The idea is to take my 110 c.c., drum-braked, four-speed city moto from San Pedro de Atacama to Uyuni in Bolivia. This is a notorious four-hundred kilometre off-road stretch which goes through the Atacama desert to the Bolivian Altiplano. That is through the driest place on earth, over one of the highest altitude borders in the world, to the biggest salt lake in the world, through the Eduardo Avaroa National Park.
This is a seriously remote part of the world, where mechanical failure or damage/injury from a crash would not be worth thinking about. Some quotes from the "Adventure Motorcycling" website www.horizonsunlimited.com are:
"deep sand, and some seriously big bumps and rocks"
"steep climbings, very rocky parts, loads of corregation"
"heavy tracks of gravel"
"bull dust, extreme washboard, crashed there"
"I was terrified for much of the time"
"a long, tough-ass ride"
I woke up convinced that the low, wide, welded, rubberised footpegs (off-road bikes have high, skinny, hinged, metal-spiked ones) would drag and stall the moto if I got into any Jeep tracks in the sandy sections, which was inevitable.
I thought back to the Saharan dunes I crossed on an off-road moto, and hoped I'd see nothing like those.
On the edge of town at the Chilean border post there were two types of people: young, trendy backpackers on arranged tours, and middle-aged overlanders with serious equipment and budgets. I was neither, and felt no connection towards any of them as I listened to their mundane conversations.
At least the lady at Aduana was nice, and when I answered "No" to having a permanent address in Chile she asked again, with leading eyes. Her relaxed attitude had made me forget I had to give the right answers, not the true ones to successfully border-hop on my Chilean-registered moto.
The next part was the first big test. The road to the Bolivian border post would climb most of the altitude of the trip. I had never been above 3,000 metres, and nobody has taken one of these motos to this altitude. Until now.
As she spluttered and gasped for air I was down to second gear. This was drastic, if I couldn't go faster than this later on I simply wouldn't be able to get across some of the off-road - you need to attack it to defeat it. There was nowhere else to go though, I was checked out of Chile and knew I had to try.
The track off the road to the border post flattened out though, and I found when she wasn't trying to climb so steeply my plucky little bike was doing okay.
At the border post there were the same backpackers annoying the border guards, and when I turned up trying to be respectful and efficient found myself fast-tracked before being given fast and concise instructions in Spanish on how to find the Aduana where I was required to present my moto. It was some 88 kilometres away, deep inside the martian landscape ahead.
I was proud of my little moto when she started first kick at well over 4,000 metres altitude, with the felt-hat-wearing hipsters looking on and I zoomed off through the dust yelling "YOLO!" as I went. Because? Well, You Only Live Once.
It was a nice, graded ripio. Wide and flat, with alternative tracks either side for choice and variety. It was like the best pistes I'd encountered in Africa, and I felt at home on it even if my moto wasn't.
Soon enough I came to the first sight - Laguna Verde. There was a small hut on the track and two friendly Guardaparca. They, like most, thought my plan was crazy. But they were impressed that I had a Suzuki; Chinese motots are prolific here, even though their reliability is known to be questionable.
So I had to buy a ticket. Good thing I planned ahead (quite out of character) and got some Bolivianos before I left San Pedro. It was much more than I thought though, and after the price I had seven "Bob" left. That's around seventy pence sterling.
I tried begging for clemency, even offering my remaining lemons and a Mars bar (which has "Milky Way" written on the packet). It was all in vain though, and they explained I would need to show the ticket later on. At least I did have the money, and there wasn't a dramatic chase scene.
As I was circling the lake three Land Cruisers sped past, ferrying their passengers to their alloted time and space for appreciating nature. I was glad to have my own timetable: Whatever the hell I want to do, whenever the hell I want to do it.
I opted to stay up on the trail and admire the lagoon from afar, rather than suffer the other humans. I stopped the bike and looked over the other-worldly-coloured water with a thumb held out, blotting out their existence.
Further on and the ripio, while still good, became undulated. The bumps were at a frequency my short suspension and low speed couldn't tune into and my wrists were bearing the brunt. Thankfully before any bones were displaced it gave way to the first sandy section.
Now this was fun. Pinning the throttle, relaxing your arms and wrists as much as you can, letting the front wheel drift unnaturally, steering with your hips and shoulders, and feeling the rear drifting out as you skim the surface of the sand is a feeling I'll never grow tired of.
This is a seriously remote part of the world, where mechanical failure or damage/injury from a crash would not be worth thinking about. Some quotes from the "Adventure Motorcycling" website www.horizonsunlimited.com are:
"deep sand, and some seriously big bumps and rocks"
"steep climbings, very rocky parts, loads of corregation"
"heavy tracks of gravel"
"bull dust, extreme washboard, crashed there"
"I was terrified for much of the time"
"a long, tough-ass ride"
I woke up convinced that the low, wide, welded, rubberised footpegs (off-road bikes have high, skinny, hinged, metal-spiked ones) would drag and stall the moto if I got into any Jeep tracks in the sandy sections, which was inevitable.
I thought back to the Saharan dunes I crossed on an off-road moto, and hoped I'd see nothing like those.
On the edge of town at the Chilean border post there were two types of people: young, trendy backpackers on arranged tours, and middle-aged overlanders with serious equipment and budgets. I was neither, and felt no connection towards any of them as I listened to their mundane conversations.
At least the lady at Aduana was nice, and when I answered "No" to having a permanent address in Chile she asked again, with leading eyes. Her relaxed attitude had made me forget I had to give the right answers, not the true ones to successfully border-hop on my Chilean-registered moto.
The next part was the first big test. The road to the Bolivian border post would climb most of the altitude of the trip. I had never been above 3,000 metres, and nobody has taken one of these motos to this altitude. Until now.
As she spluttered and gasped for air I was down to second gear. This was drastic, if I couldn't go faster than this later on I simply wouldn't be able to get across some of the off-road - you need to attack it to defeat it. There was nowhere else to go though, I was checked out of Chile and knew I had to try.
The track off the road to the border post flattened out though, and I found when she wasn't trying to climb so steeply my plucky little bike was doing okay.
At the border post there were the same backpackers annoying the border guards, and when I turned up trying to be respectful and efficient found myself fast-tracked before being given fast and concise instructions in Spanish on how to find the Aduana where I was required to present my moto. It was some 88 kilometres away, deep inside the martian landscape ahead.
I was proud of my little moto when she started first kick at well over 4,000 metres altitude, with the felt-hat-wearing hipsters looking on and I zoomed off through the dust yelling "YOLO!" as I went. Because? Well, You Only Live Once.
It was a nice, graded ripio. Wide and flat, with alternative tracks either side for choice and variety. It was like the best pistes I'd encountered in Africa, and I felt at home on it even if my moto wasn't.
Soon enough I came to the first sight - Laguna Verde. There was a small hut on the track and two friendly Guardaparca. They, like most, thought my plan was crazy. But they were impressed that I had a Suzuki; Chinese motots are prolific here, even though their reliability is known to be questionable.
So I had to buy a ticket. Good thing I planned ahead (quite out of character) and got some Bolivianos before I left San Pedro. It was much more than I thought though, and after the price I had seven "Bob" left. That's around seventy pence sterling.
I tried begging for clemency, even offering my remaining lemons and a Mars bar (which has "Milky Way" written on the packet). It was all in vain though, and they explained I would need to show the ticket later on. At least I did have the money, and there wasn't a dramatic chase scene.
As I was circling the lake three Land Cruisers sped past, ferrying their passengers to their alloted time and space for appreciating nature. I was glad to have my own timetable: Whatever the hell I want to do, whenever the hell I want to do it.
I opted to stay up on the trail and admire the lagoon from afar, rather than suffer the other humans. I stopped the bike and looked over the other-worldly-coloured water with a thumb held out, blotting out their existence.
Further on and the ripio, while still good, became undulated. The bumps were at a frequency my short suspension and low speed couldn't tune into and my wrists were bearing the brunt. Thankfully before any bones were displaced it gave way to the first sandy section.
Now this was fun. Pinning the throttle, relaxing your arms and wrists as much as you can, letting the front wheel drift unnaturally, steering with your hips and shoulders, and feeling the rear drifting out as you skim the surface of the sand is a feeling I'll never grow tired of.
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