Ushuaia - Alaska 2002

The first episode of the Ushuaia to Alaska Chronicles, including the notorious Ruta 40, the very New Zealand-like Carretera Austral and making the hard decision to split from my two riding pals. Topping it all off is my first crash... Philipp , Tina and I arrived in Ushuaia in time to celebrate my birthday on the 17th of February, complete with some bubbles in Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego - great. Almost didn't make it though, as I gave to birth to a kidney stone in a place called Piedra Buena...Funnily enough "Piedra Buena" means nice rock in Spanish.

Riding through three days of SOLID rain I slipped into the Chile’s capital , Santiago. The mode change in driving was severe , definitely every man for himself, with any displays of courtesy or caution greeted with blasting horns and screetching tires...

Entering Bolivia was quite a rude awakening having left the European sofa that was Argentina. The roads were primed to test the bike to its limits, and local officials seemed to be a lot more ‘flexible’ – sometimes inventing rules to suit their wallets in the name of Santa Maria…
After waking up the Villazon customs officer from his 3pm slumber, I headed towards Tupiza on a road as bone jarring as Argentina’s Ruta 40, every corner presenting something new, including vicious bottom-out dips which scared the life out of my rear shock.

Having recovered enough from the Salmonella to be away from the loo for half a day or more , I finally set off for Lima. The police at the Bolivia/Peru border insisted on a donation for Santa Maria before letting me pass, and I grudgingly handed over some coin which was left in my wallet. Santa Maria my arse I thought...Travelling at altitudes over 4,000 metres I was rewarded with some spectacular views leaving Bolivia, and I´m still in awe at how the farmers cultivate crops on the inclines at those heights...

Onward to the Banana boats of the Amazon river, criminals wearing police uniforms and more bike destroying roads !!!It was great to be back on the road again after the holiday at Dave & Kates place, but I was falling behind schedule a little ( actually a lot ), and I had to press on. Before doing that however, I have to plug a quick thankyou to Marty and Gosia Aitchison, who not only delivered an oil filter for the bike, but also some vegemite and crunchie bars for my taste buds - most appreciated !

Taking my third consecutive banana boat since Yurimaguas in Peru, I finally got to see and taste the Amazon..."Fresh" off the boat from Iquitos, I decided to jump straight on the next one for Manaus the same afternoon. I figured the more tired I became, the more likely sleep would come in the hammock during the next three nights. The price for the voyage had doubled in comparison to Peru, at 37 USD for me , the same for the bike.

Taking a prompt from a guide book, and spurred on because I was told it couldn't be done, I decided to see a launch of the Ariane rocket. The original plan was to ride from Macapa to French Guiana, Suriname and then Guyana, but I ran out of time and resorted to flying sans my F650...Despite the difficulties with Penta airlines in Belem who conveniently lost my reservation, I made it to Cayenne on schedule. I was warned by Xavier and Isabelle that I'd be entering an expensive department of France, and after paying 23 Euro for the 17km taxi ride I was kinda nervous.

The nasty shock I got returning from French Guiana was that my bike pants and jacket had started "growing" in my touratech boxes the 4 days I was away......It looked better than a Petri dish experiment from science class...

My science project...

The first challenge in Panama was to find my bike, and a very helpful lady behind the National Car rental counter spent 10 minutes phoning around and found it for me. Apparently Vensecar air cargo was tied with DHL, a simple fact which my agent had neglected to pass on in Venezuela...After 3 sets of customs and 1 hours work on the bike in sweltering heat, I raced for Panama city before the deluge of afternoon rain hit.

Crossing the border into Costa Rica was truly a slow and sweaty process, taking nearly two hours thanks to hopeless beauracracy and the damn bank being unattended.My target destination had been Alejua, just north of San Jose, but I was intercepted by a yellow 1150 GS rider in the form of Francisco Brenes, who believe it or not was the Vice President of the BMW Motoclub de Costa Rica. Next thing I knew he was helping me find a bed for the night, and treating me to a great meal at his restaurant , El Farolito.

After being spoilt rotten by the BMW Motoclub in San Jose, I headed for the Nicaragua border, but not before narrowly missing a car which lost it´s front wheel, stranded in the middle of the road....At the border I took the easy option of using a local to guide me through - sure saved me time cutting through all the different offices.

I was warned about the high price to get a bike into the Honduras, but I still coughed and spluttered when I had to fork over 40 USD. I’d engaged the services of a Tramitador, or rather Tramitadora to get me through the bureaucratic tangle, and that definitely saved me some grief. I’d arrived as prepared as could to combat overheating in my gear, having photocopied all the relevant documents – but stone the flaming crows, they wanted a photocopy of their very own entry document, #*@& !

There was an immediate improvement in the roads as I entered Guatemala, and I headed straight to ‘Guate’ ( Guatemala City ) along a road choked with trucks and aggressive car drivers. Despite the numerous police controls, I’ve never seen so much blind corner passing in all my days….Guate is one mother of a city, divided into zones comprised of Avenidas and block numbers. Sounds simple, but navigation was definitely an issue. After I unpacked I ventured out for some food around 8.30pm, finding myself walking along dark, desolate and scary streets.

On the advice of Brit bikers John & Annette I took the option of the Mesilla border between Guatemala and Mexico, apparently there would be less traffic and less hassles. It was so easy in fact, I passed through immigration and customs with doing anything, told instead to handle the paperwork at the next place 4km's down the road...

As I left Mexico I checked out my bike as the signs instructed, but as hard as I looked there was nowhere to exit immigration. I guess I'll have to live with the fact that some Mexican official is after my butt as an overstayer....Approaching the US border I was expecting my first 'plain sailing' crossing, having a Multi Entry B1/B2 visa in hand....., man was I in for a shock. After 1 hour roasting in the sun I made it to the first checkpoint where the bike was photographed in some wierd looking contraption. The officer thumbed through my passport and asked " Do you have a permit ? ".

Against recommendations I set forth to the frypan of Death Valley, hoping to experience the hottest of what nature could throw at me. As luck would have it however, my desire to experience two wheeled evaporation was thwarted by a coolish day of 104° F (40° Celcius)It was certainly warmish, but I’d already had 108°F (42°C) in Phoenix, and had the technique down of dousing my shirt and helmet liner with water - worked like a charm.

Meeting up with the guys from Finca Magdelena was a blast, as the travellers code of hospitality proved itself again...Following the info from HorizonsUnlimited I crossed into Canada at the Cascade border and headed straight for the BC Beemers rally in Nakusp. The roads, the ride and the views were just stunning.

I did, as usual , have an unprompted contact with local law enforcement - this time in Kelowna where I slipped between two lanes of cars. I looked inside the open passenger window of the car on my left to discover an RMCP officer looking straight back at me.....

Having convinced Rob he may as well go as far north as possible – we set forth like madmen on a mission towards the top of Alaska, aiming to get there before we froze on route.Of course, nature reminded us who’s the boss, as we were ravaged ( no overstatement ) by the meanest mob of mongrel mosquitos you’ve ever imagined near a place called Dot Lake. The only way to avoid ‘getting bit’ was complete coverage – as Rob demonstrated with his travel accessory I would have normally laughed at…