Rio de Janeiro is a city that sucks the sleep out of you. I was exhausted but staying another night would mean another bender. I dutifully got out of bed at 6.30am, stopped at a juice bar for one last acai (the delicious berry from the Amazon only seen in Brazil) and hit the road. I headed about 700km to Riberao Preto, all the while ridiculously tired, to meet my friend Lucas. Lucas is Brazilian and unbelievably lives in New Zealand and had ridden his motorcycle in Argentina where we met up. The road there was long, I got cold from a sudden downpour of rain. The tolls were expensive. The gas was expensive. The road was dull. I was done with Brazil.

I was also torn. I knew there was much to explore to the north. I was excited by the possibility of the Pantanal, South America’s most abundant wildlife park. I knew Bolivia had much to show me, yet. I wanted one last adventure. I also knew that I had no stamina. After every ride for the last two months, it has taken me several days to recover. At first I began to be alarmed at my lethargy but I think I have just been on the road too long. I no longer have the energy or insight to explore the local cultures. I suppose I wasn’t done with Brazil, I was merely tired of being on the road, and making only temporary friendships, as genuine as they may be.

I found myself drawn to the computer, getting in touch with friends along the way. I had hoped to sell my bike to a friend in Peru. Sending him an email to let him know I wouldn’t make it was very difficult. The Brazilians are enthusiastic everywhere for a motorcycle. They couldn’t believe the trip I had made. Explaining it to them, it felt like an account in the third person. It has been a long time on the road.

Lucas was heading back to New Zealand and was tying up loose ends. I was disappointed not to spend more time with him in his own city. It was a nice place. I slept a little. I was ready to head to Paraguay when the mechanics I met invited me on their Sunday dirt ride. I had cleaned the bike up in Rio and it was looking good, a good way to deliver the bike to my friends who were buying it. But wouldn’t one last blast be perfect? So I got up on Sunday and we had a hoot through the red clay and sugarcane of Sao Paolo state. As always, local knowledge leads you to the best tracks. The boys were impressed with the KLR, as was I. I have kept learning with this bike, right to the end. Although heavy, and requiring a lot of precision, I kept up with smaller trail bikes on knobby tires, scooting through mud and single track. It hadn’t rained in two months here and the dust was unbelievable. To keep up with the leader I rode about 5 metres behind him where the dust wouldn’t rise up to my helmet and I would judge the terrain by looking at his helmet to see the bumps! Of course at the end of the day I looked like I had been given a thorough spray tan at the beauty salon. The boys got me a caiparinha in a jam jar, about a fifth of a bottle of sugarcane rum. I had to wait until dark to be able to ride home. It was a lot of fun and gave me a sense of what Brazilian dirt riding promised – a lot of fun. A taste was all I could manage but I was glad for the diversion from tarmac which I have been on almost exclusively for 6000 km.

The charm of central Brazil must surely be the small towns and friendly people. As such, it is difficult to tour as there are no set highlights and the highways so mundane. I made good time to get south and see the famous Iguaçu waterfalls, a natural wonder of the world. I had seen these 5 years ago and due to the drought the water level was very low, yet they were still spectacular. The following day, I toured the Itaípu Dam. Between Brazil and Paraguay it is the largest civil work of the 20th Century (I think they measure that in amount of concrete poured). It was impressive but reiterated to me that the grandeur of men is a pale imitation when compared to something like the waterfalls of Iguaçu.

I got in contact with my new friend, Julio, in Ciudad del Este, Paraguay. A notorious city for the contraband trafficking into Brazil it was a little less dangerous than I expected. More like an open market, akin to anything you see in Bolivia or Peru, complete with rubbish-strewn streets by the end of a business day. I could have bought a cheap Rolex but to be honest didn’t really care about it.

Paraguay is an enigma of a country. It has an absolutely fascinating but dreadful history of loss after the independence from the Spanish crown. The major economic power over Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina, it controlled 70% of commerce in the shared port of La Plata, nowadays Buenos Aires. In a similar but more extravagant fashion than the First World War in Europe, Paraguay was involved in the War of the Triple Alliance which led to the loss of around 90% of its male population circa 1870, fairly obviously devastating the country and leading to the loss of the majority of its territory. This was followed by the 1930s Chaco War. Reading history of war is always bleak but in Paraguay, it was on a scale the country is still crippled by. The first democratic elections were in 1993 and the country is mired in corruption, monopolistic companies, crime, and inefficient police et.al.

Despite this, as elsewhere, the Paraguayan people are generally very friendly, hospitable people. They are glad to see a foreigner and like to ask how I enjoy their country. Embarrassingly I have to admit I only know about one city, which is a pretty grubby one.

I had a good time with Julio, his brother Julian who purchased the bike and their riding buddies. I got to take a 1500cc chopper around the block and got to wheelie someone’s CRF250. If it hadn’t rained on my last day I was going to ride Julio’s Harley. They were all keen to show me around and great guys. But, as a moto-traveller, they treated me a little like a dignitary which I was a little uncomfortable by. They understood exactly my motivation as it is their dream also. But they envied my opportunity, being young, without commitment. The only thing I could honestly advise them in was that the hardest part was getting started.

All this brings me back to Rio. I am sitting now in Copacabana. My flight leaves South America on Monday. I have to find a way to pay my credit card. I have to do a CV again. I will have to get a suit. On the road, the clarity of your decisions is so easy- it is a difficult process to go back to everyday life. Many times I have recited an essay into my helmet about fear and anxiety over status, money, being popular. This trip was in large part about beating that fear but I feel it slowly creeping back in. What if I can’t pay my debt? What if I don’t get a well-paid job? What if I can’t find any business direction that will give me some freedom in the future? It was a fear I felt very strongly at the start of the trip. A fear of failure, a fear of disappointing myself, just a general fear.

I understand and accept the futility of this fear. I think all of us are bound by it, to a large degree. I think the point of the fear is that I don’t want to get caught up in direction-less consumerism again. I don’t care much about clothes, small comforts, cable and flat screen TVs. I do care about good food, getting a good night’s sleep, my friends, making new friends. The only thing we can do is plan for the future and prioritise what we want. I’m considering life on the cheap in London. I may even give up on beer for a month! Perhaps I am just going insane.

A Simple Thank You

Well, if you have made it this far down the page you are the sort of person I haven’t yet thanked and need to. Jonno and I were blown away with the attention and positive comments our website has received. I am a little unsure what direction this website will take from here as the nature of my adventure will be changing. I hope to get back on a bike in Europe but that will be a few months from here. I think I may continue the blog but probably make it a separate page for a new chapter.

Thank you for reading and sharing our experiences. I regret not having time to write more, in greater depth. My motivation for writing is partly to create my own record of the trip, partly to share my experiences with friends and whoever may be interested, partly to be able to share my own mistakes as part of learning from others and partly a sense of joy at having been able to do exactly what I wanted to do for a year (ego).

Here I am at the falls of Iguaçu. I thought it was a good place to express thanks for your support and motivation.

One last request – please say hello. Sign the guest book or leave a comment. I see how many hits the site receives but very little idea whether they are real people, or search engines etc. If you have any requests for information, reviews of equipment, stories, routes, experiences in specific countries, anything really, I will be glad to respond to you. One last thing, I regret having run out of time to see more parts of the continent but most of my regrets have been seeing a lonely road winding up a hill and that I will never know where it leads.
Thanks again, and no I have not yet gotten a haircut. Josh

For an end-of-trip blow out however, Rio is tough to beat. It is the most intense city I have ever experienced. There is great beauty matched with great ugliness here. I originally intended to do volunteer work in the slums here. Now that I am here it seems a naive venture when I understand so little of the culture here. I hope to return in the future. To do something however slight a difference it will make.

I am more fascinated by the working classes here. I didn´t stay on Copacobana but close to the centre. Alcoholics sit on the steps near the hostel and kids sleep under the famous Arches of Lapa but tourists are not hassled much. As there is a massive street party here Friday and Saturday night, organized crime needs to avoid attention and seems to prevent any serious hassle. One girl had her bag returned when it was stolen several months previously.

I was lucky to meet Dave and Theresa, who have traveled extensively on a motorbike but have settled in Rio, so could show me the town. We went to a working class club of about 1500 people. A wall of speakers pumped bass certainly far and away better than anything I have seen in New Zealand. The music is funk, Brasilian style. Brasilian style means a constant assault of bass, highly sexual lyrics, and a dance floor of pure mayhem. It is astonishing how sexualised Brasilian culture is and how brash both men and women are. Men walk around with rippled biceps, fed on steroids. Women dance amazing routines on platform heels. There is no room for the right-to-choose here. If a man wants a dance he just grabs a women and pulls her into him. It can be a bit of a shock for a New Zealander. Some of the women dance without underwear. There is a public television show of unexpected pregnancies looking for the father who they met for an hour in the dancefloor of some club, sometime. Brasil has a rate of HIV infection beaten only by Haiti if I am not mistaken.

This thread runs pretty well the same for the rich but on a more glamorous level. Brasil has one of the highest rates of plastic surgery in the world so women can look good on the beach. Looking good on the beach is a full-time obsession for many locals here.

But for all its vanity and glaring faults, Rio de Janiero runs on an unmistakeable energy. Day and night, there is a party somewhere. There is music everywhere. It is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It is one of the ugliest.

It´s time to hit the road. My liver is crying for mercy.

I will try to tie down selling the bike. I will fly out of Bolivia.

It has been a great trip for me of some 25000 kms making friends along the way and having many countless helpers, advisors and wellwishers. My main regret of travelling so far is being unable to spend longer in each place and learn more of the lives of my friends.

Firstly I wish to make a number of thank yous. My apologies to those I have missed, there were too many to name. Any businesses I have linked to I owe a debt of gratitude and I hope they get some support in kind.

Thanks

Bob and Julianne Stokstad, for your support, advice, and good roast beef.
Torsten and Tineke Jacobsen who put up with two smelly boys and got us on the road. They have subsequently opened a hotel for cyclists/motorcyclists - obviously gluttons for punishment.
Patrick Moriarty for ongoing support, technical advice, big mouth.
Arne Stokstad for taking me out on a chilled night when I was stressed to my eyeballs.
Bill and Amy Melcher for great chocolate chip cookies. Venice Melcher for being a cutie.
Mike Kimball for putting me up in LA. Shame we couldn´t catch up better.
Mike and Geneva Cowlishaw of Eagleshaw Motorsports. I had no personal relationship with Mike when I called asking for technical advice on my bike. He volunteered his expertise, gave up a Sunday to save a traveller and avoided potentially devastating damage to my engine. He also fattened me up on ribs before plunging into Mexico. A couple of the finest quality. I could only find a link to an associated site Left Coast KLRs.
Dave Burden for the best shrimp and best camping of the trip. Answer my emails!
The tire guy in Baja who let me sleep in his garage when I had crashed in the sand and repaired my saddlebags in the morning.
Tim and Loz for the company, good times and saving me from being arrested in Mexico City.
Rosa from Mendoza for teaching me to love again.
Athina from Acapulco for trying really hard to make Jon a paedphile.
Enrique the drug dealer for not killing us when we unwittingly tried to help you out.. Thanks for the P.
Enrique and Sr of Hostel Villa Colonial for being a great hostel.
Tim Morgan for being a great guy. Looking forward to London.
Fernando the circus performer at the sex motel. ´3 guys on motorcycles. no problem`.
The Californian surfers who drove their jeep to Chiapas.
The road workers who got us drunk as skunks.
The two dogs who had sex in the Mexico : Guatemala border no-mans-land. A beautiful moment for international relations.
Paul in Antigua Guatemala
Jorge Valle-Aguiluz of Caserio Valuz. Friendship, hospitality, nursing me through food poisoning…
Mattijs for being a cool guy to hang out with in Nicaragua.
Rosa Blanca for being the first woman ever to propose to me.
Rosa´s dad for the free rum.
Shaun of Nica-Geeks for showing me the town.
Cathy in Panama for teaching me to love again.
Kevin & Clara McCrea for the KFC.
Ludwig, Stefan and all new friends of the Stahlratte.
Dale & Dyllis of Northland, sailing around the world.
All the team I did the Ciudad Perdida trek with.
The Colombian family who clamoured for photos and then clamoured for my autograph and found us a bed for the night in a town with no hotels.
Ana, Rafa, Diana, Clara of Casa Kiwi, Medellín.
Tiberio Jaramillo and Carlos of Moto Angel, Medellín
Daniel and Alex of the finca.
Dave the dentist from Newcastle for being a top guy.
Scott for a day´s company horseriding in Salento.
Tim of Plantation House, Salento
Mauricio and Miguel Lopez of Bogotá for advice and the best steak of the trip.
Helfried and Alex for showing me Calí.
Johana for teaching me to love again.
Ricardo Rocco in Ecuador for hiring hottie models, being the most Italian man in Ecuador, and great help, advice, brotherliness.
Josh Rowan for being my older twin and stitching me up when I crashed.
Carolina and Thomás of Andahuaylas in Peru. You will never read this but I love you both.
The three guys who helped push a motorcycle through a landslide in Peru at 4000m altitude.
Wilson for a cup of tea at 1am.
Dave the Dentist, Meneesha & Nathalie in Copacobana Bolivia.
Chuck ´Quastdog` on his F650 GS until one of them breaks down. I look forward to buying you dinner when you get to London.
Nosiglias Motos in La Paz, Bolivia
Carlos of Medellín for giving me the shits in Bolivia. I really needed that.
Hostel Inti Huasi in Salta as you guys were so cool and chilled.
Emiliano in Mendoza for a great asado and being a cool guy.
Jorge, Lucas, Adrian for the company on the road in Argentina. And eating meat like a T-Rex.
Javier and Sandra of Dakar Motos, and Daniel their semi-permanent biker resident.
Ana, my Colombian doctor. For fixing what ails me.
Gustavo Fleury and Erica for company and friendliness in Florianópolis.
Rui for cooking a good fish.

And so many more who shared parts of their lives and time with me. Honestly you have taught me how good it is to live and be free. Without your help, this trip would never have worked.

Lets go samba.

Uruguay is a strange country, similar in appearance to rural Argentina except the locals are even more addicted to mate than the Argentines and ponce around in berets making them look like quaint French revolutionaries. They don´t sell maps in the service stations, everyone tends to know the way in a country so small. The customs officer with yellow eyes and a hand molded in the shape of a bottle had me fill in the entry paperwork and didn´t check any document. I asked him to sign it. ´What for?`. After coercing him he stamps it twice.

I decided to explore the coast of Uruguay with its friendly feel but the road I went down had no exit and I was dodging cow shit for 15 kilometres. The following day I went to the beach but it was raining. I gave up, and went to Brazil.

I was surprised and put out that once crossing the Brazilian border there was no where to buy reais. I always like to have a stash and Brazil is notorious for fickle ATMs. I needed gas. The first station after 40km reassuringly had VISA signs so I pulled in. They had no gas. The next station another 38km has gas, but you guessed it no VISA. I begged some locals to change $20US and paid the highest amount of commission so far on the trip. Oh well, thanks ladies. Ironically I worked out that I would have exactly exhausted a tank to the next station. I got some lunch and tried my hand at Portuguese unsuccessfully. The waitress asked me what I wanted but I had to give up and point at the pastries. A man tried to explain that the ocean was over there, just past the ´pee-nees`. Excuse me? After an hour I figured it to be peninsula. Otherwise I am doing pretty well, I have only had to make noises once, to check what I ordered really was chicken. It is frustrating as I am pretty close to understanding things. Give me another month!

I was determined to explore the coast roads of Brazil and took a ferry across from Rio Grande to San Jaoa do Norte across a bay. The locals had warned me of rivio, an unpaved stretch of about 10km. I felt I could make it – rivio in Spanish is beat-up gravel. Well, rivio in Brazil turned into a 50km sandpit. It was quite a surprise, particularly when it was deep and wet. I got tired in the heat as there was nowhere to stop even for a moment. In one of my lapses the front wheel got sideways, I realized I was in trouble and like any brave motorcyclist should when it´s too late, jumped clear of my motorcycle into deep sand. It gave me a chance for a photo at least. I realized apart from dropping the bike twice being stupid, I haven´t fallen off the bike since my accident in Peru. It was a softer landing this time. I later was told this stretch was called, ´the Devil´s road` so perhaps a better map would be in order.

I spent a couple of days getting sleep in Florianopolis, home of beach-god surfers and beach-goddess tans. After a couple of beers on Friday night, it was hard to leave.

Approaching Sao Paolo, the heavy traffic intensifies and the road deteriorates. The mountains have been tamed by Brasilian engineers but I wish there was a scenic route. However, the coast is contained in a national park so I suppose it is environmentally sound, even if I can´t enjoy it. It is difficult to enjoy the scenery when an SUV threatens to sandwich you to a semi, the more tranquilo roads don´t lead very far.

So here I am, 738km from Rio de Janiero. Back in the tropics. Go the All Blacks.

Step1 : Stand on road and wait for likely looking target, any laden motorcycle will do fine.
Step2 : Flag down motorcyclist and advise them they were speeding.
Step3 : Advise motorcyclist of the speed limit (90km/h). Advise motorcyclist of his speed (120 km/h)
Step 4: Motorcyclist says he didn´t think the bike went that fast. Know that this is bullshit. Point out that you were waiting at the bottom of a hill. (Can you imagine a NZ cop pointing out they were trying to catch you out on a straight downhill?)
Step 5: Advise motorcyclist you don´t like to give fines but that you are paid on commission from the fines. (Again, try to picture a NZ cop saying that. Go on)
Step 6: Explain, ´and fines are very expensive in Uruguay`.
Step 7: Motorcyclist becomes suspicious. Motorcyclist is glad he gave cop his international paper licence instead of his real one. Motorcyclist says he has very little money.
Step 8: Go to fine book, pull out a piece of paper in a table showing that 30 km/h over the limit is U$5500, US$250 approx. Motorcyclist will visibly wince at this.
Step 9: Again, mention that you regret it but, ´this is how we are paid`. After all, you don´t want to propose a bribe. Offer him to option to pay fine on the spot. Make motorcyclist aware he may pay in dollars if he wishes.
Step 10: Motorcyclist doesn´t have any money. Shrug shoulders sympathetically. ´Well I hate to do this to you. Here, look at this ticket in this square it says ¨documents retained¨. You can pay at the station on your return if you like but I will need to take your licence.
Step 11: Motorcyclist apologises. Says it was a mistake but asserts he doesn´t believe he was traveling at 120 km/h.
Step 12: Stand strong. I will have to take your licence.
Step 13: Motorcyclist says, ´well I have very little cash. I had some taken from me in Colonia. I will need to go to a bank. I will have to pay when I come back, that is if you feel you have to give me a ticket.`
Step 14: Motorcyclist really has no cash or if he does he has called your bluff. If you write a ticket, you have to accompany him to the station to find out where to collect licence. You also miss out on your ´commission bonus` by booking him through the system. Besides, there will probably be an Argentinian with more cash than brains driving 140km/h any moment now. This is too hard
Step 15: Have a change of heart. You are really a nice guy. Just abruptly give up. ´You know, I´m not going to give you a ticket. Be careful, you need to slow down. It really was a pleasure to meet you.`
Step 16: Motorcyclist will thank you profusely, pretend like this is standard, close bags and fight urge to pull a wheelie.

* The Automobile Association charges $20 for a paper International Driving Licence. There is no legislation stating you can not have more than one of these permits. These can be exchanged conveniently for infringement notifications in many Central and South American countries.

Apart from this exchange, Uruguay seems very pleasant and friendly. I made the border to Brasil today. The internet cafe is closing so I will write more some other time. Chau.

Any South American city worth its salt must have two soccer teams. They must have one team for the wealthy to cheer for and one for the poor. If this state of progress didn’t exist there would be nothing to riot over, or rather the riot would be more substantial. Whether by good planning or not, the working class team tends to win and consequently the riots tend to be in good spirits. Buenos Aires has four teams, two for the province and two for the city itself.

Arriving in Argentina from Bolivia is a bit of a culture shock as it seems to offer all the comforts Bolivians regularly do without; good food, fresh vegetables, good coffee, ice cream that tastes like ice cream. My weakness is good food and Argentina was always going to be good to come back to. Hoteliers look at you strangely here when you ask if they have hot water. It felt strange to be given a towel and a bar of soap again at check-in.

That said, the north of Argentina is a poor area of the country and there are more indigenous faces up here than in the central country. Argentina’s roads are stocked with cars well overdue for a demolition derby (although driving on the road is fairly similar to a demolition derby in itself). They race to their eventual demise at the top speed possible – this speed ranges from 60 to 140 km/h depending on the capability of the vehicle.

Salta is a classically beautiful city with a vast Plaza de Armas, a few spectacular churches and is bereft of skyscrapers. It is also very relaxed – the siesta up here can run from 12.30-5.00pm, or even longer. This made things a little tough for me to get the motorcycle to the mechanic but eventually I got back on the road. The real jewel of northern Argentina isn’t Salta or any of the cities but the small towns and the campesinos going about life much the same as they have been for hundreds of years. The people are not as stoic as the Bolivians and readily come over to say hello or talk about their towns. I met up with Jorge and Adrian of Argentina, and Lucas of Brazil. We joined forces heading south. We head north to San Antonio de los Cobres and join the Ruta 40, which runs all the way to Patagonia. We immediately climb to 4900 metres on the trip and then descend down the Valley to the winegrowing town of Cafayate

Jorge and Adrian disappear to sort out an asado, roasting beef over a coal barbecue for hours which is a ritual every Argentinian man seems to learn growing up, a bit like a carnivore’s bar mitzvah. They return with about a kilogram of beef per person and we get stuck into a few bottles of wine. Just a few days before they had roasted me up cow brain. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected, actually once you got over the texture it was delicious. Terrible for your cholesterol apparently.

And so I woke up, on the ground of my tent as my air mattress punctured many moons ago, hungover but feeling well, next to a vineyard. After enjoying this state of affairs for a few hours, I realized I was running a few days behind my rag-tag schedule and hit the road for Mendoza, leaving my friends for a rough afternoon of vineyard tours while I set off on the windswept Ruta 40.

The cold was the worst villain, and it got into my hands something wicked. The south was in the grip of an impressive cold snap, and I wasn’t well enough rugged up. I stopped in at San Juan for the night, 200 km short of Mendoza for a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

Mendoza itself is a beautiful town and well worth the pilgrimage even if it means putting plastic bags over your hands to get there. I have to admit that I did very little but in the hostel there were a few Argentinians in addition to a Colombian girl and an Ecuadorian guy so we had something to talk about and of course could kick the locals outside to roast up more beef while I tried to chat up the girl. Just a note on the meat, the common meat is certainly not up to the standard of New Zealand meat. It is however pretty good and about one fifth the price – you can get porterhouse steak here at around $7 per kilogram. So everyone goes nuts and the portions keep getting bigger. I pretty well lay around Mendoza and tried to keep the butchers in business. I will return but fear if I live there I may never escape and will eventually be found at 200 kilograms, slumped over a parilla grill in this part of Argentina. I also found the locals to be very friendly, receptive, and good fun.

I made a side trip to Santiago for a day to see an old girlfriend and her family who had been very good for me. It was good to see but strange being in a city I had lived in 5 years ago. Nothing much had changed in the city except the main clubbing area was no longer popular and now considered dangerous. The wealthy areas still had echoes of just another Los Angeles suburb and the best restaurants in town were depressingly still TGI Fridays and Ruby Tuesdays. But enough criticizing Chile, it is a great country in many respects, I just feel the landscapes and isolated beauty to be far more interesting than the capital.

I have also found myself attracted less to cities as my trip has gone on. Something about the mish-mash of so many people, families and cultures makes it hard to find a distinctive flavour and dilutes many regional effects or perhaps, they are just more distinctive in the countryside where people may be more simple but often more interesting. Contrasting with this, I have set Rio de Janiero as my goal and move towards Buenos Aires, a city I have good memories about from backpacking at age 20. Buenos Aires essentially was the start of a three week party which culminated in carnival in Brazil and my losing 3 kilograms and requiring 2 months sleep to recover. Its fair to say I was fairly excited.

Away from the Andes the landscape of Argentina is predominantly Pampas, cow-grazing plains. The route is fairly uninteresting from a driving point of view although I did pass a section of marshes populated by flamingoes. Approaching the city, night fell but I decided to make the last 150km in the dark.

I quickly reached a motorway which was lit and with heavy traffic so navigating was less of a concern than the damp road. BMWs and Volkswagens zoomed past to my left and I swung out around trucks. On the highway I try to ride in the fast lane, to maximise my vision lines and as most trouble seems to come from traffic merging across from slower lanes or entry points. In Argentina this is a recipe for a bonnet up my rear end so I sit one lane across. I came around a gentle corner and there was a car between my lane and the fast lane stopped. Another car had stopped about 30 metres further along. I squinted my eyes, not quite understanding what was going on. I figured there must have been a collision but still couldn’t figure out what to do. I had been slowing down but decided not to come to a complete stop. I had a vehicle to one side of me in the fast lane, I had space inside. I swerved around the first car and heard the car to my side skid – I had been concerned they would swerve into me in preference to the vehicle. There was no squeal of tires, just a steady slide and a heavy ‘crunch’ of metal. And then another ‘crunch’, and another, and another. A car in my lane connected with the vehicle spinning it down the road in revolutions with a bumper hanging down. The collisions continued, about 10 in total. In the wet it was unceremonious, fast and abrupt. I had stopped 50 metres from the collision and realised that I had just avoided some serious pain. People were walking around checking on each other and there were no shouts for urgent assistance so after a minute I caught my cool and moved on. I have only had one other very very close call to an accident on the trip and realized in both situations my decision making was not conscious but very much sub-conscious, where I made some precise moves and somehow found the safest ground. I don’t relate this story out of any sense of pride, more that on a motorcycle, you don’t have to be the one to make a mistake to turn into another victim. If you ride a motorcycle I highly recommend a good riding instructor. I have already decided to take a first aid course and an advanced riding course once I wrap up this trip. Twice, good habits seem to have saved me from serious injury, and countless times from more minor incidents.

Once in Buenos Aires, I found a bunk at Dakar Motos. Javier and Sandra have been providing a place to stay for travelers for many years and their shop has become a moto-traveller hot spot. The bike had an electrical problem outside the shop – what has eventually been diagnosed as the ignition coil. On my last legs financially, the bill will be a stretch but hopefully the last. It could have been worse had I had the problem 500 kilometres from the city. It gave me a quick chance to check the famous ‘doohickey’ and it was in good condition – thanks to Mike in San Diego’s aftermarket piece.

It has taken longer than expected to get through Argentina. The cold has surprised me, I think Brasil will be easier but I will be in more of a rush. I hope to be on the road again Saturday in Uruguay.

Buenos Aires is a brash city. I haven’t been partying much but have been to a few bars. I listened to some tango singers in a classic historic bar which has avoided the tourist circuit but haven’t found any dancing which is not tourist oriented. It’s not that the flash tango displays aren’t very slick, just that they don’t interest me. The singers in a boliche impressed me and the bar was crowded with young people – very rare these days with a folk music. I wanted more, the tango that people live, that people put on worn out turntables on a Sunday afternoon and the bars they have been drinking in for the last 40 years. I haven’t yet found it. I did however find a free opera, not in the Teatro Colon which I was in 5 years ago and is truly spectacular, but a side room. However the discovery that I like opera when it is done well was a surprise. The standard was brilliant and the city provides these events free to those who wish to turn up.

I went to the Museum of Fine Arts and saw an exhibition of a golden era of Argentine artists in the early 20th century which was excellent. I saw a Rembrandt and think I could appreciate some of what made it distinct. So I have been getting a little culture in Argentina. About overdue many would say!

I haven`t had much time lately, I managed to put up some photos for your enjoyment. Thanks for continuing to read.

If you want a place to hang your hat, northern Argentina is ready for you. The locals are very tranquilo and Salta is a beautiful city filled with quiet parks and beautiful buildings. I arrived there definitely exhausted and found myself a `tranquilo` hostel which felt more like a friendly flat than a hotel lay myself down in a bunk and hibernated. I had some work done on the bike, which took a long time to organise - the lunch break here is from 12.30pm to about 5pm so if doing errands leaving the house at 11 you really have to be organised to get things done (which I`m not).

Dammit, out of time. I`m off to hit the town in BsAs. I am staying with the legendary Javier Kappel at his Dakar Motos - a haven for moto-travellers and other eccentrics since god knows when.

The Goods - as promised

Will update soon. thanks for visiting.
leave a damn comment.

Hmmm.

I give in to the immediately bleeding obvious truth. I can`t ride a motorbike in this cold. The jeeps and my friend, Don Luis, are long gone now, and in this cold there is no way I can ride fast enough to reach them. I ride for short stints, as long as I can bear but try not to let my hands freeze up before stopping, they take a long time to warm-up. I briefly run through the drivers` timetable in my head. `Up at 5.30, see the geysers, go to the hot pools, breakfast at the laguna verde about 160 kms.`

I got up at 5.00. I had been up through the night while my guts played hockey with my dinner. Packing in the dark was interesting - my torch decided to break at the worst moment. Loading the bike was interrupted with frequent sprints to the nearby bathroom. I felt like crap. More coca leaves, I rugged up as best I could and cranked the bike. I was concerned of draining the battery as it cranked and wouldn`t fire. After all it was well below freezing and had been outside at night. However after a couple of minutes it fired, after a minute I felt comfortable idling over 2000rpm and then the jeep was off and I had to follow.

Breakfast is a long way away, further than my gas. Gradually I resign myself to the fact that I am probably stranded and abandoned, my only hope is to aim for the geysers and hope the drivers wait for me. Invigorated with purpose, I don`t feel the cold the same. I manage to accelerate to about 80 km/h and am bearing the wind rushing through my gloves. I rise above the valley of Laguna Colorada and witness the convergence of two chains of mountains, right where the road rises. First light becomes brighter, the sun begins to rise. I feel the first rays on my back and instantly the cold begins to subside. There are columns of steam ahead, hopefully a jeep standing in wait. And then as if capitulating, the bike coughs once and dies, coasting to a stop around 4000 metres altitude on the single lane dirt track within 5 km of a stack of steam and my refill. I`m stuffed. I`m stupid. I`m too lazy to have bought my necessary gas last night. I am all alone hundreds of kilometers from gas and I don`t even know when the next traffic passes through!

This is stuffed. I have a different word for it but need to sit down. I reflect on my situation. I have water, food and now with the sun am warm enough to be comfortable. I lean the bike to one side, searching for a little more gas to carry me to the geysers where surely more tours will pass but the bike won`t catch.

Stuffed.

I consider walking. When lost, leaving your supplies is stupid but I`m not lost, I`m simply stuck on a clear road. It doesn`t look so far. I start but in the thin mountain air am soon out of breathe and beginning to feel sick again. I return to the bike. On the way, a dust trail appears. I run to the bike shouting and waving my arms. The driver waves back, swerves around the bike and continues hauling serious arse up the road. Was that the last truck of the day? I reconsider my stategy and sit ahead of the bike. A red jeep follows shortly and I flag them down. `No señor, absolutely no gas.` I cling to the hope that someone is waiting with gas at the geyser and catch a lift down there. There is one other jeep, not Luis` just leaving the car park as we arrive. Hmmm, now I`m stuffed, and I realize I don`t have a way to reach the bike again. It may be a long walk.

The tour pours out of the jeep I caught a lift with. The geysers are impressive, filling the sky with steam. One Israeli backpacker kneels down in front of a ball of steam, creating a photo of the most catastrophic stomach gas the world has ever seen. There is something special about the Israelis out here. They travel like no other ethnic group and really have a different slant on the place and different jokes. It`s amusing to see backpackers doing adsurd things and just from their body language be able to pick out their ethnicity. A jeep pulls up heading the other way but they have no gas for me. I however get a lift back to the bike, where it waits for me in the sun. I make some sort of seat and get myself as comfortable as possible.

After 10 minutes another jeep appears, again moving like a bat out of hell. The driver is white, I`m very confused as there is a wiry Bolivian sitting in the passenger seat head back, dozing. Errm, hello. He starts speaking to me in Spanish. An Albino Bolivian? After a moment I recognise a Brasilian accent. Oh right, that makes more sense. `Look can you please help me, my driver left me and I ran out of gas before catching him.` The Brasilians are in a hurry to catch their bus from Chile. As they siphon a few litres for me, I have to tip out my water for a fuel container. They explain that they are on a jeep tour but their driver was falling asleep.` I had to take the wheel,` explains my white saviour. The driver gives me 4 litres and tells me I can purchase more at the hot pools. Not enough to make the border but it will run me to safety. In such isolation, there isn`t much I can do to thank them. Although in a rush, the Brasilians have saved my bacon and after hearing where I am traveling am happy to help. Thanks guys, you saved the day.

Although the temperature has risen, on the bike the wind chill brings things back down – after all it is still around the freezing level. I have gained about 800 metres altitude from the salt lake and sit around 4300 metres. Without any rush now, I relax and take time to stop for a photo and a chance to warm up. I find it difficult to know where to stop. The landscape is barren, isolated but magnificent. It really feels like visiting another world, complete with rarified air. I follow the rutted tracks, a little concerned about navigation but knowing all I am looking for is one link road to Chile. I pull up to a modern pale yellow building and ask for directions to the hot pools. This is it. Woo hoo! After several days of punishment, my hands resemble those of a grandfather, my muscles ache in protest and I have decided not to pay attention to how I smell. All this evaporates into 30 degree bliss in a simple hot pool surrounded by icy tundra. I lie down and relax, letting the stress leave me and remembering the simple ways I am rewarded on this trip every day.

I am lucky to get here and have seen simply some of the most amazing landscape on the planet in the past 3 days. Enough to inspire surrealism in Dali, in myself I am content just to observe and marvel at what makes up this part of the world. I have seen the forces of one of the world`s great mountain chains at work here. But right now I`m just glad to warm up. There is another benefit to abandoning the rigid timetables of the jeep drivers – I only share the pool with two local Bolivian girls and can stay as long as I wish.

Bliss is a simple feeling.

After this I asked around. No, not far to the Chilean border but gas was far away. A passing driver sold me 5 litres with a smile and I rode for the last attraction in the South-West Bolivian loop -Laguna Verde. Rich in minerals, the highland lakes are tinged in various beautiful colours, Laguna Colorada res, Laguna Blanca a pale green but Laguna Verde is a brilliant emerald at the foot of a beautiful volcano. The site was busy with jeep tours starting again from the Chilean border. I sat down at an isolated corner and met a cyclist from France. A cyclist setting off on the same route I had just conquered. She expected to spend 10 days at this altitude.

Leaving Bolivia was rapid and stress-free but I looked at the 40 kilometres to Chile in frustration. I couldn`t reach fuel in Argentina. Í would need to enter Chile, buy pesos, clear customs and shell for accomodation all because I needed a tank of gas, at $1.50 per litre. My tire was protesting dangerously at this stage. I rode into San Pedro and recieved an opinion from the llantera that this tire was dangerous and could go at any moment.

The following day was spent on a bus and rushing around the bland town of Calama looking for a tire. Motorcycle stores stocked plenty of suitable tires but nothing for a 17 inch rim. Eventually I found a mechanic with a used - very used knobby tire. I bought it, paid a small fortunefor it to be mounted (well by Bolivian standards at least).

I rested up and tried to rid myself of the stomach bug before leaving Chile but it was no use. I got onto the Paso Jama and again was staggered by the grandeur of the landscape. The pass itself is a great road with sharp twisties but also strong winds and I was battered.

I entered the Argentinian customs post feeling like an eskimoe. A log fire burned in the corner and the policeman was playing tango music on his computer. ¡Bienvenidos a Argentina!

I search the town for the normally common signs of gasolina for sale. Here they are notable by their absence. I briefly consider a flaw in my plan. If I can not track down fuel just 30 kilometres from Uyuni, how can I rely on the marked `gas stations` in the south of Bolivia. I can not be sure of my fuel range due to issues of altitude and the quality of the road but I know I need gas before reaching Chile. Carlos assures me that we can purchase fuel off the jeep tours and we roll onto the salt lake and the famous Salt Hotel. The hotel has a cute history of an old man finding a slightly raised point on the salt and wishing to build the hotel (higher land as the salt lakes flood in the rainy season). The locals predictably threatened to send him to an asylum however as with most things in life, a little perseverance can get most things done. The salt hotel, constructed out of cut salt rocks and mortared together with even more salt, sits about 15km into the salt flats. A clever tourist attraction, they sell a few chocolate bars, woolly hats and charge to use the bathroom (no running water). I donated them my shredded tire tube which apparently is put to use in clearing septic tanks in a method foreign to me.

So I sat myself on one of the salt picnic tables outside and tried to beg gas off of the drivers passing through but there were few takers. `Sorry señor, we couldn`t find any gas south of the Salar and are running on fumes ourselves. Ask one of the drivers heading from Uyuni.` After batting a few eyelashes, I eventually found Juan, who promised to sell me gas at Isla Intihuasi, a half hour drive from here. Excellent. Carlos gifted me a couple of lettuce and tomato sandwiches and finally I was free and alone on the largest salt flat in the world.

I navigated according to the distant mountains with instructions from the drivers, but really there were well worn tracks and the easiest option was to ride within a kilometre of a parallel line on the established `salt flats` route. A vast flat white, I was riding my motorcycle through an unprepared film set. Completely alone with just a blue sky and no breathe of wind, I am isolated from the world. I had been reflecting on this in previous weeks. What would it feel like to be in a vast oasis without anything to look at, without color or stimulus, without anyone? What would I do? In the end, I followed the lead of hordes of Israeli backpackers for whom getting back to basics on the Salar de Uyuni is a rite of the South American passage. I got naked. The sun was out, but it was still a little fresh.

Back on the bike and fully clothed, I made Isla Intihuasi, a rocky outcropping that climbs about 50 metres above the Salar coated with giant cacti who have resided there for thousands of years. I walked around, chatted to the backpacker tours who all stop for lunch here, added a tin of tuna to my gifted sandwiches and was good to go.

I got information on hotels in the south and shot off in a bee-line south. I wanted to explore an island to the south and left the main route, Bereft of cactus it looked isolated and mysterious but was to stay that way. 500 metres from the island I felt the telltale cracking of the salt as it thinned and gave way to mud. I felt I could probably reach the island but didn`t want to risk mud solo and heavily loaded. I found out later that this island is popular with flamingoes making their nests and is littered with shells.

I felt tired already and knew I had a long way to travel. I found the road out to the salt lakes without issue, but the moment I exited the road was heavily corrugated. Somehow the steering felt light or some adjustment from the salt felt strange. I reached for a large bolt and the top of the handlebars which retains the steering head bearing – it was so loose I could tighten it with my hand. I was warned by one guru of the KLR to tighten this bolt, being so critical as having the bolt loosen off will grind my bearings to paste and allow the front tire play to move from side to side. I didn`t and it has now loosened twice on my trip. I had no tool which would tighten this so I moved on in the loose sand with washboard bottom. The road here was a real mess of tight blind corners around rock formations, continuous rutting and about 6 inches of accumulated loose stuff on the verge if you ran off your line in a corner (or were looking at the scenery).

The sun was beginning to set. I had directions to a hotel but when I slowed to check my position near a military checkpoint, and tighten my steering head bolt again, I found I had overshot it. I vaguely remembered some ramshackle sheds, one of which had `hotel` pasted on the wall and looked as inhabitable as a freezer. That must have been it! I pushed on and the road begin to fork, giving me three or four options of formidable sand. At various stages they would merge and diverge, clearly the road hadn`t been graded since, well perhaps never. As jeeps had ploughed through the soft sand traps they had splayed the tracks and this meant deep sand and having to fight to keep any control over direction. As a wise man once said, `when in doubt, gas it.` I left my fate to the motorcycle gods, leaned back to prevent the front tire from catching and made it through to my relief, a sharp switch back left and I rose up to a graded, level gravel stretch of road reaching back the few hundred metres I could see. I was sure it couldn`t have been there from the salt lake but it didn`t feel that way looking at me. I needed to find a hotel, a meal and someone with a 26mm spanner, and I had a half hour of light. A jeep overtook me while I photographed the entrance to town, San Juan. I followed them to track down their lodging. Sorry señor, no beds here. Actually yes, we have one more. And 5 minutes later I was kicked back on the street but the next hotel had space, thankfully. It was the Bolivian Special, a bed in a cell for $2.50, except electricity wasn`t included. When I pointed this out they informed me to wait 10 minutes and indeed the generator for the town was fired up and I could sit in the light to the grind of an ancient engine the whole town relied on – I noticed they cook with gas.

Thankfully I found a mechanic who for a donation let me borrow his tools and admired my bike. I found the most expensive beer in Bolivia. Room temperature was icy-fresh by New Zealand standards. And I found Ana, a New Zealand doctor travelling with a couple of Canadian friends. We had a glass of thin wine and tried not to think about the cold.

I returned to my cell early, exhausted from a long day. I slept in most of my riding gear with a sleeping bag and was warm, but somehow felt cold. Although famous for the plunging night temperatures here, it had clouded over and rather than teeth-chatteringly fatal cold, was merely fresh yet I was a basketcase. I realised I was falling ill. Where`s that doctor?
I woke before dawn with a ball of acid in my stomach and ran for the bathroom. My head ached, my body ached and most concerningly for the motorcycle I felt a little dizzy and my senses felt dulled. I returned to bed and tried to sleep things off. When I awoke I had passed a few bad dreams but the head felt a little better. I brewed up some strong coffee that tasted a little like wood, and made myself eat muesli. My headache became worse but it struck me to chew coca leaf, which I had a bag of from the market. This world-famous export of Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Brasil and Bolivia is a much-demonised product in the developed world but the leaf is widely chewed here as part of the cultural and religious history of indigeneous people. Chewing the leaf, with an alkali activates the `drug`of the leaf producing a mild anaesthetic effect famed for assisting with altitude or allowing the body to adapt to strenuous activity, such as workng a mine shaft 13 hours a day on little more than bread. In my case, my head stopped throbbing and made me feel finally ready for the road.

Most of the tourist jeeps had set off earlier but I had my map and compass. There was only one road. I confirmed there would be gas in San Agustin, and confirmed that I was on the road for it. Leaving town, the harsh washboard only lasted another 10 minutes and I was soon on a vast mud flat flanked by several mountains over 5000 metres. At some stage I overtook a jeep, and then was overtaken as I took a few photos. I followed them for navigation through the mud flats and asked directions for gas and San Agustin. They urged me not to go on this `boring` route and to follow them. If you need gas, we can sell it to you they informed me. Hmmm. And I can get this tonight at your camp? Yeah, no problem. Tranquilo. I had a choice, company and the relative safety of this or the security of being self-reliant.

I followed the jeeps, over jagged rocks and into coarse sand fields as we traversed the Bolivian desert. Things got technical as we began to rise the additional 500 metres towards Laguna Colorada and once up the landscape became surreal and the famous horizons became rich in colour. I say famous because they were a major inspiration for the Spaniard, Salvador Dali and the `Rock Tree` feautures in one of his most famous paintings. And surreal is really the best way to describe this country, ancient rocks eroded into strange sculptures. Riding across vast deserts of sand guided only by the tracks of other jeeps. The climate is inhospitable and the wind is fresh, yet it is inhabited by beautiful pink flamingoes and some highland birds.

I was about to reach the lagoon with flamingoes when my footpeg fell off. The threads had been stripped and the vibration off road had expelled the new bolts I had replaced. I had more bolts but they wouldn`t hold. Hmmm, riding on one footpeg isn`t an option, particularly off-road (the pegs allowing you to balance or adjust your weight. The boys in the jeeps looked and assured me that it was indeed `jodido` which translates to something like stuffed but much less pleasant. There was one construction. One house. I begged and they had wire. As an aside to the story, it really helps to speak spanish when you are riding a motorcycle solo in Bolivia at 4000 metres with pieces falling off. Not only did they have wire, they gifted me wire, and then shouted comments of approval about the tourist girls through a megaphone they had somewhere. None of the girls understood. I strung the wire through the thread and wound it tight and managed a `fix`that should support my weight if I sat down and only stood up in those `oh shit` moments that I knew were coming. With roads like this, there are always some nasty surprises.

At some stage I pulled too far ahead of the jeeps and evidently took a different road to them as I had the remaining 60 km stretch of landscape to myself. I was feeling good on the bike, but as the day wore on, my stomach bug took hold a little more violently. I was holding on but was close to the line. I pulled up to Dali`s famous rock and yes, it was very impressive. I was briefly snowed on for the first and I hope last time this trip. And I fought the cold from getting in or up any vents. As the sun sank lower, the chill really began.

Pulling into Laguna Colorada near sunset, the drivers were starting to become concerned about me. Someone rustled me up a bed I was lucky to get and I was able to share dinner with the backpackers as restaurants here don`t exist – the tours arrange bring their own food and cooks. So I was lucky to find a bed, it was a clear night and the drivers reckoned on -15 celcius overnight. I was lucky to eat, soup and spagetti, some wine and the company of three pretty Israeli girls, three Brasilians who needed a hot-water-bottle and were trying very hard for the most convenient substitute and a table from France who were very interested in the trip. I kept my fluids up, tried to stay awake and then put in for an early night. Only then did my friendly jeep driver ask if I was coming with them tomorrow. ´Well, I need to you are carrying the gas,´ and they weren`t selling it in the rapidly freezing dark. ´Okay. We leave at 5.30am. Will your bike start?´

´I don`t know.´

`I will wake you at 5.`

Bolivia is exhaustion.

Reflecting on my south side exit from the country, it is difficult to begin the story as problems multiply on each other like those exponent tables in school. I have made many mistakes in the following account and present it here aware that some of them are embarassing and some of them were dangerous. But as a wise motorcyclist once said, `when in doubt, gas it,` an attitude which I think has kept me sane or at least gotten me to the next village.

I left La Paz a day after Chuck. I had been waiting around to pick up some parts from a riding buddy Josh who was making a fly-by-night stop in the USA having blown up his engine (shudder) and found it cheaper to source parts and buy a return fare to Miami than import to Bolivia. Unfortunately the demon of US corporate inefficiency meant the DHL didn`t arrive and the return flight was delayed. What could I do? I could only hit the road again.

It was crisp on the altiplano as I rode down to Oruru. Around me buildings stood in various states of disrepair but people themselves were sparse. Many towns in the wilderness stand abandoned, where entire villages deprived of any economy are swept into the megalith that is La Paz. I may not be able to compare my trip to Che Guevara`s epic sweep of the continent but I have learned well a principal tenet of marxist ideology that is true here – land is liberty. The poverty of the continent which burns on every street corner is the poverty of people without a home, whether by war in Colombia or extortion in Honduras. In Bolivia, the land has a strange sheen in that although plentiful, it yields very little and primary goods fetch a pathetic return at market. As such, the `Bolivian Dream` draws many peasants into its highland slums like El Alto, falling off the sides of gorges.

Bolivia`s wilderness feels like the wild west - life is visceral, cheap, and focused primarily on survival. I stop at one grouping of buildings on the road; a proud church is surrounded by mud brick houses lacking roofing or entire walls. I see no sign of habitation (well no people at least) and peeking through the cracks in the door a golden virgen looks out while the floor of the church is scattered with lumber for construction and a couple of ladders. It feels like looking into someone`s bedroom, the one treasure these people have, wherever they are. A dog roams the tussock grass and all is still, while in contrast loaded trucks roll along the tarmac just 20 metres from here.

I return to my bike and manage to overbalance the side stand tipping the bike on it`s side. Ordinarily not a problem, with the side stand I need to lift the fully loaded bike without using two wheels to bear the weight. I bear the bulk of the bike on my knees and gradually lift over 200kg onto the rear wheel and the side stand, around the axis of the side stand and then like a scrum up onto the front tire. At 3800 metres. After a minute I catch my breathe, listen to my heart rate, move on.

The road to Uyuni is famous for being `a little rough`. The unknown quantity is what `a little rough` really means – the Bolivian standard or a new level of bogs, potholes and sand. In reality it is somewhere in the middle. When the paved road ends, 160 km of graded dirt road begins, obliging heavy traffic to tear steady `washboard` divots into the road. This is par for the course except where the road is under repair. Evidently Bolivian road building is a delicate affair and they oblige traffic to detour off the graded section with detours heading for kilometres into the desert then abrubtly turning 180 degrees and returning to the main track. Ploughing a road through the desert churns the sand (sand- this is the remnants of an ancient sea after all), creating hazards up to a foot deep. I am glad for the off-road tire on the front of the bike. It holds my line straight and generally true.

I make it to Uyuni for sunset, a spectacular warm glow over my right-hand shoulder with the salt lake vaguely visible in the distance. And then, like switching on a fridge, the light is gone and the temperature drops. I find myself a bed for the night and while searching I bump into some Brazilian motorcyclists I had seen in Cusco. They ran into trouble and are heading for home, having just spent a few hours on the salt lake and turned around. We share some beer and I secretly wish for bed as the night wears on. I have their contact details and hope to touch base in Brazil.

In Uyuni on a Sunday I need to decide – do I enter the largest salt lake in the world by myself or do I wait for more motorcyclists to turn up. I meet Carlos, from Medellin Colombia who is trying to set up an operation paragliding on the salt flats, surely an adrenaline rush! He invites me out to the famous salt hotel. Although normally outside my miserly budget, Carlos assures me he can get me a discount. Well then, decision made! I rush to finish some preparation on the bike, trying to protect the electrical circuits from the salt. `Carlos, you don`t have a car?` `No, I will just go on your bike`.

Hmmm, readers of my blog will have noticed a trend here. Things go wrong when you carry unplanned passengers! Well, we were moving out to the salt flats entrance, 30 minutes from Uyuni and picked up a nail in the rear tire. I didn`t realise it was a nail of course, I just felt the rear of the bike swing wide abruptly and I tried to correct for the weight of my gear and two fatties. I was glad to keep upright and amazed to pick up a 4 inch nail in such isolation, which promptly shredded my tube. Changing a rear tire is always an interesting experience, changing a rear tire in the dark when it is around the freezing point is not one I wish to experience. It has subsequently been gently suggested to me my technique probably lacked a thing or two. Well, to be honest, I made a complete hash of the job and instead of having any way out of it, or a wiser pair of eyes looking over my shoulder, I gradually had a group of excitable monkeys gather looking at the tire in wide eyed disbelief. Eventually someone brought out a ridiculous truck tire iron and popped the tire over the rim. This act, one I let happen while tired, cold, and well pretty desperate not to abandon my bike in the Bolivian night, damaged the plies of the tire. What I thought was a tire not sitting properly on the bead was actually a serious risk of a blow-out. The things we learn with hindsight.

Tire now on and my last spare tube in the chamber, Carlos and I hopped on the bike. `Well what do we do now Carlos, I don`t have a GPS to find this hotel?`. `No, no it`s very easy, Only 15 minutes.` Well I definitely didn`t like this but my alternative was returning to Uyuni. `Are you sure you know the way?` Well a story can be long or short but our ride in the dark on the salt lake was beautiful, mysterious, but a complete waste of time. Carlos had no idea how to find the hotel by moonlight. `But it is so simple in the day`. I wasn`t in the mood to explain that our land visibility by moonlight was not going to find a hotel that had no electricity and hence no lights to guide us! Now we had to get off the salt flats and I needed to navigate back having blindly taken someone else`s advice. This was yet again a situation where in retrospect my intuition was screaming `don`t do it! Don`t listen to them,` yet I didn`t pay attention and now I was in real strife. Camping on the salt flats was not an option I wanted to consider and I was already cold.

Once on the salt lake, you can not simply drive off until you rejoin road. At the extremities of the salt, deep mud blocks the path of intrepid motorcycles awaiting to inflict even more problems. Thankfully, I knew this, having done a little more research on the salt flats than Carlos. I remembered this when I felt my traction becoming a little sticky and had to jam on the brakes. We traversed along the lake south until we found the exit road we had entered from and made the road. Thankfully Carlos was able to get in touch with the owner of the salt lake who lives in the small entry town of Colchani and lined us up a couch each for the night. After the freezing night air, a blanket and a thermos of instant coffee felt like simple paradise.