Round the World by Motorbike: December 2013

From the bottom of my second glass of Chilean red, comfortably perched on a sidewalk in the trendy suburb of Cerro Concepcion in Valparaiso, the afternoon of our arrival into Chile seems like just another ‘adventure’. And that is of course what it was ….. now! At the time it was the third day in two weeks when everything simply seemed to be a part of Murphy’s sadistic scheme.

No...... I just needed a quick 'power nap' and this was the only shady spot!

So did he!

For once I had become planner for the trip, a role I now know, is not my strength. In the separation of functions between us, I encourage the 250kg motorbike forward and upward, navigate confusing city streets and make the coffee in the morning. Carlie cooks our sustenance, plans our daily destinations and also performs all the ironing that may need doing. But for some reason it fell to me to find a place on the Chilean coast for a couple of days of eating seafood and getting sand in unnatural places. My ‘research’ uncovered a small town of Zapallar, it had good reviews and didn’t appear too touristy or populated.

Self Portraiture - moto-style

We were, however, still on the wrong side of the world’s largest mountain range in Argentina. Our day began as the tent started to glow in the morning light. By 8:30am I had topped off the gas tank with the cheaper Argentinian fuel, stuffed two stale croissants into me to soak up the coffee and pointed the bike west.. In front of us now towered yellowy-red massifs glowing in the bright morning light. Behind which we could just discern the jaggered white peaks of a further row of mountains.

The approach to the pass.

It was a 73km, two-lane road that would take us to the border. Unlike many of the mountains passes we had taken through the Andes, this was not one of tight corners and sheer drop-offs to untimely ends. For this pass we would follow a series of valleys and a brown raging river up a two vertical kilometre incline. In the beginning the valley was barely discernible, the river appearing to be leaking from the mountain itself. As we turned the wide corner, both walls rose above us to make seeing the rim of either side difficult, and remember, we were riding a motorbike without a roof to impede our view. Quickly the size and scope of this valley became clear. We had entered a crack in the mighty Andes that an ancient glacier had once laboriously and stubbornly gouged out and that the river now took to amplifying. At around 1km wide at the floor, the walls of muti-coloured sandstone at time topped out almost 2kms above our helmeted heads. Without warning another huge valley would appear on our left or right, their own beauty screaming out to be explored.

a HUGE valley!

As we stopped to don more layers against the cold we spied Mt Aconcagua. At 6962m, this is the highest point in all the Americas and still far above our mere 3200masl, happily so, as it looked quite cold up there! We had also noticed that the rocks had changed. Where before it was a rainbow of rounded, yet still steep, mountains, now they were the black, serrated variety, thrusting towards the deep blue sky almost as if in challenge to any foolish enough to try to reach their crowns of pure white glaciers.

That's the highest mountain in the Americas in the background!

It was into one of these monsters that the tarmac now headed. A tunnel right through the guts, a sign halfway proclaiming our special transition into Chile. I have flown over borders, walked, driven, sailed and ridden bicycles over some, but never before gone under one!

Soon enough we were reminded of the change as we pulled into the very confusing labyrinth of customs and immigration. An hour later with all the appropriate stamps and paper work in hand we were into our 5^thcountry of the trip and heading downwards, both physically and situationally. Once again we would have our way forward impeded by road construction. For 40 minutes we fielded questions from the board ‘stop/go’ man before the gate was raised and we took off, again through a valley crowded with summits over 4000m high.

As the road levelled off we hit our first town and I missed the turn off to the ring road, subjecting us to slow moving traffic in temperatures now hovering around the 35 degree mark. Finally out of the built up areas and the road turned to bone-jarring, one-laned, concrete surface. But fate was listening to my swearing and provided a 3 lane autopista, and then in a perfect backslap manoeuvre we discovered that in Chile (unlike other South American countries) motorbikes needed to pay tolls and we were hit with our heftiest fee so far, a full $5! Now the road was flat, straight and boring, only with the occasional toll booth thrown in for fun.

As we neared the coast the temperature dropped and the salty smell of the ocean rose.

Rounding the final corner we were stunned, by the sparkling sight of the Pacific Ocean (a view we hadn’t seen for 6 months) and the amount of housing. Not just houses but palaces suspended on cliffs and within charming dales. I was not ready for this and already doubting my destination decision. We followed the GPS to the point of my choice, town centre. What we were faced with was a small park surrounded by houses with occupants who would more likely get the garden hose on us than tell us where the nearest camp site might be.

Finally Carlie stepped in and within minutes discovered that I had chosen what the guide book said was the most affluent suburb on the 5000km Chilean coastline. There wasn’t a campsite or affordable hotel within ‘cooee’ of our meticulously manicured park bench setting.

It was decided that we would have to head into the large city of Vina del Mar, our plans of camping at the beach and eating at a small seafood shack was well as real as the lack of foreign currency in my wallet...

Reprogramming the GPS to a hostel recommended by the LP was accompanied with promises to stick with riding the bike to places Carlie decides upon.

Back through ‘rich-ville’ and then a road passing every polluting industry you might be able to think of in a 60 second time slot and we once again hit the coast. This part looked mildly attractive as we scoured the area for the perfect hotel. Now let’s not get too judgemental, perfect fits somewhere in between above brothel and under our budget. After almost an hour we had found both, but nothing in the middle ground. A great cheese and ham empanada later we carried on south, chastised now to settle for the hostel recommended in the book. As we neared the city we continued to test other sea-side accommodation but to no avail, still too expensive to our camping accustomed budget. Once again into the smoggy traffic we descended, into its one-way streets, heat, strange vehicular behaviours and road blocks we delved.

Finally, with socks that now felt like two small swamps and snot that was surprisingly black, we reached our hostel. For those of your unfamiliar with Vina del Mar, as we were, it is a steep, hilly place. The first thing to go in any urban congested development is, of course, the parking places. As cool and available as the hostel was, there was nowhere to safely store the bike. This would be the tale of the next 5 hotels we would try over the ensuing 1 ½ hours. Either too expensive or no parking, we drove the crowded streets in search of somewhere to take us in.

As campers we had often berated the lateness of the setting sun, now we were glad to have another hour to continue the search in Valparaiso. On a desperation scale we were nearing 8/10 and so we plugged in the closest large chain hotel that we felt would have parking. 10kms and 15 minutes lost in the crazy street geometry later, we pulled up in front of the Ibis Valparaiso only to be told that it was out of our price range.

All was not lost as I turned on the ‘Mark-Charm’ (Spanish Version) and got the got the address of a hostel I knew other riders had previously stayed at. Again, with the computer leading us we twisted and turned our way into a suburb that I will describe as dodgy at best, worth running through with a balaclava on at worst. And this only to find a building that had about as much activity going on as a morgue on Monday morning.

It was time to admit defeat, for the second time in one week. This place simply wanted my money more than I wanted to hold on to it. With resignation and MasterCard in hand we returned to the Ibis and checked into our cheerless room, away from the beach of my imagination. At 10pm we were the last to be served at the soul-less and tasteless burger bar.

We know better than anybody about how lucky we are. The pure fact that we can even be here away from the shackles of employment is a blessing. And if I had forgotten that this, I had plenty of time that night, as a school group of young kids in the next room, gave me ample opportunity for reflection.