Home. El Burro - Inbound.

So to the last  post on my South American travelogue. Again thanks for following along or taking time out to flick through the blog.

My life for 22 weeks on the road, ..it is surprising how little you need. I was still carrying what I didn't use, ever, a tent for example. But it gave me peace of mind that I could shelter if I broke down in the boonies....solo rider neurosis perhaps.

The hotel offered the option of bumping the bike up the curb you see and putting it under cover. El Burro has seen worse than a little rain and with that rear bearing … nah.....she can get wet!

The last 12 miles....I took a back route rather than the toll road. It was no further in miles...but, it had a section that was unmade and rough, had I have known I may have spared the rear bearing this last few miles of abuse.

As I approached the airport I passed the cellphone parking lot, a global practice regardless of how many no parking signs might be posted. I have never seen a coach do it though.

We made it to the cargo area and were joined at 8.45 by the DakarMoto adventure rider icons, Sandra and Javier. Javier used to wrench in his own workshop, when I mentioned the rear bearing problem and the last 800 miles he simply shook his head, looked at me and shook his head again. Fortunately, Sandra holds the airside pass, so I didn't have to take any more non-verbal admonishment...LOL!

Focused, efficient and fast. Sandra knows how to work the system and was greeted by pretty much anyone who passed by. She kept apologizing for the slowness...I was out of there by 11.15am! Sandra, that is called slick...trust me.

The stages of encapsulation and screening...sneakily taken. Just like the cellphone lot no parking signs; the cargo area is a no photography zone; sorry.

Full body scan for El Burro but escaped a cavity search as far as I know. She blushes easily so will be happy with that.

Arrived home in Virginia yesterday morning, everything on time...thankyou Delta. El Burro landed in Houston this morning courtesy of United and has a connecting flight to Washington Dulles, moaning about the layover I wouldn't be surprised. Trucked to RIC airport arriving Friday.

That is it - journey done, mission accomplished. It has been the ride of my life (so far). Next?

Cheers.

Over and out.

T2

On The Cusp of Home

The forecast changed on Friday, no storms in Buenos Aires (BA). The journey to Chivilcoy was uneventful arriving at about 1.00pm after an early start. BA is only another couple of hours, I kept going. The weather was not the only motivator.

On the evening of the day of pain and pleasure I had an additional dose of pain that I did not report on in the last post, not wishing to create (more) anxiety with the ladies in my life. The miles of stone on Ruta 40 had liberally coated my chain in dust, it needed lubrication. I carry a prop-stand to lift the rear wheel off the ground, it makes lubricating the chain a lot easier if the wheel can be spun. It also allows the health of the rear wheel bearing to be checked; grab opposite sides of the wheel and move your hands in opposite directions, you should not feel any movement. That is not what I felt. There was 1-2mm of play in the bearing, it was also visible between the bearing and the axle. I had last checked a thousand or two miles earlier, no issue. The bike handling was fine and there was no grinding or roughness when I spun the wheel, which were the only positives.

A sloppy bearing can fail at anytime and when it does that is the end of the ride, the only way the bike moves any distance is on a flatbed truck. On observing play in a bearing the bike would usually stay put until new bearings are installed, but this was not an ordinary situation. Being at the end of the trip there was little point trying to find the correct bearings and having them fitted, it could have taken a week or more. So with 800 miles left to go I decided to ride on, if the bearing failed along the way I would just be that much closer to BA; a shorter ride on a flatbed. It didn't fail. I got lucky. This post is being written from a the Howard Johnson hotel just 12 miles from the cargo area drop off at Buenos Aires airport. El Burro will make it that far, even if I had to push it part of the way.

The bike is being dropped off on Monday morning, I have to be present to follow it through the process. Once on the pallet, wrapped and run through an X-ray machine, Argentinian customs and airport security will sign off and I am free to go. The bike should fly by the middle of the week, to Houston, from where it will be trucked to Richmond airport. It will likely take a week or two to journey north from Houston and on arrival it will be held until I get it released from customs. 

My flight home is also booked for Monday, an overnight flight with Delta to Atlanta connecting to Richmond. All being well I should land just after 9am Tuesday morning. The journey will be at an end.

The final post on this travelogue will come from Glenn Allen next week.

Until then....ciao.

T2

Pain and Pleasure - Not in Equal Measure

On a long multi-day adventure ride there are days that offer pain and pleasure. Tuesday was one of those days, though there was more pain than pleasure. You just have to keep faith that things will work themselves out.

It was bucketing down on Tuesday morning, cold too, at just over 35F at 7.45 when I bailed out of the hostel. With a return home beckoning I just suited up and left. It is 25 miles to Liucura the location of  the Chlie/Argentina Complejo Frontier, leaving about 15 miles to reach the pass (Paso Hachado) and Argentina itself. Five miles out from border control it started to snow, big wet flakes that stick to the visor obscuring everything in front. What is it with me and snow when crossing the Andes from Chile to Argentina? Paso de Jama redux.

Well, the border was closed due to weather when I arrived at 8.40, not a total surprise. There is nowhere to wait at this border if the small café is closed, which it was. A wood stove was burning invitingly inside the border station, but they keep the office door closed when the crossing is 'cerrado'. There are a couple of overhangs where I sheltered with a group of hairy bummed truck drivers.....and watched the snow accumulate on the moto.

It lightened up a couple of times, but then resumed the big wet flakes. At one point the gutter on the roof stopped flowing, the temperatures had obviously fallen, the snow had stopped melting. My spirits sank with the temperature.

With a relatively short haul over the pass and the weather on the other side forecast to be good I decided to wait it out, 9.40 became 10.40, the snow had not abated but was not settling on the road. At 11am they opened the doors and the border. Remember those hairy bummed truck drivers? Nicest guys you could possibly meet, I presume taking pity on the ‘extranjero’ daft enough to be on two wheels, they let me go first.

Javier at DakarMoto's had urged me to check the import paperwork to ensure it was correct to avoid issues at the EZE export office. I spotted an error, the guy had my nationality wrong and he corrected it to the UK, not the US (traveling on my UK passport). Onward and upward..the roads had been plowed of the freshly dropped 4-6 inches from the spring storm. The temperatures were below freezing, the road remained wet but I slowed just in case. As I neared the highpoint windblown snow had returned to the road. With only a mile or so to crest the paso I gingerly pressed on. Within a couple of miles after cresting this was the view (west at left, east at right), temperatures in the 50's. Weather changes in the mountains continue to astonish.

The road ahead...the pleasure returned.

That is until I turned north on Ruta 40 at Las Lajas. The pain resumed, the wind was coming from the WNW, and was nasty, just downright nasty except for a few stretches where 40 trends east. This is the valley of the volcanoes, from the Argentinian side, copped another partial view of a cone. I could barely keep the bike upright from the wind, even cocked on the side stand.

I was aware that Ruta 40 to Malargue retained an unpaved section, more ripio. The NatGeo map I checked suggested it would last about 30 miles, not too bad. When I entered the ripio the surface was reasonable with a light coating of gravel in places. I stopped to capture another smaller volcano.

About the point where I expected the ripio to end small islands of blacktop appeared, lily pads in a pond of light gravel. With 100 miles left to get to Malargue I figured I would get there by about 6- 6.30pm. But the lily pads disappeared, over the next 30-40 miles the odd old strip of tarmac would appear along with 'Obras en Constuccion' signs. Not much evidence of 'obras' or work, but a lot of 'construccion', evidenced by the 6-8 inches of large 1-3 inch stone they had recently laid, mile upon wretched mile. Their plan being to allow the passing traffic to helpfully grind and pack the stone for future blacktop.

Trucks had passed and left a track, but with a 2-3 inch mini berm where the gap is on the paired wheels on the tractor & trailer. It was an utterly miserable 30 miles at 25-30mph. On a couple of occasions I inevitably put my front wheel in some of the deeper stuff when the tracks merged or disappeared, and once I nearly planted the bike on the ground; quick but smooth action on the throttle to goose the speed straightened my fishtailing up. Thank you motorcycle gods.

The reward, when it came, was in the form of utterly smooth fresh black top.....70 mph, a couple of miles ...then slam on the brakes, no warning signage to alert of a 100-200 yard interval of 2-3 inch stone, then back onto the smooth stuff, this happened 2 or three times (I don't understand the logic behind this approach to construction) before black top returned for good. I reached Malargue at 7.30 with about 30 minutes of daylight to spare. 380 miles and I was completely shot, but at least I was in Argentina and had the paperwork to allow DakarMotos to start the booking process. I sent Javier a picture of the TVIP, smugly noting that as requested I had carefully checked the paperwork, found a mistake and had it corrected. Then I showered and left for dinner, three blocks away at a nice place. Pleasure returned.

I was looking forward to a good sleep at Hostal Kathmandu, but before putting my head on the pillow I checked emails. The pain returned, intensified... there was a number missing from the VIN on the TVIP Javier advised. I would need to return to the closest border (the nearest was over 100 miles one way) to get it fixed.

Noooooooooooo……...the pain was searing, how could I have been so dumb. Maybe two + hours of watching snow fall in the cold and a desire to get moving on what was a long day, delayed at the border, addled my brain at the aduana window. Regardless, it was a silly lack of attention on my part, I needed a plan of attack, but a fitful sleep came first.

At 4am my eyes pinged opened and I could not will them shut. Argentina has a fiscal office, the AFIP, that collects taxes, manages social security and so forth, one of the branches in AFIP is customs (Aduana). I had seen AFIP offices in various towns during my journey. Obviously tax collection and welfare are nationwide issues, customs control is an issue at points of entry and Javier at DakarMotos had warned that most AFIP offices do not have an aduana section.

San Rafael has an AFIP office, 115 miles distant but on the route to Buenos Aires. Google Maps showed a 'Zona Operativa Aduanera' in San Rafael, I guessed it was a free trade zone to serve the wine industry, speculating that as a consequence San Rafael AFIP would have an aduana section. The AFIP website was not helpful in confirming that. I resolved to try San Rafael. If unsuccessful the worst case was to head further north to Mendoza and onto the main border with Chile; Las Libertadores.

The office was easily located. With no parking on the street I followed the locals and rode up  onto the sidewalk and parked. Sure enough there was a customs section in the AFIP office. The staff could not have been more helpful. In my best Spanish I explained the situation, showed them the documentation and the error. Ten minutes later I had the corrected document in hand and left. Found wifi and sent a picture of the document to DakarMoto's to grease the wheels.

My enthusiasm to visit Mendoza had evaporated, I continued on an easterly track eating 380 of the 750 miles to Buenos Aires. It is time to head home.

On the way I passed  numerous vineyards; I could have been in France.

Realico, in far north La Pampa (and yes still in the Patagonia Region) reminded me of some towns in central Illinois. Flat land, streets laid out in a grid, clean with a conservative feel and reasonable wealth fueled by agriculture. 

On arrival I contacted DakarMoto's for an update and when I told Javier where I was he commented 'there is nothing there except for a shitty gas station'. He was wrong about the gas station, it is modern and offered a full range of services to the traveler. He was right about the town though, excitement is not an emotion that has touched Realico, which is precisely why I decided to stay here a couple of nights and unwind from the last 6 days and 1,250 miles. I had my fill of excitement during that period.

When I checked into Hotel Juan Jose I bumped into Vincent from Buenos Aires, a septuagenarian leading a group of 7 bikes on a tour of 10 days or so. Vincent spoke a little English and with my modest Spanish we were able to dialogue. I met several of the group including his son Mauricio.

The town itself is spotlessly clean. As I mentioned it is conservative in feel and they take 'siesta' very seriously. At Noon they down tools and the streets are empty.

A town with money can afford to indulge in sculptures of a prehistoric animal and the current version, an armadillo and keep the flag flying in a spotless main square.

Realico's wealth is on display in the homes. I have not seen this quality of property in a town center in any other place in Argentina. The old brick building, if renovated, would make a ritzy panaderia and coffee store. But I don't think ritzy would be to the local's taste.

Back on the road Friday, 260 miles to Chivilcoy, (a town I passed by in late September) leaving the final 120 miles to the environs of the airport for Saturday, just south of Buenos Aires. By the time I arrive I should have the travel plans for the following week nailed down.

Cheers. T2

Salmon and Volcanoes

The area around Puerto Montt and Chiloe Island is the center of the salmon farming industry in Chile. If you have ever purchased or eaten salmon from Chile it likely came from these parts. 

On exiting the ferry, I followed the coast via Calbuco to catch the ferry to Chiloe Island. Not the shortest or fastest route to Chiloe, but nicer than the motorway. So despite the rain I pressed on and by the time I arrived in Calbuco the steady rain had been replaced by showers of diminishing frequency. Calbuco is built around small scale commercial fishing and salmon farming in the numerous coves and backwaters in the area.

The town was bustling, a street market was in full swing in one of the main roads close to the front, parking was impossible. I headed around the peninsular towards the ferry, stopping first at a restaurant that served a 12-16oz slab of salmon, pan fried in butter at a price locals could afford, about $5. Delicious. Of course, the salmon was accompanied with the plate piled high with French fries.

Two companies operate ferries to Chiloe, on an alternating basis from different ramps located a kilometer apart. As you approach the embarking point a guy hops out and directs traffic to the next ferry. It isn't cheap, about double the price of the ferry to Tierra del Fuego for half the ride. Perhaps it reflects the salmon farming boost to the local economy, the ferry operators getting their slice of the pie. The channel between the mainland and Chiloe has a fascinating mix of rough water, eddies and millpond areas, often interspersed depending on the tides.

Pelicans seem to like the area, several flights passed the ferry. Perhaps they are drawn by the opportunity to steal salmon from a poorly protected farm.

Chiloe is known for the 16 wooden churches across the island. A program of restoration was started after they fell into disrepair and is ongoing. Local effort combined with central government funding will preserve them for future generations. A small but interesting museum is housed in one of the churches in Ancud. As I wandered through the museum sunlight came streaming through the stained-glass windows, high up in the church, casting myriad colors onto the exhibits of doors and windows that had been replaced during restoration.

I stayed the night in Ancud at the Hostal Mundo Nuevo, nice, private parking but pricy (a feature of accommodation in Chiloe it seems). The hostel recommended a local seafood place for dinner; my first experience of a fish called congrio - I thought it might be conger eel but the shape of the fillet didn't look eel like. Anyway, it tasted good (perhaps any fish pan fried in oodles of butter would?) and I would have it again.

Even without a recommendation I wouldn't have been tempted by a restaurant that offered a bizarre breadth of cuisine. A place that serves pizza and sushi surely cannot do either very well, can it? I will never know.

Ancud is a gritty town in need of some TLC, but it does have a nice seafront walk that passes the local fishing port.

Sunday I returned to Puerto Montt, on a bleak, rainy, ugly kind of day, in a rather bleak town that has not been improved by the recent protests. The sidewalks and plazas down by the shore where littered with broken glass, the spaces now boarded up, and walls liberally painted with slogans. Not photogenic.

Though on my way back into town I stopped between down pours and captured a few shots of the several ports that Puerto Montt boasts. One area in particular has several dockside businesses with large numbers of big white totes, generally protected by overhead nets from the gulls circling above. Obviously, the totes contain something edible the gulls enjoy. I surmise that it is processed protein harvested from the ocean intended for the salmon farms. Next time I buy Chilean salmon from Kroger or Publix I will be reminded of this area.

My two-wheel journey north began in earnest today, Monday. I had intended to use Santiago as my exit point but with the continuing unrest and silence from the shipping agents I am diverting over to Buenos Aires (and hope the Argentinian Presidential election held Sunday doesn't stimulate protests around the country). DakarMotos in BA responded immediately so planning for the return is now underway. In the meantime, I will make the most of the diversion and head to Mendoza, before cutting east late in the week to BA. To avoid backtracking on roads north from San Carlos de Bariloche I am using the frontier crossing at Pino Hachado, which places me in Argentina 20 miles north of Zapala. a town I passed through a month ago on my way south. Ruta 40 north takes me to Mendoza.

It was 200 wet and dreary miles north on Ruta 5, the Pan-American highway in Chile, a fast toll road. In view if the weather I ambled along at 50-60mph, stopping for fuel and rest breaks along the way. The last 100 miles was more interesting, cutting off east towards the frontier on Ruta181 takes you into volcano country. I finally saw a cone, though not the top which was shrouded in cloud.

Lonquimay, forty miles from the border, was my target destination and staging post for the crossing into Argentina. To get there requires transiting through the Las Raices Tunnel, Originally built for a railway it has since been converted to road use, one direction at a time, controlled by traffic lights. Just as well as the tunnel is about 3 miles long. It seemed to go on forever with the noise of the exhaust bouncing off the walls.

By the way Las Raices is no ordinary tunnel, it warps the space-time continuum. The road sign shortly after exiting the tunnel offered a bewildering choice, continue to Lonquimay 10 miles distant or make a left to Central Alaska. Huh?

Lonquimay is in a pretty valley, nestled in a mountain amphitheater. It is getting a makeover with a lot of small, new, properties being constructed. Perhaps they are holiday homes; it is within a days drive of Santiago.

The old and the new structures welcoming visitors to the town are strikingly different.

It is raining cats and dogs at the moment, the streets are like rivers. I arrived here in the dry; I hope to leave in the dry in the morning. We shall see.

All for now.

T2