Immediately after my last update, I was struck with some exotic strain of stomach bug.
Was it the Ñachi blood soup? Perhaps bad water or some suspect lettuce. Maybe I had just eaten more meat than my body could handle. It shall remain an unknown quantity, but ¡Dios Mio! did this savage disruption sap my strength. For three days after La Junta, I rolled feebly along and made aerobatic leaps from my bicycle to the bushes on the side of the road.

The view outside was in stark contrast to the storm inside

The view outside was in stark contrast to the storm inside

The bike seemed to feel sorry for my broken state and detached a second bottle cage in solidarity.

Felix having a sympathy failure

Felix having a sympathy failure

At Villa Santa Lucia I departed the Carretera Austral and headed East, back towards Argentina. The dirt roads were often steep and corrugated, the constant vibration shaking me like a gastrointestinal cocktail. Despite this, the scenery was amazing – plunging, forested ravines, blue skies and the raging Rio Futaleufú.

I made camp on this river, at a bend where the water churned and spiralled. The location happened to be an exit point for a rafting run and I met a group of South African river guides on the first day of the season.

kayakers

Some lekker water mate

Views near Rio Futaleufú

Views near Rio Futaleufú

At Futaleufú town, my front disc brake started singing and I found that the restoring spring had become entangled in the pads and disc. It was not a significant issue as I was carrying a spare, but it was frustrating because a bike mechanic had replaced this only a week or so before. In all likelihood it was probably a result of rough roads rather than human error.

I zipped down the hill from Futaleufú and crossed the border into Wales.

The Welsh Patagonian fusion of Guillermo Brown

The Welsh Patagonian fusion of Guillermo Brown

This queer corner of Patagonia around the town of Trevelin was populated by the Welsh and retains many aspects of the culture to this day. Signs in Welsh, Celtic architecture and pale skinned, blue eyed people abound.

I stayed in a winery on this first night back over the border; my host was Sergio and although he looked like a middle-aged English gentleman, he spoke almost no English. Friendly dogs ran around us as he showed me his vineyard, explaining that the roses at the end of each row of vines gave him clues about the soil chemistry.

vinetools

Felix and I getting down to business

vines

Senor woof explains roses and their application to soil chemisty

From this Welsh hamlet, I headed for Parque Nacionale Los Alerces. Upon entering the forest, it became clear that I was not yet out of the woods with regard to my sickness, and I was thankful for my amply stocked meds bag.

The road snaked through the green forest, skirting lakes and crossing rivers. On my second night in the Park, I camped with cycle tourists from Basque country and Trevelin. There was already a trout hanging in the tree, but upon my arrival, Ricardo set off with his rod and returned shortly after with a second fish.

trouting90

Kung Fu-ishing

We shared mate in the morning, and then I was back on the road North. At El Bolson, there are a number of breweries; sampling one at midday was my undoing and I made no further distance that day.

When I did get back on the bike, I met ‘Beat’ from Switzerland and his unusual bike. He pulled a thermos out and offered me a cup of his Rosehip tea; later a campground owner gave me some eggs for my dinner.

Beat and bike

Beat and bike

The last day on the road to Bariloche was awash with gold and yellow flowers and the air was fragrant with the scent of freshly cut pine trees.

Just, like, mellow out man

Just, like, mellow out man

In Bariloche I edited the first video of the trip, caught up on some life admin and waited for Jesse; we would share the ride to San Martin de los Andes and then Christmas. I picked up a Santa hat and we decorated our bikes with festive cheer.

Papa Noel sportif

Papa Noel sportif

The road between Bariloche and San Martin is known as the Camino de los Siete Lagos (7 lakes). We took our time here, cycling short distances each day, camping on the shores of lakes and feasting on cheeses and cured meats. I absent-mindedly checked my odometer at the last camp before San Martin and found it on precisely 3000km.

lakecamp

In San Martin, we shared Christmas eve with other travelers at the hostel, cooking asado and watching the fireworks at midnight. Santa threw lollies from a fire truck and I threw out belongings that I no longer wished to carry.

Feliz Navidad

Feliz Navidad

santa

On Christmas day, we relaxed on the lake shore, caught too much sun and made preparations for the next leg. Boxing Day morning we bid each other adieu and set off.

My goal was a camp ground at the Argentine border, some 115km of riding. The road surface was good; I had a slight tail wind and was hungry to chew up some kilometres.

It was thus disappointing at roughly 30km to hear an almighty bang, lose control of my bike and crash onto the road. The sidewall of my tyre totally failed, the tube had bulged through and exploded.

On the side of the road I prepared a tyre boot out of cardboard, inner tube and tape, then installed a new tube and wrapped the whole lot in duct tape. Easing back out onto the road, I sat well back in my seat, barely resting on the handlebars in an effort to keep weight off the damaged tyre.

tyre1

Tube gotta be kiddin’ me!

My options began to take shape in my mind. Would I find a tyre in the next small town? Return to San Martin where there are bike shops? Try to ride on a repair job? Order new ones to a location on the road ahead? Hitchhike to….? My tyres are 700c (or 28”) and are not common in South America. I thought of the man at the hostel in San Martin who offered to give us a lift to Chile in his ute.

The repair lasted to Junin de los Andes, but had started to bulge. On a side street, I miraculously found a bike repair shop. No 700c tyres. I was directed to a gomeria (car tyre service), from which I saw other cyclists departing. They said they could help, but made me wait for half an hour while they chatted. When they did come to the bicycle, they took one look and said no.

However they pointed me to yet another bike shop. I walked my wounded steed over and found it closed. Spirits low, I went to a hardware store to buy more duct tape and got to work on a better repair. I incorporated a steel hose clamp, the remains of an inner tube and more tape, which resulted in a pretty reliable fix.

tyre2

Ever hopeful, I rode back to the closed bike shop to check for any change in fortune. A man washing his car in the driveway said it was closed for another 2 days. As I walked away, I saw a stack of old tyres discarded behind a house. I went over and asked the owner if I could look for one – he angrily told me no. Then he said ‘tengo viente ocho nuevo’, I have a new 28.

He was the owner of the bike shop and decided to take pity on me. I could have jumped for joy.

I can be your hero, baby

I can be your hero, baby

On the way out of town, I stopped at a fruit store and ran into the man from the hostel who had offered me a lift. Would I have taken the lift if I had seen him half an hour earlier?

Back on the road, my goal of 115km was looking distant, but conditions remained good. I rode on the repaired tyre, aiming to replace it at the end of the day. So enthusiastic was my riding, that I took a wrong turn and climbed a hill before realising my mistake. On the way back, I ran into Jesse who had made the same mistake.

Once on the correct path, Volcan Lanin loomed ahead.

lanin

Volcan Lanin

I made it to about 105km for the day before the road turned to dirt and I decided to call it quits, camp on the river and change my tyre. The repair job had lasted over 60km.

 

Volcano camp

Volcano camp

Crossing the border the next day was the most comprehensive experience yet. They actually x-rayed all my panniers instead of casually waving me through. I rode a dedicated bike lane into Pucon and celebrated the success of the prior day by purchasing empanadas, chocolate and the elusive Peanut Butter.  I ordered new tyres to be delivered to Santiago and decided I would try and make the Pacific Coast for NYE.

Volcan y falcon

Volcan y falcon

Leaving Pucon, the environment suddenly felt sub-tropical. Ferns and greenery burst out everywhere and the air was heavy and sweet with the fragrance of blooming flowers. I pulled out of the harsh sun to buy fruits and a wheel of cheese.

cheese

I found a campsite on the side of the road and was almost bowled over by the friendly dogs. One of them was so happy to meet me, that he took a whiz on my panniers.

Scene of the crime w/ perpetrator

Scene of the crime w/ perpetrator

Next day was spent on the highway. A boring ride, but the kilometres melted away. I stopped for a local drink called mote con huesillo and the stall owner insisted I have a photo in the stall.

Look at me, I'm the cheese vendor now

Look at me, I’m the cheese vendor now

I found a great river campsite for the night, but had to cross the flimsiest bridge of the trip so far. I’d done over 150km on this day and there was some concern my weary legs would topple me over the rail.

Indiana Jones eat your heart out

Indiana Jones eat your heart out

The next evening I found myself in the town of Santa Juana with nowhere to stay. I bumped into two sensibly dressed American girls with Hermana name tags and asked if they knew a place to stay. They rang someone on their phone (speaking much better Spanish than I) and I quietly hoped that I would get to camp out with some latter day saints.

We walked down the street and stopped at the first store we saw. They asked the woman at the counter if I could stay, and she promptly refused.

“How long have you guys been in Santa Juana”
“Oh we arrived today!”

I thanked them for their help and was on my way. I stopped at the Carabineros who directed me to some Cabanas and said it would be possible to camp. It was possible, but the price was $40.

I tried a few other stores for advice, but eventually rolled out of town to find a bush camp. I took a dirt side road, but turned around when I came to private land. Coming down the road was an energetic man in a purple polo shirt who shook my hand and enlisted himself as my interpreter.

He took me to a house and, upon finding it empty, whipped out his phone and started making calls. We ventured further into the farm, passing fields rich with crops and vegetables.

In one such field we found Don Antonio, the land owner. He eyed me with a cautious look, but my interpreter sung my praises and promised that I would be on my way in the morning. He gave the nod, we shook hands and my guide and I were off through still more fields.

Eventually, the fields gave way to the river. The air was cool in the shade of willow trees and the crunch of poleo (pennyroyal) underfoot sent fragrant waves into the air. Across the river, horses grazed on the edge of the bank. It was muy tranquilo.

tranquil

Muy tranquilo

I shook hands with my interpreter/guide and finally found his name to be Juan Carlo. I was about to set up my tent, when the majesty increased still further and the horses forded the river.

How’s the serenity?

How’s the serenity?

As I was leaving the next morning, I was met by Juan Carlo on an electric scooter and summoned to the homestead. Don Antonio was all smiles and they showed me local plants, gave me tea, bread, eggs and let me try harina tostado and merken. They took great delight in my explanation of the English meaning of that last word.

Don Antonio and Juan Carlo

Don Antonio and Juan Carlo

It was a short ride to the coast, but I had a very steep climb and the full force of the sun was out. I walked my bike in many sections and as I neared the pass, I saw a car parked on the side of the road.

A middle-aged man appeared from behind the car wearing a baseball cap and G-string. He was glistening with sweat.

“Are you tired?”
“Ah… not really, thanks”
“Would you like some water?”
“I have some thanks” (indicating my bottles)
“Me too” (producing a clear bottle filled with some pale, yellowish liquid”

As I left, he turned 90 degrees and flexed his buttocks.

In Playa Blanca, I set camp and headed down to the beach bars to enjoy a few micheladas.

camp view

NYE camp spot

The waiter immediately started biting his lip when he saw me, and every time he returned to my table his aggressive groping increased. Starting with a tap on the thigh, he increased his game to firmly grasping my upper leg and sustaining eye contact.

Since there were no other customers, he took a seat with me and mustered the courage to ask if there was any possibility of us spending the night together. I let him down gently, paid for my beer and departed, but not before he asked for a quick hug.

Michelada, michelada, no molestar nada

Michelada, michelada, no molestar nada

Back at camp, a Canadian cycling couple had arrived and we shared stories and beers while the sun set on 2015.

Ciao 2015

Ciao 2015

We lazed by the beach on New Year’s Day, drank a few more beers and generally relaxed. The beach was packed with people, the Chilean holiday season having apparently commenced.

On the 2nd, we departed and I continued North along the coast. A local kid in the street stopped me and excitedly told me that he had made his own panniers and was setting off for the Carretera Austral in a few weeks.

I stopped in a plaza in Concepcion for lunch, which seemed very busy in contrast to my relatively rural two and a half months in Patagonia. As soon as I got back on the bike, there was a rush of air and my rear tyre deflated. My second tyre had failed in the space of a week.

After repairing the tyre as best I could, I found all the bike shops closed and decided to just push on. Another steep climb caused two cars to stall on the road next to me as I rode up.

I run this town

I run this town

My map said there would be a campground in Tome, but there was only a dirt path with syringes. I could find no accommodation, and the Carabineros were no help.

I stopped at a fire station and asked for some water, my bottles having been empty for some time. They invited me to stay, gave me a sandwich/hamburger the size of a Frisbee, let me use their showers, washing machine and wifi. It was like Manna from Heaven.

They invited me to stay another day, and as I write, am sitting at the large wooden desk in their assembly hall. They certainly live up to their unofficial slogan of ‘Chicos Buenos’!

bomberos

From here, I will ride up the coast to Valparaiso and Santiago before crossing the Andes to wine country, a sprint across the pampas and Buenos Aires.

 


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