Trouble On The Road

Well, I've settled in on the side of the road, about 100 meters into Bolivia from the border with Argentina at Aguas Blancas. I'm guessing that I will be here for a few hours--two if I'm lucky, six if I'm not. And yes, I'm alone, with filthy, greasy hands and fingernails.

We made it through the the border crossing fairly quickly, the two women in the Bolivian Aduana office taking the longest, mostly because they wanted to ask me questions about the trip. We got our gear back on, and as we rolled through the border point, the back end of my bike made a noise and it felt wrong. I quickly said there was something wrong with my bike and that I was stopping. Actually, I wasn't even a hundred meters past the border. Josh stopped and turned around. After a brief argument--when I get worried, he gets hyper-worried and can be impatient, and I chose then as the time to discuss that issue (maybe not my best move)--we got the bike on its center stand and started to work through what the problem could be.

The buildings in the background are the migration and customs for Bolivia and Argentina.

I checked the oil level--no problem there. He removed the front sprocket cover to see if something had gotten stuck--no problem there either. But, as we probed and moved things more, the problem was pretty clearly in the movement in the back wheel somehow. Up on the center stand, we slowly lubed the chain and moved the wheel after loosening the axle bolt. Once lubed, we spun the wheel and didn't encounter anymore problems, so we re-tensioned the chain. As we tightened the axle bolt again, I gave the wheel a final spin, and the noise happened and the wheel caught.

Wtf?

"Did I bend my axle???"

We pulled everything apart, unmounted the wheel, and as it slid back out, Josh said, "Shit!"

The spacer on the right side of the wheel that the axle goes through was not there. We looked inside to see a completely blown bearing. Josh was pissed and ready to kill the dealership where I had just had work done on the bike for forgetting to put the spacer back in, when he noticed the spacer lying next to him. It had been there and had just fallen out when we pulled the wheel, neither of us noticing. But the fact that it fell out made it easier to spy the problem.

Yep, it had been going for a while, and just finally quit. Between my steering head bearings going out again, and the fact that I was riding on a completely squared off, shitty Heidenau K60 Scout, I had chalked up my back end not following me into curves as an extension of those things.

Well, now what? My bike is in pieces, and we need a part replaced for which we have neither the replacement nor the tools. We've just entered Bolivia and left Argentina. There is a border town in Argentina, but not one in Bolivia. We also know that at some borders, you are not allowed to exit a country and re-enter on the same day. Hoping this was not one of those borders, I grabbed my sprocket assembly for visual help, and walked back to the border point to ask if we could go back to Argentina today because my bike just broke.

The girl kind of laughed and said it was no problem--we could enter and exit as many times as we wanted as long as we had the correct paperwork. I then asked the guards outside if where my bike was torn down on the side of the road was a safe place to leave it for a bit. She said no. I explained something was broken and we couldn't move it, but she said not to leave it alone, no one was going to look out for it. I actually felt a bit pissed about this. I mean, how hard would it be to just yell at someone to leave the bike alone if they saw someone who was not me or Josh touching it? But, I get it, the border police would not be responsible.

Sitting. Waiting. The sun had finally moved behind clouds and I could go sit next to my bike.

Anyway, now we both felt insecure at leaving it by itself, next to the road, loaded up, at an isolated mountain border crossing between Bolivia and Argentina. (Ok, now that I've written that and reread it, it seems a better idea to look after it...) So, the decision was made to send Josh into town with the sprocket assembly, hoping to find the right size "rodamientos" for the bike, and a moto mechanic with the tools to swap them out. That might sound a little sketchy, but so many people ride motos here, and it seems that pretty regularly travelers report having great experience with the tiny shops in town, and the mechanics who seem to know their stuff.

We got Josh stamped back into Argentina, and while he put his paperwork away and got ready to head into town, we chatted with a guy who had stopped to look at Josh's bike. He said Josh might not have much luck there in Aguas Blancas, but may need to head all the way back to Oran, about an hour away. ("Or half an hour on a motorcycle..." he said with a grin.)

Josh took off and I wandered back to my bike, Juan, our new friend following behind. He asked if my bike was the same as Josh's and I said no, it is bigger. He then asked what brand, "Honda, Suzuki, Yamaha...?" I told him it was a BMW, and he asked if it was a good brand. At the moment I wasn't thinking it was. (Dear BMW, please make/use better bearings for the 700GS. They've been the bane of my trip, as well as at least one other woman who is riding one right now in South America, and her husband on his 800GS.) Juan didn't know anything about bikes at all, but he wanted to chat with the travelers I think, and that was fine. Then, he dropped the bomb.

"Pueden ir al otro lado en Bolivia, tambien."

Wait, what? The other side of what in Bolivia?

"En el otro lado del rio."

What's on the other side of the river? Is there a town there? There wasn't one on my map!

"Si, despues del puente, en el otro lado del rio, hay una ciudad. Y en frente de la plaza es una tienda se llama Puro Moto."

Oh. My. God.

We had just jumped through all the bureaucratic hoops to get Josh back into Argentina, with the plan that he'd try Aguas Blancas, then ride all the way to Oran if necessary, while I waited on the side of the road with my bike. But the fact was he could have just run down the road a bit further into Bolivia.

The sun was not the only thing to get me. Tiny biting flies made a meal of my arms, neck, and one earlobe, even after I sprayed bug repellent on.

So, this is where I currently sit, one hour now after Josh took off to be my hero. I know it's making him nervous, trying to get my bike fixed, while approaching people he doesn't know, to speak to them in a language he doesn't speak. But, if anything, Josh speaks moto. And he's handsome, tall, and laughs a lot. Those things along with the fact that he's on a motorcycle everyone wants to get a look at, means he'll do just fine.

But, if he has to ride all the way to Oran and back to get that bearing replaced, I'm not sure I'm going to tell him about the Bolivian town, and Puro Moto....

**I had just finished writing the above and was re-reading it when a woman walked over and stood next to me. She said it was hot and that it was nice to be in the shade. She had actually walked quite a ways to share the shade with me, when she could have stayed where she was and enjoyed the shade, so I figured she wanted to chat.

We talked about where we each lived, and I found out she lives on the finca just inside the Argentinian border, but was going with her nephew into Bolivia to buy coca leaves. She asked if many people worked in the United States, and I told her yes. She said she thought many people were paid well in the United States, and I agreed that some were. I told her Josh and I worked a lot, and saved a lot so we could go on trips. We enjoyed meeting new people and seeing new countries.

She got quite animated when I said this, and said she thought that was such a good idea. She asked what people could possibly do with silver and fancy things when they died. She thought it was better to experience new things, because after you were dead, you couldn't. She also said, it's better to do it now, because you have no idea when you would die. She had a niece who died at 19--it could happen anytime.

It was a really lovely conversation. Her nephew drove up in his truck, she hopped in and said "Hasta luego! Que vaya bien!"

These are the kinds of experiences I have loved the most here, and I'm grateful for them. And now, it's two hours after Josh left on his mission.... I guess I'll read for a while.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

...three and a half hours after Josh left, I glanced up from my book to see him back at the border. He takes off his helmet, sees me, and raises both arms in what looks like victory. I put my boots back on (I had taken them off because it was over eighty degrees with considerable humidity--my feet were hot) and walked quickly back to the border point. Josh handed me the sprocket assembly and spacer, and while he left Argentina to come into Bolivia once again, I reassembled the back of my bike. He joined me in time to put the final crank on the axle bolt, and we made the decision to only go as far as that Bolivian border town for the night. As we got the tools put away and ready to ride, Josh confirmed he had gone to Oran. But beyond having to ride there and back, it had been easy, cost $5.00 for the part and $2.50 for the labor. Not terrible, all in all.

The guys in Oran who switched my bearings out for newer, better (hopefully), Argentinian made bearings. It cost about $2.50 USD.

We were on our way again, however, we had another border hurdle to cross. As we approached the bridge over the river, there was a Bolivian military checkpoint. At the front of the line was a semi with a large trailer. Behind him was a small van. I pulled up behind him, with Josh just behind me. Everything was fine until the semi had to back up in order to realign himself for the turn right after the bridge. He put it into reverse, and the van in front of me promptly put it into reverse, not seeing me. He had no back windows, and when he saw Josh in his side mirror, he assumed that was the only bike.

The van began backing up and I hit my horn. He immediately stopped, and because I couldn't back up up hill, I put it into gear to go around him, out of the way. He looked in his mirror, saw Josh, and figured he had tons of room so started back again. I blew my horn again, he hesitated then kept coming. I laid on the horn, he kept coming. The border guards who are muscle and guns (versus the ones who are there for the paperwork and questioning) came walking over quickly, with purpose, and Josh zipped around me yelling, "Señor! Stop!"

Now, here's the thing about the horn--we lovingly, and laughingly, call it the train. It is LOUD. It is dual tone, with a built in air compressor. I hate stock motorcycle horns, and quite frankly, feel they are unsafe. I have used this one successfully in a lot in places like Guatemala City, Lima, and La Paz when I decided someone was too close for my comfort. It pretty much stops people in it's tracks. This thing that made people come running, did nothing to dissuade this guy from backing up, almost into me.

The man finally stopped, with me having about two inches to spare. I turned my bars and zipped away while the guards told Josh he needed to move back. He nodded in exasperation, tried to explain the guy was going to hit me, (but couldn't really because he doesn't speak Spanish) and we were told to move to the side. A paperwork/questions guy came over, glanced at Josh's Aduana form, and waved us through, seeming annoyed at the situation, but also appearing to believe the "van" guy was a dumbass.

As though that wasn't enough, after we went across the bridge we had one more stop to make, one more stamp to get. When we stopped, trying to figure out what this was all about (we hadn't yet encountered this in sixteen other border cossings because every border is different depending on the day, the time, who is on duty, if the agent is on her period, or if the agent's wife had just left him...I'm NOT even kidding...) the guy from the van came up to apologize, shaking hands, saying he couldn't see me.

I shook his hand, smiling, and in perfect English I knew he'd never understand, said, "No shit! You have tiny mirrors and no back windows!" Josh shook his hand and made nice. We got our stamp, were let through the barrier, and headed into the small town of Bermejo. We drove around town trying to find a hotel, and as soon as we spotted a hostel--which is really a hotel--we pulled over. No hot water, no internet (maybe tomorrow...the story of this trip) but the family was nice and said we could park the bikes inside the hallway.

In all honesty, this was a fairly decent place for this to happen. It could have happened a couple of weeks ago when we were on a stretch of wild bush camping nights, with nothing but very small towns in between. As it turns out, hassle of the extra border crossings aside, it worked out pretty well. I will replace the other two sets of bearings in the wheel itself, and will probably buy the front wheel bearings to carry with me, in case of problems. I'm pissed at BMW for using shitty parts--and it is well and widely known they are in this instance--but I can replace them with better, and keep Camille running along happily.

Getting the bikes into the "parking" area at the hotel in Bermejo.

After my day of sitting in the sun, I am happy to be sitting here on this bed, finishing this blog. The mattress is pure foam with no springs--cheap would be my guess--and I love it. My body sinks into it, and having eaten a couple slices of salami and about ten chocolate cookies with my wine (an expensive one from wine tasting in Cafayate at about $9) I know I'm going to fall asleep and not move. I've put some hydrocortisone cream on all the bug bites I sustained this afternoon, but will probably also pop a Benadryl and say nighty-night.

For now, I say good night. Imma pass out in my foamy bit of heaven.

 

The next morning in Bermejo, this lovely woman was frying up balls of yucca y queso and empanadas de pollo. Breakfast for two was just under $2 USD.

 

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