I returned to the gas station in Chalten early the following morning to meet up with the truck that I heard could bring me, and maybe my bike, to Calafate in search of a bearing. It turns out that the truck was actually a dilapidated black Volkswagen hatchback that was missing most of the front-end bodywork. It wasn't going to Calafate either, but to Rio Gallegos, a larger town several hours further south.
Manuel, the cars owner, introduced himself and told me we'd be leaving around noon. He returned to his house and I took shelter from the rainy, windy, and cold weather, in a small room where the gas station attendant also took shelter between fill-ups. The same 10 tracks of Reggaeton from Don Omar and Daddy Yankee blasted from a pair of computer speakers, just as they had when I visited the day before, and probably had for the last year. Actually, ten tracks is a pretty good variety. I've been in countless other places throughout the journey, internet cafes, local eateries, etc, where a solitary track has played over and over again, and no one but me seems to take notice.
At noon, and with the beat of Reggaeton now deeply embedded in my brain, Miguel fetched me from the gas station, and he, his wife and three kids, and I, piled into the compact VW hatchback. Manuel is 26 years old as well, and as the family loaded into the car, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. I have received plenty of emails from people that say they admire my courage to do this trip solo, and countless locals have looked at me like I'm crazy, and then exclaimed that I have "cojones", while pretending to hold two imaginary basketballs. As I looked at another 26 year-old, married, and with three kids, ages four, six, and nine, I think that he is the courageous one, the one with "cojones": I know I'd be terrified if I were in his shoes!
The youngest boy road up front with the mother, and I shared the backseat with the six year-old boy and the nine year-old girl. My fellow backseat passengers stared at me awkwardly for the first ten minutes, but finally got over me, and fell asleep in the most contorted positions that only little kids can manage to bend themselves into, let alone sleep in. After two hours, they were awake again and getting fidgety. The youngest boy had climbed into the back seat as well, and enjoyed pulling the hair on my arms. The car was cramped, the heater on full blast, and the fidgety kids were starting to wear on me. Drastic times call for drastic measures, so I got the attention of all three kids and held both hands out in front of me. I held one over the other and "magically" pulled the tip of my right thump off. After a moment of complete silence and bug-eyes as the kids stared at me in disbelief, the backseat of the car erupted in panicked commotion, as the kids simultaneously alerted their parents of what had just happened: I guess the old separating thumb trick never made it's way to South America. "Otra Vez!" (Again!) exclaimed the children. I pulled the tip of my thumb off a couple more times and finally let them in on the big secret. Their attempt to replicate the trick kept them busy for at least 30 minutes, and was more entertaining for the little one than pulling the hair on my arms.
45 minutes later the kids were asleep again, and I only wished I could have relaxed enough to blink, let alone sleep. Two of the scariest moments of my trip have been when someone else was behind the wheel. The first was in Bolivia, when the van driver bringing us back to La Paz after mountain biking had really heavy eye lids. Now, Manuel was trying to set a land-speed record in a car that had no place going that fast. The suspension was shot, and even minor steering corrections would cause the car to sway back and forth and continue to sway back and forth long after the correction was made. The road was mostly straight, but as we approached curves, no attempt was made to slow down, and we repeatedly drifted into the outside lane with the tires threatening to break loose at any moment. I tried to sneak a peak at the speedometer, but it was broken. I was truly terrified. No one was wearing seat belts, and the youngest boy was laying above the back seat and on top of the luggage stuffed into the hatchback. The engine continued to scream at red-line, and I held the sides of the driver seat. As we rounded a downhill turn, even Manuel had a moment of panic, as the tightest line the car could hold, put us within inches of hitting the gravel in the opposing lane's shoulder. As Manuel struggled to keep us on the road, I was certain the tires would slip or that we would hit the gravel: either scenario would have sent us tumbling through the air in a roll-over that would make the nastiest Nascar crash seem like a fender-bender. Even Manuel had an "oh shit" look on his face when I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. As we crested the turn and fought centripetal force back into our lane, I thought a close call like that would finally get him to slow down. It didn't.
About 10 minutes later the front right tire exploded, presumably from overheating, and we slowly made our way to the shoulder. Thankfully it didn't explode in a turn because the 'tumbling through the air' outcome would apply there as well. The tire was shredded, and as we changed it I saw that the all the other tires had varying amounts of belt showing. The fact that we were running on an under-inflated spare and three other tires with exposed belts, all without a spare to fix another flat, did nothing to slow Manuel down. I casually talked about my observations hoping that he'd put it all together and take it upon himself to slow down: He didn't.
After five very long hours, and with less enamel on my teeth, we arrived in Rio Gallegos. By that time I had fully committed to taking a bus back to Chalten, regardless of the cost. It turns out that Manuel grew up in Rio Gallegos and worked at a motorcycle store there for several years. He brought me to an auto parts store and we bought the bearing I needed. I brought the cush-drive with me, so with the replacement bearing in hand, we went to his brother-in-law's house and used his workshop to change out the old with the new. I explained to Manuel that I was going to take the bus back to Chalten, citing that I wanted to get back as soon as possible and he wasn't going to be returning until late the following evening.
He brought me to the bus station and sorted out the tickets for me. As we parted ways I offered him gas money which he adamantly refused. Although the ride was terrifying, his willingness to help a complete stranger and want nothing in return, continues to restore my faith in humanity.
My bus north left at 8:30pm and arrived in Calafate at 1:00am. The bus connecting to Chalten left at 7:30am, so I decided to spend the night in the bus station. I had my sleeping bag with me, so I laid it out along the wall and made myself as comfortable as I could. Just as I started to doze, a police officer came over and shook my shoulder. "You need to sit up. You can't lay down." He didn't say I couldn't sleep there, simply that I had to sit up. I looked to my right and my left at the completely empty bus station and was a little baffled, but I obliged and turned my body perpendicular to the wall. My feet now extended out into the hallway and I elevated my head and shoulders slightly on my small day pack. "Is this OK?" I asked sincerely and surprisingly without a hint of sarcasm. He nodded his approval and walked away. I couldn't follow the logic behind his demand. I was tucked up against the wall and out of everyone's way before, but now I was a tripping hazard. This has been the case throughout the trip though. There basically hasn't been any rules for all the important things that can save lives: seat belts, speed limits, stop signs or street lights at four-way intersections. In the States we have rules and standards for everything. At gas stations we have to use 'gasoline approved' containers. Throughout Central and South America, you can put gas in anything, and a gas station attendant would probably fill a paper bag if I asked him to. Even when there are rules for the 'important' things, they are seldom enforced. Yet, the stupid, petty, and inconsequential rules are enforced to a T. Case in point, "You need to sit." Or in Peru, every gas station attendant, police officer, pedestrian, or oncoming car, would let me know at nausea that my headlight was on. (it's automatic so I can't shut it off) People would really get in a tizzy about my headlight being on and go to great lengths to tell me about it. I wish I could remember the even more ridiculous examples that beg the question, "Are you serious?"
I eventually scooted back up against the wall and officially began to lay down. At 3:30am I received another nudge, "You can lay here until six, but then you need to sit up again." I was happy with the compromise. I was up at 6:00, on the bus at 7:30, and back in Chalten at 10:30. I put the cush-drive back on the bike and headed south, back to to Calafate, only this time I'd spend the night in a tent.
I met another biker, Adam from the UK, at the campground in Calafate. He's in his 3rd year of an around-the-world trip. The following morning we got up at 6:00am so that we could arrive at the Perito Moreno Glacier before 8:00am and avoid paying the $20 entrance fee. I had no expectations for the glacier and thought I'd show up, think "That's a lot of ice!", take a picture, and leave. Instead, we spent over four hours admiring one of the most impressive sites I have seen on the trip. The glacier stands 200ft out of the water, and seems to go on forever. The face of it is over three miles long. What really impressed me was how active it was. It advances forward 2 meters everyday, causing huge chunks of ice to crash into the bay with thunderous crashes that thump against your chest, much like a shock-wave from a distant explosion. Even pieces that looked like snowballs, would hit the water with the sound of a gunshot. For it to be that loud and from so far away, those 'snowballs' were probably the size of Manuel's Volkswagen. When a whole 200ft section would fall, huge tidal waves would spread out in a ring and race away from the glacier. Being there also reminded me of why I've never gambled. Watching the glacier is really addicting, and it was hard to tear ourselves away, especially when a 200ft tall section looked so close to falling right in front of us. The concussion from that chunk would probably blow our hats off! As addicting as standing there was, at least I didn't need to keep putting money into it for the chance to hit it big. For anyone visiting the area, the Moreno Glacier is a definitely 'must-see' site!
The following day I left Calafate and road South to Rio Gallegos and into Chile. Since it's light out until 9:30 or 10:00pm, I can start my ride at noon and still get a full day's ride in. I made my way to the ferry that crosses the Straight of Magellan to Tierra del Fuego. I knew I'd be arriving there too late to cross, but planned to set up my tent somewhere around there for an early crossing the following day. About a mile from the turn-off for the ferry, my bike started to sputter and quit. What the...? My trip odometer read 155 miles, and I know I can go 225 miles when I'm riding at sea level. I unscrewed the gas cap and sure enough there was just a little gas splashing around. I leaned the bike to the left to get all the gas to that side, and turned the petcock to reserve. At the intersection, there was a large white house that belonged to a natural gas company. I pulled in to ask where the nearest gas station was and they said it was 30km (18 miles) down the road. I also asked if I could return there after I fetched gas and set up my tent in the yard for the night. They said yes and said I could take a shower and use the kitchen there as well.
I doubted I had enough gas to go 18 miles, but I needed to fill up one way or another, and I thought that the gas I had would get me most of the way there: I could always push it the last 3 miles if need be. I went for it, and 10 miles down the road I found out that I didn't have enough gas. With 8 miles between me and the town, I started pushing. How embarrassing! Nine-plus months on the road and I've never run out of gas. But now, and in Chile of all places... There was about an hour and a half of sunlight left, but now that I have a tent and sleeping bag, a night along the roadside is not a big deal at all, so there was no need to get to the next town, other than I needed to get there eventually to buy gas. A few cars passed, but my extended thumb didn't incite even a quick inquiry into my situation. 1.2 miles down the road, a green pick-up stopped and asked what was wrong. This is so embarrassing! We all had a laugh at my misfortune, and he took out a hose to siphon gas from his truck into my bike. As he was trying not to inhale a lung full of fuel, his wife offered me coffee from a thermos. He put two or three liters into my bike and wished me a great trip. I tried to give him money for the fuel, and he looked at me like I was crazy. I thanked him about a dozen more times for stopping and for offering me the fuel, and we went our separate ways. I later realized that trying to maintain 120kmh while riding head on into Patagonian winds was what ate up my fuel. Live and learn.
As I arrived in the deserted town of Estancia Gregorio, the town with the gas station, I saw a green KLR 650 parked in front of a house and with it's rear tire removed. No one was around, but I recognized that the bike belonged to Moe, a Canadian guy I first met with his friend Mike in Ecuador and again in Peru. While I was standing there, Mike crested the hill in front of me, and he had Moe's repaired tire strapped to the back. Moe came out of the house and we were all shocked by the chance reunion. The house was an eatery of sorts for some of the local natural gas miners, and the miners invited us in for dinner. We sat down to massive trays of roasted lamb and sausage. The miners kept our glasses full with Malbec. They told us there was a room with bunks in the back of the house and invited us to spend the night there, which we happily did.
The following morning Moe and Mike went in the opposite direction, and I made the ferry crossing to Tierra del Fuego. The first day was really rainy and cold, and I called it a night short of Ushuaia at a lakeside campground. The next day I made the last southerly ride of the trip to Ushuaia on an equally cold and rainy day. About 15 miles out of Ushuaia, the sky finally cleared and revealed a perfect day to hit the bottom of South America.
Pulling into Ushuaia was anti-climatic, but at least it's a pleasantly scenic place after the last couple days of complete nothingness. It wasn't until I was cooking dinner that night, when I glanced over to the map on my bike, that I realized the significance of it. I actually made it to the bottom of South America on a motorcycle! It's not only hard to believe that I'm here, but there's a part of me doesn't want to believe it. Believing it is accepting that the trip is over and that I've accomplished what I wanted to accomplish. With that being said, I'm very content and happy to be bringing the trip to an end. In reality, with a 3,200km (1,920 mile) ride North to Buenos Aires, the trip is far from over, but it certainly feels like it's over, and now it's a matter of ending it logistically. There are a few things to see on the way North on Ruta 3, but my mind has already started to shift to buying a plane ticket home and sorting out what I will do with the bike. Shipping it home is really expensive, but selling it probably won't be a legal option. We'll see what happens.
