Round the World in 80 Years
 

2up2wheels, 15,000kms and 57 campsites around Eastern Europe: Italy

The ride to Anzio, where we stopped for a picnic break, was pleasant. We asked at a restaurant for coffee, and found out that mid-morning coffee is provided by a bar not a restaurant. So we settled for a delicious Italian ice cream instead. After the hectic ride through Rome city centre it was really good to just sit in the sun, look at the waves and watch a mum with her little boy having great fun and success with a kite. Perfect windy conditions. In fact, almost a little too windy. We really need to hang on to keep upright and after 250kms of urbanisations and highways and sand dunes we called it a day. Normally we start looking for a campsite at about 4-5pm, but the wind today caused us to start searching by 2pm. We probably pulled in at about 5 different sites. Sorry, only opening June 1st. That’s a pity ‘cos its only May 19th. We passed huge plantations of apricots, fields of corn and polytunnels of tomatoes. The flat agricultural lands went on forever, occasionally interrupted by round-abouts. To break the tedium we branched off randomly left at one round-about and there in front of us was a gigantic Roman columned colossus. It was startling in its size and completeness and took us quite by surprise. I had studied Latin at school and our Latin teacher was as bored as we were doing all the grammar and conjugations. Whenever we got the chance we would ask him about Roman life and culture and then his eyes would light up and he would tell us great tales of wars and architecture and road-building. This is what we saw in front of us, a fantastic relic. I was thrilled. Its almost 4 pm and we have been searching for a campsite for 2 hours, travelling ever South, being bombarded by the buffeting wind.
Are we ever going to find a place to pitch and rest? On the 6th attempt, following the GPS ‘places to camp’ category, we turned into an arched gateway down a narrow road into a vast courtyard. Oops, this looks like a private house. But no, a very enthusiastic Guiseppe rushed to meet and greet and welcome us to his family owned campsite. How could we resist? “Please, Go anywhere, Camp anywhere, Hot showers, Moonlight walk, Bread and Coffee at the café, spare tables to use, Enjoy, Enjoy, Enjoy. “ And we did. After setting up camp, (no tarpaulin tonight), and cooking up a batch of spaghetti and pesto, we took Guiseppe’s advice. We had a sunset stroll around the well-lit paths of Volcano Sulfata, peering into bubbling steam-filled holes and smelling wafting sulphur. It soon got dark and as we crept into our homely little red tent we cosied up in the warmth. Warmth! Soon we were shedding sleeping bags and opening up the vents. Why are we so hot? For under floor heating in a tent we can seriously recommend camping in a volcano.

That's Amore
 

A cool morning breeze welcomed us as we packed up and set off South after a fabulously cosy warm night in our super-heated tent. With no particular route in mind, except to hug the coast and ride South, we breezed through Naples and stopped 44 kms later in Pompei. What a lovely town, coffee bars everywhere. The tourist shop at the station gave us maps and instructions and we ignored them all, waved to the ruins and the queue outside and carried on. The sun is shining, bike perfectly balanced, B enjoying the roads and we’re singing my favourite song: “oh, what a beautiful morning ….“ as loud as we can inside our helmets. We really can belt it out within our own echo chambers.
We take the inland back road around Mount Vesuvius viewing it from all angles until we are back on the coast road. 71 kms from our start we are at Sorrento which is a bit tricky with tourist buses, but B gets past them all with calculated ease. The roads are twisty, jam-packed with just about every vehicle imaginable, luxury sports cars, silly little 3-wheeled pickups, ridiculous Ferrarris stuck in first gear, bicycles and buses. It’s manic but exhilarating. I lean back against the bedding pack and snap away. We ride beyond the tourist route almost to the end of the peninsula and wave to the ships sailing to the island of Capri. The sea and sky are glistening blue, eye-burning beautiful blue. There is no discernible horizon, the view is all a big blur of blue. I think I’ll paint a big canvas of blue when I get home. We find a little triangle of green grass in one of the villages and have a picnic. The houses are perched scarily on the side of the cliffs ready to fall into the sea. And then we get back on the road to Amalfi. At least 10 movies have had the Amalfi coast as their background* and it is easy to see why.
The Drama is in the domineering mountains and plunging cliffs. The Plots follow the twists and turns of the road, disappearing into tunnels and taking your breath away with the beauty when you emerge the other side. The traffic squeezes everybody like a toothpaste tube along this sinuous road, with dare-devil boy racers testing their nerve as they overtake into oncoming traffic around blind corners. It’s terrifying to watch. We hang back and try to take a rest in Ravello. Only for a second though as parking is at a premium and we are ushered to move on just as I’ve climbed off the bike. B really needs to take a break, but on we go through this crazy gorgeous funnel lined on the left by lemon groves and sheer drops on the right. We are in Limoncello Land. And then the fuel gauge flashes. At a stretch our limit is 300kms and we calculated we were at 289kms. Oops, according to the GPS the next big town, Salerno, is 30kms away. Not going to make it! Typing in ‘petrol’ on the GPS (leaning over B’s shoulder and on the move) we hairpin up left into these monstrous rocks along a very narrow road. The road repair taffic lights take forever, using our precious fuel as we wait and wait. Another bike pulls up and ignores the lights, so we follow suite. At the top of the climb there a convergence of roads, help, we don’t know which one to take. We ask a chap in a car, nonchalantly parked in the shade, such a contrast to our near panic in the sun. No petrol = panic. He shrugs, and points hesitantly “that way, I think”. We are riding on fumes as we spot a lonely pump in a layby. Oh dear, it doesn’t take credit cards, CASH ONLY. We haven’t been to an ATM since visiting Rome 4 days ago and Lidl’s and coffee bars had consumed most of it. We have just one 5 euro note left. We feed the note into the mouth of the machine, and it promptly spits it out. Again and again , we try turning the note over, turning it around. Nope, not going to take it! And then a very nice Italian pulls up in his van. Luckily, he can't put fuel in his van until we move on. We did a bit of 5euro note swopping until eventually one of his worked. Many ‘Grazias’ later we took another hazardous road back to the coast. With 10kms of fuel left we had ridden from Ravello to petrol stop in Pietre (11kms). Pietre down to Maiori was a spectacularly stunning and dangerous 9.5kms. I say dangerous because we had a close one. I had been taking photos with my right hand but decided that the steep S-bends required more than just a balancing act. I really should be holding on to B. In one simultaneous moment as I leant left to tuck the camera away, B swung around a right bend, I straightened up and we over balanced skimming into a retaining wall, bouncing on the right-side pannier which threw us sharply left again. The next S-bend was immediately upon us but fortunately a small pull-off area allowed us to right ourselves and stop, next to a low wall below with a heavenly view of thousands of dangling lemons. Without thinking too much that we could have been dangling amongst them we unpacked the lunch bag and munched on last night’s left-over spaghetti pesto. Time and space for a break, indeed. B was puzzled as to why the bike had veered into the wall for no apparent reason. I then realised the critical part that the pillion plays in the whole riding and cornering pattern and confessed that I'd been fiddling around at the back putting my camera away, which changed the balance of the bike. Not so good on a hairpin bend on a cliff face.
The coastal ride from Maiori to Salerno was 31 kms, where we filled the tank to the top and more. Including the miracle 5 euro pump’s input; we calculated we had done 326 kms on a 300km tank!
The ferocious wind and sand flying around down the coast after Amalfi drove us inland to Pontecagna, where we found a lovely sheltered empty grassy campsite. We tied the tarpaulin to 3 trees, scrounged a rickety table and looked forward to a peaceful recuperative night. The disco next door started up at 11pm, the dogs joined in with the party, yowling and barking, the rain came down in a big whoosh, the firecrakers went off until 5 am together with the disco and the pine trees left a sticky residue all over the tarpaulin.

But the best thing was the sweet smell of Star Jasmine as night fell. "That’s Amore."

* movies
· 1950’s La Macchino Ammazzacattivi, Beat the Devil
· 1990’s Only You
· 2000’s Under the Tuscan Sun, A Good Woman, Scandal in Sorrento,
Talented Mr Ripley
2010’s Love is all you Need

more stories and photos on 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Oleanders, Olives and Alexander the Great
 

We are going to Greece 'cos that's where the blue skies are. The ferry leaves tonight and we have about 200kms to go today. The Italian family persuaded us to go via Matera. Why? "because it has HISTORY" they gesticulated dramatically . The wind and the straight roads blew us there fairly quickly with the most wonderful collection of meadow flowers lining the road like a horizontal rainbow. So what is this History of Matera? It is known as Italy's shame. a place left abandoned, impoverished, diseased, and neglected until the 1950's .

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matera

Now, there is a picturesque upper modern town walking and cycling paths, churches and cafes. There are craft shops and restaurants. We stopped briefly for a water-break and a photo session before riding through the industrial heel of the Boot to Brindisi.
I had visited Brindisi Port in the 1960's as a 10year old en route from Trieste to Beira ( now Maputo) on a the 'SS Africa' when travel by ocean liners was in its prime. and here I was nearly 50 years later arriving by motorbike. We weave our way through narrow streets into the old town, always most interesting, bought some 'padkos' ( food for the road) and arrive at the port well ahead of time as the office only opens at 6pm. Some rider-bloke commented that our bike was a bit overloaded," "yes, we know, but the bike doesn't , yet" I joked. He didn't get it. When we arrive in Igumenitsa we have a choice to go north to Albania or South to the most southern tip of Kalamata. Looking up at the sky the choice is made: its Kalamata. The 5 am landing greets us with a misty dawn which clears to a majestic vista over the bay and roads lined with oleanders and olives. Its so different to the week we have had in the industrialised southern Italian coast that we are enchanted and revitalised. By 8am we are starving for the few remains of our food and a drink of hot coffee. The sun hasn't quite warmed us through but we find a deserted beach with convenient benches and thaw out quite quickly. the little petrol stove flares up and 2 minutes later the instant coffee does the job. Its the middle of May, so too early for any holiday makers and as we find during our week in Greece we are usually the only campers.
On the plus side we can negotiate our camping fees, but on the downside a lot of places are closed. We ride on and on along fabulous coastroads, up and down and around. It's beautiful. The sun is warm and the scenery is delightful. We cross the bridge onto the Peloponnese before midday and 500kms later we are in Kalamata by mid afternoon. What a glorious ride. We see a tortoise on the road and wish him luck in getting to the other side, There a canyons on either side and sheep grazing on yummy thistle bushes. It's so nice here in Kalamata we give ourselves a rest day, enjoying a swim on the pebble beach and a visit to a museum, just like real tourists. The museum turns out to be a military one, not really what we had in mind, but the three soldiers are so keen to show us around we cannot be rude. The younger one is doing all the translating and after a long monologue we pick out his South African accent. He's from Johannesburg, returned to his homeland and fulfilling his nine-month compulsory conscription duties. The military museum suddenly becomes much more interesting with little interjections about SA politics thrown in and we learn a lot about Alexander the Great. He certainly made a very big impact on the middle bit of Europe here, where West meets East. And there I thought The Great Trek was the most important historical event ever! The first campsite we visited was closed, next one had a fierce barking dog, chained up and scary-looking place. We settled for a family run campsite with one camping car. A lovely couple from Romania. Mmmm, we hadn't thought of going there, but after a and I pleasant coffee and map-sharing session, it's on the list. We do a bit of coastal road exploring buy a cute insy-winsy witches broom to sweep out the tent. The map of Greece is showing up enticing names like Sparta and Korinthos and Athens. We want to see them all. We type in a mountain route to Sparta. It's enthralling and wonderous and pretty damn terrifying. No barriers, some broken walls where the turns were too sharp for some, and I think B and the bike are feeling the load.
It's baking hot when we get to Sparta, so with waning enthusiasm I plod up a hill to view a 'dig-site'. More Oleanders an Olives along the way to provide a bit of shade. It's a strange coincidence that at the same time our niece (living and working in Japan) has just completed a gruelling Spartan Run there in a team event with her boyfriend and others. The legacy of the Spartans lives on all around the world. The mountain passes to Sparta and Korinthos have taken the edge of the back brake discs, so the hunt is on for a BMW dealership. Postcodes and highways get all muddled up and we always seem to be on the wrong side of the road, eventually stopping to ask at a chemist where the address is. We are a bit surprised to find that English is not spoken very much, and also that we have the wrong postcode. however at BMW Motorrad, the English and service is impeccable. Coffee, iced water, brake discs fitted and once again we are on our way.
Athens is packed. we sort of ride/walk with a bike between our legs, to get anywhere, scooters zig-zagging everywhere, even coming towards us in the opposite direction on our side of the road. Bangkok is a breeze after this. We ride nearly all the way to the Acropolis, then give up. Too many buses, taxis, scooters, people. Interestingly there is a report and a protest in Venice and Madrid the same week about the destructive actions that mass tourism is creating on the environment, local housing, local markets and infrastructure. We too feel the squeeze-out effect from the organised group tours. No wonder the locals get mad. It's a stressful ride through and out of Athens, then up the highway as quick as we can. Those menacing dark clouds are over us again. We had stop under a toll bridge to escape a passing hailstorm, and having kept our rainsuits on are indulging in a self-made sauna.
A conveniently placed garage sheltered us later for another hour while we eat a picnic roll and fill up with petrol slowly to waste some time. Its day 16 and our petrol costs have added up to 200 euros for a total of 3500kms, that's about 5p/km. I'm sure that there is a fancy miles/gallon equation in there somewhere, but this is a chick doing the sums here. By the time we get home, even though we don't know it yet we would have done 15,000 kms ( costing a total of just under 750 euros. ) Lunch is interesting. It's all Greek to me. So we point to the dishes on display and treat ourselves to something other than another picnic ham roll. The rain comes and goes and then comes again. It's 7pm, we're getting cold and we're tired. All the campsites in the towns are closed so we head out for the beach areas. At last we spot a sign and a red and white stripped boom-type barrier. We call, we shout, we knock on the reception door. Nothing. No response. We try the boom and it lifts up easily. This 'resort' is laid out in a grid pattern with each site occupied by a campervan/caravan arrangement and side patio, under a sun shade canopy. We call again. There's definitely no-one around. (Maybe not even been around since 2008) .We take a chance and pitch our tent on somebody's lovely patio under cover, just as the rain comes down. Whew. By 11pm we are fast asleep, cosy and warm. Half an hour later, in perfect English we hear a deep roar "Come out, Come out" accompanied by a bright light piercing through the tent. "OK, one minute" I call out in my sweetest most feeble female voice. He can see the bike and two helmets and waits patiently while we faff around inside putting on some clothes. Stumbling out we apologise profusely for entering his unguarded campsite, explaining we were desperate to get out of the storm. He then realises the night reception/watchman had not been at his post and is going to be in a lot of trouble in the morning. We come to an arrangement with him now apologising to us and we are welcome to stay on another site, as this one is private and the owners might arrive early next morning, being the start of the weekend. We move the bike and drag the tent, fully laden with bedding and gear to the other end of the road. An hour later we are back cosy and warm with an invitation to join the manager for morning coffee. It's Day 18, and after a delicious coffee and and a 5 euro campsite fee at 'Salty Beach' we take a mountain road and then a toll to get to 'Scala Beach' . The Greeks here are very handsome in an ancient classical way, with big black beards, short curly black hair and deep voices. must be something to do with Alexander the Great. We spot a sign for a place called Drama, 39kms away. No thank you, we've had enough of that. Toll roads are a bit boring for a pillion, so I amuse myself by trying to decode the Greek alphabet. School science lessons help me recall Alpha, Beta and Delta along with Pi and Theta. It doesn't take long to work most of it out. We notice a bit of a time-warp where the modern civilisation is along the coast side of the road and the pastoral corrugated iron circular 'kraals' line the rocky inland landscape. Sheep and goats abound, guided by herders, and the storks and cranes are making their appearance for the summer visits. Mount Olympus has disappeared under rain clouds and we stop in an open campsite where the very kind grandpa owner escorts us under his umbrella to a caravan pitch with an awning under which to pitch our tent. This rain is a huge pain! we don't mind wet riding but wet camping is not nice. We consult the Radar on the weather map. Go east. That's the way to go. Istanbul tomorrow! but first the sound of Alexandropoulis catches our attention. The municipal campsite is tatty and expensive. There's a hotel with a 'tent' sign displayed under its name. kindly rent us a piece of lawn for cash complete with washing line for our wet clothes. Perfect way to end the day. A curious occurence attracted our attention as we stared gazing out to sea, marvelling at the adventures we are having. Something very bright was zipping along the in the dark in a extremely fast vertical and horizontal manouvre. Not a plane. It sped up, then across, then down , then along like a mad giant glow worm. My Superzoom camera captured an image, but we still don't know what it is. Alexandropoulis has a dog problem. There was a pack of 21 on the beach front, guarding their patch from evening strollers, joggers and dogwalkers. Lovely big farm dogs, abandoned and managing to survive in a newly created pack. Shame. We buy a new back tyre and wander around the buzzing cafe-society of 'bankrupt' Greece whilst it gets fitted. Our tight budget prevents us from joining in and makes us wonder where our EU payments are going? This journey is partly to discover Europe and partly to understand the EU. We still don't. We're packed, dried out and ready to go to Turkey. It's only 50kms away. Should be in Istanbul for morning coffee. See you there.https://photos.google.com/u/1/album/...ps_PIuD3EkYTUf

Turkey Take Two
 

Turkey Take Two
Day 21: Leaving Greece
We’ve admired the majesty of Mount Olympus and the ruins of Dion*. We’ve been introduced to the exploits of Alexander the Great and have camped in the grounds of a hotel in Alexandropoulis. Our Sertao is packed and resplendent with new Back tyre and new Brake pads. We are at the Eastern border of Greece. “Where to now? North or East?” One look at our little map shows us that Istanbul is 380 kms away. Let’s go there.”
But first we telephone our nice insurance lady in Nice and ask if we are covered because Turkey is not part of the EU. She kindly explains that if we look on our ‘Green Paper’ that came with the little sticker on our windscreen we could see all the countries that are included in the bike cover. “Oops, we forgot that at home. Sorry”. “Never mind,” she says. “I will email you a copy. BUT ALWAYS CARRY IT WITH YOU” she commands assertively. “Oh, Yes, Definitely, Thank you” we respond sheepishly. The ‘green paper’ pops up on the screen and there it is. We can go to Turkey, insurance on the bike covered. √
We had discussed with our personal insurance broker before we left about Medical cover and that had been confirmed. √
A Sunny 52 kms ride later and the Turkish border appears. We get to the first kiosk on the Greek side and are asked to present our visa. No visa? We park the bike and are directed to a square dirty building where a hajibbed lady is cleaning the windows. Inside we follow a tatty hand written sign ‘buy visa here’ . Really? The bored man behind the glass window barely looks up as he asks for 25 euros. Well, we had finished all our euros filling up with fuel in Greece. The Turkish currency is Lira and we plan to withdraw some at the nearest ATM. “No, he does not want Lira. Yes, there is an ATM behind the first kiosk on the Turkish side. He needs euros.” We wander out of the back of the building along the Turkish side into the same building behind the first kiosk, hunting for the ATM. Confused , certainly. Unfortunately, the ATM was not issuing Euros that day. We walk back to the guy, who now said he could take Dollars. Oh, lucky day. We always carry US dollars, these particular ones left over from a trip to Cambodia a few months ago. Smugly we hand over the right amount, get the stamp and the visa and skip back to the bike. All confident now we ride up to the second kiosk, where we present the Visa to a swarthy Turk. This is good. And he needs the Insurance for the bike please. We point out the little sticker on the windscreen. And the ‘Green Paper, please. We explain we left it at home. It’s a Digital World, so proudly show it to him on our smartphone. Not so smart. Nope. That’s not good enough. The swarthy Turkman wants the original. But you can buy Turkish insurance for 104 euros. It’s another walk back to the ATM building, a path well trodden no doubt by countless other foreigners, to find a man selling insurance . Oh,dear, we really, really haven’t got the budget for that! and end up chatting to a South African guy travelling in his campervan with wife and four kids on a year’s home schooling/life adventure. What fun.
We decide that we just cannot afford the 104 euros insurance. Back to the swarthy Turkman. “ Are you sure you cannot accept this, please? “ We show the email on the phone again. Nope, still not good enough. Disappointed, but not yet defeated, we ride the 52kms back to Greece. The lovely lady at the hotel reception, where we camped in the garden, listens to our predicament. “No problem, forward the email to me, and I will print it.” How kind. A quick coffee break and 52kms later in the sunshine we are back at the Turkish border. Hello, yes, here is our visa. Yes, here is a black and white print of our ‘Green Paper’, please? Another swarthy Turk looked at it, nodded and scanned the passports and let us through. It was 3pm and we’d been to Greece/Turkey and back twice.
We search for the nearest campsite on the Turkish side and after 55 kms, pull into a rather strange place in Tekirdag. I say strange because as we arrived two guys leapt up from a table/bench, guided us in, took eight lira off us and disappeared.” Anywhere” they waved as they departed. We looked around at the higgledy-piggeldy assortment of plastic domes and discarded furniture and burst out laughing. Time for a fag and glass of wine. One curious onlooker passed by, then another and another. Soon we were offered a hammer( note to self: really got to buy one) and shown the loos/showers and where to fetch water.

We secretly ate our Salami sandwiches (made in Greece) for supper and went off to explore this camp, sea on the right and highway on the left. A couple in a car were watching the view (Not) for a long time and our circle of new friends invited us to join them. Average age 60+, combination of German, Turkish and broken English, mostly female, they escape the city for the summer months and come to the beach. A married couple seemed to be the leaders and were getting ready for the summer rush by fixing umbrellas and chairs and doing a general tidy-up. Charming and gracious. We said goodnight in as many languages and hid ourselves and the bike under the tarpaulin/tent for the night.
Excited to get to Istanbul (180kms) we pack up early. Actually, a bit too early, because an unknown padlocked metal barrier has blocked our exit. We surmise that it must be to stop other sea-viewers in their cars at night. However, there is a neat little motorbike sized gap on the side, if you can avoid the ditch. I dismount and push B around the side gap, the panniers hook up and over he goes, not quite avoiding the ditch. Well, there is no way we can pick up this overloaded overinverted bike. The elderly leader man from the night before comes running over and the three of us complete the task of righting the bike when a cop car pulls up to help. We wave our thanks, we’re OK.

We choose the main road and then branch off onto the Toll. I know we have a rule: No Tolls, but the main road is boring. Houses, tower blocks, houses, towerblocks, on and on. When we enter the Toll there is no booth to collect a ticket or pay or anything, just a metal post to signify the ‘start’. We are astounded by the enormity of Istanbul . The city begins at least 40 kms from the old town centre destination point. There are 6 lane highways, congestion at 100kms/hr, grid lock and reversing and even turning around and driving backwards. Trucks, containers, lowbeds, cars, and bright yellow taxis. The most astounding sights are the millions of trees, most newly planted, that line the grassy banks and the ‘vertical gardens’ growing up the concrete retaining walls. And Rose bushes. Thousands of them. It’s astonishing. We duck off the Toll road, via the metalposts, to re-fuel. While B is paying, a chap on a V-Strom cruises up to re-fuel. We get chatting. He’s a travel Agent. Where would we like to go? What would we like to see? “The best and most important”, I reply. “That’s got to be the Blue Mosque” he says and off he goes. Punch ‘BlueMosque’ into Garmin Zumo 590 and 7 kms later there we are.
IIstanbul truly is the place where West meets East and Old meets New. It appears to be a mad mix of ancientness andmodern’ess.
We treat ourselves to a delicious lunch of authentic Turkish delights ( yoghurty salads, aubergines and peppers,spices and skewers, stuffed vine leaves and water) . I wander off around the tourist places before heading upto the ‘Blue Mosque’ . It’s large, multipledomes and surrounded by camera bearing groups. A few photos later of the outside, I return to B without buying any carpets or baubles. I do try and find a sticker for the bike, but no luck. It’s time to go.




We ride along the shoreline, and then get back onto the Tollroad direction north west to the Triangle where Greece, Turkey and Bulgaria meet at Edirne ( 234kms). That is the nearest campsite, according to Zumo 590. Camping is not on the Turkish ‘things to do’ leisure list. As we ride away from the city centre we pass thru the metal posts again, signifying we are exiting the Toll. A big question mark goes off in our heads: We haven’t paid? At about the same time as an siren goes off on the overhead LED screen and a figure of 190 Euros flashes up. Too late, B’s already upped the gears. I shout Go,Go,Go and that’s it. We can’t reverse. We find the campsite as dusk falls and so does the rain. Run by a very German lady we are shown to marble-floored ablutions and an undercoverpatio complete with kitchen counterand BBQ area. Starting the day by falling over into a ditch, and ending with a braai (BBQ,) we have had a memorable 426 kms ride.

The night’s rest wasn’t very, as we were a bit nervous about getting out of Turkey because of the Toll incident. No problem. Nothing flashed up on the border control screen. We smiled and went on our way. Oh, well perhaps there’ll be a fine/letter in the post when we get home. As I write this 5 months later, nothing yet. We’llpay if you want, honest. The weather is glorious and we pass many storks settling in for the breeding season. See you in Bulgaria.

for photos, go to: 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Bulgaria, the Worst and the Best
 

Bulgaria, The Worst and the Best

Day 23

Turkey is not part of the EU, but has applied to be part of the EU. The currency in Turkey is Lira, with an exchange rate of one Euro equal 4 Turkish Lira, and they take Euros, sometimes. Turkey has applied to be part of the EU and has been refused entry. Britain is part of the EU, doesn’t use Euros and doesn’t want to be part of the EU anymore. Bulgaria has been part of the EU, since 2007. One euro is equal to 2 Bulgarian Leva and they do not take Euros, ever.
We cross the border from Turkey into Bulgaria and the change in scenery is immediate. At the border post there is a queue for 20kms of trucks wanting to enter Turkey. Bulgaria seems to be the through-route from west to East. Our satnav keeps insisting we have to buy a toll sticker and cannot go off Toll. We cannot even select ‘avoid Toll’. We ask at the border about a sticker and with raised eyebrows are told to go to the garage. We cannot have a repeat of the Turkish Toll thingy. We type in ‘petrol station’ and ignoring our stubborn GPS go off Toll down a very neglected, abandoned road. At a T-junction, turn left and get stopped by some Army chaps who understandably don’t speak English. Hand signalling about a sticker/fuel we get waved on to the old original disused border post where there is a service station. On the door is a big sign and inside a big man. He nods “Ne”. Does that means yes or no? He points to the sign outside and says “Ne”. That means No. We now understand that motorbikes are excluded from the Toll vignette system, but the GPS doesn’t.
It’s a very frustrating ride as we really want to go on the rural roads but cannot seem to get off the Toll. I type in Haskovo in an attempt to see more of the south of Bulgaria. Once we are off the Toll, which is a super-highway, super tarmac, super speed limit 140kms/hr, we realize why we need to stay on it. The roads are appalling. Properly shaken up we get to Haskovo and find a shady place to park up the bike and eat some lunch. It is a whopping 38degrees and windless. A charming stone sculpture commemorates the inhabitants of Haskovo and the museum offers excursions to the 4th C Thracian period Alexandrovo tomb where well preserved frescoes of hunting boars are to be seen. We decline but read up on the population and religious mixtures (approximately Bulgarians 79%, Turks 20% and about 1% Roma with 80% Orthodox Christians and 20% Muslim).
This small town is probably a good indicator of the long and war-filled history of Bulgaria. From being invaded by Alexander the Great from Macedonia, Persians, then the Greeks, Celts, Romans, Goths, Huns, Crusaders and Turks, until their ‘liberation’ from the Ottoman Empire in the 19th Century by the Russian Army. Then the Balkan Wars, both World Wars, Russian rule and now a member of the European Union. May their future be more peaceful than their past.
We notice the storks settling in on specially built platforms, and young chicks peeping out of their nests. There’s a whole eco system up there as other birds and bugs fly around and share the nests.
We criss-cross the super highway, up to Stara Zagrov, down to Chirpan, ignoring the GPS and just using our tiny little map and picking out place names. Chirpan was interesting. The houses are built of a rough red-brick (like fire-bricks) piled on top of each other with almost no mortar between, then painted with a white wash. The outskirts of the town was surrounded by these buildings and also hay bales and horses and carts.
We ventured down a narrow lane to another town looking for a café and came to an abrupt halt at a barrier which enclosed a children’s play park. As we were turning around a few people came out of a door carrying bread and other shopping. I left B at the bike and ventured into this burglar-barred shop to ask about a cup of coffee. “Ne” , no coffee, “ne”, no euros, “Ne” no ATM. When I returned B was surrounded by a bunch of shy/curious/enthusiastic 12-13year old school children with their teacher. A complicated conversation ensued about ages and origins and destinations, with the teacher translating and the youngsters trying to speak English. No coffee so back on the highway to Plovdiv, selected to be European Capital of Culture in 2019. By now the long boring highway had changed to green rolling hilsides and we spotted that the capital, Sofia, was not far away. So 408kms from our start point in Turkey at Edirne we landed up in Sofia, capital of Bulgaria, by teatime, ready to look for a campsite.Tired, hungry and thirsty the Garmin tells us that the nearest campsite is 10kms on the other side of town. Oh dear, we sigh. This is not going well. As we pull up at a set of traffic lights to stop, we nod at a fellow rider on a Honda in full bike gear. He nods back. Lifting up my visor ”Hi, “ I call “we’re looking for a campsite”. Pulling out his music earphones, he indicates one about 10 kms away on the other side of the city. Talking through a full face helmet is never easy, but we nod to each other and we get a head start as he is still fiddling with his earphones. At the next traffic light we stop again and this time our biker friend pulls up behind us. How did he get there? The traffic light turns green, we go, he overtakes and indicates for us to pullover. He spotted our ‘HORIZONS UNLIMITED ‘sticker on the back box and invites us to couch-surf. How amazing this dreadful day is turning out to be. It’s a very quick whizzy ride through the strrets of Sofia, us lumbering on our laden Sertao, following speedy Honda man. We get to the apartment, take off our helmets, introduce ourselves and are immediately welcomed into the wonderful world of Mitko and his fun-loving fabulous friends. The next four hours are a magical tour of Sofia and the parks and the history and the bar and the buildings. We greet the Eagle statues where revolutions and protests take place, easy now to call up your mates on Whatsapp. We meet and greet the great statues of heroes and villians that abound in the huge central park. We stop and stroke the beautiful sculpture of a stone elephant, rubbed smooth by more than 60 years of sliding. We walk down the Original ‘Yellow Brick Road’ and admire the Yello Brick Palace built for the King. We land up at ‘The Wrong Bar’ for a mixed grill to beat all mixed grills and tumble onto Mitko’s couch at pumpkin hour.
Exhausted and delighted. Bulgaria, the worst and the best of days all rolled into one. And how has being part of the EU changed Bulgaria? AWESOME, says Mitko. A whole new world awaits this generation and they’re keen to grab it with both hands. GOOD LUCK, we say. If being part of the EU keeps the Peace, then it’s the right way to go.

Macedonia - Almost
 

Macedonia-Almost
DAY 24

A delicious traditional breakfast of Bulgarian soft-cheese-filled-pastry saw us out of Sofia. With Mitko’s advice and plotting on the map, we decided to go south down the hilly highway to a small turn-off which would take us West to the mountains bordering Macedonia. We are going to follow the trail of Alexander the Great (also Evil and Cruel). Macedonia (FYROM= Former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia) is not part of the EU. Their currency is the denar. We now have a money collection of Euro, Leva, Lira, and Dollar. We were told to follow the train line. It is unique in that the train line is narrow-gauge and climbs uphill to Bansko at 927m above sea level. Bansko is internationally known for its ski slopes, hosting the World Cup Alpine Ski races and Summer Biathlons. We ride the 174kms following the train track, as it disappears into a tunnel through the mountain , we ride around and meet up again. Higher and higher. There are random wanderers on the road, small bent people dressed in black, wearing headscarves. Where are they going? Everynow and then there would be a roadside stall selling honey and Bulgarian cheese. Where did they come from? We spot some old people sitting on a bench outside their garden walls resting their heads on forked walking sticks. Bulgaria is a land of contrasts in its people and geography. The four generations from great-grandparents to toddlers have all grown up in completely different political situations. Oldest people born into communism, youngest into the open market. The ones in the middle crossing between the two. Multiple generation gaps. We had arranged to stay in a ‘homestay’ and made it just before the rain came down. We treated ourselves to a Bulgarian dinner, complete with violinists and concertina, in a museum-like restaurant.
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I’m known for re-arranging furniture and true to form, re-arranged the guest room by pushing the twin beds together. After a good night’s sleep we went to the burglar-barred shop that the owners’ run to buy our picnic lunch. We noticed that a lot of passers-by were carrying baskets of food and heading down the steep hill. We ask why and the English speaking grandson translates for his Bulgarian parents by explaining that it is Remembrance Day. Every door in the village has a photocopy A4 paper with photos of family members, died but not forgotten.
We meet the 84 year- old great grandma and again lots of translating goes on. Just as we are about leave the old lady hands us a packet of doughnuts. It is her Remembrance Day Gift. We pose for photos with this delightful 3-generation family. What a pleasure to have been part of their lives for 24 hours, chatting and sharing. En route out of Bansko, we buy a packet of 100 little bank bags and with a felt tip pen sort out and mark all the different currencies into their own bags. The border post of Delchevo is 92 kms away through magnificent mountain passes, curving roads that bank and swing us from one glorious view to another. We stop at the top, eat our doughnuts and throw the crumbs into the wind, remembering our friends and family, died but not forgotten.

We get to the Macedonian border. Eezy, peezy, out of Bulgaria. We ride the bike through a hollow of muddy water (just like a sheep-dip) splayed legs held high and landed up at the border post.
Passports presented, white ‘green paper’ presented. A big nod of the head, No! We show the gmail. Another nod of the head, No!. A bit of a discussion with the chief and we are told that we can buy insurance for 55 euros. Not part of the EU, but they take Euros. We shake our heads, No! Bulgarians nod for No, we shake.
Back through the muddy sheep dip, passports scanned again into Bulgaria. This white ’green paper’ business is a bit of a problem. We find another route to Sofia, 155kms on the fast highway. The aim is to find a print shop that has green ink. We stop for coffee and spot a print shop. They don’t understand what we want and look at our smartphone/gmail request with horror. A very big head nod, No!
On the outskirts of Sofia, we find a Big Mac, pay for coffee in order to charge our phone’s flat battery and use their wi-fi. We phone Mitko who directs us to the nearest professional print shop. For 4 euros we get a very pale green paper print out. Oh, forget this, we can’t be bothered anymore. It’s getting late so we head for the original campsite that we found on the GARMIN on Day 22 , only 10 kms away on the other side of Sofia. It’s a big circular route around ¾ ‘s of Sofia and up north to the campsite. Sorry, closed. What now? The next nearest campsite is another 57kms across the border in Serbia. We go.
Serbia is not part of the EU, but has been a candidate since 2012. At the border, our passports are scanned, the white ‘green paper’ is barely glanced at. “Welcome”. They take euros. We arrive at the campsite as night falls, pitch tent and are surrounded by a gaggle of very inquisitive turkeys, peacocks and peahens and a goat. Supper was left over spaghetti dinner out of a glass jar. We sleep well.

We toured Macedonia- Almost!
What will Day 25 bring?

A dinner Date in Serbia : day 26
 

Thu, 21/12/2017 - 12:00
Open A Dinner Date in Serbia: Day 26 Country configuration options
We really do have too much stuff! The morning was spent repacking the bike, accompanied by curious peckings from peacocks and peahens. The notes in my tiny blackbook say “lose some stuff”. It was obviously so irrelevant that we cannot even remember what we turfed into the bin. This just goes to show how little we can survive on. With our bike now a bit lighter, more balanced and a bright blue sky overhead, we venture into Scary Serbia. We’ve read the news, watched TV and heard the stories. We’ve been warned off venturing south towards Kosovo *as there is still trouble there.

Serbia is an official candidate to join the European Union and has its own currency, the Serbian Dinar. The exchange rate means we need to divide any charges by 122 to work out the cost in euros. But they take Euros anyway.

This is a very lazy day, a bit of repacking, followed by chucking stuff away, then a sprint along the highway North towards Nis. We are in Serbia because we didn’t want to pay the 55euros demanded at the Macedonian border as our ‘white’ green paper was unacceptable. We are re-routing ourselves by cutting across the east corner of Serbia to get to Romania. Highways are useful for gaining distance, but ever so boring after a while. After 100kms from Leskovac to Aleksinac we are beckoned by the mountain range to the right. A quick glance at our tiny mapshows us there is a border post over the Danube River at Drobeta-Turnu-Severin which will be perfect access to the Transalpina Way* (Transalpina Road. ) Big roads and wide curves in a stunning mountain pass add to that lazy day carefree feeling. Our late start meant we had only left the campsite just before noon, and now mid-afternoon tummies are rumbling for that lunchtime jar of cold left over spaghetti supper. We spot a simple block building with a pepsi-cola flag waving in the breeze and thinking it may be a café of sorts, pull in for some coffee to have with our left-overs. There’s a lovely grassy bank overlooking the bluest of lakes, with boats and fisherman way down in the valley. It’s not a restaurant, just a group of men and a young lad sitting around a table socialising with a grill and fire nearby. We park up, dismount and stroll over, but after a bit of smiling and handwaving and recognising ‘privat, privat’, we conclude it is a private party. Never mind. We unpack our camp chairs on the grassy bank to enjoy the view even more and sit and relax in the sun. The warm sun and beautiful view helped the cold left-over spaghetti and bread rolls go down, accompanied by the delicious BBQ smells from our neighbours’ fire wafting over us.

The sociable chef of the BBQ strolled over to us bearing some of the delicious smelling sausage look-alikes, all crispy and crunchy and a bit like porkcrackling. They are ‘vet derms’ ( pronounced fet derrems in Afrikaans), which are the cleaned and edible large intestine of sheep or goat. We enjoyed the crispy, hot crunchy texture and juicy taste, even though they were rather fatty. We thanked our new friend and showed our appreciation for his generous offering by guzzling the lot. He was clearly enjoying this interaction with foreigners and strolled over again with a green bottle of clear liquid. “Rakija, Rakija, drink, drink.” We thrust our tumblers forward and he splashed a generous amount in. With an alcohol percentage of 45%-60% we graciously declined seconds. It was good! Mellowed even more by the hot sun, hot throats and very warm glow inside, we reluctantly packed up and set off on the bike to find a campsite. The combination of sun and ‘witblitz’ had done its best to lower our already lazy energy levels and concentration, so when we saw the Grand Hotel in Sokobanja we decided to call it a day.

The duty manager spoke excellent English and was really keen to have us stay in his hotel. Ever mindful that our bike is the most precious thing we have, before we agreed to stay, we asked about off-street parking. “No problem, you can park the bike in the lounge. And you can have a special price tonight, with Dinner, Bed and Breakfast for 34 euros”. Our budget is 50 Euros per day so we reckoned that this was an OK price. A room on the top floor with fabulous mountain views helped our pre-dinner snooze. How can a mere 220 kms be so exhausting?

It’s so nice to get out of bike gear, put on make-up and wear pretty clothes. B even got smarted up. We’re going on a dinner date in Serbia. How exciting.

The large foyer was empty, except for our bike, and the large banquet hall was empty, save for a few tables. We eventually find the dining room on the second floor, which is filled with long, long tables laid with tin plates and tin mugs. We are guided past these to a vast outside terrace, equally sparsely decorated with five tables and some geraniums potplants, with a backdrop of pine trees, mountain peaks and more than 300 children organised into groups, singing and dancing. Had we gate-crashed a children’s camp? The children duly filed in to their places alongside the tin plates and mugs, the terrace doors were closed and we heard not-a-peep. Alone on the terrace, we waited for something to happen. A waiter, perhaps? And then the friendly manager arrived. He is the waiter. “We’ll have two beers, and make it three if you come and join us, please”

He did.

We asked him about the children? city kids on a compulsory country camp for one week.

We asked him about the changes since the war? very difficult, business , trading , marketing and service industry a new concept.

We asked him about his grown-up children? living in the cities, all leaving the country to find jobs and go to university.

We asked him about the European Union? to join would be good.

We asked him about life in Serbia in general? hard and poor.

It was an insightful conversation, adding to our knowledge and our curiosity about Eastern Europe, and in the light of Brexit, the purpose of our trip. Hopefully it costs less to pay for peace than war and with peace comes development and growth.

Our dinner date was enhanced by a single plate of hot spaghetti, topped with tomato sauce and a bread roll.

for photos please see 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

*Various excerpts from Wikipaedia

The Kosovo War lasted just over one year in 1998-1999, aided by NATO (air support) and the Albanian army on the ground. The Yugoslav and Serb forces caused the displacement of more than one million Kosovo Albanians. In 2008, the republic of Kosovo declared their independence from Serbia, a move which Serbia rejects. International intermediaries dealt with any communications between Serbia and Kosovo and since 2011, an EU team have encouraged meetings of the presidents of Kosovo and Serbia. Agreements and deals on various areas such as freedom of movement, regional representation and so forth have been reached culminating in the two presidents sitting at the same table at an historic meeting in 2013. More agreements were reached in 2015, ensuring representation for ethnic-Serbs in Kosovo, but not necessarily recognising the independence of Kosovo and the chance to join UN agencies. In 2017, both Serbia and Kosovo mobilized their military forces along the K-S border

Serbia, A Day of Surprises (Day 27-5th June 2017)
 

Serbia: A Day of Surprises. (Day 27 - June 5th 2017)
Our very dated 60’s room-en-suite was situated on the 4th floor in the top left corner of this vast empty hotel, apart from the 300 children whose presence we never heard. It took ages to pack up and get our luggage into the intriguing lift that had 3 metal panels and an open grilled front, jamming doors with feet and taking two trips to reach the bike. Breakfast was a dreary affair on the empty terrace, only this time there were two waiters and a big trolley carrying metal urns. We were offered tea or coffee. B asked for black coffee. Big mistake. The coffee urn was already pre-filled with milky sugary mixture. It took a long time to get a tiny cup of black sludge and surprise, surprise; it came with a separate till slip for about 50 cents. Obviously not part of the set breakfast menu, which consisted of egg and sausage. Well, the sausage was another surprise. We couldn’t cut them! Our knives kept sliding off the skin which actually was a soft plastic tube. Once we’d pierced it with our forks and peeled the front bit off we squeezed the sausage out like toothpaste. Filling up on lots of bread and jam seemed a good option before we headed off to the reception and our bike. At reception the message of the deal offered by the manager the night before hadn’t been passed on, so we were presented with a bill for 60.50 euros. Now that’s a surprise! B showed the receptionist the piece of paper with the all-inclusive quote (except for 3 beers) and insisted that the manager be contacted. Communication became a bit complicated as neither side spoke each other’s language. Eventually the English speaking manager/waiter from yesterday was traced and the computer system almost crashed with all the tut-tutting and button pushing to change the bill. With full tummies and empty pockets B rode out of the foyer much to the surprise of the parents coming to fetch their kids.
We’re on our way to the Romanian border, 197kms away. We spot an interesting sign and follow the country road to the “Roman Palace of Galerius”, UNESCO Heritage site. The 3 euro entrance fee was well worth it as we wandered around in the sun admiring the 2000 year old construction and mosaics. The entrance ticket extended to the museum in Zajecar, which was again a different and surprising experience. Zajecar is a bustling modern market town and we enjoyed people watching as we took it in turns to stay with the bike/ go into the museum. There was a mix of some rough down-and-out looking people and also some very elegant ladies in long dresses. The museum itself was actually a building with a long central passage and lots of brown closed doors. Peering into the one and only open door, I waved my ticket at the lady behind the computer. Pleasantly enough, she came out and proceeded to escort me in and out of all the doors showing me what was in each one and waiting while I photographed and admired and appreciated the artefacts. This took rather a long time so I declined to go upstairs and instead went to relieve B from his motorcycle watchpost. He went through the same process and went upstairs. I had a very long time to bike and people watch, standing next to the bike in the rising heat of the day. It was very interesting to wander a short way from the bike, rest in the shade and watch the passers’ by and their curiosity. Fortunately no-one got close enough to put my hollering skills to the test. It was a lovely warm afternoon’s ride to the border post and we were thankfully waved on past the rows and rows of cars and buses and huge trucks. The Danube River separates Serbia from Romania, although in Galerius’s day it was all one big Roman Route for the Emperors and wine production.
We are now in Romania and it’s a short beautiful ride through the mountains to Camping Hercules in Mehadia. We arrive at 5pm to be met by a lovely German proprietor and his wife, where we are shown to a patch of lawn next to a sparkling clean 3 metre square swimming pool. Quick as a flash the tent was pitched and cozzie was on and I was in. Within 30 minutes 5 campervans and a couple on bicycles had pulled in and set up camp. Popular place, this. To offset the rather meagre breakfast and lack of lunch we treated ourselves to dinner with wine and the biggest tastiest most delicious Goulash ever. What a surprise.
For Photos please go to HU TravelStories or 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Romania, S-bends and Bears. (Day 28, June 6th 2017)
 

A hot and sunny 7am saw us refreshed and revigorated after a swim, supper and a good sleep. Our sociable campervan neighbours brought us boiling water for coffee and in return we entertained them by squashing, rolling, shoving and strapping all our stuff back on the bike. By 9am we were ready to go. Our neighbours just closed their doors, turned the key and the campsite was cleared. We continue up and up into the hills, riding past rows of parked cars and people wandering along the pass in their swimming costumes and draped in towels. Picnic tables were laid out with breakfast breads and coffee, and some card playing activities, tucked in between the parked cars. It was all a bit strange until we noticed the steam coming from the bubbling brook. How lovely, these early morning risers were enjoying natural thermal swimming. That explains the popularity and multitude of campervans.
The back road (7D) to Targu-Jiu got increasingly bumpy, quick reflexes on the part of a large billy goat avoided a collision as he leapt out of our way up onto a rocky outcrop. That’s a reminder to go wide and slow on tight right blind corners. No mirrors here.
We took the 67 out of town and approached the 67C with excitement. Known as the TransAlpina Way, it is listed as a dangerous road, with its companion road the TransFageren(7C). We were advised to go UP the 67C and DOWN the 7C. News on the motorcycle grapevine came to us that the 7C was closed to motorbikes because of snow - in mid June! And so we started this incredible climb, sharp S-bends that went up and down and back on themselves still ever going UP. It was both sunny and misty and we were followed and overtaken by motorbikes in all directions. A bikers’ dream ride.
Transalpina Road
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transalpina_(DN67C)
Through the tight hairpin bends, the front end of the Sertao felt as if the stantion clamp bolts were loose, causing some flexing. We checked the bolts, but they were tight. The problem appeared to be a combination of :
• the steepness and tightness of the bends.
• the 21” front wheel
• a normal standard outdated trailbike front end, which BMW stupidly fitted to the Sertao, a road-touring bike.
Previously, we owned an HP2, that came with two sets of wheels: 19” for road use and 21” for dirt riding. B realized that he had experienced similar road holding problems on the HP2, with the 21” wheels, on slow corners on tight mountain passes. This triggered an idea for a modification when we return home. We have since swopped the front ends of our BMW X-country and the Sertao. The result is that the Sertao has now got a set of upside-down forks, 19” front wheel, curing the roadholding problem. Considering that we had an HP2 for 3 years, B found the handling of the Sertao to be a big disappointment on these tight passes. Now the Sertao handles just like the HP2. Strangely enough the X-country with its new 21” front wheel has become more fun off-road.
We met donkeys and cows and a friendly sheep dog joined us for lunch . By mid afternoon we found an abandoned campsite, opposite a rustic restaurant serving Borsch . “No problem, you can camp in our meadow by the river.” For a nominal charge of 5 euros we set up camp by the river, tied our tarp onto a handy concrete culvert, tucking the tent and bike underneath. “ Lookout for bears and wolves”, the friendly owner called as we settled down for the night. Our midnight pee-stops must have helped because we didn’t see any. Or perhaps it was the torrential rain and howling winds that kept them away.

For images please go to HU travelstories or 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Romania, Vampires and Red Roses. Day 29 – 33
 

Romania, Vampires and Red Roses. Day 29 – 33
The rain kept us in our sleeping bags till 10am. When the sun emerged we gave it an hour to dry our tarp and tent, chatted to a bike one-week-tour group from Israel, before setting off along the valley road.
In the slightly run down town of Bresoi we bought coffee and cake. The apartment blocks were tall, dull and scruffy, in contrast to the brightly coloured swirling skirts and tight red belts of the smartly dressed young mums pushing prams. We let some kids sit on the bike for fun and even though we were a bit anxious about getting swamped and feeling the effects of many light-fingers, everything was in its place when we left. The very bumpy road took us passed farmlands, and villages before popping out on a congested main road with bumper-to-bumper trucks. At the fuel stop we somehow got caught up in a group of 17 big-bike bikers. The congestion was caused by road works and unmanned traffic lights, and preparation for the laying down of new tarmac, which the bikers ignored. They charged down the wrong side of the road, overtaking the queues and down the no entry side. We followed.
The rainclouds were continually threatening to drop their load and we found the aptly named ‘Vampire Camping’ near to Dracula’s Castle in Bran. Thor danced and partied all night and in between the raindrops we packed up , having looked at the radar map and thought we could chance it to go further East. We rode past Dracula’s castle, took some wet blurry photos and 20kms later we gave up and settled in a guest room in Brasov. Wet bike gear can fill a room very quickly and we used every available hanger, chair, door and knob to drape the soggy bits on. In civvies, we wandered around the rather charming town looking for a sticker to adorn the aluminium panniers. The buildings are from a bygone era, all twirls and decorated, in varying shades of pastels. We bought a sticker, some delicious sweet cinnamon cookies, visited an art gallery and concluded that we had really enjoyed our ‘tourist’ day. The room set us back 26 euros and as our kit was all dry in the morning, it was only a one night stay.
Accuweather radar was still showing rain in the east which is where we wanted to go to the Danube Delta. It seemed as if the rain clouds had got trapped in the crescent shape of the Carpathian Range. Our plans cannot really be fixed on a bike riding tour, so we carried on riding north where the clearer weather was. Brasov to Sighisoara to Targu Mures, where we came upon huge open cast mines and trucks bearing loads and loads of grassy topsoil. The back roads are the best and we passed sheep, castles and an enticing short-cut narrow wooden bridge, which B just had to ride over. Unfortunately the ramp up one side only led to steps down the other side. Turning was impossible on the narrow tow path alongside the canal without unloading first. I left him to it and wandered into a Romanian Gypsy village to look for lunch at the local market that was taking place. A stand playing rather jolly ‘squash-box’ music from a tape recorder in the back of the van, had a fire grill going with some of the traditional mincemeat sausages. They looked a bit too raw for me , so I demonstrated that if he cooked them some more I would be back in 5 minutes. I did get strange looks, a girl on her own, walking around town in bike gear with helmet but no bike. By the time I found B he had turned the bike around and together we re-loaded , rode back over the bridge and found the proper road into town. Our sausages were ready and were perfectly cooked.
By mid-afternoon it was so hot we needed to strip off our raingear. The road to Faget Camping near Cluj-Napoca was pot-holed and busy with overtaking over solid white lines. We arrived at Faget Camping and were not the only ones who had stripped. The campsite was bare, neglected and overgrown. Riding casually around the site, we came across the naked drunk caretaker, who scurried inside his cabin, emerging a few minutes later pulling up his pants. Half-naked, he directed us to Vila Gaby, a ‘pensione’ down the road. Somehow when we arrived she was on the phone taking a call from him and was expecting us. Vila Gaby usually took guests in camping cars or ones who preferred to stay in their ‘pensione’. The lovely lady apologetically offered us a patch of lawn between driveway and summer cabin. We were delighted to camp there for 5 euros, free laundry and use of the kitchen and a chance to service the bike. In fact it was so good we stayed for 2 nights. The bike got its chain adjusted, the front tyre balanced and the oil checked. This delightful husband and wife team have a beautiful garden filled with roses and gnomes and a little bridge for their husky dog to play in.
We took the next day off from touring, catching a taxi into the large super modern city of Cluj-Napoca where we had a soup lunch in a restaurant called ‘Souper’.There was a restricted clever menu of three different soups at a reasonable price, standing or sitting, and cool music. It was fabulous. A quick trip in the afternoon by bike to an out-of-town centre to Lidl and Decathlon completed a very restful day.
We turfed out more shorts, T-shirts and socks before loading up and setting off East, the next day. Weather clearing made all the difference as we rode through gypsy villages enjoying the sunshine and warmth. We have reloaded the bike with more weight distribution towards the front and extra stuff binned. It is Sunday and we noticed rather a lot of wedding parties taking place in these villages. This rural setting is glorious, passing brightly painted gypsy wagons parked in lay-bys and fields of meadows mix flowers. Old buses and trucks, having been converted, served as mobile bee-keeping colonies and the sweet fragrance of the Narcissus fields fills the air. That’s the great thing about being on a bike. You are in the air, the smells, the weather, and the sounds as you ride by and they are in you. We love it.
A very pretty town with a public park festooned with red roses everywhere enticed us to stop for a coffee break. Somehow we had landed up at a wedding celebration in this park. The beautiful bride and her handsome steed asked if they could pose on our bike for their photo album. We obliged. So somewhere in Romania, there is a wedding album with these photos. I wonder what their grandchildren will think? It’s a short ride along stunning scenery and shoddy roads to Comanesti where we find a campsite with a huge lawn, under a huge tree, accompanied by a huge table. Just the spot. In exchange for showing our passports we are offered a huge tumbler of ‘Balinka’ ( witblitz 40-60% alco) out of a JP Cheney bottle. We were lulled to sleep by the sounds of the traditional folk music beating out of the hall next door. Another wedding?
We get to the Danube Delta, catch the ferry which takes us along the Ukraine border, hop off on the Romanian side and ride to Murghiol to find Camping Dan Pescarul (Fisherman Dan) where we book in and set up camp before going for a lovely walk down to the wetlands. The mosquitoes in the long wet grass got hold of us and nearly stripped us bare so we dashed back to the sanctuary of the campsite and the dry, mowed lawn.
Its early to bed as we have booked a 6am sunrise boat ride with Fisherman Dan through the Delta. How exciting. See you tomorrow.
Images on HU Travel Stories and 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Romania, Bulgaria, Romania, Bulgaria and Romania: “When I’m 64” days 34 -39
 

With the sweet cakes we purchased in Brasov through a glass window cubby-hole , we were safe in the knowledge we had a bit of padkos (road food). An early start led us away in glorious sunshine down a 2 lane highway with hard shoulders, where alarmingly all 4 lanes were used. This highway soon gave way to a ‘bucking-bronco’ back road, which is not so comfortable but far more interesting. The ladies in the towns wore full length traditional swishy-swirling skirts and scarves, not for the tourist, just their normal day wear. It was like riding backwards through 100years. The fields are full of labourers wielding their scythes, and horses and carts carrying mountains of hay. Looking to the other side of the road we see a different timeline where there are fields and fields of oil derricks. The road takes us through villages and we note that the houses are fenced in with high corrugated iron fences, with beautifully carved wooden gates and arches. Outside each house there is a bench, mostly occupied by elderly people, watching the world go by. There is usually a working water well with chain and bucket alongside. We assume there is no water mains only well-water. We stop at a bus shelter for shade and lunch and chat to a waiting passenger. This delightful Romanian girl of about 25years spoke at least 6 languages and had come home to be with her new baby and parents, while her husband stayed in Paris to earn a living. It’s a poor part of Romania, despite the oil industry. The country side soon gives way to delicious smelling and stunningly bright purple lavender fields.
Romania is part of the EU, uses the Leu as their currency, with an exchange rate of 4.6 leu to 1 euro. We are averaging at this point about 250kms per day, with fuel costing 8-10 euros. The camping is about 10 euros and food about 10 euros, we are well within our budget, which we have set at max 50 euros per day. We can afford the 2 euro ferry across to the Danube Delta, and to our surprise and mild panic don’t land up in the Ukraine, but dock on the Romanian side. Ahead of our budget we agree to splash out on the 50 euro charge for a river ride in the morning.
We find Captain Dan and his charming family- run campsite, pitch tent and after a mosquito bitten evening stroll cuddle up and sleep early, because it’s a 5.30 am start. We creep out of our tent so as not to disturb the other campers of which the lovely French couple from Poitiers in their amazing Mercedes4x4 super-duper G-class all singing dancing, bells and whistles, with a custom body, Paris-Dakar dessert touring over lander mods, lent us their binoculars. We had been advised to dress very warmly and quite right too, it was chilly on the water as we watched the sun rise. We have a magical 3 hours on the Delta in a little boat with Dan, he speaks no English, and we speak no Romanian. It’s just a map, pointing, silence and the wildlife. Let the photos do the talking.
We return by 9am and creep back into the tent to carry on sleeping. “Was that a dream? Or did we just go on the Delta?” We ask ourselves when we emerge refreshed at noon. We have a jolly evening with our new French friends around a fire and sizzling sausages. That night brings huge rumblings, cracking thunder and blitzing lightening, but the rain passed over. We plan a route to Constanta along the western edge of the Black Sea, then inland again so that we can tick the capital Bucharest off our list. The sandy cliffs are full of holes and we watch multi-coloured Bee-Eaters dart in and out, impossible to capture on camera so there are a lot of photos of holes. We feel fulfilled with our wildlife stopover and use up the last of our Leu on a huge mixed grill for two, 11 euros.
Still in Romania, we get to the Black Sea, ride through Constanta and it is decidedly Soviet-era like. Grey. The harbour was littered with rusty horrible bits of iron, AKA Soviet war ships. The 1st campsite is so steep not even a 4 x 4 could make it , the grass was overgrown and brambling, and the old furniture around the reception was a bit- off-putting. No thanks. The 2nd campsite was also past its sell-by-date and greeting by a ferocious horse-sized dog barking and straining at the chain ready to gobble visitors up was a bit off-putting. No thanks. Riding South down the edge of the Black Sea we stop for fuel and ask about camping.
“Only in Bulgaria” is the reply. So we cross the border, ride on to Varna and another 50kms more to a place called Kamchia. An odd bygone era regulatory campsite on the Black Sea, with magnificent Leisure facilities for organised School trips but not sure about ‘Free-Lance’ campers. As the rain comes down we drive up into an abandoned site full of little turquoise cabins. A friendly man nods , closes the gate and, “yes, we can camp. Here is the key to one of the cabins to use the shower and toilet. 5 euros please”. We don’t see him again. We leave the key in the door when we ride off in the morning. We get badly bitten around our ankles by invisible sand fleas and the storm crescendo’d with the tarp poles falling down in the middle of the night. As we are the only campers it didn’t matter that B lashed the ropes down to the ground and made us safe again in his birthday suit. At least there were no wet clothes to dry. It was our most dramatic, ghostly weird sort of camping place.
We take the highway North West up to Bucharest, still on the Bulgarian side until we get toTatakran where the border ferry is no longer running and ride along the Danube River/border to Ruse.
Crossing back into Romania, it’s a short ride into the Capital Bucharest, where very conveniently there is a city-centre luxurious campsite and we catch up with Dutch friends we met at Captain Dan. They had all driven directly to Bucharest in their campervans; we took the Round Way round. There was a lovely assortment of travellers and we included a chap from Korea, on his way home from London on a Honda XR 250 cc , a UK couple from Whitby on a BMW 1200, and a flamboyant Italian with a Colombian gap-year student in their campervan. What a jolly bunch.
Our next destination is Belgrade, Capital of Serbia. We set the GPS and after riding around Bucharest, stopping for lunch at a café, where the bike gets photographed by a passing journalist, we seek out the infamous palace of a thousand rooms. And there the bike stops. No go. I try and push the bike. Because the bike is a big single cylinder bike, it is not easy to push start, in fact almost impossible for a nearly 64yrs, 64kgs girl! Normal push- starting can be successful in 2nd gear, downhill, but as we are on the level, B chose 3rd , which means the engine can turn over without locking the back wheel, needing more speed. Help arrived in the form of a hefty young chap and it got fired up after a few metres. With engine running we searched for the nearest BMW dealer, fortunately only 4 kms away down the highway, back past the campsite! We keep missing the off ramp due to roadworks and crossroads, etc and 21kms later we park up outside BMW Service centre. They took the bike in for a Diagnostics Test, even though we told them it was the battery. After two hours and a bit of nagging at reception they told us that it was the battery and we need to buy a new one. But they did not have one in stock; it would take a week to arrive. B threw a wobbly, explaining that this was not the service he expected from BMW and he expected them to do something better, “Even if they had to take a battery out of a bike in the showroom”. They suddenly found a battery, but when he removed the old battery, he discovered that it was dry, devoid of liquid. The situation then developed that B asked for distilled water, of which they had none. Another wobbly was thrown. Somebody leapt on a spare bike and rushed off to buy one from somewhere. B filled the old battery with distilled water, re-connected all the bits and pieces and bingo, the bike fired up first time. At the Friday afternoon end- of-week-coffee-bar-smoke-filled –counter-team-brief, B had a few strong words to say to the BMW Bucharest Manager before we waved ourselves away with a cheery good-bye. Its 18h30 and we are 4 kms from the previous night’s campsite. A straight road south to another town named after Alexandra the Great, Alexandria, seems more appealing, so even in the face of very dark clouds we chance the 100kms and head off south west. Fortunately being almost mid-summer, 16th June, the days are just about at their longest and the light is good until beyond 22h30. We find a dodgy hotel in town, which we reject as there is only outside bike parking and then find a charming country hotel where the bike is securely locked in the maintenance man/security guard storeroom, up a ramp and under lock and key. B can sleep easy now. We had used up our last remaining leu for lunch on the Black Sea mixed grill, but handy Credit Card saved the day.
The radar shows a big purple band of destruction moving from west to east right where we are, but luckily the morning started clear and sunny until 11 am. We rode past a dry sandy ploughed field, where a large black piggy was clearly enjoying the warmth and was leaping and running with gay abandon. Perhaps he had just escaped the butcher? We cross out of Bulgaria, over the bridge into Romania, again, and find a hotel in Vidin as the rain comes down.
Tomorrow is my 64th birthday.

for photos please go to : H U Travel Stories or 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia.
 

We left Bucharest, capital of Romania, on Day 38 of our Travels. It has rained constantly, forcing us to give up on camping and stay in hotels. We’re on our way to Belgrade, capital of Serbia, dodging raindrops and thunderous black clouds. We get to Vidin, a town on the border where a slither of Bulgaria juts into Romania and Serbia. We’ve crossed the Danube 3 times to get here in this windswept, forgotten corner. Romania and Bulgaria are both countries of so many contrasts. There are beautiful mountains, delicious pastries and grills, friendly people, cosmopolitan vibrant cities and stunning roads, mixed in with desolation, poverty and pre-mechanisation farm labour practices. We travelled through 100 years in as many kilometres. And we’ll go back again someday because both countries are fascinating and enchanting.
We find a guest house that is willing to let us park the bike in their locked and gated driveway, giving us a chance to clean up, dry out and wander into town for a bite to eat. 6 euros gets us a delicious dinner and again in the morning 10euros buys us a delicious breakfast. We are 100kms away from the Serbian border, southwest of the Danube at Negotin, where we stop for coffee and croissants and a Sunday morning gathering of the locals, after a wet morning’s ride. It was so warm and cosy, that it was only a glimpse of a blue hole in the clouds that enticed us back onto the bike. The blue sky was just an illusion as the weather closed down even more into a misty blanket of gloom. The twisting deep valley road got more and more oppressive and by 4pm we weren’t happy bunnies, anymore. Our Navigator directs us to a no longer functioning guesthouse where the nice man over the garden wall directs us back 8kms to the small town of Kucevo, where we find a rather large expensive looking hotel, with blokes lounging around smoking, relaxing, drinking beer. A holiday mood abounds. Decidedly bedraggled and weary we trudge up the grand steps to be greeted by a cheerful chappie. “Do you have a room for the night and how much, please? ” we ask. “ Affirmative and 60 euros” he replies in perfect English. “Oh dear” we lament, “that’s too expensive for us, we are on a camping trip but the rain is a bit hard, too bad”. We hang around a bit keeping dry on their undercover patio, thinking about Plan B when Cheery Chap bounds up again. “We have a room for 20 euros in the old part of the hotel. Would that be alright? There is no bathroom, but you can use the facilities at the swimming pool.” “Perfect, thank you” while B is unloading and I am doing the paperwork , the cheerful guy notices my first name and bursts into song from the musical Hair*. He is so funny and fresh and enthusiastic it lifts our mood immediately, plus the mention of a pool. And what a pool! Olympic size! Heated! And all to ourselves! We park the bike in the secure area at the back of the hotel, find our way in again through the non-functioning kitchen, go for a swim and a splash and have a lovely time. Our friend recommends a grill in the best bar in town, underground in a cellar where there is more of the holiday and festive spirit and a delicious meal for 11euros. We’re beginning to like this place and this gem of a town in a deep gloomy valley.
We awake to blazing sunshine and it stays that way for the next 20 days. What a relief. This deep dark wet valley is now gorgeous. The greens are greener, the blues are bluer and all is well. Doom and gloom gives way to sunshine and smiles. What a turn around after 5 damp days. We thoroughly enjoy the next 140kms to Belgrade, stopping there for a delicious brunch as recommended by a chatty Austrian girl and her Serbian boyfriend. We watch busloads of silver-surfers emerge and play follow-my-leader as they scurry after the flag bearing guide. I leave B to go in search of a sticker, no luck, but am overwhelmed by the cosmopolitan air in this very modern European city. With leftovers from the Serbian grill the night before and some more padkos from the huge Belgrade breakfast ( these platefuls are massive) we complete the 300 kms from Belgrade into Hungary to a campsite site in Kiskoros in no time at all. We presume we are in Hungary, because that’s what it says on the map and the border posts, but our confusion is justified by all the Lidls, Aldis and Tescos at every crossroad. To make room for our shopping I hand our two oversize enamel tea/soup cups to a familiar looking beggar (just like the one outside Lidl here in our village in France) The campsite is not far away and a particularly buxom, blonde lady bounced over and poured us a welcome glass of home made red wine, exclaiming its virtues in mix of Italian, German and Spanish. We understood her perfectly and enjoyed the wine.
We start the next day with the rest of the German and Hungarian Campers by entering at ‘our own risk’ the muddy waters of the Thermal pool. We are allowed in for 20 minutes, on condition we are not pregnant and are over 14years of age. It is 38 degrees and every now and then farty-sulphur bubbles blow up from the murky depths. We feel like hippos wallowing at the waterhole and drift around slowly for about 12 minutes, and that’s enough. We put our bike gear on over our wet costumes which now act as cooling radiators as the air rushes past. Hungary seems to be full of trucks and highways and we come to an 8-leaf clover intersection where all the vehicles converge, drive around in convoluted loops and then disappear to all 4 points of the compass. I frantically tap B’s left/right shoulder and we make it through the turmoil and head off to Budapest, now just 140kms away.
Budapest is stunning. Wide avenues. Decorative roofs. A very modern city jostling with its historical and cultural roots. We stop under a tree to park, rest and regroup ourselves. Water is freely available from a spout in the pavement and icecream is sold by the weight. We ride through the tunnel up to the Old Town and the nice guard lets us into the ‘buses only’ area. He must be a biker. It’s a magical fairytale world at the top with turrets and castles and everything Walt Disney could dream of, fit for a Princess. We park up and I wander around taking photos and looking for a sticker. An American couple have introduced themselves and are chatting about the bike they hired for their tour around the capital cities. Us girls swop tips on how to pack and what to wear while the men share bike stories. My one pair of shoes and two t-shirts/shorts don’t quite match up to her ball gowns that are being flown from hotel to hotel. “Are you listening? B”. Actually we love what we do and they love what they do, so we have a laugh and say farewell.
We find a campsite at Lake Balaton after two failed attempts. The first one was too expensive, the second one occupied by dozy teenager-receptionists with faces in their phones and and the third one just perfect. Full of the glories of nature and a herb garden at the entrance for the campers’ consumption to enjoy and sprinkle on their BBQ’s. Our Czech neighbours wandered over with some home made ‘Apple Palinka’ (50% proof), which we enjoyed before going for an evening stroll along the lake’s edge. A swan with beady black eyes watched us and we watched a very dramatic bird swoop and scoop on the lake, repeatedly taking off and landing. At sunset its headlights came on and the sea plane/bird was piloted to roost by a man in a deck chair.
With the lake on our right we ride through Hungary, past pretty, pristine and pleasant villages and countryside. The lawns are mowed, not a blade out of place. No rubbish. Have the Stepford wives been here?. The sun is still shining so its next stop Zagreb, capital of Croatia. Blue trams and shiny metaltracks criss-cross the road and we play dodgems with the taxis, cop cars and pedestrians. We are in and out of Zagreb in a flash. We find a shopping complex to replenish the foodstore pannier and there’s also a Decathlon. Ever since we left home we have struggled without a rubber mallet. Tent ropes need pegs. Pegs need to go in the ground. All sorts of gound. Soft. Hard. Rocky. Sandy. Muddy. Ropes stretch and pegs bend. There hasn’t always been a rock or brick to use and the boots are usually still on our feet. We’ve tried to get on without one, but realise it is an essential piece of kit. We just need to find a lightweight one that still does the job. Decathlon has it. And also some triangular hardened aluminium pegs that don’t fold over and bend after a few whacks. All sorted, we find a suitable campsite on the edge of Zagreb to test our new purchases. Its out of Croatia and into Slovenia as still riding with the sunshine we decide to go to Ljublana, capital of Slovenia, for lunch.
Slovenia has historically been the crossroads of West Slavic, South Slavic, Germanic, Romance, and Hungarian languages and culture. It is part of the European Union and its currency is the euro. We didn’t know this at the time which was rather fortunate when we got to the Highway toll booth. The nice lady let us through without paying as it is cash only. We explained we hadn’t been to the ATM yet and didn’t have any Slovenian money. “Never mind”, she said as the barrier lifted to let us through. Slovenia continued the theme of fairyland, with 85 kms of stunning scenery and pointy red roofed castles high up on the peaks. The whole point of going into the capital city was to find an ATM to withdraw Slovenian money. There was nowhere to park and all zones are allocated for pedestrians and bicycles. We pretended we were both. I dismounted and waked in front of B, still on the bike, as we tried to be invisible down the high street. It didn’t work. The Police Patrol in their Playmobile look-alike dinky cars waved an index finger at us and basically said “scoot, now”. We find a Lidl out of the city centre, go to the cash machine and to our surprise it spews out Euros. This is when we realize we could have paid the cash only toll fee as we always have a few of those. Oops.
Different currencies and differing time zones have made this trip both interesting and bizarre. There is no time difference between Romania and Bulgaria, but one hour less in Serbia. There is plus one hour between Bulgaria and Turkey. Slovenia, Serbia and Hungary are on the same time zone. Greece is the same time as Turkey, but not Italy, Croatia or Bulgaria.
We cross from Slovenia back into Croatia, where we find an expensive tourist lumpy, bumpy campsite right on the sea, full of Italians. Apart from not knowing the time, we are confused again about the country. Nobody is where they should be and everybody is everywhere else!
It’s Day 45, Camp 41; we stop for an evening swim in the Adriatic Sea before bed and dream about spotty dogs and tomorrow’s adventure ride down the Dalmation Coast.

*Hair tells the story of the "tribe", a group of politically active, long-haired hippies of the "Age of Aquarius" living a bohemian life in New York City and fighting against conscription into the Vietnam War. Claude, his good friend Berger, their roommate Sheila and their friends struggle to balance their young lives, loves, and the sexual revolution with their rebellion against the war and their conservative parents and society.

photos on HU TravelStories and 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Good writing. I want to go to this part of the world soon.

8 days in Croatia: Day 45 - 52
 

Are we in Italy? No, we are in Croatia, it just seems very Italian. We start the morning with an early swim in the Adriatic Sea, and put our bike gear over our wet cozzies to give us a cool ride on this hot, hot day. We’re riding the 534kms Dalmatian coast from the campsite at Rijeka in the north all the way South to Dubrovnik (https://goo.gl/maps/nV7ingfscYC2).
It’s amazing. Sheer drops into the bluest of seas on our right and steep rocky mountains spotted with scrubland on our left. The road winds and twists, up and down, sometimes near the water, sometimes inland. We saw people randomly bobbing around in the sea, virtually at each curve of the road, over the low stone wall that separated road from sea. We whizz by, keeping cool and start looking for our own camper’s swimming paradise. We also saw a big break in the water a good distance away. As it appeared to travel with us we reckoned it was either a whale or some dolphins. Other turbulences that we saw from high vantage points were left behind as we rode, so we reckoned these may be underwater rocks. The Italian waitress at the lunch restaurant in Senj assured us there were no whales or dolphins in the bay. A little bit of research on t’internet told us otherwise. The lunch was a very expensive Spaghetti Cabonara at 30euros, almost a 3 days food budget. We need to rein in a bit and get back to basics on the food store front. I keep a daily record of all costs and we really are trying to stick to the smallest spend possible over this 2month adventure. We’ve roughly estimated 15 euros fuel, 15 euros food and 15 euros accommodation, rounding it up to 50 euros a day. So far, so good. I wandered around Senj, searching for a sticker, and found the seaside town to be very interesting. New constructions added to old and clearly a place that had been severely damaged in WW2.
We found our camping/swimming paradise at camp Sibuljina, where the bright alert friendly receptionist locked the office and personally escorted us to ‘the best site in the camp’. It certainly was! We could fall out of the tent into the sea. We travel with two pairs of shoes each, boots for riding and our trusted Keen Sandals for everything else. They are great for swimming as they help us float and keep nasty things from stabbing our soles. The shallow waters of this pebbled seaside were cluttered with large black sea urchins. Hopping carefully from pebble to pebble, we cross the danger zone and flop into the perfectly temperatured water. Our site faced the sea and the promenade, which encourage friendly folk to stop and chat, discuss bikes and what to see and where to go.
The next day’s ride was just as glorious, stopping for a swim and picnic on the island of Rogoznica. The coastline is stunning, the roads fabulous and very little traffic. Speed limits are a bit restrictive, being 70kms most of the way, but occasionally 90kms/hour. At one point on a straight stretch, which was 70kms hr, we had a big flashy car ‘pushing’ us, so B drifted to the right and let him overtake on the dotted line, no problem. Unfortunately for him there was a copcar in the layby out of sight around the corner who captured him with his radar. We rode on by steadily at 70kms/hr, feeling a bit bad that we had waved him on making it easy to overtake (and speed). Feeling thankful it wasn’t us we started to look for campsites, the first one too steep, second not near the sea, third one too expensive and the fourth one at Sutikla, just right. We keep our cozzies on all day, so it’s easy to park, pitch and swim. We join the throngs of ‘promenaders’ along the beach front and restaurant area before settling in for another cosy camp.
There is a 9kms stretch of land dividing north and south Croatia. It is where Bosnia-Herzegovina owns a bit of coastline. Talk goes that if we cannot get across on our bike, with our white ‘green paper’ we then may need to catch a boat that transports vehicles across this little break in the boundary. We’ve heard the queues are long and the guards are a bit moody. Taking no chances, and because the border post is 150kms away, and we have a site already booked a bit beyond Dubrovnik, a further 50kms, we want to be there before 10 am. This means a very early pack up and push-off at 5.30 am. It normally takes us one and half hours to get going so by 7am we are ready tackle Bos-Herz. None of the stories were true, we got smiling border guard, who just waved us through and we had a fabulous breakfast in Bos-Herz for 3Euros. Yes, they take euros, but are not part of the EU.
Re-entering Croatia was just as easy and we got to camp Kate way ahead of schedule, with enough time for a ride around the city of Dubrovnik and a pre-lunch beer and chips, followed by an afternoon swim and snooze. 24 years ago, when I moved from South Africa to the UK, I teamed up with a work colleague. We are still in touch and with the help of social media we have arranged to meet up in Dubrovnik square. Their ship-cruise schedule and our bike-cruise schedule have coincided by about 3hours. We have a wonderful hour celebrating our 24 year friendship over another beer and plate of chips, before their tour guide waves her flag and we say farewell.
Windy gusts blew the tarpaulin and poles down in the night, even though we are tucked into a bank of bushes. Guy ropes seem to stretch when wet, flap in the wind and then the pegs work their way loose. B improvised with a couple of bungees, which did the job as they give more flexibility whilst at the same time keeping the tension when the wind blows. We’re having a four day break from touring as more friends are arriving by plane from the UK this afternoon. These are friends from 37 years ago and for the past 6 years we have spent some part of the June holidays with them somewhere around Europe. We do the WALL in Dubrovnik city, have a sunset supper beach picnic and get shaken up by an earthquake registering 3.5! We swim and swim and walk and walk and talk and talk and laugh and laugh.
Day 51 dawns with thunder and lightning, but nevertheless we need to pack and go. Its June 29th and we have 5 days to get back to France to fetch our grandchildren for their annual holiday with Ouma and Oupa. We know it’s at least 750 kms to Trieste in north Italy, so another early set off at 7am. We feel confident about the Bos-Herz crossing and stop again at the cheap and tasty breakfast café. When we were there 4 days ago, B had taken out his stylo-pen that he uses to type with on his android phone. He had written a few messages/mails at breakfast, but when we got to Dubrovnik he could not find his pen. A finger-pen, being not so easy, makes this e-pen rather valuable and it is NEW, because he’d lost one in Thailand earlier in the year. They are not cheap to replace. The lovely breakfast lady remembered us and produced the pen, along with the breakfast. Whew!! B is so lucky. We take the coastline/ mountain road as far as Senj, where we find a charming camp site on the beach. More swimming, splashing and a presentation of Slivovitz by a German neighbour and his South African son-in-law both on 650’s ended a very pleasant 474km ride that day. We branched off onto the highway the next day and rode in appalling cross winds the 429 kms from Senj to Bologna in one go. But that’s another story https://goo.gl/maps/grEWzuffBh42

https://photos.google.com/u/1/album/...tmy_eptkVSnERw


photos on H U Travel stories and 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Brausch, for photos see: Horizons Unlimited - The HUBB - FAQ: Reading and Posting Messages

Bologna to Briancon, and our home: day 52- 56
 

We have a very important date with our family from South Africa, who by chance are also touring Europe. With lots of map and route-checking we calculate that our paths will cross in 4 days’ time at Briancon. As we have not seen each other for 6 years this is a mega-reunion and the timing is crucial.
Croatia is a long thin strip of land, with sea on the western edge and mountains in the middle. There is a highway that runs up the eastern edge bordering Bosnia-Herzegovina. We’ve had a fabulous time in Croatia and are now riding up this highway. The wind is pushing and buffeting us sideways and there is no protection. The various tunnels bring a bit of relief and we are more than happy when we reach the border post. To get to Italy from Croatia there is a section of Slovenia that needs to be crossed. All three countries are part of the European Union, so crossing should be a breeze. Well it wasn’t. If you travel from an EU country into another EU country, the ‘Borders Code’ provides EU states with a single set “of common rules, being committed to freedom of movement, avoiding disruption to travel and trade”. But, since a terrorist attack in France in November 2015, border checks are the new reality. So far in this journey we hadn’t really noticed any delays or difficulties. However, crossing in and out of Slovenia changed all this.
It’s a beautiful sunny Friday, June 30th, and the official start of the 10 week Summer Season of July and August. There are at least 40 bikers on tour, panniered up, and ready to hit the trail once they have crossed this stretch of land separating Italy in Central Europe from the route to Eastern Europe. Luckily we are going the other way. The cars and trucks are queuing and the bikers start to overtake and jump the queue in the Departure Lane. We are watching from the fairly sedate and minimalist Arrival Lane. We make friends with a chap in a fancy sportscar, who lets us into the shady part of the queue. The bikers on the other side are parked up in the blazing sun, engines idling and revving in turn as they creep forward. One decides he’s had enough and tries to jump the queue. Men get out of cars and wave fists, horns blow, and doors get flung open in the path of overtaking bikes. Luckily no-one was pushed off their bikes and as we rode past, having been stamped and processed, we will never know what happened. The road through Slovenia was single lane and full of trucks. Better to avoid that crossing in future.
We get to Trieste, climb a slow winding road to overlook the harbour city and take a moment to pause and reflect. As an 8 year old, in 1961, my family and I had caught the Lloyd Trestino SS Africa cruise liner from Trieste to Beira in Mozambique, through the Suez Canal and down the East Coast of Africa. A lot of life has happened since then, but it was good to take time out and remember the little girl that was. We make our way down the highway to Venice, still not sure of which route to take. The choices are
• the direct straight boring Venice-Verona-Milan-Turin-Briancon across the north Italian flatlands
• Or the interesting challenging complicated Venice-Bologna-la Spezia-Genoa-Savona-Cuneo-Briancon.
No prizes for guessing which route we chose. From Senj to Bologna, we rode 435kms in one day. After making our final route decision, we flashed past Venice and we found a super campsite on the outskirts of Bologna just in time for an afternoon swim, a 1 kms leg stretch walk to the bus stop and a lovely bus ride into town. The wine per glass in the city centre cost 7euros, but the food is free. What a great way to have aperitif and supper all in one go. 28 euros, 2 glasses of wine and unlimited antipasto (plural antipasti) each our thirst and hunger was satisfied. We caught the campsite shuttlebus home which dropped us almost outside our tent.
The route to La Spezia the next day took us past the home of the Ferraris in Maranello, and then up and down and over the magnificent Passa Radici and Passa Cerreto, with the medieval village of Fivizzano a secluded surprise. We came around one steep corner and were confronted by an ancient stone wall. Peering over the wall the cemetery was laid out on the other side. “Not far to go then if you don’t make it”, we laughed, (NOT). To all you bikers out there, these passes are a must. We had a rest in an old quarry site and watched as more bikes ventured up and over these crazy gorges. The Italians are world-renowned for being master road builders and these passes are testament to that.
We find a fishy place to eat in La Spezia, at a novel 5 euros per kilo, with as many mixes of antipasti as desired. We take the coast road to Savona, where the campsites have changed their prices as it is now 1st July and High Season. The average camp pitch has shot from 15euros to 30, so we need to get away from the coast. We head inland and find a campsite in Cuneo, still in Italy but nearly in France. Today we did 569kms, covering cities, mountains, coastal routes and back inland. B has clearly got his Enduro helmet on. Before settling in for the night we asked about the charges, being cautious about the change in prices between low and high season. B got the rather young receptionist to write it down and who also assured him that credit cards were accepted. We had a lovely evening with German biker companions, where the usual conversation about where, what, how and why was sprinkled with laughter and red wine.
Packed up and ready to go, we arrive at reception to find a new face, older and confused. “That fee on that piece of paper is WRONG. You must pay more!! And we don’t take cards. You must pay CASH!!” Not a nice start to the day. Leaving me as the ‘deposit’, B goes into town, finds an ATM, draws the cash and only pays what is written on the piece of paper from the night before. Before promising to report the manager to the police that he was employing his underage daughter as a receptionist, we are warned to never come to their campsite again. “We don’t want to, and arrivederci!!”.
Cuneo to Briancon is the almost final route for this story. A short 140 kms over the amazing Passe Magdalene, Col de Vars and Passe de Grande Alps, which takes nearly 6 hours. We are back in France and it feels like home. We find a campsite and with 2 minutes to spare meet my sister and family as they exit the roundabout. It’s hugs, kisses and tears all round. Home is where the heart is, even if we both live on opposite sides of the equator. The next day we do the final 230 kms over more mountains than we’ve ever imagined existed (check out the D1091)
We’ve finished our Eastern European motorcycle adventure ride and what a ride!
photos : see 2up2wheels.blogspot.com and HU Travelstories

Roundtrip to Norfolk, via Jersey
 

Our Eastern European tour was a great success. We tested the bike and ourselves for 2months and 15,000kms and are pleasantly surprised at the outcome. We can pitch a tent for 57 days. We can survive in rain and cold and heat. We can eat cold spaghetti out of a glass jar and we still love each other.
However, there are a few modifications to be made on the bike: the most pressing one being to install a Scott Oiler. B is meticulous about regularly oiling the chain at 100 kms intervals. When the bike is unloaded it’s an effort. When the bike is loaded it’s a BIG effort. “One, two three, heave” we call as we synchronise feet placements, arm movements and shoulder pushing. For our RTW (Round The World) trip, which is looming, this is not something we want to do. After a bit of research on the internet, a Scott Oiler is purchased, delivered and fitted. We plan to try this on our next adventure to Norfolk, via the Battle Flower Show in Jersey. We had struggled a bit on the steep uphill curves when tackling the mountain passes in Romania and Central Italy, so B put his action plan to swop front-ends of the X-Country and Sertao into place. To boost our finances we participated in the annual Bric-a-Brac that takes place in the rural French village where we live. The proceeds go into the RTW fund. It’s now the middle of August and we have a chance to test the modifications.
The 410kms ride on the highway to St.Malo was cold, wet and windy but ended in glorious sunshine at the ferry port. Whilst waiting for the ferry we dozed off in the warmth of the afternoon sun. We have pre-booked a campsite on the East side of Jersey island as the population swells during this grand event. It is held on the 2nd Thursday of August, having started in 1902 to celebrate the coronation of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra. The storms that challenged us on the French mainland riding to the ferry port continued during our stay in Jersey. Wearing full rain gear we circumnavigated one side of the island, spotting the WW2 bunkers and lighthouses and getting our bearings for parking the bike during the show. We ventured into cosy harbour cafes to sample traditional Jersey Ice Cream, Potatoes and Black Butter (Spicy Apple Preserve). The day of the Flower Show arrives and still in our hi-vis full suit rain gear we stand in the queue. We are approached by a rather frantic Marshall who mistakes us for part of the missing skydiving team. We assure him that motorbikes are our thing, not jumping out of planes. Coincidentally, he is also South African and takes the joke one step further by introducing us to fellow Marshalls as part of the sky diving team, who have now been found. The language of Jersey is a Jersey-Norman dialect with an unusual accent that has a strangely familiar South African twang. We checked with our new friend that he is indeed from SA and not a Jersey man.
The show was brilliant, full of colour, fun and noise. The marching bands led the flower-decked floats up and down the parade road for at least 2 hours. The sun came out for the show and the wind blew the storm clouds away. The three nights under tent had seen the tarp blow away and tear a bit, the challenge of a different tiny 2 man tent suffocating and cramped and the need for 100% waterproof panniers paramount. We are now narrowing down the specifications for our RTW.
• B needs a chair with a back, not a Tripod chair
• 3-man tent, imperative with vestibule
• Waterproof front panniers
• Waterproof liners for back sling overs
• A bigger platform over the back to double up as a table, with holes for cups
• More efficient lighting fuel for the petrol stove
• Repair my heated vest
• B needs bigger gloves
• Collapsible pots, kettle and plates
• Windshield for stove
• Lighter weight ground sheets.
After three days where we encountered all weathers, bar the snow, we continue the journey and catch the ferry to Poole. The bad weather continues, which is rather disappointing for mid-summer, so when we land at 19h30 we question whether we will make the 200kms journey to our friends near Gatwick before the storm breaks.
Well the decision is made for us. We stop at a café to top-up our UK sim card and I switch the Garmin Navigator on to add addresses and compare distances and routes. It drains the battery: the same battery that caused us so much trouble in Belgrade. We are now stuck in Poole late on a Friday night with a loaded motorbike and no power. “Push”, says B as he foots it down the level road and I do my best. Surprise, surprise, we are at sea level and there are no hills. We get further and further away from the café and then spot a slightly uphill driveway. No-body is at home and some very kind unknowing people have lent us their driveway. We push the bike up and with an almighty push back down the driveway, it starts. The relief is huge. A decision is made to re-route ourselves to family in Worcester, where we will tout the bike shops on Saturday morning and invest in a brand new battery. We set off in the dark, and complete the 250kms, arriving just past midnight to a warm, if not surprised welcome.
Battery purchased and fitted and after a few days catching up with our South African family, we set off again to do the 320kms cross country ride from Worcester to Norwich. This is another mega South African reunion with a week of partying and some shopping. We can tick chair, pots, plates and gloves off the ‘to buy’ list. We catch up with a fellow biker at a bike-show-in-a-field-pub. The homeward route takes us 300kms south to our friends near Gatwick, another ferry and home to our lovely rural French village home. The ferry arrives in Dieppe at 5am, again cold and very wet. What happened to the sun this summer? We know it is 540 kms to home, but having only semi-dozed on the carpeted floor overnight, by 8am we are getting tired and hungry. A quick boil-up of coffee at a laybye restored us for a few hours, but when we spotted a patch of grass bathed in sunshine next to a parking zone in the cropped wheat fields, we could not resist a zizz. Parking the bike on its centre stand, we hopped over the Armco barriers and flopped onto the grass, hitting the sack immediately, keeping our helmets on, which are perfect pillows.. About an hour later, we heard a very concerned voice “bonjour, bonjour” calling us. As soon as we responded with “ merci, je suis fatigue, je suis d’accord “, our rescuer nodded and departed. Such a kind act, the poor car owner had probably thought we’d been flung over the edge. Suitably refreshed the remaining few hours ride to home was pleasant enough, where we put the bike in doors, closed the shutters and went back to bed.
https://goo.gl/maps/1UFwxNfbpuA2
B is delighted with the front end modifications and I am delighted that the Scott Oiler has made me redundant.
Our sweet dreams take us to Thailand, on a flight booked for 6 week’s time. See you there.

Photos on 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

South America: The Stars are Aligned
 

“You’re never ready until you’re ready and then you’re still not ready”. Our heads are buzzing with this mantra as we try and get ready. The lists of ‘things to do’ seem to be endless and as we cross things off the top, more appear on the bottom. We’ve been preparing for this day for at least 11 years, and as my son says “he’s been hearing about it for 11 years”!
Normally our winter break is enjoyed riding our 200cc around Thailand, but this year we had gone to Thailand early, in October for our 3 month stint, expecting to return only in December to spend time with our family. Our fabulous trusty Tiger2 was in storage in Phuket, costing a small amount, not too much but enough to warrant it being moved to our family up north. We planned a roundtrip from Thailand, across east through Cambodia, then up north to Laos and back to the northeast in Isan country, where our extended family live. A family illness at home changed our plans and our trip in Thailand lasted 15 days. It was enough time to collect the bike, ride 4000kms north, build a sturdy 2x3m breezeblock garage on the side of the kitchen at Bamboozer INN, Ban Thon, Khon Kaen and fly back to France. Knowing that the bike is safe and secure for a good few years until we return was the start of getting the stars aligned.
The empty days between Xmas and New Year, when festivities are over, the holiday break is coming to an end, the French weather outside is foul and the question of what shall we do? and where shall we go? loomed. The tragedy that brought us home is prolonged and ongoing and we are powerless to help. In a mood of despair, we grasp on the long suppressed idea that now is the time to start our RTW. Retirement finances are just sufficient. Our sale of extraneous bric-a-brac has boosted the RTW fund. Family commitments are stable. Our health is good, at 64 years and 79 years. Our lock-up-and-go is ready to be locked-up-and-go’ed. We bought the much needed waterproof panniers and liners on our recent trip to Thailand. The bike has been modified to almost perfection. We have a family friend of more than 30 years willing to housesit for 9 months. More and more stars are aligning themselves.
What more is there to do?
Just GO.
The two weeks between the idea of going (29 December 2017) and the action of departing (12th January 2018) are filled with tiny details. We do lots of internet searches and purchases and hours of u-tube viewing of other Motorcycle Adventure Travels in South America, tips and hints of what to do, where to go and how to get there.
Cost Star: Emails are sent around the globe to shipping companies and agents. We chose James Cargo Services Limited to fly our bike to Buenos Aires and Dakarmotos to help us through customs the other end. Medical and travel insurance becomes quite an ordeal as we trawl through the internet looking at options. Being on the wrong side of 75 years, on a motorcycle and going for more than 3 months, we are considered a high risk. The costs are beyond our budget until our French Insurance man finds us the right product, at the right price, worldwide for one year, with the provision we return to France every 3months to ‘check-in’. That’s fine by us. James Cargo have assured us they have agents willing to store our bike while we do the return trip in between rides. Documents are scanned and sent to all parties concerned. The hotel in Buenos Aires is booked and paid for on our arrival night. We’ve set up direct debits and done a budget, reckoning about 60-90 euros per day maximum for food, fuel and accommodation. We meet up with our lovely English-speaking French Bank manager and tell her that the card will be showing up lots of purchases from far way places. She is so excited for us and it is beginning to dawn that the moment we have been rehearsing for is nearly upon us. The stage is almost set for opening night.
Sometimes we feel as if there are plots to stop us
• the printer cartridges need replacing
• the internet goes off for maintenance
• the shops are closed for inventory
• the stock is not available
• the nurse needs a prescription for the vaccinations
• the doctor is on holiday
• we need a week between vaccinations and the time to depart France is a few days away.
Medical Star: Vaccination requirements for South America include Meningitis, Typhoid, Diphtheria/Polio/Whooping cough, Yellow Fever with Certificate, Tetanus, Hep B & A, and Cholera. We check our Health Record Card to find there is a mish-mash of what we have and don’t have/need. We get the prescriptions from the doctor for some and the lovely nurse comes to the house and jabs us. I make an appointment with City Docs in the UK near the Airport for the missing ones in a week’s time. B gets a 6 month supply of his tablets. A kit bag with medical essentials is packed.
Bike Star: the Sertao gets stripped and serviced. We remove the back wheel, chain and sprocket. B thoroughly inspects the sprocket and turns it around before replacing it. The Michelin tyre still appears impressively new even though we bought it in Greece and it has done another 12000kms. We buy and fit a matching front tyre. He drains the radiator and spots flecks of oil in the water. The hunt is now on for a set of waterpump seals (on a Sunday, in rural France) - no chance. By Tuesday night they have been ordered, delivered and fitted. The front sprocket is badly worn on the splines. We raid the X-country and swop the front sprockets. The bike also has the front-end from the X-country, so it’s now a bit of a hybrid and is ready to GO. Our clever friend, who builds bikes, skilfully fits a stainless steel tool box between the engine and the front wheel and two platform-type extensions to the Alu panniers. The bike gets new oil and a new oil and air filter. The new battery is checked, no water needed. The Scott Oiler is primed and checked against the re-fitted chain. The headlights now sport an LED bulb and the spotlights we bought in Thailand are fitted. We fit extra brackets to the front box that projects over the front wheel (carrying spare parts) and remount the GPS bracket. B has fitted a ‘manual’ cruise control, which we tested and enjoyed on our trip to Jersey/Norfolk and back.
Gear Star: My heated vest gets a make-over. We sort out good thermals from rubbish ones. In the UK, where we have a week between delivering the bike and waiting for our plane, we buy a new visor, keeping the slightly scratched one as a spare. We waterproof our gaiters/spats with a double dose of spray and our dear friend in the UK gives our boots a good polish.
Security Star: Amazon and EBay must love us as we order a personal alarm, a disc brake alarm and a Targos Defcon cable alarm. We carry a hefty chain looped around the tank bag. We buy an ultralight weight bike cover and chunky bike lock. In the UK we research the SPOT TRACKER, which is duly purchased and connected. Various trips into the garden at 2⁰ reveal it can catch the GPS signal and send Spot tracking signals to the Page on the computer/smartphone. We set up family and friends as virtual watchdogs.
Camping Star: Berghaus gets an order for their ultralight 3 man-tent with vestibule. We weigh all our bedding and camping kit, knowing we must lose at least a few kilograms. The bedding bag weighs 9kg, we get it down to 7kg by losing pillows and those tiny aeroplane blankets courtesy of China Air. The camping kit weighs too much. We get rid of one chair, take off the BBQ grill, replace the traditional groundsheet with an ultralight one from Geertop, and the new tent is already 2 kgs lighter than the old one. We manage to shave a total of 5kgs off the camping and bedding weight from the Eastern European trip. We halve the amount of the clothes we pack, which removes another few kgs. In the UK we buy reflective adhesive tape to wrap around the black waterproof bags. We also hope to lose some personal kgs !!
Document Star: CHECK LIST: International Driving License, Passports, Bike Registration (Carte Gris) and Proof of Purchase, Health Cards, Travel Insurance paper, Air Ticket, Notebooks for Journal and Codes.
Electronic Star: CHECK LIST: Smartphone, Lapbook, Camera, GoPro, and now Spot are all ready to GO. The Helmet intercom is checked and charged, with charging cables reduced to the minimum. The Garmin is updated and a map of South America purchased and installed. Cigarette type charger.
Spares and Tools Star: CHECKLIST: Batteries for Spot and lamps. Spare microSD’s. Spectacles. Tyre lever. Tyre pump. Tyre pressure gauge. Jumper leads. Spanners. Scott oil. Duct tape. Syphon tube. Gasket cement. Bulbs. Puncture repair kit. Chain link master. Visor. Oil filter. A 17” inner tube that will work for the 17” back tyre and stretch for the 19” front one. Bolts, nuts, washes. Fuses.
Route Star: We land at Buenos Aires and aim South, and at some time aim North, with a zig-zag in the middle. That’s it. We land on the same day as the DAKAR RACE ends.
At last the list of checks and to do’s gets shorter. We say farewell to our fabulously supportive friends and on a sunny but chilly 6⁰ mid-morning, we ride out of the drive for the 500kms ride to the ferry at Dieppe. By 16h30 the temperature has dropped to 4⁰ and the nearer ferry port of Caen is calling. We buy an overnight ticket, hang around for a few hours in the cosy café and eventually board just before midnight. Their carpets are really soft and our good sleep was aided by a whisky-tasting promotion on board. A few phone calls to re-arrange our schedule brought us together with another wing of the family that we haven’t met up with for at least 6 years. The warm welcome, not to mention the delicious breakfast and supper, made us feel very special and cared for. Then from Bournemouth it was a short whippy ride in 5⁰ to Amersham where we have been spoilt from top to toe, while we gather our thoughts, have more injections, deliver the bike to James Cargo and complete the endless list.
B leaves ahead of me to test-track the SPOT in London. It works. I catch up a few days later and we train down to friends (the same ones who joined us in Croatia) near Gatwick. We have a very merry evening, followed by a very early start, last minute bits and pieces and then we get delivered to South Terminal. Not much to do now! Somehow all the stars are aligned and it’s time to go.
photos on 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Argentina: Land of birds, week one
 

Argentina: Land of Birds
We have found a suitable campsite and are taking a day off from riding to do washing and writing. We landed in Buenos Aires more than a week ago and have been riding for the last 5 days, completing about 2000 kms on our route to the North of Argentina.
Fortunately the flight was not full so we had an extra seat to stretch out on the DreamLiner Boeing from Madrid. I have developed a painful heel and find it difficult to walk, but we have organised a shuttle bus and pre-booked hotel, just 3 kms away from the airport. With a Sim card inserted and paid for from the Telcom depot we are set to communicate, wherever we are. We learn that the motorbike is still in Toronto, so the expectation to collect the bike is dashed and we have an extra day in Buenos Aires, which is 30kms away. Making full use of the free shuttle service, we go back to the airport the next morning and catch the local bus number 8 to take us ‘downtown’. We enjoyed the 3 hour ‘round the houses’ route, chatting to Ekna, who is touring around Argentina by bus with her 70 year old father from Mexico. We are also fascinated by the array of facial features, South American Indian, Mexican, Argentinian, Spanish and Western European. Buenos Aires is a city in the state of change. We find a tiny ancient church surrounded by construction and demolition and traffic. B A is clean and calm and the people very polite, with an air of relax and respect and lots of catholic icons. We also saw some mattress and plastic street homes and mothers with breastfeeding babies begging in the subways. It’s a bit sad when babies and children are exploited like that and our hearts hardened as we passed by, not sharing our pesos. Walking became increasingly painful and hobbling up and down the city streets began to affect my hip and back. We stopped at a chemist and bought some gel pads on the card, which involved a long complicated passport identification process. This is when we realized that having ready cash in Argentine Peso might be a problem. We found an HSBC, but the card only works in the ATM at a cost! We skyped HSBC in the UK and asked about this cost, they suggested we use the card as much as possible for purchases, not cash, to save some charges. There are no facilities to withdraw a lump sum at the counter. Even though we had a lot of dollars, they are not accepted, so we exchanged those, also at a cost! We get notification that the bike is now in Chile, off route and we need to stay another night. The hotel is full and the reception kindly phoned around to find us a room at ‘Ann’. We rested and read and looked at the map and the shuttle bus then took us to Ann. So far the bike has cost us two extra nights and a bit of anxiety, on the plus side my heel is getting a rest. We thought the charge for the simple room a bit extravagant, so when Ann indicated that we could help ourselves to tea/coffee and the selection of cakes and biscuits, we did. We also laughed when Ann asked if “I was a girl?” I replied, “yes” and B “is a boy”. My shaved head is growing a bit and I declined to explain the reasons for our matching hairdos. We have since found that in the heat of riding, a cropped head is perfectly cool and helmet hair is not a problem. We have been informed that the bike arrives tomorrow, 3 days later than anticipated.
As arranged, we meet J and S from Dakarmotos, who then inform us that the bike did actually arrive 2 days ago, but without any paperwork. The Air Canada system had gone down and no-body had really known where the bike was!! Always a good start for a year long motorcycle adventure, without a motorbike. Anyway, it all worked out , customs signed, sealed and bike delivered. On the afternoon of day 4, our riding adventure finally starts. The 70kms to the first campsite was very entertaining as we ride our way out of the city into the country. Car windows are opened and long friendly conversations in Spanish are directed at us, to which we nod, smile and point North. We discover that ‘hazard’ flashing lights mean that the vehicle is about to do something which is not really allowed, like pulling in/out or double parking or stopping/starting suddenly. The left turning traffic keeps to the right so that through traffic can go, but when the traffic lights turn red, then they can cut across your bows to turn left, because the left turn arrow is now green. We buy a detailed map and head for the town of Lobos, where the campsite is 20kms out of town at the Laguna. The gate-guy wants to charge us ½ a day because we arrived before 8pm, and then another full day because we are staying overnight and can stay until 8pm the next day. We explain we are leaving by 10 am and will wait outside the gate until 8pm tonight as we don’t want to pay for one and a half days. He changes his mind and offers, as a special favour, that we need only pay for one day, as long as we leave by 10am. All very complicated. He even suggests we can sell some of our belongings if we don’t have enough money. Astonishing, or what? We are very excited as we pitch camp for the first night of this trip and obviously so are the parakeets in the scraggly twig nest in the Bluegum trees above us. Fortunately they settle down with the sun and after a huge Argentine Steak which drips over the side of the plate (for £3) we settle down too. The campsite restaurant offers a breakfast of fruit, croissants, tea/coffee, cereal for £ 2 and as we have yet to go shopping we enjoy their services. On the table is a Tupperware of chopped leaves and a little yellow bowl with a metal straw. A teaspoon of sugar is ladled into the bottom of the bowl, then it is filled with this herby stuff and another teaspoon of sugar, then filled with boiling water. Not stirred and when cool enough sipped through the metal straw. Called ‘Yerba’, pronounced Sherba, it is a typical Arg drink. To our taste it is revolting, like drinking the dregs of a wet ashtray and cigarette stubs. One sip and I had a headache.
We pack up and move on before 10am, finding a road that is so straight, B can even ride ‘hands free’ on cruise control. We watch in amazement as we ride through this wonderland of wetlands and birds for over 200kms. Muchos Ranches Grandes, many huge ranchlands filled with cattle and horses, vast plains of green, green pastures interspersed with flocks of flamingos, ducks, black neck swans, moorhens, black ibis, egrets, herons, storks and more that we don’t even recognise. We ride through various towns which are laid out in a square grid pattern, alternating the traffic one way then the other with big dips at the intersection to act as a water run-off and traffic calming. It works. We kept looking both ways at every intersection until we discovered little arrows on poles which tell you the direction from which the traffic is coming. One road left, the next right and occasionally both ways. The houses here are cubes of brightly coloured bricks/mortar, only front door plus lintel high. They are clustered in blocks onto the street in the towns, but the more affluent Argentinians have a swimming pool in the front yard, still with a low possibly 2 to 3 cubed structure. The town centres around a square/plaza of grass, statues, playgrounds and benches which comes alive after 5pm when siesta time is over. The shops re-open, motorbikes buzz around and life begins again. We found another bank to try and draw a large amount, but even their ATM would not oblige. The very handsome bankman followed us onto the pavement and as a favour offered to personally exchange our dollars into Pesos. Many places do not take visa, so having cash is very necessary. Turning off the main road we enter the semi-industrial town of Teodelina, occupied by large ‘cereal’ factories. We stop at a bicycle shop and inquire about a campsite. 3 blocks straight, 2 blocks left, we pull into a sports centre with football field, shabby ablutions and concrete picnic tables. “ Are we staying for the music?” asks the man in Spanish, “no, just camping, for one night”. “Then it is free.” How lucky. As we are setting up camp and start offloading the bike, we are surrounded by friendly, chatty onlookers. Our Spanish is improving by the minute. Carmen bounces over, introduces herself with a kiss on the right cheek, sits down and tells us a long story, to which we nod and smile and we manage to communicate in a mix of English and Arg Spanish. The family next tent along offer to take B to the supermercado to buy provisions and the sweeping squad suddenly appeared and swept around our patch. We are toasting ourselves with a late sundowner when an entourage of people arrive, armed with phone-cameras and microphones and tripods. This is the town council, plus the Communal President (mayor, a young man of 28 in his first month of office). We are interviewed, photographed and presented with a flag of the town as their first ever foreign visitors. Astonishing. There are many farewells as we leave the next day, doing 450 kms along more straight roads, cattle and horses plains and wetlands from Teodelina to Vendo Tuerta to Rio Cuarto to Alcira. At one section we turned off the motorway ( double orange lines on the map) onto a short-cut side road ( thin green line on the map). We discovered that thin green map lines mean unpaved, no tarmac. We gave it a go, but when the gravel turned into deep sand, we released some air from the tyres, turned around and managed to get back to the ‘asphalt’, before finding a camp ground at La Cruz. This campground was absolutely bursting with people, cars, tents, caravans, plastic dwellings all alongside a beyond-huge swimming pool and waterfall built within the fast flowing river. It was an overwhelming jumble of habitation and we just keep riding for about one kms hoping to find an area of calm or a turn around point. Luckily at the end turn point there was a gate with a welcome sign for more camping. The whole family of four generations welcomed us and helped us find the perfect spot next to the chicken coop at the top of the garden to pitch our tent. The chicken kiep-kieped gently as we set up camp on the neatly cut flat patch of lawn. It’s always good to shower at the end of the day’s ride and this place offered hot water, heated by an external fire source, in a breezeblock hut. We chose wet-wipes. The grandfather proudly offered to cook some home-made chorizo for our burger bun supper to have with our tinned creamed sweetcorn and vegetable mix. Just like Boerwors, they were delicious. After family photos and google translate, thanking us for staying with them, we departed. The plains changed to hills as we approached Santa Rosa de Calamuchita, ignoring the sprinkle of rain as the temperature of 26⁰ and the wind dried us almost immediately. We stopped for lunch and an HSBC ATM in Cordoba opposite a church building, looking like a fairytale lego castle in ‘The Seven Colours’. We believe that the ‘Place of Seven colours ‘is up North and we hope to find it. Another long straight 90kms bound by green, green, green pastures that took us to Dean Funez, where we camped under the peppertrees and had a proper shower. The first since leaving Ann! Lining the routes are many manicured greens on dead level Golf Courses, watered from the heavens, something that Cape Town is in dire need of right now. We pass stalls displaying traditional clay pots, urns and ornaments, brightly painted in geometric designs. Argentina appears to be a land of sharp angles, even in their art and dancing. We are handed a brochure to ee a Tango show, but it’s not in the budget.
Sunday 28th January turned out to be a marathon day, partly because it was a Sunday and not much was open. Even the petrol stations in the towns were closed, so we back tracked to the motorway for fuel and provisions. The first station has run out of Super and with the fuel warning light on we just made it to the next one a few kms back down the road. Rule number one: if you see a fuel stop FILL UP. The distances between towns here are vast, more than 100kms, with nothing in between except cattle and horse, maize and sugar cane. Even though it looks very cloudy, with rain clouds ever present, we still ride North across the raised motorway surrounded this time by salt pans and mud flats. The bird life consists of buzzards and harriers and vultures-type birds-of-prey. The electricity poles support huge chaotic twig nests, with parakeets zooming around and also strange moss-balls/ staghorn fern growths. Beats us how the electricity works! We pass a random herd of goats wandering down the motorway, being shepherded by dogs, not people, which we only realise when one of the ‘goats’ barked at us to keep away. The salt /mud flats turn into thick dense shrubland, with thorny acacias (Elephant country in Africa). There is no such Big Five in Argentina. We get waved through a police check with the policeman/woman wearing their gorgeous shorts, in the middle of nowhere, 100kms each way from the next town, at a remote coffee place. We have a large black coffee accompanied by a basket of dry bread and the favourite caramel spread, yummy for the quivalet of £2. Since starting riding, over the last 5 days our budget has worked out at just under £50 per day, excluding the extra fiasco costs at the beginning. Reinvigorated by a sugar fix we tackle another shortcut over the hills ( indicated by a thin orange line on the map).We are assured that it is asphalt all the way, which it is until we get a bit lost in Icano and some mud. We turn around to find the sign behind us. This thin orange line emerges into a superpass for more than 100kms across the hills to Catamarca. The landscape is one of cactus, thorny swelling Baobab look-alikes, prickly pears and other spiky plants. We see aloes and something very similar to a suikerbos. We spot a black bird with a bright red head, possibly some kind of woodpecker. The higher we get, the mist turns into rain, so we stop and get suited up. Thank goodness we are now highly visible as the superpass get twistier and steeper, and we are riding through and above the clouds. Driving is respectful and we get many waves and phone camera videos from passing traffic/people leaning out of car windows. From the top of the pass we could see way down in the valley a big wide serendipitus brown river, spreading itself sideways. We made it into Catamarca city which was a great disappointment, dirty and full of litter. The Ministry of Waste Management seems to be on permanent holiday here. We cross a water causeway to get to the municipal campsite, which appears to have been washed away as there are great donga on the way in/out and the ‘banos’ is full of mud. We type supermercado into the Garmin and head out of town. Even the Supermercado has a head scratch and “ No” to paying with the Visa, so the cash is disappearing. A very chatty lady takes a phone photo of me guarding the bike and when she spots B in the shop, she proudly shows it to him! The Garmin says there is a campsite 60kms away, so we go up the motorway again, find a man on a scooter, who says, “ No Camping No”, we carry on to the next town, another 60kms away, “No Camping No”. By 8pm it is getting too late and we pull in to J.B. Albredi to re group ourselves. It has been a long 500kms day, and the waiter directs us to a hostal where we pay 660 pesos ( 25 pesos = £1) for the night and the bike gets locked in their garage.
We plan a short ride for day 6, starting with one of B’s famous salami and sliced banana rolls. He developed a cold from wandering around BA in the rain, and we were issued with some tablets including anti-biotica, from 3 large pharmacists after a bit of a conflab. A day off will do us both a chance to wash clothes, write stories and rest my still painful heel and his snotty chest. We type HSBC into the Garmin and ride the100kms to the beautiful city of Tucuman, where the ATM is not working. Coffee and croissants and a chat to a smiling lady in a fancy traditional embroidered blouse gets us going again onto the next HSBC. I take a ticket for Premier customers, wait my turn , go to the counter, show my passport and get denied access to a lumpsum. The nice bank lady, in English, gives me a long explanation, but the end result is we can only use the ATM to draw out a limited daily amount at a cost!!! Of £9 per £90 withdrawal!! Oh Well, we try and pay as much as possible on the card, at a lower rate, but even the fuel stops don’t have Card facilities. It’s not a problem yet, but something to keep us on our toes. Rule number two: See an ATM, draw cash. It’s an easy ride from Tucuman to Rosario de la Fronteria where we find out that there has been very heavy rains, wash aways and the mobile data is down. B finds a friendly immaculate academic ‘Shakespeare English Institute’ where we use their Wi-fi to search for campsites on Google maps. Out of the 6 listed, only one is open, the others closed or the road closed. We realise now that each town has a sports centre, within which is a camp area. It’s perfect and so for 60 pesos per night we pitch, make BBQ with more Arg steaks, meet other travellers and rest up for the day. It’s a whopping 33⁰ and the tarp is doing a good job providing shade while B has a mid afternoon snore/snooze. A bright green lizard pays me a visit also looking for shade. We are joining our fellow travellers (Arg couple in a Mercedes van, having driven from Alaska) to a special Goat BBQ tonight. B has bought 2 kilograms of Rump steak for £1.20 to add to the dinner. B went shopping this morning to seek out Methylated spirits for our Primus stove. He found some at the Farmacia and the pharmacist insisted it was free. We have been told about some thermal baths down the road so are going for a swim. The ride for a swim turned into a ride searching for Wi-Fi to upload this story. Apparently the Wi-fi and even mobile data is only available for WhatsApp. Google maps, google search, and Blogger are out of the question here.
The collection of people in the campsite include a young man on a fat-wheeled bicycle. He is travelling around Arg by bike and bus, supplementing his income by sharpening knives. He has connected a grinding stone to his handlebars and pedals the stationary bike to set it in motion. Bingo , a sharp knife. There is an aged Scout, identified by his striped scarf rolled and toggled. He is on a very old motorbike, carries his tucker around in an old wooden crate and boils the water for his Yerba in an old peach tin with a man-made shaped spout. The couple in the van are middle-aged, living near Ushaia, and have been travelling all over the Americas and Canada on various expeditions. They area mine of information and have promised to write some info for us. Two mid-30’s blokes strolled in carrying huge backpacks. They are hitching and walking around Arg for one month, carrying tent . One is a chemical Engineer, having played for rugby for the Pumsa, and the other a veterinary student. We swopped notes on the birds we had seen. And then there is us.
We are getting the hang of the language slowly. We know our numbers now. A Double LL is pronounced like J as in Jack. A single L is prounced like L in Lamb. A J is pronounced like gargling Ghhh, or a soft H and a Y like a U as in Up. The E is like the E in Egg.
When we find a strong Wi-Fi you will get this story.

for photos go to 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Argentina: Land of a Million Colours
 

Argentina: Land of a Million Colours

Our convivial BBQ came to an abrupt halt when the lightening started to flash in an ever decreasing circle around us. We had noticed the very tall lightning tower next to the campsite and had similarly wondered about the gridwork of metal lines and arches over the swimming pool, when we had an afternoon dip. Now we knew why. Securing the tarp over us and the bike, like a green shroud, we crept into our ‘cave’. We had purchased an ultralight bike cover for anti-theft/spying reasons, but it was beginning to be useful against the rain as well. It means we don’t have to unload the bike every night, just cover it and using the two massive eyelets, hook the chain through them and the front wheel. Once covered with the green tarp we become an almost invisible hump on the landscape. The deluge happened a few hours later, but we remained dry and cosy. In the morning we discovered the other tent-campers had given up and found refuge in the kick-boxing hall and we were indeed on a dry island surrounded by water and mud. A little doggie with a sore leg had crept under the tarp and taken refuge on our island of dryness. Even the basketball court was a lake. This fabulous outdoor complex comprises open air kickboxing, weightlifting, a running track, and outdoor keep fit circuit, a huge swimming pool, a handball court, volleyball pitch and football field, all on concrete slabs and fenced in, where appropriate. At 5pm it erupts with kids, parents and super keen trainees of all ages, carrying on up until midnight. The Argentinians seem to be sport mad. It’s run by the municipality and is part of the school program. The camp cost us 60 pesos per night (2.50 euros). Our little town in France should take note! By the time we finished washing the mud off the ground sheets, the lake had dried up on the courts and the kids were practising their skills again. We set off as soon as the sun came out, only to stop a few kms later to put our rainsuits on when the sun lost the battle with the rainclouds. At the next fuelstop, fed up with water trickling into my boots, I put on my Belstaff overboot gaiters, which had been sprayed with waterproofing stuff. B carried on without gaiters, which he later regretted. We have questioned ourselves a lot about what/what not to load on the bike and even though some stuff may be used very rarely, it makes for comfort in the long run. We continued for the rest of the day in rain and sun, stopping briefly to withdraw cash, buy provision for the next 2 meals and landed up at Humahuaca, 340 kms later. We had seen the church of Seven Colours, and had heard about the mountains of Seven colours and on the road to Humahuaca we found them. A short stop at the tourist bureau in JuJuy gave us the chance to pick up a local guide map, where we were informed that this mountain is best in the morning and the other best in the afternoon. We were riding in rain at the wrong time of the day for the best views, but nevertheless, we were astounded at the millions of coloured pigments the landscape had to offer. En route we noticed groups of young people hitching/waiting for a bus, with large backpacks , bed rolls and guitars strapped on. Humahuaca is a small ‘ancestral’ town, with many signs for hosteria and camping. A band of Gauchos, dressed as if in a movie with leather leggings, lassos and spiky spurs on the pointy boots, plus the big hat and scarf rode past up the dirt track as we entered the big gates of an advertised campsite. Well, a field really, with a large communal round table and logs to sit on, power points and concrete BBQ stands. We parked up, dismounted our metal horse and both staggered dizzily as if drunk. Feeling a bit weird, I looked at B who was also leaning a bit sideways and finding it hard to catch his breath. In the few hours it had taken to ride here, we had climbed over 2 kilometres in altitude to 3000m above sea level. Of course when you are sitting on a bike, being enchanted by the view, battling with a groove ridden road and dodging trucks, its not surprising we didn’t notice. Getting off the bike onto hard ground and trying to unpack and pitch camp, was a big effort. We acted like some slow-motion zombies. The youngsters at the big table called us over for tea and while we acclimatised, we swopped stories and found out that it was the long 10 week University holidays. Backpacking, playing guitars and thumbing lifts was the thing to do. After a very slow-cooked spaghetti dinner, we went to bed, before sunset as lying down was the easiest thing for us to do. The guitar playing and sing-a-long around the campfire lasted till the wee hours, as we drifted in and out of sleep. Feeling a bit better in the morning, we were up before the ‘kids’ and as cooking was rather an effort, decided to treat ourselves to lunch in town. A slow laboured stroll over the bridge bought us into the centre of this busy market town, where fresh veg and fruit and flowers (bunches of Gladioli) were being traded. We noticed a higher proportion of police than we would have expected in such a small town, directing traffic and intermingling with tourists and locals, almost directing them subtly apart. We had a delicious lunch of Llama stew (pronounced Jama) and still out breath wandered slowly back over the bridge for an afternoon kip. Supper was a jam sandwich, followed by an early night, accompanied by more guitar playing and singsong. The ‘kids’ are 20-25years old students studying Maths, Science, Marine Engineering, Drama and International Relations. They are delightful, interesting and interested in whether we had ever seen The Beatles as “ All Argentinians are mad about The Beatles.” On the third day of our stay in this fascinating little town, having walked and not ridden the bike at all, we felt strong enough to tackle a ride to an even higher altitude. With the traditional right cheek to right cheek one kiss, we said our farewells and took a very early walk into town for breakfast. Whilst sitting at the same place as the Llama stew lunch we noticed a bit of a flurry, the outside pavement chairs were brought inside, and a security guy came in to check the clients. The President of Argentina was in town, actually driving in a cavalcade of 4x4’s and mini-buses down the very road we were in. Hence the large police presence. As the cavalcade rode past, we noticed escorting trailbikes with rifle-bearing pillion bodyguards. We tried to spot the President, but left that to the locals and went back to pack up and set off North. Having learnt that fuel stops are far apart, we needed to fill up first. Impossible. All roads were barricaded, blocked and re-routed. We just couldn’t reach the two petrol stations in town until Mr President had finished his task, which was to re-inaugurate the railway line, defunct for more than 25 years, but now restored. Eventually we were given permission to pass over the railway line, down through the market, squeezing our bulky way through alarmed stall holders to find the once manned barriers now unmanned. All the roads in this town are cobbled and dirt roads, no tarmac. We wiggled through them as we knew that the Great Man was on the other side of town. By midday, after a planned 8am getaway, we getaway!


We punched Abra Pampa into Garmin, a mere 85kms away and another 500 metres up. The weather is sunny, blue skies and red mountains, dashed with splashes of green and pink and yellow. On the way to Abra Pampa, the joints in my fingers feel very heavy and stiff. When we dismount for a pee stop and watery drink, I notice B’s lips and the tip of nose is a bit purple/blue. We reckon its high enough and time to go back down. The aim was to get to the Bolivian border where the famous 6000km route 40 from top to bottom of Argentina starts. It’s out of the equation for us. So we turn around and go back the way we came, except that we see a gravel shortcut. The first 8kms was ok, although a bit too corrugated for my liking. Expressing myself in loud terms that I was not having fun, we stop for a chat. Some Llamas joined in by peering at us quizzically. “It’s only another 100kms” says B, let’s give it a go. The dry river beds had washed deep sand across the compacted dirt road. We go for about 10 seconds, hit a sand patch and fall over. And in front of the Llamas, too! We untangle our legs, slither out from the sandpit and try to lift the bike. It is way too heavy for both of us to lift, out of the deep sand, being out of breath and huffing and puffing. We strip the recumbent bike, bag by bag, until we can get it upright. B rides it back to stable ground and I trudge 4 trips of load while he packs it back on. We have to stop and rest every few minutes, for a task that is usually effortless. The 8kms back to the tarmac felt very long and was not pleasant. Back on the road, it was a wonderful ‘asphaldo’ ride, at the right time of day this time all the way back, passed Humahuaca, where Mr President was still busy, through more stunning scenery we had missed previously due to rain, into the tourist town of Tilcara. A good day’s ride of 200kms, with a variety of colours, shapes and adventures.

The tourist office was still open and offered us a hostel for 800 pesos, No way Jose. Reluctantly, she found us a private camping site inside a mud-walled enclosure for 160 pesos. We noticed that a few locals had lop-sided faces where big balls of stuff were being chewed and very bad teeth. It’s the local anti-altitude medication. No way, Jose. We find the elevation here in Tilcara more suitable, and as we ride further’ downhill’ to Salta feel better and better. We had noticed that most people carry a thermos slung over backpack or shoulder and purchased one during our little jaunts into Humahuaca town. The lady-owner at the Kraal camp filled ours with boiling water for our day’s journey. During our travels we had noticed small encampments/ outposts brightly decorated with red flags and red banners and shrines. Not sure what they are, and not sure who to ask we dismissed the inquiry, however upon leaving the city of Salta we found ourselves being held up in traffic by a ‘posse’ of horseriders, escorted by policemotorbikes. We noticed the horsemen crossing the pedestrian bridges over the highway ring road. The bridges are completely encaged with wire netting to prevent any skittish leaping. We deduced that these were traditional folk on the move, following the red flag paths of their ancestors as there were great gatherings along the way at these sites. Not sure, could be right/wrong.



Still suffering from 4 days of little sleep and not much air, we stopped for a snooze on the green grass of the central plaza in Salta, before weaving our way through more colours and shapes than we’d ever imagined on the 68 to Cafayate. We’d given up on riding route 40 from Cachi to Cafayate, and as beautiful as we’d been told it was, we are sure the 68 was just as good. It’s a Sunday and the petrol stations have queues going around the block, so we eat lunch at a restaurant opposite the station. When B sees a gap, between main course and dessert, he hops on the bike and fills up. We join the magical Route 40 at kilometre 4346. Since collecting our bike at Buenos Aires 12 days ago, we are 3000kms into our journey. It’s another glorious day through magnificent red cliffs and rocks, where we stop at 2000m altitude for a coffee break. I toss a piece of left over gristle up in the air (from the delicious T-bones steaks we BBq’d last night) and it must have shone like gold against the red landscape. Shortly afterwards two large birds of prey circled overhead. We found a campsite at a Marine Corrall on a man-made Hydro-electric Dam (dique) setting up on the patio. Another refill of boiling water for mid-morning coffee saves us the daily £2 spend. What a valuable thing is a flask. The scene shifts from White Canyons to Red ones, from Green Vineyards to Yellow deserts. We count at least 15 dust-devils swirling in the distance and put on a spurt when one charges towards us, just clipping our rear end and giving us a wobble. We learn to read the difference between mirages and river crossings. The one recedes and the other approaches, rapidly. The road is made up of asphaldo (tarmac) rises and concrete troughs. There’s no point in building a bridge, it will just get pushed aside by the muddy waters. So we approach each trough carefully, some are filled with rivulets of sand or water or both. A large muddy pool is in our way. Rule number 4: if you can’t see the bottom, don’t ride through it. I volunteer to wade through in my shiny dry boots, in a direct line of sight with the bike, testing the depth, and checking for hazards such as hidden rocks, pot-holes or deepsand. We know it’s not a sink-hole as we’ve seen cars go through (and I don’t disappear). Next time though, I’ll take the 2 Nordic Poles we carry to give myself a steadier step and bit more prod. It’s safe and B follows in my wake.



The pale yellow sands soon change to a slight fuzz of green, then a carpet of blue flowers, followed by white ones. We find a municipal camping ground at Belen, with a fabulous pool and not so fabulous disco that pounds out its beat until 4 am. Don’t these people ever sleep? We had just settled in for the night when the night watchman asked us to move. “Manana, por favour?” He advised us quite strongly to leave nothing outside the tent and cover everything up, bike included. The whole night, there were bikes buzzing up and down and people wandering passed, giggling and carrying on. Not so good. We’re up and off just after dawn, doing 250 kms before lunch to get out of the heat. Its difficult to see where the pale grey road ends and the pale grey sand begins, only separated by a few whispy yellow tufts of dry grass. In the heat of the day, in 37 degrees, we are stopped by the gendarmes who want to see the permit papers for the bike. A left turn a short while later brings us to green velvety hills and cacti bearing gorgeous flowers. We stop for a coffee break, but the miggies force us to gulp water quickly and as there is a crowd of vulture like bird swirling overhead, we move on. My wading trick a few days ago and riding in wet boots for a few hours has given me a cold and thick head. The bike and B are performing like a dream, but as chief navigator, with a thick head, I fall a bit short. We lose Rte 40 and find ourselves 100kms off track. Seeing a sign that says ‘petrol, 60kms’, we think it wise to head that way. The only bit of action for 150 kms of straight, straight road was a cool dude shiny brown horse, clip-clopping down the road with an egret on his back. They must have been good friends for a long time as there were dry white streak down the horse’s rump. We find the fuel stop and then google maps informs us the nearest camping is 114 kms away! We ride to Malanzan, a place in the middle of nowhere, go to the cop shop and get escorted by bakkie (pick-up truck) to the municipal site, where there is an outdoor shower and lovely pool and a kiosk selling beer. Amazing.



Its 27 degrees and 9 am when we start the 300kms round route to get back to rte 40 at San Juan. We head straight for the bank, which is closed for maintenance. Its now Wednesday, we are a bit tired from all the late night revellers at the various campsites and the long hot rides, but tackle the 150kms ride to Mendoza with gusto. A roadside melon farmstall catches our eye and we ride in to spend a few minutes in the shade of their bluegum trees to soak up the shade and sweet juices. A couple of pet vultures were roaming around with the chickens. We arrive in Mendoza by mid afternoon and yippee the bank is open for withdrawals. We park the bike on the pavement opposite the bank, find a café nearby, order a beer and cooldown. What a lovely city. All the streets are laid out in the familiar grid, each lined by rows and rows of big leafy trees, fed by an underground water system straight from the Andes. B finds a mate to share a cigar with, who also very kindly pays for our coffee. We are in awe of the road builders here, who battle against a shifting unstable land, and also the friendliness and kindness of the Argentinians. As we ride, people wave and give us thumbs up signs. In Salta a grandparent couple asked me to take a photo of them, with their phone , next to our bike. When we stopped at 2000m at the top of the pass near Cafayate, we were photographed and had hands shaken and good luck messages given. The ultimate kindness was yet to come when at the end of this very long day we failed to find a campsite. Camping has two meanings here in Mendoza/Argentina. One is for day picnic only, the other for overnight. Googlemaps directed us to 4 picnic campsites, no overnight. It 7pm on Wednesday 7th Feb and we’ve ridden 480 kms through seering heat, limbs are weak and rest is uppermost in our minds. At the 4 th turn-away site, a charming gentleman and his wife overhear our plea and in perfect English offers to lead us to a very nice overnight campsite just a few kms down the road. He starts off up the hill and slows down to wait for us to follow. Now the thing about 2 wheels and 4 wheels is that with 2 wheels you need to keep moving to stay upright, or have somewhere to put your feet down. He stops, we stop. B shouts “Jump” and we clear the bike as it slides into the sand at the road’s edge and falls over. At least now there are 4 of us to lift the bike. I get in the car and B follows onto the asphaldo, round a round-about and here we are. Its heaven. There is green grass, purple BBQ stands, pepper trees with little pink pepper clusters and all the buildings are painted yellow.
The giant who threw his paintbox around in the mountains, and built marvellous clay and sand landscapes finally found time to lay down a calm square patch of green and a cool blue pool, filled with mountain water, here in Mendoza. We booked in till Saturday.
Photos on 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Thank you for your wonderful descriptive reports. I entered Argentina in the south from Chile a few days ago and reading your stuff makes me excited (and better informed) about what is to come as I head north. Wish I could write as well. Travel safe.

Sent from my Moto G (5S) Plus using Tapatalk

thank you
 

Thank you for your kind words about the story writing. you may find on your travels that wi-fi is a bit sporadic here in Argentina. We had a slight tumble on ruta 40 between Malargue and Barrancas. Take care. Its not a bad road for one up with a light load, as you read we are 2up, heavy load. We are Ok, just resting in Chos Malal if you are coming this way. Enjoy .

Argentina: Tea time in Mendoza
 

Tea seems to be the favoured refreshment here. Ordering tea means a presentation of hot water and a selection of teabags in a stylised box. We drink it 'sin leche, sin chuker'. There are lots of flavours to choose from all in very prettily decorated packets. On this long day getting here we were really looking forward to a cup of tea.
On one of our excursions into a previous town we had purchased a mini pan/grill combo set for easy bbq. Today bought some burgers en route to finding a campsite. Our eventual arrival at camping 'el manguello' in Mendoza was too late for a bbq, so we chose the primus burner option to cook our burger supper. Shortly after putting the burgers and mini pan on top of our 45year old petrol fuelled primus, it blew it's safety valve with a big flash of flame, a bit like an oil rig fire. B poured a bottle of water over the flames after rescuing the burgers which were cooked to perfection. We assume that the 120 cms square base of the grill pan directed too much heat back down onto the stove, causing the safety valve to activate. With no facilities to boil water, of which we now didn’t even have any, no tea.
Thursday 8th February was spent riding around the beautiful cool tree lined avenues of Mendoza looking for a replacement cooker. The supermarket, Coto, had just the thing: a bigger gas platform and screw on backpacker canisters. B had another cigar and coffee with his new mate in town. We bought 4 x T-bones for one euro each for another go at a bbq and afternoon tea. The afternoon was lazed away swimming and sleeping under cool shady trees on lush green grass. At 6pm, sundowner time came ready for a cup of tea and the fitting on the ring does not match with the screw on the canister. We had already put the 'instant incinerator' on the concrete bbq stand. (This a cardboard box filled with charcoal with a 100 x100mm base made out of tomato box timber/kindling. There is a small air vent at the base through which the kindling is lit. Brilliant).
Desperate for a cup of tea, we left the burning box and rode 8kms back to Coto to get an exchange or refund. They could not match the parts and willingly gave us a refund. By the time we got back to camp the fire was perfect for our T bone supper. We used our collapsible silicone kettle with the stainless base directly on the fire to boil water and after filling the flask ready for early morning tea, we finally had our afternoon tea at 10pm.
On Friday we Googled for any specialist campshops in the area and rode back into the beautiful city of Mendoza, where there was a cluster of such shops opposite a Carrefour Hypermarket. Success. We chose a neat screw type gas canister with even neater selfstarting flash ignitor on a universal ring. It was quite expensive, but absolutely necessary. We have thought about sending 5kgs of excess luggage back to France and found a DHL. The expense outweighed the value of the goods. The plan now is to re-arrange the weight distribution on the bike by packing the heavier stuff lower down. We enjoy another lazy afternoon swimming and sleeping on lush green grass under shady trees. Even the dogs have their own separate splash pool which they dip in and enjoy at their leisure. We love it here so much we paid to stay another day. It was just as well because when we went to boil the kettle for afternoon tea, the electronic ignitor on the new cooker didn't work. B found his cigar lighter to rescue tea-time. The shops here are open from 9 to 13h00 then its SIESTA. It is now Saturday and we are supposed to be leaving. Ho-hum, we ride back into the beautiful city of Mendoza to exchange or refund this super-duper cooker. We found the Carrefour again with its motorcycle lockup cage, parked, locked up and took ourselves on a walk around Mendoza. We walked past the campshop for a successful exchange (yes we tested the ignitor starter in the shop) and many other fabulous shops displaying quality leather capes, cloaks and llama ponchos. We spent millions with our eyes and finally bought a ROUTE 40 sticker for 30pesos to put on the front mudguard. Our walk took us through a promenade filled with cafes and music. How could we not resist stopping for a beer and salad. On the HU (horizons unlimited) website it was suggested that a few copies of all documents kept separately in plastic pouch was a good border-crossing idea so that’s what we did. On our walk around all the blocks we noticed the numbers in groups of 100 per block. By knowing the number of your destination you can work out how many blocks away it is. At the crossroads, the corners of the buildings are cut off at 45 degrees to allow maximum visibility for oncoming traffic, whatever the direction. This town planner deserves an A*.
While the town had its SIESTA we worked. B washed the grease/dust off the bike with pretty useless engine cleaner and adjusted the chain. The Scott oiler works well and B dripped engine oil on the tools which had been submerged on river crossings. The toolkit was showing signs of rust. I spent the afternoon weighing and comparing, separating heavy and light, useful and useless stuff. By teatime we are packed. Our young neighbours, the chef and the tourism student, shared their bbq T-bone with us, cooked the Argentinian way - well done.
Four fabulous days, tea time sorted, and 100kms ride around and about the beautiful tree-lined avenues of Mendoza. One more sleep here and we depart tomorrow, Sunday.

PHOTOS: 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

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Go Well, Hambe Gahle

Argentina. Violent Land, Compassionate People
 

WARNING: Contains graphic details intended to inform other travellers, not to alarm family and friends.

It's already 27 degrees when we load the bike and leave Mendoza early on Sunday morning. After a few confusing turns we find Ruta 40 heading South for 150kms. There's a fork in the road where the 40 goes right and the 143 is left. On the map it shows a thin orange line which then turns into a dotted thin orange line. Mmm, secondary tarmac road, then construction, and another branch onto a thin green line which indicates gravel. No gravelly green lines for us! We start down the tarmac, spot a sign reading 'asphaldo fin 65kms'. So we turn around and head down the 143 to San Rafael. The altitude climbs rapidly from 700 to 1400m above sea level on this vast plateau. The summer temperature drops rapidly to 22⁰ then17⁰ then 14⁰ then 10⁰ in a matter of minutes. The wind chill factor increases and a very low snow cloud blankets the flat landscape. We stop, don balaclavas, inner jackets, zip up air flaps on our summer wear, and climb into our babygro rain suits. Instead of coffee we use the hot water from our flask for a cup-of-soup sachet. Warming up we start again. By the time we get to San Rafael its a balmy 25 degrees, altitude 1000 and we are sweltering. Such a weird experience. The coffee machine at the lunch stop is broken so we are brought hot water and use our own coffee. An American couple tell us about the Ville Grande to search for a campsite and as we're going that way we feel confident about our sleep tonight. It’s a scenic route through vineyards, canalised irrigation and tree-lined avenues. Sure enough we found a campsite easily and enjoyed the peace and quiet of Ville Grande.
A sunny warm Monday sees us riding to Malargue through more flat lands, a few mountain passes with craggy drops and advertisements for 4x4 adventures. Snowy mountains appear on the horizon and the thin orange line 40 which should emerge to join the 144 never does. Glad we didn’t take that one as it is still being built. There's a section where mechanical donkeys are pumping oil and then vast pans of salt crystals shimmering under the blue sky. The foothills are a bright green with new grass and fans of yellow rushes line the motorway. It’s a beautiful day as we ride into town for a lunch of empanadas and Argentinian tea. More 4x4's drive past. The map shows a dotted double orange line and a double green line indicating major road/tarmac under construction and major road/ribbed. The abundance of 4x4’s should have been a signal, however our bike is designed to ride off road (but maybe not 2up and under load.)
We leave Malargue and have a pleasant ride to Bardas Blancas where we decide to set up camp before tackling the next 206 kms that Ruta 40 has to offer. Except that Bardas (Badass?) Blancas is just a name on the map and a patch of shade under a tree. We start the 206 kms, at about 2pm, to Barrancas on a newly constructed tar road with traffic control and cones. 60 kms further on more and more short sections of dirt road appear in between the tar sections and lots of constructions trucks. Then the construction part finished and the road was dirt road, ‘Main Consolidated’ as indicated on the map. We are riding in the Valley of the Rio Grande with high hills on both sides, twisting and winding alongside the very wide river bed. The bike is handling the dirt section very nicely with its redistributed load. Until, suddenly a patch of river pebbles appeared in the road and with the better handling of the bike B decided to increase the speed to ride it out. The theory goes that the faster you ride over sand and pebbles the more stable the bike becomes. B increased the speed from 50 to 70kms, without realising the heavy trucks had forced these pebbles into deep grooves. Surface pebbles would have scattered. It is a bit like hitting the wake behind a speed boat, whilst waterskiing. This set up a speed wobble and snaking action that became uncontrollable. The bike highended doing a 180 degree roly-poly and landed on its handlebars, tank bag and soft back bag with wheels skywards. The windscreen got flattened and the spare parts flew out of the now-opened front box. We hit the deep marbles, I slid and B took an impact on his head and chest. I whipped off my gloves and helmet to get to B who was by now on all fours choking. I took off his helmet and he gulped deeply to get air as he was totally winded. B shouted 'take a photo' which I did but the SD card had become dislodged in my camera and there is no record!!. Such an impressive shot, not. We are in a hurry to get the bike back on its ‘feet’ because of petrol, oil and battery acid leaks. There was a lot of traffic on this road and within a minute two girls stopped their car to attend to us and we pushed the bike back through 180 degrees in an upright position. The only thing that leaked was the now topless, Extra virgin olive oil strapped onto the aluminium pannier shelf. Another car pulled up as well to help. The second car, occupied by Carlos, his wife Sally and 8year old Jago offered to put me and the luggage in their car and accompany B who declared himself fit enough to go the remainder of the way solo and no load. He zoomed off, skimming over the corrugations. With the lighter load, the shaking became exaggerated because the bike's suspension is set up to carry a heavy load. We met many other weary dusty bikers coming the other way, all keen to find out how good/bad the road was. Breathlessly B explained our situation, and re-assured them that it’s OK one up, light load. “Stay in the middle, away from the trucks and the sloping pebbled run-offs.” We trundle along in the car, bouncing around through every rise and trough. Carlos explains that this valley forms part of the place where the Atlantic and Pacific plates meet. The scenery is monumental and we are surrounded by jagged peaks, washaways, volcanic debris and landslides. I don’t believe they can complete the road through here. The land is too violent and will beat the construction at every turn.
B stops intermittently for us to catch up and got alarmed when he pee’d blood. I used Maps.Me (an offline app) to locate the nearest hospital which was at the end of the valley at Barrancas. It took 3 hours from tumble to hospital. In excruciating pain, exacerbated by the corrugated road jarring his chest, B exclaimed “ that felt just like my enduro days”. Really? What? The Pain or the Ride?
Fortunately the hospital is opposite the police station, so our bike and luggage were secured at the police station while B was taken into be assessed. We said farewell and a big thank you to Carlos and his family.
Barrancas is a small outpost hospital and after a thorough examination the Doctor and Eugenia, the nurse, concluded that B needed an xray. A 4x4 arrived to take us the 30kms to the next hospital in Buta Ranquil where another assessment, plus xray was conducted. No rib fracture seen. At this point I telephoned the 24hour Medical Insurance Company in France and registered the incident. They have ‘held our hand’ at every event, phoning, inquiring, translating and relaying information. The haematuria/blood in urine is still causing concern and an ultrasound was required, which is available at the next hospital 100 kms away. An ambulance arrived and B was stretchered into the back, accompanied by a pretty rosy cheeked doctor who held his hand the whole way to Chos Malal. I sat in the front and watched the glowing blue light reflect eerily off the dark rock faces as the driver expertly manoeuvred his powerful fast wagon through more mountain passes, this time all on tarmac. We arrived just before 11pm where re-assessment, re-xray and an abdominal ultrasound showed all OK. To clear out the potential kidney bruising, the drip was maintained for 24 hour observation and B was given pain relief. I was given a bed alongside.
Urine clear, rib pain and stiffness are causing B some grief, but it’s manageable. Somebody found some day clothes for me as my dusty bike gear was starting to get unpresentable.
In between doctor visits I have been wandering around town buying cooldrink, buying credit for our phone and mobile data, buying batteries for SPOT and generally amusing myself. I made friends with a family who run a corner store, by popping in every day for water, toothbrush, toothpaste, etc. We only have the clothes we are wearing and our passport/document folder. Our map has become a bit torn at the folds, but as they do not actually sell sellotape, they used their roll to mend the map and would receive no payment, but gave me a cake. B has been sleeping: pain killers and the drip keeping his kidneys flushed.
It is now Wednesday. We are free to go, but our bike and gear is 135kms away. The kind wonderful compassionate people in this remote part, between the violent plates, are sorting out a truck. By the time you get this I'm sure clothes, bike and us will be together again. Until then we stay in hospital.
The medical insurance company are dealing directly with the hospital administration. The Health service in Argentina is free and we have been told that there is no charge. The violent nature of this landscape here is in complete contrast to the kindness and compassion of their people.


PHOTOS: 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

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Go Well, Hamba Kahle

Argentina: Valentine's Day
 

With B in hospital, waiting to be discharged, and the 2nd love of his life locked in a police station, Valentine’s day wasn’t holding much promise for a happy ending. And then three English speaking hospital staff appeared. It had been a holiday weekend and now they were back. Now we realise why the Ruta 40 was so busy. Two doctors and the nutritionist were there to attend to our every need, including finding a tow-truck to fetch the baggage and bike which are 135kms away. We receive a message that the tow truck is on its way in 30mins to the very destination we need. I scramble into smelly bike gear, grab ID documents for me and the bike, a couple of apples, a cooldrink and my gift cake. The weather forecast shows a red thermometer, warning of exceptional heat today. The towtruck is driven by Marcus. We drive back down the road, daytime, that we had travelled by ambulance, at night, 3 days ago. There are twists, curves, loops, straights, volcanos, gorges, canyons, cut- aways and flat plains all on tarmac. At a slow steady pace, dragging a big trailer behind us we completed the 135 kms in 2 ½ hours of afternoon heat with my window and the rear cab window open. Marcus put a frozen bottle of water on the dash which he sips as it melts. We shared some cake which had been given to me as a gift from the shopkeeper where I bought sticky tape to mend our map, earlier in the week. At the police station all the items were checked and ticked off and signed for, with passport photo and number. We winched the bike on, lifted the rear end and secured it with good strong ties across the front end of the trailer. I met up again with Eugenia who came running across the road from the hospital. I re-assured her B was OK, said many Gracias and we started the long hot journey home, this time with the western afternoon sun on my side. The reason for the long trailer was that Marcus was combining the bike collection with a car collection at the place of the 2nd hospital, Buta Ranquil. It is hot, hot, hot. In fact so hot that one of the tyres on the trailer threw its tread. I’m learning fast how to be an apprentice and handed Marcus all the tools from the back of his pick-up so that he could remove the wheel. Luckily this trailer had a double wheel system . We drove into the Auto stop just outside Buta Ranquil on 3 wheels. While this was getting repaired I walked to the hospital with a weird impression I’m in a Clint Eastwood movie. No shade, just a cocacola, marching in full bike gear, no helmet, and this apparition steps in from the heat into the empty hospital foyer. Drumroll. The doctor who had attended B was not on duty. It was very difficult to explain “that on Monday we had been treated there and I had returned to say thank and that my husband was OK. The three ladies sitting around the Coffee table kept telling me it was Wednesday everytime I said the ‘Lunes’ for Monday. In the end I gave up, big smile, many Gracias and trudged back to Marcus and his 4-wheeled trailer. Marcus couldn’t find the house where the Peugot 205 was and this was when I discovered the reason for his closed window. At every passing person, he stopped, opened his door and yelled out “ hola, etc etc in Spanish,where is bla,bla,bla”. That door got opened and shut a good many times before we found the broken down car, which was tucked out of sight behind the garage under some trees. Lucky I had my dungarees and boots on, posing as an apprentice, as it needed both of us to push and pull and steer this car out onto the road to get the winch attached and hauled upon to the platform. The back of the pick-up is full of bike gear, the bike loaded and car loaded and its time to go back to Chos Malal. We arrive at 9pm, a good day’s work ! One of the English speaking doctors (US/Argentinian) has kindly offered us a room in their house to rest and recover. His wife is a GP and when they came off duty they took B with them. The drive back was uneventful, except for the rabbit skin I saw drying on the Armco barrier. It’s desolate out here! Marcus and his mates offloaded the car, and then we arrived at the lovely cool house of Eduardo and Milka where the bike was unwinched, covered and locked. With our dirty, dusty baggage scattered all over their lawn, we settled in for a super supper and lots of stories about Argentina and Africa. B, me and the bike are all together in the loving home of Eduardo and Milka, who are expecting baby no 1 in 4months. Our Valentine’s Day ended happily after all.

PHOTOS: 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

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Go Well, Hamba Kahle

Sorry to read of your fall - one of those things that can happen to all of us. Glad to hear you are both ok. I'm slowly heading north in your direction. Currently in El Calafate and moving onto El Chaiten tomorrow. At my slow rate of progress probably a week or so until I'm up as far as you. Stay in touch - I'd love to meet up. And good luck with the recovery and bike repairs.

Sent from my Moto G (5S) Plus using Tapatalk

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Argentina: SPOT tracker
 

I've merged this and the spot thread, no point in having two.
NOTE: You CAN EDIT your post to fix links or text errors, and also instead of starting a new thread all the time, just post a reply to the previous thread, then you get a continuous story instead of scattered all over in old threads way down the page.
If you like I can merge ALL your trip threads into one, would be much better for readers I think.
Let me know!

Argentina: The Great Escape
 

Argentina: The Great Escape
It certainly was a great escape. An escape from serious injury and an escape from daily stress as we rest and recuperate in the quiet secluded town of Chos Malal, helped along by the calm and caring Doctors E & M. The temperature outside reaches above 35⁰ but we are cooled by a breeze through their typical Argentinian square flat house and shaded by the waving poplar trees in the garden.
B’s chest is sore, fractured ribs diagnosed clinically, and my right knee got a bit of a pounding. In between drug-induced sleeps we wash our clothes and bags and inspect the bike.
The windscreen got flattened, scratched and the mounting bolts, which got torn out, are replaced with cable ties. The righthand spotlight bracket got bent and the front box has a broken hinge and gravel rash. We lost one ‘deer whistle’. The righthand indicator broke, and now has a splint of wood and duct tape bandage. The master cyclinder clamp snapped but luckily is held in place by the ScottOiler bracket. Altogether, a very lucky escape considering the bike inverted and landed on its seat, wheels pointing skywards. My right boot almost lost its sole, but a trip into town to buy contact adhesive and with some powerful strapping until the glue set should do the trick. The right front slingover bag got ripped off its zipper. Dr E found us the shoe maker/repair man in town who sewed it back on.
The crash occurred last Monday, so we are hoping to leave within the week. The washing is done, the bags are clean and re-packed, with the excess baggage ready to be posted to Lima, where we will collect it when we fly back to France. Before our departure, the attending Consultant wants another blood/urine/xray check so we take the bike for a ride downtown to the hospital where the necessary tests are carried out. There is still no fracture showing on the xray, however blood/urine test have returned to normal. Minimal displacement shows up at the Acromio-Clavicluar joint space and prodding on the sore spot indicates that clinically the ribs are fractured. The Doctor prescribes anti-inflammatory medication for another week and advises AGAINST departure. Our excess baggage weighs in at 10kgs and the P.O. can only send a maximum of 2kgs. We decide that the bike must just carry it to Lima.
On our excursion into town we buy some near-equivalent spices to treat our hosts/friends to a typical South African Bobotie dinner. We conjure and cook up the evening meal early on Sunday morning, leaving it to settle and mature for the day. A Sunday afternoon/farewell outing has been planned and our lovely friends take us for a drive into the Argentinian mountains across the valley, through stunning scenery to a fabulous local restaurant where we have typical empanadas (mini Cornish pasties filled with meat or cheese or chicken or veges). The restaurant owner surprises us with some huge beef ribs from the BBQ. It has been a wonderful day, being driven around, swopping stories, seeing the mountain peaks of La Corona and coming home to a Bobotie dinner. On Day 7, To test B’s energy and strength up we stroll into town, which is not so good, so the departure is delayed. We visit the museum, buy some socks and wander back up the hill: a total of 24 blocks. The shops close by midday and open again at 17h30, so afternoons are reserved for Siestas. Feeling the need to escape from chamber-maid duties, I walk into town in search of an art supply store, there’s enough time to do some painting as the departure date is moved on and while B recovers. On Day 9, B had an almighty Sneeze, and the pain was so excruciating, he could not even walk. With lots of grimacing and grunting we got him into the car to go back to the hospital, where the xray now revealed 2, possibly 3, definite fracture and displaced ribs. That sneeze was literally the final straw that pulled the ribs apart at the fracture site. Another drip, different pain killers and confined to ‘minimal activity for 14 days’. We are not going anywhere! I carry on painting while B sleeps on and on. The painting develops into a representation of our wonderful trip through Argentina, with a South African flavour. Only four colours are purchased, primary Red, Blue and Yellow, with a pot of White, a canvas and a small brush. I find the large brush (that B used to degrease the bike with in Mendoza) and spend hours and hours under the poplars escaping into another world. 30 years of memories get compressed into a tiny Table Mountain tableau on the left side joined by blue Atlantic Ocean waters to La Corona and the White Cross on the hill above Chos Malal on the left. The colours of Argentina and the Karoo merge as do our paths. Another hike into town around 30 more blocks and I find a little pot of acrylic varnish to seal the imaginary world onto the canvas.
We offer to doggie-sit while our hosts/friends go on a weekend shopping excursion to Chile, across the border about 5 hours by car. A perfect opportunity for me to escape from this confinement by crocheting a blanket for their baby, due in June. I chose colours that we saw at the markets stalls in the north of Argentina and happily crochet away in front of Netflix. At 2hours a movie, from 9am till midnight, I watch at least 7 movies a day, for 4 days. That’s a lot of movies! Julia Roberts, Jennifer Arniston, Diane Keaton, Pierce Brosnan, Jack Nicholson, and Billy Connolly entertain me for hours and hours. By the time our friends arrive back I am square-eyed, the blanket is finished and we tuck into an English Cottage pie. Granny-to-be has arrived from the East coast and the little house is now bulging with 5 adults and 1 baby-bump, all our luggage, plus goodies from the shopping trip to Chile.
It’s Day 5 of the new ‘minimal activity’ and we have received an instruction from the medical insurance that the bill is too small (92 euros) for them to settle directly with the hospital. We need to pay and send them the receipt for reimbursement. I trek into town, find the finance room and call on Dr E to help with the translation. It transpires that medical care in Argentina is free. The ‘bill’ sent to the insurance was a list of commodities used. If they can’t settle directly then there is no charge, because there are no facilities to issue an invoice, write a receipt, etc. So after a lovely meeting with the director and colleagues, lots of one cheek kisses and hand shaking, I invite them all to France as a way of saying ‘thank you’.
Communication with Granny, G, is frustrating as we neither speak each others language enough. Dr E has a busy life translating every evening as we swop stories and get to know each other. G and her family are 100% Argentinian, speaking Spanish, although her blue eyes and blond hair tell of a different heritage. As this story is about escaping, its worth mentioning that she is 3rd generation descendant from Germans fleeing during WW2. Her delicious ‘jam strudel dumpling stew’ is a tiny remnant of a recipe passed down and I shall attempt a repeat meal back in France.
By day 9 of the ‘minimal activity’, B can blow his nose painlessly. That is quite an achievement. Our grandchildren can testify that when Oupa blows his nose it is like an elephant trumpeting. Departure date is drawing nearer. We will have the house to ourselves again for a few days as Drs E & M and G are leaving for a holiday on the East coast where their home is. They will complete their 2 year compulsory Medical Residency just before baby is born. The obligatory medical residency ensures that the remote hospitals are supplied with competent staffing and in exchange the different needs of the remote outposts are met. A few days before we arrived, Dr E had been called to assist in a helicopter rescue in the Andes. The Gauchos take their goats and sheep high up for the summer grazing, sleeping in stone huts covered in woolly skins, and move about on horseback. A young lad had fallen off his horse and it had taken more than a day for someone to ride to the nearest town to summon help. And then another day for the helicopter to wait for daylight to then find the location and perform the rescue. The lad had broken his elbow. Dr E showed us some excellent footage and photos of the trip over the Andes to find the poor boy. Dr M is a GP and ‘works out in the field’. Dr E works in the hospital. They both also do a 24hours shift in A&E/ER and one twilight shift a week. G and I clean, shop and prepare supper, while B sleeps on and on.
It’s a sad farewell when they drive away for their very well deserved vacation and we are left behind. What wonderful people to share their home and life with us. We exchange gifts and receive a beautiful and authentic hand carved steel Gaucho knife in a leather sheath.
At last B is feeling better; it’s day 14 of ‘minimal activity’ and 22 days since the crash. B is determined that today is Departure Day. The bike is packed, we climb aboard and head south west to Chile. And we are riding through my painting, escaping to another adventure across the border.

https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tjctBpRWE...0/DSC03584.JPG

Chile: “Zanahoria”
 

A few kilometres out of the town of Chos Malal there is a monumental statue celebrating the halfway mark of route 40. We had made it halfway, but weather-wise had missed the chance to continue further South, where the cold of the Antarctic winter was already making its presence known. The crisp steel cut map of the Americas is upside down, markedly pointing out that South America is not Under any other country. The towering flag pole is also purposely curved possibly symbolising both the curve of the earth and the forces of the powerful winds that blow across the Southern part of Argentina. We turn West at Las Lajas, having failed again to withdraw any cash from the ATM. Our bank card is only recognised by itself in the cities where the international banks have ATMs. The local and national banks/ATMs flash up ‘invalid’ and cash withdrawals have been difficult in Argentina, however paying by card is acceptable at most supermarkets, fuelstops and restaurants. Our friends had kindly swopped some Arg pesos for Chilean pesos and we had a coin for the tunnel soon after the border crossing. As they had gone on holiday, we were invited to empty the fridge of consumables that wouldn’t last. A bag full of red cabbage, cucumbers, ham, apples, carrots and a gem squash were bungied onto the panniers, ready for a delicious vegetable supper stirfry. We climb from an altitude of 446m to 1900, passing through twisted upheaved boulders and a forest of ‘monkey-puzzle’ trees, watch Cranes and Herons mingling in a mountain top pool before reaching the barriers, where we are handed a scrappy piece of paper on which the guard has noted our time of arrival, plus make, model and registration number. We park, dismount, gather the all-important folder of papers and make our way to ‘Entrada’.
Check, Check, Stamp, Stamp: Immigration Done.
Next desk: Check, Check, Stamp, Stamp: Customs Done.
B wandered off to find a chair. His ribs are taking strain. In my best Spanish I explain why he needs a chair: ‘Costella Fractura’, I say and continue filling out two forms that have been thrust into my hand, one for each us but I fill out both, because B cannot really stand at the counter anymore. ‘Anything to Declare? No, No, No I tick all the No boxes.
And then there is the Bike Inspection.
“Espagnole??”says the nice man.
“No, Chiquito. Inglis” I say.
He says “Frutta?”
And then I get carried away, proudly showing off the extent of my Espagnole vocab: ”bebida, comedor, por favour, gracias, carne”. I proudly rattle off a string of words and turn to the seated B asking “what’s that funny word for Carrot? Zed something?”
Half listening he replies “ we’ve got carrots in that bag, actually we’ve got a lot of fruit and vege in that bag.”
Then it registers. He’s not testing my Spanish speaking capabilities, he’s asking me if we are carrying any fruit or vege. STRICTLY not allowed to cross from Arg into Chile. I grab the bag, hand it to him with many apologies “Sorry, Sorry, Non Comprehendo”. Out comes the lovely red cabbage and all our potential dinner, taken away somewhere. And then I get given the form back. I cross out the Nothing to Declare and tick the Yes, Fruit and Veg to declare. This form is now invalid.
Back to the office, new clean form: Name, Passport, Date of Birth, ANYTHING TO DECLARE? Yes, I TICK , ALTHOUGH THEORETICALLY SPEAKING NOW THAT THEY HAVE TAKEN IT AWAY I DON’T REALLY HAVE ANYTHING TO DECLARE. Better not push my luck!
I hand over the form, big apologetic smiles, we get the empty bag back and with helmets on, wave goodbye. The man at the Chile gate wants the scrap of paper we received an hour ago, which I stuffed somewhere? But where? Too many pockets, bags and wallets have been opened and closed, but at last it’s found and we are on our way.
“ Zanahoria” B shouts
“What?”
Zanahoria, That’s Carrots”
“Oh, Carrots” I say, “ Zanahoria, I remember that now”.

Chile: “Hey, Youze look At Me”
 

The scenery change is instant , as if in a stage set change in a grand theatre, from brown desert to green hills, from arid nothingness to trees, bushes and lushiousness. We wind our way back down to 400 metres altitude, watch snowy peaks in the distance and then tunnel through them, handing our lucky coin to the lady in the booth, aiming for a Lonquimay, the first biggish town 100 kms from the border. We also need a supermarket because the Bike Inspection man at the border crossing took all our lovely fresh fruit and veg away. We had been told by another man at the Border crossing, in perfect English, “that there is no need for campsites in Chile as All camping is Free! You can camp anywhere,” he said, repeating “All Free”. We find the Tourist Information Office in the high street and ask about camping. Puzzled headshaking and many maps and phone calls later they find one 15kms away back towards Argentina. It’s been a long day, B’s first post-crash Riding Day and we’ve done 353kms. That’s fine. We shop, we go, we book in, and relax. It’s a fabulous site, next to a clear rushing river with fishies jumping and birds and ducks. Idyllic, in fact. Just what we need for 6000 pesos, which is really only £8!
There’s a couple lying on a picnic blanket on the river bank near us, clearly in love, by the way they were intertwined and two cars parked on the hill with a few other people gathered around a BBQ spit arrangement. We politely nodded as we set about the business of selecting a site, disgorging everything from the bike into a big pile on the grass before sorting it into tent, shopping, bedding etc and making our little patch for the night.
A short heavy set bloke wanders over “Animal” he says.
“Hola” we say.
A short dumpy lady wanders over “Animal” she says.
“Hola” we say.
They point to their mouths saying something like “Hate? Eight? Ate?”
Ahh, we deduce “Eat”
“ Yes, we eat animals”, we say.
And so we are invited to join this boisterous family of 4 generations of Chileans to a Sheep-on-the -Spit BBQ. We were given a welcoming promotional baseball cap and neck scarf each. The table was decked with yummy potato salad and rice salad and leafy salad. The wine and beer was never-ending. And the entertainment was a laugh a minute. The music from the car was turned up, Mama stuck a flower in her hair and the dancing began. Wielding a carving knife in her hand, between dance steps she dished up platefuls of tender meat. Who needs fruit and veg, anyway, Mr Bike Inspector?
Grandpa sat and watched silently. Brother knelt on the ground and raised his arms skywards exalting with index fingers pointing up “Dias, Dias”, then drinking a bit more and doing it again. Father just sat silently. Son and wife continued groping, eating and drinking. And then he found his English tongue “Hey, Youze Look at Me”, he called louder and louder as the evening went on. It got dark very quickly, the remaining sheep was divvied out in a container to us, and they all piled into the cars.
“Where are you going?” we called.
“Santiago, 3 horas” they replied and with screaming, shouting and waving out of the windows, were gone. We heard calls of “Hey, Youze Look at me” far into the night as they disappeared down the road.
The silence was deafening.
We crept into our tent and realised the temperature away from the fire was near freezing. Out came all the thermals, the jackets, the bike gear. Everything we could pile on top of ourselves to keep warm was used. We shivered our way through the first couple of hours then the inner cocoon itself plus the insulating tarpaulin took over and saw us through the rest of the night.
The grassy ground was not quite soft enough and B took some painkillers to help those ribs stop throbbing. I was on chamberpot duty with the disposable urinal from the hospital and the five camp dogs lay in a circle around the tent, keeping bears, lions and tigers away. Well we didn’t see any so they did a good job. Their reward was some left over gristle from the BBQ at the sunniest prettiest first Chilean breakfast where like idiotic children we started each sentence with “Hey, Youze Look at Me” before laughing all over again.
We discovered that Santiago was over 720kms away, so who knows where that mad family went and what time they got to where they were going.

Chile: An Easy Day
 

It’s a glorious Sunny Lazy day. We are camped next to a fast running stream with ducks and fish also enjoying the freshness. Taking it really slowly, we repack the bike and add more excess baggage to the already heavy bag on the luggage rack at the bottom. We want to get as much stuff as low down as possible ready to take back to France. We decide that today we will have an Easy Day. A short 140kms ride to Victoria, buy a Chile Sim card, find an ATM, replace the Phone battery which is playing up, and have an Easy Day.
Its 2pm by the time we leave, well rested and relaxed. Victoria is laid out fairly logically with a central plaza surrounded by a grid pattern of streets so locating the tourist info booth is easy but the girls behind the desk have no info about camping. Why camp? We have hostels, hotels, motels, but you can “camp for free at the rivers.” None of the 7 phone shops sell our particular battery, try Amazon or Ebay they suggest, but the ATM spits out some money and we get a Chile Sim, which is not much use without a phone.
On our ride from Lonquimay to Victoria we passed numerous resorts with impressive gates and beautiful wooden chalets (cabanas) displaying billboards for Thermal Spa Weekends and treatment, nestled in pine forest plantations. Very posh, very luxurious with nice lawns perfect for our tent! We also noticed plumes of creamy smoke rising up and drifting northwards. Mmmm, fire somewhere. And then there were more and more. We counted at least 10 more smoky clouds polluting the blue sky until the air became one big hazy yellow. It’s now 4pm and we head out of town towards the River, daring ourselves to do a bit of free/wild camping as the other option just didn’t want to happen in Chile. Without a phone/search engine, and a Navigator and tourist bureau that are campsite unfriendly, we are struggling. The smoke is denser near the river and with all the pine forests around we feel uneasy so we make a quick decision to hit the highway and ride as far away from Victoria and the fires as possible. National Route 5 is the way to go. It’s a double carriageway, fenced in on the sides and down the middle. We are being funnelled through 100kms of pine forests, the air behind us getting smokier with each passing minute and evidence of previous fires scarring the landscape, then 50kms of fruit plantations, then another 50 of vineyards. We fill up in Los Angeles (Chile) and check on the Navigator for a campsite, and it shows one at Saltos Del Laja, another 30kms away. Just as the sun is setting we find the turn off: a gravel road! No way, Jose! I am not going on that. I dismount and start walking, and B rides off into the setting sun. As the rear light disappears around a corner so does the sun. Oh well, better start walking. As B does not return, I assume there is a campsite at the end of the road, or he’s come a cropper. Fortunately it’s the latter and I find him, having unloaded the bike, and almost ready to return and pick me up. With head torch and starlight we park and pitch. It’s a warm evening and although the Easy Day developed into a 300kms ride, we are safe and secure.
It’s Day 24 since the crash and B is riding OK but finding it difficult to settle comfortably at night. Perhaps tomorrow will be an Easy Day. We try another tactic and punch Santiago (500kms away) into the GPS and ‘campsite along route’ option. Nothing. Oh Well, lets go Northwards and ‘worry about it later’.
National Route 5 is fast and fenced and tolled. We try a few turn offs, but the tarmac turns to gravel, so we u-turn and get back on the highway. It’s a long continuous straight 100 kms of agriculture, orchards and vines, then 100kms of pastures, wheat and corn, then 100kms of forests; a dark green never-ending tunnel with hazy skies. At a mini-city service station I look for a camping map. Nope. Only an expensive comprehensive book, of which we need the last 5 pages. No deal. We are going nowhere fast with this camping milarkey and by 5pm, 400kms later, we stop and assess the situation. Rancagua seems like a big town, big enough for a proper tourist info anyway. Leaving the bike is not an option so B pulls up on the pavement on the town square while I walk and search, finding two lovely policeman who are super-helpful. They have phones and google and quickly find a campsite for us 15kms out of town, Northwards. Yippee. With that sorted we can enjoy this marvellous town. Perhaps it is time to buy a new phone. We obviously cannot buy a battery through Amazon/Ebay and we obviously cannot be without a phone. Most city centres have a shopping mall and Rancagua is no exception. It’s large, modern and has everything we want, including a Samsung store. This time it’s my turn to guard the bike, watch the shoppers pass by, get photographed and explain ‘where we are from’ and where we are going’. It takes a long time to buy a phone in a foreign country with a British passport, but at last it’s done and of course, we are confident about camping tonight because the policeman gave us a name and directions. Except we just could not find the place. The Navigator showed a checkered destination flag, but it was at a point under the highway. We’d drawn a blank. Up and down the backroad from Rancagua to San Francisco (Chile). At sunset the lights of a Motel blinked Welcome. We are tired. We have had enough.
There are two big metal sliding gates, Entrada/Salida. We pull up in front of Entrada and it magically opens up then shuts itself behind us. There are rows of curtained parking cubicles with red/green light alongside. We find an open cubicle, green light on. We can stay here for 4 hours or12 hours or 24hours. A lady greets us at the door of the room, behind the huge PVC curtain, which I have now closed. The green light turns to red. The room is basic, the bathroom is clean, the décor is fluffy pink and charge is £40!! The concept is simple and there is a long corridor running central to all the rooms. Along this corridor, there are ‘kitchen hatch’ openings into each room with a two-way hook-and-eye system. We asked for a beer and biscuits, having not had supper. There was a knock on the inside of the hatch, we undid our latch and the little cubbyhole door opened and a hand appeared with said beer and biscuits. Latch duly clipped again, we were on our own. How weird. Next morning we are up and off, past other rows of shut curtains/red lights: Occupied. Open curtains/green light: Unoccupied. The Salida gate opens and shuts and we carry on the last 100kms to Santiago. There has go to be a campsite here, surely. Except we change our minds and go back to Rancagua to ask the Samsung people to set up the new phone properly as we have no data/signal. Also we think it’s a good place to replace the Chain which has started to clunk and is a bit pushme-pullme.
On the way back we spot the gravel track down which the campsite is, no thank you. Weird Motel was just right. Let’s have an Easy Day today. It’s a Business Day first though. First, to Samsung for the Phone, then we can google a Bike Shop, then a Tourist Info for Camping. We find secure parking underground and now can wander around together. What a lovely town and lovely people. The phone gets sorted, we have data! The Tourist staff delight us with t-shirts and a picnic satchel, but no camping information. The man at the bike shop sells us a chain and arranges for the repair man to fetch and follow to his workshop. This is Easy. We google a campsite ‘near you’ down National Route 5, and land up at an almost unattended field by a river. Just a tethered Horse, who wanders over to munch on our panniers as a friendly greeting. Whew! We found our Easy Place, 4 days and more than 100kms since leaving Chos Malal. B really needs to rest now.

Chile: If I Were a Horse
 

Chile: If I was a Horse
This was what we had been searching for. A chance to rest B’s ribs and have a good night’s sleep. We were welcomed at Chita Que Lindo by a grey horse who fancied a munch on the panniers. B led him gently away on his rope and looped it around a tree beyond chomping distance. We delayed the unpack and pitch and, seeing another couple bathing in the pebbled lake, were encouraged to slip into our cozzies and do the same. We stopped at ankle depth: the water was decidedly too chilly for us. And then a big bloke on a small Honda putt-putted alongside our bike. With a huge smile he introduced himself as the owner, Alfredo. A convivial afternoon in the sun chatting with this charming man added to the fabulous ambiance: dappled light, dappled horse and dappled toes.
Alfred is a third generation Chilean descendant from grandparents fleeing WW2 and Czechoslovakia (as it was then) where his grandfather bought this piece of land. The land was subsequently split in two by the RN5 and the land on the other side of the highway was sold and now houses a very grand Hotel and Casino complex. It is such a contrast to where we are camping, back to nature with wooden picnic tables and benches, basic ablutions and a lake. Supper was a delicious bowl of Trucker’s Soup at the Trucker’s Stop on the highway next door to the entrance to ChitaQuelindo. “Any bikers out there? This is the place for you”. We were guarded by a few campdogs and had a really restful sleep. (The ribs are getting better). In fact we were so rested that after the tent was packed away and the bike loaded up, we sat awhile in the sun sipping our tea and gave upon the chit-chat for a while, just absorbing the peace and quiet and natural beauty. That is until I asked B “where did we sleep last night?” Looking slightly astonished he answered” Right there”! In my most senior moment ever I turned to look at the blank space where the tent had been and burst out laughing. I had been so far away from the Motorcycle Adventure Travel Zone it was a bit of a reality check. The charming Alfredo presented us with a memento flaglet when we waved farewell in the morning.
Our destination today was a Rodeo show the other side of Santiago in Batuco. We like the challenge of riding through big cities. We’ve ridden through most of the capital cities of Europe and Asia, so why not Santiago. We have found most cities to be bike friendly, providing parking above or underground, or alongside a pavement bistro/café. NOT SO in Santiago! No motorbike allowed, no motorbike allowed. We saw the signs everywhere. We started down an underground ramp, too late to stop, carried on, with yellow jacketed Marshalls speaking into their walkie-talkie shoulders, No! No! and after a few loops, pooped out on the Exit ramp. Nowhere to park. Nowhere to even stop. We even asked a policemen when we were at a red traffic light, No! No! No motorbikes!
“%^&*” we exclaimed to each other and left Santiago as fast as we could.
Batuco is an almost shanty town north of Santiago, but the sign to the Rodeo are big and bold and Professional. It’s the run-up to the National Championship. Alfredo had warned us that the Traditional Chilean Rodeo is not very nice. The idea is that the ‘driving’ of cattle is now a sport of regional pride and pain. Two horses bump a cow vigorously, squashed between their chests and front hooves, driving it into a padded cushion until it falls over. The horse gets just as much punishment with spurs and sticks being jabbed into its ribs by the riders. The paraphernalia that accompanies this sport must cost a packet and the heat produced by sweating horses, riders and anxious cow in the afternoon sun, encouraged us to leave after a few rounds. We went, we saw and the poor cow got conquered.
If I were a horse, I know which horse I would like to be: the dappled one munching sweet grass in the dappled light by the pebble lake.

Chile: A Most Unholy Exaltation
 

[LEFT]Fortified by a Cactus beer at the Rodeo, we found a back road that circumnavigated Santiago and pointed us in the direction of the coast and the Pacific Ocean. It was already late, having waved farewell to lovely Alfredo and his horse, been unwelcome in Santiago, watched a Rodeo and clocked up 180kms, so when we rounded a sharp curve and steep hill down into the little town of Curacavi, we decided to call it a day. We bought basic supper/breakfast provisions at a supermarket and googled a campsite. How Lucky, one right here. And this is where the difference between ‘camping’ and ‘camping’ became apparent. One means ‘picnic’ and one means ‘pitch a tent for the night’. The one we found meant ‘picnic’. No amount of smiling and arm waving could persuade them to have us pitch our tent on their lawns. “Why do you want a campsite? All camping is free at the rivers”, said the nice Gary. Before we throttled him, he mentioned that they have very nice comfortable cabanas at a reasonable price of 15 euros. The bike was parked safe and secure right outside the front door to our cabin under a vine bearing the tiniest sweetest yellowgrapes. Perfect for breakfast.
We follow route 68 to the coast and experience the first of many roller-coaster rides that go round and round and down, down then up, up at all angles and speeds mostlyaccompanied by WIND. Wind that blows you forwards, backwards and even sideways. A northern wind is a tailwind, but turning to the left or right around the curves is another story. It’s head-on or a sideways whack. The ride into Valparesi is pretty damn terrifying, so when we got to Papadu the icecream, empanadas and a photoshoot of Pelicans restored our equilibrium. Fortunately the roads are wide enough to accommodate the buses and trucks that are ever present. The navigator showed a campsite (with a tent sign) at Les Molles, which would bring our day’s ride up to 238kms. Just about right. A few turns over Passovers and ramps found us at the entrance to the campsite: down a very steep gravel road, which got steeper as it went on towards the reception area. For some reason I have developed a bit of an aversion to gravel and steepness and with a pounding heart started the descent on the back of the bike. Halfway down, my fears overcame my bravery and I screamed “stop, stop, I have to get off”. Silly me. B can’t stop a bike halfway down a slope!! We pulled up outside reception, on the level, and I leapt off the bike. Shaking. Control yourself, Girl! After a few minutes of deep breathing and with a smile on my face I approached the lady at the desk. “Buenos, Camping, por favour” and made the shape of a tent and pointed to the motorbike. The reply was curt and to the point “ No”.
I stood there, shocked and speechless. Not exactly the reply I had expected. Doing a quick about turn I stepped out of her office, stood in the parking sandpit, raised my arms skywards and in a most unholy exaltation shouted very loudly “I HATE $%^&* CHILE, NO PARKING, NO CAMPING, NO MOTORCYCLES, I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE”. Tantrum over, B and I set about searching on Google for a ‘campsite near you’: 30kms away! Perhaps!
Just as we resigned ourselves to another hour’s ride and search, the receptionist appeared with a phone in her hand, holding it out to me. “Hello”, I said and a male voice replied”Hello, we have found a site for you. It is at the end where we usually park the campercars. Will that be alright?”
“Yes, thank you”. I gasped, before he changed his mind. And so B rode about a kilometre down the sandy track passing tents, landcruisers, geodesic domes and I walked. I just want to feel the ground beneath my feet. We had a beautiful site, with a clear view of the pounding Pacific, albeit a bit windswept. Nevermind, we lashed our guy ropes to the fence and picnic table and watched the sunset. Peace was restored in the Niemann Camp.

Chile: A Most Unholy Exaltation
 

Fortified by a Cactus beer at the Rodeo, we found a back road that circumnavigated Santiago and pointed us in the direction of the coast and the Pacific Ocean. It was already late, having waved farewell to lovely Alfredo and his horse, been unwelcome in Santiago, watched a Rodeo and clocked up 180kms, so when we rounded a sharp curve and steep hill down into the little town of Curacavi, we decided to call it a day. We bought basic supper/breakfast provisions at a supermarket and googled a campsite. How Lucky, one right here. And this is where the difference between ‘camping’ and ‘camping’ became apparent. One means ‘picnic’ and one means ‘pitch a tent for the night’. The one we found meant ‘picnic’. No amount of smiling and arm waving could persuade them to have us pitch our tent on their lawns. “Why do you want a campsite? All camping is free at the rivers”, said the nice Gary. Before we throttled him, he mentioned that they have very nice comfortable cabanas at a reasonable price of 15 euros. The bike was parked safe and secure right outside the front door to our cabin under a vine bearing the tiniest sweetest yellowgrapes. Perfect for breakfast.
We follow route 68 to the coast and experience the first of many roller-coaster rides that go round and round and down, down then up, up at all angles and speeds mostlyaccompanied by WIND. Wind that blows you forwards, backwards and even sideways. A northern wind is a tailwind, but turning to the left or right around the curves is another story. It’s head-on or a sideways whack. The ride into Valparesi is pretty damn terrifying, so when we got to Papadu the icecream, empanadas and a photoshoot of Pelicans restored our equilibrium. Fortunately the roads are wide enough to accommodate the buses and trucks that are ever present. The navigator showed a campsite (with a tent sign) at Les Molles, which would bring our day’s ride up to 238kms. Just about right. A few turns over Passovers and ramps found us at the entrance to the campsite: down a very steep gravel road, which got steeper as it went on towards the reception area. For some reason I have developed a bit of an aversion to gravel and steepness and with a pounding heart started the descent on the back of the bike. Halfway down, my fears overcame my bravery and I screamed “stop, stop, I have to get off”. Silly me. B can’t stop a bike halfway down a slope!! We pulled up outside reception, on the level, and I leapt off the bike. Shaking. Control yourself, Girl! After a few minutes of deep breathing and with a smile on my face I approached the lady at the desk. “Buenos, Camping, por favour” and made the shape of a tent and pointed to the motorbike. The reply was curt and to the point “ No”.
I stood there, shocked and speechless. Not exactly the reply I had expected. Doing a quick about turn I stepped out of her office, stood in the parking sandpit, raised my arms skywards and in a most unholy exaltation shouted very loudly “I HATE $%^&* CHILE, NO PARKING, NO CAMPING, NO MOTORCYCLES, I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE”. Tantrum over, B and I set about searching on Google for a ‘campsite near you’: 30kms away! Perhaps!
Just as we resigned ourselves to another hour’s ride and search, the receptionist appeared with a phone in her hand, holding it out to me. “Hello”, I said and a male voice replied”Hello, we have found a site for you. It is at the end where we usually park the campercars. Will that be alright?”
“Yes, thank you”. I gasped, before he changed his mind. And so B rode about a kilometre down the sandy track passing tents, landcruisers, geodesic domes and I walked. I just want to feel the ground beneath my feet. We had a beautiful site, with a clear view of the pounding Pacific, albeit a bit windswept. Nevermind, we lashed our guy ropes to the fence and picnic table and watched the sunset. Peace was restored in the Niemann Camp.

Border Crossing : Chile / Peru
 

Leaving behind the fishy smells of downtown Arica, we book out of the much more pleasant smelling Hotel Avenida. Knowing that the money will be different again we hand all our Chilean Pesos to the receptionist in part payment and settle the rest by credit card. Well, that's one way to keep the wallet less confused. We start the early morning 10kms ride to the Chile/Peru border and arrive in good time, and nice and relaxed. We've heard that it takes a long time, so were not particularly worried about the long, long queues that line the road. I amble ahead of the line to see what is happening and the kind security man let us through ahead of the cars, out of the already hot sun. We park up, find all the paperwork, cover the bike and secure it with disk lock. There are lots of people wandering around and the security man advised us to watch our belongings. I cannot exactly remember the order of events, but the Customs Booth sent us to the queue at the Immigration booth, who sent us to another room where we presented the bike papers. A charming man whose only English consisted of the word 'Wonderful', stamped and copied and declared the bike 'Wonderful'. We then joined the Immigration queue again and whilst waiting I chatted to the lady in front of me. Our turn came and we presented all our papers, except for the one we should have filled in before getting to the desk. That was the Transport one that a man was 'selling' at the entrance for 1000 pesos. It was a compulsory form and we didn't have 1000 pesos. We had paid the hotel bill with all our money. And there is no ATM at the border post. Stalemate. We can't buy the form and we can't get any money and we can't get through the crossing without the form. I spot the friendly lady from the queue just coming out of the Transaction booth and dash over the demarcation line. Please can you help, I beg, explaining about the form/lack of money. "It's a gift" she says as she hands over 1000 pesos (50p)! I thank her profusely, and as she drives off in her car, we continue with the immigration and customs performance. Note to self, next time keep a bit of local currency!! We've already been through 5 paperwork process/booths and are very glad to get back to the bike, glug some warmish water and set off. Only to be stopped a few metres down the road at the barrier. This time we had to unpack the whole bike and get every bag scanned, which involves a lot of bungee untieing, mesh unhooking and velcro unsticking. Grrrrr. Especially as B still finds it sore to lift, push, carry, etc. and this feels like a one woman weight-training program. We haul the bags into the scan room and back out to the bike and reverse the process of loading everything on again. We had arrived at 10 am, it was now 12h30, or so we thought. The nearest town on the Peru side is Tacna, and the 53kms ride there was pleasant enough, just desert and more desert. It was easy to find the main street and whilst B rested on a parkbench in the shade, I wandered around looking for a Telephone shop to buy a Peru Sim Card, and a shop to get a map of Peru. No maps for sale, but a nice lady in a tour shop gave me a little tourist brochure with a map on. That'll do. We are ready to leave town and ride to Moquequa, a mere 150kms away. It's now 3pm, we should be there by 5pm. Except that it's NOT 3pm, it's already 5pm. The clocks changed by 2 hours when we crossed the border. What a weird feeling to have lost so much time by stepping over an invisible line. We decide to give up and find a place to stay. There's a happy Red Umbrella beckoning us to stop for a coffee and a 'bookings.com' search. Luckily there are plenty and we choose one the other side of town, except that we can't get there. The town is blockaded off-limits to traffic. It's fiesta time. After many u-turns and round-abouts we are back at the Red Umbrella having a re-Search. This time we find a whole house just around the corner for a fabulous 14 euros. Done. Having lost 2 hours we had a very early night, the clock said 10pm, our bodies said 8pm. Looking at our little Tourist Map, we opted for inland Route away from the PanAmerican Highway along the coastline. We woke up well rested at 6am, (body clock 4am), departing leisurely at 10am (we thought) for a 150kms ride to Moquegua, fuel stop and an afternoon ride of 266kms to Puno. We calculated that the fuel stops were at convenient intervals and there was enough time to enjoy the day. What we didn't calculate and what the Tourist Map didn't show was the enormity and elevations of the mountains, coupled with the ferocious unpredictability of the weather. This time, the PLAN and REALITY misfired horribly. But that's another story.

Peru: Up, Up and Almost Away
 

SUNDAY 18th MARCH
In beautiful sunshine, after a long good sleep, we leave The House aiming to complete the 159kms to Moquegua before lunch and filling up with fuel. The afternoon's ride of 266kms will empty the tank again, but be enough to get us to Puno, where we will stop for the night. Sounds reasonable? I mention to B over our lovely picnic lunch in the park, surrounded by palm trees and greenery, that my heart is notably racing, but put it down to a 'midday sugar slump' and gobble a few extra biscuits. We note on the Garmin that the elevation is 2000m above sea level, which is acceptable. Feeling better by refueling ourselves and the bike we then get lost finding our way out of town, round some diversions caused by a previously burst river and rockfalls.The Garmin didn't know about the disruption and got as confused as us with all the re-routing. It was time to follow our 'nose' so we ignored the GPS, went back into town and followed everybody else out of town. After all there really is only one road to Puno. This cost us valuable time and to this day we are not even sure if the time on the GPS had adjusted to Peru clock. With a full tank, we climbed and climbed up the twisty curvy hairpins,with stunning views both up and down.
We anxiously watched the elevation rise to 3000 metres, knowing what had happened in the North of Argentina (Land of a Million Colours). The arrival time indicated 7pm, which we calculated to be do-able, or perhaps we hadn't taken into account that perhaps the GPS time was incorrect and was more likely to be 9pm. We carried on, there was nowhere else to go, except back. The sun was still shining until 3500m when a dark mist enveloped the mountainside. The temperature dropped from 27degrees to 14degrees, then 9. The visibility reduced from way ahead to about 9 metres, which is about just enough not to go over the edge or get bumped from behind. B carefully picked his way around the corners searching fora stopping place.We desperately needed to get our warm inner liners and raingear on. There was absolutely nowhere to stop. The narrow road, dense mist, reduced visibility , on coming sporadic traffic and traffic behind us made it impossible. Elevation rose to 4533, then 4678. We daren't stop as we knew we would be short of breath. The recognised advice is get down to safe levels, so we just kept riding, assured that Puno would be lower. At 2degrees we found a little patch of grass by a lake and pulled off. It took ages to unfurl cold fingers, unzip the bags, shake out the suits and get warmer, all the while under laboured breathing and wobbling, shivering limbs.
The skies got darker and darker. Our watch showed 5pm, but it was nearer dusk. At 4570 m B saw a light on in a building up ahead. He stopped the bike, stumbled off, staggered in through the door and declared himself unable to carry on. I followed behind to find him shivering uncontrollably. Action mode kicked in and I stripped the bags off the bike, as well as the clothes of B, replacing wet with dry. The cafe that he had entered brought us boiling water for the flask and hotwaterbottle. I made some instant packet soup from our supplies and placed his soggy feet on the hotwaterbottle. The lady owner quietly set about re-arranging her chairs and tables to accommodate all our gear. We nearly filled her place with sleeping bags, thermals, wet jackets, helmets,trousers and gloves. B shivered and shivered for a long time. I was still in full rain gear, balaclava and helmet, keeping warm by rushing around. By nightfall, B had calmed down a bit, so before getting myself into dry clothes, I ventured out in the cold and mist to cover the bike. It was parked just off the road, so I turned the bike cover shiny side outwards, wrapped the hi-vis jacket over the handlebars and clicked the disc lock in place. This mundane task required a mammoth effort, being so short of breath and unsteady on my feet.
When I got back to the cafe, the lady handed me a key and beckoned for us to follow her to a 'hospedaje' next door. I left B sitting at the table whilst she helped me carry all the belongings across the puddled pathway, then we supported him as he dragged himself down the path into the roomand collapsed on the bed, covering him over with about 5 soft and superwarm alpaca blankets. With a huge sigh she then indicated that the bike was not in a safe place, so I undid all the covers and locks, roused B from his cosy slumber, helped him 'foot' the bike up the ramp and into the room. The bed and warm clothes were calling me very loudly now, so finally I took off my helmet and raingear, ready to settle in for a warm dry safe sleep.
Cuddling up to B, whose shivering had subsided, I heard him say "I can't feel my left thumb". "You're probably lying on it a bit funny," I mutter from beneath layers of soft warm alpacas. The next few sounds were a blurt of incoherent noises. That woke me up. "What's going on?" I barked.
Panic set in. I ordered B in a slightly hysterical tone. "Sit up, what's your name? Count backwards from 10. Stick your tongue out". It veered to his left.
Pouring the remaining hot water in the flask over a bunch of dried Coca leaves and shouting " Drink this", I fled out of the room across the path to the now shut cafe.
Only the stars lit the way, but I found the metal door and beat upon it with all my might, screaming " Doctora, Doctora" . The man owner of the cafe, still wearing his construction workers suit, bedecked with reflective stripes, unbolted the door, took one look at me and grabbing his torch, ran down the road. In the pitch black of the night, lit only by stars, he looked like some bizarre X-Factor contestant as he zig-zagged from door to door. I rushed back to B, sitting and sipping the coca tea, in between counting backwards from 10 a bit more coherent now. the response time beat all records and within 5 minutes, the door opened and 6 people filed in. A Doctor, a Nurse, a Pharmacist, a Psychologist
and two Onlookers. Where on earth had they come from??
Startled, surprised and utterly distraught I proceeded to explain his symptoms in my best spanish and sign language. After assessing B, confirming no allergies, HBP or diabetes he was given a shot in the bum, anti-nausea tablets and a supply for 3 days of mega Aspirin. Cost 2 euros.
Wonders will never cease and it was with another huge sigh that I cuddled up to B again as he tossed and turned and moaned all night. Our room had no heating, it was full of wet clothes and a bike, but somehow the alpaca blankets kept us warm.
So where are we actually? This was my mission to find out the next morning, after the longest coldest most distressing night ever.
We are in Titire, a rescue station at 4700m, 104 kms short of Puno. It is a centre where the construction workers live at the midpoint between Moquegua and Puna, where the Alpaca skins are collected and dried, where the ministry of Health has a service centre which covers a huge are, providing rescue missions to one and all. I wander over to the 'hospital' to collect some Paracetomol for my raging headache and spy out the facilities: a Trauma board, Obs and Gynae room, large radio and aerial station. There is No wi-fi here.
In between resting my limbs and catching my breath, I lay out the clothes in the cold sun, give B his medicine and snuggle under the blankets again. This goes on for 3 days. It's exhausting.
We have a food supply of 'smash' (dried potato flakes), tin of tuna and soup. B is tempted to try a little bit and i sample the soup that the cafe lady brings over. I find the Bach Rescue Remedy Drops in one of our bags and liberally dose the PGTips tea. I wander down the street tofind a group of ladies keeping warm on the tarmac and knitting with alpaca wool. I give in to temptation and treat myself to genuine handmade authentic hand crafted straight from the heights of Peruvian culture Gloves, in exchange for a few 'sol' and a photo.
We are surrounded by snowy-capped peaks which account for the cold and the perfect conditions for farming alpacas. I watch the locals set about their out their daily tasks, but need to rest every few minutes. B sleeps and sleeps. When we left the hospital in Chos Malal, we were given a disposable plastic peebottle. Once again it came in handy. For girls, it's not so easy, however our cooking pot transformed itself into a pee pot. The only loo facility was a 'long drop' amongst the rubble behind the building, protected by black plastic bags nailed to a wooden frame. I prefer the cooking pot.
TUESDAY NIGHT 20th MARCH
At sunset, I hear a roar of motorbikes and braving the snow, rain, mist and dark, pop my head out of our room to see about 6 bikers dismount and stumble in to the one other cafe in Titire. Curiosity got to me and the fact that here was human life on bikes, I wandered over. "Hellos" were exchanged and I thought this would be a good motivator for B to get up and strong. One of the blokes helped me to get B over to the social gathering, where we chatted, drank soup and watched them shiver and shake. They too had ridden from Tacna, been caught in appalling conditions, but were going to dry out, warm up and continue to the 104 kms in the cold and rain and dark to Puno. All from Argentina, we had a merry time and were sad to see them go. I think this was the turning point for B as the next morning he declared himself fit enough to ride again, at least knowing it was all 'downhill'. WEDNESDAY 21st MARCH
Sunday seems a long time ago now, when we had set off from sunny Tacna. so much has happened and being cut off from contact and communication with family and friends was not a good feeling. I did make it my daily task to switch spot on, send a location beacon and goodnight signal, knowing our virtual guardians are watching us. It's a misty 11 degrees when we mount the bike and with trepidation set off to find a better level of 3500 metres at Puno.

photos on 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Peru: The Angel in the Pink Wellies
 

We had been advised by the very helpful proprieter of the Hotel in Abancay to take the River road along the Valley to Puquio as the only other road out was treacherous and full of landslides. He described, with the help of google maps, the route along the river for 150kms then a bit high up and over the mountains before arriving in Nasca, where the altitude was better. We are given hope that the next few days of the 1000kms ride to Lima would be easier on our lungs and arms. The first ‘easier’ bit was a continuous 30 minute steep downhill ride to get to the river bed, but we got there and could breathe a bit better and relaxed into a leisurely winding ride alongside a raging river. A few challenges broke into our relaxed frame of mind, namely washaways. Riding along the valley road, we crossed about 5 causeways which got progressively deeper as we got nearer to the river itself. The causeways are cement dips in the tarmac where the gushing mountain waterfalls cascade over. That’s fine if you are a big truck. The biggest washaway presented more than a challenge for me. I leapt off the bike and we watched for some time as the bulldozer moved tons of wet earth out of the way. A truck went through. A car went through and B lined up ready to go through. Everytime the bulldozer scrapped and moved the earth the watery pit was becoming deeper. It was B’s turn to move through. I video’d the whole performance which took an alarmingly long 3.40 minutes. 30seconds in to the crossing B almost lost his footing, as the gushing water hollowed out the earth where his feet were. He had to keep moving. The bulldozer man was revving up to shivvy B along and the Yellow hardhat man was blowing his whistle furiously. I was just screaming hysterically.
Then came along an Angel in the Pink Wellies. She marched across the pitted water-filled remnants of the road, grabbed the side panniers with one hand and the back pannier with the other. She steered B, holding him up first this way, then the other, as with their 4 feet they manoeuvred their way across the raging river, shin deep. Three and a half minutes later they were on the other side and the bulldozer carried on. The yellow hard hat man got me a lift in a pick up and I was driven through eezy peezy. By the time B and I were re-united the Angel in the Pink Wellies had plodded her way back to the starting point. How could we say Thank You? While we were faffing around, shaking wet boots and calming down, she strode over again, this time wading knee deep. Big hugs and thanks you’s and a fistful of Pesos did it for us and her.
The valley road at 3200m went on and on for over 100kms, with magnificent gorges and canyons and plateaus. By the time we got to Piquio, the mist had covered all the landscape and even though it was only 1pm we found the one and only hotel, parked the bike, stripped off wet boots and socks, snuggled up in a warm bed and, being a Sunday, found FI on Radio Five Live to listen to the AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX.
Puquio is a tiny bus stop town. Huge tour buses and coaches zoomed through on the one and only route joining Cusco to the Coast. By 6pm the stalls were set up and the restaurants opened, all in freezing mist and muddy conditions. We had delicious spaghetti and chicken soup, with goats cheese topping. On returning to our hotel, we discovered two more bikes in the parking garage: Two Honda XR 250’s ridden by the lovely Linda and hubby Mike. We had a great evening in the lounge swopping stories and the bestest moment was being introduced to an App called ‘ioverlander’. Exactly what we had been looking for: a live app, continuously updated, by overlanders for overlanders. I felt a huge weight disappear from my stress levels as any type of overlander information appeared; from regular campsites to wild camping, with prices, and recent updates. Fantastic.
Getting out of Puquio was an uphill adventure of 55kms of curves rising back up 1000m to 4600m again. We daren’t stop, just keep going along this beautiful plateau for another 100kms. The temperature dropped to 13degreesand in amongst the Pampas we spotted leaping creatures called Vicunas, a short haired long necked wilder version of the Llama. Large signs instructed all motorists to HOOT continuously to scare them off the road. The weirdest thing is that they are so well blended into the Pampas that up to 10 metres away they are ‘invisible’, that is until they leap. We blew our hooter continuously so they would leap away from us. It sort of spoilt the magnificence and beauty of the amazing ‘top of the world’ peace.
Before the descent into the Desert Ride to Nasca we have a picnic and enjoy the sun and stare in wonder at the winding road we must now take to get to the coast. What goes up must go down. And down it went all the way to a large patch of sand and wind. We rode across this sandpit for another 100kms on the straightest road ever, with the wind trying very hard to push us over. The buses and trucks also did a good job as every time they passed we were whacked sideways by the wind and landed a few more inches nearer the edge of the road. Everything here seems to be in the extreme category.
We find the Nasca Lines and climb the towering steel stepped structure to for a bird’s eye view. I buy a little stone, engraved with a replica humming bird.
At ICA we stop for an icecream and put our new App to the test. Yeah, a hotel within budget, with a pool and breakfast just around the corner. Such simple Luxury after a gruelling 10 days of testing us almost to our limits.
Lima is in sight! where we are staying with the family of our wonderful doctor friends/rescuers from Chos Malal. It is with huge thankfulness that we arrive at their house and get a glorious welcome. Suddenly our world has become normal again. We get introduced to a Camu drink (Red Berry) for breakfast and spread Peruvian Butter (mashed Avocado and lemon) on our toast. We shop at an Inca Market for goodies to take home and hear that our baby Grandaughter has been delivered safe and sound.
Lima is a green goddess in the middle of Sand, fed by 5 permanent rivers. The gardens of Lima are filled with bird sounds and visited by beautiful hummingbirds, busily drinking from the honeysuckle. I present our fabulous friends with a thank you and memento of our stay with them.
We need to return to France as our 90 days insurance/trip is up, but will return within 3 weeks to carry on.
As I write, I must explain that that didn’t happen. On the day we were due to fly back to Peru, B was rushed into hospital here in France for an emergency operation. He is now recovering, with absolutely no bike riding for 6 weeks. Travel plans are on hold.