Shock gone fut. third time

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

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

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

Hot water

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

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

more stunning red rock gorge country.


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

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

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

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

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

Valle de la Luna

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




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




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


Back past our picnic site under the prickle tree,







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

Paso del Agua Negra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

North from Mendoza - take two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

north from Mendoza - take one

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hospitalidad Argentina - pulenta!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Muchísimas gracias por todo. Pulenta!