We cross the border from Chile into Argentina. My first border-crossing! We spend an hour here with friendly police. There are no problems; the police are just curious and interested in our travels. We’ve had sunshine all day.
A man in a small shop by the side of the road shouts us coffee, wine, and sausages that remind me of hot dogs. Then, we’re off to Río Gallegos, better weather, and a first sighting of the South Atlantic Ocean.
Trevor splits here for Buenos Aires. What a relief! We were a bit overloaded, and I was getting fed up of singing Waltzing-bloody-Matilda every time we stopped.
The countryside is very barren; it has no greenery, no trees, and no livestock. The first bit of wildlife I see is a bird resembling an ostrich pounding the center of the road, gaining on it at 60 mph, then pulling a 90 degree turn into the dust and disappearing very fast. I also catch the comical sight of mouse-sized iguanas running across the road on their hind legs, like baby dinosaurs.
I’m relieved to be on my own. The road is getting wider, but it’s still a rough ride. I’ve already had a few punctures, one of them happening just as I rode onto new bitumen seal. It’s a very hot and barren area and, unfortunately, I just lost Dad’s umbrella, so I have no shade.
I decide to put in my new spare tube and, lots of sweat later and pumping away, I notice that nothing is happening. I give up and take the tube out, only to find a defect hole the size of my little fingernail. Out with the patches again. I learned from the locals to carry a needle and thread, and to stitch a split before you patch it. It works!
I reach Comodoro Rivadavia on the coast, an interesting town with lots of old cars on the road, including a 1950 RM Riley, the same as I left at home. This is a bit of an oil area, so the roads are good, and, like most towns, the streets are all one-way—a good system, as traffic rules don’t seem to exist.
I spend a few nights here, and a friendly motorcycle shop owner, Albert, assists me with a bike tidy-up, new chain, and muffler repair. Now I’m ready for my next stage: west, inland to the lake district and the Andes.
Very little English is spoken outside the main centers. The motorbike is a bit of a novelty and usually draws a crowd, and with my Spanish almost zip, storytelling is a bit slow.