Out for a spin

Chile now

2008-06-07T18:30:00.000-07:00

We are in Chile now, and pretty pleased with ourselves about it too. This country is quite an appropriate place to end our travels - it's far more organised than anywhere else we have been in the last six months or so. This is a welcome change from one point of view, but of course it also takes some of the adventure out of our travels.

The last week we have covered about 4000km, and counting. We've been getting up early - a few times we have been on the bike before sunrise, and still going after sunset, covering several hundred kilometres per day. 850 is our record, though it's not about that - the simple fact is that Valparaiso, Chile, is a long way from Máncora, Perú. All this moving changes the atmosphere of our travels a bit - but that is the way it should be. For the last year, we have not had any appointments to speak of, and now we do. Call it readjustment training!

Despite the miles and trials, or possibly because of them, we have managed to enjoy this last week. For each of us this long, long leg down the west coast of South America has been challenging. At least I get to do one of my favourite things all day long, even if my hands are freezing in the mornings (this thanks to my own refusal to buy heavier gloves, owing to my sentimental attachment to the old ones!). Em reports that meditation is the answer on the back. We have a copy of 'The Man From Snowy River' in the map holder on the tank, and spend some of the day reciting this famous and moving Australian poem inside our helmets. When curves and trucks are few, of course.

The views have often been spectacular, though they change very slowly. The Panamerican Highway alternates between skimming along the Pacific coast at little more than wave level, to flying high at 1000-odd metres above that, and above the clouds. Often between the two we climb or swoop down through thick banks of sea mist, generated by the cold water of the Humboldt Current, just offshore. The whole stretch is a desert, stretching between the coast and the Andes. The region lacks rain both because of the cold water of the Humboldt, and because of the rainshadow caused by the Andes. It's dry here.

So I write this on the eve of our last travel day. What to say? It's been brilliant. If you are reading this, thanks. Hope you enjoyed the ride too.

Friends on the road

2008-06-06T17:17:00.000-07:00

Nothing like a touch of home on the road ... this time in the form of two old mates from the centre. Amanda and Juls are on their own adventures (which, by all accounts, is quite a different trip to ours...) and we managed to catch them for a short but sweet moment in Lima.

Amanda first introduced me to Andrew all those years ago ('Em, you've gotta meet Longy - you two will either love each other or hate each other' heh).

Manda Moo and I cemented our friendship many years ago when we shared a tarpaulin home under a campground mango tree in Broome. Since then, we manage to catch up sporadically - usually sucking chai at Woodford. This time it was dunkin donuts in Lima instead :)

Much love to you two lovely ladies, and good luck out there!

Birthday on the road

2008-06-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

The other day, a few hundred km north of Lima, we three lived a significant moment in our travels. The silent partner, the one that just handles everything we load on it and everything we point it at, turned...

many happy returns!

We stopped, celebrated, there was a little speech. A low-key do, then on with the job.

Equatorial editorial

2008-05-25T16:46:00.001-07:00

The Humboldt Current is a flow of cold water which comes up from Antarctic regions, slowly rising to the ocean surface along the coast of Perú. Because it has the effect of cooling coastal waters - extending this effect also out to a thousand or so km offshore - the current also reduces evaporation from the Pacific Ocean, causing the aridity that is so notable in coastal, northern Perú. Interesting, hey?

So that is where we are up to, arid, warm, northern Perú. I had to make it sound interesting somehow! Truth is that we are pleased to be here. Emily is having a tropical beach holiday, amongst palm trees and out of reach of the Humboldt's sea mists, and I am on a mission to the Equator.

Yep, even as I while away the afternoon in an internet cafe, I am on the way further north. Had planned to get to Quito today, but the silly little men in uniforms stood in my way. I am currently waiting for the bike to get customs-cleared, something which is patently impossible on a Sunday, I am told. There's only one good thing about dealing with officious nincompoops - arguing the point with them! Hehe I always get a laugh out of it!

As far north as I wanted to get - until I found out the real equator is about 200m further north. So I went there and had fun balancing an egg on a nail, watching the Coriolis effect up close, and stuff like that.

Over to you, Em? How are things on the beach? xxxa

Well, despite my facebook boasts of my tropical beach holiday, it's not quite what I expected here ...

Firstly, a comment on the beaches on this side of the world. Apparently Brazil gives us a run for our money, and I've heard they're pretty good Columbia way, but in my opinion, Perú doesn't rate. I'm at Máncora, supposedly one of their finest. The sand is coarse, gritty, and, well ... grey. There are palm trees, sure, but they are all growing at sharp angles, evidently due to the wind that starts up about mid-morning and builds until sunset, making an afternooon trip to the beach an uncomfortably sandy experience. And the waves! The 5 or 6 surf schools are all vying for the beach's one break - which hasn't got much over knee height since I've been here.

Probably the most boring is that since Andy's left, I've become the target of too much latin attention. Which isn't romatic and suave like in the movies, but crude and aggresive, and in this case entirely unwanted.

But then, enough whinging, it's not all bad! I'm staying in a luxurious Indonesian-style bungalow with an amazingly comfy bed, a wonderful hammock, daily fresh sheets and fluffy towels, and - hitherto unheard of in Perù - an endles supply of hot water.

The town has a bit to offer too. There's a lovely vegetarian cafe and somwhere to buy a good coffee. And there's even a breezy internet cafe in which I can finish a couple of job applications I've been working on (yep - it's that time of the trip, probably a great contributor to my grumpiness). And I've managed to have some good conversations too.

However, spending Andy's birthday wihout him, well ... just isn't the real thing.

So now I've had my clothes washed, aired the camping gear, enjoyed the towels and coffee ... and nearly finished my applications, I'm just waiting for my (very Australian, very romantic and very suave) man to come back so I can give him a birthday hug and get back on the adventure!...

Day 4
Well the wind has died down and the sun has come out - and the whole place is filled with colour (even the beach is yellow). I got my job apps in yesterday, and spent the rest of the day soaking up the sun.

Then, only a day after his big one, Andy came back - stoked with his equatorial adventure and to be able to take off his boots off and enjoy the birthday beer and brownie I had waiting for him.

And we had a mini beach holiday together, lapping up the sun and the sea for all it was worth, before our last hike, 4000km south.

Cañon del pato, Santa, toward the North Pole

2008-05-25T15:36:00.001-07:00

Duck Canyon is the way down to the coast from Caraz. Starting as a groovy, curvy early-morning ride, it soon became a challenging, hair-raising jaunt downhill, above and parallel to the deep canyon (no ducks in evidence), through dozens of rough-hewn tunnels on another rough dirt road.

Some of the tunnels had me holding my breath a little - it's an odd feeling riding into a pitch-dark hole that curves out of view ahead of you. I took my sunnies off for the second tunnel, but it was still a bit of a startler!

Spectacular trip, but by mid-morning we again had had enough of the sharp knocks, and I heard myself promising the old bike a nice, smooth trip along the Monash Freeway when it gets home! Boring I know but we all need a carrot sometimes!

Anyhow, this was to be a long day. We had left Caraz without breakfast, and somewhere along the line enjoyed unripe bananas, sweet biscuits and a lovely whine for morning tea. Pushing on, and now able to enjoy the luxury of asphalt, we lunched in Santa before heading north. The coast of Perú spends a lot of the year blanketed under a thick sea mist, caused by the Humboldt Current, and we were hoping to get out from under this cloud for a sunny little beach holiday.

Dune-filled deserts, long straights and the idiocy of Peruvian driving made the afternoon stretch on like the road before us, but with care and some long stints in the saddle we made it to charming little Huanchaco well before the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.

Laguna 69

2008-05-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

We spent a couple of days in Huaraz, hanging out in cafes and using the internet to get ourselves sorted for returning to Australia. When we got moving, we headed for Huascarán, and the national park named for it in the Cordillera Blanca.

We set up camp deep in the valley, where the sun set early, leaving a heavy chill in the air. Next day we wandered, hung out, took the sun, and stuff like that. That's the way to stretch out a holiday!

For our second night up there, at around 3900m, we made sure of getting into tent and sleeping bags warm after an hour's brisk walk. No idea of the temperature, but there was a heavy frost on the tent both nights and the warm-up-before-bed made a big difference.

We were up about five, tucked into porridge and tea and set off for a hike. Suffice to say there was much puffing and panting too; we climbed from our campsite at 3900m to 5000m before coming down. A walk of about 16km; it's a while since we have had that kind of exercise!

(as I rounded this corner and saw the path was still going up, I wanted to lie down and sleep for a week. For the rest of the climb I counted 100 steps between each rest ... and still had trouble making it that far - e)

I think the photos will speak for themselves, vis-a-vis the views. The Lake - Laguna 69 - was absolutely spectacular, saphire blue, and nestled underneath the snowy Chacarraju summit.

Exhilarated but exhausted- so much so that we gave away the beers we had stashed in the river, preferring water and softdrink - we dragged our feet a bit as we struck camp and headed off the mountain to Caraz.

Rainforest - Huanuco - Huaraz

2008-05-25T14:06:00.001-07:00

Out of the rainforest (in teeming, thrashing, pouring rain, through rising rivers and prodigious potholes), we took refuge and a tepid shower in a nameless little town. In an act of apparent sympathy, the owners gave us a half-dozen towels which we used well.

Our new mate in Lima, Rodrigo, had put us in contact with some mates of his in Huanuco, another little town in the Peruvian backblocks. Needing to change a tyre and a set of wheel bearings, we headed to their workshop. If not for the necessary mechanical work, we would most likely not have hung around long. As it was, we were there for two nights, and I spent a full day in the workshop. More than that, though - once again we were 'invited in' by Wendel, his daughter Vanne and the family, and ate two lunches and a dinner with them. One of few opportunities we have had to get to know Peruvians from close-up. They gave us each a Pillco Moto club hat and t-shirt, and Wendel even went to the trouble of letting the police know we were coming through when we left, so that they wouldn't hold us up (this worked well). Muchas gracias!

Some of the crappiest roads we have ever seen - and we have seen a few - greeted us as we went the back way from the rainforest to the mountains. Along with a couple of quite unfriendly towns, and endless calls of 'Gringo!' from the side of the road. Enough said, I don't really think we want to relive this part of the experience, and I am sure noone wants to read about them. Even these roads, though, have their moments.

Credit once again to the tough old BMW. And the tough young pillion! We were heading for a town called Huaraz, somewhat of a mecca for hikers, climbers and other adventure-seeking types given its proximity to 6000m peaks, and to the Huascarán national park. When confronted with a fork in the road, we opted for the more exciting path, a route which took us over yet another pass over 4000m - on a deserted dirt road.

For the mechanically-minded, we have been dealing with a worn-out lower shock absorber bush for a while now, with no chance of getting a new one, and on this trip there were some roadside repairs to do when we broke another lower shock mount bolt. After the previous couple of days, we were well relieved to get there, find a hot shower, a comfy cafe with great 'gringo' food and atmosphere.

Canyons, waterfalls, walks in the scrub

2008-05-22T17:12:00.000-07:00

To get to Pozuzo from Oxapampa, it's a hectic 90-odd km along about the worst road we have encountered on our travels - think potholes big enough to sink the BM in.

The early afternoon found us at a ranger station, and as it was remote and deserted but well-kept, we decided it would make a good camp. (In the carport - previous entries attest to my preference for dry-tent camping!) We went for an hour's walk, down a canyon dripping with hanging plants and spray, and sat under a boulder beside a forceful river, feeling the power of place, forest and water.

We had some interest in the town of Pozuzo, settled in the 1850s by German and Austrian immigrants under a Peruvian program designed to settle the rainforest, and said to be the only Austro-German colony in the world. We were on a rainforest mission, but went to town to get petrol and beer. We were there long enough to get a short version of the settlement story from a friendly, German-named local.

Seems it was a harrowing experience for a hopeful but unfortunate mob, getting to and colonising a place they really didn't fit in, but the unfulfilled promises of the Peruvian government were an improvement on the war- and famine-ravaged life they escaped.

Returning to the ranger station near dark, we set up camp, splashed on the repellent, and got about hanging out. The noise of waterfalls was pierced by birdcalls, but thankfully not by the roar of jaguars. We did not have lentils for dinner. (andy, you are a funny bugger! e)

Waking up in special places is, well, special. We took a while over our baths, too.

Lima to the rainforest

2008-05-22T15:52:00.000-07:00

We blew through Lima as quickly as we could, after some admin tasks and a little bit of work on the bike. Thankfully I had some help for this latter, as to go looking for bolts, tyres, zippers and the like without local knowledge would have taken well longer, quite apart from sending me off to the dodgy parts of town. Although our bike is quite old, and wears its mud and dust with pride, it attracts lots of attention at times in South America. Mostly, this is harmless and makes for a bit of a yarn, but on the recommendation of our new contact in Lima, the shopping was taxi-based. How is it we have a new contact in Lima, you ask? Rodrigo was one of several limeños good enough to respond to my query through Horizons Unlimited, and had time between his vet sci exams to help out.

Getting from the city to the selva - the rainforest - involves getting over the Andes once again, our umpteenth 4000m + pass. We are getting used to them, and nowadays bang an extra jumper on before we start.

A world of slow trucks and narrow road later, and the chill evening had us diving into a funny little hostal at 3700m in La Oroya to ask the usual questions: 'can we park the bike?', and 'is there hot water?' We could, and there was, and we didn't leave the place for the rest of the evening. No TV, and we were stacking our stuff against the door in a vain effort against the draughts, but it did the trick.

Breakfast was in a new town, after I flunked the 'lamb soup first thing' test in La Oroya (Em opted to go hungry). A sunny day's ride down into the foothills, a couple of photo stops and a pleasant surprise when a road marked as dirt was in fact (mainly) newly asphalted. We stocked up with camp food at La Merced, and headed towards Oxapampa, sussing out possible camp spots as we went. A signpost (rare enough these parts) promised us a waterfall not far off the road, so we ventured in across the footbridge,

sat on the bridge over the waterfall, discussed campsite, greened out and got scared of the jaguars. A previous post reveals the result!

Anyhow our day in the outpost town of Oxapampa was not wasted, though we didn't expect to end it at our favourite host mum's house again.

Teresa welcomed us with open arms, and even cooked our dinner for us after Emily had left lentils to soak in her kitchen! We'd been exploring out in the sticks and got ourselves well wet, but somehow host mum had her timing right and we walked straight into a hot meal.

Next day out early, heading for the real rainforest, we hoped, out of reach of the chainsaws in the Yanachaga - Chemillén National Park.

Paracas Peninsula

2008-05-19T18:18:00.000-07:00

There's an odd little resort at and oasis called Huacachina on this bit of Peruvian coast. Doesn't offer much, except for sand-boarding, and even that needed some spicing-up.Between the dunes of Huacachina and the smog of Lima, there is rather a lot of Pacific Coast with seemingly little to mark the passing miles. The Paracas national park seemed the only place on the map worth visiting, so we called it a day early and stocked up, eager to camp after a few weeks in hostels.

The Paracas National Park is an odd and beautiful place, like a peninsula of desert reaching out into the ocean. In the photo below, that spot in the middle ground's the bike!

Condors, pelicans and an array of other birds excited our feathery bits, and made up for the utter lack of macroscopic vegetation. Sunset was on the beach, long time since we had that experience.
We camped, went for a spin and a walk to see sealions in the morning, and luncheoned on a dish called ceviche - raw fish - before heading north again.

Chincha, a town razed by earthquake only eight months ago, was our home for the night. We chose a solid-looking little hotel, and dove into the underground parking just as night fell and the vibe became grubby.

Swooping down to Nazca

2008-05-18T20:26:00.000-07:00

Back and showered after our strenuous efforts at Machu Picchu, we ate another round of tamales in Cusco and banged down the road. Soaring with the condors, or something like that, we covered a spectacular 600km down to the flat coastal strip of Perú in a couple of days. Another hot road for the motorcyclists among us, with endless curves to wear out the edges of the tyres, and some grouse high-plains scenery.

I wanted to get an idea of the Nazca Lines without going for a joyflight - though we have flown to Europe, then to South America, and poke around the place on a petrol-engined motorbike, I can not stand the idea of extending our carbon signature just to have a gawk at a tourist attraction. After living at Uluru for a few years, I have had about enough of seeing others do it, too. In any case, plenty of aerial photos of the lines are available on postcards and the internet, and a flight in a light plane seemed a distraction. Emily's interest in the lines was a bit limited too. You can climb hill or a tower to get an idea of the lines, so we did both just around sunset and were more than happy with the experience.

We have been feeling the days remaining to us on this trip are numbered - see previous posts - and we still had our hopes on another visit to each of rainforest, mountains and beach. So we poked up the Panamerican Highway to a dive called Ica, then took a left to the Huacachina Oasis.

Leaving this adventure behind

2008-05-10T10:49:00.000-07:00

We have had a blast this year, and it's not slowing down one bit! Get the details elsewhere on these pages...

After almost a year on the road, we are making some plans about coming back to Australia (I mean, they are pretty bloody vague - not sure Emily would call what we're making 'plans', or maybe her standards were higher before we met! And I would almost certainly have waited until touchdown on the dry continent if it were up to me.)

So though we are making plans - or whatever - about our return to Australia, we are more than a little reluctant to leave the adventure. Obviously, a lot goes on that doesn't make it to this blog - like all the little conversations with truckies and cops and whomever to find out about road conditions or whatever, or the more important conversations which have given us some insight into the thoughts and lives of Peruvians.

Or the adventure we had last night, riding the bike across a footbridge rated for about 10kg less than the weight of the bike (without Emily, who walked), up a goat track and across jungle creeks to get to a waterfall, discussing where to set up, and relaxing in the very green forest above the waterfalls, as the twilight waned. Then when all was black, freaking out at the idea of getting attacked by a jaguar (real possibility, even if low-percentage!), and bailing out in the dark with all same obstacles! We did fall on our feet, ending up a few km later at a guesthouse where we spent the night in a place with monogrammed towels, frilly sheets, a full country kitchen at our disposal and a charming hostess who asked us to name our price! Total blowout of a day and night, but stuff like this just happens all the time! Back to the waterfalls and out for a walk in the rainforest today, probably.

Late June, we are back in Australia, though we love this lifestyle, and it will be bloody hard to leave it behind. But as I said, we are making plans, playing with ideas of where to live and what we will do for work and study, getting excited about visiting people. We are putting time and energy into arranging shipment of the bike, even though we don't know really know where we will be living when we move from this home on the road to a place with stumps and doors.

Sneaking into Machu Picchu

2008-05-08T11:38:00.000-07:00

Once at Aguas Calientes, the village at the base of the Machu Picchu mountain, there are three ways to the Incan ruins:

1. Buy a ticket for $48 and a bus ticket for $6
2. Buy a ticket for $48 and make the two-hour ascent on foot
3. Sneak in.

We were taking the third option, and armed with our notes (see our previous entry Machu Picchu on a shoestring), we set off for the two hour walk, two hours before sunset.

The first 40 minutes of steep stone steps - enough to get our hearts racing and our bodies covered in sweat - brought us to the entrance of the 'forbidden path'. After a quick look and a deep breath, we dove into the jungle and climbed 'an animal path made by desperate animals' through the dense bush for the next 20 minutes - enough to keep the sweat rolling and also to cover us in dirt - until we came face to face with a stone wall: the forbidden terraces of Machu Picchu. Wow. The huge grey rocks were more significant to us for the fact we really weren't supposed to be amongst them.

We crawled and scrambled over these until we were back in the jungle, climbing high above the valley along the edge of another cliff.

Our first close view of the ruins (peering through a gap in the jungle) took our breath away.

As we emerged from the bush, drenched in sweat and covered in dirt, we did our best to 'blend in' with the ticket-paying tourists - as was suggested by our notes. I'm not sure how sucessful we were in this part of the mission. At this time of day, the ticket-payers were of the white-sneaker-and-cream-visor variety, and were saying things to each other like 'oh, this is one of their acqueducts' (about a stream of water coming out of the ground) loudly in English.

And us, well, we looked something like this ...

... and were't saying much at all, too busy catching our breath. Stoked to be there all the same, we had a look around and started snapping out photos like the best of them.

We had a blissful 15 minutes ... before we realised we were starting to be herded out with the others. We had managed to sneak in 15 minutes before closing time!!!

Unperturbed, we ignored the bus queue and started walking down to the valley, determined to make another ascent in the morning. On the track we were greeted by a couple of friendly dogs (one black, one white), who accompanined us right the way down to the village, where Andy helped them growl-down an aggressive pair of boxers, cementing our friendship.

After dinner, we set the alarm for 3.30am, and crashed out.

As can be imagined, it was quite dark at 4am. Our plan (against the advice of our trusty notes)was to penetrate the site before sunrise. Much to our delight we were greeted by a couple of familiar canine types as we left our hostel, and were able to follow their white banners wagging in the light of the waning moon. We were inspired to change their names from 'Blacky' and 'Whitey' to the far more creative 'Machu' and 'Picchu'.

The steps were a cinch, but not the jungle. The 20 minutes stretched to 40 as we wasted much precious time following a rogue gully (unable to use our torch for fear of discovery). Having found the path again we finally popped out at the first terraces just as it was getting light.

At the bottom of the site we sat in the jungle and watched what was going on. It appeared that there were both security and toursits in there, so we took a deep breath (necessary, at 2600m) and sped-walked to the first terraces. Straight into three security guards, just as our notes predicted. Hmmmm.

The site was truly magical at that time of the morning. My Nanna described her visit to Machu Picchu all those years ago as the place she felt closest to God. While I stood there and took in the ancient terraces and the beautiful mist-shrouded mountains behind, I felt close to my Nanna.

Meanwhile, Andrew was deep in conversation with the guards about the fee struture of the site. He is very good at this sort of thing, and I had quite some time to contemplate the beauty of the place. I even manged to take a photo before they threatened to confiscate our camera. Not a very good one, it needed a tripod (or at least a terrace) however it gives an impression and provides us with a memory of Machu contempalting the scene. Picchu (the more flighty of the pair) had already dissapeared.

I reckon we had about as much time as the night before (15 minutes) before we were herded out the gate again. There we were confonted by the first tourists of the morning (more the fleece-and-homemade-jewellery backpacker types than the white-t-shirters of the night before), who were to be let in to the site just as the last mist would be disappearing from the peaks.

Satisfied with our short (but unique) visit, we decided to make the return trek that morning.

Machu Picchu on a shoestring

2008-05-07T10:17:00.000-07:00

Machu Picchu, Peru's most visited tourist attraction, is a huge revenue generator. The daily visit price is 6 times that of Angkor Wat or Uluru. There is no road open to the public, and tourists are charged US$89 for the 4 hour train trip from Cusco.Still, the tourists keep coming. In such numbers (between 2000 and 5000 per day) that the site is in danger of collapsing - slipping some 2cm every year, and UNESCO is considering putting it on it's list of endangered World Heritage sites. The Peruvian government is being pressured to do something to curb tourist numbers and/or stabilise the site - but it appears at the moment income generation takes priority.

We had no interest in contributing to this scam, so found alternative directions (see Machu Picchu on a shoestring). Apparently this involved riding to two remote villages to the site's north and walking two hours up a train track to Aguas Calientes, the township at the base of the Machu Picchu mountain. Easy done? Sort of.

As usual, we started out in the afternoon. First hurdle: a 4316m mountain pass. This turned out to be a blast. The asphalt was new and smooth, and the endless switchbacks were the material of motorbiker's fantasies. Once at the top, Andy decided it was very important to head down again for a photo shoot - and as I dutifully stood on the edge of the cliff peering through my camera at the fast moving Andy-speck, I wondered about his motivations ... was it the photos he was after, or the chance of riding the curves two more times??? (bit of each - a)

The other side was a buzz of a different kind. We were slowed a bit by landslides, rivers and frequent chunks out of the freshly-laid asphalt (down where we could see the switchback way below). Crazily, this all seems to be in a day's riding for us at the moment, and we were soon warm again in the next valley, and letting out our tyres for the last 110kms of dirt. Nice one. Except by this time it was very late in the afternoon.

The first of our waypoints (Santa Maria, some 50kms down the road) appeared a sort of dusty transit stop, with no welcome except from a rather unlikeable 10-year-old boy who tried to convince us to stay in his family's hostel by lying to us about the passability of the road to Santa Teresa. Enough to encourage us to keep going.

Not for long. 'Be careful up there, people get robbed. They killed and robbed taxi driver recently' (the parting words of a woman we stopped to chat with) and the sunset sky were enough to turn us back from the small dirt track heading over the range towards Santa Teresa. Smarmy kid or no, we were going to have to take shelter in Santa Maria.

However as luck would have it, just as we turned around, a van and three rental bikes (a tour from Cusco) passed us. Andy and the guide came to the arrangement that we would follow them over the pass - saftey in numbers and all that. So, now we were safe from bandits, but were choking in the dust of four vehicles ... something Andy does everything possible to avoid.

This could be the scariest ride of my life. The pass was one narrow lane, dropping into a precipice on our left. While I was imagining murderers around every corner, our night vision was hindered (to say the least) by clouds of thick dust from the van and bikes ahead of us. We forded a river or two (I walked through the deepest - my sooden boots adding to my pretty dark mood), and the ride went on. We overtook them, the van overtook us (by trickery), and finally, when we had had too much of it, we decided to risk the bandits and took off ahead of them, only 10 ks to go.

As always, we made it on one piece, and found ourselves a cozy place to camp for the night. We dropped the ball a bit after dinner by accepting a sip of rum from a jug, and then joining the resturant owner and his young mates in drinking a number of them in the street. The result was a slow, muddle-headed morning.

Another half an hour ride, and we were at our next waypoint, Hidroelectrica (as the name may suggest, a hydroelectric powerstation), the end of the road.Bike stashed, we set off for Aguas Calientes about 15 minutes after the one train for the day had left. Bummer. The walk along the tracks was hot and tiring ... but did offer some great views, including our first glimpse of the famous ruins (up there on the horizon).

Aguas Calientes is in a picture perfect location - a valley surrounded by mist-shrouded mountains, on the banks of a raging river. The village itself is a sort of shoddy imitation of a European alps resort - prices included. The three hour walk, last night's rum and yesterday's ride took their toll, and after checking into the first reasonably-priced hostel and asking the proprietor to wake us in half an hour, we promptly crashed out.

And woke two hours later, at 3.30. Ready to make the two hour ascent two hours before sunset. This requires an entry of it's own - see Sneaking into Machu Picchu.

On the way out, we missed the one train for the day by 15 minutes (a theme emerging?), and so headed again down the tracks on foot. A riverside picnic and a two-hour walk later, and we were saying a final goodbye to the spectacular valley.

Back to the bike. Back to Santa Teresa, a quick and much-needed dip in the local thermal pools. Back to Santa Maria, where we were accosted by the same smarmy 10-year-old. This time he offered us lunch. Andrew told him nicely but firmly that the reason we wouldn't be visiting was because he lied to us two days previously. As we left, I turned to see him quietly sitting in his chair on the verandah, hopefully contemplating the lesson in these words.Back to the start of the asphalt, and this time we were pumping up the tyres, not letting them down, just as the sun was setting.

The pass at night was a totally different scene. The rivers were bigger (presumably from snow-melt), and in some cases runnning down the road, and the trucks seemed to take no heed to the fact that the road was often only one lane. At over 4000m and at night, it was also freezing. The climb seemed endless - at one stage when I thought we must have been near the top, I spied a pair of headlights high high above us, in a place that should have only been occupied by stars.

I hugged close to Andy as he picked our way slowly up and over the pass, down the other side, and through the valley into Ollantaytambo.The rest is really history, and its getting late. Needless to say, we took the first available room - twice as expensive as we were used to, and (surprise surprise) twice as nice. Imagine a hot shower! Pure luxury, really.

Cusco

2008-05-01T21:06:00.000-07:00

Cusco is a pretty town - an array of well-kept adobe buildings, spacious plazas and cobblestone streets. This, and the fact that it is the launching pad to Machu Picchu, makes it the tourist capital of Peru.

We spent a couple of days there, making the most of it's tourist-delights :)

PS While I've been updating this blog, Andy has been engrossed in his new favorite website: All About Beards. Im peeking - he's filling out an online questionnaire, and has rated is beard as 'well above average', and his level of satisfaction as 'very satisfied'. Oh me oh my.

Dog on wheels, couple of miles, bits of chook.

2008-04-29T17:58:00.000-07:00

The border crossing into Perú was smooth, as was our negotiation of our first request for a bribe from the cops. Christ, man, we worked hard for this money, and honestly, too. Our funds are not up for grabs by dodgy people in uniform, thanks. Word amongst the motorcycle travellers seems to indicate that Peruvian plod is constantly on the scam, so we should be able to have some fun with that!

Into Perú by a few dozen kilometres, and who should we come across but the dog on wheels mob, spoken of so fondly and so recently! We had first met them in Argentina. They were in their usual order of march - Kerry up front, Jochen a hundred metres back from her, and Tarmo the Labrador/Husky relaxing in his kennel/chariot just behind Jochen's back wheel! Check their website out here, especially if you speak German (in English too).

We'd been thinking of going another eighty-odd km up the road, but decided that town could wait until morning, and instead hung with the three of them in a little town called Juli. Our terribly helpful host mother (really the owner of the hostel we picked, but definitely the mothering type!) walked us into town to show us where all the churches were before letting us off the hook to go for dinner. We found ourselves wishing she had been as informative about restaurants as we scoured the town looking for something other than chicken and chips.

We found a place that served something different. Different indeed. I think each of us found the sight of a bloated chicken foot in each other's soup pretty entertaining. Funny that the joke was over for each of us when the pale toenails turned up in one's own soup, despite the predictability that they would. Emily's reaction was strong enough to scare the rest of us! Tarmo, lying under the table and no doubt wondering what the fuss was about, coolly disposed of each of the limbs as they were disdainfully tossed his way. Later, we got some take home beers and went 'home' for a yarn.

The next day Em and I intended to cover about 500km, a week's pedalling for them, especially given that it involved a couple of thousand vertical metres. So we farewelled each other in the morning, over a breakfast of bananas and bread, thinking it unlikely that we would catch each other again on the road.

Lake Titikaka, island in the sun

2008-04-29T17:12:00.000-07:00

Of course we got away from La Paz in the mid-afternoon after one of us had run around town all morning, and the other had worked on the bike. To be frank, the destination didn't necessarily excite us all that much, even though Lake Titikaka was revered by the Incas as the origin of their animist religion, and as the abode of the sun and moon. But in the open space of the high plains, with the chill wind on our faces and the sun shining back at us from wet roads, we were once again happy to be on the road.

A pleasant afternoon's ride, a short crossing of the famous lake on a really dodgy-looking punt, then an exhilarating ride above the sunset-lit lake got us a bit more excited, though more about the physical beauty of the place than anything else. Arriving in Copacabana after sunset, we were quite chilled ourselves and really had to exercise our expectation management skills to make the shower feel warmish! Yep, we gringos are soft! Over a delicious dinner of Lake Titikaka trout, we mentioned the fact that we hadn't seen any of our travelling mates lately, and wondered in particular where Kerry, Jochen and Tarmo - the dog on wheels crew - might have made it to.

Lake Titikaca and the Isla del Sol, or Island of the Sun, are 'must-see's' on just about every South American tourist's list, and we were pressured to buy our tickets on the 'only' boats to the island there as soon as we hit town. We're not interested in joining ques of other visitors, and so morning time we pointed the bike in the direction of the Isla, less-than-determined to sus out the Incan ruins, but happy for a spin and maybe a boat trip in the mild sunshine and interested to see what those reed boats are all about.

Out near the end of the road, we got our wishes all in one. Mr. Hilario Paye Quispe came running toward us, proffering a fistful of postcards from satisfied clients and offering just what we wanted - a cruise in the sun and some explanations.

Lovely morning, we saw all we wanted to and rather than going around the island, we got Mr Paye to turn around halfway along the coast of the Isla del Sol. Heh - we could do what we wanted, as we were the only passengers. Despite his huge reputation as a Lake Titikaka's expert guide, Mr. Paye didn't really explain much to us, despite my questions. Maybe he sensed our relative lack of reverence for the place, if that is how it should be described.

(We don't lack respect for the Incan culture or beliefs, but nor do we have the overblown and often starry-eyed reverence for them that the tourism industry here in South America seems to want to generate. Maybe because we are some kind of animists ourselves, each already holding this Earth in reverence without the intermediary of western religion? Possibly because we already have close experience of cultures close to the earth? And maybe also because we know that the Incans invaded this continent, enslaving the local people and overrunning many cultures in the process, just as the Spaniards were to do later.)

Anyway our visit to the Isla del Sol was a pleasant experience, spent on the crystal waters of Lake Titikaka and bathed in glorious sunshine, and it didn't need to be anything else.

And we managed to see a couple of reed boats, too.

Mapajo Tours

2008-04-28T12:04:00.000-07:00

Well, Hayley (and everyone else),

sorry it has taken us a while to write back too, but you should see where we have been! From the mountains to the Amazon rainforest, and back! The trip out there took two days, and then two days back as well, on roads full of dust, mud, rocks, trucks, naughty drivers, chasey dogs and even waterfalls, but it was worth every bit of effort.

Rurrenabaque is a little town on a big river called the Beni, and most people who don't live there go there because of the rainforest and jungle. There is loads of wildlife there, living in one of the world's most biologically diverse national parks, called Madidi, and just across the Beni River in a biosphere reserve called Pilon Lajas. Biosphere reserves are designed "to promote and demonstrate a balanced relationship between humans and the biosphere", and they allow people to sustainably use the land and its resources, too. There are some in Australia, too - even part of Mornington Peninsula.

Anyway Emily and I walked around town checking out the companies which offered tours to Madidi or Pilon Lajas, and found a little tour company owned by local aboriginal people, and called Mapajo. We decided to go with them, of course - who better to show us around their land than indigenous people? Also, the company is a cooperative, meaning that all the money they make goes back to their community.

(This community and others around it petitioned for the Biosphere status to protect their land and their jungle, and now it is internationally protected - an activism sucess story of the highest degree - e)

So next morning we were up early, and pretty excited too! We had breakfast, then second breakfast like the Hobbit, because they had told us we would be travelling on a boat for a few hours. We got on the long, narrow boat made of a tree trunk (but with an outboard motor!) with about five other people, and set off up the river. It was hot and humid, the boat was small and the swirling river was big, but we were just stoked to heading into the wilds!

An hour or so into the trip, the boatman broke the propeller on a snag in the river, so for a few minutes we drifted downstream sideways, before the guide got out in the shallows and pulled us aground on an island. We sat there for a while, reading and eating bananas and paddling in the water, whilst they procured a new propeller. It wasn't a hassle, more a part of the adventure, and we were on the way again soon enough.

When we arrived, we were shown to our cabin in the forest, except for the mosquito netting, all made of forest things - palm leaves on the roof and walls - and with a hammock swinging on the front porch. Lovely! The showers were cold, just the thing in the tropical heat, and the food was delicious the whole time we were there too. What's more, nearly all the food was grown and processed right there in the community.

But of course we were there to be in the forest, so that is where we went. By luck we had a guide all to ourselves - his name was Dino, and though he was a young man, he was a real expert on the place he lived in. This aspect of the trip reminded me a lot of Anangu Tours, where Wally, Richard, Milly and all the crew have such expert knowledge about their desert. We went for four long walks in different parts of the jungle and forest with Dino, and he showed us loads of stuff.

Plants used for building boats and houses, as bandages, skirts, bags, nets, ropes, medicines for crying babies and lots of other problems, all kinds of stuff. He showed us birds, animals and animal tracks: macaws, monkeys (though they were far up in the trees and very fast), and an alligator on the riverbank. The tracks were of tapirs (kind of like a very big guinea pig, though related to horses and endangered too), capybaras (the biggest rodent in the world), and even a puma! More impressive still, there were the agitated scratchings of a jaguar on the trunk of a tree - Dino reckoned the big cat had been trying to hunt monkeys and got a bit worked up when they escaped.

I know Emily has written to you about the big trees, too - they were also very imressive.

We also went into Dino's village, and met his sisters and grandparents. They showed us and let us try various skills they use in everyday life, like husking rice, three different types of weaving (Emily learned well!), and spinning cotton.

Dino's grandpa taught me to use a traditional bow and arrow, too - I think Emily emailed you all about that too. I had a lot of fun, and hit the coconut target a few times too.

Oh yes and one of the evenings they had a party too - we drank some very strong stuff with coconut juice, and they showed us how to chew coca leaves as well. Mapajo is a tour company, but to spend three days with them felt a lot more like just hanging out with our new mates, learning their ways. And besides anything else, operating a tour company gives people in Pilon Lajas a way to earn a living which does not involve letting corporations cut down their trees. In fact, the people of Pilon Lajas fought for the area to become a biosphere reserve in order to protect it and its animals. Wow. I am sure staying with them will remain one of the real highlights of our year away.

Anyway I have been meaning to respond to your email and to tell you about this experience too, so there it is. And now that I have written it down, I might even adapt it and put it on our blog. Would you mind that?

I will have to go soon. Hope all the scales and arpeggios are going well, and thanks for telling us about your outings in the city and with the hippo! Hey pretty exciting that nan and pa are moving, isn't it? It looks like we will be home in time to help pack and lift boxes too!

Again, I really must go and write our blog.

Much love to you, Jem, mum and dad,

Uncle Bob and Emily.

Rurrenabaque by road, thoughts on poverty, and a big, blue Volvo.

2008-04-27T14:50:00.000-07:00

After our death-free ride down the Camino de la Muerte, and after making the acquaintance of Sambo and Wara, those charming spider monkeys, we got down to the business of getting to the rainforest. 350 kilometres has never sounded like much for a day's ride for me, but we try to keep daily distances down to a good bit less than that while we're travelling. Especially after our earlier experiences in Bolivia, when we have travelled as little as 60km in a full ten-hour day, we are pretty realistic about what is possible, especially on dirt roads. So we aimed to cover the distance in two days.

30-odd km of sloppy clay, which had turned to bulldust by the time we came back!

The really steep part of the Yungas Road, the part known as the Death Road, has now been supplanted by a modern asphalt road, including numerous bridges and a tunnel. But heading north, east and down to the savannah and rainforest from Coroico the road is just as it has ever been, and of course is still the only route available to mainly responsible truckies and idiotically speedy bus drivers.

On the way out, it was rocks, mud, trucks, bastard bike-chasing dogs, a landslide, more mud, and once a day rush hour of buses. Just three buses each way, but a proper rush hour. Coming back, rocks, dust, trucks, bastard bike-chasing dogs, more dust, and the buses.

Bolivian bus, driven with typical enthusiasm and respect for road conditions.

Add to this the Bolivian petrol, about as good for the bike as a tankful of fresh orange juice, giving vastly reduced power, and the road was quite a handful. I had fun, mostly, though the road did at times become a chore, but I don't think Emily will ever describe the trip as anything but the latter (actually, I was shit-scared on the way down, and had a sore sore arse on the way back, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world - e).

Credit once again to our trusty, heavily-laden BMW, which just takes in its stride whatever we point it at. Oh yes and very happy with our new Hyperpro shock absorber, the trip was a real test for it too.

We stayed the night at a little town called Caranavi, a place very unused to the presence of gringos (whitefellas/tourists) to judge by the shameless and relentless staring across the breakfast table, street, room or whatever. Annoying as the staring was, it is actually refreshing to be the odd ones out in the world of rural Bolivia. It's another advantage of having our own transport - we are not reliant on public transport or limited to tourist destinations, so often find ourselves in the "outback". We are quite sure that this brings us closer to the people of the lands we are in than most visitors can get, and gives us a real taste of and sometimes understanding of how and why things are as they are.

I am pretty sure that our coming from a land colonised by strangers and immigrants gives us further useful perspective on Latin America. The vast majority of people in rural Bolivia are indigenous, but they seem to struggle under the rules, religion and lifestyle foisted upon them by the colonising Spanish just as the Australian indigenous minority does. Here too, fried chicken and chips are a staple.

Emily and our GDP-buster after a set-menu lunch stop, middle of nowhere but after the mud.

Very often we feel quite conspicuous out here. The bike, about three times the size of all the other ones in the country - along with the colour of our skin and hair, our motorcycling clothes, possibly my beard, and doubtless other factors - makes us quite noticeable. People are often friendly and curious, and of course it is our duty as strangers and usually our pleasure to have a yarn with these folks. The thing is, the subject of conversation invariably turns to money. People are just fascinated, and have to ask how much the bike is worth in our country. Or what jobs we do at home to be able to leave for such a long time, even if we do understate the length of time we have been away. I am quite relieved to be able to honestly say that I earned the money for this trip by good, old fashioned hard work, mainly driving trucks. I have also begun to skirt the question, answering with a laugh that the bike is not for sale, that I have had it for nearly ten years and that it is getting old. If pushed, I tell people more or less the truth, about $5000. But that blows people out too. I can't blame them for being curious - we are in a country where the national GDP per capita in 2006 was far less than half the value of what we are travelling with. And we are in the poorest areas, where I have no doubt that many people would live for a fortnight on what it costs to fill our fuel tank.

One more road story before I post this entry. As does the former Camino de la Muerte, the rest of the Yungas Road includes "Keep Left" sections, the opposite to normal road rules in this continent. Thankfully, these changes of rule are well marked with signs. Around one of the innumerable curves, and on a relatively wide section of road, we came up against a blue Volvo truck. As we had hundreds of times already. So we kept left. And the Volvo kept right. See what I mean? Very soon we were looking very closely at the wide grille of the truck, and it was still steering to its right. You panic, you die, right Andy? Yep, words of truth reportedly often spoken by Emily's dad. So I calmly steered into the ditch, the front of the truck sweeping by just centimetres from the handlebars. No exaggeration. Very blinkin' close.

Proof of the "Keep Left" zone.

I'm not that fluent in Spanish swearing, so I had to revert to Italian in my exchange with the driver. As soon as I ascertained that Emily and I were both alright, and that the bike was undamaged, I got off and chased the truck up the road on foot. I was full of energy, to put it mildly, so caught up with him quickly. Gave him both barrels. Something along the lines of... well, I can't remember the content, but nor can I readily remember being so pissed off. Anyway I am sure he understood, and I got my point across that as a professional driver he really ought to know which side of the road to drive on. I also suggested that he might remember what side of the road to keep to before the next time he came up against another big Volvo. I stopped short of dragging him from the cab, but I have to admit to regretting this after the episode was over, and being tempted to go find him. Thankfully, Emily and I each regathered our calm and rode on, back to Caranavi.

The next day, after visiting our favourite monkeys once again, we took the new road back up to La Paz. Even with the bike sputtering on bad fuel, lack of oxygen and the steep climb, and despite difficulties with the throttle mechanism, the ride was infinitely more relaxed than the previous day's.

The old Camino de la Muerte, way down in the valley and seen from the new road.

A half-hour or so to watch the bulldozer sort out a big landslide. The operator had clearly done it all before!

The backside of one of those Volvos, emerging from the bulldust.

Dusty, tired and safe!

La Senda Verde

2008-04-27T10:26:00.000-07:00

We had heard about La Senda Verde - a wildlife refuge near Coroico - while in La Paz, but as it happened, we didn't even have to look for it. As we came to the bottom of the Camino de la Muerte we met three people walking a couple of well-behaved (otherwise unheard-of in Bolivia) golden retrievers. The people were volunteers at the refuge, and showed us how to get there.

We were in for a bit of fun. We were greeted by Sambo and Wara, juvenile spider monkeys - the little dudes dashed straight over to Andy. Apparently Sambo, the boy, loves big men, especially hairy ones. Andy has grown quite an impressive beard while over here, and the monkey's seemed to like it as much as he does!

The monkeys were sweet, after a few minutes, they each came into my lap for a quick little cuddle before heading back to the hairy man, who (noting thier interest in it) had by this stage put his helmet on.

They loved it, sitting on the log as if to watch telly before venturing over to join the comedy. Heh, maybe Andy was happy to find some amigos amongst all these bare-faced Bolivians as well - they really couldn't get enough of each other!

The other inhabitantants of the refuge included the beautiful and endangered Macaws and this other strange (and as yet unidentified - Ginny's on the case) animal. I wasn't so sure about this one, it wouldn't be disuaded from the food we were feeding the monkeys, scared them off and procceded to hog into it, before someone came and took it away by the tail.

The fast and cheeky yellow squirrel monkeys had the rooster cooped up for a while, and there was an ocelot - the smallest of the big cats, and definitely one of the most beautiful. This poor animal was sold as a domestic kitten to a couple living in a unit! The refuge had to take her, but as yet had not build a home suitable for her.

The troop is completed by a host of other monkeys (including red howlers), turtles, and a couple of boa constrictors. They also serve strong coffee and a very delicious selection of home-made cakes - for us, a perfect morning tea break before heading off towards Rurrenabaque.

The Death Road

2008-04-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

By our calculations, the Camino de la Muerte, or the Yungas Road, drops about 4000m in altitude over a distance of about 70km. From La Paz, already at about 3600m, the road climbs to over 4500m, then it is all down hill. Quite incredibly, this single-lane, two way road was until 2006 the only road connection between most of lowland Bolivia and the capital. Trucks, buses, and private vehicles alike negotiated the road, passing under waterfalls, within millimetres or even overhanging 500m precipices, risking landslides on the saturated surface. Sliding off the edge was and still is a certain one-way trip. The road gets its name from the outrageous death toll it exacted until the asphalt alternative route was completed - about one person per day died on the road.

We haven't had to keep left on the road since leaving England, but the Yungas Road is different to most other roads in Bolivia in this and another aspect. The keep left rule was instituted so that drivers coming up the road, and therefore nearest the precipice during passing manoeuvers, could look out their windows at the front tyre, and thereby get as close to the edge as possible. Those going uphill also have priority - downhillers have to squeeze over and/or back up to let opposing traffic pass. I am probably more interested in road rules than most, so I won't go on too long about it; suffice to say there was more than the usual to think about on this little track.

Anyhow, the top of the road is in territory that looks like this - sunlit alpine peaks and passes bathed in sunshine. We were there at about 7:30 in the morning, and it was bloody cold, but we soon descended into the relative warmth of that cloud.

The surface is of wet river rocks and clay, hard enough at the best of times, and with those cliffs alongside the ride hovered somewhere between chore and adventure. Don't worry mums, there was no traffic! We had left early in the morning just so we would have the road to ourselves, and riding I left nothing to chance.

That's Emily and the bike down there in the middle ground of the photo, checking out one of the scores of crosses we saw, erected for obvious reasons during the road's heyday. Here and there Emily spied the carcases of cars, buses or trucks down in the ravines. Can't say I was looking off the edge much!

We had been told there were fantastic views, but these were not on offer on the day we went down; we got them from other vantage points later on. The fog made it all the more eerie and atmospheric though - Em was stoked to be riding in a cloud forest.

There I am, riding under one of several waterfalls that just fall onto the road, turning it into a creek for some distance downstream. The forest grew more dense and spectacular as we progressed slowly downhill.

There's not much traffic on the road nowadays, unless you count mountain bikes, so there are far fewer deaths too. Each day, several La Paz-based companies take up to a hundred or more paying customers for a spin on the road. Gravity-assisted, they cruise or fang down 64km of unbroken descent. Sounds like fun, though just days after we tip-toed down a man died on one of these excursions, reportedly suffering a heart-attack either before or after he slid toward the edge of the road, and oblivion.

We just had a beautiful morning, wondering at the beauty of the mountain, the altitude and its effect on vegetation, and of course the forest.

La Paz

2008-04-21T14:46:00.000-07:00

La Paz - the administrative capital of Bolivia - tumbles out of the high plains, clinging to an erosion-ravaged canyon. All roads lead to the bottom of the valley, a higgledy-piggledy mass of stone buildings, vehicles, street stalls and people struggling for their bit of space amongst the thick clouds of exhaust fumes.

Our first view was quite breathtaking - the city is nestled under nearby snow-capped Illampu, some 6000m high. La Paz itself is surrounded by another city - the sprawling El Alto, whose population surpasses La Paz itself (1.3 mill to La Paz's 800 000). It's colder and windier in El Alto, and the people live closer to the ground, though at higher altitude.

As we decended deeper into the valley, hand-pushed carts, animals and mud dwellings gave way to asphalt, smart vehicles and substantial double-storey stone buildings.

We found a base just out of the centre - Andy once again riding the bike into the foyer - across the plaza from the fabled San Pedro prison (the novel Marching Powder by Rusty Young gives an interesting, if slighty dry, account of his stay there). We were hoping to make a visit -apparently possible on Sundays for a small "donation".

As it turned out we never got to make the visit. It might have been the altitude (even the valley is at a lofty 3660m), or possibly that our sensitive western systems finally gave in to local food prep techniques ... or maybe it was the water. Anyway, both of us spent our first two days there shivering under our blanket-mounds and building up the energy to make frequent trips to the toilet. At one stage, we had run out of toilet paper and drinking water and neither of us had the energy to go out to buy some more! ... rather a low point of our stay.

When we finally emerged, it was to seek out the most gringo-of-gringo food joints in the hope of plain, clean food ... and to get a buzz again from the the bustling atmosphere created by the colourful mix of the traditional and the modern, vying for a living in La Paz's steep narrow streets.

Wall-art in La Paz, quoting and illustrating article 23 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

Our second visit to La Paz, after our trip out to Rurrenabaque, was far shorter and more productive, with Andy squeezing in some bike maintenance while I handled the gift-shopping and post office duties.

Samaipata and beyond

2008-04-20T13:25:00.000-07:00

So there we were in Samaipata, having made it up the track from Villa Serrano - the first to do so since last dry season. After the remote territory and small villages we had been through to get there, Samaipata seemed positively civilised (not the outpost it was reputed to be) and we made the most of it ... banana smoothies, hot showers, a double bed ... etc.

And our shock absorber had held out to the end - now there was nothing but asphalt between us and it's replacement. We decided not to try our luck, and so had to give the nearby national park a miss (a bit of shame, but plenty more to come), opting instead to visit the local museum - all about the nearby ruins - and then the ruins themselves.

Here they are behind me, our only photo as our batteries chose this moment to run flat (by the way, we charge our batteries on the bike ... there's no excuse for throwing these toxic things out willy-nilly, even on a bike). The site (now carvings in a huge rock) is considered to have been built in pre-Inca times, and also used by both the invading Incas and Spaniards, as a ceremonial site and becuase it commanded a good view over the main pass between Cochabamba and Santa Cruz. Much to my pleasure, the ruins were also surrounded by rainforest, giving us a pleasant taste of things to come.

Ruins visited, smoothies drunk, and we were ready for the next adventure. We found this in the ride to Cochabamba - again, the road took us to heights over 4000m, and we got to experience something I had only read about in an otherwise pretty stupid novel we found in a book exchange (The Gringo Trail - has some redeeming features, but not really recommended) - a cloud forest.

Just the sound of such a place had excited my imagination, and as we were riding through the clouds, in the forest, I realised we were probably living the dream. Really quite beautiful, it appears the trees are used to living among precipitation, and so they made these wonderful shapes to suck up the moisture - each branch resembling something between that of a trufella tree and a sea plant. They made for great silhouettes looming out of the mist, but unfortunately, not so conducive for photos (and anyway, our batteries were still charging), so I only managed to snap this one out when we got to the other side.

One more night (in a quite unfriendly satellite town - it's not all smiles and bowler hats 'round here) and we were in Cochabamba in the morning ... picked up the new shock (it's purple!) by midday (nice one DHL), and Andy had organised with a Hubb community workshop to put it in by the afternoon .... flying.

Next stop, La Paz.

Bolivian backblocks

2008-04-15T16:48:00.000-07:00

What a spot! First job of the morning to dry out our gear, the dew heavier than expected. That's our bike manual lying on the mattress, it's taken more than a week to properly dry out after our swim in the river.

The road offered just about every type of challenge a dirt road can offer. These included countless landslides (like the one we are camped on above). In some cases, the whole side of the mountain had slumped metres, making for a sharp drop to get into it and a sharp climb out on the other side. We also faced creek crossings, river crossings, deep mud, deep sand, loose surfaces and steep steep country - out in the middle of nowhere.

Even as pillion I was challenged, when we stood up, no longer could I stretch my legs, loosely hold Andy's jacket and look over his shoulder - I was gripping him and the bike for sheer life ... and often didn't dare look!

In the afternoon, after a particularly long climb, we came to a sign 'Ruta del Ché' next to a small track. Despite the fact it had no indication of how far away it was (visitors will benefit from the '10km' Andy added to the sign in permanat marker on our way out), we decided to head down it.

In 1967 Ché Guevara and other core revolutionaries had come to the area looking for a suitable place to set up a revolutionary training ground for South Americans (this site being relatively central in the continent). It was here that US soldiers caught up with them and killed three of them in combat. Ché and one other were taken captive and locked in a small school building with the bodies of their dead comrades.

The next day, Ché and his last remaining comrade were executed without trial.

The town, La Higuera, seemed like a shrine to Ché, an the school building used for execution was set up as a museum. We payed our respects along with other visitors.

While we were there, a group of Germans making a documentary about the Ruta del Ché turned up and interviewed us (being the only international tourists apart from some Argentine hippies - seemingly not interested in Germans or docos).

While we both thought of things we would have liked have raised (for me, the virtues of non-violent activism), we were pretty happy with our performance on camera. Wonder if we will ever get to see the results, they didn't seem the most professional of crews - not even a basic Spanish speaker amongst them.

The road eased up a little after Pucarà, the town after the Ruta del Ché detour, and after endless more crazy switchbacks and patches of loose surface, we finally made it to asphalt, and then Vallegrande.

At Villagrande we were told we were the first vehicle to come through that way since the last dry season.

Despite the fact it was getting late and Samaipata was still two hours away, we decided to make the journey. The dark brought new challenges (unlit vehicles, people and animals, and unmarked roadworks, gravel and piles of dirt on the road), but we made it there without incident, headed for the centro, and found a hostel for the night. Finally in Samaipata!!

Culture on their backs

2008-04-13T13:38:00.000-07:00

Last year I posted this blog after visiting a Karen hilltribe village in northern Thailand:

Apparently in parts of rural Thailand and Laos there is some pressure on women to maintain traditional dress to carry on the culture of the village, while the men have largely abandonded traditonal garb. The women are very strong here - although small of stature, they are able to carry rice on thier heads, babes at thier breasts, and also the culture on their backs! !! Go girls!

The same can be said for Bolivian women. While almost all men have adpoted a western style of dress, even in the city, many a Bolivian woman still wears traditional garb of a full skirt, a lacy top and a bowler or sunhat perched on top of decorated black plaits. (This city lady has dropped the traditional woollen stockings and sensible shoes in favour of bare legs and heels.) The outfit is completed with a bright bundle on her back. The bundles may be used to carry a baby, the day's shopping, or in the case of a couple of old women we saw in the country, a load of wood. Here, as well as in South East Asia, it's the women who have the culture on their backs ...

Six rivers and a bog

2008-04-10T09:21:00.001-07:00

Well. There we were in Padilla, about a third of the way to Samaipata and hoping we might make it there before nightfall. First stop, a little town called Villa Serrano. After breakfast (which didn't match the culinary delights of the night before), we drove the bike out the door and headed off.

The 30km road between the two towns was as we had come to expect, so we weren't too surprised that after two hours we still had 10km to go. 10km and one river. We have crossed a number of deepish rivers this year - quite a feat on the bike, loaded with both of us and our gear and weighing about 450kg. This river didn't look to be anything out of the ordinary, a drop into brown swirling water, about 25m to the other side. We decided to cross without taking the precaution of walking it first. (That was me who decided that. Over keen to get through without wetting our boots - oops! a.)

I think the moment we got in, we both realised this was a mistake. The drop was steeper than we expected, and also, the rocks at the bottom were not mere pebbles like on the shore, but too large to be pushed aside or rolled over. It was one of these that was our undoing, and before we knew it, Andy, myself, the bike and all our gear were sideways in the brown, fast flowing river. This is the first time we've dropped it on this trip.

No matter, though. Neither of us were hurt. Just wet, up and over the waist.

With a bit of effort, we picked the bike up and pushed it out of there. We gave it an hour or so to dry out, emptying the tool tubes and drying out all the important bits of the engine. This also gave us time to notice the footbridge just upstream. The locals were riding their motorbikes across the bridge. Also while we waited in the sun, a woman to offered Andy one of her goats for sale (a large lechon - presumably still milk-fed - goes for 60 bolivianos, about $9.)

In Villa Serrano we were getting mixed messages about whether the road was passable to the next slightly larger town north, Valle Grande. It seemed noone knew of anyone coming that way since the last serious rains (only three weeks ago), or even since the beginning of the wet season, but some people thought we would be fine with the bike. We decided to give it a bash.

This was probably the most degraded road we had seen yet - as it hugged the ranges, we picked our way over landslide after landslide. Over an hour (and probably no more than 15km later), we came to one we just couldn't get past. Even the family and their goats we saw there were having trouble.

We admitted defeat.

It was time to turn around and head back to Villa Serrano for the night. So far, it had been two days, and we still were not half way to Samaipata. We spent the night drying out our gear, including our all-important bike manual, which had become saturated. After the dump in the river, nearly everything on the left of the bike was satched. (My pannier, thankfully - a)

The next day we were told by the locals there was another way around the landslide, but that we would have to ford three rivers. These turned out to be five, the first four getting easier and prettier as they came on. We took the precaution of unloading the tool tubes and carrying the gear across.

The last river, el Bañadito (little wet one) about four hour's ride from the village, was the deepest. The road abruptly descended into it's fast flowing waters, and came out again about 30m later. This time, as well as taking the gear off, we had to push the bike across. Luckily, we had the help of a local man, and, despite a few hairy moments, had the bike across with no incident.

Sugarcane, swapped with some guys in the back of a ute (the only vehicle we were to see for a couple of days), provided a good recharge on the other side.

The road from there provided both stunning scenery and challenges ... not least this bog in the middle of a landslide which had us stuck for almost two hours, and convinced us to stay overnight too.

By the time we got the bike out, it was dusk and we had no option but to stay there (this photo is of me holding the bike steady, before we realised it wasn't gong anywhere). Completely wet and muddy from our efforts (Andy did a lot of digging around in the mud, and I pushed from the back as the bike spun it all over me), we walked down the hill to wash ourselves in the river (with our clothes and boots on - luckily it wasn't cold). On the way, we asked permission of the local villagers to camp there, and also if they could sell us some vegies (our stash containing dry food only). Permission granted but no food forthcoming, we headed down to the river, and as well as washing, filled our waterbottle with (very muddy) water to be boiled, settled and used for our dinner.

While the walk up was steep, it was stunning - the sky really turned it on with a full complement of stars, unhindered by any electric light. Dinner was pasta, garlic and chilli (bland but filling), and afterwards, we opted to camp without tent, falling asleep in our little coccoons on a landslide on the edge of a mountain in the middle of Bolivian nowhere.

Potosì - Padilla

2008-04-10T08:12:00.000-07:00

Surprisingly, the road from Potosi to Sucre was brand new asphalt and we covered the 160 very curvy km in just over two hours - making some type of record for Boliva, I'm sure. Sucre is a pretty city - a maze of grand whitewashed buildings, seemingly built for more prosperous days. We made ourselves at home in a paticularly elegant one - even the bike didn't miss out.

Out of town and back on the dirt, we said a prayer for the down-but-not-out shock absorber, hoping it would hold out until we could next give it smooth surface, and headed towards Tarabuco. Reknowned for its weaving, and supposedly one of the best Bolivian villages to buy the same, we were disappointed to arrive during siesta and find nothing more than dusty streets and closed doors. Even the usual almuerzo wasn't on offer and we had to content ourselves with soup. Putting our (or my, I don't think Andy is as excited by the idea as I am) purchasing hopes on La Paz, we set off into the dust.

The road became increasingly feo (ugly), mal (bad) or rough (choose your term) as we headed towards villages with dots of diminishing size on our map. We were on our way to Samaipata, a village recommended by a number of people (and now well on the gringo trail), popular for its laid-back beauty and proximity to remarkable ruins and beautiful National Parks.

I might add, once a village is on the gringo trail, gringos move in, open cafes, hostels and tour agencies that charge twice as much as the local ones but provide things that keep the other gringos happy - like toilet paper and pancakes! The village gets in the holier-than-the-bible Lonely Planet, and the gringos just keep on coming. Samaipata is one of these - in our opinion, no prettier than the neighbouring villages ... but we were happy for the pancakes and toilet paper.

Anyway, to keep this story vaguely chronological, we are still on our way to Padilla, three days from the luxuries Samaipata has to offer. Hours after leaving Tarabuco we made it to Padilla, and as it was late afternoon opted not to visit the town, but headed straight on. Some time later (probably about an hour - we had made 25km), the road, already small, dwindled again, now down to soemthing that resembled a goat track. Not surprisingly, the next person we saw was a man taking his goat herd home. He gave is the bad news that Villa Serrano was not just round the corner (as we were hoping), but that we had taken the wrong turn back in Padilla. Hmmm. Not good news. It was getting dark.

Nothing else to do (we had no water for camping and anyway, fancied a bed with legs), we turned around (not actually that easy on a goat track on the top of a thin dusty ridgetop with almost no light) and headed back the way we had come. I guess Andy must have considered he knew the road by now - we made it back in just over half the time!

Padilla turned out to treat us well. Like many Bolivian villages, the dust stopped in the centre of town, giving way to cobblestones around a green and beautifully well-kept central square. We spied a residencial on the edge of the square, and soon they were moving furniture to make way for the bike. We have got used to driving it right in the front door.

This place was complete with everything (well, almost. We opted not to have showers under the frigid water). The lovely family provided us with beer, hamburguesas and a special treat. After dinner, the señor of the house and the kids led us up a treacherous set of concrete stairs to the roof of the building, which overlooked a brightly lit futsal (indoor soccer) ground. We were lucky enough to be there for the local tournament, and had our own private view, right on top of the court. The plague of mariposas (in this case, huge yellow moths) flapping around the lights directly above us only served to add to the atmosphere.

Potosì

2008-04-02T13:11:00.000-07:00

Potosì, one of the five big cities in Bolivia, owes it's existence to Cerro Ricco, the mountain of silver, tin, and lead ore that dominates it. We arrived on April 1, the anniversary of the Spaniards' discovery of the silver in 1546. We heard the fiesta that ensued that night described both as a celebration of that event - and a commemmoration. The city definitely has a tainted history.

The mountain produced fabulous wealth for over three centuries and the city became one of the largest in the Americas. According to official records, 45,000 tonnes of pure silver were mined during the 15, 16 and 1700s. All of this was exported. The town itself is largely a collection of makeshift dwellings, except in the very centre, where silver was said to flow in the streets. I would be surprised if every street has running water.

The vast majority of this wealth flowed to Spain, and at a huge human cost. To supply the world's demand for silver, people were brought from Bolivia, Peru, Argentina and Chile to work in the traditional Incan institution of mita - enforced labour. They died by the thousands from the brutal conditions and lung poisoning. An estimated 30 000 people were also brought from Africa to face the same conditions. In total, it is said, eight million slaves may have died here. The mine took on the name 'the mouth of hell'. In fact, miners there today still give offerings to the devil, who is responsible for their saftey underground.

Our tour of the mine included a visit to a local refinery (Boliva doesn't have the technology for a smelter, so all ore is exported. Even half the refineries are foreign-owned). As we looked across the shanty-suburbs to the mountain we were told that experts have indicated it is past its used-by date, due to collapse about five years ago. Workers live with this knowledge every day, as well as the fact that they will probably die of accident or lung poisioning before they are 60. Most have incurable respiratory system diseases within ten years of entering the mines.

We were stunned by the conditions inside the mine. Despite the scarves over our faces, it was terribly difficult to breathe. The air (lacking oxygen even outside, the city is over 4000m above sea level) was full of thick sulphorous-smelling dust. Who knows what else it carried - the crystals I noticed hanging from the roof turned out to be asbestos.

As we walked, stooping, deeper into the mine I wondered how we were going to spend two hours in there. The first workers we passed - hauling a trolley full or ore with sweat all over thier bodies and blank expressions on thier faces - put my difficulties into perspective. Only the devil knows how many of these they have moved.

We descended deeper into the mine, slipping down dusty tunnels and along low corridors, intermittentently jumping out of the way of the trolley-haulers. The air got hotter and more oppressive. On the third level we stopped where a group of men were shovelling ore (dumped by the trolley-haulers) into a bucket to be winched to the level above. We had a go shovelling - Andy put in quite an effort, and quickly learnt why the miners don't wear masks, manual labour under those conditions requires all the air one can get, dust or not. As they shovelled, I wondered how long the roof above their heads would hold.

Our last challenge was to climb an unused route from the third to the second level without the guide. After hearing the instructions three times ('take the very left tunnel, do a dog leg, follow that tunnel [which involved sliding on our stomachs] for 45 m, dont look down the shaft on the right, the last time someone did that, they fell down and died ... don't worry, it was a miner, not a tourist ... and follow the small pipe up to the second level'), our small group set off, Andy leading.

The small pipe turned out to lead us up a steep path, apparently cut with steps that were impossible to discern as they were covered with slippery mud. As I tried not to think about the shaft below, I wondered when the guide had last taken this path, and if he knew it had water all over it. But then again, he was an ex-miner, and when he worked the mine, they had no electric winch and it was his job to carry 40 - 50 kgs of ore (almost his weight) up from the third level outside, about 50 loads a day. So I guess he knows about slippery tunnels.

Back on the first level we headed towards the light as quickly as the treacherous, muddy path would allow. After just two hours down there, we were glad to be out of that hell on earth, and to breath (relatively) freely again.

However we didn't forget the people still down there. Slaves to the silver they would never get to see.

Uyuni - Potosi, a Bolivian road trip

2008-04-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

It was late afternoon by the time we left Uyuni. The locals told us the 200km journey to Potosi would take 6 hours, so we didn't have much hope of making it by nightfall. After rising out of Uyuni - giving us a last spectacutar view of the Salar - the road skirted the sides of the barren Andean foothills. This road, between a major city and major town is dirt - often nothing more than a track, and most of the traffic is on foot.

This group of llamas was accompanied by a couple of donkeys, a dog and an old woman. The woman was dressed traditionally in a very full skirt, a bright cardigan and a bowler hat perched on top of two long black plaits, with a bright bundle of fabric on her back, full of wood. She held out her hand to us asking for money. We gave her our last coins, putting us in a spot the next time we were asked by a man walking his goats (tourist, or vehicle-owner tax?) We were happy enough to give what we had.

We wound through the mountains, stopping in a village for water and tomatoes (and was upsold tuna) to complete our meal for the night. Back on the road, nowhere seemed appropriate for camping. We were riding through a valley, and the land was either too steep for a tent or occupied.

As it was getting too dark to go much further (not many of the road-users come with lights here), an old man standing on the side of the road with a couple of sacks called out to us. Hoping that this might lead to the accomodation we were looking for, we turned around to greet him.

It turned out the sacks were full of vegetables, and as we sat there he started pulling out handfulls of them and packing them into Andy's hands and our tankbag. While I watched the darkness set in, Andy patiently tried to give them back, explaining we had no money. This didn't seem to phase him, so we swapped the veg for some tomatoes and kept on down the road.

Not two curves later we spied a flat exit leading to the unmistakable silhouettes of cacti to the left, and a myriad of powerlines to the right. We opted for the cacti, found a little nook, and set up camp.

Our nightly routine involves getting off the bike and putting on warm clothes as quickly as we can, then Andy sets up camp while I cook dinner. We have got the timing to an art, so as Andy puts the finishing touches to our beds (putting the jackets under the mattresses for pillows), I am just about serving up tucker. This night it was tuna and (incredibly sweet) tomoato pasta. Yum. After dinner, we usually fall straight into bed.

Out in the foothills, we woke to another incredible view. We have started a photo series called 'views from a tent'. This one is a beauty for it.

We have camped in some amazing spots on this trip, and this was no exception.

The man told us the corn he gave us needed cooking on its husk in a fire. In the morning we discovered he was right, this varitey was not for boiling (it was still rock hard after 20 minutes). However, it was a spectacular vegetable - bright golden with a purple husk, giving us misgivings about the watery, easy-to-eat varieties back home.

After brekkie of porridge, apples and tea (we seem to have mislaid our Argentinian coffee filter), we packed up and set off up the road.

Salar de Uyuni

2008-03-30T12:27:00.000-07:00

This place was one of the reasons I wanted to come to South America. Emily wasn't sure why a 12000 square kilometre, dead-flat world of salt should hold such attraction, and I couldn't explain it either, but it did. When we got there, we found out. On our first night in Uyuni, we went to the edge of the salt, near the town of Colchani.

We had heard (and seen) the salt flats were at least partly covered with (salt) water, so we were not keen to take our precious and trustworthy bike out there without knowing how much water, and how deep. To check out the conditions, and also for the experience of a guided tour with other tourists, we took a one-day tour onto the Salar. Ordinary tour, though the place itself is a total blowout and the mob we were with were good value. We took advantage of the total flatness to do some photographic shenanigans together.

The tour got us back to town in the early evening, but we had decided that a night out on the flats themselves was not to be missed. In a massive hurry to catch the last light, we packed our steed and headed out, excited like kids about spending the night in another world. Made time to buy food supplies and some boxed wine, though this latter tasted rather odd come dinner time.

The trip out to the Salar, started in the dark, was short but about the most manic and beautiful of any in this epic year of motorcycle travel. At least llamas have decent road sense; more of a concern were the cars and trucks without lights, the choking dust, and the (by now normal) horrendous corrugations, bulldust and sand drifts. The shortcut around the somewhat hostile little town at the edge of the salar was exciting - across railway tracks, then fields, then salt, following telephone poles or just aiming for the lights of the buildings at the very edge of the salt.

Crossing the waterlogged part of the salt was a nervous challenge - dropping the bike into a puddle of salt water at night was to be avoided. Emily walked ahead into the darkness, avoiding the deep pools to choose a path for me to pick along with the bike. She got us there, through about 300m of very dodgy terrain, without wetting a tyre!

Cruising across this white, featureless plain at night on a motorcycle is recommended adventuring! Wow! I just rode, keeping an eye out for depressions, holes or soft patches in the salt, while Emily navigated by the stars. With landmarks totally absent, we headed slight left of the sword of Orion until the hunter was obliterated by cloud, then just kept the beautiful Southern Cross at our left shoulders. The dark, cold air of high altitude touched our faces, chilled our hands and thrilled our souls. The hard salt crunched beneath our wheels, and we rode on, on towards the edge of the world. Stars shone above, salt below, and we flew on.

Thirty or so kilometres, we don't really know how far. As on most days we ride, we just rode until we felt like camping up. We stopped, first running around like kids, exhilarated by the stars, the white salt, the feel of it beneath our feet, our distance from the rest of the world. Then we bathed in what felt like utter silence until the chill of the night and the ride reminded us to get cracking with tent and dinner.

We got a bit of a start when we heard odd noises, just after dinner and the odd wine, but sitting in silence for a few minutes convinced us that what we could hear were birds. Both their voices and the flapping of their wings.

The morning gave us the salt flat, its enormity and beauty...

and another reminder of our own teency, tiny scale!

And though in some respects it lacked the excitement of the night before, the ride off the Salar de Uyuni was pretty good too!

Villazon to Uyuni

2008-03-28T12:12:00.000-07:00

On our map this just looks like the shortest way from the Argentine border to Uyuni, but it is a great road for an adventure.

It's dirt all the way, goes over 4000m and stays up there, gives every surface from good gravel to clay, bulldust, some deep sand (and plenty of other sand) river crossings, llamas, mining traffic, a welcoming town (Atocha) at the 200km mark, and best of all, about 15 or 20km of sandy riverbed, with flowing water (actually much more than the photo shows - we were on the deep part at night!) First you go downstream, then upstream! Mad scenery all the way. This was to have been just a transport section on our trip, excited as we were to get to the Salar de Uyuni, but we had lots of fun!

At Atocha, we were up early and saw the town wake, then breakfasted on the street, as you do, squeezing into a little stall that served coffee and sweet bread. A couple of police checks later (just paperwork, but we will have to get used to these, methinks), and we were on the road for another 100km of adventure-riding. Sand dunes, high-plains villages, then endless and gnarly corrugations. Let's not forget that the shock absorber is living on borrowed time...

Welcome to Bolivia. Chau Argentina.

2008-03-27T11:52:00.000-07:00

Having decided to chance it on our leaky shock (and with the wooden block trick up our sleeves), we went up, up and out, across the high plains of northern Argentina. A sign at the border town reminded us of how much of Argentina we had come to know.

We crossed the border between La Quiaca, Argentina and Villazon, Bolivia, at about sunset time. The Bolivian customs official smiled broadly, addressed us by the names he'd read from our passports, and shook our hands as he bid us "bienvenidos a Bolivia!". Seconds after that, the Argentine customs official stomped into the same office and demanded the paperwork for our bike, which I had recently handed to his colleague on the other side of the river separating the two countries. I politely explained to the uppity man that he was wrong. Of course, he contradicted me, so I invited him to check with said colleague. He flapped out of the office, not to return. Chau, Argentina. Don't cry for us.

We sorted some accommodation, hot shower and all, some tucker (chicken and chips - welcome to Bolivia!)

and started to feel as though we were in a different country. Nice one. Argentina was good to us, but never would we have considered spending nearly four months there.

The streets of Villazon are packed with markets - lots of cheap Chinese imports - and made for an interesting introduction to the country when we went downtown in the morning. We also got an idea of the Bolivian work ethic as we watched people carrying truckloads of imports across the bridge from Argentina on their backs.

Despite warnings that the police would object, we managed this very necessary photo in the very first metres of Bolivia! Cheers!

Back to Humahuaca

2008-03-25T23:04:00.000-07:00

We have got used to lay-offs lately, so the fourth time the shock absorber gave out we took it pretty easy. What else to do, especially given that it was the day before Good Friday? John and Marcia escorted us back to the funny little town of Abra Pampa, where we knew we could make phoncalls and that kind of thing, then they went on north. We headed south again, back to charming Humahuaca, a colonial town with a strong indigenous flavour, in the high depths of the colourful Quebrada de Humahuaca.

Set up in the campground, it seemed the best we could do was get to know the town and make it our home for the next week or so. I got about researching and eventually ordering a new shock absorber - lots of internetting, emailing and phone calls - while Emily recovered from the sniffly effects of a week in the moist campground at Salta and took the place in.

We got ourselves a local restaurant, and tried a couple of other ones along with all the versions of local beer. We were both glad to be in a place where the Indigenous culture was strong. Finally, we saw menus which differed from the usual argentine selection, offering a range of traditional foods of the region. Llama for the meat-eater, quinoa for the more vegie-oriented (quinoa is a grain which was cultivated and spiritually revered by the Incas and their predecessors in the Andes). We sussed out the museum to learn of the pre-Incan and Incan history of Jujuy in a personalised guided tour.

Bush food in Coctaca

2008-03-25T22:08:00.000-07:00

Elvio, our guide at the museum, mentioned pre-Incan ruins a few miles from Humahuaca at an indigenous community called Coctaca, so I went out there earlyish one morning. Feeling a little conspicuous in this tiny outpost town, I parked the big motorbike on the deserted town square and walked around looking for someone to whom I could announce my presence, and whose permission I could ask to visit the ruins. Eventually I was directed to the house of a very small and gentle old woman, who invited me into her courtyard. We had a short conversation about ourselves and the place, then she urged me to stay put as she went to find me some tour guides.

Ariel and Dario, about eight and six, came bolting up the lane. With their grandmother's blessing, the three of us got on the bike and went up to the ruins.

The agricultural terraces themselves are interesting enough, built as a central production facility for quinoa, the sacred grain of the pre-Incans, and for this reason destroyed by the invading Spanish. Ariel gave an explanation of the cultivation and export of grains from here, and also told me that people in the old days only lived this high up in the mountains in the summer. He also told me about local rock art sites, and offered to take me there the next day, as long as I could get him out of school!

What they were most into though was pegging rocks at the cactus fruit, hanging from the plants a couple of metres out of reach. We had a laugh getting some down, then eating the sweet fruit, called pasacama.

I dropped them at their gran's place, promising them copies of the photos I'd taken, then went back to town. Late in the afternoon Em and I both went back to Coctaca, both to deliver the photos and to spend the early evening in the ruins, throwing rocks and eating pasacama.

Municipal camping

2008-03-25T17:45:00.000-07:00

It's not always fun and games out here, living the adventure we are living.

This morning we awoke in a dusty, grey campground, surrounded by noisily holidaying Argentines and motorhomes from "Alemania" - "Germany" in Spanish. The dunnies in the campground are both filthy and busted. As I perched on the porcelain, I wondered whether a small investment in the provision of bog paper might result in a reduction in the very, very yucky finger-shaped stains on the toilet wall, and thus pay off for the owners. As i reached into the cistern to operate the flush, I reflected that they don't do much cleaning anyhow.

Heading downtown, I knew that I would find toasted ham and cheese sandwiches and sweet croissants for breakfast. I hoped that the coffee would be half decent and therefore exceed the national standard; thanks to my expectation management skills, I was not disappointed.

In the town square of Humahuaca, a large crowd had gathered to see San Francisco Solano - or at least, a replica of him - appear from behind a bronze gate. He does this at around midday each day, but today's appearance included a bonus. His crucifix, usually used to ward off feelings of self-reliance amongst his followers, got caught in the closing doors. Despite the palpable suspense, we left before it was liberated, confident that a mechanical miracle would soon rectify the situation and leave the paper-mache saint to snooze another day.

We are here because, despite the fact that I was carrying a picture of The Virgin in my jacket pocket, our shock absorber has failed again. Regular readers will readily realise that this makes four times in a few months that this has stifled our lifestyle and disrupted our movements. As my beloved gran would put it, the shocky has gone "fut" again. I used language similar but not identical to this.

We were out in the sticks, at about 4000m above sea level, camping with our new mates John and Marcia in the Laguna de los Pozuelos NP. We had gone there hoping to see big birds, and the preceding night I had been heard to sing, to the tune of the Aeroplane Jelly theme-song that people as young as I seldom know, "I love motorbike camping, motorbike camping for me..."

When rain threatens at the time of day we are looking for a place to camp, we usually look to avoid setting up the tent. It's not that we are wimps, but that a damp tent can be a pain in the bum for many days. This night we had a choice between a semi-constructed national park visitors' centre, and a concrete bridge built over the top of an older floodway. We went for the little-used bridge, on dry and smooth concrete, cooked up John's beef stew recipe, drank some wine (which by the morning, given the altitude, had changed into whine), camped up and loved it.

In the morning there was porridge and tea, a lazy packing-up session as we all anticipated our first days in Bolivia. Then John and I started our bikes and got them back up onto the road. I did my daily tyre-pressure check, and while down there noticed that the shock absorber was again allowing its contents - oil - to leave the premises. Sure enough, the shock absorber was fut.

For those not familiar with the anatomy of motorcycles, the shock absorber is the bit that keeps the rest of the bike and the gear and people from rubbing on the back wheel, which itself is the part that rolls along the ground and up and down bumps. The shock absorber has a hard job to do, especially with us two and our stuff above and very bumpy roads below. But this is the job it is designed to do, and the job we have had it repaired to keep doing. But no, it's gone fut again.

So here we are, somewhat unwillingly in Humahuaca. Thankfully, it's a beautiful place to hang out, with far more to recommend it than a disabled saint and a half-hearted Easter parade. And we did find time for a haircut.

Out of Salta

2008-03-25T08:31:00.000-07:00

... not a moment too soon, and for the first time in ages, travelling with biker mates. John and Marcia, also heading to Bolivia on the way to Marcia's home country of British Guyana. Nice to be riding together, they also two-up on a BMW, and again we had the feeling of new liberty after our forced layoff.

Little hills, lakes and a subtropical landscape similar to the north coast of New South Wales had Emily feeling at home. Later, as we climbed through a couple of thousand metres, this gave way to desert country more reminiscent of my former home in Central Australia.

We suggested to John and Marcia a spot of bush camping - it was really the only option for us, having been cooped up so long in Salta's less than salubrious municipal campground. They were up for it, so we stocked up on food and wine. Again choosing a series of more minor roads, we set up camp at the end of a track in our own private valley.

The morning brought a sunrise walk

then lazy visits to languid villages in this harsh and spectacular Jujuy region of Argentina.

Lunch in Humahuaca - later to become Em's and my home town - set us up for the afternoon's ride. Through 3000m, stock up at dusty Abra Pampa on the Puna, or high plains of Jujuy. Aiming for the Laguna de los Pozuelos in the hope of spying pink flamingos, we left the asphalt and went up again, gradually, to over 4000m.

Though all four of us had misgivings about the colour of the sky - more purple than black - we wanted to find a camp on a par with the one of the previous night, so kept on. Sand, river crossings, then slippery clay in bossy little squalls, but just as the ride started to become a bit of a slog, we spotted a rainbow and a sunny patch across the valley. The sunshine came to meet us as we scouted out our camp - for the weather's sake under a bridge on a lonely road, protected and comfortable. It doesn't take much nowadays!

Limping north

2008-03-24T20:21:00.000-07:00

Yep, on our wooden leg. We stayed a night at Cafayate, on the tourist trail but it failed to crank us up. I got a carpentry workshop to custom-make some cheap blocks of wood to jam the spring in our expensive Fox Racing Shox. Meanwhile, back at the camp, Em was stuffing the whole thing in our bags, ready for departure.

Not much to say. We limped up the ridiculously spectacular valley from Cafayate to Salta.

At one stage we were overtaken by a mob of blokes from New Zilland, travelling on bikes and in a hurry to stick to their schedule.

They seemed keen to spray us with their story when we stopped for a yarn, then they had to go. A couple of photo stops and a steak sandwich (A only!) later, and we bounced into Salta (whose name means "jump").

We moved into the dodgy-looking municipal campground, and dodged downpours for a week. I pulled the shock out and sent it for repairs, and we hung in town for the week. Not much to report, except that the dog on wheels team caught us up, and late in the week John and Marcia pulled in on another BMW bike. Cups of tea, museums , internet cafes and dark beer filled the week, but despite repeated attempts, the Salta council failed to fill the swimming pool!

Happy to report that all our awaited parcels - finally resupplying our wallets with bank cards, and replacing the last of the gear stolen all that time ago in Chile - arrived at Salta post office while we were there. And we got that shock absorber in again.

Quilmes

2008-03-24T20:08:00.000-07:00

With our wood-solid rear end, we had to avoid rough roads, but we couldn't go past the Quilmes ruins.We had wanted to get some idea of pre-conquest civilisations in South America, and the Quilmes people were the first we met.

Sure, we only spent a couple of hours there, poking around the ruins and then asking questions of the traditional owners sitting at the gate. They were picketing a hotel which had been built without consulting them, and to which they would not have consented. They intended that the hotel should remain closed until the results of their court action were known.

We also picked up a pamphlet which explained their situation. I'll give a little summary here, that the story of the Quilmes people become a little better known. To us, as Australians, the story was very familiar - just insert dam, farm, city or whatever in place of hotel.

After resisting first Inca then Spanish invasion for a couple of hundred years, the Quilmes people were deported from their land in the foothills of the Andes in the seventeenth century. Forced to march to Buenos Aires, many died on the way or in the camp in which they were detained. By the early 1800s, the camp was closed and the people was documented as extinct.

Later that century, however, descendents of the deported population made representations to the King of Spain for legal return of their land. his was granted, but the royal decree was not honoured by settler landholders in the Quilmes' lands. The ruins (and the llamas!) were impressive, but so was the apparent determination of the folk to have their land claim honoured.

Reminded us of Australian stories. We told them that, and offered donations and best wishes as we left.

Shock gone fut. third time

2008-03-24T19:59:00.000-07:00

If you have been following our travels, you will know that our rear shock absorber has given us plenty of hassle. Here is a picture of me, contemplating the ugly, stupid, terrible, horrible very bad thing, just after if let us down for the third time.

Here's a picture of Emily cutting little tiny logs of wood to push into the spring of the expensive Fox Racing Shox Twin Clicker shock absorber, so that said spring can no longer compress when we go over bumps.

The plan here is to avoid consequential damage to the motorcycle while we ride somewhere other than where we were.I can hardly describe how pissed off I was. How disappointed we were that our plan of heading straight for the earthy, indigenous and beautiful north of Argentina had been foiled. The disgust at the idea of having to send the shock absorber away for an indeterminate period. So we jammed the wooden bits into the spring and limped on.

Hot water

2008-03-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

We'll have to jump forward a day or two if this blog is ever going to catch up to our current location. Another couple of longish days and spectacular bush campsites under huge skies, through Villa Union, Chileceto, Londres (London!) and Belen, mostly on the amazingly varied Ruta 40.

More flood-damaged roads, unending floodways, an 11km-long section of remote roadside which resembled a tip, innumerable statutes of The Virgin by the roadsides. Another high pass or two (over 3000m),

more stunning red rock gorge country.

More time in our fabric home, more home-cooked meals on our petrol stove, and we loved every minute of it!

Somewhere out in the bush, between river crossings and at the right time of the evening, a sign points to thermal springs 2km off the road. A deepish river crossing later (and a wet foot), and there we are. A nameless and unattended though well-maintained campground with only a pair of campers (or is that three?), and some locals.

We said g'day all around, had to knock back a swig of moonshine from the lads hanging around the old Ford, and introduced ourselves at Kerry, Jochen and Tarmo's camp before setting up ourselves. Far from even the average long-distance bicycle travellers, these three are out on their own, ahead of the pack. Tarmo, you see, is a charming Labrador/Husky cross. On tour, he runs about 30km a day, and retires into his kennel / trailer any time he feels like it, letting Jochen do the legwork. These guys have travelled across Europe and many thousands of kilometres in the vastness of South America together. Check out www.dogonwheels.de.tl - in English too.

Nice, a camp without tent (threatening skies again), under a decent roof. Then a hot shower - as the sign promised, an endless supply of volcanically-heated water was spouting from pipes in the walls of the very clean bathrooms.

It quite did the trick - we had been on the road a good few days without seeing a tap at all, let alone one with hot water in it. Long, long showers both evening and morning were the go. No water restrictions here, no gas bill or carbon signature either.Finally out of the shower (and dressed!), we asked the three Germans over for coffee. Several cups and travel stories later, we all got on the road under a wetting drizzle.

Valle de la Luna

2008-03-24T18:58:00.000-07:00

From our camp Near Las Flores, amongst the white cliffs, through red rock gorge country on another tight road to San Juan de Jachal. The town provided ingredients for a picnic lunch and an Australian feel - we are back in a climate that suits the big eucalypts, it seems. Provisioned, we pointed the starship towards a place called la Valle de la Luna, or the valley of the moon.

We never got to the moon, stopped in our tracks by a mushy, gooey river flowing about 100m wide. We had been following one of those dotted-line-on-a-map kind of roads, and it just sort of petered out.

Truckies working on roadworks told us there was no point crossing the river, so we didn't, instead happily heading back whence we had come.

Back past our picnic site under the prickle tree,

back across the recently broken bridges and floodways. We reckoned the place we had found ourselves was just as good as the valley of the moon itself. The journey, after all, is said to be more important than the destination.

Paso del Agua Negra

2008-03-24T13:20:00.000-07:00

Given our delay and the burning desire to get north, we have had to ditch some of the stopovers and sidetrips we might otherwise have done. This is still happening three weeks later. Leaving the factory, though, there was one detour I really didn't want to let go of. The Paso del Agua Negra crosses the Andes between Argentina and Chile at an altitude of 4780 metres. That is higher than either of us had ever been, more than twice theheight of Australia's biggest bump. Besides the sheer height, the road passes close to glaciers. I also wanted to see how the bike would perform at such a height, given the deficit of oxygen.

We lunched - too heavily, it turned out - and fueled at Las Flores, then left our passports with the border guards before taking the climb. It's about 90km from Las Flores to the top of the pass, and of course the road climbs all the way.

We were both excited to head into such a dramatic and clearly unforgiving place. The views from the road were stunning, though riding the bike I didnt have much chance to look around. Off asphalt, onto dirt, first under rain and then with snowflakes swiirling around us, we kept it pointed uphill. Wind, cold and precipitius cliff kept us on edge. Somewhere around 4000m the road got even steeper and narrower. With the good old boy (the BMW, not me!) getting out of breath, I pulled out the air pre-filter so as to give a less-restricted flow of air to the motor.

By the time we got to the top, it waas clear we weren't going to stay long. It was bloody freezing - don't know what temperature, but 5 or 6 below zero, and a screaming wind. We banged out a couple of photos before mounting up and getting down off the saddle.

Once off the hightest part of the pass and out of the wind, we stopped for a couple more photos under an over-hanging icefield.

It really doesn't take much to get out of breath at that altitude, and after running around for photos, and the rushed effort of putting my jumper on under my jacket, we felt like we'd run up ten flights of stairs.

Altitude sickness is also a real risk for people who usually hang out somewhat lower down the hill. It has various effects, but perhaps most relevant for the motorcyclist is the potential for loss of concentration. I think I concentrated harder on the way down than I ever have before. Through snow then rain, wider roads and shallower grades.

We grabbed our passports from the Gendarmeria Nacional, and headed back to relative lowlands. One more bit of intense riding, on sand this time, got us to a wild camp amongst towering white sandstone gorges.

Wow, what a day. I'm tuckered ot just writing about it!

North from Mendoza - take two

2008-03-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

When we got away from Mendoza for the third time, we were quite determined to make a decent mile toward the north. We were excited to get to Jujuy, the northernmost corner of Argentina, and thence toward Bolivia for that country's famous Salar de Uyuni and the Amazon basin.

We left at a nice early hour, having packed the bike the night before, and took the main road towards the Chilean border. A nice ride, despite rain and trucks. At Uspallata we stopped for coffee before heading out of town, fording the river, and pointing the bike north, away from main roads once again. Keeping the Andes on our left, we just rode for a couple of hours. There was drizzle, and the dirt road was muddy from a recent downpour. We talked on and off, but most of the communication was in the form of our shared excitement - and relief - that the adventure was finally ours again.

The road showed signs of a serious storm, and roadworks at times had us creeping along on slippery clay. Still under heavy skies, the road later turned to broken asphalt, then to a good surface. We loved every minute of it, wind and raindrops in our faces and progress under our wheels. I was well stoked, when the road surface called for it, to open our new storage tubes for the first time and use our new compressor to adjust the tyre pressures. New toys. Emily took the opportunity for a little snooze...

Off up the road, we stopped at Calingasta for dhal ingredients and a packet of chocolate biscuits. These latter we knocked over in minutes, having forgotten to eat lunch in the excitement of being back on the road. No packed lunch this time either!

After Calingasta, we picked our way along a badly flood-affected road, over and around washouts and debris, then started lookign for a place to camp. We stopped once, on the banks of the San Juan river, but a violent lilttle squall sent us on our way.

We were quickly rewarded in our search for a dry camp, though in what we see as a prime camping opportunity others may fear to tread. Whatever this disused factory had produced, it had not done so for at least a decade.

There were what looked like kilns and workshops, a few boiler- or tank-looking things, and an office building up front. This latter, covered in political advertising/grafitti, was our initial choice for accomodation until we spied the ruined former manager's residence down near the river. It looked good, so we camped in the clean, dry kitchen. Em did some sweeping while I moved the bike down to the house and parked in another room. Undercover parking a bonus!

Dhal was delicious - we had looked forward to a vege-only meal for a while. Next morning saw me making a cup of tea while Em still slumbered, and before we set off up the valley.

north from Mendoza - take one

2008-03-23T17:47:00.000-07:00

Our friends in Mendoza were full of recommendations as to our route north from their town. Glad to be back on the road after nearly a month in or near Mendoza, we climbed the back of the Uspallata Range, keeping off the main road to Chile, and intending to follow the roads closest to the Andes for an unspecified distance to the north. God knows, we had had long enough to pore over the map. So, after a lumpy-throated farewell, and in the spectacular light of an approaching storm, we got on the road. Oh, and Paola sent us of with packed lunch, complete with chilled fruit salad, too! How sweet.

The road goes up to 3100m altitude, and was a mad ride, possibly the curviest road we'd been on yet. A photo stop about 3/4 of the way up, though, brought bad news. That rear shock absorber, recently repaired after its failure on Ruta 40, was bleeding again. (When they leak, shock absorbers lose pressure, stop doing what they are meant to do, and need repair.)

This brought a bitter flavour to our excursion, though we tried not to let it affect our enjoyment of our lunch, eaten at 3100m asl. The promised view of Aconcagua, the highest mountain on this continent, may or may not have been granted us - Emily could just make it out, I couldn't. That may have had something to do with the clouds covering both our viewpoint and the montain!

Back down into sunnier and warmer climes, we had no choice but to go to the nearest phone and call Ariel.

He and the fam welcomed us back again, though it is probably fair to say neither party was overly happy with our returning just a few hours after having left (except Ariadna, who was overjoyed!) . The friendship pulled through though.

So back we went. I pulled out the shock, we repaired it, and were back on the road in a short couple of days.

Hospitalidad Argentina - pulenta!

2008-03-22T10:05:00.000-07:00

We learned the true meaning of Argentinian hospitalidad in Mendoza. Ariel, Paula and Ariadna wouln't dream of us staying anywhere else while we got the bike ready for the more remote roads of Bolivia. As Andy has mentioned, Ariel had already opened his immaculate workshop to us a week earlier, and took great interest and professional care in the mechanical stuff we needed to do. And again, they all opened their house to us - this time we two shared Ariadna's bed and a spot on the floor.

...while the bike took up space in the already crowded workshop.

On Saturdays, the bikes get pushed to the back of the workshop, the trestle tables come out, and the crew settles in for one of Argentina's great traditions - the asado. We might pride ourselves on the great Australian BBQ, but we could take a few lessons from the Argentines. Firstly, they don't muck around with quantity. When they plan an asado, they get 1 kilo of meat per person (Andy was in heaven).

The cuts of meat are different to the ones we know at home. Also, there're just one or two people involved in the cooking, and as far as we have seen at the four home-cooked asados we have had the pleasure of attending, this person is never from the host family. Asados are no secret hereabouts - you see people along the streets in the suburbs cooking up, and on the weekends people get out and have one on a riverbank or just under a tree on the roadside.

Then, there is the specific way the fire is made - the meat is cooked slowly over coals which are shoveled from the fire, never over the flame itself. This milder heat ensures that the salted meat does not dry out, despite taking at least two hours to cook. The extended cooking time also ensures that the aroma of the asado fills workshop, house, and streets. Wow!

It also allows for the other serious part of the asado - drinking beer and yarning with mates. Surprise, surprise!

The meat is cut into small portions as it is ready, and served by the asador on wooden plates. Vegetables play a token part in this meal, and Paula considers Saturday a holiday - her contribution to the meal (apart from regualr trips to the beer fridge) being a couple of simple (but tasty) bowls of tomato or eggplant salads. While Andy tucked into the great cuts of meat, plus blood sausages and lamb intestines, I busied myelf with these. Though each of us goes through periods off the meat, we were both tucking in keenly.

And how's this - you can get excellent (already referred to in this blog as world's best) gelato, home delivered! That's desert sorted.

During the rest of the week, Paula - an expert in the art of Argentinian fare - treated us to many classics - here we are making empanadas de carne y huevo. This kitchen was home to many a good convo - Paula was very patient with my basic Spanish, and taught me a lot about life from the perspective of an Argentinian woman.

We also cooked for them- they quite enjoyed our rabbit casserole!

All week, I played with Ariadna, my youngest Argentinian friend. It took her some time not to get upset when I didn't understand her rapid speech, but as the week drew on, she started talking slower, I started underrstanding more, and the whole lanaguage barrier seemed to dissapear. We found common interests in painiting, drawing, walking in the park and swimming her rooftop pool.

We left with many a 'te extraño mucho!' and 'nos vemos, amigos!', and a tear in more than one eye.

Paola, Ariadna, Emily, Ariel, Andrew, Mandinga y Gabriel, afuera de Bahia Blanca 625. Faltan El Turco (se estaba limpiando el uerto), el Condorote, Daniel, y Sergio.

Muchísimas gracias por todo. Pulenta!

Revisiting Ruta 40

2008-03-17T12:09:00.000-07:00

Ruta 40 is somehow sort of famous amongst those who ride in South America. The road showcases the remote beauty of Argentina, and in the south it provides the only link between such mind-blowing places as the Perito Morneo glacier, El Chalten and others. If it didn't link such special places, I don't think I would go looking for the road just to ride it as it seems many do. But then I grew up in Australia, and have maybe lost my interest in riding dirt for the sake of it.

Ruta 40 in Patagonia is a long, lonely dirt road. There are some special challenges to it - it´s remote, there's not a lot of water, and mechanical or medical help, should it be necessary, is absent. You need a good fuel range - or a collection of coke bottles - and even then luck plays a part as petrol can be unavailable in the few service stations. The road itself is also located down in the thin end of the south american wedge, meaning that in summer, you share it with other biker travellers.

The surface can be difficult to ride, varying from fine sand through deep, loose gravel to round, tennis-ball-sized rocks. Football-sized rocks lie on and protrude from the surface all over the place. Heavily rutted in parts, with high ridges between wheel tracks, the surface changes frequently and suddenly. You are often on a patch less than 10 cm wide, just enough for the tyres, and just as regularly you have to dodge and zigzag to avoid the bigger and sharper rocks, or steer to counter the wind. Dry river crossings can mean long stretches of quite large rocks, and are the parts of the road that provide the most nerve-tinged excitement. For much of Ruta 40, the surface shifts under the bike as you move across it - for non-motorcyclists, imagine riding a bicycle across a waterbed! For kilometres in a row, at times. the wind can also be scarily strong, especially in the afternoons, and when we were there it was bloody hot, too.

Of our motorcycle traveller mates, it seems most had some or other difficulty - fellow Aussies Ken and Carol were blown off the road with their bike and ended up sore and looking for a welder. Ted had to return along the most remote stretch in search of a lost bumbag and documents, and had a hard crash in the process. Peter and Carol's old BMW dumped all its oil after rock damage, and they had to buy a coke-bottle of oil from a bloke in a truck. Uschi used discretion well, getting off and pushing her tall and light bike at times when the wheelrut she was following went off-piste or just ended. Lucky with the wind, we got off pretty lightly with just a couple of punctures to repair (and a good kit to do it with: www.tyrepliers.com.au), besides Emily's stomach cramps which she toughly ignored as we stood, sat, stood, sat along the road. Besides the broken shock absorber, that is. We teamed up and rode with Uschi for a day or two, and it was good to know that Peter and Carol were somewhere around.

Riding a motorcycle is a confidence game at any time. If you don't think you can, you don't. This is even more true when your bike is your house, weighs several times more than you do yourself, and is carrying not just one but two precious lives through a harsh, threatening environment. It's a matter of trusting yourself, your tyres, your bike, and importantly in our case, my passenger. Any little hole in bike maintenance, rider concentration, fitness, planning, or even in the way luggage is attached to the bike can make a very big difference out this way.

So when you need to cross that ugly-looking ridge of gravel to change lanes (ruts), you accelerate. Yep, searching if you can for a gap or a low place in the ridge, you stand up, set the bike up, maybe give a dab on the brakes, then gently squeeze the throttle to lighten the front wheel, and cross. Hands and arms relaxed on the handlebars, let the front wheel and then the whole bike wobble underneath you as it crosses the obstacle, let it all settle on the new path, then repeat. Or sit down for a few hundred metres, if you are lucky. And when a grotty patch of deep, loose and round river rocks makes your eyes boggle, stay calm, back yourself and your tyres again to brake and lose some speed. Lean back a bit, lightly on the throttle, let the bike weave, wag and carry on beneath you, keep your head steady and just ride with confidence.

Know a good mechanic in Mendoza?

2008-03-14T12:17:00.000-07:00

At the beginning of the week after Em's birthday, we thought we might spend a few days in Mendoza, a pleasant, leafy city in the irrigated west of Argentina. Catch up on some blogging, do some bike maintenance and that kind of thing. We checked into a campground, I went looking for a mechanic and some parts, and Em set about the internet stuff.

I wanted to mount some aluminium tubes beneath the cylinders of the bike to carry tools and spares in. This is a bit out of the ordinary, so I asked around who might be able to fabricate them for me. This quickly led me to Ariel Rodriguez, the top guy among mechanics in Mendoza. Right from the first moment, Ariel took time and care to listen to what I wanted, besides wanting to hear about our travels. We sat down and had a yarn, the idea of the tubes started to come alive, and it became clear that I was dealing with a caring professional tradesman, the kind of bloke it has been hard to find in Argentina, and that you don't find every day anywhere.

I went back the next day - maybe Emily thought it was a bit odd that I was so enthusiastic for her to meet Ariel - but hey, I was also excited that we were going to get our tubes. This time we also met Paola and five-year-old charmer Ariadna, the rest of the family.

Shift forward a few days. We've had a mob of stuff flogged along with Em's bag at an internet cafe, leaving us without any bank cards (I had left mine in a bank machine days earlier. Bravo.), and with very little cash. Em has to head to Buenos Aires to replace her passport. All of a sudden we are house guests at Bahia Blanca 625, the house of Ariel, Paola and Ariadna. They would hear of nothing other than us sleeping in their own bed. Really, we tried to insist... but neither wanting nor able to knock back their help, all we could do was be really thankful for it. It was complete rescue!

Em headed to Buenos Aires, and I stayed another night, before heading back to John and Annette's plum farm.

Down on the finca

2008-03-13T13:20:00.000-07:00

Some of the traveller crew we had met back down south had told us about an English couple and their plum farm at a place called San Rafael. Seems John and Annette travelled on their bikes a few years ago, saw enough to convince them that they didn't want to live in their home country any more, so opted for another change of lifestyle. Neither had much experience farming, but that didn't stop them from buying a few acres of aging plum trees and making a go of it, learning of the vagaries of irrigation, hail and the local labour marked among other things. Nowadays they offer motorbike travellers a place to stop for days or weeks, in exchange for some contribution to the running of the place. I guess they are thankful that traveller season coincides with the plum harvest!

When I first arrived, while Emily was still at school in Bariloche, there were no other travellers there. I hung out with John and Annette for a day before Emily arrived, but then we headed off to Mendoza for Em's birthday. We liked the place, the people, the idea of what J & A are doing, and were disappointed we could not stay longer. A week later, after a little misadventure in Mendoza, we were happy to go back and sign up for the "room, board and beer" deal!

Again I arrived without Emily, who had gone to Buenos Aires to have her passport replaced, but this time there was a crew of bikers there. Peter and Carol, the Canadians, and Chuck, a nice bloke from the US. Phil the tiler was there too, and after Emily arrived, Sebastian and Carola from Germany swelled the numbers further.

Annette, Carola, John and Sebastian take a coffee break

This was good timing for J & A, given that the local workers were not showing for work and the plums needed picking.

A half-day in the field - or in the house - earns tucker, sleep and shower and pretty well as much beer as is required, it seems. Maybe even more. Not that there's any formality to it, far from that - J & A could hardly expect to rouse their visitors out of bed too early, given that they themselves are the ones keeping the party going late into the night! As for shaking trees, picking up plums and carrying boxes, each just does what seems fair.

Em takes the wheel

A good, slow week off the road.

Peter and Carol shoot through

Muddy birthday

2008-03-13T13:14:00.000-07:00

What an awesome day! It dawned clear, and it was a pleasure to be riding over the vast Argentinian plain - the rising sun on our right, and the Andes range looming on our left.

Sunrise at a chapel, one of the many we have eoncountered on these lonely roads, odd litttle shacks surrounded by red flags, other offerings, and - strangely - bottles full of water. Guess the virgin must get thirsty.

Andy had prepared a surprise for me, and as we rode north my anticipation grew. We turned towards the mountains, and then rode right into a canyon, but I still had no idea.

We've had plenty of wonderful experiences this year, but luxurious baths (or even showers) hadn't been among them. Imagine my delight when we arrived at a little resort, offering thermal spas right there in the canyon!

What a treat for two dusty travellers to be handed fresh white towels and bathrobes on arrival! We got our gear off, donned the robes, and spent the rest of the day luxuriating in the sauna, steambaths, mudbaths and thermal pools. After lunch (one of the best meals we've had in Argentina) we went back for more, before finishing the day with a massage.

T'was a magnificent, muddy birthday :)

San Carlos de Bariloche

2008-03-12T12:54:00.000-07:00

Time for a change of pace. Bariloche, situated in the foothills of the Andes, on the shores of beautiful Lago Nahuel Huapi and ringed by lofty mountain peaks, provided a good opportunity for us to take a breather.

While Andy spent the week repairing the bike (removing first the rear and then the front suspension)

I went back to school for another couple of weeks of Spanish lessons. This was made more difficult by the fact that I bluffed my way into a class above my level. I spent the first few days wondering if anyone else knew what was going on and what the teacher was saying, and hoping my intermittent utterances of 'si' and 'bueno' were appropriate. However, after two weeks, I had an idea (in pricinple, at least) of three of the many tenses available, and was happy to try out my new skills on anybody patient enough to listen.

I'd booked to stay with an Argentinian 'family' (which turned out to have as many other students as 'real' family members), an enjoyable expierence: dinnertime (sometime around 11pm, something I never really got used to) was a raucous gabble of fluent and not-so-fluent Spanish.

Andy was in a hostel on the other end of town, and we met every evening for an icecream (one of Argentina's culinary specialities, it really is the best in the world as far as we know), and a salsa lesson (quite a bit of fun, despite our three left feet).

On the weekend, the bike back together, we took it out for test-ride to Los Rapidos, about 50ks away. The Bariloche region has a big name in Argentina and attracts climbers, cyclists, campers, anglers, skiiers in winter, and plenty of families out to barbecue on the lakeshores in summer. We again found our way out to the very end of the very smallest road before sussing out a camping spot on just any old crystal-clear river.

A forest walk, waterfalls and another swim in a magnificant lake on the Sunday and we headed home for another week of Spanish, icecream and salsa. Wow, they do their swimming holes well in these parts!

Ruta 40

2008-03-02T12:18:00.000-08:00

They told us we could drink the water in Los Glaciares NP. We headed off on our our two-day hike with only our 1.5L waterbottle, filling it from the streams that we regularly crossed. In town, however, we filtered our water, as our campsite was downstream of town. It was only on the last night after a few drinks with Ken, Carol and Penny that I got complacent and decided to drink straight from the river.

Not a good move. I woke on the morning we were to begin our ride on the the notorious Ruta 40 (which begins with over 500 km of dirt) wracked with stomach cramps. Hours later, after Andy had completed our tasks in town, I gingerly left our tent and we set off into the afternoon.

Riding dirt means for us frequently shifting from a sitting position to standing on the footpegs. Paticularly dirt such as this, which is unpredictable, and offers hundreds of kilometres of loose gravel, golf-ball size stones, and regular sand wash-outs. My stomach gave me increasing grief as I heaved myself off the seat behind Andy (usually a fluid movement for us), but he kept the bike under control, and our first 100 kms or so passed without incident.

We stopped in the sunset outside Estancia La Siberia (a former cattle station, aptly named, no different from the endless miles of sandy pampas around it), congratulated ourselves on our progress, and spoke hopefully of reaching Perito Moreno township (still 370 km up the road) for lunch the next day.

No such luck. It was then that we realised our rear tyre was hissing, on the way to being completely flat.

We pushed the bike towards the homestead, encouraged by the workshop symbol on the station sign. It was a pleasant surprise to be greeted by a fellow biker, Uschi (from Germany) who we had met earlier on the road. Uschi had been hoping for petrol at the station and company for the rest of the road. Her wishes were granted, and we hoped we would have a similiar sucess by nightfall.

It turned our the tyre levers offered in the workshop were a rusty crowbar and a hammer. No worries though, Andy pulled out Tyrepliers kit we had been carrying since it was given to us by the manufacturer in Australia, and set about getting the tyre off the rim. (tyrepliers.com.au were the first of our two sponsors, and the kit provides an easy way of breaking a tubeless tyre bead to get the tyre off the rim.)
Meanwhile, I set about making camp in the windy dusty paddock available, and cooking dinner (to date our worst yet). We finally fell into bed about midnight, the tyre patched but not on the bike, and my stomach still horrible.

We woke in the dry-heat, the dust and the wind to discover there was actually another hole in the tyre. Somewhat deflated, but determined to get us out of there, Andy prized the tyre off again, made another patch, and convinced the station owner to turn the generator on for a third time so we could use the compressor to pump up the tyre again. (The tyrepliers include gas bottles, patches and a pump, but we kept these a little secret just in case we needed them further up the road!)

Meanwhile, Uschi had set off in the morning, expecting us to catch her down the road. It wasn't until mid-arvo that we did, stopped on the road for a break.

As we rode on through the endless pampass with the sun beating down on us, standing and sitting and standing and sitting, Andy concentrating heavily on the road and me in pain, I decided this was definitely a low point of our trip. We maintained our hopes that we would reach Baja Caracoles (an outback township near the end of the dirt - we'd long given up on Perito Moreno) before evening.

Some time in the afternoon we realised the tyre was going down again - one of the puncture sites had two holes, as it turned out.

This time there was no chance of a workshop, or even of shade. Luckily Andy was able to patch it while the tyre was on the bike, and we all had a go hand-pumping it with Uschi's pump (slightly bigger than ours) before I fell asleep in the shade of the bike. I felt rather lame, Andy and Uschi were skilfully navigating this paticularly treacherous part of the road, and I didn't even have the energy to chat with them while they fixed the tyre!

After about an hour, we headed off again, our hopes of reaching BC before nightfall sinking with the sun.

As sunset approached, I started looking for somewhere to camp amongst the pampas (which was too spiky to put the tents on). Finally, just as the sun was beginning to set (sometime around 11) I spied a track which led, miraculously, to a concrete slab in a pleasant spot at the base of a line of hills. We set about with the business of making camp and me of making a meal (using Uschi's ingredients, as by this time Andy and I had run out) and enjoyed the lightshow put on by a storm on the horizon in the sunset as we ate.

The next day, determined to reach BC for lunch, we set out in convoy.

Luckily we hadn't been putting too much hope into it, there wasn't much there when we did get there. No petrol (Uschi had almost gone through her small tank and her collection of coke bottles by this time) or a gomeria (tyre repair shop) that would be any help to us. With a resigned sigh, Andy took out Uschi's pump and hand-pumped the tyre outside the only one in town - which was closed for a (very long) siesta.

Back on the road, the landscape started to change, and the endless pampas gave way to low ranges of hills of red, yellow and grey, and every colour in between.

Our first sign of civislization was a beautiful clear river snaking through a valley between the hilss, and, after three days of dust, we ignored the law against nudity in Argentina, and splashed around in the cold water until we saw a truck approaching in the distance.

Dressed and refreshed, we headed towards the bikes, looking forward to covering the last 40kms of dirt and reaching the bright lights of Perito Moreno. However, when we got back to the bike, we discovered an ominous patch of oil under ours!!

The rear suspension second was now leaking the rest of it's oil, finally giving up the ghost, and we watched as oil spilled out, and the stain on the road got bigger. Andy put a sock around it to soak up the oil, and we gingerly started out.

I have been making people laugh by telling them it was like riding a kangaroo (any Australian's limited Spanish vocab should include the word 'kangaroo', which is very similiar to the English version). It was true. We pogoed down the dirt, Andy controlling the bike under circumstances which had just been made much more difficult.

When we reached the ashphalt, about an hour later, we we so happy we bent down and kissed it! (Uschi and I did, anyway, Andy was busy checking the bike).

It was ony 60km by this time to Perito Merino, which we covered relatively quickly. We arrived during siesta (not hard to do, siesta takes up half the day), and had to content ourselves with ham and cheese toasted sandwiches and (almost cold) beer. We were later joined by Peter and Carol, who had also just covered the road, with their own stories to tell.

We had made the remote part of Ruta 40.

Not much more to report, except that my cramps (still as strong as ever) changed form (somewhat convienantly) the moment I spied the clean porcelin in the campground, and I spent more time in there than in the tent that night. Also, I jumped on a bus to Bariloche (over 1200 km up the road - the closest hope of fixing the bike) and Andy made the bouncy trip solo to meet me a day later.

Ushi filled her bike with petrol (which was by this time running on fumes) and went back down the road to visit the Cave of Hands the next day.

El Chaltén

2008-03-01T11:36:00.000-08:00

Gluttons for the natural beauty of Patagonia, we headed straight from the glacier towards El Chaltén, a village that owes it's existence to the fact that it is nestled under the spires of Cerro Torres and Mount Fitzroy, further north in Los Glaciares National Park.

We were treated to an amazing (and apprently rare) view of the spires without mist as we approached just on sunset. El Chaltén - a collection of tin and fibro constructions - was unmistakable, lit up as if it were a city. Ironically, the brightest part of town was the power station, which apparently runs largely to illuminate itself. Despite the constant hum of the station, the village is a tranquil place, and we set ourselves up in one of the free campgrounds next to the river.

We were there to trek into the park, so we set about it in the morning. Our estimated time of departure was quite different from the actual time (nothing new there), and - having hired packs and stashed the motorbike - we set off for the spires in the late afternoon.

What a beautiful walk! The National Park is home to the largest ice field outside Antartica and Greenland, feeding 47 large glaciers, including Perito Moreno which we visited earlier. The valleys at the base of the spires are filled with green forests and icy-cold glacier fed streams. We walked up one of these, filling our waterbottle as we went. Andy couldn't resist putting his newly waterproofed boots to the test.

The designated campspot was about an hour's (very steep) walk below the torres. We set up camp next to another Aussie, Penny, who we got on with immediately, and, despite the fact that she had made the final accent earlier that day (see below), was pretty easy to convince to come another time.

We weren't disapointed. Up there, the spires rise straight out of the glacier field, and those out of the many lakes they feed. It's an awesome sight!

One ascent wasn't enough, and the next day we headed off for another go. In contrast to the harsh environment of the vegetation-free peaks and glaciers, the valleys are green fertile places dominated by Magellanic Beech forests, and are relatively protected and mild.

However, we couldn't stay in there forever, so, after we had lunch and stashed our packs, we headed again towards the torres.

After walking along and over glacial moraines (much to Andy's interest, and ours, as he explained the geology to us), we arrived at another lake at the base of another glacier.

We spent a few hours there in the warm sun, watching as icebergs floated over the lake.

Later, tired and hungry, we walked out, along aonther valley. Our packs seemed to get heavier with each hill, and we were very glad to arrive at the village. On the way, we trekked past a reminder that we weren't the only people to have been robbed.

We reunited ourselves with the bike, and headed back to the campground.

Since this time, we have had our photos stolen, and it will be a while before we get a copy of them again (from the internet cafe we uploaded them in at Bariloche ... we are very lucky!). These are all Penny's, who kindly sent them to us. Thanks Pen!

Perito Moreno glacier

2008-02-15T12:35:00.001-08:00

We approached the National Park with much anticipation, we had been hearing tales of this glacier from as far back in our travels as Poland.

Not knowing what to expect, and having never even seen an iceberg before, we were so excited when we spotted a lone one on the way that we had a picnic in front of it! This chunk of ice had floated about 50km from the face of the glacier.

Nothing could have prepared us for seeing the glacier. We entered the Park at about 8pm, just as everyone else was leaving. After an amazing ride through arctic forests and alongside iceblue lakes, we rounded another corner and saw it for ourselves.

The glacier decends from the vast Patagonian icefield and marches inexorably into the lake, along a 5km front. The mountains in the background of these photos are around 14km away, though it is impossible to glean the size from the photos. At the face, the ice reaches about 60m and 120m below the surface of the lake.

The glacier advances as much as 2m per day. We spent the evening with a few others who were staying the night right in front, watching (sometimes huge) slabs of ice calve off the front into the lake. The glacier creaks and sometimes bellows violently as it shifts forward and pressure in the ice is released. It is not silent for a moment.

For an idea of scale, check out the top photo again. That's a boat built for about 70 passengers on the right hand side! Many of these icebergs in the foreground are as big as houses.

We found ourselves a campsite shortly before sunset (shortly before midnight) -

a place to ourselves on the headland, and all night we listened to the glacier creak and groan. It was an incredible night.

We woke shortly before the sun, and were treated to a stunning sunrise

from our magnificent campsite.

Later, we headed around the point to find yet another track and wandered along it for a different perspective

and for a cliff-side picnic.

After a siesta, we had a chat with the ranger who asked us go back to the main road, and as we walked out together, we were treated to another huge chunk of ice sliding into the lake, and the aftershocks as the waves heaved and crashed into other parts of the ice. The calving icebergs cause small but strong tsunamis throughout the lake.

We left the park feeling somehow fuller. This little glacier - as it is compared to other ones - had given us a lesson in the power of the planet we live on. We had also had an insight into the timeframes that geology moves in.

Glaciers move a lot of rock relatively quickly, grinding it to powder along the way, though the little human being barely lives long enough to realise this. And glaciers are made up of snowflakes.

Robbed!

2008-02-14T07:38:00.000-08:00

Back in Puerto Natales ... a pleasant enough town.

Not much to report, except that our gear was stolen.

We lost our tent, our sleeping bags, Andy's goretex jacket, our camelback backpack and another waterproof drybag, and the drybag and lock we used to keep it all in on the back of the bike

Needless to say, we loved and needed all these items. The tent was awesome, Andy has spent a thousand dry nights in it, and me a couple of hundred. The down sleeping bags zipped together (one extra long, one medium), the jacket was a beauty from Canada, and again, it had kept Andy dry on many a day.

Here's a photo (given to the Police, who were very attentive, but didn't help us recover our gear) of the fence the bastard climbed over

and our bike without our gear.

We were stuck. We were in a small town in the middle of nowhere, minus our home.

We spent the next two days scouring the place for some replacements. They don't go in for good quality gear in this part of the world, and we soon found there was only one decent tent for sale in the whole town.

Insult was added to injury by the fact that the owner demanded a price well over what it was worth. He knew he had us over a barrel, and after some soul-searching, we took it along with two (very very ordinary) sleeping bags, and left feeling like we had been robbed two days in a row.

I would love to see his photos - you should have seen the scowl on Andy's face when he pulled out his camera to get a snap of us as we drove off!

We completed the kit with a canvas bag around a couple of garbage bags (it never rains here anyway) and a $7 plastic raincoat for Andy.

And we headed back out on the road ...

I can't believe it!!! While I've been sitting writing this, somebody stole my bag!!!!!!!!! It has my passport, my credit cards, my diary (my diary!!), my keys, my spanish study books ... probably more. I'm in shock.

Thank thank thank goodness it didn't have the photos (safely in the computer being uploaded at the time).

So it looks like we'll be in Argentina for a bit longer yet ....

Parque Nacional Torres del Paine

2008-02-12T07:30:00.000-08:00

We had planned to leave Punta Arenas (a pleasant southern-Chilean town) early, however we bumped into a couple of fellow Aussie bike-travellers who we had heard about on the road, Ken and Carol Duval.

Instead, we spent a few hours swapping stories with them over seafood soup and wine, and while we could have stayed all afternoon, we had to leave, as we were itching to get out to the nearby Torres.

The sun sets late there, and after arriving in the evening, we were able to set out for our camp (about 3 hours hike away) at 6.30, in light drizzle. It was a lovely evening - the path wound along the moraine, and as it got later and the weather stared to set in, we were glad for the intermittent protection of gullies and forests.

Just on sunset, we came to to our campsite nestled at the base of the Torres, and pitched our tent in a forest beside a small stream.

We woke just early enough to catch the sunrise on the peaks

but not early enough to be there as it happnend, and by the time we had made the hour-scrabble up the steep slope

the Torres were again shrouded in mist.

This did not take away from their magic though, made more so by the fact that we had them to ourselves. After some time there, we made our way slowly back down for brekkie.

Back to our camp for brekkie (cereal and tea)

and a couple of quick photos (little did we know these were the last photos we would take of our lovely tent).

After a quick snooze (on my part) and a chat with the local rangers (on Andy's), we headed back down the mountain, asking the gauchos we met on the way for a photo.

We arrived back at the bike in the late afternoon, and after a couple of days without it, I was so glad to again have the luxuries it offered! (heh, my sarong for a pillow and my spice box for cooking ...). How things have changed! We made a great camp at the base of the snow-covered mountain and bumped into another of our biker mates, Tobias, from Germany, and spent a pleasant evening eating and drinking beer around the fire with him.

The next day we made a leisurely tour of the rest of the park

stopping on the side of the lake for lunch and a siesta

and later near a herd of guanacos.

What a beautiful place!

End of the world, and back to Chile.

2008-01-28T08:20:00.000-08:00

A half day in downtown Ushuaia was more than enough for us. The town is quite charming, but it's a matter of shouldering one's way between the mobs of 'other' tourists, who have mostly come by air to join a cruise to Antarctica. Given its popularity with the money-is-no-object end of the tourism spectrum, there are few bargains to be had in town either. Back in camp we read, write, tinker with motorcycle, tent and gear, and relax in our forest by the stream.

Ruta 3 finishes in the Tierra del Fuego National Park, and a photo by the sign marking the end of the road is de rigeur.

So is a visit to the park itself. Emily and I hiked up the Guanaco trail to the top of Cerro Guanaco, just to prove to our legs and bums that there's more to life than sitting on a motorcycle.

They paid us back over the following days, too, but the views, solitude and that wonderful feeling of insignificance in the immensity of nature was worth the debt.

A burly, dark and grumpy storm shooed us down from the peak, though not before we had lunched on the mountain, watching the weather approach.

Four days at the town at the end of the world was enough, sort of. We'd met a new crew, and now feel a part of the overland biking community, we'd heard some yarns and shared some others. We had washed clothes, cooked in a kitchen, and made some repairs to our kit (and others' too - I'm sure Ted is impressed with Emily's sewing skills). Despite this we didn't really feel ready to leave, and may have stayed longer if not for the attractions of Patagonia which beckoned us along the road.

Out of Ushuaia earlyish - about midday! We were in a bit of a hurry, or at least we had a schedule for the first time in a long time. We needed to catch a ferry from Porvenir to Punta Arenas. So we were into it, back up over the Garibaldi Pass, a 230km stint without stopping, our longest ever to date. A pitstop in Rio Grande, then border formalities to cross back into Chile, this time we were able to write that we planned to stay weeks rather than hours as we had on the way down.

Between the border post at San Sebatian and Porvenir ther is about 150 kms of quite smooth gravel road. Undulating along the coast, the road itself offers lots of great views and few difficulties.

Toss in winds of somehwere around 120 km/h at a guess, and ther level of difficulty rises sharply, and time to enjoy the scenery evaporates (for me, andway, I'm sure Em did a bit of rubber-necking). That's just what you expect down this far on the wedge of South America. When we realised the timezone chage from Argentina to Chile had given us an extra hour, we stopped for a photo shoot on a deserted pebbly beach, then again to watch the guanacos.

Porvenir has the charm of these Chilean seaside villages - brightly painted buildings made from corrugated iron, built low as if hunkered down against the wind. Trimmed lawns and hedges give a homely feel, while the rusted motor vehicles and the pace of these towns recall decades past. At Porvenir, a concrete wall seems to mumble the somwehat murky statement that 'To govern is to educate'. The Chilean flag in front of the sign though not yet faded by sun or salt is stretched and frayed by the wind.

The people around here look weahterbeaten and tough but are kind, helpful and gently spoken. Pulling up at the ferry terminal, we park in the lee of a truck and bolt for the cafe. There's plenty on offer, and we tuck into a hearty seafood casserole with loads of bread to mop up the ample juice, and a beer each - the waiter is up for a conversation, and seems unconcerned that the scheduled sailing time for the fery is fast approcaching. This attitude is shared by the ticket office, and the long queue trickles unhurriedly while departure time slips past.

The vessel, ''Melinka'' is brightly painted in red, green and white, though the ochre if rust also features in the colour scheme.

It's a bit of a free-for-all loading - they supply the ropes, you do the tying - and to cross the Straits of Magellan in this gale, I'm not messing around. As the little ship heaves against a solid swell and shrieking wind, we find the lower passenger deck slightly more comfortable. We sling to the horizon with our eyes to stave off the worst of the seasickness and both manage the three hour crossing with our seafood casserole intact. It's dark when we dock at Punta Arenas, and we have to ruffle ingloriously around in the town for an hour or so to find a hostel.

Getting to the end of the world - part two

2008-01-23T10:23:00.000-08:00

... cont. We're still at the House of Ceasar in Comodoro Rivadavia.

While we were at his place, Cesar also showed me an impressive collection of arrowheads belonging to the decimated indigenous population, along with fossils and whalebones collected from this rich coastline. He also promised to catch and clean a sealion of oil (a promise on which he duly delivered though we had to wonder how much benefit this offered the animal). When we returned to la Franja after our second day as volunteers, a scene of impassioned bizarreness awaited us - Cesar on his knees, digging with his hands while directing the rest of his posse as to how the pool for the sealion was to be constructed from the available sand and plastic. Listening, I also learned rather more heavy words of the Spanish language than I can imagine ever needing to use.

Later in the evening, the boss also offered his views on Che Guevara, complaining that Guevara though Argentine fought for freedom for other Latin Americans and was killed in Bolivia. He also gave a monologue on the Malvinas (Falklands) war, opining that this was the government's method of ridding itself of leftist rebels after the world started watching what was going on during Argentina's dirty war (to which I have referred elsewhere in this blog). There might be something in this last claim, who knows, but for me the version of Che Guevara that Cesar has seems pretty holey.

We tried to leave Comodoro Rivadavia early, hoping to take advantage of the northerly winds we'd encountered on the beach the previous day, and which could have carried us away even without the help of our huge yellow coveralls, but neither plan came off. The north wind would have made a great difference to our travels as a tailwind, but it was not to be. We didn't see Cesar in the morning, but still only managed a midday departure after talking with some of our new volunteer mates, fueling and the like.

We still banged out more than 600 km on the bike though, including a stop for a roadhouse dinner at a place called Comandante Luis Piedra Buena, an odd little town on yet another Rio Grande, or Big River. After dinner we kept going until almost dusk, at about ten thirty, then set up camp on the edge of a salt lake, just marginally protected from the wind by the road embankment. We were 50-odd metres from the road, and it seemed all drivers honked and waved as they passed.

Windy at night, windy in the morning. After such an early night and an earlier start than ever before, we headed out with the end of this seemingly limitless stretch of Patagonia in sight. During the day we crossed into Chile for the first time, then shortly afterwards got onto our first longer stretches of dirt road, or ripio as it's called hereabouts.

The border crossing was quite uneventful, but took about two hours in total. They confiscated our pumpkin, which would otherwise have made us a nice dhal, and this we seem to have taken as a sign to eat 'paty' and mash at the ferry terminal. Mmmm, frozen hamburger patty. Fair enough to confiscate the pumpkin though - an import like that could no doubt do untold damage to the Tierra del Fuego pumpkin crop.

Onto the famous ''Land of Fires'' by a few dozen miles, we camped up at a place called Cerro Sombrero, as uninspiring as its name (Hat Hill in English). A comfortable night in recently-installed portable changerooms on the football field - try as we might we could not avoid scaring off the kids that came down to play futbol.

On Tierra del Fuego, on to the end of the world. Back across the Chilean - Argentine border, the formalities are easy but a pool of oil beneath the bike tells us the rear shock absorber has not enjoyed the first decent ride on dirt. See how it goes without oil, then - there's not much chance of a roadside repair - and in the first twently km or so there appears to be little effect on the way the bike rides. Em buys chocolates at the border and then we eat enough of it to get sugar-grumpy. Hmmmph. Pizza at Rio Grande, then on, on down the road.

Signs and bumper stickers claiming that ''The Falklands are Argentine'' are all over the place - seem to me like preaching to the converted, and the signs emphasise the heavy military presence in the town. Skies are appropriately grey as we refuel and head out of Rio Grande for the last stint to Ushuaia. There's drizzle as there has been all day but this is a welcome change from the wind. There also seems to be more chance that the drizzle clearing than of the wind abating.

Tierra del Fuego changes vastly in the last 100km before Ushuaia. Gone are the flat, green-tinged ''pampas'', and the steep little hills of river pebbles too. These are replaced by the Cordillera Martial, jagged, dark and snowcapped, its ridges fall to forested slopes separating valleys rounded by glaciers, many of these filled by crystalline lakes. The Andes in miniature, as we are to discover later. The brooding sky showed hints of blue as the drizzle cleared. And the newish asphalt road snakes its way through these peaks, over Paso Garibaldi and southwards.

''Sinuosa'' is how the warning signs describe the road, warning against incautious antics. Here and there, patches of missing tar leave the underlying river pebbles strewn over the surface to underline the warnings. USHUAIA The sign at the Ushuaia city limit bids ''Welcome to the Southernmost City in the World''. The view over the town, the Beagle Channel and the Chilean islands beyond is a more spectacular greeting. The police stay in their little cabin, disinterested. It's tourist season, after all, and plenty of motorcyclists, drivers and motorhomers make the trek down here in the summer.

We are greeted by motorcyclists as we roll up at the Rio Pipo campground, and have a quick chat before setting up camp in the forest on the riverbank. Our first paid camping in months, and it looks great. We celebrated with a bottle of local cerveza.

Later we join Margaret, Mick, Ted, Tobias, Uschi and Arthur (just think of the King...) for a yarn by the fire - the sort of easy yarn that comes up between those who start from a point of understanding, often shared by those who choose two wheels. It's pretty easy to lose a couple of days at the end of the world, and camping at Rio Pipo helped that along. Hot showers, a well appointed kitchen, pot belly stoves and a huge parilla (BBQ) indoors. Beer and wine are cheap and good, and with good company and late sunsets it's easy to yarn until all hours, then sleep all morning.

On our way to the end of the world

2008-01-17T09:57:00.000-08:00

We saw in new year 2008 just shortly after sunset, camped up just the two of us on the cliffs of the Peninsula Valdez. The first morning of the year we spent naked, paddling around in the rockpools, stuffing our faces with grapes to celebrate the new year, then languidly striking camp.

Later we watched sealions cavorting in their way on rocks below the cliffs, mating in a way that seemed so human as to have us averting our eyes!

Back on the road after spending most of the day just hanging around, we stopped first in Puerto Madryn for gelati then in Trelew for toasted sandwiches, thus sampling two of the major items on the typical Argentine menu as we went. The sandwiches became dinner as we realised it was eight in the evening while we ate them, then we got back on the road in what seemed the early afternoon. We covered another couple of hundred km of beautiful though featureless plains after supper, then started looking for a good place to pitch a tent in this windswept corner of the world.

A disused gravel pit served the purpose well, offering shelter from the wind and a smooth surface where once a tank or machinery would have been. With broad, cloudless skies above, we felt no need to pitch the tent and instead spent a restful night under the southern stars. After a long morning and then more than 600km on the road, we slept like the dead.

We're very impressed with this vast southern land and its friendly people. On the last day of the year we camped on the northern bank of Rio Colorado on a nice mown block with running water and Eucalypts on tap. With Patagonia starting on the other side of the river, it seemed quite apt that we should camp in a place that felt so familiar to us.

It's a long way to Tierra del Fuego, so it's good to take big bites at the distance.

We aimed for breakfast in Comodoro Rivadavia, about 150km or so, but somehow managed to get there in the early afternoon. We tried for a hot shower at a caravan park, but were naked as well as bummed out when we realised that the promised 'hot' was missing from the water. We ended up showering at the truckstop in town, and that was a pearler after the earlier disappointment and with a few days' grime.

We had read of an oilspill in the south of Argentina while we waited the final few minutes before getting the bike out of customs in Buenos Aires, and after asking around we found out it was just a few miles north of Comodoro. Volunteers were still needed to help rescuing, feeding and caring for affected birdlife, so we headed for Caleta Cordova, the site of the spill, and walked into the headquarters of the rescue operation.

They gave us protective clothing, including goggles to protect against the beaks of stressed birds, and we were into it. First we paired gloves, then up the chain a bit to feed and hydrate the birds, this latter by means of syringe and tube down their throats.

This involved quite a degree of handling the birds (which included cormorants, magellanic penguins, ducks and other species). There were a couple of dozen volunteers and the whole show was very well organised by a group called SOS Maritimo. On our second day as volunteers we also went out to the beaches to catch oil-stained penguins, coming back with two individuals after walking several kilometres on huge, wide beaches in a howling north wind.

We asked around for a place to pitch our tent and Marcelo, the boss bloke, directed us to a house where such was on offer. La Franja de Cesar - translatable as Cesar's Strip, just like Gaza, as Cesar himself pointed out. This experience is probably worth another blog entry in itself, as rather a lot happens when Cesar is around, especially on his own turf.

A bit of a nutter, a passionate and good-hearted man and a fisherman whose livelihood had just been destroyed by the oilspill (this beach is his front yard), he had some stories to tell.

He also had plenty of paper clippings to show, telling the saga of his battle with the authorities and the oil company, this brought about by his habit of documenting smaller spills and reporting them to the Prefectura, or Coast Guard. Seems he'd been jailed for several months for his insistence.

From Cesar's tale, and from the unfolding of events after this latest and largest oilspill, it seems rather clear that whomever pays the larger bribe calls the shots. We have heard quite a lot about this aspect of life in Argentina, and of course corruption knows no international boundaries. Oil companies have plenty of dough, too.

Back to the oilspill, and due to a change of wind from on- to offshore, the stain has moved from the ten-odd kilometres of coast it killed, out to sea. It now occupies an area of about 8x16 km. According to Cesar and other sources, there was a window of opportunity of about 24-hours in which barriers to prevent the spill from going out to sea in the event of a change could have been deployed. This action, though accounted for in the contingency plans of both the Prefectura and the oil company, was not implemented. Now that the spill is out in open seas, it will possibly be sunk with sand. Out of sight, out of mind.

Hola España

2008-01-15T09:38:00.000-08:00

Before we get too far into our Patagonia adventures, I will write of our visit to our final (but by no means least-memorable) European destination - northern Spain.

Because we had stretched our visit in the rest of Europe, by the time we got there it was chilly mid-November, and we were certainly glad for our new Swiss outdoor-gear.

After a glorious ride through the winding coastal roads of Catalonia and lunch in the deserted beach town of Tossa, we made our way into Barcelona. What a charming city! Full of cobblestones, colour, interesting-looking people and Gaudi touches everywhere.

A serendipidous meeting with a friend who treated us to a home-style Italian meal above the central market and inspired us with stories of her recent travels to South America, an evening visit to the Gaudi park (where we felt very welcome)

and (after a quick tyre-pressure check - see my spunky boyfriend below), we were on our way north again.

At times riding can be cold, it can be wet, and frankly, it can be damn uncomfortable. However, it can also be absolutely thrilling, and this was definately how I'd describe our ride through the Pyrenees Mountains. The road wound around dry, high rocky mountains jutting above the bare plains.

The wind whipped around us, and we stopped for lunch and to warm our limbs in smoky tapas bars in stone villages that looked as if they'd grown out of the rock.

Our final nights camping were our chilliest yet. One morning (pictured) we woke to the task of scraping ice from INSIDE the tent! The locals later told us it has been minus 7 degrees!

So much fun to be out there doing it though. Here we had to walk to the bottom of the gorge and across thick mud plains to to filter our drinking water from the river that hadn't flowed properly since it had been dammed downstream (in one of those wise decisions made on behalf of modern industry).

The Pyrenees gave way to the fertile hills of the Basque country

and those to the surrounding villages of the port-town, Bilbao. While I played tourist

Andy spent his days negotiating the bureaucracy of shipping our bike, in his fifth language ('jaula' is the Spanish word for crate if anyone is trying the same), and doing a brilliant job of it.

After three days, the bike was crated, the papers were finalised, and Andy had created such a relationship with the (rather glamourous) agent that she was prepared to take the bike in their container dependent on customs clearance the next morning!

Phew, the bike was gone, and all that was left to do was to get ourselves to Madrid to catch our last-minute booked flight to Buenos Aires.

Ahh Madrid. Another city of colour, cobblestone streets, groovy eateries and (Swiss outdoor gear aside) the most interesting clothes shops I had seen yet (I'm not sure Andy was of the same mind).

Not to mention hospitality. Patrick and Orlando showed us their Madrid: their neighbourhood, their soon-to-be-opened resturant (http://www.ilevn.com/)

their cats (who we had an interesting effect on, Sole couldn't get enough of Andy, and Tom took to darting about when I came into the room, and peering at me from under the fishtank ... rather neurotic) and took us on what was to be our last excursion to a historical European town - Toledo.

A visit to one more outlandishly decorated Catholic church, and my thoughts on the imagary of Christianity were cemented. What a strange set of images to base a religion on - a skinny man in rags bleeding from his limbs, a woman with a constant tear on her cheek, and a bunch of fat babies with wings.

One last photo (proving that other tourists aren't as good at taking them as we are - that is the bear and the tree, the symbol of Madrid, behind us)

and before we knew it we were about to leave, and Patrick was marvelling at out apparent lack of organisation. It's easy to appear that way when travelling to another continent involves nothing more than handwashing one set of underwear, transferring photos from card to disk and packing our shoulderbags!

So after a final wave and a tear at the airport, we took each other by the hand and went to see what we could get to eat for our last 5 euros (which wasn't much, of course).

Patagonia!

2008-01-05T07:13:00.000-08:00

Wow, here we are. This place is vast and beautiful. We are nearly at the end of the world, about to cross into Chile and onto Tierra del Fuego. Too much to tell! It's been a long haul down here, and we have had a blast. A few cut-and-pastes from emails written in the last half hour will give an idea, but we will tell more later too...

... Now far down in Patagonia and battling strong, strong winds on the bike. Crosswinds of course. Like, wind all day long blowing as hard as i have ever seen i reckon but at least it is consistent and does not gust much. Taking time out of wind in internet cafe in Rio Gallegos at the moment, about to cross into Chile for the first time...

... pretty mad, we've just ridden 3000 ks to get here ... at times in wind like you wouldn't believe. Andy is a legend at the wheel, so we are here safe. we have seen some mad wildlife - sealions, huge birds of prey, things that look like llamas everywhere, and also (strangely) birds i swear are emus. The land is endless flat plains, rather like australia.

... happy new year. we awoke to 2008 on peninsula valdéz ...

... our NY was quiet, right by ourselves, camping on the edge of the world. We rode down sanddunes (Andy really is magic with that bike) to our lone campsite - windswept coastline and azure sea - at about 11pm, just in time for sunset. Dinner for 12, amongst fireworks from the nearest campgrounds, then flopped into bed. We woke to no wind (mercifully) and explored the rockpools and coastlines of the southern atlantic.

... we hung with sealions and in the next days went volunteering to help care for penguins and other birds affected by an oil spill near windswept place called Comodoro Rivadavia.

... just when i was thinking ''there can't be too many cities with eight-syllable names,'' we came to Comandante Luis Piedra Buena...

... Pretty sad, there were about 500 birds, mostly penguins. I saw one having it's stomach pumped of oil. They had oil all over their bodies, and were too sick to eat or drink. One of our jobs was to give water to Macaes, a bit smaller than cormorants, with long necks and beaks. I held them while Andy fed a tube down their throats to feed them a syringe of water. The spill has affected about 10 km of coast, totally wiping out the beautiful littoral life - shells, crabs, rocks, seaweed, pippis, mussels etc all dead and choked with oil.

... Patagonia beautiful, in some ways reminds of central aust as no trees and quite flat. No roos but plenty of guanacos, also red and look a bit similar from a distance. More road sense, to judge from lack of road kill ...

... We have mainly been camping again, and it's great to be back in the tent after so long in Buenos Aires. just the feeling of freedom this gives is brilliant. also stayed with some people while we did the volunteer thing - another eye-opener as regards ways of life ...

... we are now on our way to Ushuaia, at the bottom of the continent. So close to Antarctica I'm going to sneeze and see if it lands there!

E&A

Geneva to Barcelona

2007-12-27T13:42:00.000-08:00

Those who would rather follow our blog in a more-or-less chronological fashion will be used to episodes of slight asynchronicity. Here's another. I'm writing this from Buenos Aires, so our blast through France and across the top of Spain is a set of memories. Good ones though, mainly about miles on a motorcycle, and some good camp spots.

This was a ride. It's probably about 1500km from Geneva to Bilbao, but without a specific time limit we certainly didn't go the short way. That said, we did want to get down from the mountains and out of the cold. it was snowing in the lower parts of Switzerland while we were there, and as we set out to cross the alps, the mediterranean coast beckoned forcefully.

The certitude of rising temperatures as we descended helped to warm all but the bodily extremities as we went up the mountains and into the cold... we´d had a dose of alpine scenery and roads while in Switzerland - as we crossed the gotthard pass and from the top of the rigi, but we really did want to get up close to the big hills. Em was still nursing the idea of a day on skis too, so we decided to head directly south, crossing the alps near Martigny before getting a bed at Chamonix. As you see, there was no question of camping in the tent. It was our first time in a youth hostel for a long time, and was without particular interest or incident. we checked out a glacier museum before checking in, and that whet our appetites for the real thing - glaciers - before continuing our ride the next day.

It turned out we were a couple of weeks early for the ski season, bummer enough, but that we were there on the one day a year when the gondola to the Aiguille du Midi was closed for maintenance. A shame, but one less distraction to keep us from heading south. Andy, trina, tim and oli, molly and chris, hope you're carving as we speak ... anyhow we headed downhill, through endless curves, and down from winter to autumn once again. Sweet, stolen apples were delicious and memorable, as were the views, the rest stops and the shared trust over hundreds of miles of backroads.

Donations

2007-12-27T10:04:00.000-08:00

A few days before Christmas we volunteered our time at a Christmas Party for underprivileged kids from the shanty towns of Buenos Aires. About 2000 of them turned up, and they had a blast. Nice one. Presents, games, food, Santa, giveaways - how could you go wrong? It was undeniably a good thing, mobs of fun for the kids and an opportunity to do something worthwhile as we travel. We were two of fifty-odd volunteers on the day.

We got onto it through the school where Em is studying Spanish - I'd tried to organise some volunteering myself too but ran into a bit of a wall. We are also in the process of sniffing out volunteering opportunities further along our projected path of travel - will keep you updated. We really feel a responsibility to use our presence here to worthwhile ends, and want to broaden the scope of our travels. But not only that - travels, thought, experiences and observation all keep pointing out to us the uneven playing field that we live on and contribute to. The western world has become rich - and continues to become richer - by taking advantage of what was the new world. Here we are, undeniably rich westerners despite our tight budget, banging around the world on a motorcycle because we can. And doing it relatively cheap because of the very inequality we see around us.

What has this to do with volunteering at a Christmas party for kids? There's a little connection. While Em was keeping the mob away from their cache of soon-to-be-given presents, I was making decorations for the shoe-giveaway area. A well-dressed man showed up there - an employee of the shoe company which had donated the 2000-odd pairs of cheap shoes. He came with a little film crew, and unabashedly explained to those volunteers who showed interest that these shoes were produced in Argentina and sold in the US for $US38 a pair. I'd have been interested to know how much they cost to produce, but given the poor quality of the shoes and the availability of cheap labour in Argentina, it would not be much.

Sorry if this makes me the eternal conspiracy theorist, but I can see the promos now - shop walls plastered with photos depicting generosity, maybe a video running and definitely a tag on the shoes explaining that "a percentage" of company profits are destined to support charitable organisations in Latin America. It's easy for companies to pull stunts like this, and they are easy to fall for. After all, nearly all of us buy whatever appeals to us without regard for where or how it's made, or what resources are consumed in the process. And few dedicate the time to ask themselves, retailers or corporations the hard questions about sweatshop labour, let alone the other myriad complications our consumption hurls at the world.

I just googled sweatshops and came up with this: http://www.sweatshopwatch.org/ .

MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM ARGENTINA!!!!!!!

2007-12-22T21:40:00.001-08:00

It's quite strange being on the other side of the world when we would usually be with our wonderful families and friends. We have booked ourselves into a little retreat on an island somewhere up the Parana river delta (so can't complain!), but we will be thinking of you and missing you!

The positive side of being here at this time of year is that the Argentinians don't go in for the Christmas build-up, and pre Chrissy here has been quite hype-free. There's refreshingly few chrissy ads, and almost no santas, decorations or out-of-tune carol singers. Yesterday (three days before Chrismas) was the first time we noticed any extra shoppers, and we haven't even seen road rage. Apparently Christmas here is about spending time over a good meal with loved ones. Nice.

As we eat our Chrissy-eve midnight feast (as per Argentinian custom), we will be thinking of our dear loved ones. We hope you have a wonderful day, and would love to be there to give you all big hugs!!!

Much love to all
E&A xx

PS This is Iguazu Falls, on the Argentinian/Brazilian border. Awesome.

back up in Switzerland...

2007-12-14T08:56:00.000-08:00

Up on the Rigi.

The Swiss, of course, are very punctual. We can't say the same for ourselves though. We crossed the Alps anything up to about two months late, going by the ideas we had as we left Australia. Biggi, Snups and Liz had been getting emails from us promising imminent arrival for at least two months - god knows, we had thought we might get to a music festival in Switzerland while the summer lasted! As it was, we finally crossed the Gotthard Pass long after the first snow had fallen. It was a bit cool, but bright and dry.First stop north of the Alps was Biggi's place in Zurich. Man, writing this I realise it just never stopped - reunions with old friends, easy times, and the opportunity to meet each others' important ones. It doesn't really matter what we did - autumn walks by the lake, chilly evening of city sightseeing, Tee im Teehuesli, a missed then caught appointment in Luzern, a day's hike in the hills of Zurich, dinner with family, shopping, baking, long breakfasts, travel advice. It was brilliant, warm. Here we are with the Zopf (the amazing looking bread) that Biggi taught Andy to make.

Leaving Biggi's place - too soon, though not quite early enough in the day - we did another of those things you do in Switzerland, catching very steep little train up to the top of the Rigi. One of the littler hills in the country, the Rigi offers some pretty flash views. Speak for themselves, really:

We were so excited getting these shots that we didn't realise this was the last train down the mountain! Once again, we were to be late for our dinner date (luckily Snups is about the most laid-back person in German-speaking Switzerland). We set out for the bike (8 kilometres and 1000 metres below) as it began to get dark - down the train lines at first, but then thankfully hitched a ride half way with a lady who gave a very full explanation of the Swiss higland grazing industry. Right from grass to chocolate.

Snups is a friend of Andy's from years ago too. Snups does what he loves - he makes music for kids! The kids love it too, of course, know all the words and sing along. We tried to keep up as well, at least for the chorus. Thankfully Snups signed our CD later, so we didn't have to queue for an hour.So, concerts, a party with friends, meals with family, conversation, a long night in a bar, brotherhood, a little reunion with other friends, more walks in our new home town. Good god, how many home towns have we got?!

Making sure we left late, Snups waved us off through the snow flurries. Departures can be hard. And of course it was further to Geneva than I had remembered, so we were late again. Em and I were very close during the ride, again, and not only because it was bloody cold.

Liz is a mate of Em's from years back, and now lives on the banks of Lake Geneva with her two little charmers and Yann, her man. We had a lovely weekend with them, exploring their (very lovely) part of French-speaking Switzerland, including a trip over to France for coffee and pastries at a village market on Sunday morning.

Tbest thing about it, though (as with Biggi and Snups) was spending time with such old mates, and getting to know new ones (in this case, Joachim and Adele).

It was with heavy hearts that we packed our bike again and headed across the mountains to Spain (however, the thrill of that trip soon had us smiling again! ...)

Argentina / Australia

2007-12-13T06:43:00.000-08:00

Here I go adding my ideas to what Em said below - just over a week's worth of first impressions.
Argentina looks a bit like Australia on first glance, and from certain points of view. The faces in the street show a grand mixture of diverse heritage - this looks like a country of immigrants. On the other hand, there's little variety in the architecture, and almost all streets cross at right angles, a hallmark of cities that were installed in the landscape rather than growing more or less organically. There's a privatised metro system that doesn't really work, and that hasn't been improved for decades.

The cuisine here seemingly owes far more to convenience than to tradition. The guide book we are using bangs on about Argentine cuisine, but it was written by a local. Lots of meat is in evidence, displayed, advertised, touted or spoken of, and otherwise there are lots of flour-based meals. Outside Buenos Aires there are loads of sheep and cattle stations - introduced and probably inappropriate beasts wandering all over the countryside to graze and compete with native species; ditto for crops. More memories of our wide, brown land. Meanwhile, back in Bs. As., we're getting stuck into home-made salads!

Argentina is a big country, well situated across a broad range of latitudes. It has grand rivers that rise high in the Andes and in the tropical rainforests, extensive plains, rainforest, mountains and a very long coastline. There are plenty of resources here. The population is about forty million, of which we are told fifteen million live in poverty. I mean, not the sort of poor we know in Australia, unless in Aboriginal Australia. Why should a land so rich in resources not be able to feed its people? The same question could be asked for the planet we live on, and the profit motive figures large in the answer from both historical and current perspectives.

As Em has said on this blog, financial hardship is very visible in Buenos Aires. In the evenings, in the streets of the city, many people sort through garbage for recyclables. Some target paper, working in teams to extract if from bins and bags, sort, bale and transport it away on hand carts and spluttering 1960's trucks. Others go for metals, targeting building site refuse; still others collect plastic bottles or glass. On the trains, streets and in the parks, people busk, beg or sell stuff, often trinkets.

The spontaneous appearance of musicians, comedians, magicians and others on the metro make a trip quite colourful, though those asking for pity can be very confronting. There are also plenty of markets around the city, with many citizens choosing not to participate in the mainstream economy. That would not be surprising - as recently as 2001 the Argentine Peso crashed, leaving even the middle classes in dire trouble. My new mate in Bs. As., Oskar, tells us they passed a law in about 1999 that specified that, when a person deposits money in a bank, the bank has to give the money back. Like, you have to be allowed to withdraw your own money from the bank. What a quaint idea.

So Buenos Aires bustles with life, with the energy of people whose living depends on grabbing attention, entertaining a crowd, or making a sale. This is very different from the energy of people who are just trying to pay off a car, a mortgage, a mobile phone or some other accessory. Besides anything else, it's a latin society in a warm climate, but it also seems to me more raw, more honest - and it reminds me rather a lot of Bangkok.

From 1976 to 1983, the Argenine populace suffered what is called the 'dirty war', or guerra sucia. About 30,000 people, mostly young, disappeared during this period, kidnapped and murdered by the Argentine state in acts recognised as genocide. At the end of this period, many of us will recall that Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands - a political stunt, it seems, aimed at whipping up support for the regime. The manouevre backfired when Britain, led by Margaret Thatcher who was herself in trouble in the polls, fought back.

Little wonder there is almost no confidence in the government. Numerous times we have heard words to the effect of "they just don't care about the people", "it's all just a circuit (of funds), and we don't get anything". The word "pigsty", or "porquería" is most frequently to describe the activities of the political class. Political scandals here can be pretty hot, it seems. Hot enough for presidents - even several new ones in the space of a week - have to leave parliament house in helicopters. Though this hasn't happened for fifteen years or so, that's recent enough to live in the public memory.

This week another new president was sworn in. Argentina's first woman pres, congratulations. But hang on, doesn't she have the same name as the last president? That's right, he's her husband! I can't claim to know much about her politics, but it seems clear that Argentines aren't too convinced that family ties are a good qualification for the presidency. People speak of her as the least worst option - 45% of the vote only means that, 45% of the vote, and it's not that dear to buy. Then again, there's the example of George and George W. Not only are they father and son, but they are also multi-billionaires with oil in their viens. Surely these are appropriate qualifications for leading the "free world", aren't they?

Anyway, back to Argentina. Our thus far limited peek speaks of squandered opportunities, which I guess, the citizenry was unable or unwilling to prevent. The Spanish colonisers considered indigenous south american peoples unworthy of existence, and walked all over their country in the name of profit. The gold, silver, wool and other riches were promptly sent back to the mother country to be wasted on opulence, war and such. This story will possible ring a bell for our Australian readers.

Today the place is full of foreign companies, with banks especially prominent, who continue to drain the place of its resources. This whole continent has a fiery history of colonisation, slavery, immigration and unrest; nearly all these countries have endured dictatorship, some of it recent, and American interference in their politics. Then again, who hasn't? I look forward to getting some insight into the other countries of this continent, and knowing more of Argentina.

I think we Australians are far milder than the Argentines, which I guess relates to the Anglo weighting of our heritage. But if we look a little behind the stories, I suspect we'll find we put up with some pretty serious porquerías as well.

At home in Buenos Aires

2007-12-10T17:54:00.000-08:00

Good for Andy, updating our blog with our adventures from Europe. At the moment, my head is full of this language (I wake up to random Spanish words floating round my mind) and what is going on around here, but I look forward to doing the same! Until then, a couple of thoughts from this city ...

At dawn this morning there was a huge wind in our suburb. We are on the second story of a block of flats (in a hostel) with an open veranda outside our room. It's a bit of a low-rent area, and the structures all have temporary add-ons. The wind ripped part of the roof off our veranda, and as it was flapping and banging, parts of other buildings were shaking and vibrating amongst the rubbish that had been picked up from the streets. As a lot of people live in the streets here, I thought about how many of them would have woken up with their belongings blowing around them. It made me realise how much even small weather incidents like that one have so much more of an effect on people who live in less permanent homes than we do.

However, it seems as if many people here aren't fazed by the erratic weather and its possible effects. It´s almost as if some people are bolstering themselves up as if they are living in endless wealth, when clearly there isn't that much to go around. There are so many people going through rubbish to collect paper to sell to recycling plants, and on Friday nights they put it all in big trucks, and you can see people riding high through the streets on top of great piles in the back. It's like the crowning glory of their week! Also, many people come through the trains trying to sell things (like message cards or bracelets) by putting one on everyone's lap and then coming back and picking them up again, hoping someone will pay instead of giving them back. The other people are nice (or at least tolerant), holding onto the thing until the person comes back, and then usually giving it back with a smile. I've only seen two people buy anything in this way.

As for me and Spanish, I think I am experiencing one of the common hurdles to learning a language. It's very isolating being in a country where you don't speak the language, and branching out of the safety of your own language makes it even harder! Suddenly I am far and away the clumsiest speaker in the room, and sometimes, even when I do try, people still don't understand me.Anyway, I understand confidence is the key, and one way to that is knowledge ... so I guess I'd better get back to my books. Oh for the day that I am fluent!

hasta luego mis amigos,
Em

Pegaso Arabians - Autogrill

2007-12-06T08:16:00.000-08:00

I worked on a horse stud in Tuscany for a number of months in '94. A great experience, it taught me a lot about horses and plenty of words in Italian that really can't be used in the street! Filippo was the original tough guy horseman, king of his domain and as strong, short and fiery as a Sicilian men are thought to be. He is still there, still passionate about his arabs, again disappointed that we were not able to stay a night. It was good to see him again, and to give Em another glimpse into formative part of my history. We had a cup of tea with him and rode a few laps of the menage, but we were heading north and had to go.
The road from Florence to Bologna is a mountain road, crossing the Futa Pass, or passo della Futa. During my time with Filippo, as a blackmarket labourer toiling (or relaxing) in the spring sunshine, I had watched the weekend day trippers zap past on their way up the pass, and wanted to do it myself.

It made for one of the more atmospheric motorcycling experiences we've had. I won't bang on too much as it's likely most of the people reading this have limited interest in motorcycling. But these were 87 kilometres of concentration, and a little adventure all to themselves. With new tyres on the bike and the moist evening closing in, we had to make a mile.

Motorcyclists love mountain roads for their curves. Some prefer tight curves and steep climbs, others smooth, wide bends - the best roads combine the two, usually with the wide ones at the bottom of hills, getting tighter as you approach the summit. A smooth surface is fun, though our bike is not troubled by scrappy ones either. This evening we had to get somewhere. We don´t travel excessively fast - haste on a motorbike is silly, and we ride with a wide margin for error, ours or others'. Chi va piano, va lontano, as the Italians say. (Those who take it easy go far).

On a bike you travel in the environment, not just through it. If it rains you get wet, if it´s cold you feel it, if there are blooms or wet autumn leaves around you smell them as well as feeling them under the tyres. And of course you celebrate the sunshine, possibly more than in any other mode of travel. Somehow the enjoyment is all the more intense now that the bike is our home, stacked up with everything we've got.

So on the Futa pass, chased by grumpy skies and shoved by hefty winds, we climbed into the clouds and into the dusk. We didn't have to share the road with anyone but the elements, and we jostled with them for space. There might be two peaks on this road, maybe more - for me it felt like a continuum of curves, one running into the next and all requiring mental effort. As the dusk closed in, so did the fog - we picked our way through in heavy weather, sometimes travelling at less than 20km/h. Generally though the fog allowed us to see about as far as the next curve, so rather than inhibiting the fun, it added to the atmosphere. Here and there floodlit castles and towers pierced the gloom, the odd guesthouse beckoned from the roadside.

Communication between us at times like this is by snatched phrases, by squeezes and by care.

Villages appeared and disappeared, more frequently as we neared Bologna and descended out of the mist into clear night. Getting closer to town, and with a little more traffic slowing us down, essence of pizza wafted ever more frequently into our helmets - this is Italy, after all!

We tucked into pizza in Bologna - why resist, given the appetising aromas, and particularly on our last night in Italy? - and headed out onto the highway to keep going north. Long, straight, arterial roads are a bore, but I just replayed the Futa Pass in my head while Em cuddled me and we cruised at truck speed in the slow lane. Somewhere south of Milan we stopped for the night. It was late and cold, and while it´s not one of our favourite camp spots it did the trick. Caffé latte wasn't far away in the morning, either!

Thankful for the public holiday, we skirted around Milan in light traffic, having another coffee in Como before heading into Switzerland.

a while ago in Florence

2007-12-05T06:10:00.000-08:00

When we arrived in Florence after our jaunt through Tuscany, navigation was by memory. I was there and around for a few months in early 1994, and thought it would be easy enough to find the friends I had met then.

We were hot and sticky after a few days camping in the best of Tuscany's abandoned villas, so it was good to find the mercato centrale with a minimum of fuss and only one shortish conversation with a helpful old man. Sneaking around the inner city, we found a bit of space to park. I thought we would go into the market and ask around for Adriano and Beatrice, sellers of panini al lampredotto (bread rolls filled with Florentine meat specialties).

We´d just got our helmets off when a bloke on an old blue Vespa rocked up - some vague level of recollection rose in me. I watched as he walked across the road to a little door and sorted his keys, then turned his head... it was Adriano! Adriano?! Disbelief on both sides of the road. Andrea?! Ma no!! Invece sí!

So that´s how we met up, without making any prior arrangements. We couldn´t have anyhow, I hadn't had their number for years and they had moved twice. I was stoked - we'd bumped into the first friends I ever met in europe, genuine, down-to-earth people that Emily had already heard stories of. I mean, impossible; right there in the street, without chasing or asking or really looking at all, we had got ourselves to their storeroom just as Adriano was arriving too.

Things moved pretty quickly from there. We went straight to the stand - well, maybe after a little aperitif - to see Beatrice. I guess we were all pretty stunned! I mean, where have you been, we thought you´d come back, we went to australia but couldn´t find you. What? Obviously you want a panino..? (Em took a second to get used to the filling...)
Then they laid out the plan: we´ll take you home, you can shower, we are going up to the mountains tonight, you´ll come, right? Sí, sí, how could we not? Such a pleasure to be greeted - again - by long lost friends.

So there we went, first to their place where once again we were given the keys to the city, the run of the house, all that proper hospitality. Adriano went back to work, and left us with the dogs who were also happy to have guests. We parked the bike in the backyard, unpacked and, as instructed, made ourselves at home.

Castagno di Sant' Andrea is in the mountains about an hour out of Florence. At the top of the village is Adriano & Beatrice's place. The track leading up the mountain from there leads into the castagni - the chestnut forest. It´s autumn, the middle of the chestnut season. Adriano, as his father was, is a man about town up there, just as Beatrice is a feature of market life in Florence.

The weekend was about hanging out with friends, and about chestnuts. Life in Castagno (note that the name of the place is the name of the trees) is lived at a slower pace. It´s tied to the collection of the nuts, their processing, the products that are made from them: flour, bread, sweets, liqueurs, and of course the nuts themselves. Em and Beatrice collected nuts most of the day, and there´s more to that than meets the eye, especially given that they are a commercial crop. Adriano and i collected a few here and there, but most of the time was spent discussing the technicalities of maintaining a productive forest - there's also more to that than you'd think. Here and there we all took various refreshments in the little cabin. More friends came up for lunch, and we took in the peace of the place.

Making a living from the land over the long term requires respect for and knowledge of the place and its nature. People look after the forest in Castagno, and the forest provides for them, too.

In the afternoon we went to the festival of the castagni, of course, given that it was on. More genuine, unhurried people, speaking the heavy dialect that confirms they are of the place - groovy down to earth people of all generations, in Em's words. And chestnuts, chestnuts, chestnut cakes, beer, chestnut talk, chestnut deals.

Then back to Florence, city of art, architecture, markets, home of friends. Beatrice, expert in the kitchen, taught Emily to make gnocchi and threw in another language lesson. We hung out more with Adriano and Beatrice, despite how hard they work. In the markets, at home, walking the huskies, once again we were immersed in the lives of our hosts.

They´re married now - they weren't when I met them - and had been to Australia for their honeymoon. Adriano still had my parents' number in his phone, and had tried to get people to call for him. In the meantime though, there had been a change to the phone system and this got in the way. And, had we come to Florence at any time in eight of the previous ten years, we would not have found them either. But as luck would have it...

Anyhow as you see, Em and Beatrice got on like a house on fire. Here they are making gnocchi.

Before we left Florence, Em appreciated the Uffizi Galleries while I got some new tyres on our bike. I was almost as impressed with the Pirellis as Em was with the Botticellis! Once again, we could have stayed longer, but we had to head north.

If you´re ever in Florence, look for these two! Mercato centrale, panini di lampredotto...

oh, and this bloke. He's a mate of David's.

Hola Argentina!

2007-12-04T18:14:00.000-08:00

Well, we've made it safely to Argentina and are happily settled in our home for the next couple of weeks, the bustling Buenos Aires. I´ve enrolled in a Spanish school, and Andy is organising to do some volunteer work with disadvantaged people.

Some great things have happened since we arrived. Firstly, after struggling through a teach-yourself Spanish book through Europe, the other night, I became truly motivated to learn the language. On Sunday evening, after drinking beer on the grass at the sunny Recoleta markets (think Bangalow with a Latin American soundtrack), we headed to San Telmo for a change of scene.

What a blast! The cobblestone street had been closed to cars by a bunch of buskers playing the fattest latin tunes blasted out on string, brass and percussion. This time think a mix of Newtown/Brunswick and Woodford, within a circle of clapping, salsa-ing city kids. We were only too happy to be a part of it!

As the band packed up, we sat on the curb with a longneck and got talking with Diego, sitting next to us. He told us part of his story - how he was affected by the Argentine economic crisis of 2002.

'The sky from my world came completely down around me'.

For five whole days he (and many around him) had literally nothing to eat. Afterwards, there was no thought or prospect of going back to his old life, and so he took his hands and began making leather goods to sell at markets.

He also spoke of the internal revolution that he experienced. This is the sort of thing that cannot be easily translated (even by someone as practiced as Andy), and as I watched and listened, I realised just how valuable it would be to be able to speak this language, and to be able to properly understand people's stories.

I am glad to report I am now taking to my Spanish homework with vigour :)

Perhaps I am as yet imagining it, but the beat of this continent may be felt, even through the cobblestone and the concrete. It's with growing excitment that I am looking forward to the adventures ahead of us! :))

Tuscan safari

2007-12-03T08:22:00.000-08:00

We´re pretty used to delayed departures. I mean, we thought we'd be in Poland for about a week and instead ended up staying far longer, and then going back. Same story for Rome, where our stay blew out from four days to over a week. And then we only managed a five o'clock departure.

It's about a three-hour ride from Rome to Florence, taking it easy. So we took it easy, and turned it into a three-day camping safari. An hour out of Rome, still in Lazio, we found ourselves an olive grove. It was easy to get there - after getting off the highway, sourcing some tucker and wine, we just chose the smaller road at the next half-dozen or so intersections.

Setting up the tent was second priority after rolling up, so dinner was late and simple, but accompanied by good wine. With activities in the same order in the morning, breakfast took a while to happen too! Then while Andy faffed around reorganising the bike, then reorganising again, Emily took the sun in amongst the olives, took photos and appeared to study Spanish. Departure was definitely an afternoon thing...

On the recommendation of our Roman friends, we headed vaguely in the direction of Radicófani. Thankfully this was a distance of not more than 60km, as we managed to get there only in the late afternoon.

You know, coffee, photos, wine and food restock. Again following the little roads, but this time in consistent drizzle, we were looking to avoid setting up the tent. Having poked around in the morning looking at holiday home villas, finding comfortable lodgings was on our minds. You know, a Tuscan villa to call our own. We found one, albeit at the bottom of a steep, muddy and quite treacherous driveway.

You couldn't access the living room, given the condition of the stairs, but the stable was dry and inviting. While Em filtered drinking water from the horse trough up the hill (don't worry mums, all very sanitary!), I took my leatherman to the brambles to clear a path to the doorway so we could invite our steel horse in too. This is the joint, our Tuscan villa. You'll have to come over next time we're there!

Comfortable lodgings in the stable...

As said, our villa is located just below the mediaeval village of Radicófani. Here's the view from the house - we're sure it will be charming in spring and summer, but it was very atmospheric in the late autumn.
Despite the drizzly, humid night, we slept well and happy after another wholesome, simple dinner. After we checked out the castle in the morning, we continued in the direction of Florence. On the minor roads all the time, as is our style, curve after curve. We stopped at Buonconvento for lunch, then Siena for coffee. Then we slipped over a little pass into the Val di Chianti. Wine lovers will have heard of this place.

Tonight we splashed out on good wine. Chianti classico, can't remember which winery. Great wine, but we didn't drink it this evening. Try as we might, and despite the encouragement of the rain, we couldn't find a spot to quite match the olive groves or the villa. We did feel at home behind the little church with the Etruscan statues though.

Free as birds, but rather grubby, we again took our time to get to Florence.

Tourists in Venice

2007-12-01T15:17:00.000-08:00

A while ago we bolted away from our Polish friends´place, in order to get to Venice for a little rendezvous.

What fun - a couple of dinners, lunches and some canal-cruising, some time with another group of people who really seemed to have the travelling thing sorted...

A little feeling of home for a couple of days, a hug of my mum and a little tear on the station!

going where the weather suits our clothes...

2007-11-28T10:19:00.001-08:00

Nervous giggling, butterflies, last-minute organising, last suppers, we´ve got all that stuff today. All our gear is packed – what little we have with us – and we are ready to head to the airport to fly to Buenos Aires. Phew, this is going to be cool!

When we left Australia a few months ago with the intention of going “out for a spin”, we knew we would start in Asia, then head to Europe. There were a variety of possibilities after that – either across Asia to India, along the length of Africa, or maybe in a westerly direction, getting home via South America …

We were helped in our decision by world politics – you know, Pakistan, Sudan, The Congo – but certainly we chose South America as much as it chose us. We know little about the place, though we’re already learning quickly from friends in Switzerland and here in Spain. The continent is new territory for both of us, and we are ready to listen, accept and learn.

As when we last departed one continent for another - and the time before that - our plans are pretty open. Our itinerary: South, then North... we´ve got a compass, but we will also be under familiar skies.

Catch you soon,
a

Bye!

2007-11-28T08:58:00.000-08:00

It´s been a rich and amazing time in Europe - and all the more exciting as I didn't know what to expect before I came. It is with some heart-tug that I pack my bag to leave.

I am lucky to have made this trip with Andrew - we have been made welcome so in many places. It is a testimony to his beautiful character that so many wonderful people hold him dear in their hearts, and one of the best aspects of this journey for me has been having the opportunity to develop special friendships as well :)

We are determined to document this trip thoroughly, and have stories and photos of our last few weeks to share - from the Tuscan autumn to the full snow of the Swiss alps, and most recently, pre-winter Spain ... it's been unforgettable. However, I'm now resigned to recording it from Argentina.

In the mean time, here's a couple of our most recent photos ...

On a positive note, it's quite comforting to know that our home has become ´more compassinate and humanitarian´(as is broadcast here). Rudd's first commitments - apologising to Indigenous people, signing the Kyoto Protocol and bringing our troops out of Iraq sound like a great way to start a term! Lets hope he lives up to them, and continues in the same vein.

Well then, until South America

Adios!!

Em xxx

Oh, Rome!

2007-11-20T11:12:00.001-08:00

The eternal city.
The seat of an ancient culture to which ours owes a lot, still buzzing with a paticular vibe that could only be made in Italy.

Ruins underlie the city, to the point where construction of extra (and very necessary) metro lines has been stalled for years. Sure, that makes commuting a pain, but modern Romans don´t seem to take it too hard - it's just the way it is. This is a society that has put up with more than 50 governments since WWII, and rife corruption - they are used to such inconveniences. Motor scooters and small cars jostle their way through asphalt and cart-rutted cobblestone streets alike.

The ruins rise to the surface all over the place, providing a backdrop for the pretty, extravagant opulence of the renaissance, the blockish, efficient lines of cubism, and modern functionalism.

Human forms of beautiful proportion prouldy pose in squares and adorn buildings. Everything, it seems, is done with style.

(Note here the red paint in the Trevi Fountain. The next day, this action was on the front page of the paper - apparently a protest against a local film festival (?!))

All around, Italian life goes on, people buy bread, drink coffee, do deals, and talk, talk, talk ...

Our experience of Rome was so rich because we were welcomed into the homes of friends (old ones for Andy, new ones for Em) and their families. Barbara (pictured above and below) and Benedetta (below), besides being beautiful people, are excellent tour guides, and interpreted their city for us with real flair and passion - the Italian way.

We have so many beautiful memories of these few days.

Thoughts for the Burmese people

2007-11-11T13:57:00.001-08:00

Looking through our photos the other night, we found at least one that is already dated. See our entry on 28 July:

Today we also took a goat track up the steepest mountains imaginable through the jungle all the way, and made it to the myanmar border. we went through road block after road block, and the army men had bigger guns and bigger smiles the closer we got. ... by the time we were at the top, the sergeant sold us a chang beer, taught us 'good luck' in thai (chock dee na ka/krup) and after a companionable exchange, sent us back the way we came.

Here's the photo we were allowed to take, facing away from the border.

On 19 August, only 3 weeks later, Burmese monks and other citizens started their peaceful protests to challenge oppressive military rule, and, a month later, the government started their violent retaliation.

Once again, economics wins over human rights as the international community sits back watches on.

http://www.witness.org/ is reporting the number of people displaced by this latest bout of violence as 30,000 - adding to the hundreds of thousands already displaced. There is a link on this site to register support for the Burmese people with the UN Secretary General.

The Australian government needs to account for itself too - how dare it wage war on Iraq in the name of the protection of people and at the same time remain silent on this issue?

at home...

2007-11-09T02:14:00.000-08:00

So far, we`ve been made to feel at home in Vientiane, London, Cambridge, Antwerp, Brussels, Wroclaw, Rome, Florence, Zurich, and most recently, Olten.

Without being asked for anything, our friends old and new have shared more than we could have imagined. It's been a lesson in hospitality - and sometimes they didn't even know we were coming!

For old time's sake and out of friendship, people have made space in their homes, in their busy lives, at times even in their own beds (having, themselves, moved into the living room)! They've invited us into their cities, shared their friends and their pets, cooked for us and let us mess up their kitchens.

There've been great conversations, history and cooking lessons, meals, walks in the park/winderness/ruins, parties and plenty of laughter. It hasn`t stopped at the houses of our friends, either - the hospitality has often extended into the homes of our friends' parents, siblings, and grandparents!

To say thanks is easy, and here it is again - now we look forward to having visitors next time we have a place to call our own home.

Much care and many thanks again,
e & a

2007-11-02T15:57:00.000-07:00

Costiera Amalfitana

2007-11-02T15:41:00.000-07:00

Riding the Amalfi Coast - what a way to spend a morning!

Sicily

2007-11-02T10:25:00.000-07:00

Everywhere we go, we want to stay. Becuase of this, it was always touch-and-go whether we'd make it to Sicily, but when Andy heard the resident Sicilian volcano, Etna, was 'awake', he was decided. He was going to ride the boot-foot in a day to get there, and I was going with him.

The ride was nothing short of spectacular. The highway hugs the mountainous coastline, and as the twinkling lights of Sicily approcahed, we were on the mainland peninsula, riding a series of bridges and tunnels high above the ocean. We arrived on the island late and bedded down for the night.

We decided to take the road through the mountains to reach Etna the next day, which gave us a wonderful snapshot of Sicilian life. As we wound our way up off the plain, the apparant jungle of unplanned and unfinshed infrastructure (Mafia deals gone wrong?) gave way to hillside limewash and terracotta villages.

The locals were only too happy to chat with an Italian-speaking Australian, and Andy spent much of the day banging on with old (and very short) Sicilian men!

We learnt these villages were experiencing a common problem - the young people were moving out, leaving the old people to look after the village, and no-one to pass on the local customs and traditions to. Nevertheless, we dined on fantastic local fare in Frankavilla, where we ended up spending the rest of the afternoon, walking off the local vino, the strength of which took us totally by surprise!

A few more bends and a few more villages down the road, and it was sunset, and we still hadn't reached the mountain! We allowed the locals to talk us into staying in a B and B (something we haven't done since - we prefer the money in our pockets, and also the adventure of the open road).

We arrived on the mountain early, and she graced us by showing her steaming summit from behind the mist for long enough for us to take a deep breath and a photo.

There is something very powerful about this mountain. The villagers living on it's flanks tell us it it is a 'friendly' mountain - giving warning of eruptions, but usually just letting off steam. It erupts regularly, and the peak and flanks are covered in lava flows.

The peak is 3400 m (quite impressive, as it is only kilometres from the sea). At the end of the road, 1700 m, we declined a ride with the rest of the tourists in a 4wd bus to the first craters, a bit over 2000m above sea level. They were totally taking the piss with the price, at 44 euro each, but also with their smugness.

So, on no breakfast to speak of (breakfast in Italy typically consists of a bowl of caffé latte with biscotti floating in it - hardly mountaineering food) and armed with half a bottle of water, we decided to walk a bit of the way up. We made our own path, firstly up a half-buried t-bar track, you know, just to see what those lava flows are like up close...

Anyhow, several hours later, we were still walking up. We're a good team, so took it in turns to get the shits with the whole project and express strongly our desire to bail out down the mountain for some tucker. Which meant we kept going. Steep, beautiful, and unending.

We went to 2473m, as the tour guide we met there told us, to the edge of a large crater. The crater was one of a dozen or so which had last been seriously active in 2002, when they sent enough lava down the hill to erase the Etna North tourism infrastructure. At the time we were there, though, mere whisps of sulfur-tinged steam issued from the vents, creating a steamy addition to the black, moon-like landscape.

It was a powerful expeirence, and one we were happy to have shared. We took in the view while a busload of tourists came and went, before making our own way back to the bike, and to a welcome meal :)

Having reached our destination, we decided not to take too much more time in Sicily, and after another glorious sunset ride (the coastal town of Taromina is definitely worth a visit), caught the night ferry back to the mainland.

Free camping

2007-10-22T04:28:00.000-07:00

When it comes to great camping spots, a few come to mind:

under fir trees by a river, in heavy rain, in the Harz Mountains, famous as they are for their witches,
beside a clear and chilly stream in Wales,
the olive grove, then the beach on Korcula (see below).

The list is growing quite extensive, actually.

Then there are the cheeky, more adventurous places. We started in this vein when we visited Bibone, an abandoned beach resort in northern Italy. We arrived at the perfect time, long enough after the summer season for the place to be deserted, but not long enough for the beach umbrellas, set up in reguar formation for miles, to have been packed up. So we opened one on the waters edge, pulled up a couple of deckchairs ... and voila! a perfect campspot.

There was also the market stall in Plitvice National Park, in Croatia. That was fun - rainy night, very wet underfoot and we really wanted to avoid setting up (and wetting) the tent. So we cooked up under a sunshade, then camped up under the roof of a clean, dry shed. It wasn't quite the middle of nowhere, so we set the alarm for early enough to be out of there before the struedel-seller came. Surely we didn't dream it though?! Could that really have been a group of tipsy, giggling ladies going past at, maybe, four o'clock? They must have been real - the big gush of piddle that one of them did behind our abode sounded real enough. Oh well, nothing we wouldn't do ourselves...

Or what about the night near Trogir, again under threatening skies? That night the covered porch of a house under construction, second from the bottom of a dead-end street, seemed perfect. Man, it even had running water and a clothesline! It looked a good spot, and was - we cooked, cleaned up and made ourselves comfortable. Not a cingle house had line-of-sight to us, noone would ever know we had been there.

Except, possibly, the neighbour. They came home to their house at the end of the street very, very late. We awoke but lay silent and still as their car came down the road, stopped while they opened the gate (which, of course, creaked loudly and was interminably slow). We tried not to talk, giggle, or breathe too much as they talked outside. And I have to admit I wished I didn't smell so much when their terriers began yapping about the place. (From subsequent conversation it's clear we both wondered how to shut them up if they came over, with numerous options coming to our minds...)

The neighbours themselves allayed our fears of discovery when they began to argue loudly and vehemently, making far more noise than the little dogs had. They clearly had more to think about than who was making use of their neighbours' porch.

I mean, it's not fear of discovery itself that makes us a little nervous or excited when we camp in odd places. We're careful not to camp anywhere that people would find offensive or otherwise worrying, and we're happy to explain our harmless motives. It's more the idea that, if someone asked us to move on, we'd have to pack everything up, all into the various places on the bike, and have the hassle of finding a new place in the dark.

This didnt stop us though, from setting up camp on the top deck (also a heliport) of the ferry between Sicily and mainland Italy).

Or from making ourselves comfortable in an unused waterfront bar on a peninsula on the Croatian coast.

Or (what a find!) in Aussie bush Italian-style.

Azure

2007-10-22T03:25:00.000-07:00

We're crossing the Adriatic Sea on a ferry at the moment, from Dubrovnik in Croatia to Bari in Italy. It was a bit of a hard decision to make, to leave Croatia, but we're on the boat now, more than anything else on the strength of plans we made earlier.

The clear waters, empty beaches and friendly people enchanted us for the last few days, spent on the island of Korcula. It's one of about 1200 island along the Croatian coast, and locals told us we would love any of the islands. Em chose Korcula, and the place provided a very special detour.

A couple of hours by ferry to Vela Luka - big port - from Split, we landed in a landscape of postcard views and timeless character. A large man guided us towards his mate's pizzeria.

Above the town and port rise steep, rocky hills, terraced over the centuries to allow the cultivation of olives. Flat, bright rocks pulled from the earth are stacked to form walls, and in places to build tiny houses or barns. We chose a good, wide terrace, partly shaded by a grand olive tree, and matched by one across the steep little road for parking. Em set up camp, while I went for wine and pasta, fruit and beer.

A special camp, among timeless (and abandoned?) rows of olives showing the agricultural efforts of centuries. We woke late and rose still later, then let the sun touch our skin for languid hours. Breaking camp was left for the afternoon.

There'd been talk of a second night amongst the olives, but the Adriatic had it's way. We motored lazily along the smallest roads we could find, away from little Vela Luka and along the coast of Korcula. Poplat, Novi, Tri Luke - not towns as such but localities, mostly nestled deep in inlets where the azure of the Adriatic faded through turquoise to crystal clarity.

Our coastal track led us to a bay; we had been far above the jewel-laden sea, and had looked longingly at the coasts of half-a-dozen islands. Two or three little houses surrounded the inlet we'd found, and in one of them there was even and elderly couple. We exchanged greetings as the sea enticed us closer.

Alone on the beach, we swam, picknicked, swam again and lay on a seaweed mattress to our hearts' content. Gentle breeze, clear seas, best friends. A long, easy afternoon, but we moved on before our birthday suits burned.

We came to Grscica, where we had coffee and then beer with a bloke who yelled out "G'day" to us. He was from there, but called Australia home like many Croatians whose paths we crossed.

Boats, wooded headlands, sunbleached stone, and an endless sea of clear, clear water and gentle waves. We motored on, stopping, photographing, hanging out. It was dark by the time we reached Pupnatska Luka, another little settlement of a half-dozen people. We wanted to camp on the beach, but also wanted to ask someone's permission and needed local knowledge to find the track to the beach. Another timeless-looking couple showed us the way, teaching us "thankyou" and "good night" in Croatian as they did so. They offered us home-grown oranges and olive oil too, completing both our dinner and breakfast with the gesture.

A short, steep trek through the ruins of a previous village and down to the beach was made longer by the fact that I'd forgotten to refill our stove with petrol. We went back up to the bike together, not only in the name of teamwork but also because it was just a little spooky! We cooked our simple fare, set up our nylon home and slept, content.

The morning brought a swim, then the opportunity to help the people who had been generous to us the night before. Together we landed their boat - Emily carried their outboard motor and I helped pull the boat up high on the beach.

On the ferry to the mainland, a bloke called Dennis assured us we'd be back, and invited us to look him up. It seems longer than a bare few days we were on Korcula, and they are sweet memories ...

Chatka

2007-10-06T07:34:00.000-07:00

How sweet is this hut? It is set in the heart of the mountains on the Polish/Czech border, two hour's walk from the nearest road.

We spent an unforgettable weekend here trekking, eating home-grown fare and drinking (skulling, Andrew?) vodka by the fire with Kamila, Lucas (pictured standing, with Kasha between them) and their very fine bunch of friends, who treated us as part of thier crew despite the fact we weren't able to join in thier Polish shanites with the same vigour as they sang them!

It was brilliant, we owe you Poles another visit, hope to see you all in Australia soon!

Fallen leaves.

2007-09-17T22:03:00.000-07:00

So yes, we enjoyed Berlin, largely for the view of 20th-century history that it gave us. We were visitors, after all, from a land that claims to have escaped the horrors of war, persecution, genocide, oppression.

Germany has got many hard truths to face up to, and face up it does. Em and I visited a number of museums during our days in Berlin, and some of them had real impact. I won't bang on about them, but a couple warrant and effort at description.

Mostly, the Jewish Museum at Berlin presents - brilliantly - the long, proud history of the European Jewry. Besides anything else, it's a bright and creative museum. There is an installation artwork called fallen leaves in there; I'll try to relate my experience of it here.

Despite the artist's invitation to walk on his or her work, you ask yourself whether it is really OK to accept and proceed. A sea of human faces is before you, expressions of anguish carved into their faces by the heat of a blowtorch. Walking on faces, people looking up at you, pained. Is it really alright to ignore their plight, add to their burden?

In taking my first step amongst the fallen leaves, i realised i was having trouble choosing wihch face - which anguished individual - to step on. and in trying to decide, my attention is all the more focused on the faces, leaves, pain. I was being asked to decide which of the mass of rusted steel people to disrespect more than the others.

Or ought I simply to march roughshod? With a little imagination - or just an inspection of human nature - I might be in the position of the jailer, the soldier, the monster whose job it was to persecute and disrespect the people beneath me. Real people, represented by the hundreds - or thousands - of rough-hewn, rusted steel faces beneath me. I felt I was asked to decide to ignore the humanity beneath my feet, to pretend that all of them deserved the same level of disrespect.

As I walk on them, the solid steel face-discs clang and clink against each other. Each step is advertised, there's no escape from the noise and no option but to admit that I am the perpetrator. Sure, I was one of four or five making the noise, walking over humanity, and I'm not sure whether that made it easier to commit the deed or not - we sure made a lot of noise. Certainly on reflection I realise that the first step onto the field of victims was made easier by others' presence on them. It's easier to be one of a crowd.

And that horrible noise! Reminiscent of nothing more than chains, haunting, heavy, sharp. The path of people narrows, leading into a gloomy corner. A one-way road, but one from which my position allows me to return, provided I maintain my uncaring air, and keep stepping on people.

I stoop to touch one of the faces, choosing a small one, and lift it in my hands. It is heavy, imperfect, one of a kind. Thick, cold steel rests uneasily in my hands. The person I'm holding shrieks. Anguish.

Berlin Berlin

2007-09-11T14:03:00.001-07:00

There is much to be said about this beautiful, artistic, organised and reflective city.

As we are running out of time, I`ll post part of an email I sent my Nanna Win earlier this evening.

...this city has been carefully reconstructed after the War, and every free space seems to have been utilised for art or a positive message.

For example, today we walked past the Parliament (a magnificent building) and they have constructed a glass wall down one side with the 12 árticles´(I believe equivalent to a bill of rights) engraved into it.

Andy translated, the first begins with ´the worth of no person may be diminished...´.

Of course, they have some huge legacies to get over. Today we went to an open air museum, constructed in the ruins of the old Secret Police headquarters. It gave very specific information on the organised regime of murder that Hitler, Himmler and the other top men organised.

It is amazing to think they had the whole German population fooled into thinking they were doing the right thing. Without being dramatic, from my perspective, it seemed clear these men were all very sick, at the very least, psychopaths. The regime of terror and cold blooded murder they ran is absolutely horrific, and it is stunning to think they got away with it for so long, and on such a huge scale.

In cotrast, yesterday we went to the largest Jewish museum in the world. Firstly, the building is beautiful, a modern design based on acute angles, ánd even the floor isnt flat. It is big and grand, and impeccably laid out and presented.

The exhibition presented Jews as a very proud and talented people, and also a people who have been repeatedly persecuted, right back to the middle ages!

However, I got a sense they are not a race easily beaten, and manage to move with the times to make solid communties in many different situations and areas of the world.

We also visited a museum relating to the Wall, and the many attempts (some sucessful, some not) to get through, under, over or around it. ...