Caught in the Act of Being a Moonrider

Buenos Dios, Señor Tortuga

Screeech! Alex needed (or wanted) one more day in Buenos Aires. He was really enjoying being with his family, and as word got out that he was back, old friends from his childhood came out of the woodwork to welcome him home. Also, he was close to making some good contacts about his motorcycle and needed the day to finish up making calls. Besides, if the others decided to leave anyway, he knew he could catch up, having done it before.

David and Gary agreed he was capable of catching up, but still preferred to leave as a group. Alex was adamant, so the maps were pulled out and a suitable destination was found that David and Gary felt was a respectable two day drive yet still close enough for Alex to make in one day.

Before leaving however, Gary needed to change his oil and fix his tire. Two friendly local shops gave him all the assistance necessary to complete the tasks. At the gomeria (tireshop), the culprit of both the recent flat and the one in Brasil looked to be a faulty tube. The new hole was even in the patch from the first repair. Gary replaced his worn tube with a new one. To his dismay, the spare Slime he'd brought from the U.S. had been bounced around so much in his cases that the green liquid had transformed into its reparative fibrous state, and he couldn't get it into his tube. The tire repairmen stared curiously at the useless pool of green liquid lying on their shop floor, but they were more amused than angry at the mess.

The last stop before leaving Buenos Aires was the motorcycle shop to buy the tank bag David had tracked down the day before. Once again, the map was useless in the maze of poorly marked, one-way streets, but they eventually found it thanks to the technique of asking every couple of blocks. The tank bag was perfect, much bigger than Gary's previous one, and in return for a small discount, David and Gary agreed to put one of the shop's stickers on his cases. Oh, the lengths we go to to save a few bucks.

Almost two thousand miles away, and already a sign!

Route 3 wasn't too hard to find, and civilization quickly disappeared and the pampas began. So did the wind. Fighting the gusts and riding more often at an angle than straight upright, David and Gary sped through the unbelievably flat terrain. The police stationed at the frequent checkpoints hardly gave them a second glance, an unexpected attitude considering the warning we'd received in Buenos Aires. Only one stopped us to give a reprimand for going so fast. If he had any intention of trying to give the bikers a ticket or solicit a bribe, Gary's blank stare ("no entiendo") surely dissuaded the effort.

As the sun went down behind the distant horizon, the hills of Sierra de la Ventana rose up to break the monotony of the pampas and offer a good place to find a camping spot. The KLR's needed fuel, Gary had just gone into reserve, and he and David pulled into a gas station at a lonely intersection to fill up. The restaurant next door beckoned them to get some food before camping since they didn't feel much like cooking for themselves.

The kind men working in the restaurant said David and Gary could camp right there next to the building under a small grove of trees, and they graciously accepted the offer. Knowing they didn't have too far to go to camp, about 50 yards, they hung out in the restaurant for a while watching TV. The Sub-20 (under 20 years old) South American Futbol Championship game was on, and they cheered Argentina on to an exciting win over Ecuador. Whether the manager of the restaurant was happy to see foreigners rooting for his country or because David obliged him with some American coins for his collection, they knocked a few dollars off the bill. And David didn't even ask!

It took a while for the truck traffic to die down on the road just beyond the not-too private campsite, providing enough quiet to fall asleep. In the middle of the night, the clear sky filled with clouds and a light rain began to fall. Cold, half-naked, and hardly awake, David and Gary scrambled to put the rain cover on the tent, then dropped quickly back to sleep. Ah, the joys of camping. Actually, it was nice to be back in our little North Face home, not having done so since the Peruvian coast.

Miles - 330

The rain was still lightly falling when David and Gary dragged their tired bodies from the warm nylon cave. They packed up quickly and had some media lunes (croissants) and café con leche (coffee with milk) in the restaurant. No discount.

Gary's bike wouldn't start again. The gas station next door provided shelter from the worsening rain to pull off the tank and scrape the built-up residue off the sparkplug. This sparkplug had only a few days of use on it, and David worried that it signaled a bigger problem. Trying not to think about it too much, Gary turned his ignition key with held breath and the bike started right up.

The map offered a couple different options for getting through Sierra de la Ventana and they picked one at random. Bad choice. The asphalt ran out in a small town in the hills and in its absence was the darkest, slickest mud we'd ever seen. It wasn't deep, in fact the road was pretty hard-packed, but the rain conspired with the dirt to create a thin, completely gripless veneer. There were no rocks to aid in traction, nor a shoulder to ride on. A car had just come the other way, so after briefly contemplating the option of backtracking, David and Gary moved forward.

Bad choice #2. About a half-mile down the slightly slanted road, Gary's back end decided to become his front end, gracefully and effortlessly swinging around. As he saw the Rob Roy case afixed to his luggage rack staring him in the face, Gary knew it would all be over quickly. (Is it just me, or is some impish patron saint of motorcyclists out to see how much abuse I can take? - Gary) The slow speed slide took bike and rider about 20 yards down the slick surface on their backsides. As usual, no damage was done. David agreed it was better to admit defeat and turn back. They both wiggled and wobbled the half-mile back to pavement. Oh, where are knobbies when you really need them?

The day went from cold and wet to sunny and warm and back again several times on the several hundred miles to Las Grutas. The only thing constant was the wind and the scenery. The wind actually got stronger the further south we went, though still not at dangerous levels; the scenery got increasingly flatter and boring, if that is even possible. There was literally nothing out here. Small towns marked on the map were nothing more than a small collection of buildings - a gas station and restaurant or two. In between these small towns were huge expanses of uninhabited scrubland.

A few roadside push-ups to work out the kinks

The amazing thing was that barbed-wire fences ran parallel to the road the entire way, meaning it was not unused public land but private grazing land for a handful of extremely wealthy families. The cows, sheep, and horses must have loved the room they had. We were lucky to see a dozen animals in as many miles.

David and Gary reached the small coastal town of Las Grutas a little later than they had planned. The problems of the morning had put them on the road late, and the distance to Las Grutas was greater than expected. The first stop in town was a parking lot overlooking the beach; the flat nothingness of the blue ocean was a welcome change of scenery from the flat nothingness of the pampas (interesting change of perspective). Considering the late hour, they wondered if Alex wasn´t already waiting for them at the pre-selected hotel.

Sure enough, he was, and very worried to boot. He´d driven twice as far in one day, and when he pulled into Las Grutas two hours ago, he couldn´t believe we weren´t there yet. The friendly owner of the hotel and her two daughters, wondering who this rough-looking biker hanging out on their property was, cautiously approached. Alex´s winning demeanor (and fluent Spanish) quicky put them at ease. They assured him no one similarly dressed with identical bikes had shown up yet. With nothing to do but worry, Alex accepted an invitation to chat and drink maté (what else).

Finally, he heard the familiar sound of a KLR motor and ran out, overjoyed and relieved to see his faithful companions again. His worry had been compounded by David and Gary´s failure to call him the night before and update him on their progress. He´d assumed they´d been unable to find a working phone, but his imagination ran wild when we weren´t in Las Grutas. How sweet of him to worry so.

Alex didn´t need any convincing to spend the last of the day´s light on the beach. As we drove down the main drag, we caught the eye of a reporter and a photographer for the Rio Grande regional newspaper. Again, we whipped out the trusty fact sheet in Spanish and surprised them with a ready-made story. They snapped a couple pictures, thanked us, and left. Short and direct, just how we like our interviews. Quite a crowd had gathered around us, their curiosity and boldness equalling the Andean Peruvians. We gently pushed our way through and out to the beach.

Taking in the local sites, Moonrider Style!

Las Grutas is named after the formation of natural grottos at the top of the beach, below cliffs that the town is prched upon. We rode the Beefers down a steep incline and out onto the flat sand. David was dying for a shot of the bikes in front of the grottos, so we maneuvered the bikes in front of the shallow caves. When he dismounted his bike, his feet began to slide around on the incredibly slick rock surface, doing a very respectable James Brown impression (get wet, in the hot tub!) Be careful, guys, it´s slick, he warned, getting back on his bike after the photo. The rocks were covered with a thin layer of lichen and moisture making for a frictionless surface, much like the mud earlier in the day.

Not two seconds later, barely having let his clutch out, the impossible happened: David fell! Not to be outdone, Gary went over less than a second later. Alex was a bit higher up where it wasn´t so slick and was spared the embarrasing experience. The stunned onlookers quickly rushed to our aid, and we dragged the bikes to the sand. Our intention was to prop up the bikes and maybe go for a walk or even a swim, but we were immediately mobbed by beachgoers. Literally, we couldn´t even move two feet from the bikes.

The crowd caught the attention of the beach police. This time, ¨no entiendo¨ didn´t work so well. In Spanish so slow and clear only a Martian wouldn´t have understood, and even in a little bit of broken English, they informed us we were somewhere we shouldn´t be. We bluffed for a few as long as we could that we were taking pictures for an article in the local newspaper (a half-truth?). David backed up the bluff by actually running around taking pictures. Many of the people around us were also taking pictures, having sons and daughters pose with us and the bikes. How many unknown photo albums would we be appearing in, we wondered? Finally, we admitted defeat and rode (slowly and carefully) back off the beach.

Another travelling biker and his girlfriend told us about a campground outside of town. After a bite to eat, we went to the campsite. We were shocked to learn it would cost $4 per person just to pitch a tent. David almost bailed and took his sleeping bag across the street to the empty dunes, but he finally agreed to fork over the dough. At least this way he could take a hot shower.

When I said, "Watch my back," I didn't mean literally!

Gary stayed back at the campsite and did some writing in the tent. The faint glow of the computer screen attracted a swarm of moths and other flying insects that coated the outside of the tent. An inspìring situation to churn out some journals. That and the Bon Jovi coming from a nearby camper´s car stereo.

David and Alex went back into town to hook up with the family at the hotel we used as our meeting place earlier. Still hungry, everyone went out for pizza and, guess what, maté. The girls promised to save a copy of the Rio Grande newspaper in two days and send it to his relatives in Buenos Aires; more than likely, we would be in another region by then and unable to find the paper. When they came back to the campsite, the computer was shut down (batteries ran out), the swarm of bugs was gone, and the Bon Jovi music had thankfully been turned off. Good night.

Miles - 389

Back in La Paz we started adding these little doggy stickers to our bike's fairings as if we were fighter pilots in a war against a mortal enemy. Thankfully we have had no more road-kill. At this time we'd like to say a little prayer for their little doggy souls. RIP.

Accidents happen