The following morning we were on the road by 8AM and made it all the way through Tupiza to Villazon and the Argentinian border by 12:30. After a ridiculous wait to get through Bolivian immigrations, we crossed the bridge on our bikes into Argentina -- only to be told that we could not enter with the Bolivian registered bikes. We were gutted, and it seemed like our patience and expenditure had been for nothing. We crossed back into Bolivia with our tails between our legs (bribing our way to the front of the line) and found a cheap guesthouse. After some research on the internet we decided to give Chile a try.
The following morning we rode back to Tupiza, and then turned onto a rough 200km ´shortcut´ through the desert to Uyuni. I was really enjoying the ride through the spectacular scenery as if it would be my last time (which it would be if Chile did not let us in). I was also reflecting on life with the clarity and perspective availably only when sitting on a motorcycle speeding through the remote Bolivian altiplano. We made it to Uyuni in surprisingly decent time considering how bad the road was, then stocked up on fuel and food and hit the road again along the edge of the biggest salt flat in the world. Shortly afterwards it started to get dark, and we pulled off the dirt road onto a track that went behind a big hill. We startled a lone donkey which trotted off towards the center of the barren salt flat. I hope he is ok. We camped on sand at the begging of the salt flat and drank beers purchased at the last town, celebrating keeping the dream alive.
Changed our engine oil, tightened my drive chain and were on the road by 8:30 am. After stopping at most of the villages along the way to ask for directions, we made it to the border by 12:30. It was a strange barren place with a train graveyard and one employee at the immigration office. We then headed on to the Chile border post where we passed the lone, bored looking employee quickly and without difficulty; quite a contrast to our last attempt to cross a border in the bustle of Villazon. We then sped off whooping and punching the air in celebration. We were heading South on our bikes.
It was a rough dirt road through salt flats surrounded by epic volcanic mountains. Other than losing my gear changing peddle a few times and having to walk back to find it, we had no problems for almost 100 km - until we came to a police check-point. Apparently, we were supposed to have registered bikes at a different office at the border, although we were not informed of this by the immigration officer who saw our bikes. We were denied further passage and forced to re-trace our route to the border, despite having dangerously low fuel (the exact amount was unknown because the fuel gauge stopped working a long time before).
I ran out of fuel with 47 km to go (I had just passed a sign). I considered my options. I had a reserve tank which we guessed was one liter. If that was correct, and the pedometer was accurate, I could get only about 30 km. Then I would be stuck out on a salt flat for a night without food or money, and only about half a liter of water, probably alone (the others were riding ahead of me and I did not know what happened to them). I rode on a couple of kms to a salt mining depot, where a couple of salt miners with very thickly accented Spanish suggested I take a bus that would be arriving shortly to Calama, the nearest city with ATM´s and petrol stations. They did not think the border town had a petrol station, and the amount of US cash we had on us would unlikely buy us sufficient fuel to get to Calama anyway. So as the bus trundled towards us minutes later I made a quick decision, took my backpack off the bike, left the bike by the road so my friends might see it, and boarded the bus with money lent to me by the salt miners.
After being given money by the bus driver, navigating the public transport system and finding an ATM, I now had Chilean pesos. I sat down alone for Japanese food at about 10pm and ate for the first time since breakfast at 7:30 am. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I did not have that luxury. First, I tried to find a bus back for the next morning. The first company I enquired at, which was just closing, said they did not have services for the next three days over the Christmas break. The next office I found was closed, but asking around I found out that they usually have services at 5 AM in the morning. I would just have to turn up then and hope they had available seats. Next, I asked around to find the nearest petrol station, where I emptied distilled water bottles and filled them with fuel. Finally, I tried to find a place to sleep near the bus company office. The first hotel I asked at was full. The second, while usually reserved for workers, was willing to let me stay since it was now 11:30 PM and I would be leaving by 5 AM the following morning.
Luckily I had organized a wakeup call, because 5 AM Chile time was 4 AM according to my watch still set to Bolivian time. According to the bus driver, the service was sold out. But he told me to wait and see if any spaces became available. Just as the bus was about to leave, he apologized and told me it was not possible. There I was standing alone on the street at 5 AM in the morning with a backpack and two big bottles of petrol on the morning of Christmas Eve, hoping that my friends without food or water were ok. After explaining my situation again as best I could in broken Spanish, and then simply begging, he eventually relented and let me squish up front with him.
Three hours later I got off where I left my bike, and with huge relief saw the tents of my friends. I have them water and food (and some tinsel to decorate their bikes) and we shared the laughter of relief and then our stories. They had made it to the border (apparently the reserve tank is 2 L), where there was no petrol station but were able to buy some fuel from a holiday maker with a 4WD and a jerry can.
I topped up my bike with petrol then headed back to the border to do my paperwork. We then continued onto the police check point together, this time not even being stopped to check our paperwork. I had now done that stretch of road 5 times, twice on the bus and three times on the bike.
Speeding back towards town, I crossed a wet railway at speed, where the bike slipped out from under me and smashed into the ground. I had bailed on the bike and rolled a couple of times (all in slow motion of course) and got up totally un-injured despite a small scratch on me knee and some small tears on my gloves. The guys, who were riding directly behind me when it happened, could not believe I was not more hurt. The bike, however, had not faired quite so well. While it had miraculously avoided serious damage, one headlight and the rear vision mirror were smashed, the knee guard grills warped and the bolts snapped, and the handlebars slightly out of alignment.
Around this time Tom also realized he had a flat tire. Since he had already filled his bike with enough fuel that at least he could make it into the city, he borrowed my front wheel, and Nick my fuel from the bottles, and they left. I had a packet of biscuits, a bit of water, and lots of time to kill. Despite allegedly being the driest desert in the world (other than Antarctica), it decided on this moment to unleash a tempest on me. I set up my tent in the rain and sheltered until Tom came back 3 1/2 hours later.
We continued on through the monotonous moon like surface of grey rubble for a couple of uneventful hours. Eventually getting back onto paved road for the first time in days was nice though, as was the epic sunset over the desert.
We met up with Nick, checked into a cheap guesthouse and sat down together for Christmas Eve dinner. We had made it to Chile. We had water, food, fuel, money, shelter and ready access to more of all of the above.
Feliz Navidad
