The Long Road to the Land of Fire

 

 

Happy to be back daydreamin' on the road amid the mountains

 

Getting back to Sixto took some effort but by the moment I arrived at the hotel where I left him over 5 weeks ago I was ready to write a new chapter. I took two consecutive overnight buses and over 50 hours of waiting at bus stations and several coaches to make it. My psyche was now prepared for long days on the road. A fresh start where my days would return to having a strong sense of what was around me with the ability to stop wherever and whenever to take a rest, chat to someone, sit on the kerb eating a snack or just take things in simply and spontaneously as they presented themselves.

After adding some new parts and minor adjustments we were crossing back into Argentina within a day. I bit off a little more than I could chew on my first day back, getting caught in heavy evening rains and feeling a slight strain on my shoulder. It was all worth it and brought back memories of my first days back in California, back when my nose was for smelling new leather against strong winds and my ears were for listening to the engine holding a steady pace cruising through a silent valley, right hand on the throttle and left resting gently on my knee.

I rest in Salta for a couple days, hopelessly fishing in a nearby lake and enjoying games of pool and jenga. I meet an animated Jose one afternoon returning from a fish, a Triumph rider from decades ago who was shocked and delighted to see me cleaning my chain by a small village square, unaware this model was still being made. He was so excited he invited me to his place nearby to proudly show me the classic bikes he was restoring and photos of him with his Bonneville from the early 70's.

My short pause in Salta was to wait for Phil to arrive so we could share the ride to Tierra del Fuego, the island at the end of the world some 5,000km's south of here. Phil would be my riding partner for the following 8 days, a setup I wasn't accustomised to but was keen on trying as we seemed to have similar travel attitudes. Jenn and I met Phil at this same hostel a couple days after my fall. Phil also has his arm in a sling and similarly has fallen off his bike, he in Peru, breaking his collarbone and was working at the hostel whilst waiting for his bone to heal. He had been slowly riding down from Canada via Alaska with his sister who had left him at Cusco and was riding ahead at this stage.

Our timing to continue our journeys had aligned and we set sail for Ushuaia from here, charging through the flat plains of central Argentina, her southern Atlantic coast and across the Magellan Strait to Tierra del Fuego. We both wanted to move fast as the end of summer and snow was fast approaching, leaving time to explore the Andes to the west as we head north afterwards.  

We stopped to take in a weekend Gaucho festival but our long days were mainly spent on the highways, stopping just to re-fuel and grab a bite to eat.

 

The week was a mix of isolated highways and vacant landscapes, silence, wild animals, memorable sunset riding before finding a place to set up camp for the night and enjoying the spontaneous hospitality of kind Argentinians and Chileans. We crossed the  37' S line of latitude and into the semideserts of Patagonia where the winds became fierce at times, occasionally feeling like we were riding at 45' angles to maintain balance and being pushed into the left lanes with little preparation.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

Only one night did we pay for a bed, struggling to find a place to set up out tents in Monteros, we approached a group of elderly men chatting by the streets at a late hour and was offered gentle Hugo's backyard without hesitation to setup our tents in the rain, accompanied by a morning coffee, food and a teary farewell.  

 

 

 

 

Wild camping by the tidal waters along the coast battling winds throught the night. Other nights were spent on living room floors, municipal camp sites or a patch of dirt behind a gas station.

 

 

Then there were four. On arriving in Comodoro Rivadavia we met up with Jayne, Phil's sister who was waiting patiently for him and Ian, another Canadian biker ready to hit the road. We stayed at Pedro's, enjoying more generous hospitality and indoor sleeping.   

 

 

 

Empanada nights with Pedro and family

 

 

 

Three scruffy and smelly bikers pretty content with lunch cooking away beside us when we stopped in Rio Grande at Ricardo and Fabiana's. Argentinian hospitality ensures when you meet a fellow motorcyclist he invited you to lunch at his place, disappears to the butcher and returned to cook you kilo's of steak.    

 

 

 

Phil ceremoniously placing his travel sticker on a gas station window 

  

 

 

 

 

 A memorable night which will stay with me for a long time was the day we crossed into Chile in Tierra Del Fuego. As the sun set we were miles from the closest town, following a dusty gravel track we pulled over and on approaching the farm house to ask for permission to camp on the private property, Phil and Jayne were met for a big smile from Mario at the door. He invites us in to the warm house away from the afternoon winds and we sat chatting for hours by the fire about life down here over fresh butter, bread, coffee and mate`. Mario's the kind of guy you dream of meeting on the road, living between here managing the sheep station and his family life in the nearby city he had a warming approach, an intelligent person who offered a frank insight into local life and Chile and an inquisitive and curious listener. He offered us space in his barn to lay our mats down and we continued this new friendship the next morning over breakfast before setting off.

 

 

 

 

Finally making it to Ushuaia after a long week, the place where civilisation stops, a town amongst the mountains with a certain outpost charm and ideal for resting after reaching a milestone and a heavy night of celebatory drinking with Phil and Ian. I farewelled my fellow riders and relaxed for a few further days with new travellers, cooking and watching films by the heaters while the snow fell swiftly through the windows.

 

 

                                

 

My riding buddies - Dan, me, Phil, Ian and Jayne over a barbeque in Ushuaia.

Joe y Jenn sin Sixto en Argentina

 

 

Within a couple hours of securing Sixto at the hotel we had crossed into Argentina on the first of a long line of buses for the past month. It took a bit of adjusting, travelling in the rain was more enjoyable but working around timetables, waiting at bus shelters and missing the wind and open views and not being able to stop at curious small towns for lunch wasn't so much fun. We headed into Salta, staying at a hostel in the countryside where I was hopeful of getting an MRI scan at one of the hospitals. It all happened quickly and I had the expected results and consultation within a week - keep the sling on for a further couple of weeks and don't ride for an additional week. The consulting doctor didn't seem too concerned and was more interesting in telling cross country bike tales from his glory years. 

 

Not for the first time, it was a real breath of fresh air making the border crossing. As Bolivia proved to be a testing place getting the better of me at times, arriving in developed Argentina felt overdue and very much welcomed. Within a few hours the contrast felt more obvious than the crossing from the U.S. into Mexico. 

 

 

                               

 

The four most celebrated Argentinians - a tango singer, a revolutionist, an active first lady and perhaps the greatest footballer the world has ever seen. 

 

We happened to arrive at a convenient time, the current economic situation meant arriving with U.S. dollars in hand put us in a very favourable position where we could exchange currencies on the black market for up to 60% higher than the official rate. Argentina is going through a tough time, inflation has increased by around 25% in the past year, something not seen since it's previous crisis of 2002. Since that time, Argentinians have kept savings in the more reliable and less volatile U.S. dollar. As restrictions have been put on obtaining foreign currency, the demand for such has had a dramatic increase recently which has driven the illegally sourced value upwards, suiting foreigners entering the country with dollars. It's made Argentina probably the cheapest country on the continent for me.

 

There's no real panic with the way things are heading, volatility and unpredictablity is just part of life here. Within its borders lies that casual Southern European way of living and thinking, understandable when you realise the vast majority of Argentinians have either Spanish or Italian descent.

 

With it comes an eventful few centuries. Buenos Aires declared independence from Spain in 1816 through it's revered General, Jose de San Martin. From the late 19th century Argentina became one of the world's wealthiest states by introducing modern agricultural techniques and immense infrastructure investment flowing in from Europe along with mass immigration to fuel development. As the growing urban working class created a strong labour movement the political landscape evolved during the world war era and made room for a military coup led by army colonel Juan Peron. Peron gained a strong following by empowering the working class and was actively supported by his then wife, Eva Peron, a symbol of Argentina's fight for equal rights until he was sent into exile in 1955 . He returned to power a couple of decades later during a volatile period until his death in 1974. His then third wife Maria Estela succeeded him but was ousted by a military coup who exercised power through a junta for the following seven years, a period known as the Dirty War. Basic order was restored during this era but tens of thousands with opposing views disappeared, corruption was rife, the economy further weakened and the Falkland Islands were bitterly lost to Thatcher's UK which finally brought the military regime to an end. Democracy was reinstated and continues to this day yet economic problems, hyperinflation, social unrest and corruption seem to be the ongoing issues surrounding Argentinian governance.  

 

From Salta, Jenn headed to Cordoba while I waited for my scan results and we met up in Buenos Aires, that most European of non-European cities a few days later. We share our time between an apartment in modern Palermo and a hostel nearby the charming streets of San Telmo. Our attempts at vegetarianism in Bolivia quickly faded away as we chewed on a lot of Argentinian beef. Here the rib eye can be cut with a spoon. The butcher becomes our friend as does the small grills tucked away in narrow streets where a steak sandwich and glass of wine costs around $4. So why is the beef so good here? Argentina has a vast area of open flat plains, the Pampas. It's a humid area with a perfect amount of rainfall where free roaming cows feed on grass not grain in confined feedlots or with antibiotics or growth hormones. Quality beed is just part of the food culture here.

 

     

 

Our hostel buddies on a fun night out seeing some live African inspired music.

 

Getting involved at a tango show, the sling didn't stop my partner from moving me around

 

 

 

In Mendoza for a few days, the country's wine capital we take a winery tour 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our last stop in Argentina together was staying on a fruit farm for a week. I met a motorcycling couple from the States, Chris and Erin a few months back on the road in Ecuador and we got chatting about where I was heading. They mentioned some English biker friends they had in San Rafael who had set up their own farm that I should get in contact with when passing through the west of Argentina. They offer bikers coming through to stay with them in exchange for working on the farm. Jenn was up for the idea so we got in contact with John and Annette and eventually made it to their farm. It was a worthwhile experience, a long week as the rain didn't stop for the final four days, preventing us from doing much active work. The 15 hectares they kept was an idyllic little spot near the Andes. The working farm includes acres of plum trees which were nearly ready for harvest, many rows of grapes, walnuts trees and other fruit trees. We helped out a little - cooked dinner, baked bread in the clay oven, picked pears, cracked walnuts and pine nuts, made jam preserves, sanded and varnished tables and fed the chickens, ducks and geese daily. We sat back drinking wine from Jose's small bodega up the street and listened to John's interesting discussions on day to day operations of the farm, the set-up, being resourceful with water, the volatile economics of making a living from it and the natural risks like frost which had damaged much of his plum trees this year. There was also much bike talk to take on especially when a biker couple arrived in the final days, Mark and Sanne who had some interesting tips for me as they were coming from the south.

We were happy to move on after a week and head into Chile where Jenn was leaving from Santiago on a long return back home to Melbourne. We said our farewells after a fun and eventful couple of months together which got better as time went on. Now without Jenn or Sixto I felt a bit lost and lonely. It wasn't for long however as waiting at the metro station that afternoon after seeing Jenn off at the airport I bumped into nobody other that Chris, the ex-colleague of mine who I ran into oblivious of his travel plans back in Mexico. The first time was a coincidence but fate had us this time so we met that night for a beer to catch up and will likely cross paths in Chile in the coming months. I stayed on in Santiago for a further couple of days to get some parts at the Triumph dealership and to head to the port town of Valparaiso to have a quick look around and speak to a shipping agent there. My shoulder feeling stronger every day, from here I make the long way back to southern Bolivia in the hope that Sixto is waiting patiently for me and ready to continue the good times. I'm itching to get on the road again.       

Down and Out between Uyuni & Tupiza

 

It was supposed to be an easy day, Jenn gets a 6am bus, I sleep in til 8 then get on Sixto after a coffee, head south-east out of town and follow the Dakar track of a few days earlier in reverse. There's a rusty sign on the dusty road out of town saying 208km's to Tupiza, my destination. The weather starts off well and I have the road to myself for the first hour until I meet a broken down minibus who I can't help out. The road turns to long stretches of ripio, nothing around me but alpacas, vicunas, shrubs and red sandy desert. When I turn the engine off for a drink break, the world is dead silent.

 

 

 

I cross a river where a truck sits half way in waiting to be rescued as he's bogged, there's a few tiny communities, mostly just half finished adobe structures and the odd child playing by the roadside.There's short patches of drizzle between sunny moments and sections of the road turns to sand dunes.

I stop in Atocha for a soup lunch then shortly after the flat desert gives way for canyons. The light rain persists, before I pass a couple of bikers heading in the other direction. I turn a corner through the canyon and immediate approach a downhill section, it's wet and despite travelling reasonably slow I lose control and slide across the road for several metres before Sixto drops to his left and I'm sent over the handlebars ten metres or so and land heavily on the right side of my upper body. It all happens so quick so once I gather my thoughts I pick myself up, Sixto's still running which is a good sign and my body feels ok. My helmet visor is partially cracked and wearing wet weather gear for most of the day I have mud along one side of my body. I soon realise I can't move my right arm, I can't lift it. I wander around for a short while, turn the ignition off but can't lift the bike up. The arm gets stiffer.

About five minutes later a four door pick up truck comes down the hill and stops a few metres in front on Sixto. A man in his 40's gets out to see that I'm ok, I say I'm fine but indicate how I can't move my arm much. He encourages me to make some movements but we see that something has happened to it. He offers to take me into town and explains ingeniously to me that he's gonna back his pick up truck against the bank then push Sixto into the back and take him with us. ''Thanks but it's too heavy to push and I can't help you'' I say but he called out for a middle-aged woman from the truck who gets out and nursing my arm I watch them pick up my motorbike from a slippery road, push him through a patch of shrubs and then onto the tray of his truck as if sent here to help me. Shortly after a car passes from the other direction. A man gets out to see if I'm ok, now sitting on the edge of the road, trying to find a comfortable position to rest my arm as the pain gets stronger. He also offers us extra ropes to tie up Sixto. Off he goes and as we're nearly ready to leave for the town another car passes, this time with a comforting Argentinian couple and an American. They want to know what happened but by this point I just want to sit in my misery and be taken to the hospital. They kindly make me a sling and offer me an airplane pillow to rest my arm on along with a bag of painkillers and a protein bar.

Soon after we're on our way to Tupiza, it's 30km's away and probably the longest hour of my life. Between the coming and going of sharp pain, moans and cursing I get to know my saviour, Alfredo who happens to be the mayor of the town I stopped to have lunch in earlier. He's a very generous man who assures me I'll get looked after well in Tupiza. We eventually arrive at the public hospital where the emergency room inject me with some painkillers and organise some X-rays. Jenn meets me at the hospital. The x-rays confirm a dislocation of the shoulder and fractured arm. The doctor says I'll need to see a specialist to have my shoulder put back into place, two hours have passed by now and the pain is getting worse, luckily there is an orthopaedic trauma doctor in the small town.

Alfredo, Jenn and I jump back in the truck and drive over to the doctor's surgery moments before he's closing up for the day. Dr. Pinosa attends to me straight away, asks what happened, quickly reviews the x-rays then lies me down on the bed and somehow gets me to outstretch my arm. He puts a sheet around my left shoulder and tells Alfredo to pull it away from my body while he spends the next half hour pulling my right arm with all his force away from my body. The pain reaches a new level, Jenn later tells me that the bunch of hardened Bolivian women in the waiting room were having a good laugh at my expense at the weakness of men as I groaned my way through the pulling and stretching of my arm. The nurse was called in on three occasions to inject more painkillers into my arms. The doctor later mentioned I'd been given 8mg of Diazepam and was shocked that I hadn't reduced anxiousness and become drowsy with the first 2mg. After half a hour, he had made enough progress to reach over and knock my shoulder back into place. The pain disappeared instantly. Fuck! What an afternoon! I was given a sling to wear for three weeks and told not to ride for a month. The doctor recommended I get an MRI scan to see if there was further damage to tendons and ligaments.       

 

 

 

To finish the afternoon off, Alfredo qickly gets some guys nearby to help him unload Sixto where I have him parked inside the hotel for the next month. The following day I manage to have a mechanic sent across to the hotel and he helps me out with fixing a few things. Lucky there was no mechanical damage from the fall, just a bent brake lever and cracked light of which I have sourced replacements in Santiago as well as a bent foot pedal, damaged stand spring, dented light case and cracked mirror arm. I plan to return once Jenn leaves when my shoulder should be well on the way to full recovery after the orthopaedic's advice. We rest here for a few days before heading into Northern Argentina to find a hospital with MRI scanning facilities. Not sure how I'll cope without Sixto for the first time in nine months but looking forward to arriving in a developed country after the past couple months.   

Joining El Dakar

 

 

We joined the masses at Uyuni for what the Bolivians considered their welcome to the international stage. It was their first time in hosting the Dakar Rally since its permanent move to South America. It's the pinnacle motorbike, quadbike and rally car off-road endurance race in the world which was raced from Paris to Dakar in Senegal through the Sahara for three decades but due to security threats to competitors in Mauritania, the rally is now hosted by South America. Typically it takes place in the deserts and open terrains through Argentina and Chile and this year, parts of Southern Bolivia.

 

Uyuni, the town famed for being nearby the largest salt flats in the world, Salar de Uyuni, put on a brilliant show for this highly anticipated event. It was hard to understand the hype as the sport is not very popular and more suited to television rather than as spectator viewing but Bolivians of all ages were drawn here to embrace and celebrate a festive few days.

 

 

 

The salt flats in January

 

Jenn arrived by bus and I took the newly paved highway from Potosi through the desert valleys and shallow canyons on a fantastic day of riding to arrive a couple days before the bikes passed through. I was waved down on the way by a young family who were stopped by the highway and had ran out of petrol, begging me to return to the last village to fetch them some more. With all the little stores stopped for lunch I backtracked quite a way before having six litres filled into plastic bottles which I carried back. We then push started the little car and was offered two litres of yoghurt for my trouble. On arrival, the setting up of the music stages, tents, marquees and food stalls promised a lot of excitement. We somehow managed to find a hotel for the first night but were then forced to sleep in my cosy one man tent when the hotel prices quadrupled in prices due to unprecedented demand.  

 

 

 

 

I had been looking forward to experiencing the salt flats for a long time, it seemed to be a highlight of many travelers I'd met recently. As the rainy season just hit, the perimeter of the flat was more like a lake and unfortunately prevented me from taking Sixto in and getting lost on the white oasis.

 

 

We had to settle for the shores and spent an hour chatting to locals in town for the Rally who were keen to take bad family shots with the three of us.

 

 

 

Although there was a lack of travelers here we partied the nights away in the marquees set up by government departments and vineyards offering local wines. The fantastic folk music and endless offerings of wine from the locals gave me a new fondness for the Bolivians and their welcome.  

  

 

We managed to get ourselves interviewed on some state television and dance the night away 

 

 

The following day with dirty hangovers we hear on the grapevine of a good place to catch the riders coming through so we followed a long convoy of four-wheel drives along the dusty tracks through the desert to finally reach the Dakar track. While waiting for the race to pass us we spend time with others here on motorbikes, a group of Irish guys and this couple from the U.S. 

 

 

 

 

The race finally comes through

 

 

 

Trying to get back to Uyuni but stuck in the mud, some locals come to the rescue to get me out

 

 

Video - To avoid more mud or taking the same route back to town and possibly getting lost, the four of us decided on riding part of the track as the riders seemed to have passed. The Bolivians loved it, cheering us on and waving their flags. A cop eventually stops me and gets angry, forcing us to get off the track.

The following morning the race continues out of Uyuni towards Chile. As we're camped on a basketball court by the track we're woken at sunrise to the vehicles passing and take in the last of the rally.

 

 

 

 

Jenn hanging out at the nearby train cemetery

The mountain that eats men

It's a cold ride under dark clouds out to Potosi, full of anticipation to reach one of the dark hearts of Latin America. After spending time in Zacatecas and Guanajuato in Mexico, cities with similiar historical importance, I arrived here with more knowledge of what such a city stood for, a symbol of European colonialism, its motivations and what collateral damage that brings. Potosi, the highest city on earth, retells the common story of how the wealthier a land's resources are, the more destitute its people become.   

 

 

 

Behind me is the Cerro Rico, the Rich Hill which still has 180 active mines today. It's also known as the mountain that eats men, between the indigenous men of Latin America and the black slaves brought across to extract the metals from its core, it's said that 8 million have perished due to mining here in unsafe conditions and diseases like silicosis from spending a lifetime breathing it's toxic air. Since mining began, the mountain's peak has dropped by over 300 metres and everyday the tunnels become weaker and more vulnerable to collapse. 

 

The anecdote has it that that in 1545, an Indian man was passing this mountain in pursuit of an escaped llama, in the cold night he lit a fire and by it's light he saw a white and shining vein of pure silver - what follows is the tragedy and oppression by the Spanish rulers in stripping all the rich minerals from the earth within and bringing it's wealth to Europe. Almost overnight the city of Potosi was established, flooded with treasure hunters, professional gamblers, prostitutes whose salons were occupied by wealthy miners, magnificently decorated churches, dance academies and opulent theaters. It became the nerve centre of the entire Spanish new world kingdom - cloths of gold and silver hung from balconies of houses, silks and fabrics from Europe, porcelian from China, ladies displayed diamonds from Sri Lanka, rubies and pearls from Panama.  

 

Within 28 years of the discovery it was one of the world's biggest and richest cities, with a population equal to London, more than Madrid, Rome or Paris. 99% of minerals exported from Latin America at this time was silver - the vast amount from the centre here and then from the two mentioned Mexican cities. It is said to not only have stimulated Europe's economic development but having made it possible - although landing in Spanish ports, the wealth was passed onto the powerful bankers of Europe and predominantly controlled by the Dutch, Flemish, French and Genoese.

 

Within a few centuries it had a lasting legacy of being ''The city which has given most to the world and has the least'' and is nowadays condemned to nostalgia, still tortured by poverty, cold and hopelessness.

 

 

Due to the importance of this place I decided on taking a tour through an active mine. There was nothing I found shocking about the conditions and I wasn't suprised to hear not much has changed over the years. Nowadays the quality of silver extracted is relatively low. We met a team of 25 men from as young as 14 years old working a 12 hour shift, breaking the earth with pneumatic drills, shoveling and carting up to 40 tonnes in a day on small carriages along a railtrack then hauling it up several levels to cart it again to daylight. Of this, rocks would contain 7% of poor grade silver and 15% tin once extracted in the nearby refineries.

 

We met another man working alone in a very confined tunnel. At 44, he was the father of 9 children, his two eldest sons working in nearby mines. The average wage of miners is 2-3 times more than general workers in the city which makes this work enticing, this man said he needed to work here to feed his family. He'd been working here for over 20 years and spent all day with a small hammer and chisel, carving away at the rock to make 3 15 inch holes so he could insert dynamite in, blow up the rocks and then return to carry large rubber bags out of the mine hoping to contain small amounts of silver and tin to sell. It's clearly a difficult job and an extremely tough life working here and miners know they're shortening their lives with every day spent here but have little other option in supporting their families. The government proposed to shut down the mines a few years ago but when it realised other means of income for the 15,000 miners wasn't available in a town that relied on this industry as its lifeblood, the status quo continued and is expected to for a least another decade.  

Hiking from Sucre

We head back to La Paz from the desert, then it's back to solo riding to ordinary Cochabamba and a tranquil little colonial village called Totora before we make it to Sucre, the capital. It's the most welcoming city we find in Bolivia and stay a few days, taking in the market and nearby crafts villages before taking off for a three day hike in the nearby valley with a large group of Europeans and a couple from Perth.  

 

 

The 38km hike takes in parts of an old Inca trail and through a crater valley, crossing many rivers, across fertile valleys with peaceful stops in small villages for the nights.

 

 

Some remnants from when dinosaurs roamed this part of the world

 

 

Roadblocks in Bolivian streets and children dancing in religious processions

 

 

Crashing the main plaza stage during nye celebrations after making friends and enjoying cheap champagne in the streets