Esquel 24-2-12

Petrol shortages seem to be the order of the day in Patagonia. I have no idea what's happening but people keep telling me it's political. With my somewhat inadequate Spanish (I can just and so order a beer in a bar) it's difficult to find out exactly what's happening.

I left Puerto Madryn intending to spend a day on the Valdes peninsula; see some of the wild life, ditch my camping gear at the campsite in Puerto Piramides and spend an afternoon ragging a somewhat lightened bike round some of the dirt tracks but without fuel, it's a non-option.

A quick conversation with myself and I headed back to Puerto Madryn to fill up and headed west towards RN25. Filled up again at Gaiman and continued down a rather wonderful road that looks like the backdrop to a Roadrunner cartoon.

No petrol anywhere. I stopped at every gas station on the road to be told the same. “No gasolina”. Eventually someone told me that there was petrol at a place called Los Altares which doesn't even appear on my map. There was a strong headwind which doesn't help fuel consumption and I ran onto reserve at 220km on the odometer. Eventually hit Los Altares at around 290km only to be told the same. Two Brazillian lads who had been tear arsing around Argentina on a Fireblade and a CBR600RR and spoke a little English told me that petrol would be arriving in a couple of hours. I parked the bike next to a pump, plastered myself with sunscreen, sparked up a fag and sat down to wait it out.

After an hour or so, an Africa Twin turned up carrying Gaultier and Chloe who I'd met in Buenos Aires. With their excellent Spanish they were able to find out that petrol would indeed be arriving. Maybe in a couple of hours, maybe later on but definitely arriving. They were also able to get directions to an excellent wild camping spot down by the river Chubut.

We bought food and booze and set off down a dirt track down to the river before it got dark. Put tents up and Gaultier set back off to the gas station to see if the delivery had turned up. No joy this time but the lad at the garage said that they were expecting 20,000 litres and that should be enough for 4 days. Therefore we should just come back tomorrow.

After cooking and eating, I crashed early. First night in the million star hotel. Absolutely no light pollution in that part of Patagonia. I heard the Africa Twin in the night so I assume that was Gaultier going to check on the fuel situation but I didn't hear him get back. I must have been asleep before then.

Overcast and looking like rain in the morning. Took my tent down and packed my gear up as soon as I woke up. Gaultier had indeed scored some juice in the middle of the night, I set off to wait at the station in case I had to queue which seems to be the norm in Argentina.

I needn't have worried, there was no queue and I put just over 20 litres in the tank with 300km on the odometer. Just 3 litres left.

The Brazilians were fishing empty water bottles out of the bins to carry spare fuel. The lad with the Fireblade explained that they only got 170km to a tank.

An Argentinian lad joined us on a V twin cruiser of a make I don't know. While Chole and Gaultier stopped for breakfast, we all set off and spent the whole day leapfrogging each other down RN25.

It was raining lightly and it got cold. I've seldom seen the thermometer drop below 25 degrees and today it went down to 7. I stopped at the first petrol station (no gasolina) and put a jumper on and changed to my winter gloves so I was OK but the Brazilians weren't dressed for cold and the Argentinian lad spent most of the day riding with plastic bags on his feet just to keep out the water.

It's an amazing bit of road, looks like desert scrub but the weather and temperature were more akin to Saddleworth Moor in March.

Found petrol in Tecka (11 litres to 220km, that's what difference a headwind makes) and up RN40 to Esquel.

Rest day tomorrow, need to do my oil level, adjust the chain and check my tyre pressures. Need to find out what the fuel situation is like in Chile or further north in Argentina.

Puerto Madryn 20-2-12

No photos this time. The only electrical item I have that can't be charged from the bike is my camera. Leaving Bahia Blanca, I tried to take a picture of Rogier and Anna and their bike and the battery was flat.

Had a rest day in Bahia Blanca. Had to move from the hostel to a hotel but that was easy thanks to Rogier and his excellent Spanish. Found a mechanic to take a look at the bike and left it, gear and all, with him. Thus allowing me to attend to some cultural activities, i.e. drinking beer and eating.

I'd asked the guy to change my speedometer cable, try and do something with the rear shock and do me an oil change. The cable wasn't an issue, I was carrying a spare. He was unable to change the oil because, apparently, he was unable to find anywhere selling any on a Saturday.

The rear shock has become quite a problem though. As weight is added to the bike, the rear end compresses. When on the stand, the bike soon gets to vertical and then tips over. The final straw was bundling up my bike gear and strapping it on the back, the bike promptly tipped over onto Rogier's Kawasaki (sorry Rogier).

The mechanic said (or at least I think he said) that the rear shock was finished. He jacked it up but the back end is still very soft. With all the weight I'm carrying, the bike now falls over to the left when it's left on the stand. In a desperate attempt to loose some weight, I put a post on the HUBB offering the knobbly tyres I've been carrying away for free. It took all of 30 minutes for someone to turn up and take them, I'm now owed a beer by someone in Rio Gallegos.

The day on the road started well, good weather, not too hot, no rain and the scenery slowly changing as I go south through Argentina. Looking back at pictures from a few days ago, it's amazing how much the scenery has changed since Buenos Aires, unfortunately I don't have any pictures to show. Argentina is a vast country. It took over two days to get out of Buenos Aires, that's London to Inverness distance.

Sometime around my second fag break, I noticed some oil on the back tyre. Burying my head in the sand, hoping the problem would go away and not wanting to take all my gear off the bike to strip it down; at the side of the road, in 35 degree sun, with no shade, I kept moving. At each stop the problem seemed to be getting worse and although I did buy a litre of oil, I didn't do anything to solve the problem. I was riding along paranoid about what to do with a seized engine though.

Getting into San Antonio Oueste there was no room in any of the inns. Eventually, and with the help of a very nice girl on the desk of one of the hotels and my somewhat inadequate Spanish phrase book (Just what exactly is the Spanish for “rear shock” and “bike handling like a bag of spanners”?) I was directed to a campsite on the beach. Turned up, paid the fee, grabbed a beer to drink while putting the tent up and had a look at the state of the bike.

The screw top of the oil reservoir was loose. That was all that was wrong. I'd maybe lost a quarter litre of oil and that's it. A quick top up and job's a good 'un.

A couple of Argentinian lads wanted to chat on the campsite but all I wanted to do was eat and sleep. I think they thought I had snubbed them but that's really not the case.

I started crashing out when it started to get dark but people kept arriving (it was a holiday you know), starting up fires for barbecues and then at some point the music came on. It seemed like it was on all night but I don't remember them turning it off so I must have been drifting in and out of sleep through it.

Took about and hour and a half to take my tent down and pack the bike in the wind and then about 4 hours on to Puerto Madryn. Checked into a random hostel from Lonely Planet, put the bike in the yard and chilled out.

I'll probably be here a couple of days. I want to find another mechanic tomorrow to get a second opinion on my rear shock and I'd quite like a run round the nature reserve; see the penguins, sea lions, killer whales etc but I can't make the decision where to go next until I sort the shock.

Sending goods into Argentina is an utter ball ache with a 100% import tax so it's a lot easier to do it to Chile. My choices are south down Ruta 3 and then back (possibly by a 4 day boat journey through the Chilean fjords) or west to Chile to collect a new shock

Bahia Blanca. 17-2-12

A great day's riding.  Pampas gave way to sierra (I think that's what you call rolling hills).  Started out foggy but the weather got better with every mile.  Just starting to get some perspective on the size of Argentina and I finally understand what overlanders mean when they say "big skies".

Azul. 16-2-12

Getting the bike through customs  was easy thanks to Sandra from Dakar Motos. We went up to the airport in a cab with a load of documents and copies of documents and all I had to do was shell out cash at appropriate times.

The problems started when I tried to leave. I packed the bike, unpacked it again so customs could give my stuff the once over, re-packed it, put my gear on, started the bike and it died as soon as I put it into gear. I'd noticed the switch on the clutch lever had come loose when I was taking the bike to the airport so I assumed it had something to do with that. Many phone calls back to Dakar and I ended up riding with the neutral indicator lead shorted to earth and the neutral light on all the way. Turns out there's another switch on the side stand and both that and the clutch switch had died. Shorting them both out solved the problem.

Took a day trip out to Tigre, just west of Bueons Aires to try the bike out. Didn't do much, just lunch in a pavement cafe and a bit of a potter around. Loving riding in shorts and t-shirt but feeling vulnerable. Packed the bike on Wednesday evening, set off Thursday morning into 40 degree heat. The bike was handling like a bag of spanners and I had no idea why until I stopped in Canuelas to visit a cash point and saw that everything had fallen backwards and all the weight was hanging off the rear of the bike. Soon fixed with a couple of packing straps. I put riding gear on because it looked like rain.

Fuck, did it rain. I tried everything; following the storm, riding through the storm but nothing did any good. I was soaked through within 10 minutes and had to do around 280km across the Pampas. The Pampas is flat and featureless. You keep thinking you're about to go into a town but you're not. There's no shelter, few petrol stations and fewer places to get a hot drink. I think I tried all of them.

When I finally got to Azul, the place I was heading had already closed up. I had no phone number for them and no credit in my phone. I failed to find the municipal campsite (I didn't look very hard, I must admit), the Ruta 3 Motel appeared to be abandoned and so I found a moderately priced hotel in the town. My stuff is currently spread all over the room dripping onto the floor, maps and banknotes included. Hopefully it will be usable tomorrow.

The bike held up pretty well, I've had problems with water before and it did start spluttering during some of the heaviest rain but it held together. Short of breaking the speedometer cable it behaved very nicely all day. I now have another item on my todo list, this needs to be sorted because without the milage counter, I have no idea how much petrol I have left.

Right. Finish my beer and off to the restaurant downstairs.

Oh yeah, another thing for the todo. All my documents are soaked through. Passport, vaccination certificates, IDP, temporary import permit for the bike. Put them in a plastic bag.

Pictures. Buenos Aires and Colonia.

Nothing to say, apart from Colonia is chilled out and easy after the big city Buenos Aires.  Just a few pictures.

BIBABID – Body In Buenos Aires, Bike In Dubai.

Colonia, Uruguay. 10-2-12

It snowed the night before I left. Lashed it down with flaky white bastards all night. Heathrow had cancelled a third of all flights but the Gatwick website said it was OK, I chose to believe it. 20cm of snow overnight and fortunately no blocked roads on the way to the station.

Yorkshire looks pretty in the snow, for a few hours at least before the traffic turns it to black sludge, Rows of terraces with white roofs and the odd slate gap. Wonder who's got a loft full of skunk?

Last time I took the bus to London it was pure lumpenproletariat. Underlying odour of piss and heroin from bus station to bus station. The comfort and style of a cattle truck. This time it's uni students and French speaking Africans. No grief, no hassle, I'm the only one drinking and the only one with a seat to myself. Map of Patagonia prominently placed in the tank bag I'm using as hand luggage just on the off chance I can strike up a conversation with the cute 21 year old on the seat opposite;

“Oh, where are you going?”

“Around the world on my motorcycle. Actually.”

Doesn't fucking happen of course. Past 40, put on weight, missing teeth, what the fuck do I expect?

I remember the bus getting into Victoria, I remember queueing up to get off the bus but I have no idea how I got to King's Cross to check into a Travelodge. Probably took the tube but that's what a six hour bus journey with nothing to do but drink premixed M&S cocktails does to a man.

Long and easy lie in the next morning. My flight isn't until five and I don't have to check out until twelve. Apparently I have planned ahead and have half a dozen beers, some bittorrent downloads and a congealed donner kebab to last out the morning.

Take it easy on leaving the hotel, don't want to get too pissed to be allowed on the plane now. An easy beer and a walk up to St Pancras, overland to Gatwick, move my stuff between bags and check in.

“Did you pack your bags yourself? Is this all you're carrying?”

Map positioned prominently in the tank bag.

“All my stuff is being sent as cargo.”

Not even a raised eyebrow.

Dull flight, only an hour late. Still plenty of time to catch the connection in Madrid. Some crappy airport food, some vinegar like airport wine and three hours later I'm strapped into an economy seat with not enough room for my legs and although the Russian girl next to me is cute, she doesn't speak a word of English and I'm old enough to be her father. Her grandfather even.

“Do your folks know where you are love?”

Thirteen hours later approaching BA, cramps and bruises on my legs. Russian girl has changed into short-shorts. I'm still dressed for the median European winter and South American summer. I'm soaked through within five minutes of leaving the airport. I bottle the bus and grab a cab.

I've arranged to meet people who can help me import the bike. They hear the taxi and the door is open before I get out of the car. Sandra and Javier are (much to their surprise) very well known and respected in the motorcycle travel community. They explain that my bike hasn't yet arrived, checking my email shows that it's been delayed by customs in Manchester. Something to do with it not fitting in the x ray machine. They kindly allow me to stay in one of the bunk beds they have set up next to the workshop. Judging by the stickers on the wall and the contents of the guest book there are a lot of people that pass through here.

I'm soaked. It's forty degrees in the shade, I'm wearing black and too many layers. I get some beer and crash. Everything can be sorted in the morning. I spend the night alone in the workshop, apart from the cat.

Wednesday, I have a few missions. Sort out insurance, buy some appropriate clothes and get a local SIM for my phone. Thanks to Sandra's direction, getting into town and the insurance is easy, the SIM and clothes take a little longer but only because I'm in a touristy area and I have to pay top dollar.

Back at the workshop there are a couple of other bikers. A Japanese guy on a GS (never seen a Japanese on a German bike before) and a US father and son on a Ducati and a G650 taking a couple of months out to “do” South America. Nice folks.

Yoshi, the Japanese guy has already been everywhere that I've planned. I grill him for information all evening.

Next day, everyone leaves. That's what you do when you've got a bike.

I spend a day in BA not really doing much. Hanging around bars, drinking beer and eating. By the time I get back to the workshop, a French couple has arrived on an Africa Twin; just collected from the boat.

My bike has finally left Blighty. The air waybill shows that it has left Manc for Dubai and is currently in transit between Dubai and BA. It should arrive at 20:30 Friday night.

Of course, customs will leave work around 16:30 and won't be back until Monday. There is no realistic chance of collecting the bike until Tuesday.

With this in mind, I have taken the ferry to Colonia in Uruguay. I've checked into an overpriced hotel near to the port because I couldn't be arsed walking any further. I'll find something cheaper tomorrow. A weekend of backpacking will probably do me some good.

Builder's skip

Well, it's not as unstable as it looks but I wouldn't want to ride it very fast.  Carrying the knobblies around the panniers adds a fair bit of width as well so filtering is going to be out for the time being.  I guess I'll get better at packing as I get more practice.

Procasturbation

It's a long time since my last posting but now I've finally booked a flight.  The bike goes out on Monday, I follow it the Monday after.  I leave you with some pictures from the Mayflower MCC winter rally.

Green Man

1940s Harley with a suicide clutch

Ted Simon's Triumph

Sixties Beezer combo

Force 10 rally