CYCLE TOURING ARGENTINA

 

37 ARGENTINA
1 334 Kilometres - 31 Days
27 January 2011 – 27 February 2011

PHOTOS

E-BOOK 

 

27 January - Roadside camp, Chile - Puente Del Inca, Argentina – 40 km

This was the day the route headed over the Andes to Argentina. The road zig-zagged up the pass, and though the gradient was acceptable, it remained a steep and dreadfully slow 22-kilometre climb from where we’d spent the night. Roadworks caused lengthy delays and created much-needed time to take breathers. Finally, after wheezing my way to the top, I could look down at the winding road and hardly believe I had made it up the pass. Once at the top and after yet another ride by the authorities through a tunnel, 18 kilometres remained to the customs office.

The border crossing was uneventful and immigration staff simultaneously stamped people out of Chile and into Argentina. From the immigration office, the path descended past the small settlement of Las Cuevas with no more than a few timber restaurants and a strong smell of lentil soup. Upon crossing the border, Ernest and I reached the end of Patagonia and Chile. After my disastrous start in the Americas, Chile was a welcome change and a relaxing and rewarding ride. To this day, I claim Patagonia will never see me again.

Our first stop in Argentina was at the small touristy village of Puente Del Inca, which came with a basic campground and a view of Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Americas (6 960m).

Puente Del Inca, surrounded by high mountains, enjoyed spectacular vistas that turned all colours of the rainbow by sunset. The village was further home to a natural bridge over the Vacas River, said to have been formed by glaciers and hot springs. The water from the hot springs was rich in sulphur and had, through the years, turned the bridge a lovely orange colour. An old spa’s remains were visible under the bridge and slowly became the same colour.

The amusing part was that children (ages 7-10) came to chat with us. On discovering I didn’t speak Spanish, they addressed me incredibly slowly and deliberately, how one would talk to a small child. On the positive side, I picked up a few words from them. Ernest cooked supper, and it became an early evening.

 

28 January - Puente Del Inca - Uspallata – 70 km

Ernest had work to do on his bike and it was midday by the time we got underway. The road led past Cementerio Andinista, a small cemetery dedicated to climbers who died on the climb of Aconcagua. Then past Los Penitentes, a well-known ski resort, all boarded up as it was summer. The pinnacles around Puente Del Inca were supposed to resemble a line of monks. I looked but couldn’t see anything resembling a line of monks.

Route 7 followed the Rio Mendoza, a mostly downhill run to Uspallata. Unfortunately, a headwind made pedalling difficult, even on the descents. We passed abandoned railway stations along the old Trans-Andes Railway line, constructed in the late 1800s. It ran from Mendoza, in Argentina, to Los Andes, in Chile. One couldn’t help being in awe of the task of building a railway over the Andes in the 1800s.

The landscape was highly unusual, barren but simultaneously colourful, and said to be the film location of “Seven Years in Tibet”. This made it a stunning ride, but I failed dismally to capture its beauty.

A truck and trailer having a blowout while overtaking us on the descent scared the living daylights out of me. Pieces of tyre flew all over the place, nearly hitting Ernest, and the truck swerved wildly from side to side. However, the skilful driver managed to keep his vehicle under control and averted a near disaster.

Our destination was oasis-like Uspallata with its poplar trees situated in a barren mountain landscape. Uspallata was a small community with a campsite and all the necessary facilities.

 

29 January - Uspallata - Potrerillos – 58 km

The party next to the campground in Uspallata carried on through the night, and little sleep was had. With Ernest as slow as ever, the time was 12h30 before riding out of Uspallata. Again, the route followed Rio Mendoza, and the scenery was as spectacular as the previous day. While mostly downhill, there were plenty of hills with picturesque narrow tunnels. The Rio Mendoza was perfect for rafting, with water gushing down from the snowy peaks. Several tour operators carted people to the drop-off for a fun day on the river. Unfortunately, a headwind picked up, and I was peeved off by Ernest’s slow start.

Our late start and the headwind made it a short day of cycling. Our next stop was Potrerillos, which had beautiful camping spots amongst shady poplars adjacent to a dam. Ernest was dead set on having a barbeque in Argentina, and he bought a large chunk of beef as well as wood and spent the rest of the evening tending the fire and cooking his meat.

Potrerillos Dam was located on the Mendoza River and is referred to as a “new” dam built between 1999 and 2003. The dam aimed to provide flood control, hydroelectricity, and irrigation. The interesting part was the dam was shrinking due to the high silt content of the Mendoza River.

In later years, the dam would be in the news again due to an accident filming an MTV reality show, The Challenge, when a helicopter crashed, killing both the pilot and technician.

 

30-31 January - Potrerillos - Mendoza – 72 km

From Potrerillos a short bike ride led to touristy Mendoza, but only after crossing a few hills. Then, it became smooth riding into the beautiful Mendoza Valley. On reaching Route 40, the motorway widened which didn’t merely sport a shoulder but also breath-taking views of vineyards, with the Andes making a perfect backdrop in the distance. The Mendoza Valley is Argentina’s most important wine region, featuring countless wine farms and tasting rooms to sample the mighty Malbec and various other varieties.

Even though Mendoza was reasonably large, a stress-free cycle took us into the city. Mendoza, popular amongst people travelling the country, was also a frequent stopover for climbers en route to Aconcagua and, hence, immensely touristy. The result was costly lodging. Still, we settled for digs in a hostel in the touristy part of town. The weather was perfect with blue skies and temperatures in the upper 20s.

The hefty room rate included bed bugs, which, together with the disco next door, kept me up for the best part of the night. Luckily, the hostel had a leafy garden and a swimming pool to bask in the sun during the day.

 

1 February 2011 – Mendoza

Mendoza was a laid-back city that made a perfect day of rest, an easy thing to do in Mendoza, maybe due to the many wineries (more than 1,500). The town was further used as a base to tour the vineyards. As a result, generally, people were in a relaxed mood. At the time, Mendoza was famous for its Malbec wines which grew at high altitude at the foothills of the Andes. This alone was enough to make me stay an extra day. Ernest booked the barbeque night, an “eat-all-you-can” affair. I watched the spectacle through the bottom of a wine glass as I hadn’t changed my vegetarian status quite yet.

 

2 February - Mendoza – Las Catitas – 106 km

After two days, Ernest and I left our bedbug-ridden accommodation and headed east on Route 7 towards Buenos Aires, more than 1,000 kilometres across the Pampas. The road was pancake flat and the temperature (I guessed) in the low 30s, making it a perfect day for biking.

Pitching the tents was reasonably early at a petrol station with a grassy patch and showers. A Japanese cyclist, Nobu, who had been travelling for the past year and a half, arrived from the opposite direction and joined us behind the petrol station.

 

3 February - Las Catitas – Alto Pencoso – 99 km

We awoke to a reasonably strong wind, maybe sounding worse due to the Poplar trees camped under. The Pampas of South America is a vast, flat, fertile, grassland plain covering roughly 777,000 square kilometres, stretching from the Atlantic Ocean to the Andes Mountains. It’s, thus, an area entirely exposed to the elements. Consequently, the countryside offered few exciting sights, simply low shrubs and sandy soil and, of course, the pampas grass; a tall grass which grew in dense clumps. At home, my mom used them in large flower arrangements. The wind was from the front all day, but mercifully nothing close to the wind in Patagonia.

A new country brings countless new and exciting things to discover. In Argentina, road fatalities weren’t only indicated by a humble cross but by little shrines and sometimes quite elaborate ones. The collection of empty plastic bottles at some memorials baffled me. I, subsequently, discovered the shrines surrounded by red flags had a fascinating history and understood paid homage to Antonio Gil.

Still, others were to honour Difunta Correa. According to legend, in the 1830s or 40s (no one is quite sure), a young woman with her baby set off to find her husband recruited into Argentina’s Civil War. Sadly, she died of thirst along the way. However, when found days later, her baby was miraculously alive, and still suckling from her breast. As a result, roadside shrines were constructed across the region. To this day, travellers leave bottles of water as an offering and to quench their eternal thirst.

In the small settlement of Alto Pencoso pitching the tents was possible at the municipal grounds. People went out of their way to accommodate us, even unlocking the community hall’s toilets. I thought people were generally surprised by two foreigners on bicycles arriving in their tiny village.

 

4-5 February - Alto Pencoso – San Luis – 22 km

Twenty kilometres into the ride Ernest’s hub eventually packed up entirely. He tried doing makeshift repairs, but the hub was too severely damaged. Thank goodness, a kind Argentinian offered us a ride into San Luis where Ernest could buy a new hub. Spoking and straightening the wheel was a time-consuming activity. The following morning, Ernest was still not happy with his work. After moving to a cheaper hostel, an additional day was spent in San Luis.

San Luis wasn’t a bad little town; and came with a lively town centre and a leafy central square, known as Plaza Pringles. Around the square were a few historic buildings, including a 19^th-century cathedral featuring a neoclassical facade and twin bell towers.

Not surprisingly, only a few people spoke English. Regrettably, my Spanish was nearly non-existing, making locating food equally problematic. Furthermore, Argentina was a beef country where vegetarianism was practically unheard of. Argentineans were, at the time, the biggest consumers of beef per capita in the world and, God forbid, one should be vegetarian. That said, plenty of good wine and pasta were available, and I wasn’t complaining as I hardly ever ate anything but bread and pasta.

 

6 February - San Luis – Picnic area (close to Villa Mercedes) – 85 km

It became an excellent day’s riding with the wind slight and the weather overcast. Towards the end of the day, we weakened at the sight of a picnic area along a river. People were swimming and barbecuing on the lawn under trees. The staff had no problem with us pitching our tents. Smoke from asadas (barbecues) hung thick in the air, and curious looks were cast as we entered. The fun part was many came requesting to be photographed with us.

Even before unpacking, our neighbours presented us with a plate of barbequed meat. Not wanting to be outdone, other neighbours came with even bigger plates. True to Argentinean asadas, they didn’t bother much with salads or other food, only a massive plate of meat. Even I tried a piece of meat, as I felt too embarrassed to turn them down after they so generously shared their food.

Shortly afterwards, people started packing up, and soon we were the sole ones left. It could’ve been that the spot was a day-picnic area or they saw the weather come in.

 

7 February - Picnic area – Old petrol station (Washington) – 96 km

By evening, a massive storm rolled in. Upon waking at around 8h00 the following morning, with rain dripping on the tent, I crawled back into the sleeping bag. Eventually, the rain abated, and goats and sheep came wandering past. It must’ve been 12h00 before our tents had dried and we could resume our ride, and what a lonely stretch of road it turned out.

Little life was seen along the way, and there were fewer places to fill up with water. By day’s end, I was entirely out of fluids, and happy when a disused petrol station with a still-functioning tyre repair workshop came into view. As they had water it made an excellent place to pitch the tents. However, I realised one would have to be more careful conserving water on such a desolate stretch of road.

 

8-9 February - Disused petrol station – Laboulaye – 128 km

The next day, and after thanking the staff, we pointed our bikes in Buenos Aires’ direction. Not a great deal happened apart from cycling past massive cattle ranches, known as Estancias in Argentina. This was indeed a world-famous cattle country. With enough rain and fertile soil, grazing was nutritious, and I understood the beef was excellent. It’s said the good taste is due to the cattle’s organic and free-range roaming. Not only was it a cattle country, but vast areas were planted under corn and soybeans.

Route 7 became narrow with heavy truck traffic, and care had to be taken to avoid disasters. A steady headwind slowed us to a crawl, and it became late enough to get concerned the last stretch to Laboulaye would be cycled in darkness. Seven kilometres from Laboulaye, Ernest came to an unexpected and sudden halt. The front hub on his bike had seized up and with a fast-setting sun, he quickly did an emergency repair job, allowing us to reach Laboulaye, albeit in the dark.

Laboulaye was much bigger than anticipated and it was easy to locate a reasonably priced hotel until Ernest repaired his bike. Fortunately, Argentineans were a sporting nation, and one could find decent bike shops in practically all sizable towns. Laboulaye was big enough to sport a bicycle shop where Ernest bought the necessities to fix his bike.

 

10 February - Laboulaye – Rufino – 71 km

The route between Laboulaye and Rufino came with a headwind and heavy traffic. The narrow road left virtually no space to ride and the grassy verge was too rocky and uneven even to attempt riding off-road. On reaching Rufino, I pulled in to purchase a mirror that would at least allow me to see what was coming up behind me, but Rufino was like a ghost town due to siesta. After enquiring, we were police-escorted to the central park.

Argentinians took their siesta seriously and only emerged around 17h00. However, no sooner had they woken from their nap than the entire village was at the park which doubled as a sports ground. People were out playing football and hockey. Others were jogging and even the marching band was out practising. What a delight to observe a small Argentinean country town in full swing!

 

11 February - Rufino – Vedia – 119 km

The following day was marred by wind and 18-wheelers roaring past, causing diving off the road now and then. The mirror bought the previous day at least helped spot them in advance.

This was the Pampas and home to Gauchos and vast cattle ranches. To me, the Gauchos of Argentina conjured up romantic images of horsemen freely roaming the vast plains of Argentina. I wasn’t far off as I witnessed riders herding cattle, looking amazingly comfortable on horseback. Watching these Gauchos on a horse, sipping mate from a gourd through a silver straw, and with at least four dogs at their heels, was indeed an iconic sight.

With Argentineans being the world’s biggest meat-eaters, no decent petrol station came without a grassy area and a few barbeque pits, making it a convenient place to pitch the tents. Route 7 was a major transport route and, generally, petrol stations doubled as truck stops. These places mostly came with clean toilets as well as showers. The majority had hot water on tap as it was inconceivable to go without a flask of mate. All this made camping trouble-free along the Pampas.

 

12 February - Vedia – Junin – 58 km

The wind picked up during the night. Luckily, it wasn’t as bad as expected. Instead, traffic was a much bigger problem. My legs felt tired and we ended the day’s ride in Junin. I seemed hungry all the time, and following a visit to the supermarket, I had my fill of bread and cheese as there appeared little else around except meat, meat and more meat.

 

13 February - Junin – Carmen de Areco – 126 km

The next day, a tailwind made it effortless cycling. Not wanting to waste a tailwind, we proceeded to Carmen de Areco. With it being Sunday, traffic was much reduced, and biking was a pleasure.

Carmen de Areco had three petrol stations. The best was the YPF with a substantial picnic area at the rear, a children’s play park and plenty of barbeque areas. Perfect. Ernest cooked the usual pasta, and after a beer and a hefty serving of pasta, I was off to bed.

 

14 February - Carmen de Areco – San Antonio de Areco – 66 km

It appeared a further day of grinding into a headwind, and I was pleased we’d pushed on the day before. After eating the leftover bread with cheese and drinking our coffee (as I hadn’t yet acquired a taste for mate), we rode the short distance to San Antonio.

Traffic was horrendous, as usual, but slightly less so once off Route 7. A beautiful ride through the countryside brought us to San Antonio. Dating from the 18^th century, the town was loaded with history and romantically considered home to the Gauchos. Mercifully, San Antonio had a campground where one could pitch a tent and relax in the shade.

 

15 February - San Antonio – Buenos Aires – 118 km

Route 8 ran east in the direction of Buenos Aires and, although it turned into a highway, it remained easier than biking on the narrower roads. However, closer to Buenos Aires, traffic became hectic and barely 10 kilometres from the city centre traffic police eventually kicked us off the freeway.

Battling rush-hour traffic on one of the regular arterial roads, was no fun, but it spat us out right in the city centre shortly before dark. The way was littered with traffic lights, and reaching Ave 9 de Julio (the main road) took forever. It must’ve been 21h00 before a hotel was found, and even if expensive, the place was comfortable and right in the city centre.

What a lively city Buenos Aires was. Street cafes abounded, and people were out and about until the wee hours of the morning.

 

16 February - Buenos Aires

The following day was spent sauntering around town, down Avenue Florida - a pedestrian mall jam-packed with people and street vendors. Then on to Plaza de Mayo with its pink palace (or presidential office), past lovely old colonial-style buildings and around the famous obelisk right in the middle of Ave 9 de Julio. With its eight lanes in either direction, I was sure this was the widest main road in the world.

Eventually, we sat down at a sidewalk restaurant. While looking at the menu, an incredibly skilled thief nicked my bag (which I’d placed on the ground between my feet). So good was the thief, neither Ernest nor I noticed anything. This was quite a disaster as the bag contained my wallet with cash and bank cards, as well as my camera, reading glasses and, even more disastrous, memory cards with all my photos of South America since arriving in Ushuaia. The best part of the day was thus spent cancelling cards and ordering new ones.

 

17-21 February - Buenos Aires

The bank’s early morning phone call revealed new bank cards could be delivered, but it would take seven working days. The day was spent investigating the city streets, including a stroll to Puerto Madero (a waterfront area with many modern skyscrapers) and then south to the San Telmo district with its narrow cobblestoned streets, old buildings and antique markets. Next, we proceeded to the La Boca district with its colourful houses and home of the Boca Juniors football team. Eventually, we took the bus to the city centre, where I scanned the area for a new camera.

 

22-25 February - Buenos Aires

As shopping malls go, I thought Galerias Pacifico, with its vaulted ceilings and painted dome, a most stunning shopping mall. Constructed in 1889 and restored in 1992, the mall was upmarket. Equally beautiful was Teatro Colon, a Buenos Aires icon, which was stunning and considered one of the best opera houses for acoustic. Built between 1880 and 1908, I understood it romantically opened with Aida. So, I trundled through the city, feasting my eyes upon these magnificent buildings.

I also came upon Palacio Barolo, a magnificent building with a crazy story. Luis Barolo, a European immigrant, apparently arrived in Argentina in 1890. At the time, he believed wars in Europe would destroy Europe. However, Luis was determined to save a part of it and built Palacio Barolo. I understood from a brochure the building was inspired by the Italian poet, Dante’s Divine Comedy.

Even more bizarre was the fabulous Palacio de Aguas Corrientes (literally ‘The Palace of Running Water’) built in the late 1800s. The building was covered in (I was told) 300,000 glazed, multi-coloured terracotta tiles. It was constructed as a water pumping station. Imagine that!

Counting my last pennies, there remained enough to take the train to Tigre, a popular day excursion from Buenos Aires. Situated no more than 35 kilometres north of the capital on the Parana Delta, the third-largest river delta in the world. The day was spent wandering around this peaceful settlement. Tigre offered a glimpse into how people lived along the canals, with boats as their sole transportation. I thought it amazing how much one could do with little money, and I couldn’t think of a better place to wait until the card arrived.

Still, there were loads to see and do in Buenos Aires. The Recoleta Cemetorio came with loads of statues and crypts, for the rich and famous of their time. The most-visited grave was undoubtedly that of Evita, and one could hardly catch a glimpse of it due to the hordes of tourists.

Food-wise I was in seventh heaven; right next door to our hotel was a superb vegetarian restaurant. Chinese-owned, it served the most delicious food I’ve eaten since China. In case that wasn’t enough, there was Ugi’s on the corner, selling the cheapest pizzas in town. They simply made one type of pizza - Mozzarella pizza - and a takeaway box was a further 50 cents.

In the meantime, I scanned the shops in search of a camera. I ordered new reading glasses, but could only collect those items once I got my sweaty paws on my money.

The bank card was eventually delivered but still needed activation. I contacted the bank once more, who would return the call the following day. To our horror, we discovered the guest in the room next door had passed away and police were in and out the entire day. I didn’t ask any questions but felt they could at least have closed the door or covered the body.

 

26 February - Buenos Aires

The bank returned the phone call in the early morning to inform the card had been unlocked. I scarcely had time to eat breakfast as I was super keen to pick up my new reading glasses. We headed straight to the ferry ticket office to purchase the following day’s ticket to Uruguay. Sadly, at the camera shop, none of the latest models was available and, in the end, I bought a Lumix.

 

27 February - Buenos Aires, Argentina – Colonia, Uruguay - By ferry

I was up amazingly early as this was the day we could finally leave Argentina. A short ride led through Buenos Aires to the harbour where one checked out of Argentina and boarded a ferry to Uruguay.

The slow boat took three hours, and came with smooth sailing across the vast Rio de la Plata estuary, arriving in Uruguay in the heat of the day. Colonia, our first stop in Uruguay, dated to 1680 and was a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

A few hours were spent exploring the old town. A cobblestone road led through the ancient city gate, onto the city’s historical part and down to the harbour. Eventually, we headed to the campsite where the fees were shocking and the facilities dismal. There and then, a decision was made to wild-camp from then on.

CYCLE TOURING PATAGONIA & CHILE

ARGENTINA & CHILE 
2,950 Kilometres - 96 Days
24 November 2010 – 27 February 2011

PHOTOS - Chile

E-BOOK

35 PATAGONIA – (ARGENTINA & CHILE)

350 Kilometres - 37 Days

24 November 2010 – 31 December 2010

 

PATAGONIA (ARGENTINA)

 

24 November - Cape Town, South Africa - Ushuaia, Argentina

I immensely dislike flying with a bicycle and the trip to South America required a five o’clock start to catch an early morning flight to Ushuaia via Buenos Aires. The flight was rather long, being 9 hours and 20 minutes to Buenos Aires, and a further 3 hours and 30 minutes to Ushuaia. On the positive side, all went well except for having to pay the overweight baggage fee on the last leg.

A taxi ride took me into town and to Hostel Haush, my home for the following three nights. At last, I’d arrived at Isla Grande, Tierra Del Fuego, an island shared with Chile and separated from the mainland by the Strait of Magellan. The island formed the Americas’ southernmost tip, and from Ushuaia boats departed on excursions to Antarctica.

Ushuaia was picture pretty but understandably freezing. Fortunately, enough outdoor stores were scattered about to stock up on warm clothes. With the sun setting at 21h30, it felt odd going to bed when it was still light outside. By 23h00, the time finally came to crawl in and be horizontal.

 

25 November – Ushuaia

Ushuaia reminded me of Alaska’s brightly-painted, corrugated-iron roof homes and snowy mountain backdrops. Situated on the Beagle Channel and at the foot of the Andes Mountain Range, Ushuaia was commonly known as the most southern city in the world. Although, with a population of a mere 64,000, Ushuaia wasn’t much of a city. Its southern location at 54.8019° S meant artic weather year-round with a high of barely nine degrees in the warmest months. Heating systems were thus on year-long, including in summer!

Being December and arriving from Australia via South Africa, I thought the conditions particularly severe.

Having only an inadequate pair of sandals, I made a beeline to shoe shops and spent a small fortune on a pair of wonderfully comfortable light-weight Merrell hiking shoes, hoping they would keep my feet warm.

The rest of the day was spent frequenting the numerous shops and stocking up on everything needed. The bike shop, Ushuaia Extremo, did an excellent job of reassembling the bike.

 

26 November - Ushuaia – Tierra del Fuego National Park – 50 km

Dressed in my warmest clothes (including my brand-new shoes) I biked into the National Park. The park gate was 12 kilometres from the town centre and a leisurely ride along a dirt road. Although bitterly cold and feeling I resembled an icicle, the scenery was spectacular. The end of the park road indicated the end or start of Route 3, also referred to as “The-end-of-the-world”. This might’ve been the end of the road for many, but to me, the park marked the beginning of my route through the Americas. After a short (and relatively quick) amble around the park, upon returning tiny snowflakes fell from the sky. Regrettably, they melted instantly and I can’t say I’d cycled in snow.

After much deliberation, I purchased rain pants and a beanie to ward off the anticipated cold weather. Both would prove well worth the expense in the months to come.

 

27 November - Ushuaia – Tolhuim – 109 km

I was cautiously excited, as this was the day I was to start my travels through the Americas. The route headed uphill out of Ushuaia and over the mountains, past numerous ski resorts, some even sporting chair lifts, not something I was familiar with. The road was in good condition, somewhat narrow but sealed. Motorists were kind and gave cyclists a wide berth and a friendly warning hoot.

After about 50 kilometres, the route reached the top of Paso Garibaldi, featuring a view over Lago Escondido and Lago Fagnano. Mountains provided shelter from the wind and thus a false sense of security. The road sped downhill past Lago Escondido and onto Tolhuim, situated on Lake Fagnano. Tolhuim was a strange town and it was challenging to find accommodation or shops; maybe there weren’t any. Eventually, I discovered a good enough spot to bed down.

 

28 November - Tolhuim – Rio Grande – 113 km

Waking to loose, corrugated-iron roof sheets banging in the wind, one intuitively knew the day would become a long, hard one into the wind. Heading out of Tolhuim, swirling dust clouds made it a desolate and lonely scene. The route led north to Rio Grande, straight into the infamous Patagonian wind. In the cold weather and while rain pelted down, driven by a near gale-force wind, the rain hit my hands with such force that I wished for thicker gloves. Even though dressed in all the warm clothes I possessed, I was freezing.

As if the weather weren’t challenging enough, the rear gear cable gave problems, but there was nothing one could do but battle on and work with the three remaining gears. It didn’t make much difference, as I could barely average 10 km/h. The wind grew stronger as the day wore on, slowing the pace to a mere five km/hr. Still, I battled on, past vast windswept and barren-looking estancias. Goals became shorter and shorter. Four times five kilometres sounded far more doable than 20 kilometres at that stage. Every five kilometres, I rewarded myself by eating a sweet or biscuit. Then, head down, I headed off into the howling wind.

Midday, a stormwater pipe running underneath the road gave shelter from the wind, if only to give the mind a break. It’s incredible what all runs through a person’s head sitting alone in a stormwater pipe. This was indeed a mental game and, back on the bike, it took fighting the wind with each turn of the pedal.

Barely 20 kilometres from Rio Grande, a kind Argentinean stopped and offered me a ride. Smelling victory over the day I declined his offer. Seeing him disappearing in the distance, I could’ve kicked myself wondering what was wrong with me. Instead, gripping the handlebars, I pushed down hard on the pedals.

Eventually, Rio Grande rolled into view. Exhausted, I crawled into Rio Grande, booked into the first available guesthouse and fell asleep exhausted but pleased to have survived such a harsh day.

 

29-30 November - Rio Grande

There’s nothing better than waking up to the smell of coffee and toast, and I eagerly crawled out of bed. An excellent breakfast was included in the room price (in Argentina, a typical breakfast usually consisted of coffee and croissants, or other pastries). At least the weather cleared, but the relentless wind didn’t abate – maybe it never does. Nothing could prepare you for what is in store, regardless of what you read or hear about the wind. If it weren’t that Ernest and I’d battled into storm-strength wind day upon day along the Red Sea Coast of Egypt, I wouldn’t have believed such a wind possible.

I could feel a bout of laryngitis coming on (maybe from breathing all the icy air) and was pleased for a day of rest. Priority was finding a bike shop to replace the gear cables. The friendly chap at the bike shop advised fitting off-road tyres for the dirt road ahead. Unfortunately, he could only get the tyres the following day. Leaving the bike at the shop was no problem as the wind speed was between 65 and 100 kilometres per hour. (I kid you not!)

 

1 December - Rio Grande – 19 km

Once the bike was fixed, I was ready to roll. Regrettably, the wind won the day. After battling 10 kilometres out of town, I eventually gave up and returned to Rio Grande. Cycling wasn’t simply hard but also too dangerous and scary as the wind blew me like a rag across the highway.

Hostel Argentino was slightly less expensive than where I’d stayed before and made an excellent place to wait out the weather. Three more cyclists were heading in the same direction and waiting for a break in the weather. Watching the weather forecast, there appeared no hope of the wind subsiding. We, thus, had no other choice but to wait. In the meantime, some fine red wine was enjoyed and war stories swapped, which became more impressive as more wine was consumed.

 

2 December - Rio Grande – San Sebastian (and by car to Punta Arenas) – 38 km

The following morning, the wind looked deceivably less fierce than the previous day. However, after hurriedly loading up and biking out of town, I found the wind no less violent than the day before. Battered by wind kilometre upon kilometre, each turn of the pedal became an achievement. The wind blew in random gusts and every so often blew me off the road and into the barren no-mans-land. I stopped counting the times I picked myself up to try again. Worse was that it blew me into the road. Even though drivers were extremely courteous, cycling remained nerve-racking. If the wind wasn’t enough, the weather was freezing and, at one point, it started hailing. Wondering if things could get any worse, the wind gathered strength, making it near impossible to ride. All one could do was hold on to the bike, hoping not to get blown over. God knows I must’ve made a pathetic sight as a kind truck driver stopped and offered me a ride to San Sebastian, almost 40 kilometres away. The truck’s safety gave false security, (or pure stupidity) and once in San Sabastian, I got back on the bike.

The border crossing between Argentina and Chile was barely 10 kilometres away and a low-key operation. Nevertheless, the immigration office made a sad and lonely sight: a small, unimpressive building in a vast windswept wilderness. There was nothing around but barren land as far as the eye could see. The immigration office further marked the end of the paved road, adding to the region’s desolate appearance. From there on, a dirt track ran 140 kilometres to Porvenir, from where ferries departed to Punta Arenas. Still, it took a while before all was checked and cleared.

From the immigration office, the route headed straight into the wind. Walking the bike in the high wind along that desolate and windswept stretch of road, I felt awfully lonely and sorry for myself.

Even pushing the bike, I was blown over and fell into a ditch. Lying in the ditch, I looked up into the face of a llama. It appeared even the llama was surprised to see me. I got up, dusted myself off, waved the llama goodbye and tried again. There remained 140 kilometres to the next town, and it was time to take stock of my dire situation. Sitting by the side of the road I had no idea how to get myself to Porvenir. The water I had was only enough to last a day. The wind blew with such force one couldn’t even get on the bike, let alone cycle, and I was blown over before both feet were on the pedals.

When a helpful Chilean driver stopped to offer me a ride to Punta Arenas, reality set in, and I realised hard-headedness wouldn’t get me anywhere. I tried but couldn’t see any other option but to accept his offer. The Patagonians were incredibly hospitable.

 

3-4 December - Punta Arenas

Once in Punta Arenas, Hospedaje Independencia offered both camping and dorms. Being the cheapest accommodation in town, backpackers from all over the world packed the place. Much of the region once belonged to Jose Menendez, wool baron of his time. Even today, the area is still sheep country, and wool and mutton remain the region’s primary income.

Francois (a cyclist from Hostel Argentino in Rio Grande) arrived by bus, and it felt like meeting an old friend. Unfortunately, the weather station alerted high winds (according to them, gusts of over 100/120 kph were possible). Therefore, staying put and rechecking the weather the following day was best. By evening, all huddled inside the hostel kitchen, where the owner made Pisco Sour drinks for everyone. By the end of the evening, it didn’t feel that cold stumbling out to the tent.

 

5 December - Punta Arenas – Puerto Natales – 21 km

The weather looked much improved, and after a leisurely start, I biked out of Punta Arenas. Still, the wind barely allowed clearing the city limits (roughly 10 kilometres) and then hit with full force. I genuinely felt defeated and didn’t know how others cycled in this wind (I subsequently found most waited it out). Riding was too scary as the wind wasn’t directly from the front, but generally from the side. Furthermore, it came in gusts, blowing one off the road or into the traffic. It was better to admit defeat and return to town, after which I flew downwind into the city centre.

From Punta Arenas, a bus ride took me to Puerto Natales. Arrangements were made with Yuta and Francois to do a trek once in Puerto Natales. However, even the bus appeared to have difficulty staying on the road. What an unforgiving area Patagonia was. The plains were barren, treeless and windswept. Now and then, a lonely and forlorn-looking estancia appeared, some even deserted.

Once in Puerto Natales, Josmar Hostel offered dorms and a well-protected campground, making it a perfect place to arrange treks.

 

6 December - Puerto Natales

Francois and Yutta arrived, and the day flew by as preparations took place for our eight-day Torres Del Paine trek. Hiking shops rented bags and walking sticks, and we stocked up on food. The backpacks were heavy, and I wondered if it would even be possible to make the first few kilometres (and that was before packing the wine). Basic stuff like a tent, sleeping bag, an eight-day food supply and warm clothes were already a massive amount of gear.

 

7 December - Torres Del Paine - Las Torres – Campamento Seron

Torres Del Paine National Park was exceptionally well organised. A 7h30 bus ran to the park and a small minibus to Hotel Las Torres, where the first day’s hike started. Then, heaving the heavy packs, we strolled off to our first campsite.

Our route came with lovely views of snowy mountains and lakes. Unfortunately, our first campsite was exposed to the elements, and the wind blew as it could only blow in Patagonia. Somehow, we managed to cook but I was sure the tents would take off during the night.

 

8 December - Torres Del Paine - Campamento Seron – Refugio Dickson

My ankles were reasonably sore upon waking, but I paid no attention to it as minor aches and pains usually came with the territory. In addition, I’d spent the best of the previous four years on a bicycle and hardly ever placed any weight on my feet and ankles. Thus, I could expect them to be slightly tender.

After a leisurely start, a short stroll took us to our second campsite. Again, the day turned out to be enjoyable and relaxed – it was a good thing, too, as it started raining, a drizzle which continued for the rest of the day. On reaching Refugio Dickson, we were wet and cold, my ankles throbbed, and walking became challenging. Dickson was, however, one of the best camping areas on the trek. It had a lovely refugio with a fireplace and a communal sitting area, where coffee, tea, and a few basic meals were for sale. Inside, the refugio was social, with many wet and cold bodies (and boots) huddled around a small fireplace. When it came to wet boots and cold feet, hiking was the same worldwide.

Outside the weather was bitterly cold and nowhere inside seemed warm enough, even though I was dressed in all I had. Soon, it started snowing and the entire landscape turned a brilliant white. The falling snow was quite a novelty initially but wasn’t as romantic as imagined. Fearing the poor tent would collapse under all the weight, I scraped off as much as possible.

 

9 December - Torres Del Paine - Refugio Dickson – Campamento Los Perros

The trek to Refugio Dickson was another short walk, and there was no need in rushing to pack up. Also, rumour had it that temperatures were even lower at Dickson, and we only got underway at around 12h00.

Although trying to ignore the pain by taking anti-inflammatories, walking became a serious struggle. The hike nonetheless offered stunning views of glaciers and surrounding mountains. My pace slowed, and François accompanied me as I crawled along at a snail’s pace. Finally, I dragged myself to camp aided by my two walking poles. It’s a terrible feeling knowing you’re holding up your fellow hikers, but there wasn’t anything I could do. On arrival at camp, the cold weather made it essential to get the tent pitched as soon as possible, as I knew there would be no getting up once inside.

People were incredibly kind and helpful, all offering painkillers and lotions. However, I knew I could not cross the pass in the morning. The pass was a steep climb of almost 1,000 metres in deep snow and it was at least a six-hour walk to the next camp.

 

10 December - Torres Del Paine - Campamento Los Perros

I was stuck in the tent and couldn’t move. My ankles and feet were too painful to place weight on them, and the slightest bit of pressure sent shock waves of pain through me. I waved Francois and Yutta goodbye and then had to think about how to get myself out of there. My lack of the Spanish language made arranging anything complicated. Eventually, information from Los Perros’ people was that one could organise a horse but not from Los Perros. It would take returning to Dickson and maybe once there staff could arrange a horse. I didn’t know how to achieve that, as even standing was impossible.

Later that day, a group of British horse riders arrived, and it was good to hear a language I understood. Their guide came to my tent and offered to take my backpack to Dickson if I could make it there on foot. I was incredibly grateful for this immensely generous offer and decided, come hell or high water, I would get myself to Dickson.

 

11 December - Torres Del Paine - Campamento Los Perros – Refugio

Two of the horse riders were South African doctors working in London. True to nature, they had a fair amount of medicine and offered painkillers. Thanks to them, I could just about get out of the tent and stand on my feet.

Once the tablets kicked in, and aided by my walking poles, the slow shuffle along the path began. This wasn’t merely embarrassing but incredibly painful. I kept telling myself, “It’s only pain” and my usual motto of “Even this will pass”, but these were empty words. The pace was slow, one step at a time; not even the painkillers seemed to help after taking almost all of them. It’s amazing what one can do when there’s no other option. Finally, I stuck the walking poles into the ground and dragged myself forward; a slow, painful and tedious task.

On shuffling into Dickson, I was immensely proud of myself. It was a task which seemed impossible just a few hours before. In Dickson, three other trekkers were waiting for horses. Like the previous night, I thought it essential to pitch the tent and do all the necessary tasks, like filling up with water, getting food and going to the toilet. Once inside, there would be no getting up. Even aided by the walking sticks, it was barely possible to keep moving until all was done. Exhausted, I flopped into the tent.

Soon, a fierce wind picked up and securing all tent ropes and pegs became crucial. Crawling on all fours, I hammered in pegs and tightened strings. What a sight I must’ve been! Still unsure if the tent would hold up in such a strong wind, I supported it by leaning against the windy side. It blew so strong it became barely possible to hold it up, even leaning against the side with all my weight.

 

12 December - Torres Del Paine - The “rescue.”

Early morning, and quite unexpectedly, a message came that a horse had been arranged. The only snag was that the horse was on the river’s opposite side. Even swallowing the last four painkillers, it felt the tablets had no impact. And to think, I always considered myself one with a high pain tolerance! Nevertheless, I got the tent down through sheer determination and packed the backpack in the high wind. Eventually, the camp owner came to help, and I limped off towards the river.

Driven by high wind, the river was a torrent and boatmen found it impossible to hook the boat onto the overhead cable, a permanent installation across the river. By then, both ranger and horse were waiting on the opposite side. Eventually, all gave up and returned to the refugio. Following a hearty lunch, the men returned to the river to check the conditions.

Eventually, the boat got hooked onto the cable, and with my backpack on the boat, we made it across by pulling the boat along the wire. Getting out of the boat, across rocks, and onto the opposite bank was a slow and painful task, and I surmised quite a spectacle but I had no ego left by then.

Eventually, I met the very patient ranger and horse - I later discovered he was the most experienced and longest-serving ranger in the park. Once heaved onto the horse by strong hands, we galloped off following a horse trail, through an exceptionally isolated part of the park. Nearly two hours later, we reached a dirt track where an off-road vehicle awaited us. I had no idea it would be such a mission.

With a skilful driver, we continued a fascinating ride through the park. A jeep track went up over mountains, through rivers and marshlands and past some of the most stunning vistas the park could offer. What an adventure, albeit a tad uncalled for.

An ambulance waited at the park’s main gate and, embarrassingly, I was loaded in and taken to Puerto Natales Hospital. The fact that I’d been hiking and sleeping in the same clothes the past five days and that each person wanted to look closer at my feet, which had been in the same shoes and socks for the same amount of days, was part of my embarrassment.

At the hospital, x-rays were taken, my feet were examined, and I was declared healthy apart from pulled ligaments and severe tendonitis. Though the doctor indicated my injuries would take four weeks to heal, I paid little attention and was sure I would be up and running within a day or two. Then, of course, I had the luxury of an intravenous painkiller. Still, it never had the slightest impact. There was no hopping and skipping out of the hospital, as anticipated.

The time was 11 p.m. before hailing a taxi to take me the short distance to the hostel. Then, finally, I could rest my weary feet. The total cost of rescue and hospital came to US$470. A reasonable amount, considering what was required, and how many people were involved in getting me out. I can only thank the helpful and professional staff of Torres Del Paine National Park.

 

13-25 December - Puerto Natales

All wasn’t well yet and, luckily, the staff at the hostel offered to get the much-needed anti-inflammatories from the pharmacy. At last, I could shuffle to the bathroom for a much-needed shower. Thank goodness for the laptop, which kept me occupied. All in all, it was my fault for thinking I could do more than my body could. Following nearly four years of cycling, my ankles were weak from a lack of walking and it was a reminder that I should live a more balanced life.

Yuta and François returned from their hike and they had a wonderful time. Needless to say, I was green with envy.

I waited and waited but healing was an excruciatingly slow process. At least anti-inflammatories and painkillers allowed for a slow shuffle to banks and shops. Day upon day, I waited, but progress seemed dreadfully slow. The daily shuffle to the supermarket was a painful exercise at a snail’s pace. Finally, my friends moved on. Still, I waited and thought it unbelievable that a common ankle injury could take that long to heal. I was fed up and desperately wanted to get on the road. Then, I received the sad news that severe tendonitis could take three to six weeks to heal. This wasn’t what I wanted to hear. There are, sadly, certain things in life one can do little about. This was one of those situations, and I had no option but to wait.

I woke with great anticipation each morning, only to find minimal improvement. Close to despair and bored stiff, cycling into the wind didn’t sound all bad.

The hostel was a favourite among young Israeli travellers, and they visited in their hordes. They seemed to favour South America as a travel destination and moved in packs. Seldom, if ever, did you meet an Israeli travelling solo.

And I waited, and waited and waited!

 

26 December - Puerto Natales

At last, it felt like my injuries were on the mend and walking was less painful than before.

That very evening, Ernest arrived from the north en route to Ushuaia. He looked haggard from weeks of battling the wind (at least he had the wind from behind). Harsh conditions along the Carretera Austral in Chile and the infamous Route 40 in Argentina could wear any traveller down. With much catching up to do since we parted in Melbourne two months earlier, the chatter continued until late.

 

27 December - Puerto Natales

The following morning, I sought out the ticket office to get information on the Navimag Ferry which sailed between Puerto Natales and Puerto Montt – said to be a spectacular three-day voyage via the Chilean fjords. I learned the weekly ferry sailed that evening and had a cabin available. So, a quick decision was made to take the boat, a trip I had been dreaming about for years.

Ernest decided to throw a U-turn instead of proceeding further south. Even though the passage was costly, it included four nights, three full sailing days, and meals. Also, it would allow my ankles three more days to heal, but, most of all, it would get me out of the fierce Patagonian wind and cold conditions, or so I hoped.

The odd thing was that boarding time was at 21h00, but the boat only sailed at 4h00 the following day. So, excited as a child to finally be on the move, I biked to the harbour. Shortly past 21h00, we settled into our cabin on the Navimag ship, Evangelistos. Although our cabin had four berths, we were the sole occupants.

 

28 December - Puerto Natales – Puerto Montt - Day 1

Early morning our ship sailed, and by 6 a.m., the boat was manoeuvring through narrow passages and fjords. Snow-covered, jagged peaks surrounded us and a fierce wind whistled by, and I was happy to watch the spectacle through my cabin porthole.

By afternoon, the Evangelistos sailed past the vast and spectacular Glacier Amalia and I ventured outside to snap a few pictures, albeit it being bitterly cold. The scenery was impressive with thousands of uninhabited islands, snowy mountain peaks and icy-looking glaciers in the distance.

We had already had two excellent meals during the day, and at supper discovered one could request a vegetarian main course. I was served a delicious vegetable stew and rice with a small side salad.

 

29 December - Puerto Natales – Puerto Montt - Day 2

Like the previous day, breakfast consisted of bread, porridge/eggs, cheese, ham, fruit, yoghurt, cereal, juice, and coffee. All meals on board were excellent, and there were more than enough.

The captain pointed out a shrine on a small island, said to be the Guiding Spirit of all sailors, and a shipwreck known as an insurance scam before heading out of the channels into the rolling swells of the Pacific Ocean. When we cleared the fjords’ protected waters, the ship began to roll wildly and it was best to stay in one’s cabin.

Dinner was excellent, as usual, but there were (understandably) far fewer passengers in the dining hall, and it was somewhat tricky to balance one’s food tray on the way to the table.

 

30 December - Puerto Natales – Puerto Montt - Day 3

As before, breakfast was enjoyable, though some passengers still seemed a little green around the gills. By midday, the Evangelistos was back in the calm waters of channels and sailed, yet again, smoothly without us having to cling to every conceivable stationery item.

The early morning fog burned off and brought excellent vistas of the Southern Andes Mountains with their jagged peaks and snowy volcanoes. The day further turned out our first day of calm sailing and sun simultaneously. The outside upper deck with bar/lounge was popular; by afternoon, some paler passengers resembled well-cooked crayfish.

As before, we stuffed ourselves at dinner time and, as any good ship would have it, our final night came with a party.

 

31 December - Puerto Montt

Our ferry docked at Puerto Montt during the wee hours of the morning, and practically all trucks had already departed the cargo decks upon waking up. After breakfast, the time came to disembark and continue with our regular lives.

A short ride took us into the city centre and to the hospedaje where Ernest previously stayed on his way south. In typical Chilean style, the building was a rickety, three-level, shingle-clad home with lace curtains and wooden display cabinets, housing all kinds of family heirlooms. It felt I had finally arrived in Chile proper. The elderly owner was quite interesting and had owned the home – named merely B&B – for 40 years.

Although New Year’s Eve, our search for excitement revealed little. In general, restaurants and bars were closed, and Chileans appeared to celebrate at home. There were, however, spectacular midnight fireworks at the pier. Our host invited us for a drink with his family and friends, who were busy welcoming the new year.

 36 CHILE

1305 Kilometres - 27 Days

1 January – 27 January 2011

 

1–2 January - Puerto Montt

Waiting to be 100% confident on my feet, two more days were spent in pretty Puerto Montt. I lay watching TV while Ernest polished off two bottles of whiskey and a case of beer. I realised nothing had changed and wondered how long it would take me to face reality!

Puerto Montt’s weather was relatively mild, and I was happy to be out of Patagonia. Unfortunately, Patagonia wasn’t as picturesque as predicted. All I remember was a ferocious wind and a hike that went very wrong.

By afternoon, a reasonably strong earthquake hit Chile. Mercifully, it occurred pretty far north, and only a moderate tremble was felt in Puerto Montt. Our rickety guesthouse swayed from side to side, but luckily no damage was done. Surprisingly, no one seemed perturbed about it.

 

3 January - Puerto Montt – Puerto Varas – 20 km

The short ride to picturesque Puerto Varas was my first cycle in a long while. Founded by German settlers and still known as a place with strong German traditions, Puerto Varas was picture-postcard pretty. The area was highly touristy due to its location on the shore of Llanquihue Lake, its unmistakably Germanic architecture, pretty residential neighbourhoods, and well-tended gardens.

Scenic places are bound to have hordes of backpackers, fancy hotels and pricey restaurants. Regrettably, the weather was overcast and drizzling. Thus, there was no glimpse of the famed Osorno volcano or the snow-capped peaks of Mt Calbuco and Mt Tronador from across the lake.

I was happy my ankles held out and felt more confident to continue my travels. Walking caused some discomfort, but it gave no problems biking.

 

4 January - Puerto Varas – Frutillar – 43 km

Frutillar was the next settlement on the lake and one more town founded by German settlers in 1852/6. During this time, countless German settlers arrived under the official colonisation programme of Southern Chile.

Frutillar had no camping on the shores of the lake, but we found a lovely spot in someone’s garden under a large cherry tree. I was happy the second day of cycling went well without any aches or pains.

 

5 January - Frutillar – Osorno – 70 km

One couldn’t wish for a better start to a recovery ride. Route 5, or the Pan-American Highway, was in excellent condition with a broad shoulder. A tailwind, as well as beautiful sunny weather, made it effortless riding.

It was the first time it became possible to cycle in short sleeves in quite a while. I was even more delighted to find lodging in the centre of Osorno. The place had an excellent ground-floor room, with a door leading to a garden, TV and hot shower. Osorno wasn’t on many travellers’ lists, but it made a perfect overnight stop on the way north. A walk around town revealed typical wooden houses, an imposing cathedral, and a fort.

 

6 January - Osorno – Los Lagos – 95 km

Route 5 was Chile’s longest road and ran 3,364 kilometres from Peru in the north to Puerto Montt in the south and formed part of the Pan-American Highway. We followed this road north, and another perfect day was spent riding Chile’s lake district. The weather was warm, with a slight tailwind, and our path ran past forested areas with the Andes mountains as a backdrop.

A short detour led to the small and un-touristy village of Los Lagos. Situated on the Calle-Calle River, it consisted of a quaint community with ramshackle accommodation in the town centre. I loved these small villages with their central plazas busy with people and bounded by streets dotted with municipal buildings, churches, and a few shops.

 

7 January – Los Lagos – Loncoche – 84 km

Once across the Rio San Pedro, Route 5 continued north through a eucalyptus forest. A mild tailwind made it comfortable and enjoyable cycling. The weather was warm, and the way gently undulating, past densely forested areas and vistas of snow-capped volcanos. Needless to say, I was thrilled to be out riding. Roadside cheese stalls made for convenient shopping, and the rest of the way was spent dreaming up ways of enjoying it.

Eighty-four kilometres further was the tiny hamlet of Loncoche which boasted excellent lodgings in the town centre (outside and ground floor). Loncoche was a typical small Chilean town with a plaza surrounded by municipal buildings and a church.

Ernest returned from the supermarket with a bag of salad ingredients and proceeded to make a noodle salad, adding heaps of cheese.

 

8-9 January - Loncoche – Temuco – 88 km

Clear skies, sunshine and the lack of a headwind made it a perfect day for bicycle touring. I wore a big grin as I knew my luck had to change sometime. Following a leisurely 88 kilometres, the town of Temuco came into view. It took a tad longer than usual to find outside ground-floor space, preferred to being cooped up on the third floor with no external windows.

Temuco was a pleasant city with a leafy square, making staying the following day an easy choice. A non-cycling day usually came with the regular chores of laundry and the Internet. The municipal market sold typical Chilean cheese, fruit, fish and meat. Horse butcheries, something foreign to me, were plentiful.

 

10 January - Temuco – Collipulli – 102 km

Albeit a mild headwind in the afternoon, the day remained a super day of biking. The cold south had softened us up, and loads of sunscreen were required. However, being in warm weather without a howling wind was indeed a pleasure.

The small town of Collipulli was up next and came with the historical Malleco Viaduct, today a national monument. The bridge consisted of a railway bridge built in 1890, the highest such bridge in the world. I loved these little villages where people went about their lives without the tourist influence. Collipulli had a central park/plaza, colourful wooden houses, a market, a church, and a town hall. A guesthouse in the centre made it an excellent place to chill out after a day on the bike.

 

11 January - Collipulli – Los Angeles – 77 km

Blue skies abounded and the sun was out, making biking the Pan Americana Highway (Route 5) a delight. The route to Los Angeles ran through a wooded area with substantial rivers and a few camping areas.

As the previous days, we encountered plenty of roadside food stalls, frequented mainly by truck drivers. Closer to Los Angeles, the countryside became more rural with vast farmlands. Not to be confused with Los Angeles in the USA, this was an agricultural town with the highest rural population of any Chilean municipality.

Los Angeles was close to the Laguna del Laja National Park and, consequently, a jumping board for those wishing to visit the park. The previous year’s earthquake hit the region hard, and the town was still recovering. Rebuilding was in progress, but sadly several buildings were still in ruins. Our abode came with a TV and a BBC news channel and it seemed not an awful lot was missed. It was amusing to see what the BBC considered world news.

 

12-13 January - Los Angeles - Chillan – 113 km

After making a few sandwiches, the time was eleven o’clock - nothing unusual in Chile. People went to bed late and only got going at around 10 a.m. Ernest spotted a welding shop and had his bike’s front rack repaired - it broke on the gravel roads along the infamous Route 40 when he was blown off his bicycle.

Our route ran north past densely wooded areas, waterfalls, and viewpoints. Chillan was another town in a rich agricultural region, on a vast plain, between the Andes mountains and the coast. The town sported an old city with cobblestone lanes and is said to be Bernardo O’Higgins’s birthplace. O’Higgins, regarded as Chile’s liberator, was the driving force behind Chile’s independence from Spain.

Chillan had a relaxing vibe with numerous squares and parks; in fact, it was so tranquil, we stayed for two days. The town had a beautiful town centre with a mall, charming street-side cafes, and a sizeable open-air street market.

With Chillan situated in a seismic activity region, it has suffered devastating earthquakes throughout its history. Earthquakes partially destroyed the town in 1742 as well as in 1928. Chillan further sat near the epicentre of the 2010 earthquake (magnitude 8.8), which again caused severe damage. During our visit in 2011, the destruction was clearly visible, and our abode was slanting to such a degree that one could easily roll out the door.

 

14 January - Chillan - Linares – 109 km

Signboards indicated 400 kilometres to Santiago and that we found ourselves in Central Chile. It indeed looked like such while biking past large farming areas on central Chile’s fertile plains.

After turning off to Linares, a cycle path lead into town. I was surprised by the number of historical buildings; unfortunately, the majority were still off-limits due to the 2010 earthquake. However, close to the town square was the Cathedral Church of San Ambrosio de Linares, one of the most beautiful buildings in town. This was indeed a Roman Catholic country. Again, I spotted a surprising number of cathedrals for such a small village.

After locating an affordable establishment with cable TV (for Ernest) and storage for the bikes, Ernest, as usual, lit his petrol stove and cooked pasta. The cooking process took place in the bathroom; not very hygienic, but delicious, nevertheless.

 

15 January - Linares - Talca – 56 km

The day came with a slight headwind which hampered our efforts. After 56 kilometres and feeling lethargic, Talca, situated in the Maule region, the largest wine-growing region in Chile, made a perfect overnight stop—it was time to taste their wine.

Talca wasn’t only home to several wineries, but also a university, which sounded pretty good to me. Regrettably, Talca was another place severely damaged by the February 2010 earthquake. All budget digs in the older part of town had been destroyed, and empty lots remained where those hostels once stood. It was quite shocking to see such devastation.

For the past three days, our overnight lodging was in towns affected by the previous year’s earthquake - Chillan, Linares and Talca. Even at the recently re-opened hotels, the open doors didn’t close, and the closed doors couldn’t be opened. Seeing the collapsed buildings and empty plots remained a sad sight.

There wasn’t much to do in Talco but walk to the Santa Isabel supermarket (in all towns) to get supplies to make supper. I guessed earthquakes weren’t new to that area as I learned the name Talca means thunder or a volcanic eruption in the Mapuche language.

 

16 January - Talca - Curico – 73 km

On departing Talco, a good tailwind assisted us to Curico. The day looked promising until a loud bang brought us to a sudden halt. Thank goodness, it was merely Ernest’s tyre that had a blowout but I almost hit the deck and started leopard crawling (I’m South African, after all).

The rest of the day was enjoyable riding through a wine region, and the farms passed very much resembled those at home in the Western Cape. On reaching Curico, the pleasant Hotel Prat lured us in. The place was rather convenient with its guest kitchen and outside ground-floor quarters.

As with the other towns in the area, Curico was destroyed by an earthquake in 1928 and severely damaged by the previous year’s quake. Fortunately, the Plaza de Armas (the main square) remained intact and the most frequented place due to its trees and pretty historic bandstand.

Curico is situated 46° north. The sun sets after 9 p.m. and it darkens around 10 p.m., making for long summer days. I, therefore, understood their need to have long siestas, as virtually all shops were closed between 12 and 4 p.m.

 

17 January - Curico - Rancangua – 112 km

Heading to Rancangua was a pleasant day of biking. Vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see, with the ever-present Andes to the east. Following a few cold-drink stops, we slinked into Rancagua. I didn’t expect much of the town but was pleasantly surprised.

Rancagua had a historical section with an ensemble of old buildings. The town was a fair size with a pleasant central square known as Plaza of the Heroes where the Battle of Rancagua occurred. It is referred to as the Disaster of Rancagua, as O’Higgins and his army had to beat a hasty retreat here and hide in nearby caves while fighting for independence.

 

18-23 January - Rancagua - Santiago – 92 km

Santiago (population around six million) was one of the most convenient capital cities to pedal into. Next to the highway, a service road led straight into the city centre. Ernest knew precisely where to go, as he flew into Santiago from Australia a few months prior. All this made riding to Hostel Chile Inn comfortable - where Ernest stayed before heading south.

Barrio Brazil, a district close to the city centre and within comfortable walking distance of almost everything, housed a few hostels. The underground metro railway station was barely 100 metres from the door and made for easy exploring. The metro could take you practically anywhere in the city and was reasonably inexpensively.

Our hostel was one of the many old three-storey buildings in the area. Nearly all of these buildings came with soaring ceilings and huge rooms. I understood these were former grand homes, generally with upper decks and ground-floor courtyards. The staff at the hostel was super hospitable and invited all to a free barbeque on the deck. We danced the Macarena till the wee morning hours with the staff and a broad mixture of guests (Italians, Germans, Brazilians, Venezuelans, Mexicans, and Chileans).

The subsequent days were spent wandering around town, enjoying the novelty of taking the underground and the funicular up the San Cristobal hill. Besides a statue of the Virgin Mary, the viewpoint offered panoramic vistas of the surrounding areas.

My laptop gave me endless trouble, and I handed it in to be repaired, but on receiving it found it still faulty. I took the computer to a more reliable store and was told it would only be ready on the Monday. Upon receiving it, I found it only spoke Spanish. After rushed last-minute shopping, we were all set for our final stretch in Chile before heading over the Andes to Argentina.

 

25 January - Santiago - Los Andes – 81 km (+3km through the tunnel)

After an entire week in Santiago, Ernest and I, finally, resumed our journey. Soon after leaving, the landscape changed abruptly. Gone were the wooded areas and I was surprised to find myself in a desert-like landscape.

The route north to Los Andes was via a reasonably steep climb over the mountain in sweltering weather. Fifty-five kilometres after biking out of Santiago, a tunnel prevented cyclists from proceeding any further. Tunnel staff quickly spotted us, came to the rescue with a truck and dropped us on the opposite side. A pleasant descent led to the Los Andes Valley, where a small roadside establishment with a beautiful lawn got our attention. Seeing they had a campground out back and sold homemade bread made staying a no-brainer.

 

26 January - Los Andes - Roadside camping – 50 km

The following morning our path headed mostly uphill. As expected, our pace slowed considerably, as we stopped numerous times to snap a few pics and fill our water bottles. By the end of the day, camping was on a hill above an emergency truck stop with excellent views of the surrounding mountains.

The adjacent cascading stream from the snowy mountains provided fresh water. Even without a single alcoholic drink, Ernest washed in the river’s icy waters. It was still early and a relaxing afternoon was spent enjoying the sunshine. That evening, while having supper, a jackal came trotting past. Soon it became pitch dark and a zillion stars lit the sky—truly magical moments.

 

27 January - Roadside camp, Chile - Puente Del Inca, Argentina – 40 km

This was the day the route headed over the Andes to Argentina. The road zig-zagged up the pass and, though the gradient was acceptable, it remained a steep and dreadfully slow 22-kilometre climb from where we had spent the night. Roadworks caused lengthy delays and provided a much-needed time to take a breather. Finally, after huffing and puffing to the top, one could look down at the winding road coming up the mountain and I could hardly believe I had made it up the pass. After reaching the top and yet another ride by the authorities through a tunnel, 18 kilometres remained to the customs office.

The border crossing was uneventful, and immigration staff simultaneously stamped people out of Chile and into Argentina. From the immigration office, the path descended past the small settlement of Las Cuevas with no more than a few timber restaurants and a strong smell of lentil soup. Upon crossing the border, Ernest and I reached the end of Patagonia and Chile. After my disastrous start in the Americas, Chile was a welcome change and a relaxing and rewarding ride. To this day, I claim Patagonia will never see me again. LOL.