More Challenges on Ruta 40....

Up to San Martin de los Andes, past buena vistas of lakes, mountains and our first active volcano - Volcan Lanin. We're still on Ruta 40, and this must be the dustiest road so far, both of us coughing and spluttering into our helmets as we try to overtake the occasional big, slow truck. As we left El Bolson this morning, a big Patagonian Hare, which must have been related to the one we ate in Puerto Natales, charges out at us from the side of the road. Luckily it sees us early, (these things are as big as a greyhound and just as fast) but because it is at full pelt, it can't stop so it arcs away from us with a glorious thrashing of back legs overtaking front legs and I see right into its eyes as it just peels away, inches from my left leg. We get into a decent hotel and go out for a walk around town. This is the height of the Argentine holiday period now and the town is packed with noticeably smarter looking people and cars up from the capital. We push the boat out and have possibly our best meal to date, with a lovely bottle of Pinot Noir, a great sun - dried tomato salad and for main course I have locally killed Ciervo (venison) and Neil has a steak. We go for the necessary PPP (post prandial promenade) and then back to the hotel after a couple of beers and some frames of pool (I win).

We were out on the road early and following the great views of the massive Volcan Lanin yesterday, today we follwo Ruta 40 right around the edge of a crater! We soon reach the border crossing into Chile (for the last time) at Pehuen, riding through forests of primeval looking monkey puzzle trees. I am used to seeing these at home, as single specimens, like in Nat and Neil's front garden. Here, seeing them in their natural setting, growing right onto the ridges of the mountains themselves, they look older and more exotic than I ever noticed before, especially as there are so many, relaly big matures ones. We wouldn't have been surprised if some dinosaurs had been added to the view. Unfortunately as we were so close to the border at this point, we thought it unwise to take photos. We pass through some more dirt roads and a 4km long single - track tunnel and onto Ruta 5 (our first time onto the Panamerican Highway) and into the heartland of Chile. It is wine country and has a familiar mediterranean feel, with everything seeming to grow in profusion here after the dry pampas of Patagonia. This and the joy of making big progress through this country described as a supermodel long, lean and expensive to spend any time with really lifts our spirits as we motor on and on, stopping only for the periodic toll booths.

We roar on to such an extent that it the sun is starting to get low to our left we realise it, throwing our long shadows onto the fileds of corn, vines and fruit trees in their neat rows like a flickering animated pelicula. After thoughts of rough camping in the fields cross both our minds, we see a green neon sign standing out clearly ahead in the dusky light - La Luna Motel. We soon realise, that all is not what it seems when the prices are advertised for 5 and 12 hour periods, each room has its own sliding door, secure private garage entrance and a serving hatch where beers and snacks are served and double beds only, available in 3 sizes with optional vibrating features! Shrugging our shoulders, ordering a beer and grateful for the fact that the secure garage means we don't have to unpack our bikes that night (oh joy!), the man dutifully shows us where the "canales adultos" which seem to cater for all tastes are on the TV, we settle down to as unromantic an evening as possible, with lots of expressive farting and snoring.

Off early, through the vibrant port - city of San Antonio, smelling deliciously of seafood as we pass by its market, inalnd and over freshwater lakes hopping with fish, and along the shoreline of Vina del Mar, with great views of Valparaiso across the bay, with massive commercial ships and rolling waves that may have started life just outside Sydney a few weeks ago crashing on the rocks in between. We have to stop for a cooling beer and get a parking ticket for our troubles from a pre-pubescent Traffic Warden, who we menacingly hand back the ticket to before we move on North onto the Quintero peninsula and a cabana, our favourite form of accomodation to date. Quintero is a holiday resort on the rougher part of the coast - literally and socially, with the waves pounding against the rocky shore and the music pounding against your ears from the beaches and the discotecas, the half - ruined Waikiki Beach at the confluence of both forces. There is an oil powered powerstation to the north, providing great views of the tankers hitching up to the remote loading bouy in the bay whilst pitching and rolling in the swell, but the smog obscures the views of the highest part of the Andes behind. On the beach, they offer "tattoos" made from spray - painting your body with variuos colours of toxic car paint through a template of your choice and one morning I was up and about early to witness throwing out time at the discoteco Palladium on the harbour front, when one patron with a full litre bottle of Cristal in his hand, part of the deal to get him to leave, staggered across the road and settled down to sleep amongst a huddle of stray dogs that are everywhere in Chile and Argentina.

There are of course, lots of national differences that we have noticed between the 2 nations. Chilenos are like the Swiss of Latin America, relatively punctual, reserved and with a great infrastructure, which is more predictable and reliable - e.g. mobile phone networks, roads and internet access. Whereas the Argentineans are more latin, unpredictable, fun, friendly and infuriatingly unreliable, like their infrastructure. Only in Valparaiso, did we see the sort of artistic and political graffiti that you see everywhere in Argentina. The 2 nations are very jealous of each other however, and when crossing the border as frequently as we have, you are constantly asked how their country compares to their neighbours - Argentineans are crestfallen to hear that we think the roads and the scenery are generally better in Chile and revel in the opinion that their food and social life are the best of the two and vice versa. These national differences even extend to the dogs themselves. Los peros Chilenos are more private and organised, never going into public buildings and seeming to keep to their own block and protect it vehemently, particularly when you are an extrajenero on a motorbike - I have never been chased by dogs so often. Whereas los perros Argentinos seem to wander in random packs, happily walk into someone elses house, restaurant, hotel room, etc but are much friendlier and less likely to bark at and chase you. There is however, given the large numbers of dogs in Chile, strnagely no sign of dog shit on the streets, which is not the case in Argentina.

They next day, we take off our luggage and head back along the coast into Valparaiso, stopping for seafood empanadas, melon juice and cafe con leche for breakfast along the way. The coastline of the city is beautiful and it reminds me so much of a combination of Barcelona, Capetown, Beirut and Benidorm, thankfully in that order. The post - modern potential of the old industrial and port areas must have been like Barcelona a quarter of a century ago, before its Olympic facelift; the great coastline, beach culture and mountain backdrop is like Cape Town; the rocky shoreline and faded elegance of some of the people and places reminds me of Beirut and the shabby concrete developments and tacky seaside paraphenalia is like Benidorm. We ride around the port areas and then park up under the Ascensor Artilleria, and ascend at 45 degrees in a garden shed to the top of the city, with its Navy Museum and colourfully painted Victorian villas overlooking the Pacific. There is lots of great graffiti here too and the trading boats still come and go from the port area below as they did 150 years ago when these building were made. Then we head down to Muelle Prat (named after the improbably named National Naval hero, Arturo Prat, who could never have made such a reputation for himself in his native England with such a name), where boat fares to China, Australia, Phillipines, Japan were advertised. We wander through the seafood stalls, which even in the mid - afternoon had some good, fresh stock available and a vibrant atmosphere. We duck into a shady, wood - panelled bar, which doesn't look like it has changed much since the boom times 150 years ago apart from the posters of the twentieth century trinity of Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and Elvis hung above the bar like some improbable, out of place iconostasis. We have a drink at the bar and watch the theatrical entrance of a local puta with some amusement, which completes the dockside scene. She keeps accidentally nudging us as a pretext to try to start a conversation and eventually settles down for a drink with a small, bald man at the other end of the bar, after havng gone to the ladies and washed her hair and whatever else was required no doubt, to freshen up. We head to the Plaza Sotomayor for some more drinks, where the Navy Headquarters (a classical building curiously painted naval grey) and a big memorial to Prat is located, which reinforces the power of the military in Chile - apparently the centre of Santiago is the same in regards to the army dominating the civil architecture. We get back to the cabana to a great evening of wine, seafood and music on the iPod, which we could share out loud for the first time as the owners, Rodrigo and Catalina had thoughtfully provided each cabana with a recycled speaker and a jack. Next day we relaxed, adding Ruta 40 and Chile Stickers to our bikes as well as heading into town for a drink and Neil attempted to catch us some more fish.

We are ready to leave early and head East into the mountains, 150km (Chile's widest point!) to the mountains and across the pass at 3,500m, past the south face of Aconcagua which has less snow than when I was here 2 months ago. We stop at the Puente del Inca, a natural limestone bridge across the Rio Horcones which San Martin used to surprise the Spanish - ruled Chilenos from the rear in 1817, a national insult for which the Argentinos have never been forgiven. We stop a Uspallata for a fantastic Bife de Chorizo, so big and yet so tender and tasty and only 3.50 livres esterling and then take the dirt road through Villavicencio as an alternative to going through the big city of Mendoza. The weather turns bad with hail and lashing rain and little arroyos running through the road and causing lots of rocks to fall from above. We make it through to the disappointingly shut spa and head back onto Ruta 40 and north to try to find somewhere to sleep as the shadows lengthen. It turns out to be a long ride to San Juan and the Hotel Al Kristal, owned by a friendly Lebanese family, where we arrive in the dark around 10.45pm. We have a drink, still full from our trucker's steak and the evening is remarkable because nothing happened apart from us going straight to bed and fall asleep listening to thunderstorms raging. Next day the roads are flooded - periodic badenes are full of deep water and mud, washed down by the thunderstorms. We make it through, after a delay at one point near Los Palacios we saw a Goldstar Toyota Hilux washed away by the force of the flash floods 2 hours before we got there with 1 person killed - a muerte the ominous words that greet our questions about what happened to the driver and his compainions who we had seen on the road yesterday. What was left when we got there was 3 foot deep alluvial silt from the swollen Rio Bermejo. After waiting for 2 hours for a digger to be called up from the constant road works on Ruta 40, we were the first through and I was really pissed off after our heroic crossing when I skidded in the slippery, plaster - smooth mud on the other side and had a small but embarassing off. We went on through other similar obstacles without incident to a vinyard cabana near Chilecito in the rain. The cabanas are made from wood panelling from the cardon pipe cactus we saw for the first time riding through the gorge of Cuesta Miranda earlier today. This changing northern desert landscape and the increasingly Indian features and brightly painted adobe style houses give the region more of a Mexican feel. We drink some of their Malbec and learn of the National and Regional emergencies declared because of the heavy rain. More tough riding greets us ahead, having to get off and walk the river to check the bottom before advancing with care. The little sleep due to heavy snoring and irregular hours and eating patterns start to grind us down as our progress slows accordingly.

Onwards on Ruta 40, which is now more than 4,000km along from where we first started on it in Patagonia and more muddy river crossings between San Fernando and Hualfin, and in particular a deeply flooded 3 stage crossing with torrential rushing currents causes us both some serious problems. I cross the first stage, but the deep water floods my engine in the second stage and I stall as the river starts to wash me and the bike down the gorge. I manage to hold it until Neil and some truck drivers help me push it to the other side and we help Neil to do the same. We spend the rest of the day trying to dry and clean the engine, exhaust and spark plugs, but mine will not start and sleep in the bus stop up the hill from the river and helping other bikers onto the backs of trucks and avoid the pitfalls that befell us. Neil tows me up there and then goes on to the next village and we eat a dinner of canned spaghetti, nougat and dried prunes, with a nice bottle of wine. It gets cold, so we light a fire inside the concrete box of the parada de autobus, which rapidly turns into a smoke house, with us as the kippers. It does however, clear the place of some disturbingly big bugs that we notice on their exodus as we hang out by the door to get some fresh air. We settle down to sleep and are woken regularly by more thunder storms pounding the tin roof and the resulting drips of water that land on us below. We wake to see the river had fallen significantly and frustratingly, see someone cross on a moped (bastardo!), try a few more things to start my bike (in the process breaking my HT lead!) before deciding that Neil should go on to get a recovery for me. As he tries to pull away, first gear won't engage and we realise that his clutch has finally given up after burning it on his off on the way to El Chalten more than 4,000 km ago at the start of Ruta 40. So, I walk into Hualfin and eventually get Tito and Victor to come and pick us up in their F100 truck and take us back to their workshop. Once there, they tell us they can't fix our bikes but for 600 pesos will take us to the nearest bike shop in Santa Maria de Valle de Yokavil, on the way to Salta. We agree, and haul our bikes back onto the truck with our luggage and head off on the 120km, which takes almost 3 hours on rough roads, whilst Victor and Tito chew coca leaves and listen to an annoyingly out of tune radio. After visiting the cajero automatico, we get dropped off at Riva Motos, where the brothers Julio and Adrian say that they can help us. We drop our bikes and stuff there and head to the Hotel La Plaza on the main square, I have Ravioli and Neil has Pizza and we enjoy some local Salta Malta cervezas. Next day we go back to find that they can fix my bike that day, but getting a new clutch plate for Neil's will be more difficult, but they will try. We check out the town and find it has an interesting history, founded twice by General Manuel Belgrano but sacked by the local Calchaqui Indians the first time, before they were rounded up and deported to Buenos Aires. The 2nd February is the anniversary of the city's founding and is marked by the Festival of the Virgin of the Candelaria which seems to involve the local icon being dressed up and paraded around town, with lots of fireworks and foodstalls etc. It was not exactly carnival in Rio, but is was a nice gentle diversion from the problems with the bikes and seemed to signify a resolution to exist together between the Spanish descendents and the remants of the majority Indian population.

We returned to Riva Motos only to find that Neil's clutch plate was not available in BA or in Cordoba, with another distributor in Mendoza being the only other possible source. We agreed that I would ride my bike to pick it up if it turned out ot be available in the country, as sending it by post would take more than a week and making one, would take about the same. Otherwise, ordering it from Europe would take 25 days to arrive in BA, tal vez (maybe). In that case, it would be better to see if Nat could bring one from England as we are under some time pressure now to be in Lima by the 23rd. I may have to ride on alone and Neil join us there to return with his part and catch up with me later, something that we definitely don't want to contemplate, as the whole point of the trip was to do it together and after waiting for Neil's wrists to heal, etc. As all is closed for the weekend, we have filled time looking at maps and travel options, getting the phone number of the dealer in Mendoza and playing pool and watching the Six Nations games on TV. Tomorrow morning back at Riva Motos will be the big decision point about how we progress from here.....