Riding In The Tracks Of Giants

Movie: Argentina - some serious ice.

The Routa 40 landscape passes in a blur. This could be because everyone on the road is invariably fixing their eyes on the road ahead and trying hard not to be blown into the gully.

Riders worry about the wind, and worry about lack of fuel. The behemoth BMW can cope with each better than most, but I had a sore neck and a crooked spine just two days later. These were hard yards and it's not often I find myself riding for an hour in second gear!

The stormy weather abated long enough to allow me to tack eastwards into El Calafate. It's a tourist town, serving the nearby glaciers. More importantly, it served beer and great food just as the rugby international came on TV. After a million years inching down the mountain, I figured the Moreno Glacier would likely be there later in the afternoon, so I put my feet up and watched Wales win the Grand Slam. Nice one, boyos.

(Below: it's amazing what 'photochop' can do...)



Buzzing around the glacier, bikers were everywhere. I think a tour company had hit town, but there were also plenty of solo and pair riders. I fell in with a team of three and we hit it off. Tall tales were swapped, beers sunk and the laughs rang out late into the night - past 9pm even, if I recall correctly...



I was pleased to have a crew to ride with, for a change, and grateful for the invite to join them on the trip into Ushuaia. The bikes? Another GS, a Dakar and a KLR. I was looking forward to the film footage that should come from this...

Here's a little indication of what proper wind & ice looks like!

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Mullen

Movie: Argentina 2 - Tierra del Fuego

There's nothing like three bikes idling on the road to hurry you along, and I packed up quicker than normal to join my new companions.

Relying on full gas tanks as ballast, the four of us launched out from the safe harbour of El Calafate, due east towards Routa 40. With the early morning wind behind us we peered into the low sun and skimmed across the smooth tarmac. Riding in a group was interesting - I hadn't done this since Alaska, and it also reminded me of the Silk Road leg.

Not long after, it was time to change tack and we set about shortening the distance to Ushuaia by heading south: heeled hard against the wind the four of us looked like yachts. The gale was increasing by the minute and soon we were casting concerned eyes towards the glowering skies brooding over Torres del Paine. Was that a storm brewing, too?

We spoke to some travellers, just returned, and based on their advice decided to pass up the trip into the national park.

I sensed the draw of Ushuaia was already turning us, Gollum-like, away from any other destinations. Our precious goal of reaching the world’s most southerly city was alluring - far more than the prospect of a wet and windy night in the mountains, say.

We pushed on, past Port Natales and still fighting great gusts of wind. The reputation of this road is well deserved and we were concentrating hard. It was turning into a very long day. Forget photos, both hands were busy!

The Punta Arenas sea crossing to Tierra del Fuego doesn’t run on a Monday. Instead, the 650 Dakar rider, Fabio, guided us expertly towards the more northern crossing point - a mere 30-minute ferry across the wind-whipped seas known as the Strait of Magellan. We had little time to wait, pleasingly; the bitter, cold wind was sapping our energy.

The car ferry lined up with port and dropped it’s gang plank; I looked nervously at the broiling waters behind it. White foamed waves swept along the strait, and spat froth around the boat as it struggled to stay straight on to the approaching vehicle load. The crossing was quick and in the fading dusk we sped the last 40 minutes to El Sombrero, where we took a 4-bed dorm.

All this early morning riding, combined with dust on my lens, makes for rather unexposed film footage... but the guys made a decent squad of riders for the following MOVIE.



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We were off by 8.30am and made very good time across the main plains of Tierra Del Fuego, somehow dodging the coastal trunk road and all of it's traffic. Fast, smooth mud tracks let us keep a good pace and David (on a GSA) and I were loving the conditions - this was the kind of terrain GS bikes eat for breakfast.

The early sun set off the golden tundra beautifully, and our dawn chorus of rorty motors spooked geese, sheep, a fox and llamas as we sped along in a dusty line.

A few crossroads later and we were at Rio Grande, a barren little town but capable of putting a good sandwich together. By ‘good’ I mean suitable for a Tom & Jerry cartoons: the layers of beef, ham, cheese, lettuce and tomato were piled high and tottered on the plates. But we were so hungry the champion sandwich barely touched the sides.

Flowing with the wind we now pressed south-east along the coast. My sense of excitement was mounting. The sea was visible, yet for a few hours we watched the asphalt roll by, and fought the blasts and buffeting from the wind. At one point Fabio, on his Dakar, tucked in behind Gui on his KLR (offset and safety conscious) to hide from the wind; and I snuck up to do similar. Looking like the red arrows, the ruse was working nicely until Gui noticed and indicated we should, to put it politely, knock it off. Back in the wind we lent to the task once again.

We passed increasing numbers of hardy, long distance cyclists inching towards the end of their adventure. Like seagulls flying into the headwind they seemed to pedal furiously without going anywhere. ‘Maybe we should swap to bicycles for the ride into Ushuaia?’ I suggested to David. ‘Yeah,’ he said ‘and really savour those last three weeks...’.



The highway to Ushuaia cuts in land and then threads through the mountains. Until now I had found the barren topography very similar to that at the other ‘end of the world’, up near Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. Yet, here we were carving up mountains bends and schussing down the other side. The colours lining the road were subtle, as compared with Fall in Canada, say, but the red and orange tree litter was lovely - Autumn colours, of course.

With glowing motors and warm tyres we pulled up at the signed entrance to Ushuaia. We’d made it! So many weeks and months trying to make this destination, and here we were, each in one piece and grinning widely. The audience of mountains looked on with admiration and the lapping sea clapped our success, or so I felt.



A celebration followed that involved plates of local King Crab, a few beers and some remarkably good red wine. Exhausted by it all, we slept the sleep of champions.

A day later Gui and I rose early to visit the famous sign post at the end of Route 3, truly the end of the road.



Unable to take the bike further south, I'm going to join a ship and visit Antarctica on one of the end-of-season deals. No bikes, but plenty of penguins...

Since this is a biking blog I won't post the movie of that chapter... but if you are curious to see what the ice-capped continent has to offer, just check it out on my website. Plenty of Oooh, Aaaah and Woooah moments, I promise you!

Cheers,

Mullen

Your one very lucky man Im sure there will be alot of very jellous people view this!!!! Me for one
Enjoy the rest of your trip

Thanks Rocky - yes, the biking gods have been smiling on me for some time. It may be all the tires I sacrifice to them?

Now, riding home will be a new challenge so I hope to keep Fortune's favour.

Movie: South east Argentina

Who was it who said 'you gotta go there to come back'? Ah yes, the 'Phonics. Well, they had a point. Here, at the tip of South America I was 2,000 miles south of Buenos Aires, and another 1,500 away from Rio de Janeiro. With winter chills only a week or two away it was time to head north.



Ten days at sea had been a fantastic experience and I returned to my Bavarian beauty sheepishly. I was a few kilos heavier, and hauling photos and film in which my long-suffering companion was noticeably absent. I was grinning at memories of those cute little penguins, the sleek seals and raucous parties on the ship. She would not be amused.



Sitting out in the cold, my frigid companion needed some TLC. I lifted my luggage and warmed her engine gently. There was little spark from the battery and it needed a good charge across the hills before the ignition button was firing as normal.



We were off and running, however: away from the impressive Ushuaia mountains, through rust-coloured passes and along the back-country gravel tracks of Tierra del Fuego. It was a struggle finding a ferry willing to fight the wind-whipped Magellan Strait, but by the end of the second day, I had reached Rio Gallegos.

Prevailing gales, the forecast of imminent rain and snow, memories of muddy gravel tracks and of gas stations spaced sparsely along the Routa 40... I was easily persuaded that the south east coast of Argentina was my best option. I fled north, pounding the miles as remote and mostly featureless landscape skulked by.



A brief stop to circle the Valdez Peninsular gave me a glimpse of Orca whales menacing the local seal population. But a happier sighting was of two friends from the ship, Jordan and Sandra, who had hauled their Canadian dakar BMW bikes up Routa 3 too. Some of these photos are theirs, for a change. We rode the next section together and enjoyed some fine camping and hiking around the Sierra Del Ventana area (the only hills for hundreds of miles in any direction).



My luck didn't hold out, however. One gut-churning feature of the Argentinian trunk routes is the unannounced bulging or rutted asphalt caused by the relentless trucks. Whilst map-reading I failed to spot one such deformation ahead, and took a mighty bang that shook the bike. With hindsight, I think this incident cracked my rear suspension, because two days later a small road bump was enough for the spring to shear away from the fixing bolt. I stopped, stranded four hours short of Azul and a day from the next BMW shop. With a mocking flicker of lightning, an approaching rainstorm bore down on me.

I got by, with a little help from my friends. A rescue truck helped me out of the storm, as far as Azul (for a princely sum that would have been easier to pay if the guy had simply pulled gold from my spleen). However, in this sunny, dusty town I could at least join Jordan and Sandra at the local bikers' club and take advice on my predicament.



It was safe inside the clubhouse. Signatures and recorded logistics fill gaps between chain-and-sprocket wall hangings; an inspiration to follow in the tracks of those who have, over nearly 20 years, been welcomed in Azul on the way to or from Ushuaia. Pollo and Moni make everyone feel at home and are ready with an asado: juicy chunks of prime Argentine beef washed down by beer.



I researched the possible fix list, then removed the shock so that I could take it to the suspension specialist in Buenos Aires. This wasn't a job local welders would take on, Pollo assured me. It was also soon clear that importing a replacement part through Argentine customs could provoke PTSD: when I arrived at Dakar Motos, in a suburb of Buenos Aires, the smokey, sardonic laughs of Javier and Sandra told a tale. Tariffs, taxes, delay and despair were the best that recent travellers had encountered.



Here's my latest MOVIE installment - it's great how fellow riders and wildlife can enliven even Routa 3! Vehicles and animals, as the album said.



Today? Well, I'm enjoying the warm, bear-hugging friendship of new Argentine friends. I have a week (at least) to explore this huge city and get a flavour of the craziness that runs through this sophisticated tango town. I've scored a little moped, too, to drive badly though the traffic and say 'Ciao!' a lot, in an Italian accent.


Next time, I'll show you something of the city... Be safe out there.

Movie:Argentina 3 - Buenos Aires

So, a week turned into two. And two duly became three. It was tricky - I couldn't leave Buenos Aires without settling on a fix for my bike. On the other hand, I had plenty of South America still to see and time was slipping away.

(Below: Puerto Madera... a bridge required for my conundrum)



The problem hinged on the difficulties of importing foreign items into Argentina - something that has become particularly difficult since the start of 2012. My friends reported from the local customs department; the BMW outlets confirmed they've run out of new bikes; and the team at DakarMotos told dark tales of replacements parts stuck at the customs clearing house for weeks, or even months.

For a pretty penny I had a replacement part for the suspension fabricated by the local suspension specialist. He serviced the shock at the same time. All in all, I reckoned shipping the shock over to a Wilbers dealer would have been no less expensive. 10 days after handing it over to Javier, I was ready to refit and ride.

My new friends insisted on driving me back south to Azul - it was a little road trip for the boys, they told me, just like years gone by. I couldn't disuade them but at least rewarded their 300km generosity with lunch at the other end. The patience of a well-filled belly helped soon after: after a few failed attempts, we were really struggling to get the shock back into the bike. It seemed the new part was a millimeter too wide, due to a protruding piece of the housing. No biggie, though - the oldest and wisest head, Sandro, took a piece of fine sand paper and smoothed the offending edge. I put the hammer down, relieved.

(Below: typical scene.... slow roasted meat and red wine!)



I rode back to Buenos Aires gently and continued my enjoyment of the town. By night I was treated to endless hospitality amongst a tight-knit group of old friends. By day I had the scooter, and slowly worked my way around the different neighbourhoods. Without GPS the navigation was trickier than I'd expected - but hey, I got to see parts I'd have missed otherwise, right?



Metal or stone?

With time on my hands, I was also working on a plan for the final leg of this adventure: the long ride up from Cape Town. As you know, things don't just happen - I needed to renew insurance(s), get a Carnet, research visa issues and route options.

I dragged my increasingly lardy arse around the local park, lap after lap. On a long trip getting sufficient exercise is important - with late-night cheese fondu meals, it becomes essential. The thinking-time was useful: I still had to find a fix for a nasty looking oil leak on the bike.

(Below: red meat - great for boxers; not so great if you spend all day on the couch in your boxers)



The local BMW guys gave me a diagnosis and the parts list I need - it's a nasty, time-consuming job, they reckon, as the seals are inside the engine this time. I'm just within my warranty period, but getting the fix done is not straightforward: read my first paragraph again!

I've resolved to order parts to Uruguay, as the capital city Montevideo is only a short ferry ride away from Buenos Aires. The customs delay is much shorter. Emails and phone calls have had little traction, so I've decided to head over in person and make sure all is well. I've been told the bike should work fine provided I keep an eye on the oil level, and that I can ride north on that basis. Umm, well, that's a risk I'll have to take.



Here's a MOVIE for some of the fun of Buenos Aires... those guys really know how to party late.



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Movie Ride Report continues... Uruguay

Morning, listener.

The ferry to Uruguay - called the Buquebus - is easy-going. You do all the border formalities before you leave, and just ride out the other end. Like almost all the Argentine people I've encountered, the ferry staff are friendly as anything - from the ticket guys to the deck hands to the refreshment ladies. I will look forward to returning next month.



I'd chosen the closest crossing point, Colonial de Sacramento. This is a wonderful old town, full of cobbled streets and autumn leaves.



Warm enough to sit out in the afternoon sun, listening to chords falling gently from the twin guitarists sat under the tree.



I found a quiet spot to rough camp, and kept the locals from their dogging for one night at least. Early morning barks signaled it was time to get up.

The road east to Montevideo is nothing special, but already I was getting a sense of this new country. I took a few (deliberate) detours to try and visit some of the less touristy towns along the way. Uruguay seems a little like the Land That Time Forgot: old cars, horse-and-carts, folks going about their business without fuss or rush.



My bike got a lot of attention, mind, and even the ticket warden didn't know what to do... I sat over my mid-morning tea and pastry watching through the window: confident the official wouldn't issue me a penalty. The serving girls giggled at such brazen rule breaking, but I was right - the alien registration had the lady flummoxed.

The countryside is rich with beef cattle; neat and ordered, too. The roads are in great condition, suggesting the country has a respectable GDP. If only I had a few bends to contend with this would be a great return to riding.

I took a quick stop in Montevideo to confirm things with the BMW guys. Then it was back out to the highway. I started to track the coast, calling in at a few beaches along the way to admire the local lighthouse, surf or sandy stretches.



The rich and famous have their choice locations; the unkempt backpackers their own. More rough camping, to keep the costs low, and suddenly I was getting close to the border.

I'd not really seen enough of this pleasant nation, nestling as it does between the giants of Brazil and Argentina. Perhaps I'll detour past on the way south? If not, I'll know where to return.



This post is summarised better in the following MOVIE moments for you... enjoy!




Cheers

Movie: Brazil

And we're back.

The crossing into Brazil was straight forward - the more remote the frontier point, the easier it is (in my experience). I headed north expecting to reach Rio in a few days, but as usual things turned out differently.



Wildlife is abundant in Brazil, and that's without even venturing into the Amazon. It makes for some gruesome roadkill and there were regular reminders to keep my eyes as sharp as a caiman's teeth. Still, I enjoyed the green swamp scenery for a while, before the main trunk route whisked me along like a leaf on the river.

I was passing many wonderful beach areas and felt bad that I couldn't stay - learn to surf, I thought, or just summon a sun tan to the pasty whiteness that lurks under my riding kit. Eventually, at the sunny sand-filled island of Florianopolis I came to a rest.



I hired wind surfing gear for a few hours, but I still felt this water wonderland would keep a guy happy for weeks. I watched the waves crash up white sandy beaches, and then withdraw. Yep, a surfer could stay here for years. I met a few who were admiring the bike, and one German guy had yet to leave after 20 years... but he was thinking of somewhere quieter now. Too many tourists, he said.

I spent the next couple of days detouring around the inland back country, looking for some dramatic gorge rides I'd read about. Getting to see the less famous areas of this region was a great experience - although the camping was pretty cold up on the plateau.

I was revelling on the easy dirt roads the GS loves. It's easy to get carried away and forget you're a long way from help. I got down a steep, switch back track that graders had ploughed up freshly. It's been a while since I dropped the bike, but this was going to be tricky. Done. Man, I love this bike!

Now to inch along the map towards Rio. I picked a coastal route that looked rewarding, and I was right. Mile after mile of quick, technical road riding to enjoy - the road hugging the coast. The oil leak on my bike seeped at the end of each day, weeping with delight - I hoped - after such involving riding.



Rio de Janeiro. Famous images in my head needed verification. I grinned widely as I exited the tunnel and caught a glimpse of the bold hills ahead - that giant statue of Christ gazing out over the city.



Through more tunnels and round the headlands. I was dicing with the crazy bus drivers in a Samba zig-zag that needed great care: fast driving, they'd pull across and screech to a halt without warning: these were the beachside people-transits and a law unto themselves.

{Below: a photo of a photo - I was glad not to be visiting during the 'high' season!}


I was grateful for a few traffic light stops: I admired the rich array of life bubbling by the sand. Ipanema and Copacabana: notorius stretches, but now deemed safe(r) and inviting to tourist or local alike. Even now, in the low season, the wide sweep was busy: football, volley ball, bat n ball. Snack vendors and beer stands; curio sellers and surf board swingers. Sun shades, deck chairs. Chrome exercise frames to encourage and facilitate the sculpting of those bronzed bodies. The sidewalk-side lane was buzzing with cycles, skaters and runners.



I spent a few days enjoying the many tourist spots in the city - the beautiful views, the enchanting old colonial streets, the grand architecture and the revived and 'pacified' favelas.



Rio was everything I had hoped it would be - I can only imagine how crazy it gets during the carnival season. :happay





As you'll see, my attempt to leave was a little convoluted. Getting into, up and over the steep forested ridge that runs along the coast south of Rio can be quite a slick experience. (It's a lot steeper than the movie suggests.) But hey, that's what a GS is for, right?

By the time I got to the next border, a few days later, I was thick with a cold and soaked to the skin. Rough camping on gas station court yards had helped save some money, but I'm not sure my health was helped as much... I guess I should have hung out for longer in the warm embrace of Brazil's beautiful city, eh?

Here's the MOVIE charting my ride north... Hope you enjoy!



Mullen

Leaving South America (Part 1)

Hola amigos,

When I last left you, I was thick with a cold and perhaps also a case of ennui. Yes, one of the biggest challenges on the long ride is keeping the spirits high when health is low. After months on the road and a visit to the UK in sight, it's all to easy to find a great location, yet pass by with a shrug.



Leaving Brazil I had the magnificent sight of the Iguazu Falls to enjoy, and I did - the photos tell the tale best.



The town has a bird sanctuary too, where I got friendly with a bunch of pretty tame Toucans. (Along with puffins and penguins, these birds can be very entertaining.)



And, to bring my touring here to a close, I rode 15km north of town to check out the giant Itaipu Dam - second in size only to the newer Three Gorges Dam in China. It was, as you'd expect, something to behold... All that concrete and steel, with statistics that dwarf most other famous landmarks.



Yet, I was keen to press on - onwards into Paraguay, which is the last 'new' county I'll visit in South America. I have a few days to try and catch a sense of it. 'I wonder how it will compare to the neighbouring countries I've visited... a mix of all of them, or a unique culture of its own?' I asked myself. Truth be told, I was trying to drum up enthusiasm.

-------------------------------

Getting into Paraguay on Saturday was a bit of a shambles. I left the bike on a central reservation at the frontier whilst traffic zipped by (mostly motorbike taxis carrying knock-off goods one way or the other). This kind of parking is, I've learnt, pretty safe - nobody can stop to interfere with my bike as they'd cause a road block and a cacophony of hooting. A fierce looking military type gave me an almost imperceptible nod, to confirm he'd keep an eye on the GS.

I had to go search out the officials to stamp my exit / entrance papers: nobody seemed to care. I'm glad of my experiences at other borders - such slack procedure was bemusing rather than worrisome. At least when I did find the correct office and official things continued more quickly. There was no lack of friendliness, at least. I was over the border by 3.30pm - country number...er, I forget.



It was still a lovely sunny day, so I pointed the beak west and struck out on to the highway - two or three hours now would give me some reserve for tomorrow, in case I should need it. In the event, I did.

By morning it was lashing rainstorms and I was relieved to have picked a cheap hotel room and fast internet rather than my bivvy tent set up. I waited a few hours before making a dash for it during a brief break in the showers.

Motoring, I sped through a few weak rain fronts and got to my lunch stop without further drama. That means there's nothing much to tell you, I'm afraid. I could describe the rich red earth and the vibrant green fields, or the orange of citrus fruit and pumpkins laid neatly on stalls lining the road. There were golden-glowing wood carvings, colourful canvas swings and lines of washing pegged in the breeze. But, to me, much of this was unremarkable - it was very similar to other countries I'd ridden through this five months and I suppose my eyes are somewhat jaded. Looking back I curse my failure to take a few photos.



I glimpsed football matches playing in front of, perhaps, 200 spectators. And groups of young men gathered around nothing in particular, but perhaps discussing their assembled mopeds. People going about their lives, stopping to stare when their ears picked up the unfamiliar rumble of my bike's engine. A few horse-drawn carts rolled past, but the animals were weak and undernourished so the 'charm' of this was missing. Again, why didn't I stop to record the detail of what will soon enough fade in my memory?

In a square, in Caaguazu, I pulled up and four kids jumped out immediately to ply me with questions, hoping I'd also buy some homemade jewellery. The pieces looked like something you'd get in a Christmas cracker, so I declined gently. They chatted nevertheless and presently others came over to join in. I don't mind this at all, and I let older guys pose for camera-phone photos sitting on the bike, or whatever. But, I needed my lunch so (with the bike in full view) I took a table nearby.



Having befriended the locals a little, I had no concerns about walking away from my bike. I was here to view the local church, which once a year becomes a pilgrimage destination. Today, all was tranquil and even outside the official worshipping hours there were a few faithful on their knees, praying fervently. The architecture didn't compare well to other churches and cathedrals I've seen in Central / South America, so after only a short while I rode on.

There seemed a shortage of sights to keep this tourist contented. The lakeside resort-villages of San Bernardino and, on the opposite shore, Aregua, were just fiddly. Plenty of cobbles and muddy back streets, but being out of season, their charm was completely missing for me. Likewise, I found nothing to delay me in the Paraguayan capital - Ascencion. A few circles round the main areas revealed few reasons to stop - maybe a museum trip would have been worthwhile, but I doubt I'd have had the patience this day. You see, the laziness was back.

I went 40 minutes out of town and found a good site for my tent. 'It's not that I'm trying to rush this ride', I said to myself. 'It's just that I need more stimulation that Paraguay is providing'. Ah yes, the curse of the long-time traveller. Reading this piece back, it's so clear that the problem was with me, not Paraguay!

Ignoring the extra hour supplied by Paraguay's time zone, I was away early, using Argentine / Brazilian time. I made a long day's ride south to Encarnacion with just a few stops for refreshment. It was sunny and hot, so when my visit to the Jesuit ruins 30km north of the city yielded neither cold water nor ice cream, my willingness to trudge the huge site evaporated. I peered through the heat at the neat ruins laid out on the grass beyond the metal fence, and that was enough. 'Jeeze, after their huge dam, this is the best Paraguay has to offer?' - I couldn't find the dollars and determination to pay my dues.

No harm done - I let momentum bring me back to the city, and then over the smart suspension bridge with a few border formalities completed quickly: I had returned to Argentina.

Paraguay: was it worth it? Paraguay struck me as a country emerging quietly, but successfully, from decades of military dictatorship. In twenty years (since the toppling of Alfredo Stroessner) things have been improving: Paraguay is reportedly quite prosperous now. The eastern land is green, and the locals both friendly and faithful. Slicing across the land by motorbike, I won't complain that I didn't experience a lot, and the better approach must be to visit during fiesta time, say. Encarnacion has a carnival to rival Rio's.

On this lengthy trip, I have to accept that some places will seem a little dull in comparison with others. I don't begrudge the miles to go visit, but I think it's a shame to have left with almost no strong memories - fond or otherwise. I'm writing this as an illustration of how the laziness of the long-distance rider can descend: it's something you don't read too often in shorter rider reports, but it's a trip consideration like all the others.



Here's a final movie from South America - a farewell of sorts.

The final post will be less contemplative, more upbeat and hopefully persuade you to join me on the final leg of this journey, where adventures are certain to continue.

Cheers,

Mullen

Leaving South America (Part 2)

Hola!

Still with me? After leaving Paraguay I had to travel south a few days, back to Buenos Aires, the Argentine capital. I intended visiting the charmed city of Rosario en route, yet diverted away east to Uruguay's Montevideo instead. Why? Well, I needed to pick up spare parts for my bike before the BMW shop closed for the weekend. (The parts don't get through customs direct into Argentina.) Funny how the weathervane of travelling spins this way and that, sometimes quickly.

So, I change direction and crossed the border into north western Uruguay. The weather was gorgeous, and the roads empty hour after hour. As a final ride on the continent, this was a great send off. I enjoy once more the land-that-time-forgot and marvel at the ancient tractors still plying the fields, even as huge modern monsters rip ploughs through the co-operative lands nearby. Montevideo is still a handsome mix of colonial grandeur and contemporary style, and the guys at the dealership soon have me sorted. I'm on the ferry to Buenos Aires in no time, and sat contentedly in the plush seats. What a day!



My travels in South America are drawing to a close, and that thought is now safe to entertain. 'Fewer mishaps can happen now I'm so close to the freighting warehouse. Should I begin thinking of home, or of the next leg of my journey? '

Instead, random thoughts flooded into my head as I started to process everything I've seen this past few weeks. The dam has broken and they come haphazardly. Here are a few light hearted ones.

1. Instead of witty bumper stickers, locals add cartoon figures representing the number, gender and age of their immediate family - the usual 2.4 children and a dog, often. Pride in one's prodginy seems fine. The cartoons often have 'characteristics' so it's tempting to imagine the background story - particularly when the cartoons tells of an ambigous set up. Are those both his wives? Is the son married to his uncle? Why is the daughter pregnant by a cow? The mind boggles.

2. Brazil seems to have by far the highest number of speed cameras in South America. They're placed at very sensible points, near speed bumps at the entrance or exit of each urban area. I assume that the cameras don't have any film in them. Or else, my ticket collection has yet to be connected directly to the border agency computer...



3. I love it when a country lets moped and motorbikes through the 'Peaje' gates for free. In Brazil they won't, and the increasingly stiff tariffs took a toll on my wallet. Literally. Scrabbling for pennies became a search for notes... wet notes at that, because the rain was hammering quite often. Now, in Uruguay passing the lines of chuntering pick ups is easy: I coast serenely along a separate channel for two wheelers. A much better system!

4. Some folks are very hesitant about coming up to me and asking questions, let alone taking photos. (Is it the beard or the smell?) For those who are brave or polite I always take time to answer their questions. It helps my Spanish. On my grumpy days I simply hide the bike under a cover in order to deter the inquisitive and inquisitions. On good days my reward is a friendly group who take pride in looking after my bike while I wander off with my camera.



5. As I finished at a border one day, I was buttonholed by a couple of dishevelled old chaps. They'd waited for me to don my jacket, put in my ear plugs, start the engine and move off before only then stirring, and motioning me to talk about the bike. I was a bit brusque and gave them but a nod and wave as I tried to roll out and away from them. I ignored the cries, at first, then stopped with a scrunch of gravel and a glare. I was relieved that the dressed-down border officials, for this is what they turned out to be, proved so forgiving. Oops.

6. Matte. A bitter infusion made from stewed green leaves. I don't much like the stuff, but gather it has a kick like coffee and it serves an important social function. You carry around a thermos of hot water, a gourd and the mixing mug. Everyone seems to carry their supply with them - the full three piece kit. The equivalent would be my carrying around a kettle, teapot and pack of Earl Grey. I already have the kitchen sink on my bike, so why not add a bit more?



It's served scalding hot, sucked up a metal straw that sticks out of the soggy paste prepared in the gourd. You pass it around amongst friends, a bonding custom.

All of the countries in this corner of the continent drink matte in an almost constant sipping session. I can't believe the drinkers get much else done during the day.

7. In South America you have to add your national identity number when you sign the credit card chits. I just scribble any random series of seven digits. But why ask for the details if you never check them?

8. Every morning the pavements of Buenos Aires are hosed down, to clean them of the dog mess that accumulates during the day. Wouldn't it be easier just to hose down the owners each time they fail to pick up after their pets?



9. My Spanish language learning progress is steady. Yet, Spanish will be of little use in Africa. Having failed to continue with Latin, French, Japanese, Cantonese and Mandarin over the years (not to mention those piano lessons...) it's time I tried to grind out some longer term competency. I've ten days in Buenos Aires to consolidate my learning and set a marker for the future.

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I've been so impressed by the friendliness of everyone I've met in South America. As if to tatoo the point on my concience, the friends I visit in Buenos Aires are unstinting in their generosity. I stay again with Jorge, Sandro & Ximena and their boys, and we become almost like family. We make plans for the future, and some of the hospitality will be repaid when Ximena and her son visit the UK in a few weeks.

When its time to leave, our goodbyes are heartfelt and tearful. Of all the countries I visited, my biggest surprise has been Argentina. In the city famed for its haughty views and insouciance I've been treated like a lost brother. Despite jingoistic public propaganda between these old Falklands / Malvinas adversaries, my friends have been a model of open-minded, open armed comaradarie.



This is what travelling is about - whether by motorbike, bicycle or air balloon.

And now? I'm so looking forward to my time in Africa. This is where things are going to get even more interesting.

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Post script: Following a breakdown of the webhosting service provided previously by Apple, I will be starting a new site to blog about the ride up from Cape Town to London. It seems a sensible point to start a new thread on this forum, so please look out for that - I hope you enjoy the next chapter as much I've enjoyed telling you about the last one.

Mullen.

http://ridinginthetracksofgiants.blogspot.com/



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