A big final week:

Puerto Varas, Chile 

  ride —> Buenos Aires, Argentina

  ferry & ride —> Montevideo, Uruguay

  fly —> Santiago, Chile

  fly —> Home

 

As the bottom of South America loomed, the brain spun around in circles pondering how to wind it all up. 

• Plan A: Sell bike, go home?
• Plan B: Park bike in South America, return later in year to ride back “home” to Colorado?
• Plan C: Just keep going, Uruguay, Brasil, Venezuela ... plenty more to see yet?
• Plan D: Ride to closest airport, leave bike in car park, fly home?
• Plan E: Ship bike back home?
• Plan Z: .... ?

It became overwhelming. 

At one point I sat in a cafe for an hour, head in hands, completely lost. 

 

I’d put out an ad for the bike with other overlanders, suggesting a price half what I’d paid - stupidly cheap. A few showed interest but in the end only one was serious. He was in Montevideo, Uruguay. 2,000km away.

Stuff it Gav, stop wavering, commit to Uruguay, enjoy the final days getting there.

 

The first couple of days were appealing. How could one fail to smile in the Patagonian lakes area?

 

Looking back at the Andes after crossing them was stunning in the flesh. It’s a shame the aspect ratio of a photo doesn’t capture their magnificence. This is looking back across Lake Nahuel Huapi, Bariloche to the left, Chile straight ahead.

 

 

Back on the Argentinian side the landscapes progressively lost their drama. They went from “oh wow” rocky ranges towering over pretty streams and poplars ...

 

... to big open flat spaces. The roads matched their surroundings, changing gently from sinuous to straight.

 

Just like along Australian outback roads, there were never ending glints from bottles and cans thrown out the window.

 

It was still pleasant riding, not awful, but not exciting.

 

It continually reminded me of Australia. I could have been heading through the Western District of Victoria - flat plain agriculture, isolated farm houses, even scattered stands of gum trees.

 

This windmill just needed “Southern Cross” and bullet holes in the blades.

 

Not that Victoria has an atomic site in the middle of nowhere.

A cop car stopped to check out why this biker was photographing their site. My friendliest wave seemed to satisfy the fuzz.

 

Staying in brick tents had become lifeless. Yes, there was a soft bed in a warm room, but it was all too easy to sit scrolling useless crap on the interwebs. Hardly adventurous.

So I camped out a few times in the final days.  It was physically hard, firstly with low overnight temps and secondly pain in my knee. I eventually realised that having a towel between my legs eased the discomfort.

One pretty spot was amongst bushes besides a stream, a short way from the highway. I yarned with Kirsten while watching wind turbines spinning against a colourful sunset.

The morning sunshine warmed my back as I supped my cafe con leche, South American style - heated milk with coffee (often an intense syrup, but instant here) added. 

A family drove up, indicating they wanted to drive right through my campsite. Oh well, time to leave anyway, so I moved my clothesline to let them park right next door. 

 

Mum, dad and four kids hopped out. Dad started a fire then went fishing with his daughter. The little boy came over offering a slice of cake. I wished them luck, we all smiled and I swung a leg over.

 

I cooked a spaghetti lunch in the Piedra Del Aguila town park. A drunk bloke wandered over and gave me a great big speech. He seemed pretty happy as he sprayed spittle in my direction. A bit Sir Les Patterson like, but in a tracksuit. The only bit I understood was “manzana” - he wanted one of my apples. Sure, it’s yours.

A succession of boys came past on bikes. Each said “Hola, señor” in a completely natural way. Sweet.

 

 

Having a couple of Australia stickers on the screen had been a great conversation starter the whole journey. “Australia! Kangaroos!” folk would exclaim. I’d then give my little journey spiel, which usually elicited a mix of surprise and curiosity, especially in smaller/less visited places.

One servo attendant asked for an Australian coin since he was a collector. I remembered a $1 goldie was floating around somewhere, so dug deep and handed over a fistful of leftover coins. He and his mate sifted through. “Panama!” He seemed happy.

 

By and by the cities increased in size. This park in Bahía Blanco was a restful place to cook a late lunch.

 

Similarly I joined families enjoying a Sunday picnic by the river in Quequén.

All was serene until a pack of noisy scooters/small motorcycles went fanging down the road. Front wheels were up and some were doing a Rollie Free plank. Perhaps Argentinian culture was not as dull as first appeared. There was hope.

 

It’s perhaps unfair to call Argentina dull. However it did become apparent that the interesting chunks of this massive country were all about landscape, not people/towns. Even then, landscape east of RN40 was rather uniform.

Not that any of it was especially bad, just so modern and sterile that it lacked any novelty. 

In comparison Mexico, Guatemala, Colombia, Bolivia, Peru et cetera were far more intriguing.  I missed their frantic, surprising, challenging ways.

 

To change things up a bit, I added a couple days of Atlantic coast. Again, not terrible, just mostly familiar in both cities ...

... and minor seaside localities.

 

The sand was hard, it looked like someone had been doing a Burt Munro.

 

A few important dates passed.

April 2nd: anniversary of the Malvinas / Falklands war starting. That night many TV channels showed 43rd year commemorations across Argentina. They didn't show any mass gatherings in the UK.

Physical memorials to the conflict popped up all over. This was in a wee town’s main street ...

... and a rollcall of the fallen beside the beach in a locality of maybe five blocks total.

They were only 1622km away after all.

 

3rd April: A year since Kirsten and I went to Hawaii. The original 6-9 month trip estimate was looking wobbly.

 

8th April: Our silver wedding anniversary. Kim teed up a bunch of flowers with a dictated message. Good on ya, kiddo.

 

Buenos Aries. No photos - you know what a big capital city looks like.

BA is on the southern side of an inlet, Montevideo on the northern. The quickest way there was yet another (my gawd, how many were there?) ferry followed by two hours of the straightest freeway you’ve ever seen.

 

The last few Argentinian pesos were invested in a final dose of diabetes, enjoyed in sunshine on board.

 

I didn’t see much of Uruguay. Folk said there is terrific riding further north of the capital. Maybe, I didn’t care. Roll on home.

 

Kevin from Willi Motos bought the DR on behalf of an enduro riding mate. His mate already had a Bush Pig and is giving mine to his son.

Kevin and his father Willi run a pretty neat motorcycle shop. The workshop had a museum of maybe a hundred interesting bikes.

 

Kevin also stores bikes long term for overlanders who have headed home for a break. He had 46 machines stashed away, batteries on charge, luggage neatly labelled. 

 

Uruguay is the spot to store a bike - the only Latin American country to issue a twelve month temporary import. Most only permit three months.

They were all big powerful beasts: Africa Twins, GSs, KTM Adventurers, et cetera. 

I’m terribly glad I had the DR - so much simpler, lighter, cheaper. Who needs to rush along at 150km/h? I rarely exceeded 100, often watched the world go by at 80.

 

The old girl was like a snail for a year - carrying a little house on her back, slowly meandering, taking me to the most amazing places. Every morning I’d swing a leg over, press that little button and broom! she’d tell me she loved me all over again.

 

I miss her already.

 

Here are the contents of that little house.

 

I picked out stuff to keep, threw away a heap of worn out crap and got to the airport.

 

I’d long imagined writing clever words summarising the whole trip.

I can’t. There’s way too much to say. It’s overwhelming, confusing.

Better we yarn over a beer some day.

 

Roll the credits.

• Dad, you’ve always been my biggest supporter. That Honda SL100 from 46 years ago, the weekends trail riding in the High Country & the Bashes are behind all of this.
• Michelle, all your encouragement in our weekly chats lifted me more than you know. Can’t wait to pat LBD.
• Kirsten, to repeat my opening words, I’m a lucky husband. Retired life together - woo hoo!
• John Purser, you’re a champ. Sure, the trip would have worked out if I’d got a bike under my own steam, but you made it so much better. Another G&T when you’re in Aus next?
• Friends & family who have replied to this writing and encouraged me, it’s made the hours worthwhile
• The many folk on the way that I’ve chatted with, ridden alongside and received advice from. These unplanned encounters made the trip.

 

53,000kms, 14 countries over twelve months - a jumble of thrilling, joyful, liberating, surprising, challenging, difficult, exasperating times.

The brain had a lot to ponder on the 44 hours getting home.

My golly it was great to hit Tullamarine.