The Longest Night (Part 2)

By now I had a couple of thousand kilometres of these types of Andean tracks under my belt. I knew there would be signs at the roadside, and I knew what they would say:

"ZONA DE DERRUMBES". Landslide Zone. I couldn't see them, but knew they must be there.

There would be other signs too - Maybe a good old "ZONA GEOLOGICA INESTABLE" (which I'll let you translate), and probably a few "NO DEJE PIEDRAS EN LA PISTA" (Don't put rocks on the road) too. But the derrumbes were what should have concerned me.

When you're peering into the inky blackness of the Peruvian night up a mountain after a long, painful, liquor-coated day, your eyes can play tricks on you. You nearly take bends that aren't there, miss bends you're right on top of, and imagine a giant two-metre boulder right in your path which leaves you fractions of a second to react.

Then a giant two-metre boulder is right in your path which leaves you fractions of a second to react.

My laughter echoes in the bracing wind, and as I'm picking my way down the mountain the track turns to asphalt. What luxury! I start fooling myself into believing that now it's suddenly perfectly safe, even though I still can't see a thing.

There's still the odd landslide to dodge, just to keep me on my toes, but then a giant glowing sphere of good fortune appears. The moon has risen, and she lights my way beautifully. I can see the bends before I have to go round them, so I click the engine into gear, bump-start the engine, ruining the silent mountain night, and am soon powering round the hairpin bends. It all seems a little too easy...

Not to worry though, my luck won't hold for long. Now I understand that sight is indeed a blessing, but some things you just don't want to see. Some things are best left a surprise. There was a sign, and now under the stark light of my always-reliable friend I could actually see it:

"ZONA DE NEBLINA". Fog Zone. Now I was descending, I would have to go back down through the cloud. It was inevitable, but I didn't want to know.

And then, all too soon, I was in the thick, soupy fog, which was now glowing by the moonlight and my vision was as bad as ever. I shift back down through the gears to neutral, and kill the motor. I'm back to my silent night-running, and can get over 50 km/h between the hairpin bends without the engine anyway, which is way too fast when I can barely see past my front wheel.

Somewhere down in the valley I'm descending into I see a pair of faint, small, red lights. They're winding down the road, and are hidden most of the time, but pop into view for a few seconds at a time. If I can catch up with this other vehicle, which probably has headlights, I can just follow it without all this ridiculous mental strain I'm under reacting to the road as it falls beneath my wheels.

The engine's back on, and I'm storming down. The road seems to be getting predictable, just evenly spaced hairpins, and I was getting good at the split-second steering inputs needed to stay on two wheels. As long as there's no more landslides, I have a chance. I still have no idea how I did it, but I did, and within a few minutes I was behind a truck, which did indeed have it's very own headlights.

As long as it stayed on the road, so would I. Or so I thought.

I hadn't been following for more than a minute when my back wheel quickly started flailing around, and my moto was bucking wildly as I rolled to a stop at the roadside. Watching my precious lights drive away into the clouds knowing exactly where they were going was heartbreaking. I had fought for them, I had earned them, and they didn't even know I existed.

I knew before I looked that I had a flat tyre. Then remembered a conversation with Enzo (in Valpo) months before. "Please, take the can Eddie, you never know - sometime you might not want to, or have the time to, play with tyre levers and patches".

Enzo had given me a can of tyre repair liquid. I'd said I didn't need it because I had patches and could fix them myself, but in his wisdom he'd made me take it. This was that time he was talking about - it was cold and dark and I was in pain and mentally exhausted.

It would only take seconds to spray some gunk in the tube, I could even catch up with my sacred lights. If it worked.

A healthy squirt of goo and some frantic pump-stamping later and I was back on road. But it hadn't worked, I didn't get 200 metres before I was stopped again. The lights were long gone, and I wouldn't see them, or any others for a while.

As I got off the moto a loud dog appeared, barking angrily. It stressed my mind, but I knew I had to stay cool. If I rushed and fudged something it could waste a lot of time. The patching went okay, and the exercise kept me warm, I'd been getting really cold riding down through the damp cloud.

I didn't know the time and I didn't want to. I'd hidden some chocolate for desperate times in my tool kit, and this was the time. I hoped when I found a town to sleep in that somewhere to buy a hot meal would still be open, but I had no idea how far I had to ride and what I might find. So chocolate would do for now.

Well, I rolled down the mountain safe in the knowledge that everything that could go wrong, had. I had a new sense of calm, and before long I came back down out of the cloud. I started seeing villages, which meant I was probably going to come across a town, and I could finally end my day.

I'm pootling through one of these villages, pretending I'm warm and cosy already, when a dog jumps off a verge on my right, from head height, barking maniacally. It was so sudden, and scared me for a moment in the quiet night. As it landed next to my right foot I instinctively kicked out at it. As my leg stretched out my trousers rode up from my ankle and as some pink flesh exposed for a fraction of a second the beast clamped it's teeth around it.

I couldn't believe it. When will this day end?

Well, it turned out it was soon after. I rolled into Abancay, found a friendly alojamiento, a hot and tasty pollo a la brasa and a well-deserved cerveza.

Phew.

The Longest Day (Part 1)

There weren't any signs. It could have been either way at the fork.

I've been riding without a map for a month now. I've been using my seemingly-infinite faith in humanity to guide me through. My logic follows thus: A map can easily be out of date, but local knowledge is likely to be up-to-date. I've quickly found which people are likely to know more than others. But am still surprised often.
Taxi drivers know less than you might think. Police and Army are always a good bet. Bus drivers aren't likely to give you the time of day. Whatever information you glean, every single time distance and time are subjective. Very subjective. Whoever you ask will at least pretend to know the way, or agree with the first suggestion, so averaging large samples is the only way towards any semblance of accuracy, but some days the available sample is one lone boy...

"Was that a house?" I thought to myself, "Or just another seemingly abandoned hut in the middle of nowhere?" This thought process was after I'd already gone left, using only the force to help decide.

I'm going up a winding, rocky track in the Peruvian Andes - you could say off the beaten track, but I'm not sure that would do it justice. Maybe my decision-making skills are off today, back on the asphalt road the restaurant owner hadn't let me leave without three healthy samples of his sugar cane liquor, and beer was cheaper than a soft drink. Not quite the snack I'd imagined, but it left me confident for the day ahead.
I look back over my shoulder for a second to assess the building I'd passed, as I came to the conclusion that rational thinking might, for once, trump Star Wars mysticism. I was wrong, but who was to know at the time.

While I'm looking back the rear of the moto drifts out a touch too far. I face forward and in a flash am up on the pegs, leaning my body into the drift in a desperate attempt to catch my momentum. I over-correct and as the back wheel slides out the other way it grips suddenly and she pivots, throwing me off and over her, up the slope we're climbing into the dusty rocks.

It's called a highside. It's the cause of a lot of broken collarbones in track racing. I'm not on a track though, and luckily am only going fast enough to get dirty, stretched and bruised. I lay on my back, laughing to the sky. In a moment I realise it's not funny at all if my moto is damaged out here, and I jump up to assess her. She's not meant for crashing. Off-road moto's have folding foot pegs, protected hand levers, and guarded oil sumps. Mine has friendly looks, great fuel economy and a quiet exhaust.

She's laid on her right hand side. A good sign - it's much more possible to ride without brakes (which are all on that side) than gears (which are all on the other). Hope.
The lever and mirror twisted around the handlebars instead of breaking. Just as I'd intended when I loosened and loctited the bolts before crossing the border into Bolivia a month before. Satisfaction.
The footpeg is mangled and no longer attached, but fits back on in a similar fashion in which it started. And in a heart-warming act of self sacrifice it somehow saved the brake pedal from damage too. Admiration.
The exhaust is attached, if a bit less pretty and the bendy indicator stems all bent as far as their dignity allowed them when it really mattered. Gratitude.
She crashed well. Pride.

I head back down to the fork in the track where the hut is and, absolutely nothing more is obvious. Ten minutes before I was willing to go wherever the wind carried me, but now I feel less sure. If I can at least know that whichever track I take goes somewhere I will follow it, but neither have more logic than the other.
Then I see a flash of something swinging around a bend in the distance of the as-yet untried track. I race down and find a teenage boy carrying a ladder, seemingly between nowhere and nowhere else.

Amazingly he doesn't know what village this track goes to, even though he's walking along it, but suggests I ask the taxi. I'm laughing as I begin to ask him what taxi he's talking about, having not seen a vehicle since I left the asphalt some hours before.

But as I do a white 4-wheel-drive Toyota estate taxi bounces slowly round a bend ahead and I hail it, laughing with the boy, who clearly knows how powerful an ally the force is. The driver clearly has no idea where the village I'm asking about is, and is in the process of making something up when one of the (five) ladies in the back seat explains it's up the track right of the hut. Where I'd just been and crashed.
My instincts were right at first, and I found my lack of faith disturbing.

Back on the fateful track and I'm glad I got my crash out of the way when I did. It only got rockier and more difficult. The gradient was getting steeper and I was standing up on the pegs, leaning over the handlebars to keep the front down over some of the bumps. I rode up into the clouds and whiled away my afternoon picking my way up the mountain, promising my moto a more comfortable life someday. For now I hope she's happy with the demanding life of adventure. I'm sure she'd let me know if it were any other way...

We emerge from the clouds - we're coming to the top of the mountain, the track becomes asphalt and the view across the cloud-carpeted valley is amazing with the sun setting under the clouds. We stop for a rest to marvel and while she cools the uncomfortably hot oil coursing through her aluminium veins, I stretch out my pulled arm muscles and can suddenly feel every part of my body that I landed on.

As it gets darker I know I will get a bit cold, and I may have to ride a few hours into the night to find a warm bed to stay in. This is nothing new or scary, I have my usual untroubled demeanour and I'm still feeling independent, free and privileged to be here. After all, it's all downhill from here.

I turn on my headlight to clean it. It's not working. In a marvellous physical act of irony I use the last rays of the evening sunlight failing to find the problem with the light.

The stars are out, but my good friend the moon isn't up yet. In my mind in the northern hemisphere while growing up the moon was always a man, The Man in the Moon. Here she's a lady, La Luna, which while a little confusing for me is quite comforting. She was full only two nights before, so I know when she gets here she'll be great at lighting my way.

For now I can barely see anything, but going downhill I turn the engine off and in the chilly wind it feels like I'm using all my senses to feel my way down the silent mountain.

Los Incas

The cloud vapour froze over on my visor and goggles, I rolled off the throttle as my vision reduced to a kaleidoscope of grey and white and I pulled them both out of the way to experience a brand new pain sensation - windblast frozen eyeballs.

If you have immensely, painfully and dangerously cold hands I can guarantee you that this will take your mind straight off them.

I knew I was going somewhere interesting and adventuresome, but this really confirmed it.

Santa Theresa was the last town on the list of directions the Belgian had given me - from there he said everyone would know the way.

The road there was heart-stopping, and I wished I had changed my tyres for it.

There had been a great tyre debate at the "PARE" sign where I'd waited over three hours for the road to re-open while excavators cleared the landslide.
I'd fallen asleep in the dirt before the Peruvian men crowded around my moto had made a concencus on the tyre issue, and my laziness made the decision for me.

The river crossings were the really sketchy bit, and my road tyres just couldn't get any purchase on the wet boulders I was bowling over. I was lucky to only get wet feet.

The next day I was glad for the nap though, as I was awake before the sun and made it to the hydroelectric plant where the train tracks begin as he came up.

Getting to a rusty old metal bridge I think of Rob Reiner's film "Stand by Me" as I kneel down and touch the tracks for signs of an impending train, and hum the theme of "Paladin" as I walk across.

After an hour following the tracks they split - Juan back in Santa Theresa had definitely said to stay right, but as I was getting nearer I heard the unmistakable sound of a locomotive and realised if I crossed the tracks I could get a dramatic photo as the train came around the bend, looking as if coming straight at me.

As the train rounded the bend I see it's not going very fast, and Corey Feldman's voice echoes in my head: "Train dodge - dig it.".

I need to cross back over the tracks anyway and think I can get a quick photo of the train *actually* coming straight at me.

I've timed it well and step out in front of the train with enough time to make it, but so that it'll make an impressive photo if a bit of motion blur comes out.

My body was steeled to stop, fire the shutter and carry straight on, but when the shutter button wouldn't move I was thrown totally out of sync, and froze.

Unfortunately Wil Wheaton and River Phoenix weren't there to talk me down. The man standing at the front of the train started shouting and in my head I was going over loading the film, taking up the slack on the spool and winding off and firing the first wasted frames.

As the deafening horn sounded I realised I hadn't wound on the first good frame, but it was too late for the photo and I came back to my senses and jumped off the track, while the man cursed my stupidity, his mouth moving as if silently with the horn blaring over his wagging jaw.

I was half way over the bridge across the river to start the ascent when the cafe owner woke the official in the ticket office and I was shouted back to him, only to find out I had to walk to Aguas Calientes, the nearest town to buy a ticket which would be checked here.

After the forty minute diversion I was back at the bridge and could start the steep climb. It was tough, but I knew it would be worth it.

And there, in the clouds I found the sacred, lost and rediscovered ancient city of Machu Picchu - as beautiful and mystical as it's reputed to be.

I didn't visit the gift shop - On the way back I put one Peruvian Sol on the train track as the engine passed and it casually tossed the coin aside, flattening it. I had my souvenir for the day.

Leaving La Paz

I'm still putting the side-stand of my moto down on the worn slippery planks that make the "floor" of the raft when the captain pushes off and starts the outboard. I was being careful as a wheel of the camioneta I'm sharing the raft with had already fallen through a gap and we'd all had to help to get it out.

The captain set the rudder and started the endless task of bailing out the flooded hull visible between the planked floor. I would have helped him if the vessel wasn't twisting, rocking and contorting so much under the feeble power of the tiny waves that my moto was constantly on the verge of tipping off it's stand one way or the other.

I imagined what of my riding gear I would still be able to swim in, and mentally put in order what was most important to remove first. Then I made a mental note when I judged we passed the half-way point and the destination shore was the closer one.

I wasn't nervous or scared, but if you have been on a sinking boat in a remote destination in a developing country you might think practically too.

The old, toothless lady with a cheekful of coca, selling biscuits was the first person I'd met in Bolivia who I entirely couldn't understand. But luckily her biscuits were cheap, and the direction she pointed for town true. The roadsides were free of rubbish and children cycling on the road waved excitedly.

This was a far cry from the city of La Paz I'd left that morning. The owner of the "parqueo" I'd left my moto in had feigned a seizure when I wouldn't pay more than we agreed originally. I would feel callous riding off after catching his "spasming" body, laying him on the ground and putting a cup of water next to him, but as he peeked through one eyelid as I kicked over the motor I just sighed.

The landscape was wild and rugged, reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands, and the road was winding and dramatic.

The man with six gold teeth and a donkey who I'd asked directions from on the other side of Lago Titicaca was right - the view on the road winding down the cliff into Copacabana with islands stretching into the lakes distance was, indeed, bonita.

North Yungas Road

"Que paso hombre?" asked the camionero seeing my tools, tyres and wheels spread over the dirt on the side of the road as he pissed into a bush. I explain I'm just changing tyres for more suitable ones, pointing down the trail which drops off sharply through the clouds on our left.

"Jajajaja! LA RUTA DE LA MUERTE" chuckles the man, now looking over my obviously ill-equipped moto.

It's an easy start and I'm following all the rules: my headlight's on, I'm riding on the left and using my horn at every blind bend. But visibility is practically zero as I descend through the cloud, and I have to hope I'll hear any oncoming traffic and vice-versa.

Then it appears.

The mountainous, jungly valley stretches out to my left with a small rocky trail clearly visible, winding over and under itself impossibly, clinging to the near vertical sides. I've seen only arid scrubland for the last three weeks in Bolivia, and desert for a week before that, so this rich, lush, jungly forest is especially breathtaking.

Waterfalls, tiny and huge cross, cover, drop under and dribble over the track as it stretches out of sight. As soon as I have my breath back I'm bombing down, a cloud of dust behind me, stones pinging off the hundreds-of-metres drop on my left.

As the back wheel drifts out, and what looks like a banked edge slides away, turning out to be displaced stones, I surmise that the right-hand bends are the most dangerous, as your momentum is pushing your weight over the certain-death edge.

Then the back wheel drops as it cuts over a gap that crumbled away from the inside of a left-hand bend and I realise - at this speed it's all the most dangerous.

There are signs every kilometre or so reminding me to stay on the left, but I'm there anyway. Nothing could take me away from the tantelising edge - I'm addicted to the speed and peril and am going faster and faster. Kicking stones off the edge with the back wheel is a game that gets easy and the real challenge becomes using the front wheel.

Looking across the valley through a rainbow made by a waterfall ahead steals my concentration and I nearly crash having drifted into the central bank of stones. I realise it's one thing at a time here, and stop to admire.


"Diez Bolivianos?" Asks the policeman quietly at the barrier checkpoint leading to the paved road back to civilisation. "No thanks!" I reply with a smile and snatch back my driving licence, feeling silly for having given it to this extortionist in the first place.

"Diez Bolivianitos?" He tries again, but I just smile and by now I'm raising the barrier by myself, thinking he's not very well practised at this shakedown routine.

Back at the fuel station on the outskirts of La Paz I resume negotiations with the young attendant I'd managed to buy two litres of gasolina from that morning after borrowing a bottle from an old lady. Usefully foreign vehicles aren't allowed to be supplied fuel in the whole region, so I have to resort to bribing people or finding locals to fill an oil can for me.

I agree to pay double price (it's still only sixty pence a litre) if he can get my whole tank full, and he devises a plan to get me past the cameras so he can't get into trouble. He fetches another attendant and I walk the moto to a pump while they each cover a number plate (my Chilean moto has one on the front and another on the back) from the cameras view with their bodies.

I swap out for one of them while he fills the tank, then we swap back and walk out of the forecourt in our bizzare procession. I roll back into the city tired, but satisfied.

And promptly get lost.

The Wild West of the Bolivian Altiplano

A dozen dogs are fighting in the road and I swerve off between the pigs and the old ladies sat in the dust selling tissues and sweets. It's getting dark and this town feels seedy, but I have to find a bed here with a thick alpaca duvet or I'll freeze sleeping out at this altitude.

I'm haggling with the lady at the alojamiento and notice a grubby toddler playing in the dirt road, with cars dodging around him. I excuse myself and push my bike onto the pavement, lifting him to the pavement at the same time.

When I get back to the moto after looking at the dingy room a reeking, toothless old man is absently fondling it's mudguard with a big dribbly smile.

In the "restaurant", which is little more than the ladies kitchen, the soup is simple and tastes of only fat and potato, but the leg of lamb in it is satisfying if gristly.

The old man with the cowboy hat has filled my glass with beer again, and as I'm explaining that I'm a bit tired for a third glass, his head drops and he starts snoring.

This is the Bolivia in which the tourist coaches don't stop. The Wild West of the Bolivian Altiplano.

Uyuni

It was hard to think, but eventually I realised I had to do something. It was only three a.m., there were around four more hours in which it would be getting colder and colder. I was still thirsty as hell and needed to pee.

There were no options. I would have to make a fire to keep warm.

Trying to get out of the bivi was difficult without the use of my feet. As I finally got out I fell onto a spiky bush and couldn't get up. I started hitting my feet in a vain attempt to reanimate them, and felt stupid and powerless. I rolled over into the remains of the fire from dinner and bum-shuffled back over to the bivi, the sand around was deathly cold.

I stayed in the sleeping bag, and alternated warming my hands in my armpits with warming my feet with my hands. I had to be able to walk to get the wood to make a fire.

Eventually some feeling came back into my heels and I undid the zip at the bottom of my sleeping bag so I could waddle for wood. Annoyingly I'd used all the close firewood, so had to go much further to get more. It was enraging and frustrating trying to walk with my leaden feet, and falling over bending down to pick up wood was testing my patience.

I'm normally quite orderly when setting a fire, but this time I dumped some wood in a pile, sprayed some medicinal alcohol over it and flicked a match. It did the job.

I sat with my legs bent around the fire, my feet centimetres away from the flames, and my arms and chest hugging the tall flames. By now I wasn't bothered if I burnt a hole or two in my sleeping bag.

I nestled my metal Sigg bottle in the fire to melt the first of my water, and put the plastic litre-and-a-half as close as I dared. After an hour or so of rotating water, ice and slush between bottles and my cup I got scared about my toes.

The rest of my feet were in suitable pain, but my toes were still dead. And then I thought - 'How cold actually is it here?', 'How cold do you need to be to get frostbite?' and finally 'Are my toes actually dead?'

I was scared, but had to know. It was an awful feeling peeling all my socks off, and of course it turned out I was being paranoid. They were nowhere near the right colour, but they were still a part of my body and bloodstream.

I had run out of wood, so had to search further again, but promised myself a cup of tea and some hot oats. I could walk more or less like a human, but the cold sand was torturously painful. I vowed to warm my boots next. I carried on like this until sunrise, my toes slowly and painfully coming back to life, and my small fire getting bigger.

The morning was hassle, and lots of it. I've camped out around zero plenty, but this was totally different. It must have been way, way below.

My toothpaste wouldn't squeeze. I cut my mouth on a piece of chocolate that splintered. Cable ties on my moto snapped. Moisture in the zip of my sleeping bag froze it shut. My packet of baby wipes had frozen into a solid block.  Nothing was simple.

Then I had to push my moto out of the deep sand into the morning sunlight to warm her up.

Back on the trail it was easy-going. A good job too as I was shattered. Mentally physically and emotionally. The ripio got sandier and sandier, until I realised it was the deepest yet by far. The gentle steering input and lazy leaning suited my battered state. Every now and then I'd have to catch a drift going to far, but I didn't have the energy to mess it up by panicking and stiffening my arms too much.

The bitterly cold morning wind kept me awake, and I found I was just as good reacting to the feeling through the bars as I was at watching the track, so lazily gazed over the scenery, which had become yet more green and full of alpacas. I drifted my sandy morning away in a daze.

There were a few houses, some dodgy river crossings and lovely views. Then, before midday I reached Ruta 701 - a graded ripio which led all the way to Uyuni, civilisation. I still couldn't believe I hadn't crashed, and stopped for lunch and marvelled at my tough little bike.

The only unknown was whether I had enough gasolina to make it there. Or so I thought.

As the undulations calmed and the ripio flattened out it became obvious that I hadn't quite got through scot-free. The back wheel was rhythmically wobbling out to one side, then the other. I absolutely couldn't ride her straight.

I aired up the tyres for the conditions, checked the wheel alignment, then spent nearly an hour trying to tune the spokes. Without a spoke key. Being careful I found I could manage with a monkey wrench, but one slip and I'd have a rounded spoke nut.

The spokes wouldn't come into tune, and it became obvious I'd buckled the wheel. So while I wanted nothing more than to blast to Uyuni as fast as I could, I knew I should take it easy. With the Salar de Uyuni (the worlds biggest salt flat) on my left, and the mountainous plains I'd just conquered on my right, it wasn't so bad. In fact it was a blessing as the fuel-guzzling sand would be offset by my gentle pace here.

I rolled into town unreasonably filthy, impressively smelly, impossibly tired and in no small amount of pain, but feeling more alive than ever. And invincible.

Villamar

The track was now cut into a mountain-side and was spectacular. The landscape was changing, and looking through the valley I was descending through I could see green. Vegetation meant the possibility of fire, and the thought of a hot meal warmed my soul even with the cutting winds.

There were stony trails, sketchy river crossings and more beautiful vistas. I still hadn't seen another vehicle in hours - this was what I had been looking for. The valley came out into a huge plain, covered in small green bushes which seemed so novel after so long in the Atacama Desert.

Late afternoon I pootled through the village, Villamar, which the Guardaparca had told me about. The alpacas were even more tame here, so I stopped for some pictures while an old lady looked at me as if I was an alien. If she had a camera I think she would have taken a picture.

The rest of the village had a good old stare as I rode through, and I nipped over a footbridge on the far side of town to avoid any embarrassment at the deep river crossing which I had no confidence in making. I had done well today, but there was no point pushing it.

The trail was stunning in the evening sun and I was passing eerie rock formations casting freaky shadows across the desert. I was aching, tired and hungry, but at the same time content, satisfied and proud. Ahead of me were rolling sand dunes, to the left were white cliffs cut out of the ground, behind me the snow-capped orange mountains and on my right the dry table-flat desert plains. It felt epic.

The track eventually came within a few kms of some rocky features that looked hideable in. Standing up on the pegs, drifting through the sand, riding through small dry bushes and avoiding cacti as if my life depended on it (no-one wants a flat at the end of the day) I started shouting the Star Wars theme as I headed through a mini-canyon that looked so like the films.

I stopped in a corner that looked like it could provide shelter from the cold winds I'd been warned about, then ran all over the surrounding rocks taking photos as the sun went down behind the pale, cooling earth.

It was getting cold, and as I got out my cooking stuff I started putting on more clothes. The G.P.S. told me I was still at 4,059 metres. Once I'd scrounged some firewood I put on yet more clothes - I didn't have many more. I rigged my tarp around my bike to protect me from the wind which was picking up, and still had a view above for the night sky.

I soon had a nice fire and full belly, but the wind was now freakishly chilling and it was too cold to enjoy doing anything outside my sleeping bag in the pitch black. Changing for bed consisted of putting on all my remaining clothes - apart from the t-shirt I'd sweated through riding, which I was drying the by the fire. I was laying on my riding jacket and trousers for extra insulation as the sand had lost all it's warmth and was now bitterly cold, even to walk on with my three pairs of socks on.

I was thirsty, but held off drinking to deny any possibility of having to get up in the night to pee.

I woke up at midnight and was cold. Very cold. My feet weren't cold any more though - I couldn't feel them. I took my last remaining clothing, my t-shirt drying on the fire and wrapped it around my numb feet. I found my sleeping bag was soaking wet on top, where my bivi bag hadn't been breathing as it should.

I was even more thirsty, but was even less fond of the idea of peeing so again didn't touch my water. Mistake.

I thought there wasn't anything more I could do to keep warm, but I was now too cold to get back to sleep. I laid still for a long time in the cold darkness looking at the sky as close as I'd ever been to the stars. Eventually I knew how to wear myself out enough to induce sleep - it wasn't many sit-ups in the thin air at this altitude before I was exhausted and drifted off. Mistake.

When I next woke up I was without a doubt the coldest I've ever been in my life. There was a strange and painful sensation in my legs where attached to the ice bricks which were my feet. My fingers stung with cold through all three pairs of gloves I was wearing. I tried not to move, but I needed to pee now anyway.

I reached over to my water and found the whole litre-and-a-half frozen solid. Worrying. But more worryingly as I had reached over there was a cracking noise. It was the sweat which had formed on my sleeping bag earlier - which had now frozen into a layer of ice covering my whole body.

I was pulling it away in chunks, but it was awkward reaching down into the bivi bag and it was making my gloves wet through, exacerbating the pain in my fingers. I took off the gloves and warmed my hands in my armpits which had the useful side-effect of making my armpits hurt. I stayed like that for a long time.

Eduardo Avaroa

The gearing was different at this altitude, and once I learnt the best speeds to shift I could take the bumps a bit better and save my wrists a little. It didn't last for long though, I still had altitude to gain and when climbing was losing speed and going back to the bike-rattling, hand-slamming vibes.

There was plenty to take my mind off it though, and I hopped out of the track into the deep sand surrounding when I noticed I was between the most surreal array of orange-marbled mountains with snowy peaks. I forgot I even had wrists as I sat dumbfounded in the sand.

The next section was more sandy, but nothing crazy. It was the first deep enough to have the jeep tracks driven into it. As the front wheel crosses the tracks you inevitably fish-tail a bit - taming and directing it is the skilled part.

As I hit a crossing tyre track my back wheel drifted out half a metre to my left, and in the same second a Toyota Land Cruiser flew past ridiculously fast, millimetres away from smashing me into oblivion. At first when I'd realised the track was populated I was relieved that I might not be stranded if something happened. Now I realised I'd be a lot safer on my own.

Over the next kilometres I had a few hairy tankslappers (if you don't know what that means type "motogp saves" into youtube.com), but nothing I couldn't handle - it was exhilarating and more confidence-building each time I caught one.

The most difficult bit was trying to pay attention - the scenery was amazing. I'm sure I can't do it justice, but try and imagine dead still, vivid blue lagoons with frilly white edges, nestled between chocolate and vanilla ice-cream swirl mountains all set in a silent desert under a clear, vivid blue sky.

No matter how fun the riding was I couldn't get more than ten kilometres without stopping to appreciate. The alpacas seemed unfazed by my motorbike and I started seeing how close I could get to these weird, calming beasts.

Back on the ripio it was coming up to the eighty-eight kilometres from the border post and sure enough there was a little sign pointing up a steep track labelled "Aduana". Standing on the pegs, wheels scrabbling in the dirt I wound my way up, and soon enough was stopped, confused at the gate to a big industrial complex.

A bored looking guy opened the gate and pointed to a small building. Sure enough after hammering on the door and waiting for a while there was a customs official. In a quarry. In a National Park. Why, Bolivia?

The G.P.S. that Kevin had lent me had turned itself off. It was supposed to have another twenty hours or so of batteries... This was a bad sign, and I had to hope that I could use the force later on, instead of the waypoints I had painstakingly entered into the antique beast. I turned it back on as I headed inside.

The guy was friendly, and thought there must be a mistake on the ownership document for my moto when he read 110 c.c. engine displacement. He laughed when I asked if it was the smallest moto he'd seen here. I took that as a yes. Formalities were quick and easy, and the guy wished me luck quite sincerely - I was beginning to like South American borders.

Back outside the G.P.S. said it had full batteries, and that we were at 5,025 metres (that's about 16,500 feet) altitude. I was proud of my little bike, and sang my lungs out while we tore back down to the main track, back wheel drifting out on the bends, with my face tight in the cold wind. The G.P.S. stubbornly turned itself off again.

A few geysers, hot springs, lakes and lagoons later and there was a fork in the road with a little disused-looking hut, and it was time to see if the force was strong in this one. I went right, the more northerly direction, but instantly doubted myself and stopped after only a few hundred metres.

The G.P.S. would turn on again luckily, and I suddenly figured out the problem - when riding the bitterly cold wind was killing the batteries. They just wouldn't function at those temperatures. I'd read about the conditions here killing big, lead-acid motorcycle batteries overnight.

Looking back at the fork I realised there was a moto parked outside it I hadn't seen before - it wasn't disused at all. Then the G.P.S. informed me that my Jedi skills were poor, and I had gone the wrong way.

Back at the hut it turned out the Honda XR250 (just what you need out here) was owned by the fat Guardaparca inside the hut:
"¿Que paso amigo?" he said with a belly-laugh as I pulled up, obviously from the wrong direction.

He told me I'd reach the refugio at Lago Colorada in just an hour or so, so should try and make it to Villamar to sleep. I knew about the refugio, and had planned to sleep there, but I had no idea there'd be a place on the way. I checked with him that Villamar was a town, and he said yes, "Mas o menos". More or less.

This was a big surprise, and I was thinking over the research I had done, and how I'd missed a whole town. I was sure it would all become clear in time. There were more fun trails, and more beautiful views but my bike and wrists were still being abused badly by the ruts.

There was a right turn off the trail, it zig-zagged up a steep slope and was made of big rocks and sand.
If there was ever a point I *needed* an off-road bike, it was to go up something like that.
If there was ever a point where I was likely to crash and brake myself or the bike, it was going up something like that.

There was a sign pointing up the track, saying "Uyuni". My destination.
Balls.

I stopped the bike and got off - there was a freaky salt lake of many colours, with a martian mountain behind it, and they deserved a photo anyway. In the seconds I was taking out my camera a huge pínk flamingo soared across, right in front of me. I didn't get a photo, but saw it as a good omen.

I hadn't seen another vehicle in hours now, and knew I had to get this right. I had no body armour, but I knew the only way I would make it up there was absolutely as fast as I could go.

My poor little bike - the first thing that happened was the front suspension bottoming out on a big rock. As I pushed my weight down on the footpegs to keep traction the underside smashed on more rocks. I was still upright and moving, but was down a gear to second. Only one more in reserve.

Around the next bend the rocks became more sharp and pointy, and I felt them force through twenty pounds per square inch of tyre pressure and dinging my wheel rims. The rear suspension couldn't rebound in time for all the rocks, and the bike was bucking wildly as I deperately held the throttle wide open and tipped her right into the last turn.

Coming over the final crest the bottom hit again, and the engine revved wildly (well, as much as a four-stroke 110 c.c. can anyway) as the rear wheel came up and I pitched forward over the top.

I stopped to assess. All footpegs and pedals were still attached and functioning. The sump still contained the engine oil. Both stands still worked, the exhaust was still there and the frame was at least strong enough to hold them all together. Result.

Or so I thought.

Hito Cajones

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.

Que Aventura?

It's the evening before I leave Chile for Bolivia and I'm showing Dan, an Englishman at the hostel I'm staying at in San Pedro de Atacama, over my moto:

"Well, the suspension wants twice as much travel to absorb the undulations I expect on the ripio, and the front wheel wants to be four inches bigger to get over the rocky sections."
Good start?

"The ground clearance is not at all suitable for any of the terrain, but usefully the frame and exhaust are both below the sump, which has no guard, so they might save it given half a chance - but all of them make getting stuck in the sandy parts pretty likely."
Not all bad...

"The huge, goofy pegs and pedals are the dangerous bit though - not only potentially ankle-breaking in a crash without motocross boots, but liable to be left broken and unuseable after a crash in anything but deep sand, potentially stranding me out there."
There has to be some more positives?

"It's kick-start only, so if the extreme cold wrecks the battery I should be able to start her up."
Phew.

"Well, if the engine runs at all at that altitude."
Ah.

I didn't go into the low-slung exhaust being potentially disastrous for the water-crossings I knew were waiting for me, or the low handlebars making standing for the technical parts awkward, or - Well, you get the idea...

This was a square-peg-for-a-round-hole situation. And I was the hammer.

Soledad

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.

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...

"What happened to your face?"

Sara's phone is held out in the air, dance music pumping from it and four of us are running dangerously fast down the steep winding steps of a huge cerro north of Valpo, laughing as we try not to trip over each other. We were loud and excitable due to the two cases of beer and bottle of rum we'd just finished, and the awesome music which had resulted.

It had been a lovely day on the beach with frisbee and ice creams, followed by an asado at Sara's sisters place, where we made our own live music - we were a four-piece band, with two harmonicas, beatboxing and a guitarrana. And sounded pretty good in our opinions.

Now we were on our way into town to meet Cami's sister and her friends. The club had rough stone walls and was set two floors underground, with a long wide staircase at the entrance. It wasn't huge, but big enough. It had a bar, some sofas and two dancefloors - one dancey and one rocky.

O'car and Cami started dancing. And that was it. They then wouldn't stop for four hours straight. Sara and I kept up as long as we could, but it was clear they were unmatchable. I don't think either of them drank a single drop of fluids, while Sara and I were replacing ours with beer rapidly and it was clear my dancing abilities had passed their peak (a polite way of saying I think I may have fallen over).

It was hilarious though, and we all rocked out and went crazy.

At one point Sara and I were sat on the sofas by the bar, at the bottom of the entrance stairs. Somehow we'd both forgotten we were underground, and one of us noticing the stairs said:

"What's up the stairs?"

"Must be another dancefloor!"

"Let's go!"

"Better take a beer!"

And a minute later we were running up the stairs, beers in hand, only to spill out onto the street mayhem of a Saturday night in Valpo. We collapsed laughing at our own stupidity and marvelled at how we could both be so disoriented.

When the lights came up O'car and Cami finally stopped dancing and it was clear O'car had put his heart and soul into it - he was soaked through, head-to-toe. It was amazing. I have never seen anything like it without the use of recreational drugs.

Cami's sisters friends had left earlier and we were all to stay in her boyfriends apartment, back north. O'car managed to skillfully secure us a taxi ahead of the hordes of revellers and we were flying across town in no time.

I once again tried to explain my gratitude and warmth for the amazing time my friends had shown me since we met. I did do a bit better, but in the end resorted to drunkenly admitting I loved each and every one of their faces.

It all got a bit soppy, but our love-in was cut short by the violent rocking of the taxi as the driver swerved around another taxi - both had gone flat out through a crossroads without looking. We all screamed.

The driver, thinking our value of life funny sped up and up, until he was finding the limits of traction round bends and we were being thrown around like ragdolls in the back. It was one of those times when you know there is no reasoning with someone. We had to accept our fate.

We did survive and at the apartment Cami instructed us we had to pass the night porter sober-looking and as if we owned the place. So O'car drenched through with sweat, me with a mysteriously black-stained leg, Sara and Cami trying not to laugh, and us all still hearts racing from the taxi-ride-from-hell sauntered through the foyer like royalty

"Did I ever tell you I love your face?"

We're looking across over the west of Santiago, from the top of Cerro San Cristobal as the sun is disappearing over the mountains on the city's edge, and the burnt orange sky stains everything.

We're tired, but it was worth it. I have learnt by now not to try and keep up with O'car on a mountain bike, which Daniel did. Luckily Sara went up at a good pace which I could manage, and we scaled the hill from the front side, which I hadn't done before.

Back on the top it's dark and the lights of the city transformed it, exposing the contrast of the natural surroundings and the huge metropolis.

We came down the back side, the big moon above us framed between the trees on either side of the road is our only light as usual. Following Sara as fast as I dared down the winding road I howled as loud as I could at the bright moon. Fitting as it was my last night in Santiago, before becoming a lone wolf after so long in such a close pack.

Before long we're cycling through the same suspended walkways from my first story about Santiago on this blog, and my time here has come full circle. As we pass a park on the way into town there's a small group of mountain bikers at the top of a steep track, obviously deciding who's to go first, and psyching each other up to do it.

O'car and Sara casually turn across in front of them, already carrying a lot of speed and make it look like child's play. Daniel and I can't help but laugh as we ride past them, noticing each of their bikes is worth more than all of ours put together.

I'm feeling nostalgic, and decide to serenade the city as we're cutting between the throng of queueing cars through town. Frank Sinatra is on my mental jukebox and it's a song I can really belt out - my volume is on maximum and I'm attracting some interesting looks from the car drivers.

Santiago's lullaby is cut short as a car cuts me off and i skid to a halt, before giving the inevitable "A-WEON-AO!" to the driver, who thankfully didn't take enough offense to try and hurt me. I was a bit behind and missed one set of lights the others made it through, suddenly realising I only had a vague idea of where I was, and could have a hard time getting back without them.

Luckily Sara was as considerate as ever and noticing I was behind was waiting for me in the busy traffic. Us two ended up at the German bar before O'car and Daniel, who noticed we weren't with them after a while and were trying to find us.

Soon enough Cami joined us and we were five, with as many giant litre steins bigger than our heads waiting to be drunk. Well, we drank those and more and had a great time, but I had to be careful to be sober enough to finally leave the next day.

On the way home we stopped as Daniel turned off to go home. I tried my best to tell everyone there how much their openness, friendship and kindness over the last weeks meant to me. Either that or I was half-drunkenly shouting that I loved their faces. Either way I hope I went a little way to expressing myself.

"Which university are you at?"

One of the Mexicanos has ordered a round of tequila - how fitting.

We're upstairs in a busy bar in Valpo. It's a Spanish girls' birthday. I think.

We're sat on a big table full of international students, and it's assumed I'm also one.

"FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS!" everybody shouts as the flaming tequilas are thrust into the air - I'm going to need another beer after this I think to myself, and nod at the departing bar waiter who has by now learnt mine and Kata's drinks. (Two of the cheapest bottled beers.)

We did deserve it though - we were both up before seven that morning and had completed a ridiculous mission. I'd been staying at "Villa Kunterbunt", with a German-Chilean couple who arrange international motorcycle shipping in Playa Ancha (suburb in the south of Valpo). That morning I was to get up early to help Kata move all her stuff from where she was staying in Con-Con (two towns north of Valpo) to her new house (in centro Valpo), using the busy bus system at peak time.

As I stepped out of the house to use the outdoor kitchen for breakfast the back boor snapped shut, with all the keys on the other side...

I was outside the house, but still stuck in their heavily fortified courtyard. To keep all the moto's-in-transit safe there's razor-wire, huge padlocks, bolts, chains and more locks.

I hammered on the door guiltily. No reply.

I shouted and bellowed. Not a peep.

I did both at once. Nada.

I went round the front to push the doorbell. It was a light switch.

I tried the same routine on the front door. With the same non-existent response.

I tried scaling the walls, climbing trees, breaking into the neighbours' yards, jumping from the garage roof - all to no avail. More banging and shouting later I was late, but no closer to an escape.

Eventually I climbed the main back gate to undo it's top bolt, undid the middle one on my way down and the bottom one from the ground. Then I found if I shuffled the thick, heavy chain through the cast-iron hoops all to one side I could force a crack at the bottom of the gate that might be wide enough for my head. If I squeezed my brain and skull a bit.

There were files of primary school children walking along the pavement while I dragged myself out onto the pavement between them, giving me fantastic looks of confusion and fear.

We did manage to move Kata in on a full bus in morning rush hour in time for her full day at university. Somehow.

So, I thought we deserved a beer. Or two...

And it was cheap. Too cheap. When it's this cheap you're obliged to drink as much as you can. Aren't you?

Someone asked me where I'm studying - while I was trying to come up with a suitably interesting lie Kata cuts in confidently:

"I found him in Santiago - he was on the streets with the dogs. I've taken him in for now..."

I didn't have to say anything, I stuck with a grateful look at Kata, and a shamed blush as the students around had a wide-eyed look of embarrasment for me. And like that, Kata won the best bullshit of the week award.

Later everyone wanted to go dancing, but I'd had too much beer to coordinate myself properly for that, and it had been a long day. Oddly I hadn't had too much beer to start beatboxing in the street as we were walking to the club. Everyone loved it and soon I was the coolest guy in the crowd. I think I even pulled out some Public Enemy lyrics too.

When we realised they were really going to some cheesy club Kata and I tried dropping back subtly to avoid the whole "Don't go yet!" polava. Luckily Ariki, Kata's new housemate walked past and was the perfect cover for our getaway.

A completo each later and we had mayo all down ourselves, full bellies and were ready for bed.

"Did he just weon me?"

Only here, above the smog, we can see all of Santiago.

It's a beautiful, sunny day as always and we're standing on top of Manquehue to the north of the city, it's noise is muted to a faint hush, like wind over a cliff edge which there was too.

The city is as if a body of water, a flat pool filling the void between the surrounding mountains, with a few islands poking out, and it fills one-hundred-and-eighty degrees of our vision.

We turn around and the other view is of absolutely nothing man-made, desolate green and yellow mountains as far as the eye can see, with Aconcagua's white peak looming menacingly in the distance behind. O'car pours a mate and we sit quietly for a bit - what can you say to this spectacle of contrast?

After some exploring and a snack we head down - it's loose gravel, totally different to the way up, and the only way to survive is to run, which we all do with gusto.

"You know what today needs?" shouts Kata over the noises of skidding gravel and panting.

"What?" I reply, not thinking much of it.

"A pool, an asado, some beers and a melon con vino."

This girl might actually be a genius. If she started a cult I would join, no questions asked.

"That can all happen at my apartment" Cami replies from in front, as if turning water into wine.

"And ice cream, we should have ice cream" Kata adds like a cherry on top.

Well, it turns out nothing can get you down a hill quicker than this concept, and before we knew it we were off the mountain and walking through the winding streets of the rich north side, passing houses with five-car-garages, C.C.T.V., security guards and radar gates. We get to the bus stop, where the nannies and maids of the rich are waiting for buses to their undoubtably less plush houses.

It was late when O'car and I get back to his place and we'd have to rush to make our perfect day happen. After a five minute shower each we were blasting down Avenida Irarrazaval  while the sun dipped over the buildings ahead of us. We're dodging cars and hopping between pedestrian lights - men on a mission.

Dana had come over too and we shared the tasks between us ridiculously well:

O'car, the fastest, took his bike for beers and missing supplies.

Cami made some epic humitos (?) and other accompaniments.

Dana made the best melon con vino I've tasted to this day (and showed me the newspaper and bottle of wine trick for lighting coals without firelighters).

Kata, who doesn't eat meat, made the salad and readied everything.

I drank beer and fired the meat.

We couldn't have made a better team and in no time we were sat enjoying an uncannily vagina-shaped cut of beef O'car had "subconciously" sliced...

Before I knew it Cami is behind the breakfast bar serving cocktails and we're dancing in the living room. It turns out you can make a pretty good party with only 5 people. They just have to be the right people. Somewhere down the line a cocktail is invented, and named in my honour - the "Eddie con limon". It's ingredients are suitably obscure and it's taste is appropriately unique. Thanks Cami.

I drank them until there was no more...

Eventually I went to sleep in the top bunk of the unusually high bunk beds in Cami's flat, above Kata who was on the bottom.

PAIN.

CONFUSION.

FEAR.

MORE PAIN.

I woke up as my head cracked against a wall. Then the small of my back hit something small and hard and broke it. Then my hip connected with the floor with a final solid thud.

"WAS!" Screamed Kata as she sat up in bed to see me against the wall on the other side of the room.

"Eddie, what are you doing?"

"I don't know!" I said, still confused and scared as I assumed the foetal position.

Luckily Kata knew exactly what to do, and she promptly took a photo of me on her mobile phone. Wait, that doesn't help does it...

Cami burst in: "What's going on?"

There must have been something crazy in those cocktails...

"Do you bleach your eyebrows?"

I'm stood on a rooftop balcony-patio in Valparaiso at night, with the dark Pacific ahead and the steep hills of the city covered in higgledy-piggledy houses which have been poked in around each other then covered in street art and murals.

I turn back to the table next to the asado and am trying all the beer bottles in vain.

"What are you studying?" asks a young french guy, who for all I know lives in this place. I'm racking my brains as this evening I already told a North American girl that I go to USM, but I don't know what courses they offer.

I stall by introducing myself and guide him inside where I sit next to Kata, but with my back to her. I jab her in the ribs to get her attention while I pull out the second-best story so far:

"I'm the new English professor, actually, not a lot of time for studying anymore..." I tell him confidently, as I feel Kata's ribs shuddering with stifled laughter.

I see his eyes light up as he imagines me, the coolest professor in town at all the hip parties and he says:

"Wait there and I'll find us beers..."

Once Kata and I recover from laughing the gorgeous Brasilera walks up and and was anxious to know where I'm from. Once I'd impressed her with a basic knowledge of Brazilian Portuguese swear-words she was hanging on my every word.

The young Frenchman returned and slipped a botttle of beer in my hand and winked as he walked past. We talked about the most beautiful parts of Brasil and the ideosyncrasies of the language and much more besides.

Eventually she asked me what I'm doing in Valpo. For the first time that week I felt like telling the truth.

I explained I arrived in South America four months ago and hitch-hiked from Buenos Aires to Patagonia where I worked building and gardening for six weeks, before walking across the Andes to Chile in one week, then hitched again to Santiago where I bought a motorbike and am about to ride it to Peru via Bolivia.

I knew the tall German guy was behind me, but the Brasilera's wandering eyes made it clear he was mouthing something to her. Then her face made it clear it was "Bullshit". She walked off giving me the "Why are all men such assholes and liars?" look.

I am the boy who cried wolf.

n.b. In the interests of truth and parity: I realised after I wrote this that I have put two different student house parties together in my mind, so while this all really happened, it wasn't all at the same time or place or with the people indicated.

"Did anyone make it over the top?"

It's midnight and we're speeding through arched tunnels suspended twenty metres above the Santiago streets.


There's around ten of us, and we're on mountain bikes, heading for Cerro San Cristobal. It's closed and we all know. The walkway connects to the back of the hill, and we stop for a break after having run the gauntlet of downtown Santiago traffic - skipping red lights, hopping pavements and weaving through queuing cars. Nearly all of us without lights.


"Everyone's lights off?" O'car asks in a hushed voice, and we set off for the top. Breathing, tyre friction, cranks and gears being the only sounds after that. The back side of the hill is unlit, which helps us avoid detection, but the moon-cast shadows of the trees are playing tricks with my eyes and I'm concentrating hard while O'car sets a challenging pace making my thighs burn.


Rabbits and dogs cross our paths, and every now and then the trees give way to a spectacular view of the night-lit city as the road meanders and climbs. We've split into a few smaller groups now and I hear the roar of an engine behind - I look back to see a Guardaparca camioneta lurching round a bend, flicking on their full beam to blind me as they see us.


We spread across the road to block them, but they swerve between us dangerously, forcing me out into the barrier at the perilous edge. O'car and I stop to see what they do, while Tom's friend keeps his pace up, ignoring them. They fly past him and skid sketchily in front of him at ninety degrees. He casually turns around the truck as they get out to scold him, enraging them further.


O'car and I are laughing at the spectacle, until they go straight into reverse, and are soon at top revs the engine screaming and bonnet twitching side to side as they try and keep straight while bearing down (up?) on the vulnerable cyclist.


As soon as we saw that they didn't hit him, O'car and I head back down the hill - he has a plan. We pass Kev and Daniel, shouting to follow us. Then Tom, his girlfriend and a couple of his friends, but they have their own plan and carry on up.


We fly down the hill, and at a right-left bend quickly double back on ourselves, to go uphill along an unmarked track. We wait, spying on the road through some bushes. A few minutes later Toms friend comes, absolutely flying down the hill, and after a glance over his shoulder to see if the Guardaparcas are in sight skids up the same track to find us all laughing in the bushes.


The camioneta tore down the hill at ridiculous speed, straight past us and we agree to a small rest while they tire themselves out.


Five minutes later the camioneta roars up the track, as if it had smelt us out like a bloodhound, kicking up stones as it skids to a stop. We wave goodbye and pedal past the fuming guards while they're trying to chastise us, and hope that we've at least stalled them for long enough for some of the group to get over the top and down the other side.


On the way down the speed built and built until the wind was pushing the liquid from the corners of my eyes and I couldn't think fast enough to process where the edges of the road were in the darkness. I smiled as I gently squeezed the brake and thought how boring a night the Guardaparca would have had without us.


Sailing through town O'car was calling people to find out who'd been caught and if anyone had made it, and it was agreed to meet at Tom's place for a de-brief. After a quick stop at a botilleria.


Sat in Tom's quirky house drinking beers with a crackly old L.P. playing while he showed us his seventies sushi roller, which is next to a pair of old leather binoculars and a book called "La ultima palabra en lo Oculto" on the shelf, we drank a few beers and laughed about the looks on the guards faces, and wondered how deeply they believed in what they did for a living.