Ever since Colombia, I'd been tracking just how bloody far away the bottom of South America was. The goal had always been Ushaia, southernmost city in the world. Below 54 degrees south, timing is important - best to arrive in February to avoid freezing. So each evening I'd ask Google how many km from that night's stop, divide by the days left and ponder a rising daily average.

Hanging around doing multi day hikes and waiting on parts was not helpful. It became pretty darn obvious that some serious mile munching would be needed.

Thomas was even keener to get there before March. He'd intended to return north after Ushaia, so could always fill in the gaps upon return. For me Plan A had always been to get the bottom, sell the bike and return home.

 

Lots of words. The main point was that we were hellbent on reaching Chile.

 

In the south west corner of Bolivia lies Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avarora. Chile, Bolivia and Argentina come together, each country having it's own national park.

While there are other crossings, the path across to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile was the one for us.

 

The national park has a popular route known as the Lagunas Ruta, there being a series of lakes. We didn't follow that route exactly, but we didn't need to - it was all spectacular. The best part of Bolivia for me. The worst for Thomas.

 

The first 60km out if San Cristóbal was an easy tar cruise. Around us was pretty flat, with peaks way off.

 

Abandoned earthern brick houses recalled similar places in outback South Australia. I wonder if these folk had also suffered boom and bust seasons? 

 

Turning south at Villa Alota put us on a long sandy, corrugated road. This was familiar for me and suited my old banger. Get up to speed, stand crouched with weight at the back, don't look at the front brake, float along the tops and it all smoothed out. 

Tough low bushes were out to the horizon. 

 

Thomas was less pleased. Two km in, he hoped the corrugations would end soon. I assured him they wouldn't. The conditions didn't suit his bike. Hats off to him though - it cannot have been easy with a 236 kg (+ ?? luggage kg) basically street machine on a road rear tyre. 

I'd let him get ahead then catch up at a faster clip, then repeat. 

By and by we reached Villa Mar. It had a ghost town vibe - rudimentary adobe buildings with few people. 

Asking the few we met if anyone sold fuel was fruitless, until a tour operator heard and offered 10 litres. The tour cars are all big petrol Toyotas and they keep spare fuel on roof racks. We split it 5 litres each, about perfect for the modest mileage to that point. Our new friend made an easy 200% markup and we were happy.

 

The wheels fell off just after Villa Mar. Thomas went ahead while I paused for town photos and to buy extra water. I took the right fork as that's what I understood we'd agreed.

 

We'd chosen that path because it was more direct to our day's planned destination. What our maps didn't convey was how rough some the surface was. I dropped my speed greatly in many stretches, down in second gear. Over lumpy rocks I wasn't prepared to smash the bike or my luggage up.

 

Despite all the banging it was absolutely worth it. All that beauty and sense of isolation was exhilarating. 

An occasional natural spring created a green grassed oasis, attracting creatures.

 

The creatures were found all over though, even in the harshest places. There are four related species in the lamoid family. Previously I've mentioned only alpacas and llamas (both domesticated) in ignorance, but there are also vicuñas and guanacos (both wild). I dunno which is which, but they're quickly becoming my favourite mammals.

How on earth do they survive?

 

Meanwhile, the vast scenery kept my heart soaring.

 

After some time alone I presumed that Thomas had taken a different path. It had been so long and surely I should have caught him up sooner. It wasn't until the next day we realised he's quicker in the rocky stuff. 

Not knowing where he was, all I could do was continue and presume we'd meet at our destination. 

 

Salt lake Capina was beautiful ...

 

... though maybe not for all travellers.

 

Salt was being harvested.

 

In the hour or two (I really cannot be sure) apart, I saw only one parked 4WD and one on the move. For me this was terrific. The feeling that one is totally responsible for one's well-being is unbeatable. Better ride well Gavin!

By and by I arrived at the ranger's station for the park itself. There was Thomas. He was rather worked up, having waited half an hour and assumed I'd come to grief. He'd spoken with the ranger about searching for me.

 

The ranger had his own troubles. The 4WD parked here in front of his station wouldn't go. When he reconnected the battery lead, a relay marked "EFI" went clack-clack-clack like a typewriter. Bloody Toyotas.

 

Beyond this point the road was well graded for the salt trucks and fast.

 

I wonder if this was the remains of  an unlucky Suzuki V-Strom rider?

 

The tiny settlement of Huayallajara near Lake Colorada became our target for the day.

The track branching off to get there had its challenges. It had deep holes of loose gravel. Riding fast to make it easier just wasn't ... well ... easy. Can you see this crazy tyre track? Blowed if I could stop it from veering of the track. 

At least I didn't come a gutser like my friend. He needed muscle from two Good Samaritans to get the big lump on its tyres again. This didn't improve his mood (it took some beers and a debrief later). 

 

A fierce headwind didn't help. It was often better to ride off the established track - clunky but less soft stuff.

 

Our digs in Huayallajara were crappy. 

They only cared for tour groups. Our overpriced shared room had the middle door here - right next to both the kitchen and dining area.

 

Pissed tourists made a racket until midnight then the kitchen cranked up at 4am followed by guests banging cutlery before dawn. An awful night.

 

The kitchen had a solid "shit everywhere" look. It exemplified the place's standards. 

 

On the plus side, it was enjoyable chatting with a couple from the Sunshine Coast. They'd travelled many places and had inquisitive attitudes. Well it was enjoyable until ...

Jordan: So you've got your visa for Chile?

Gavin: Visa?

Turns out that only visitors from certain countries need one. Not those from the UK, nor Europeans, nor North Americans, nor Central Americans, nor South Americans, but definitely Australians. Chile was the first country to require one on this voyage. It has a lead time of days to weeks. It requires an Australian police check.

 

This altered plans for the morrow a bit - the shortish run to the Chilean border was moot. 

 

My greatest fear was insufficient fuel for a return to civilisation in Bolivia. Fortunately a tour driver sold some juice. He even trusted my estimate on the empty space in the bike's tank and agreed on a reasonable price. I didn't get upset when the siphoning directly from his rooftop container to the bike below ran quicker than expected, fuel splashing all over tank and seat in the excitement. 

I chose not to smoke for a bit.

 

In the morning we rode together to Chalviri.

 

Once again a multitude of tracks diverged then came together again. I guess drivers have avoided the worst of the established tracks.

 

En route a geothermal area had bubbling pools ...

and a power station.

 

Thomas was still angry with himself. Bits and pieces had come adrift from the rattling. He was consumed with the looming difficulty and expense of replacement in South America. He berated himself for choosing to continue back at the start of the dirt the day before.

 

Chalviri had a thermal pool. We bathed alone in the spring fed warmth, watching flamingos and other water birds feeding in the salty lake made by the overflow.

 

It was a nice way to finish up together; we shook hands and hoped to travel together soon.

 

Thomas headed south for Chile. I headed north back to San Cristóbal. 

 

It was a long second day but wow it was even better than the first.

Partly it was the constantly changing landscapes.

Partly it was the pleasure of being alone. 

Partly it was the thrill of movement.

Partly it was the challenge of controlling the beast.

 

Here's a 360 spin with terrible audio.

 

Thomas had been excellent company. He has a light hearted way with those he meets and isn't shy to ask, unlike your author. I hoped to share travels again.

All the same, there's a magic in moving through remote places dependent only on one's self. An ego trip? Stupid? Maybe.

 

This modest salt lake had thousands of flamingos.

 

A tough place to live. 

... but some are well adapted.

 

Dutch bicycle riders Dominic and Elisabeth were a scream. They'd bought the bikes in San Pedro, the last town in Chile before entering Bolivia. Dominic carried a ginormous backpack that even included camping gear. I cannot fathom having such weight and pedalling in sand such distances. I dibs me hat.

 

Miniature Olgas rocks sheltered the stove from wind enough for a stir fry lunch.

 

Riding was easier this second day. Sometimes the corrugations were bone shaking, but mostly it was a fast patter patter along the tops. An occasional concrentration lapse gave an adrenaline shot when the front dug into deep soft stuff, the handlebars wrenched to one side, an instinctive set of shoves needed to keep from face planting. It got tiring, having to keep focussed. Fun though.

 

My friend Bryan from the Variety Club Bash recently mentioned our crazy outback driving on those trips. Funny you should mention it mate, as I thought of those long dusty stretches a few times.

 

Fuel was about all I could contemplate back on the tar. Surely all that off road stuff would kill economy? Surely I'd be reaching for the spare 5 litres? No - it went into reserve maybe ten miles before San Cristóbal at about the usual highway distance. Perfect.

The town was getting dark. Same favourite petrol lady. Same hostel room. Same hamburger dinner.

Same queue of course.

 

So after two days Ushaia was just as far away. They'd been a couple of the best days riding, up there with the White Rim in Utah and Copper Canyon in Mexico.

 

I'll go to Argentina instead and if/when the red tape is sorted, criss-cross with Chile.