San Marcos Mercado

The view of the livestock area of the San Marcos Mercado

This story starts in Huamachuco, Peru. After unloading a few things into the room, we rode the bikes to the other side of the plaza to the secure parking lot the hostal shared with a restaurant. There were already four little bikes in the motos area, so we parked mine and left Josh's bike next to a truck, with a promise to return later in the evening to swap it once the little bikes were gone. As the afternoon wore on, we decided we would just go eat dinner at the restaurant, so we'd already be there when it needed to happen. Great idea, right?

Bad idea. Such a bad idea.

We spent the entire rest of the day in bed with food poisoning, trying to rest and feel a bit better. This was my second time being sick on the trip, and Josh's third--all of which happened in Peru, from nicer restaurants. Screw it, we said, we are going back to eating street food and in tiny restaurants that also sell various, random things.

The next morning, Josh was feeling considerably better, but I was still feeling iffy. As we had no plans we had to follow, I decided I'd stay in bed another day. Somewhere around 8, a stall set up across the road in the plaza, complete with giant speakers, and they began blasting music. And not only were they blasting music, but they started with the Incan flute versions of Simon and Garfunkel songs. I am not kidding.And then it got worse.

Abba.

Not Incan flute Abba, but Abba cover mashups.

I lie in bed, desperately trying to block it out and fall asleep, until I could take it no more.
Josh got back from getting himself coffee and checking on the bikes, and I asked if we could get them out. When he said yes, I told him to pack his crap. We were out of there. The only thing that was going to make my food poisoning feel worse was to suffer through it while listening to that music.
So we rode on, about seventy miles to the town of San Marcos. I don't remember much of the ride, except it started with crappy pavement, dirt, and mud, then between Cajabamba and San Marcos, the last thirty-six miles very wide easy pavement. Though the riding had become easy at that point, I couldn't ride any farther.
Feeling unwell, and extremely weak and dehydrated, we stopped at the one hostal in the area mentioned on iOverlander. I guess there was no one else staying, because we were given a huge, sparkling clean room with an enormous jacuzzi tub. Later that evening I would fill the tub and find that the jets don't work, but I so didn't care. A bath is not a luxury I've had on this trip with the exception of a few hot springs here and there. I was in heaven and spent easily forty-five minutes just sitting in the hot tub, reading my book.
The following morning we woke to a lot of noise in the town. I was surprised a town that small could be so noisy! I finally felt like eating something, so around 8, we headed to the plaza for a cup of coffee. While walking there, I looked further down the street and saw it was market day. We had only coffee, and decided we would grab something to eat within the street market.

If only I knit...

All the ladies hats and all the shiny pots!

We began slowly wandering through the market, taking in the stalls filled with produce, clothing, brightly designed synthetic blankets, and all the beans, peas, and grains you could imagine. As we turned onto other streets, I realized why the town was so noisy that morning. This is THE market for all the neighboring towns on Sunday. Thousands of people had descended upon San Marcos to sell what they grew, find what they need for the week, and of course, the most important thing--socialize.

In Peru they make baskets out of old tires!

We finally came to one end of the market, and as we looked through the stalls where all the señoras were making and selling breakfast, we saw the livestock portion of the market. It was vast, with hundreds of people and more animals. That portion of the market sat down below the street above, and people were lined up along the rail, watching, pointing, deciding, and waving to others they knew down below.

In the yard, cows, calves, burros, horses, pigs, sheep, and goats all waited--sometimes patiently, sometimes not--for where they would be going next. I was fascinated as I watched the movement and listened to the sounds below. I loved the movement, noise, and smells, wandering through the animals giving them discreet little pats or giving a horse a good scratch beneath its itchy halter.

But, I hated seeing the condition some of the animals were in, and the way some of the people treated them. There was a beautiful grey horse, who was acting like a butthole. I stood watching him from above for at least half an hour. He was spirited, and unhappy about having been tied in one spot all day. After watching all the horses for the better part of an hour, he is the one I would have bought. Despite his attitude, as I watched his male owner handle him, it was clear what had turned him into a butthole.
Hie owner untied him at the end of the day, readying him and the other three horses not sold to make the journey home. For the most part, the grey was calm, but would occasionally kick or bite at one of the other horses, make some noise, or stamp hooves. His owner, who had tightly wrapped his lead a third time over the sensitive area just above his nostrils would yank on the lead line when he did that, essentially telling him he was bad. But then, at one point when the grey was standing calmly, his owner swung the end of the lead and hit the grey in the face. This of course made the horse yank his head up and behave badly.
So, the horse had basically just been told that when he acted out, he would be punished, and when he behaved well he would be punished. You know what, I'd be a butthole too if I was treated that way.

This is how they loaded all the animals into the large livestock trucks. They don't believe in ramps, and it was often a big step for the animals into the truck.

This wasn't an isolated incident. It killed me to watch, but I also had to remember that this is not my home and not my culture. I don't have to approve, but I certainly won't be listened to here, either, if I voice my disgust. I am the outsider.

These two kept going at each other in a rather comical way. At any time, either of them could have walked away, but they didn't.

There were naked-necked chickens and frizzles!

We spent almost the whole day--until about three in the afternoon--wandering, eating, catching escaped young chickens and returning them to their pens with a grateful "Gracias" from the owners who were working hard to sell them. At one point, as we were standing above, looking down on the cows, one cow directly below us slipped free, and he began wandering the lot. I scanned the crowd, expecting to see his owner come running to grab him and re-tie him, as there were no fences to keep him there. He wandered for a while and I looked at Josh and asked if he thought I should go grab the cow and take him back. He looked at me like I was insane, then said we should probably move so no one would think the gringos had caused the problem.

This is the escapee cow. He wandered for a good fifteen minutes before someone grabbed him and tied him back up.

This little girl with her bull! He started to walk away at one point, and the girl's mom dragged him back. Then, the little girl promptly demanded his lead be returned to her. This is her cow!

And we were the ONLY gringos there. And with Josh being over six feet tall, and me towering over all the women and a large number of the men, too, we were obvious. People stared. A lot. But, a quick smile and greeting in Spanish usually made them smile right back. We had a great conversation with three young girls and their mom, while Josh ate a bowl of chicharron and choclo--the girls practiced English, Josh practiced Spanish, and I helped them all out.

Chicken soup for breakfast. We shared a bowl and after it was nearly done, the señora came over and re-filled it for us. It was delicious! And cost about $1.33US

This is how they make the BEST soup! She built a fire on the ground and set her pots on bricks.

The day wound up being great! This is not the Chichicastenango market--it isn't in every guide book around, deemed a must see in a foreign place that is now a tourist attraction. This was every Sunday in the small city of San Marcos, in the heart of the Peruvian Andes. It was a beautiful glimpse into the lives of the locals, and a culinary experience! I am so glad Huamachuco played that horrid music and forced me out of their city!

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So Many Roads, So Many Potholes

I sat finishing my Sprite (the empanadas having been polished off ten minutes earlier) and noticed out of the corner of my eye, a bike approaching the intersection where my table sat. He approached heading up the small side street, and barely slowing, went through. What he either couldn't see, or didn't care about, was that from my right a grey four-door was coming into town on the highway that made up the other half of that intersection.

I was surprised he chose to go, though I'm guessing that once he had seen her, he misjudged how fast she was going. He didn't hammer on the throttle--he simply kept going at his speed. She never slowed either. I suppose she thought he'd stop. I watched as he slid through the intersection, and I thought, "Wow, I thought that was going to end badly."

And then it did.

It wasn't seeing her car hit the back end of his motorcycle, sending it into the air, and showering the intersection with plastic pieces that made me realize he hadn't made it through. It was the hugely loud crashing sound of her front right quarter panel slamming into the little bike. The sound of it made me sit forward in my chair, in time to see him pitched forward off the bike, hit the ground, and his helmet fly off his head, rolling and finally coming to a stop on the sidewalk, another forty feet away.

"OH, SHIT!" The words just came out, and I was out of my chair sprinting towards the young man lying in the street. Despite my gear being heavy, and my boots being big motocross boots, they didn't slow me at all, and I got to the kid quickly. He was rolling from side to side, holding his right arm, gash on his right leg, moaning and crying. Josh ran past as I bent down to him, stopping the car coming around the curve from hitting the guy in the street and me. The woman in that car stopped and got out, dressed conveniently in scrubs.

She immediately got on the phone with someone, while I asked the kid what all hurt. Through his pain, which subsided a bit as the adrenaline kicked in, he realized his bike was toast for now. He tried to get up, but Josh pushed him back down, went and picked up the bike, and rolled it onto the the sidewalk to make the kid feel better.

At about that time, I saw the woman from the car walking back to where it happened, her small son in her arms. There was no hurry about her. She seemed concerned, though I'm not sure what about. She never approached the kid or asked about him. As more people arrived and the woman in the scrubs put the kid in her car to run him off to the doctor, I walked over and picked up his helmet and a piece of plastic that had broken off. It felt cheap and light in my hands, and as I looked at the perfectly intact chinstrap, I realized he hadn't had it fastened.

I draped it over the handle bars and told Josh that this was where we walk away. The kid was going to the doctor, we got his bike to a place where it wouldn't cause more traffic grief, and people who all spoke the language could take care of the rest. We walked back to our table, and I finished my Sprite, thinking about what I had just witnessed.

There are so many things that were wrong here, but the first thing that I thought of (beyond the obvious things like kid shouldn't have been riding in shorts and flip-flops, he should have secured his helmet, he should have looked harder or slowed knowing a 150cc moto never wins against a car...) was the lack of signage on the streets didn't help this matter at all.

In most of the cities we've ridden on this trip, smaller streets have zero signage. There are no "stop" signs or "yield" signs at intersections, and if a road has a name, there is often no sign saying what that street is called. The rule of thumb seems to be "He who gets there first, goes first." For the most part, that strategy works well. Though it can be scary when I'm partway into an intersection and I spy a large truck coming at me from the side and I wonder if he'll stop. So far they always have....

It seemed that was the case with the young man, though the woman never even slowed. We are taught to be defensive drivers in the United States, but the southern countries seem to teach offensive driving.

As for the idea of signage, anything goes in Central and South American countries. Stop signs are rare, and nobody actually stops for them except Chileans. Sometimes there are signs for speed bumps, and most times not. There are signs for steep ascents and descents, though they often are so overstated they make me laugh in your helmet.

This is not photoshopped! They seriously think the upcoming ascent is crazy steep. Also, please note the following sign--that is placed directly before a hairpin...

You know how you head into a curve in the States, and there will be a sign with a suggested speed? No one actually goes the speed on the signs, (especially not motorbikers...) but they give a good idea of the severity of the curve coming up. South of the border, you're lucky if you get a warning that a curve is coming at all. There is rarely a sign indicating speed suggestions--though in Peru, they seem to have had a huge number of 35 kph signs made, and they put them everywhere.

In all fairness, primary and secondary mountain roads with multiple switchbacks or hairpins in Peru usually have signs indicating what is coming. Bolivia and northern Chile have "hairpin" and "curve" signs, but it appears they were assigned randomly to curves by kindergarteners on "take your son to work day." I'll be riding along and a switchback sign appears. I downshift to second gear, then wind up running my engine out because it was less than a ninety degree curve. On the flip side, a curve sign appears and I shift down to fourth, then have to push and lean like hell to get my bike around a hairpin that never seems to end.

My personal favorite of all the signs on this trip.

The area of Bolivia I have ridden through has about six different signs for llamas, and four each for alpacas and vicuñas. There is nothing for sheep...where is the love? Even goats get a sign. Through all the countries, there are signs for cows. They all vary. Some are for cows, standing still, udders full--clearly the "ladies who lunch" of the bunch. Some are for very proud, strong bulls, mostly found in Mexico. Then there are all the other renderings of cows in some state or another, and quite honestly, they are accurate. One can find cows on the side of the road anywhere. I always want to hug them. Same goes for the guanacos in Argentina, too.

There are many signs for rock falls/land slides, and for good reason. Walls of rock are often blasted through and scraped through to create a place for a road to go, with little thought to ten days--never mind ten years--later. One particular stretch of road I was recently on had a landslide averaging every one hundred meters or so. Some of them were small and restricted to the mountain side of the road, but many were spread across the entire road, with a vague two-track running through one side. More than likely, it occurred on a blind curve, and I was really happy to have my aftermarket, dual-tone air horn on my bike, blasting my oncoming presence like I was a thirty-ton big rig.

A very tame landslide by Peruvian standards.

Often times, those rocks come in handy. At least one country we have been traveling in requires vehicles to carry reflective triangles to put on the ground in case of an accident or breakdown. The countries do not require it of motorbike riders, so please don't ask which ones--I don't remember. In most countries, however, rather than bright red reflective triangles, drivers often use a branch or series of rocks to let other drivers know to slow down or move out of a lane. So, if the front end of your SUV is crushed by a rock fall, no problem. You just hop right out, pick up some of those fallen rocks--preferably the larger ones as they are easier for bus drivers careening around blind curves on two wheels to see--and lay them out on the road to distract, I mean warn, other drivers.

Speaking of blind curves--if you're on a tiny dirt road in Chile, heading into a blind curve, you can well be sure a red pick-up or a small white sedan will be coming at you in your lane.

With. Out. Fail.

In Peru and Colombia, anything and everything will be coming at you in your lane on a blind curve. I have mastered riding curves with my left thumb poised over my horn button, ready to blast the poop into a driver's shorts when he realizes I'm coming. Some of the blind curves will even have a sign telling you to "toque el claxon"--blow your horn.

This sign says " tocar bocina"--blow horn. And did I ever! What is the point of having a horn I call the "Train" if I don't blow it in a tunnel?

Then, there is the "Desvio" sign. Desvio means detour, and just like anywhere else, it can mean a quick work around a piece of road being repaired, or it can mean a much longer deviation to a different route until the one you want to be on is finished being made or repaired. In Bolivia, one day, one desvio meant more than ten miles of riding along a river bed (is there really a road here...?) and crossing that river nine times. And, I don't mean crossing the river over a bridge, I mean riding through the river. Nine times. On ONE desvio. And, of course, that was the day I said, "Hey, it's beautiful, sunny weather. I'm not going to wear my waterproof socks." Yay! Wet feet!

Desvio--also known as just drive through the river if the real road doesn't work!

Other than the desvios, I haven't said anything about road conditions. In theory, one can make it to the end of the Western Hemisphere all on tarmac. I guess that would involve heading over to the east coast of Argentina to go south, rather than taking Ruta 40, or maybe taking a ferry past it into Tierra del Fuego. However, if you or someone you know is planning this trip on two wheels, you need to load your bike up, regardless of what kind it is, and take a weekend's worth of off-road riding class with it. Make sure you are comfortable riding off-road, because through most of these countries, experiencing a full expanse of paved roads, never touching dirt, is SOOOOOO not going to happen.

Sometimes your road just looks like this, and you wave to the guy driving the grader as you go by.

We were often looking for smaller, dirt roads, so were not surprised to find rough stuff. But, never fear, the paved bits can be rough too. Though all the roads have any number of potholes, sitting and hiding in the shadows, waiting quietly to test your suspension, most countries have signs or some sort of warning for big things like when half of the road is missing on the cliff edge--don't laugh, saw that in every single country--or when there is a particularly catastrophic occurrence to the road that could do you some damage.

Take, for instance, Panamá. We were riding along a perfectly lovely stretch of twisty mountain road, when a sign appeared saying "Falla geografia." I was leading, and slowed a little, when suddenly I realize the falla geografia was a huge sinkhole. I mean huge, like thirty feet across. There was no avoiding it--we were going in. As I approached at speed, I got a little concerned when I realized I could see the bottom of the middle, and the exit, but I couldn't see what the entry really looked like. Was it a sudden drop off of three feet (because the bottom of the center of it was easily three feet below grade) or was it a smooth downhill. As I flew up on it, I was thankful to find it was a smooth ramp down, while Josh yelled in my ear to "Ohmygodlookout!" He couldn't see that the entry was good.

In stark contrast, our third day of riding in Peru saw a different adventure. As we left a small town on a paved two lane road, a truck was moving quite slowly in front of us. Josh passed him on the straight, and by the time I was able to, I was going to come around him heading into a right hand, blind curve around a hill. No biggie as Josh told me it was all clear. As I got past the truck at passing speed and started heading into the curve, there was a sign that blurred by in my peripheral vision as Josh yelled, "Rock!" I came around that curve to see not a rock, but a boulder in the middle of the road. I thought "rock fall" and pushed a little further right to avoid it.

And launched off a sudden drop-off of nearly a foot!

"What the hell!?! Which way did you go around that rock?" I had been too far back to see Josh avoid it, and he said he went to the left. Apparently the sink hole this time had started on the right and stretched a bit more than halfway--he hadn't had any problem. And, thanks to laws of physics and forward motion, neither did I. My teeth just rattled in my head a bit.

I could go on and on about roads we've ridden and questionable signs we've seen. It has been a massive part of our trip, obviously. There is one last thing, however that I would like to explain. In this post, I have used the pronoun "he" always to refer to other drivers, and even mentioned "take your son to work day." This is not by mistake, nor am I trying to say that all the crappy drivers here are male. I am simply saying that nearly ALL drivers, once out of large cities, are male. In most countries, there are signs along the roads warning drivers to slow down. I saw one that said "Amigos" and have seen a precious few that left a subject out entirely. But, starting in Mexico and going all the way south, there have been signs that say "Papá, no corre! Tu familia te espera!" Don't risk it, Dad, your family is waiting for you.

Then, there are these signs. All throughout Argentina are signs saying "Las Malvinas Son Argentinas" ( they're not...) and the signs all throughout Patagonia tell you how far away from The Falklands you are. Ps--Argentina still believes they own a claim on Antarctica, too....

 

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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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Chile: Patagonia on the Carretera Austral

Everyday in Chile is something new and something astounding. Not an hour goes by that I don't round a bend and say, "Oh my gawd!" or "Holy shit!" or, more often than not, simply, "WOW!" I say "WOW" a lot. The scenery is quite simply amazing in the whole country, but the further south we get, the more breathtaking the views become.

While waiting (an eternity) for my bike to be repaired in Santiago, I read an article by a rider talking about the beauty of the Carretera Austral, and admonishing riders to ride it before it was all paved. They are pretty constantly working on the highway, and bit by bit it is being paved. So, while in Santiago, we made the decision to ride it instead of crossing into Argentina and riding the ever-popular Ruta 40. Sadly, the day after we left Santiago, a massive landslide devastated the town of Santa Lucia, wiping it off the map. Getting the road open again would take a backseat to trying to dig out survivors. While waiting to hear news of the town's residents, we knew we would have to find a different way.

While in Pucón, we re-examined our route, and found a ferry that would take us around the affected part of the road. From Pucón, we rode south past Puerto Montt, hopped on a 30 minute ferry to the island of Chiloé, and spent the night camping in Ancud. Unlike some of the completely janky ferries we had previously been on, we rode directly onto the steel deck of this one, set off across the water watching seals and sea birds frolicking (seriously, they were frolicking) and quickly and easily rode off at the other side.

Drying out the tent in Ancud before setting up. Ten minutes after getting it set up, it rained...

We found our campground fairly easily, got everything setup, went to the grocery, and returned to make dinner. About ten minutes in, the skies opened up. It started as a light rain, but then it REALLY began to come down. At that point, I was so tired of being rained on and my jacket was getting soaked, so I gave up and went into the tent. My plan had been to remove the wet down jacket and put on the Goretex liner to my riding jacket, but...don't tell anyone...I stayed just a little longer. About the time the rain was ending (how's that for timing...) I emerged to see the most beautiful rainbow screaming across the sky and dipping into the bay, as if to say,

 

Dear Louise,

Chile apologizes for its constant and completely inconsiderate rain. Here is a rainbow just for you!

Love, The Bay

That's a pretty nice rainbow. Thanks, Chile.

 

I immediately forgave Chile.

This sweet little one-eyed shepherd mix was one of two camp dogs.

This Sofi look-a-like was a loud mouth. She wouldn't shut up. She was also so skinny...broke my heart. I'm not one for feeding other people's animals, but I think she fends for herself, so I fed her.

We rode out of Ancud the next day, heading for Quellón where we would need to catch our next ferry at 5:00pm. We arrived with enough time before boarding to head to the start/end of the Pan-American highway. Though we rode relatively little of it over the course of the trip, choosing instead to ride smaller and often dirt roads, we had ridden a good amount of it in Panama and then also in Chile.

This is me saying, "This is a really stupid monument..."

After taking a few pics at the monument, we headed into town and boarded the ferry. We knew it was a long-ish ferry ride, but despite Josh's best efforts, he could never really figure out how long it took, and when it landed in Puerto Cisnes.

We were told we needed to be at the ferry two hours prior to departure to load. Motorcycles loaded last, after cars, trucks, semis, and even walk on passengers--about 10 minutes before we left.

3:40. A.M.

The fucking ferry lands in a town far, far away at 3:40 in the morning.

We roll off the ferry behind a semi and a street bike, and find that Chilean Aduana is waiting to see our docs before letting us out of the ferry lot. I have to admit, I played dumb because I was tired and pissy, and didn't want to have to drag out my passport and Aduana papers. I pretended I didn't speak Spanish, and then I sent him back to Josh. That may have been a little bit mean to both of them. As they try to communicate, a line of all the cars and trucks backs up behind us. Eventually, after not being able to communicate with Josh, the man walks over to his partner, they confer, and he walks back to me and gives me the ok to go. I do not have to be told twice, and I take off.

Once out of the ferry lot, we pull over on a street to figure out what the hell we are going to do. Shockingly enough, this tiny town in Patagonia, Chile has neither a KOA-type campground with a 24 hour reception, nor a Plaza Hotel with a smiling receptionist waiting for us. The tiny town was solidly asleep. We were not going to show up to either of the two campgrounds in town--basically people's backyards--and knock on doors or sneak in.

We consulted iOverlander and saw that at the other end of town from where we had disembarked, were two wild camping spots marked. One was essentially a pull-out on the coast road, and the other was a recreational area which has signs specifically saying "No Camping." We figured we would see which looked less dangerous and catch a couple winks.

We rode out of town and immediately found ourselves on a potholed, dirt road. Did I mention it was raining when we got off the boat? No? Well, it was. So...it's now almost 4:00 in the morning, and we are riding down an unknown, holey, dirt road in the rain. We passed three pullouts, all of which were filled with standing water, and proceeded on to the rec area. I didn't see the sign that said "No Camping" but Josh did. There were small shelters for BBQ areas, and we decided we'd just toss the sleeping pads on the ground in there and sleep. If there's no tent, we're not really camping, right?

A few minutes later, an SUV rolls up with a couple of overlanders from Australia, and they are going to spend the night too. We settle down to sleep, and a few minutes later, a security guard walks up with his two dogs.

Shit.

Busted.

I straighten out my addled brain long enough to tell him we've just come from the ferry, and he says it's no problem. He even gave us two thumbs up with a smile when he said, "Es bueno!" We just have to go in the morning, because, well, there is no camping allowed. He was so kind, and I assume he sees his fair share of confused people desperate for a place to stay. While lying there on the ground, I made friends with his dog--he very proudly told me it was HIS dog--and I think that helped things along. When I woke around 7, I took a little walk around and his dog joined me. I decided to lie down again, and the sweet dog curled up with me for a while.

It was so windy and cold in this town...

We got up a bit later and packed up what little we had unpacked. After a morning of sleeping in their vehicle, the Aussies moved to a shelter and were making themselves breakfast, but I was ready for a cafe with bread and coffee. We found the perfect one, and after an hour of coffee, breakfast, and pastries, we headed out for our first day on the Carretera Austral.

Josh loves this picture because when he took it, I had no idea what was on the wall behind me--I hadn't even noticed when I sat down. I just knew I was in a warm shop, and hot coffee was coming my way.

The whole first section we rode, to Coyhaique, was paved. At one point, we came to a junction where we could either stay on pavement, or take the official highway, and ride dirt. We were both tired from the events of the previous night, and made the decision to take the paved route. While trying to decide, I said I thought there had been a road works warning for that section of dirt, and that I really didn't want to be stuck. A few days later, we would hear from some travelers that there was, in fact, road works happening, and that it was brutal--miles and miles of torn-up road, slow going, and constant stopping.

The wildflower in bloom in Chile are AMAZING right now.

This is a brewery in Coyhaique. The promise of good, craft beer was so close, yet so closed. Sad faces.

We rode into Coyhaique, found our campspot, and spent a lovely couple of nights, getting a chance to talk with all our family on Christmas. Tuesday morning, the day after Christmas, was forecasted to be a beautiful, sunny day, and as we packed up camp, the blue skies and lack of wind told us it was to be our most beautiful day yet in southern Chile. We left Coyhaique and headed south on the Carretera Austral.

Crazy cat guy at the campground--there were six extremely friendly cats at this one.

Christmas at El Camping Coyhaique.

The entire section of road from there to Villa Cerro Castillo was paved once again, but not lacking in stunning views. Every bend in the road revealed something new, something beautiful, something to take a photo of. We only had a couple of hours to ride, as we had chosen an inexpensive campspot outside the town, in a climbing area. We stopped in the town for food supplies (where the owner of the grocery was so kind and gave us lovely chocolates as a gift before we left) and headed out on a small, rocky farm road toward the bolted, sport climbing area where we could pitch a tent.

I found it! The secret farm where they grow the giant marshmallows in in Chile!

Sometimes riding pavement is fun!

That is Cerro Castillo in the background--a beautiful peak in Chilean Patagonia.

The road was two-track, with sections of large, loose rock, but it was so similar to riding in the Rocky Mountains. Suddenly the road smoothed out, and I realized it was because we were hitting patches of sand. We were riding near the river, and I thought, "Hey, this feels pretty good!" Then we rounded a bend and saw what lie before us...a large river to cross.

The river wasn't particularly deep--more to the point, if you ride a moto you could find a way across in water just over a foot deep--but it had a few sections to cross, all of which were made of deep, shifty, round river rock. Coming out the other side, was a bank of deep, loose gravel which led to more sandy two-track. Following the #1 Rule of River Crossing, I stayed back and let Josh go first, criticizing his very deep line through the large portion of the crossing.

After watching Josh and then walking a portion to find a better line--I'm not too proud to walk it first, and besides I have amazing waterproof socks--I headed in a different direction. Though it wasn't much easier, it was shallower, so as my feet went down and my bike and I sunk in, the frigid water was not going over the tops of my boots. Eventually, we were both across, and I realized our road to the campground was an out-and-back.

Great. We'd have to do it again the next morning.

Oh well, I'd think about it the next morning. At that moment, I was thinking about getting to camp. The water had been so cold, that I could not tell if my feet were just cold, or if they were wet too. I suspected the latter, but did not want to think of my perfect socks failing me.

Another mile or so of loose, rocky two-track, we came to the gate of the climbing/camping area. A woman came out of the house on the other side of the road, and let us in, walking with us to show us around. For a completely reasonable amount, the camp area included a wind-blocked area with table and seating for a fire, a refugio complete with a wood stove and sink in case of rain, a stream for water, all the sport climbing you could handle, and pit toilets. The pit toilets had (gasp!) toilet seats and cans of Glade Air Freshener. No toilet paper, but there was air freshener. I totally laughed out loud when I saw that. You must supply your own toilet paper (like most places) but out there in the middle of Patagonia Nature, you can spray a little scent around when you're finished. I thought that was hilarious.

Great climbing at our campspot!

Camp dog!

As the owner and I were wandering around so she could show me all the amenities, she kept pulling what looked like blueberries off the surrounding bushes and eating them. She told me they were Calafate berries--edible and quite good. I pulled one off a bush and popped it in my mouth. The juice was sweet and good, but they were completely filled with tiny little seeds that were bitter if I bit into them. I was not too impressed with them at that point--too much work with not enough reward.

Calafate berries. Everywhere...

This campspot was beautiful!

Eventually, our host returned to her home and we set up camp. I saw a girl in climbing gear as she walked by. She asked if we were camping and I said yes, and she said she was sleeping in the refugio. She was very friendly and I really wanted to talk to her about the climbing there, but I suddenly realized that I knew absolutely none of the words in Spanish for this sport I love so much. I didn't know how to ask about ratings (or even what rating system they use), equipment, or even how to say "rock climbing." I've got some things to learn, but it didn't stop me from watching and cheering for climbers as they made their way up the rock face.

Sometimes, this is what our water sources look like.

This steri-pen is awesome. The nurse practitioner we consulted for vaccines said they work great, but the batteries run down quickly and we needed to carry a lot of them. We bought the one that can charge off the bikes--no battery issues for us! I highly recommend it.

We had a little lunch and eventually agreed on a place to set up the tent. It was a little windy and cool, and I suddenly had a *brilliant* idea. I would collect the Calafate berries, cook them in water with a bit of sugar, mash them up, and make a hot juice drink out of them. So, I had never eaten them, or even seen them. The lady who lived there seemed to like them. What could go wrong...?

Making hot Calafate berry juice. I made delicious juice, and a huge mess.

There were about a thousand bushes, loaded with a bazillion berries each. I picked maybe a cup and a half, dodging the wicked thorns. Eventually deciding I had enough about the time I had been poked enough, I cooked and served up a mug to Josh and a mug to myself. About halfway through drinking the hot, delicious juice, I mentioned that in the future when I decide to forage a food source I've never seen or eaten, particularly if it is a berry, maybe we should only consume it one at a time. You know, that way, if someone has abdominal cramps or goes into cardiac arrest, the other person can get help. If we survived the night, that is totally how we would handle the situation next time!

One of our noisy companions. His mate was nearby, and they eventually settled down together right above our heads.

As it turns out, we survived the night. We had a very quiet night in the shadow of the Patagonian peaks. The winds eventually died down, and it was so still and quiet even the obnoxiously noisy birds on a ledge right above us went to sleep. We woke to slightly cloudy skies, but the promise of sunshine between the clouds felt pretty good. We packed camp and headed out.

Oh right. The river again.

We both went through it a lot faster this time, both taking the line I took the night before. By the time I had the last two sections to cross, I hammered on it and flew through. Josh remarked on it, and I said I felt like I had had enough by that point. I was over it, so, no reason to go slowly.

We hopped back on our two-track, rode back into town, and turned south once again to tackle some more of the Carretera Austral, and see what more Chile had to offer in the way of stunning scenery.

We would not be disappointed....

 

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