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Published: March 20th 2013
Road miles to date: 31,254
We hadn't actually planned our arrival in Ushuaia and rode about aimlessly, hoping we would find somewhere to stay. As has become the norm on this trip, a helpful stranger with a liking for bikes appeared in a minibus and told us to follow him. Having learnt that this is usually the way we fall on our feet, we followed him through the city to a hostel. Unfortunately the hostel was full but after a chat with him we spotted another one further up the road that we could park the bike at. A Michael Caine look-alike showed us to our room and then never stopped talking to whoever would listen to him the whole time we stayed were there. Sometimes it has been helpful that our Spanish is limited.
The next morning we took our huge pile of laundry to be serviced for first time in three weeks, hoping it would wash away the grim smell of plasticine that came from the laundry hand soap we had been using. As we made our way back to the hostel, Byron decided that some of the power issues we'd been having with the bike might
be to do with the ignition and asked Isabel for a hand to check it out. As she unscrewed the front light a small package sat in there that she thought were spare screws. She couldn't have been more wrong as Byron took it out, got onto one knee and asked her to marry him with a beautiful beaded bracelet he had bought back in the Black Hills of South Dakota!
After months of talking about what we would do when we got back home, Byron had talked his way out of getting married, citing lack of money, a preference for buying motorbikes instead. Isabel was just happy to start a family instead so the proposal was quite a shock and she had to ask him a few times if he was joking, before saying yes! We celebrated at a restaurant in town, eating a slap up meal and drinking a few local brews. We were broke, homeless and jobless but the sun was shining, we'd finished our dream journey and now we had something totally new to look forward to.
Despite good intentions to visit the national park on the island the next day the sun had
gone in and we were exhausted so walked about the city instead, clocking the numerous Falklands signs and references to Los Piratas Ingleses (the English get the blame for most things - we've not seen many British flags flying in the country but we bizarrely spotted a few Scottish ones).
The next morning we began our ride to get home. Although everybody raved about Ruta 40 up the west side of Argentina and Chile, we were no longer willing to risk taking the Flying Aga up into more high, foggy, wet mountains and along more ripio after coming so far. Following so much unforeseen expenditure on bike parts and longer stays in places while we got the bike fixed, we had no funds left to see more of Chile or Brazil, Uruguay and Paraguay so would just have to come back to do adventures on the Flying Aga part deux. In all honesty we were ready to call it a day anyway. So we made our way back through Tierra del Fuego, camping at the San Sebastian Chile border before we tackled the ripio road again.
The bike took a bit of a hammering crossing the ripio, most
obviously shaking loose the speedometer and tachometer which were twisting and turning all over the place. After a free ride back across the water to the mainland (we went to pay just as the cashier had closed up and with a wink and a nod he closed the shutter on us), we rode back into Rio Gallegos to stock up on groceries and spend the night. Byron managed to fix the speedometer and tachometer in the hostel, discovering that five out of eight bolts had snapped off and a cog had been jammed by the debris.
Having seen almost every type of landscape the continent has to offer, the one setting missing from our list was a major glacier. So the next morning we ventured west, traversing the country to arrive in El Calafate. Along the way we met three Brazilian guys on bikes that we had already seen in Fitz Roy and Ushuaia, so we stopped for a chat, took a few photos then had a picnic. The view from afar looking over to the glacial mountains was breathtaking and we couldn't take enough photos. As we rode into El Calafate we then passed Alison and Deb on
their way out. We had met Deb outside La Paz in the rain while trying to fix a puncture and Alison was a friend who had ridden with other riders we'd met along the way. They were just on their way from the park and generously gave us their extortionate entry tickets on the off-chance that we could use them too. Before they made their way off they gave us a gem of a tip on a camping site off the beaten track near the park. If Deb and Alison are reading this, we can't thank you enough. The tickets worked a treat and saved us a good thirty-five quid.
We heard the Perito Moreno glacier before we saw its full glory. The sun was burning bright and chunks of the glacier were falling into the lake, with even the smallest sounding like thunder. The glacier is three miles wide, roughly seventy-five meters high and is one of only a few that is still growing. Its white spikes and jagged edges that made up the top layer gave the impression of it being an enormous lemon meringue pie. It was an incredibly awesome sight to see and hours could
be spent just watching chunks of ice that appear to be relatively small but are more likely the size of a car crash down into the water below and calmly bob up and down. After dragging ourselves off we went in search of the recommended camping spot and soon found it nestled off a gravel road, through a grass field and under the only green trees in the area. A vast yellow grassy plain, home to all manner of wildlife was spread out below, skimming the glacial lake and framed by the mountains. We set up camp reminding ourselves that we weren't actually in Africa.
The next day we crossed to Rio Gallegos again and then began the long slog north, back into fierce winds but this time avoiding any rain. The wildlife kept our minds busy and we were making good progress until the rear wheel began to wobble again just short of Comodora Rivadavia.
This time there were no flat tyres involved and Byron tightened a few bolts that must have shaken loose on all the ripio. As we rode into Comodora Rivadavia though it began to shake again and we spotted a bike parts shop
to stop in front of. Fearing that the drive splines we had changed in Pennsylvania had finally worn out, there was semi relief and semi despair to find out that it was the bearings. It seemed that the washboard ripio had pounded them into submission and they had got so hot that they had welded to the rear axle. As a result the rear axle wouldn't budge to get the wheel off and nothing in the bike parts shop was going to help. However, true to every bad story in this tale, a friend of the shop owner had a friend with a truck and a garage who could help.
Mario and Danny soon had the bike on the back of a trailer and were working every trick in the book to budge the axle. His friends came and went in the garage as they all passed around the mate gauze until eventually the axle came loose and the bearings had to be sawn in half to break the axle free. They had turned to complete mush and by chance Mario had the right size new ones to replace them. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that everyday
of this trip has had its surprises, bought on by the weather, the bike and the kindness of people, all of which have really made this adventure unique.
We rode on to Peninsula Valdes, our last planned site-seeing spot of the trip where we hoped to see penguins, sea-lions and if we were lucky, orcas. We met Evan from France who was also riding and risked more ripio roads across the peninsula with him the next day. We had a beautiful clear day to see the huge penguin and sea-lion colonies across the island, spotting a few fearless armadillos too. As we took shelter in the shade at one spot, more than one cheeky bugger thought it appropriate to sit on our bike for a photo when he thought nobody could see. Looking back on the attention our bike has received from the very beginning of the trip in Alaska, with people hanging their cameras out of cars as the drove by us, to thumbs up and waves out of windows and from roadsides to all the people who have stopped us in the street and in petrol stations and car parks, we realised this brazen gesture has probably
happened in many places along the way when we haven't been watching and began to wonder how many photos of the Flying Aga now exist on the American continent.
After spending two hours willing sea-lions to go into the sea so we could get a glimpse of orcas there was suddenly a lot of movement at the other end of the cliff where we were waiting. We went over to find other keen tourists with binoculars and long-lens cameras give running commentaries of orca activity further down the beach, just off private land where you could stand and watch for six-hundred dollars a night. As most normal people cannot afford to fork out such a sum we were all huddled on the border of being able to watch, passing round the binoculars and taking turns on the telescope. Unfortunately we only got a glimpse of a few fins before it was time to make tracks. The ride back was through deep ripio and took longer than we anticipated, catching us out in the dark with a broken front light. Luckily Evan was waiting for us at the turning we had to take for the hostel or we may have
ended up on another circuit of the peninsula.
The following night, after a day of riding in strong winds but lots of sunshine, we pulled up to a wooded area beside the road to camp. Believing the spot to be well sheltered and far enough from the road, we couldn't have been proved more wrong as the wind ripped through the tent the entire night and lorries and cars thundered by, lighting up the inside with all manner of creepy shadows. Needless to say we got little sleep and were glad that we would reach Buenos Aires the next day for a break from the uncertain world of rough camping.
We did reach Buenos Aires after gunning it down long, straight, often uneven stretches of autopista. On this ride the red ribbons hanging off many Argentinian registration plates and red flags flying from roadside shrines and trees began to register. We later learnt that these were flown or left in honour of the Argentinian equivalent of Robin Hood, Gauchito Gil who is revered as a hero by travellers on the road, among others. Once we rode into Buenos Aires, we spent a while searching out somewhere to sleep,
rekindling our dislike for city riding, were told in many different varieties of words that it was not safe to park the bike on the street, so parked up in a secure car park run by a very enthusiastic Brazilian then celebrated with a milanesa sandwich and Quilmes beer.
The next day we made our way to Dakar Motos, an Argentinian agency that specialises in organising the private shipping of bikes worldwide. We camped out in bunk beds at the back of the workshop for a few days while Sandra and Javier couldn't have been kinder or more helpful in arranging for us to get our bike crated up and shipped back home. We were ecstatic that the bike had made it and was still going strong, in the face of much adversity (and one final problem of a snapped rear spoke and a hairline fracture in the rear brake disc, that we spotted right at the end and have no idea how or when it happened) but slightly apprehensive at the thought of our adventure ending.
Once the bike was crated up and paid for we suddenly found ourselves dependent on other means to get around and
didn't like it one bit. Short of money and finding only excessively expensive flights back to London, we decided firmly that this would be our last stop of the trip. With the company of Stan from Scotland also trying to get his bike sent home, and a few empanadas and beers with George who, after two and a half years in Latin America was now going on to Africa (envy came to mind), we ended up spending our last evening shortly after hearing that the new Pope was Argentinian in great local company.
We had stayed in touch with Leandro and Valentina who we had met on a coffee plantation tour back in Salento, Colombia. They had invited us to stay with them in Buenos Aires but once the bike was sorted we ended up getting last minute flights to London at the cheapest possible price we could find (not by any means actually cheap though) so just had one evening to see them. They treated us to an awesome Argentine asado and a fantastic evening in their home. As we made our way back to the hostel we were so sad to be leaving but so happy to
have ended the journey in the manner of the entire adventure; in the company of such generous and interesting people. A perfect ending to a truly unforgettable ten months.
Scroll further down for more photos.
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Sam Walker
non-member comment
amazing
fucking amazing! great work guys... looking forward to a few beers soon xx