the island, which looked about as out of place as a tattoo parlour in a convent. These were apparently donated by the Peruvian government as lighting cooking fires on what is effectively a big floating bonfire often resulted in disaster. Now the Aymara have electricity, and have TV, radio etc too.



We bade farewell to the islanders after another cheesy song and made a brief stop at the main island to pick up a Dutch couple that had stayed the night there. I thought back to having the heater in my room on the previous evening and shuddered at the idea of a reed hut. It was two and a half hours by boat to the island of Taquile and we arrived in time for lunch, which was a set up affair with a local family. Again there was singing and dancing this time too. The indians on Taquile are known for their weaving and there were souvenirs all over the place. The island was pretty but after a few minutes I'd seen enough and of course had to wait around for the tour group, and the boat to come and pick us up. Then it was three hours back to Puno. All in all I think the most touristy thing I have ever done in my life. It was interesting, but I am looking forward to getting somewhere and being able to stop without someone immediately trying to sell me something.

Due to time pressures I have made the decision not to go into Bolivia. I will be heading for Chile tomorrow instead. I will miss Peru, but will welcome some peace and quiet ;)

Frase.

Machu Picchu, Cusco, and one or two tourists

The alarm going off at 5.30am was a bit of a rude shock. Machu Picchu needed to be something special to get me up at that time, I was just grateful I didn't have shoelaces to tie.

After a cereal bar I grabbed a few items like raincoat and camera and met a cab in reception that the tour guide had sent over. I got dropped at Cusco rail station and a ticket for the train was thrust at me by the tour guide, after I was introduced to him by the taxi driver. I ended up sitting on my own in the train, wondering if I was in the right place. After the train left the station the conductor came along and in Spanish and English told everyone that the journey would be four hours to Aguas Calientes, the rail station for Machu Picchu.

Any hope my poor sore butt had of a nice day off evaporated with the morning mists. Eight hours on a train plus an hour on buses... at least the seats were a little more bearable than a bike saddle. I'd been enjoying the views over Cusco and the surrounding countryside when I was jolted awake and a menu put in my hands. I hadn't even realised I had drifted off, must have been more tired than I thought. After a sandwich and coffee I figured I would be ok, but drifted back off to sleep again.

I awoke to glimpses of snow capped mountains, covered by clouds, towering above the river valley which the train followed. I noticed that many of the tourists in the carriage were videoing the entire train journey, I bet home videos at their place are a real hoot. Occasionally the train would stop and indian ladies would appear at the windows, selling anything from hot corn on the cob to Inca patterned bags.

The train pulled into Aguas Calientes station and my tour group met up. It was organised chaos as the guide would call names again and again, until people showed up. It didn't help that they had my middle name down in place of my first name, and the guide would keep calling "Edooard". Eventually after the guide had run off, come back, called everyones' name again, and separated English and Spanish speakers, we got into Machu Picchu through the throng of tourists. I was completely uncomfortable the moment I stepped off the train, and the crowded feeling got worse until I was starting to doubt I would enjoy Machu Picchu at all. I guess I was so used to doing my own thing on the bike and having no company that being herded around like cattle in the press of people was a bit odd.

Fortunately I forgot all about it when I saw the ruins. The steeply terraced mountainside held more than 200 Inca buildings and it struck me just how at home they looked in the landscape. The surroundings were changed by the ruins being there, but in a nice way. It kind of puts modern building planning to shame.

After a guided tour of the ruins, we were allowed the rest of the afternoon to explore before heading back to the train. It was very difficult to find a quiet spot to soak up the ambiance of the place, but I managed to sit for a while and just drink in the view of the surrounding landscape, and watch small Swallows chasing insects. Strange to think that six centuries ago maybe Inca nobility might have done the same thing. It was interesting just how little people seem to know about the Incas, because they didn't write anything down and the Spaniards tried to eradicate their beliefs. Some Americans were arguing whether Machu Picchu was higher than Cusco (at 3400m) and I setted it by showing them the altitude on my watch (2400m), to oohs and aahs. There we were, in that amazing place, and they were impressed by a watch with an altimeter ;)

I had some lunch and got back on the train for Cusco and stuck my iPod on. I watched the guy opposite sink about five beers over the course of an hour or so, and when I took my earphones out at one point he started chatting. Turned out he was a network engineer called Alan, from Middlesborough, on a 13 month world tour. We spent the rest of the journey comparing notes - he was headed north and I south, so we were able to give each other an idea of what to expect.

Out of the window the stars lit the journey back to Cusco. I thought back to the tourist chaos at Machu Picchu, and wondered how long it could go on for. November is the quiet season, and still there were so many bus loads of tourists that there was hardly room on the road for the buses to pass. Costs were astronomical compared to the rest of Peru, and the town of Aguas Calientes seemed to owe it's existence to the ruins. I'd never seen so many tourists or so much tourist exploitation in one place before.

The following day I decided to stay in Cusco to see the Inca museum and hang out with Steve for a bit. The museum was kind of interesting, but as ninety percent of the explanations were in Spanish, it was all a bit lost on me. Steve took me to the local market for Coca tea and tamales, and I sat surrounded by exotic smells watching someone try to stuff a live chicken into a bag while we drank.

In the evening we went back to Norton Rats, the biker bar, and met up with a couple of other travellers (one of whom was travelling from Colombia to Argentina by pushbike!). An Indian guy named Mo was planning to head south to Puno tomorrow at more or less the same time as me, so we agreed to meet up and ride together in the morning. The rest of the evening was spent swapping stories from the road, before leaving and running the gauntlet of locals trying to sell hats, paintings and just about anything else you can imagine. They are so persistent and won't take a simple "no thanks" for an answer, often following people up the road.

I'll be glad to be back on the road and away from the hard sell that is Cusco. It's architecturally pretty, but a bit too Disney for me.

Frase.

Two bikes arrive in Cusco

I left Abancay knowing I had only 200Km over the mountains to get to Cusco. I figured at worst I would be there in four hours, looking for an hotel that wasn't full of tourists. The road climbed steadily over a mountain range and then down into a valley, following the line of a river and making for easier riding. It was raining on and off for the first time since Colombia, but after Central America I wasn't bothered by a little rain ;) A little before the mountain summit though the rain became hail for a few minutes and started to sting a bit. I was cold, too.

I'd reached about the halfway point when the rain stopped and it got pretty hot. I went roaring past another heavily laden bike pulled over at the roadside, it's owner was having a drink and gestured I should turn around. As I rode back up I caught the plate and it was from Panama, no one I knew then. But I was wrong.

A few bikers on solo South America trips (me included) have been in loose e-mail contact regarding progress and I had recently got an e-mail from a guy called Steve who was in the area of Nasca. We shook hands and gave our names and there followed a sort of light of comprehension ;) Steve was from the 'States originally but now resident in Panama. He'd been bumping into other bikers all over South America and riding with them for a bit. I was forced to admit I hadn't seen a soul since Jim and I went our separate ways in Fairbanks. The only touring bikes I'd seen had been heading the opposite direction!

I also found out that I wasn't the only one to have suffered sleepiness crossing the high altitude Pampa Galeras. Despite taking altitude sickness pills, Steve and the couple he had been riding with had felt so tired they had rather more sensibly pulled over and gone to sleep at the side of the road for a while.

After chatting a little we agreed to press on to Cusco together and Steve led off. It was interesting to follow another bike again, Steve's style was far more dirtbike than mine, pushing the bike into turns rather than hanging off like a sportsbike. We kept up a good pace until grey clouds loomed again and Steve pulled over to put some thicker gloves and layers on. He explained that for the minute or so it takes it is worth it to be comfortable, a trade off I never make. I always persevere and put up with cold hands. No idea why.

As we rode into Cusco, Steve stopped and asked for directions to the hotel he had booked. We found it easily, testament to how much better life would be if I spoke Spanish ;) I was able to get a room too and at a cost similar to the NASA Apollo budget, book myself on a tour of Machu Picchu the following day. Later that evening we went to a bar called Norton Rats, owned by an overland biker who came to Peru from the US and stayed. I had the best burger I've eaten in ages and sat chatting to Steve and the owner, Jeff, over a pint of Abbot Ale. Jeff had a guest book for passing motorcyclists so I made a little entry, then noticed that less than a month ago two guys had been there from Tunbridge Wells. It's a small world ;)

Machu Picchu tomorrow, at crazy o'clock in the morning. So I'm off to bed.

Frase.