A Day in the Life - 17 March 2012

I woke up at about 8AM, at first disorientated, but then remembering I was free-camping in a valley near a thermal hot spring, just out of Juljuy, Argentina. It had been my 24th night since leaving Ushuaia in Southern Argentina, and I had camped at almost as many places. I had my usual breakfast of cold porridge, packed up my tent and my bag, and secured it to the back of my motorcycle. I then oiled the chain and adjusted its tightness. Only the previous day I had lost a screw holding the rear wheel on its bracket, and was using an old screw that was severely warped from a separate incident when the chain came off on a gravel road. I could not screw it in past the bend in the screw, and thus I was going to have to make do with a very loose chain. All going well, I would be in Bolivia today.

After only a couple of attempts on the kick start (the battery and electric starter had given out on me a week or two earlier), I was on the road. Within an hour, the lush sub-tropical jungle gave way to epic desert canyons peppered with huge cacti. This UNESCO world heritage area (whatever that means) had bizarre patterns scoured into the canyon walls and such a variety of distinct and striking colours in the stone.

I stopped at a service station and filled my bike with only enough gasoline to get to Bolivia, where fuel is subsidised and about half the price. I produced from the pocket on the inside of my leather jacket a banana which I had purchased the previous day. Experience showed that such precautions were necessary. Just as I was about to go, a guy rolled in with a big BMW touring motorcycle, and a woman on the back. They had the full outfits and helmets complete with radios. So I went to talk to them (in my broken Spanish of course). They were Argentinians from a nearby city and were riding only for the day. I told them about my travels (over 15,000 kms) and showed them my bike (150CC Chinese made). They said I was Loco. 


As I continued to climb in altitude, everything started to become more and more Bolivian. By the time I had reached the sparse Altiplano, where even the cacti cannot survive, I was basically back in Bolivia: women in Bowler hats carrying large loads, broken down buses destined for Bolivia and little street vendors and markets everywhere.

After some difficulty at the border, I actually crossed into Bolivia. Not only was it the slowest and worst organised border crossing I have ever encountered, at first an armed guard refused me entry. I could not produce the entry paper for my Bolivian registered bike because to get the entry paper I needed to show them the exit paper, which I had never been given. After quite some time of waiting for the boss, I was able to explain the situation and convince them to let me and my bike back in. My Spanish was being tested. This was also the border which, three months earlier, on the Argentinian side, had refused me and the guys I was travelling with entry with our Bolivian bikes. Instead, we crossed over and travelled South in Chile until we were able to pass into Argentina at a small border post in the far South.


With much relief I got some Bolivian cash from an ATM (I had only about $12 left, and Bolivia is known for unreliable ATMs). Back in cheap Bolivia I was rich again. I treated myself to an ice cream, a freshly squeezed orange juice, empanadas, fries, chicken and a soft drink.

After a while asking around, I was able to locate a motorbike workshop where I could get a new screw to hold my rear wheel on. The shop keeper next door said it would be re-opening soon after the lunch break, so I waited. After a while I asked another shop keeper, who called them and told me they would not be open until the the following day. I was feeling impatient, so decided to continue on with my dodgy screw.


After buying some food for a night of camping, I continued on. In some tiny village there was a big soccer match going on, so I pulled over to check it out. One of the many benefits of travelling with your own vehicle. I then continued on to a small river that was packed with kids frolicking in the water and adults just sitting around in the sun with food and drinks. Ten buses and a host of private cars were there this Saturday afternoon. I really liked the vibe so decided to camp there rather than press on. Waded in the creek (it was a hot day) I indulged in some serious people-watching. The first day of high altitude in a long time left me panting if I walked too fast. 

Lying on a grassy bank I smoked a joint that I had smuggled across the border (the last of a small stash purchased weeks earlier) and watched the people return to the buses as the sun went down. They took so long. After some people had been sitting in the bus for over an hour, a small group would come trudging around the corner, which I though must surely be the last people. But as they neared the buses, another group would appear. There were several times when I was sure that these people must be the last, but they just kept coming. At first the bus drivers took it patiently, but by the end they were shouting, honking the horn and edging the bus away a couple of metres at a time. A group of young teenage girls started some chant to pass the time. A good couple of hours after the buses started leaving, when only one of the ten buses remained, and had edged its way towards the highway rather than waiting in the parking area, the last people came. I heard the girls excuse (spoken in Spanish): ¨I had to pack up the tent.¨


I had just seen a kid hoon done a rough hill on his motorbike, and I wanted to try it. Especially since only that day I had decided for sure that I would sell the bike when I got back to Sucre. I put on my leather jacket and boots and went to kick start the bike. Of course it did not work. So I pushed it halfway up the hill and roll started it instead. I blasted up the hill and continued on down the little dirt track. I then came hooning down the hill, cutting off the track and riding over grass and dirt. I was having too much fun, so I continued out onto the highway, cruising the almost deserted desert road as the last of the purple from sunset faded from the sky. When I passed a little Bolivian couple trudging along carrying huge loads on their backs it certainly dampened my spirits, but I felt more grateful for my position than guilty for theirs.


When I pulled off the highway back down to the river in the dark, I was abruptly confronted by a herd of cows in the way. After they went around, I parked my bike and set up my tent. With my head torch I looked around for the empanadas I got for dinner, but found only the Muffin that was in the same plastic bag. Whether they were pinched by hungry little hands when I left my bag unattended or I just lost them I never found out, but my dinner consisted of a half packet of biscuits. I had another packet of emergency ration biscuits which I had bought in Ushuaia and carried for 23 days and almost 6,000 kms, but I wanted to make it back to Sucre with them untouched.


First I marked off another day of traveling on my map. Then I lay on my bike with my head propped up on the dashboard and watched to epic starts as I reminisced about the incredible trip that was coming to an end. All going to plan, I would cover the remaining 450 kms to Sucre tomorow and end my journey with the motorbike which had begun 89 days and almost 16,000 kms earlier. Shooting stars blaised accross the crystal clear sky. I then crawled into my warm sleeping bag and fell fast asleep.