| Jeff Poulter & Graham Tillotson: 16th November 2004 |
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Ushuaia, El Fin Del Mundo
Today, 27,400km after leaving Prudhoe Bay, we rode down the hill into Ushuaia. It was exultation after 139 days on the road and 18 months of planning and preparation. And it was only after 48 hours, when the hangover had subsided, that it sunk in.
El Calafate
Five days earlier, when we left El Calafate, I wasn't so happy. After a week of lovely weather it had started to rain the previous evening. It was still raining when I got up in the night for a pee and continued to lash it down as we packed our kit. We had to leave. We were behind schedule having rested Graham's legacy from Ruta 40, a sprained ankle, for a week so we just had to go. We dithered and pottered until, at about 11.00, it eased up and the sky cleared from the west from whence the prevailing weather arrives. Trouble was, we were heading east and would soon catch up the wet.
It took only 15km out of El Calafate to meet the first drops and then we
rode into in heavy rain all day. Cold, wet and miserable. Why do this?
Who knows, but there's only 985km to go, so sod it. If there were a salvation
to that day it was that the roads were paved all the way so we wouldn't
have any off-road jiggery pokery to handle. Then we rediscovered that interesting
little road sign Desvio (diversion). Oh my gawd. Seriously?
If you work for the roads department in this land and you want to resurface
the road, you just close off a section – anything from 5km to 50km – and
re-route the traffic through the countryside. No one-lane working while
we fix the other lane; just head 'em out across country. Then you set up
some video cameras and watch the fun. We took one look at the diversion
we were expected to take, stopped, and just gaped. It was 15m wide and
completely flooded as far as the eye could see. It may be axle deep at
the bottom of that water, so no way Jose. Not for me. I looked back at
the road they were supposed to be repairing and it looked a much better
bet, so we ignored the Desvio sign, rode around the barriers and continued.
It was slippery and difficult but we were unlikely to sink into oblivion
so we doddled along for 10 or 12km. Just when I was thinking that this
could be much worse, it was. They had removed the road bed entirely and
into the distance was a complete quagmire, with construction vehicles seemingly
bogged down in it. There was no way through, none.
With heavy (and very wet) hearts we turned round and retreated. After 500m
or so we came across a gap back onto the diversion road. It looked puddly
and greasy but not as flooded as before. The alternative was to return
to El Calafate and wait for this lot to dry up (which might take days)
so we decided to give it a go. Like whistling in the dark, Graham reminded
me that we had ridden the Ridgeway in Dorset in similar conditions; and
that was wet chalk, this was only mud. I like your positive thinking GT
but that was on DRZ400s with knobblies; we are on combo tyres with fully
loaded Dommies but, shit, let's go. It was as bad as we had expected but
nothing life threatening happened and, after another 5km, we returned to
the highway and the blissful comfort of sheeting rain being driven by a
cold cross wind. On tarmac.
Boozy Cowboys !
We had scheduled to stop after 150km for fuel. We needed to: in fact Graham ran out about 500m short of the gas station. As we were puddling the little café with our dripping kit, we were being closely watched by half a dozen Gauchos, the cowboys of these parts, who were drinking impressive quantities of beer. They were wearing unusual knitted woollen hats, crocheted round in a circle, a bit like a Tam 'O Shanta without the bobble, with the wool finished in a long, twined tail like a sailor's tew. Hey, you guys, why aren't you out there in the weather tending your flocks or herds? 'Cos it's warmer and drier in here, twat.
As we ordered sandwiches and coffee, Guy and Inge, the Belgian couple we had bumped into on several occasions, arrived. So we dried out for a couple of hours in their company. Just as we were leaving a couple of Germans on GSs pulled in. They had ridden down from Buenos Aires and were off to the west and the national parks. One of them had already dumped his bike – on gravel, of course – and clearly a lot of time and ingenuity had been spent screwing it all back together again. They gave us some contacts with a German shipping company in BA which might turn out to be very useful for getting the bikes back to Europe.
Rio Gallegos
So, that night, we spread all our wet kit around a hotel room in Rio Gallegos
and went to bed with fervent prayers to the sun god and sticking pins into
effigies of the rain god. Conclusive proof, if it were needed, that prayers
don't work greeted us as we awoke the following morning. It was pissing
down. Oh deary deary, me I said to Graham. There are 400km to our next
stop, across two borders, with 200km of dirt road just to add a touch of
spice to an otherwise mundane day's travelling. And it appears to be raining,
squire.
We gloomed into the world with the faint, faint hope that the weather forecast which said it would clear might turn out to be true. But the sky was a uniform dark grey from horizon to horizon, so fat chance.
Magellan Straight
To add to the poor visibility due to rain, we rode into fog. Oh, happy days! My only comforting thought as we dragged along in misery was that at least the cold water had not penetrated as far as my crutch yet. After 100km of this we had to turn off to catch the ferry across the Magellan Straight and, on the junction, stood a large, old hotel. Without even asking Graham I turned into the car park. The hotel was empty and without lights and my heart sank, but the door opened and a rather surprised-looking senora admitted that they had a restaurant. Indeed, it would have sat 50 people but we were its solitary occupants. We've puddled many places but none as grand as this. The lady fired up a monster old gas fire and, blasted by its heat, we sat and steamed.
Graham and I were both thinking the same thing but neither of us wanted
to be the first to say… why the hell don't we stay here?…it's crazy riding
in these conditions however far we have to go…and 200km of dirt road in
the rain is sheer, bloody madness. Oh, alright, then. Yes, she did have
a room and a garage in which to put the bikes, so job done.
It rained all day. It was raining when we went to bed. I was a damp man without hope.
The morning dawned bright and dry: high, non-threatening cloud and a rather
odd glowing globe peeping around one of them. It cost US $100 for that
night but the money was insignificant. I would have paid that just to stop
the rain. Within twenty minutes of leaving the hotel we were waiting in
the ferry queue and I was hoping that we were not going to cross this stretch
of water in a shoe box like last time but my fears were put to rest when
a real metal ro-ro ferry hove into view (they always hove, don't they,
ships) and we boarded along with several coaches, cars and six big trucks.
Better yet, when I went to the caja I was expecting to cough up the $64
that cars pay so I joked with the cashier that bikes go free, right? Whether
it was my accent, my Spanish or my searingly sharp wit, the guy thought
this was hilarious and shared the joke with his mates and then, amazingly,
agreed. We had to pay for coffee however, even though I pointed out that
I was a motorcyclist and the ferry company had a tradition to maintain.
Or maybe she thought I was just trying to chat her up and, understandably,
took offence. Nearly a quid!
Rio Grande
When we disembarked I was surprised to find a paved road as the map had prepared us for dirt and this had been confirmed by several people en route. As we swung the bikes along this fine new road I thought that we would be in Rio Grande by lunchtime at this rate. Reality checked in after 25km, though, and the asphalt ended. However, it was unlike the Ruta 40 as there was no deep gravel and what there was had been thinly spread, so we had no scary moments. Nevertheless, I kept the speed strictly down as we crept through the flat wastes of Terra del Fuego at a steady 60kph. No accidents so near the end.
The sun was shining out of a clear blue sky by this time and to say that
our spirits were lifted would be to fundamentally misunderstand the delights
of riding in the rain. The pampas surrounding us was full of wildlife and
we were entertained on several occasions by the guanacos leaping over the
fences by the side of the road. They can jump them striding at full speed,
in one leap from a standing start or, as did one, use the top of a fence
post as a stepping stone for both feet on his way over. These animals are
the size of a stag, so we were impressed. How about guarnaco steeplechases?
We passed several herds of seemingly wild horses and lots of goats and
sheep. As it's spring here, there were thousands of tiny baby lambs, gambolling,
or whatever tiny sheeps do. Surely we'll find lamb on the menus tonight?
San Sebastian
We passed from Chile back into Argentina at San Sebastian without too much
trouble. it's bloody silly with Terra del Fuego split in horizontally between
the two countries. Neither benefit from a contiguous landmass and, to get
from Argentina (north) to Argentina (south,) one has to cross Chile. This
means give up the Argentinean tourist's temporary vehicle import permit
at Argentinean customs, re-apply for one from Chile and be stamped out
of one country and into the next by two sets of migracion. Two hours later,
one has to give up the Chilean tourist's temporary vehicle import permit
at Chilean customs, re-apply for one from Argentina and, again, be stamped
out of one country and into the next by two sets of migracion. And, por
supuesto, reverse the entire procedure on the way back. This generates
a paper mountain but provides jobs. Boring, boring jobs. These two countries
really don't get along as they separate their border posts by tens of kilometres
so you have to put all your papers away before digging them all out again.
(Note: it appears that Chile is unpopular with most countries hereabouts,
apparently having annexed land from Peru and Ecuador as well as Argentina
in recent history. No wonder Maggie Thatcher and Henry Kissinger liked
them.)
Rio Grande was closed when we arrived at five o'clock. It had been Sunday yesterday, after all. We did, however, find a hotel restaurant open but it just happened to be serving dinner to a tour group of 500 Saga louts, and we were the only other diners in the place. Actually, it's not true, there were five others but it makes a better story if it was only us.
200Km into Ushuaia
On the Tuesday 16th November we embarked upon the last 200km into Ushuaia. It felt unreal to be so close. Soon out of Rio Grande there is a road sign Ushuaia 171km. Surely, that must be 1710km or 17,100km? And then 143km, 127km. All of a sudden, it was less than 100km. I was aching for a first sight, a glimpse of our destination, although it had become more a bloody fixation than a destination.
At the mid-point petrol station we bumped into Guy and Inge again and agreed to meet in Ushuaia that evening to celebrate. We rode around the lovely Fagnano lake as we crossed the fag-end of the Andes before dropping down into Ushuaia.
There it was. I don't what I was expecting but this will do very nicely.
It's just a little port on the Beagle Channel. JUST A LITTLE PORT! This
may well be the most important place in the entire world. At this moment
in time, maybe. But we didn't stop and kiss the earth because we had to
continue through the town, down to the end of the Latalaia National Park
another 20km further on. This is the recognised end of the Pan-American
Highway where there is a notice board in front of which a photograph is
mandatory. In fact, one is attached to this email, folks.
A couple of lovely Irish girls (also from County Kerry where the other Irish travellers we met came from) were passing and took our pictures with the bikes.
That evening we met Guy and Inge, ate some fine fish and the other three consumed about a dozen bottles of red wine. I was most abstemious but, somehow, I must have breathed in too many of the wine fumes. Or something.
But we're here. We made it.
Jeff 16.11.04 |
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