I'd had it easy and now was time. Time to move, and time for a challenge.
The two weeks I'd imagined to buy a moto in Santiago had turned into nearly six.
Leaving from Valpo the streets were thick with nostalgia - I passed the picada where O'car and I ate a whole chorriana between us, the terrible and disgusting natural history museum I'd taken a mortified Kata to one day weeks before, and rode the coast road through Viña we'd all walked to the beach on that Saturday.
Before long I was back on Ruta 5, but under my own steam, on my hopelessly under-powered little moto designed for small city streets. Not this, the Pan-American Highway.
Plenty of singing out loud, day-dreaming and truck-dodging later, the sun was on it's way below the horizon and I waqs proud of my camp-sense having found a beautiful and practical spot to sleep. Down a small dirt track on the crest of a hill, hidden by huge boulders and small trees I had a stunning view of the fading glow of sunlight on the mountains all around.
My little moto was further out of it's natural habitat, and I liked it. I cooked by a wood-fire, and going to sleep under the stars I remembered why I was there. I woke up around 4 a.m. for no apparent reason and saw three satellites at once, chasing each other across the sky. I thought that must be rare.
Not long after first light I saw the first and only traffic on the unlabelled track. A solitary nun in full habit walked slowly across my horizon.
The wake of air from the flat-fronted coach shook the whole moto violently as it overtook so closely. As soon as I recovered I veered off the road onto the shoulder - luckily the oncoming truck did the same and we all survived another day.
A dry smile crept across my face as I realised my heart rate had remained steady, my pulse was stable and I had been calm and nonchalant through the three seconds which on British roads would have been deemed a near-death-experience, but I have seen the world over.
It was the third time I'd been forced off the road that day - the others by oncoming traffic, and I thought back to one day in Burkina Faso two years before where I realised I'd achieved a kind of road zen. I felt on a higher plane, invulnerable to external forces and master of my own, slow, destiny.
It felt a different journey to the last four months, but a continuation of an old one too.
I knew the fuel stations would be sparse heading north into the Atacama desert. Ariki and Enzo had both warned me as much. I passed a sign explaining the next station after this one was 200 kilometres. Just about right I thought, and carried on past it unfazed.
Later I came over all sleepy and pulled over for a nap in the shade of my moto, on the warm, sandy roadside.
When I got to Villemar, land of the promised fuel station, I had driven straight past the whole town without seeing a station or sign. Unlike every other place I can think of this towns fuel stations aren't on, or labelled from, the main road.
Confused I turned around and heading back towards the town my little engine spluttered, coughed and died. My second day on the road and I'd run out of fuel. I had to laugh.
I knew Chile would provide though, and pulled out the beer bottle I'd meant to fill earlier for these situations and put my thumb out proudly into the road, wearing my biggest smile.
Within minutes a kindly Grandmother, Mother and baby Daughter had picked me up, they were getting fuel anyway so happily took me along. Grandma was even coming back after dropping off Mother and Daughter - perfect.
But when they heard my plan of being served fuel into a bottle they explained I was pushing my luck and would be turned away. I had faith in Chile though.
At the pump while the attendant was filling the car I explained my situation, and he explained his. They weren't allowed to fill anything unauthorised in case of Molotov cocktails. I stick with big smiles and por favor´s, and told him I had no use in the beautiful land of Chile which I had come to love so dearly.
He subtly put my bottle on the floor and filled it.
Back in the car everyone was impressed. Grandma could see I was getting a bit anxious to get back to my bike as it was getting dark and I needed to fill my tank and find a spot to camp. She dropped me off opposite my moto, explaining there was a drainage tunnel I could use to cross the heavily fortified highway.
I was laughing to myself while crouching through the tunnel with my gasolina in hand at my life-affirming day.
On a small track to a mining village called "El Donkey" I managed to find a dried up river-bed in the increasingly arid desert landscape and it had a small amout of firewood at it's edges. I could have a hot meal and a cup of tea.What I'd hoped for, but more than I expected.
The moon was huge and looked full, but I knew he was fooling. I sat in the fast cooling sand next to my now less-than-shiny moto writing by the silver light, thinking of Santiago friends.
Back on Ruta 5 in the morning I found what I assumed a weird occurrence At what I'm sure was barely above sea level I rode into a huge cloud. I was still close to the Pacific, these clouds were folling right off the beach, and needed no mountains to precipitate them.
It was annoyingly wet and sickeningly cold - I put on the jumper Enrique gave me months before, the thick riding gloves Enzo gave me weeks earlier and the scarf Kata had given me on my way out of Valpo.
Eventually the cloud cleared and that afternoon while having a break on the side of the road a camionero pulled up a huge wagon and was soon asking all about my moto and journey. When he heard me mention the Bolivian Altiplano he got excited and ran to the back of his truck, coming back with a proud smile and handful of lemons.
"Por la altitud!" he explained and wished me luck as he drove off, clearly happy to clinch a vital role in my adventure by helping to stave off the effects of the "apunado".
That night the Atacama earnt it's title of driest place in the world and while I found a nice hidden camp spot I could find nothing natural to burn. I left my bag and struggled back through the deep, grey sand to the road and rifled through roadside rubbish by my headlight until I found my prize - a small, broken wooden sign.
Later the moon came out, bright and full, and I howled at it with all my might. There wasn't a soul to hear me and I wondered how it could feel to the the last survivor of an apocalypse.
In the morning light I saw something in the desert, west of the Pan-American Highway. At first I though it was some kind of huge cactus. Then maybe a collection of giant palm trees without leaves. As I pulled off the road to look I had no idea, all that was clear was that it didn't belong.
It was a huge rock sculpture of a hand, sticking up out of the ground toward the sky, and was beautiful. I can't explain it, but it was very moving.
I I had a lonely planet guidebook I'm sure I would know what it was called, who made it and when - but I preferred it this way. An unexplained enigma in the middle of a desert without fanfare or introduction.
That afternoon was the first test of my body and moto. We were to gain around 3,000 metres in altitude to reach San Pedro de Atacama, which neither of us had done before. We both did well, which was very lucky considering what I had planned for next.
Rolling through the strange little isolated town I was flagged down by an Italian with a mad grin and flapping arms:
"You're the first other crazy I've met!" he proclaimed proudly and explained he was also travelling this big continent by small moto, and that other European motorcyclists couldn't understand.
He was funny, and nice, and complimentary, but even he, the "only other crazy" was taken aback by my plans from here...
The two weeks I'd imagined to buy a moto in Santiago had turned into nearly six.
Leaving from Valpo the streets were thick with nostalgia - I passed the picada where O'car and I ate a whole chorriana between us, the terrible and disgusting natural history museum I'd taken a mortified Kata to one day weeks before, and rode the coast road through Viña we'd all walked to the beach on that Saturday.
Before long I was back on Ruta 5, but under my own steam, on my hopelessly under-powered little moto designed for small city streets. Not this, the Pan-American Highway.
Plenty of singing out loud, day-dreaming and truck-dodging later, the sun was on it's way below the horizon and I waqs proud of my camp-sense having found a beautiful and practical spot to sleep. Down a small dirt track on the crest of a hill, hidden by huge boulders and small trees I had a stunning view of the fading glow of sunlight on the mountains all around.
My little moto was further out of it's natural habitat, and I liked it. I cooked by a wood-fire, and going to sleep under the stars I remembered why I was there. I woke up around 4 a.m. for no apparent reason and saw three satellites at once, chasing each other across the sky. I thought that must be rare.
Not long after first light I saw the first and only traffic on the unlabelled track. A solitary nun in full habit walked slowly across my horizon.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
The wake of air from the flat-fronted coach shook the whole moto violently as it overtook so closely. As soon as I recovered I veered off the road onto the shoulder - luckily the oncoming truck did the same and we all survived another day.
A dry smile crept across my face as I realised my heart rate had remained steady, my pulse was stable and I had been calm and nonchalant through the three seconds which on British roads would have been deemed a near-death-experience, but I have seen the world over.
It was the third time I'd been forced off the road that day - the others by oncoming traffic, and I thought back to one day in Burkina Faso two years before where I realised I'd achieved a kind of road zen. I felt on a higher plane, invulnerable to external forces and master of my own, slow, destiny.
It felt a different journey to the last four months, but a continuation of an old one too.
I knew the fuel stations would be sparse heading north into the Atacama desert. Ariki and Enzo had both warned me as much. I passed a sign explaining the next station after this one was 200 kilometres. Just about right I thought, and carried on past it unfazed.
Later I came over all sleepy and pulled over for a nap in the shade of my moto, on the warm, sandy roadside.
When I got to Villemar, land of the promised fuel station, I had driven straight past the whole town without seeing a station or sign. Unlike every other place I can think of this towns fuel stations aren't on, or labelled from, the main road.
Confused I turned around and heading back towards the town my little engine spluttered, coughed and died. My second day on the road and I'd run out of fuel. I had to laugh.
I knew Chile would provide though, and pulled out the beer bottle I'd meant to fill earlier for these situations and put my thumb out proudly into the road, wearing my biggest smile.
Within minutes a kindly Grandmother, Mother and baby Daughter had picked me up, they were getting fuel anyway so happily took me along. Grandma was even coming back after dropping off Mother and Daughter - perfect.
But when they heard my plan of being served fuel into a bottle they explained I was pushing my luck and would be turned away. I had faith in Chile though.
At the pump while the attendant was filling the car I explained my situation, and he explained his. They weren't allowed to fill anything unauthorised in case of Molotov cocktails. I stick with big smiles and por favor´s, and told him I had no use in the beautiful land of Chile which I had come to love so dearly.
He subtly put my bottle on the floor and filled it.
Back in the car everyone was impressed. Grandma could see I was getting a bit anxious to get back to my bike as it was getting dark and I needed to fill my tank and find a spot to camp. She dropped me off opposite my moto, explaining there was a drainage tunnel I could use to cross the heavily fortified highway.
I was laughing to myself while crouching through the tunnel with my gasolina in hand at my life-affirming day.
On a small track to a mining village called "El Donkey" I managed to find a dried up river-bed in the increasingly arid desert landscape and it had a small amout of firewood at it's edges. I could have a hot meal and a cup of tea.What I'd hoped for, but more than I expected.
The moon was huge and looked full, but I knew he was fooling. I sat in the fast cooling sand next to my now less-than-shiny moto writing by the silver light, thinking of Santiago friends.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Back on Ruta 5 in the morning I found what I assumed a weird occurrence At what I'm sure was barely above sea level I rode into a huge cloud. I was still close to the Pacific, these clouds were folling right off the beach, and needed no mountains to precipitate them.
It was annoyingly wet and sickeningly cold - I put on the jumper Enrique gave me months before, the thick riding gloves Enzo gave me weeks earlier and the scarf Kata had given me on my way out of Valpo.
Eventually the cloud cleared and that afternoon while having a break on the side of the road a camionero pulled up a huge wagon and was soon asking all about my moto and journey. When he heard me mention the Bolivian Altiplano he got excited and ran to the back of his truck, coming back with a proud smile and handful of lemons.
"Por la altitud!" he explained and wished me luck as he drove off, clearly happy to clinch a vital role in my adventure by helping to stave off the effects of the "apunado".
That night the Atacama earnt it's title of driest place in the world and while I found a nice hidden camp spot I could find nothing natural to burn. I left my bag and struggled back through the deep, grey sand to the road and rifled through roadside rubbish by my headlight until I found my prize - a small, broken wooden sign.
Later the moon came out, bright and full, and I howled at it with all my might. There wasn't a soul to hear me and I wondered how it could feel to the the last survivor of an apocalypse.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
In the morning light I saw something in the desert, west of the Pan-American Highway. At first I though it was some kind of huge cactus. Then maybe a collection of giant palm trees without leaves. As I pulled off the road to look I had no idea, all that was clear was that it didn't belong.
It was a huge rock sculpture of a hand, sticking up out of the ground toward the sky, and was beautiful. I can't explain it, but it was very moving.
I I had a lonely planet guidebook I'm sure I would know what it was called, who made it and when - but I preferred it this way. An unexplained enigma in the middle of a desert without fanfare or introduction.
That afternoon was the first test of my body and moto. We were to gain around 3,000 metres in altitude to reach San Pedro de Atacama, which neither of us had done before. We both did well, which was very lucky considering what I had planned for next.
Rolling through the strange little isolated town I was flagged down by an Italian with a mad grin and flapping arms:
"You're the first other crazy I've met!" he proclaimed proudly and explained he was also travelling this big continent by small moto, and that other European motorcyclists couldn't understand.
He was funny, and nice, and complimentary, but even he, the "only other crazy" was taken aback by my plans from here...
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