A sand storm is just beginning, we're at 5,000 metres and still hundreds of miles from any settlements. The sun is dropping behind the mountains and the temperature will soon be below freezing and will continue to fall until the sun rises again in the morning. We've just come off the bike and petrol is pouring out of the hole in the tank where the tool box has just gone through. Once again we've made it tough on ourselves!A sand storm is just beginning, we're at 5,000 metres and still hundreds of miles from any settlements. The sun is dropping behind the mountains and the temperature will soon be below freezing and will continue to fall until the sun rises again in the morning. We've just come off the bike and petrol is pouring out of the hole in the tank where the tool box has just gone through. Once again we've made it tough on ourselves!

Bolivia is a country which is all things to all people. The cosmopolitan cities of La Paz and Sucre, the lowland jungles of the Amazonia, Andean mountains, altiplano, lagoons, remote villages and developing infrastructures. Bolivia is like walking into a good restaurant where every taste is catered for, and at a good price. We had pushed hard to reach the country before the rains came and made traveling harder than it already is. First stop was La Paz, a crazy city for so many reasons. The highest capital city in the world with searing sun by day and freezing cold by night, the streets are packed with impatient taxis and street hawkers selling everything you would find in the shops if only you could get to them for all the street hawkers. The taxis race at a snails pace as they refuse to give way to each other for the sake of traffic flow. Matters are made worse by every major inroad and outroad being blocked by demonstrators with thousands of gas bottles in light of the disagreement over Bolivian oil profit sharing. Our sole purpose for coming to La Paz was to get new tires, of which we were assured in Peru would not be a problem. We did indeed get them but it took 4 days to locate the only pair in the country which would fit our bike. As crazy as La Paz is it does have a bustling charm about it that leaves you either loving it or hating it.

We needed new tires not because the existing ones were down to the thread but because we needed tires with as much tread as possible for the forthcoming ride through the south-west of the country. Riding via Sucre (the Cusco of Bolivia) and Potosi we arrived in Uyuni with excitement and nervousness of what was before us - the Salar de Uyuni and the infamous Southwest Loop. 650 kilometers of salt, rock and sand renowned for eating anything on wheels alive. Asking questions of anyone and everyone who would give us the time of day, locals or travelers, there was no consensus of opinion. Some would say it was no problem, others only just stopped short of telling us we would never make it alive. Our only conclusion was that we were right to play it safe and team up with Martin and Silvia who we met in Quito months before. Whatever was to come it would be easier with four of us working together if things did get hard. We made arrangements for a fuel drop 400 kilometers south at Laguna Colorado, and bought what food, water and other supplies we could. We then spent a full day stripping the bikes down in preparation, every component was sprayed down with silicon against the salt of the salar, oil and water checks, new sprockets and last minute repairs. We were not going to see a paved road for the best part of a week and it was going to take it out of both the bikes and us. Not riding light enduro bikes and with our usual luggage plus as much water and food we could carry we knew the trip was going to be harder on us than it is for many.

Why do it at all if its so bloody hard? Why not take the easy roads? Why indeed! The southwest loop of Bolivia is one of the remotest areas in the whole of the southern Americas, with high altiplano, active volcanoes, flamingo lagoons of the deepest blues, whites, yellows and reds. Its the last bastion of hope for many endangered animals including the vicuna (related to the llama).

Its a painters palette of melting colours as the winds mix the ashes of the volcanoes, the sands of the desert and the condensing gasses of sulphur. Finally there is the Salar de Uyuni itself - 2,000,000,000 tons of salt over 12,000 kilometres square and 50 metres deep. With volcanic islands rising out of the pure white salt like ships caught in the ice its a unique landscape that has to be seen to be believed. Why do it at all? - a million reasons.

We rode out of the dusty, wind blown town of Uyuni early on a Sunday morning, 3 bikes, 2 Africa Twins and Silvia's Trans Alp, all of us a little nervous but excited as we approached the salar and wondering what it would be like to ride a motorbike on two billion tones of salt. We didn't have to wait long to find out as our wheels soon left desert sand and tentatively set foot on the salar itself. The moment our bikes hit the salt our minds exploded with confusion and contradictory images. It looks like snow but it's as hard as rock. It shines like ice but grips like a paved road and it seems to climb up to meet the sky but is perfectly flat. It is as unique as it is strange.

We began to ride due west at a tentative speed, checking our location by compass bearing every so often but our speed soon climbed from 20 miles per hour to 60 and 70. As well as being a natural wonder the salar is speed freak heaven and with nothing in the way you could ride at 200 miles per hour with your eyes shut.

We'd come to the salar with three ambitions in mind; 1 - to simply cross it and experience the unreality of it all; 2 - tie a Colombian kite to the back of the bike and ride up and down flying it simply for the fun of being silly and; 3 - blow it up with the 3 pounds of plastic explosives we'd bought in Potosi, the Bolivian capital of silver mining. Ambition 1 was easily achieved as we accelerated and left civilization behind. Ambition 2 was a complete disaster; no sooner was the kite in the air and flying behind our bike than it snapped in two and plummeted to the ground, never to fly again having been carried on the back of the bike for 3,000 miles. Shame! However, ambition 3 was a roaring success. Camping beside one of the many volcanoes islands we put our tents up, got the coffee on and set about moulding the plastic explosives into egg shapes, mixing it with amino nitrate, inserting the detonators and setting the two minute fuses. One of the greatest advantages of the salar is that every year the rains come and remove all traces of human activity, either filling it in or covering it with a new layer of salt. We knew that within days the rains would break and all traces of explosions would be removed over night. With this in mind I mounted the bike with bomb number 1 in hand and rode off across the salar to a safe distance. Moments later I was back at the tents and waiting for the fuse to fizz along its length until detonation. BOOOOOM! As chunks of rock salt flew sky high the concussion reverberated off the island making us all jump with the power of one pound of plastic explosive doing exactly what its designed to do. Blow things up. One after another we carefully set and lit the fuse of each bomb, enjoying being crazy for the sake of it. A definite success and even as we write this all traces have been irradicated to memory alone under the Bolivian rains.

The next day, having blown the salar up we began our ride south along the infamous Southwest loop. We were not intending to complete the loop as is the tourist tradition and taking us back to Uyuni but to just keep riding south until we entered Chile, taking in the lagoons of Hedionda, Chiarkkota and Colorado, the painted volcanoes, wildlife and wind carved rock formations along the way. By lunch time we had left the stepping stone formations of the salar salt crystals and were nervously riding through deep sand littered with rocks.

On overloaded bikes and all hating riding in sand the fun was over and it was down to business. As bad as some of the reports were we had gleamed from people it didn't seem too bad. As long as we took it slowly we would be alright and make it to Chile without too many difficulties. I can't remember who was the first to come off but by the end of the day the deep sand and rocks had got worse and got the better of us all. We had all come off our bikes at least once and it had become clear that the stories were true. This was going to be a hard, long slog which would test our nerves and bring out the best and the worst in each of us with no hiding place from the reality of what we were made of. To make matters worse the best map we had between us was at a scale of 1,300,00 : 1. The equivalent of fitting the whole of England onto a piece of paper 1 foot square. Still adjusting to the difficulties facing us we rode into the small village of San Juan grateful to find both petrol and an excuse for a hostel. The petrol was in better condition than the hostel but nevertheless we all got a good nights sleep on beds like lumpy bananas.

As we tried to navigate out way south we gave up on trying to follow the routes marked on the map. In every direction hundreds of 4x4 tracks would fan out before us giving no clues as to which was the correct route. The term 'road' does not remotely apply in this part of the world. Thankfully most of the tracks all went to the same places having been made by the tour vehicles catering to the tourists who plumb for over priced and badly equipped trips into the southwest. Not all tour operators are bad but having been flagged down by two Irish girls who were stranded in the desert with a drunk guide pretending to know how to drive but obviously having no clue, we saw first hand just how bad these tours can be. We dug, pushed and drove the vehicle out of the axle deep sand before giving the keys to the girls rather than the guide so they could negotiate getting their money back or leave him where he was. He was somewhat pissed off with us but it seemed to sober him up! As hard as it is traveling in such places by bike we were pleased that we only had to rely on ourselves. We pushed on into the multicoloured vastness of the desert landscape and as we did so we climbed higher and higher until the bikes began to gasp for oxygen along with ourselves. Just as we needed all the power the bikes had in them to negotiate the first major obstacle the bikes began to die. With slipping clutches and more power in a baby's arm than our bikes we tried to force them up a rocky climb of two miles or so. Huge boulders, more sand and sharp volcanic rocks lying around like marbles ready to throw us off the bikes was our reward for making it this far. At 4,500 metres above sea level there just wasn't enough power in the bike to carry all our gear plus Liz so it was her first walk of the day as I pushed on with Martin and Silvia. Between us we pushed, shoved and swore at the bikes to get them up and get them up we did. I inadvertently took the bike cross country before being hurled onto the rocks, Martin left a good portion of his bash plate on a boulder and Silvia simply forgot how to stop the bike and rode off into the distance. Finally Liz came huffing and puffing up the hill as we picked each bike up and regrouped. Oh what fun!

We were soon rewarded for our efforts as we rounded a hillside and were greeted by hundreds of flamingos feeding together in the blue and cream waters of Laguna Canapa.

We gratefully pulled the bikes over and sat for a moment to take in the sight. As a first night to camp it was a wonderful location and we all soon fond new energies to run around photographing the seemingly oblivious flamingos. However, the one thing we had not thought about was the freezing high altitude winds. No one ever mentioned to us the fact that each and every day by mid afternoon we would be faced with howling winds which would pick up bucket loads of sand and hurl it into our faces relentlessly as we tried to put tents up and cook without the stoves being blown out time after time. We learnt pretty quickly to be very careful about where we chose to camp from then on.

Our adventure was to continue in the same vain each and every day. Time after time we would all be thrown from our bikes in deep sand or loose volcanic rocks and time after time we would help each other pick them up and get moving again. At times it would take the combined efforts of all four of us to push a bike out of the sand or up a hill, more often than not it would be our bike though with the extra weight of two peoples food, water and gear. However, we would always work as a team and never let the stresses that would manifest in any one of us get the better of us all. Even as we shed mirrors and bash plates, pannier catches and plastic we always laughed at the craziness of what we were doing and got back on to ride until the next fall. Sometimes within 10 metres. Injuries to the bikes were more common than injuries to ourselves as it was normally soft sand that got the better of us. Aside from a sprained ankle and a bruised hip it was the elements that took their toll more. Nose bleeds from inhaling fine dust and sharp sand, chapped lips from the intense sun and cracked fingers from digging in sand to free the bikes or simply washing up using sand in an attempt to conserve water. It was all worth it though for the scenery in which we found ourselves was beyond words. Chains of lagoons which were any colour except the colour of water, teaming with flamingos and waterfowl.

Vicuna galloping across the plains before us and heat shimmering off the sands to transform the already melted appearance of the volcanoes into mesmerizing images of flowing rocky rivers of browns, reds, purples and yellows reaching for the sky.

Its a landscape of surreal beauty found nowhere else that we've ever seen. Amongst the unforgiving landscape we did find time and a little energy to have some fun. Upon reaching Arbol de Piedra, the site of the famous 'Tree Rock' it was time for a little 'dune bashing'. Shrugging the luggage and with the tents up; a suitable dune was selected. The idea being that if you go fast enough you can get up any dune on a bike. Over 50 mph a bike will simply skip over the sand rather than be bogged down as it sinks at low speed. With this in mind I set off for a steep dune rising 50 metres into the sky. The bike did indeed skip over the sand, even with its 37 litre tank and was soon climbing up the dune.

It wasn't the sand or the total lack of talent that got the better of me but the altitude. Half way up the bike began to cough as it gasped for oxygen and I swear that just before my face hit the sand the bike looked back at me and said "Sod off, you must be joking!" We agreed that 'dune bashing' was a bad idea and I muscled the bike round to descend back down the dune I had just struggled up, and as a last insult I was once again thrown from the bike as I reached the bottom and hit some very deep and very soft sand.

Liz said it looked good though and the photos were ok so all was not lost (apparently)..

Continuing south we finally reached the Bolivian Customs Office in freezing temperatures to hand our papers over before entering Chile. As half expected there was no one at the Customs Office but we were informed by a mineral extraction worker that the officials would be back in two days. Not wanting to wait two days we walked over to the office to slide our papers under the door but found it to be open. The immediate prospect of getting out of the cold wind was too much for us so with permission we entered the waiting area and proceeded to fill our faces with petrol soaked peanuts, stale biscuits and a mashed avocado. Heaven. Realising that there was no one around it seemed like a good idea to get the laptop out and download some photos and charge the cameras. It was a good idea too until we were caught in the act. It took some fast talking to convince the returning officials that there was no harm in entering a Bolivian Customs Office and misappropriating the local electrical power source. Luckily they were quite taken with the photos and their minds soon wandered away from prosecution.

Over 4 days we had wound our way south and it seemed that even with all the falls we would all make it to the end of the southwest loop with no major accidents. Just as we began to relax and think we would make it, fate came along and kicked us in the teeth. On a relatively easy stretch of rock strewn sand we once again found ourselves in the middle of the track on our side. It was nothing new and we didn't feel like we had hit the ground as hard as some of the other occasions but as we picked ourselves up we saw to our horror that the right hand tool box had gone straight into the tank, splitting it down its side and spilling petrol into the sand like a river.

With the sun beginning to fall behind the mountains and the current sand storm gathering strength we tipped the bike over onto its other side and franticly got tools out, searched for anything that would hold petrol and looked for solutions to the crisis. With an odd mix of panic and teamwork we had the tank off the bike and on its side to stem the loss of fuel but it was clear that we were going nowhere for the night. Despite the winds best efforts to bury all our tools and pieces of the bike we quickly had a desperate camp site established in the middle of nowhere. A desperate situation had been turned into a bearable situation that could be handled. That was until we discovered that the 'fix all' plastic metal we had bought in Belize to replace the fibre glass we couldn't get hold of would in fact fix absolutely bugger all. By the light of head-torches we applied the 'magic fix bugger all stuff' and crossed our fingers in the hope that by the morning the hole would be sealed and we could make the final 76 kilometres to San Pedro de Atacama (if we had also managed to save enough of the spilt fuel). Morning came and gratefully the temperature rose with it but ungratefully the winds did too. The moment of truth came and we righted the tank to see if it would hold fuel but no, the remaining fuel spilt out with as much rapidity as the night before. Liz swore, Martin and Silvia swore and I just kicked the tank round the desert for a while. Bringing to bear our collective forces of lateral thinking the only solution we could come up with was half a dozen oversized inner-tube patches and about 20 metres of duct-tape. After 2 hours of painstaking application the tank was almost sealed. It would have to do and we set about rebuilding the bike before the petrol did its work on the glue and transformed our efforts into a melted mess of glue and rubber. With haste we were back on the road with a new determination not to come off again and in a battle against time to beat the powers of the petrol to dissolve the glue. As we rode each and every mile further the drip, drip, hiss of petrol leaking onto the exhaust pipes increased with the real risk of the bike going up in flames. While concentrating on the track before us with half a mind I dedicated the other half to working out contingency plans with Liz should the bike indeed catch fire. We decided she would grab the tank bag with our documents and cameras in and I would slash the straps holding the left pannier in place where the latches had failed in a previous accident so the laptop and other sacred possessions could be saved. If the bike did go up in flames at least the most important things may be saved. I also noticed that Martin and Silvia were riding a little further away from us too!

With no further incidents we reached an adobe building high on the altiplano in the middle of nowhere which served as Bolivian Immigration and with relief that a fire hadn't yet broken out between our legs we got our passports stamped, took a quick photo and headed for the paved road 8 kilometres away.

We had nearly made it through 6 days of hardship and unforgettable experiences. There has never been a more welcome sight than the straight line between dirt and modern road surfacing than that little strip 8 kilometres into Chilean territory. We literally climbed of the bikes and kissed the ground.

It seems we spend half our time trying to get away from the beaten track and onto the lonely dirt roads, but conversely we spend the other half of our time trying to find the buggers again! With the knowledge that San Pedro de Atacama was within reach we began our descent down from the altiplano and into the desert planes of the Atacama Desert. Trying to forget about the dripping petrol it was a moment to begin reflecting on what we had done before we had quite finished doing it but almost as soon as that reflection had been and gone we were at the Chilean Customs Office. With three bikes all in need of attention and ours literally lying on its side in the middle of the road to again stem the river of petrol flowing out we endured the formalities of paperwork, decontamination (the bikes, not us) and searches. It does however appear that if you want to get out of a mandatory Customs search you only need to lie your bike down in the middle of the road and shrug a little. We had actually made it! Despite a combined total of over 30 crashes between us, bits of bikes strewn throughout the Bolivian altiplano and even some significant bits of our bike entering Chile strapped to the back of Martins bike we had all made it. Very dirty, sore, battered and bruised but we had made it.

To some these adventures will sound like craziness, to others it will sound like it was harder than it should have been and perhaps there is a little justification in both perceptions but above all it was something we had to do because sometimes the rewards don't come easily but when they do they are much bigger and have a huge sense of satisfaction and smugness about them. Would we do it again? The simple answer is yes but not tomorrow and definitely on a nice little KTM or Honda 400 and definitely not on a bloody great overloaded Africa Twin with road tires! Now in Chile, patching a knackered petrol tank and trying to get the bent bits of the bike to meet the straight bits we'll have a few days here and then continue south.

Our last mention has to go to Martin and Silvia. If it were not for them we would still have completed the Southwest Loop in all probability but it would have been a lot harder and (as importantly) a lot less fun. Thank you for your support in times of stress and madness and thank you for all the times we looked at each other and laughed when we could have cried. We'll make you a cafe mocha at 5,000 metres any time.