We've holed up here at the beach for a week of relaxation. With the rain pissing down and ambient maximum of not more than 12 degrees C there aren't a lot of other options. Despite 15 hours on a plane there is no escaping this is still the southern hemisphere in July. The sun has made one appearance on it's own "Sunday" to the enjoyment of the locals. La Serena could be described as the Noosa of Chile though relatively it lies a little further south - we are less than 500km north of the capital Santiago about Northern NSW coast equivalent. The "Gold Coast" of Chile title goes to Viña del Mar only just north of the capital and within a 100km's reach on a weekend.
Here the beach is good, wide and clean though the sands are just on the grayer side of golden. Though the weather may not be optimal the primal attractions of the seaside remain. Time to stroll at leisure, the ocean wash lapping beside your heels, the rhythmic soliloquy of the waves massaging away your fatigue, while the accumulated concerns and frustrations of the last 3 years seep out, burying themselves with one last squeak of the grains between the toes. We had only been in residence long enough for the first stout bottle to be half full when a minor earth tremor induced rhythmic movement of tribal proportions to overcome my bodice. Within the blink of an eye two gringos were out on the garden grass while the locals remained indoors probably shrugging off the shudder like granddad's occasional twinge of rheumatics. We returned cautiously to the sanctity of our accommodation where the only noticeable change was the rejuvenation of the head on my glass.
Best return to the beginning and for those not so acquainted a short explanation. My partner Mary Ann and I first developed an inquisitive desire to visit South America in the early 1990's. We planned to take our own "long service leave" - Mary Ann was about to leave the world of corporate architectural management to establish her own practice and I had had enough of running my own Optometrical practice for several years without a significant break. Only slight complication was that I can't be happy anywhere for long, even on holiday without a motorcycle. Mary Ann doesn't ride so that meant two up on the one bike. During our preparations for the first '96 visit which included several semesters of P/T Spanish and copious reading of guide books, it became obvious that many of the roads in the countries we intended to traverse would be difficult. Add to this my modest levels of both fitness and riding skills throw in a bike big enough to take two large gringos and luggage to live out of for several months and you begin to create a monster. Enter the Purple Swinehunt! Now I won't bore those of a non-motorcycling bent (bloody weirdoes!) with the technical details of this mongrel beast (this may follow in as an aside if I get around to it). Sufficient to say that this highly modified BMW R100 G/S remains an enigma - the best bike for the job though grossly inadequate in most terms - engineering, reliability, serviceability to name but a few. The swinehunt has however taken us through Chile, Argentina, Bolivia and Peru ('96), through México (99) and is again with us on this trip. The independence of our own transport has allowed so many wonderful experiences unobtainable on the back packer bus routes but yet I cannot bring myself to like the Swinehunt - the closest is grudging respect when, sometimes only by both being off the bike and pushing with the engine running we have conquered some thin dotted line on the map marked "seasonal track" that would defeat all but the best prepared 4x4 outfit. Enough `motopsychology!
Arrived Santiago airport Friday 12/7/02 an hour late at 1 pm. Next morning we were out there again this time at the freight terminal with 3 litres of battery acid and 4 of petrol. I'd been assured on making inquiries that all bureaucracies and officials required for extraction of my cargo would be on duty all day on a Saturday. A tinge of skepticism was hard to repress! We trundled from one LanChile airfreight office to another, troubled by the radical Chilean accent - speak at the speed of sound and cut the last syllable of half the words. Hasn't anyone told them that Castellano is phonetic! Then with an ever enlarging wad of paperwork we were directed to the Customs office. Here we were informed that the form for temporary registration of a motor vehicle had to be sourced from the customs office at the passenger terminal - how convenient! This would normally involve walking through a gate to reach but on a Saturday all gates are firmly locked involving a 2 km walk around the dividing fence riding gear in hand, to end up a few meters from where you started. When we did return to where we had entered the country the day before the external door had a large "cerrado" (closed) sign hanging behind the glasswork.
I'd been trying to retain my cool, as you do as a mark of respect to another culture and as the guide books continually insist when dealing with officials anywhere. While I was `losing it' Mary Ann found a way past security back into the arrivals customs office where after what seemed like an hour we finally had the last vital piece of paper. By mid afternoon and $US65 storage (2 days!) later I was nervously pressing the starter of the Swinehunt. There was a hesitant gurgle, a flatulent hiccup, the cranking speed began to slow, the dash lights began to dim. Just as I was contemplating push starting the bloody thing with a new but flat battery a cylinder caught. There was a moment where the battle between the electric starter + half the motor vs the compression on the yet to fire cylinder, was in the balance. Then the flat drone of completed ignition rang out across the tarmac apron. We were here and we were ready for the next 3 months!
It is easy to forget in the six years since we were last here what an impressive site for a city Santiago is. At 600 m altitude at the foot of the central Andean Cordillera the skyline is dominated 270 degrees by glistening snow topped peaks. Neither the multi-story buildings nor smog of the winter atmospheric inversion can dilute or compete with the surrounding grandeur. On the Monday we set off north. At first on the Pan American highway the major route linking the south of Chile with Peru, Ecuador and finally Colombia, multi-lame for much of it's 6000 km. After 2 toll booths within 30 km we forked of to the north west on the route to Argentina. The central valley mist/smog stayed with us for 70 km or more not actually obscuring, rather tingeing our views like a light neutral density filter. The topography being uneven and the barrenness of the hills contrasting with the green oases of the irrigated valleys. Mary Ann had mapped out a route to `test the swinehunt within a reasonable distance of the capital' so that theoretically we had the services of a BMW motorcycle dealer in easy enough reach. When previously tested Latin American dealers had proved to be fairly useless - orientated toward 4 wheelers of the same make and not quite sure what to do with motorcycles despite always having a couple for display and sale on the showroom floor.
Thus we quickly found ourselves on minor roads rumbling through mine after mile of fruit orchards and rows of grape vines. After a quick stop for a beverage at a pleasant small village the road chosen quickly turned to 2nd rate dirt and began to chase the sky in a series of rutted rocky strewn uphill tight 180? switchbacks. I was pleased to note that the capabilities of the bike to handle rough roads were noticeably improved, due to suspension changes. This was some consolation for our lack of preparation in terms of fitness and chronic mental fatigue. Maintaining full concentration was still difficult. In the third of several tunnels the headlight failed. This mightn't sound like a problem if you are under the Yarra in the Domain tunnel but the Chilean minor road variety is one car wide, unlit, rough, strewn with boulders and water traps. After about 50m trying to navigate with the intermittent faint snapshots given off by the indicators I tried high beam which of course worked - both high and low filaments don't blow at once. Told you I needed a holiday!
Things didn't quite work out with the itinerary stops the first night but on the next we found ourselves in the delightful town of Illapel. This had a quiet plaza but a bustling (for a small town) main street. On arrival we discovered that one of the racks that holds on the panniers had broken it's two mounting screws and though rail was still connected to the main framework, the weight of the pannier over rough roads had bent it out and down. Also a tyre lever, tied into position in the same area had dropped off along the way. Losing a tyre lever is a considerable blow. On a deserted road with a puncture you cannot address you could be stranded for days. Worse if at altitude the temperature can plummet overnight to -20? with accompanying life-risking hypothermia. So the circus of visiting the local hardware shops began. None of them could produce a tyre lever but was shore thew shop just down the road would have one. After a couple of laps of the local emporiums a chap in an auto accessory joint suggested the local blacksmith. These guys knocked one up from scratch to match the remaining within an hour - delivered still warm in my greasy palms, perfect!
After many more miles of fruit and grape orchards cosseted in irrigated river valleys, overlooked by thirsty rocky hills we crawled into the coast, slightly frozen by a cold snap at la Serena. Where the rain continues to fall. We awoke this morning to find the cabañas (bungalow/cabins) which are thankfully on meter high stumps, about to go underwater. All the other residents had moved out the previous evening, warned by the management that the waters were rising in Noahanian fashion. We had forgot to plug the line back into the back of the phone after logging on to collect e-mail with our mini-computer so were blissfully unaware. Fortunately the swinehunt was latched by heavy lock and chain to the side of out cabaña acting as a boat anchor (a role that seems reveal it's natural predilection) inhibiting our drifting away on the tide. The `hunt however was looking a bit sad submerged up to the cylinder heads. We plugged the phone back in and put an SOS call to reception on the far bank of the lake. They promised to send helpers across the waters to help push the bike out and carry the women, children, livestock and wine cellar to higher ground. While we waited for our `savior to part the still rising water" to materialize a group of professional looking photographers - some with TV camera equipment began arriving and jostling for best `photo opportunity' position on the western bank.
Finally a gent with rapidly filling gum boots just shorter than the high tide mark sloshed his way across and I reluctantly descended the stairs into the freezing water. It wasn't difficult for the two of us to push the bike out but the local press swarmed on me complete with dolly bird propping microphone under my chin for the `eye witness' interview for the local TV station. Haven't had a chance to check out the TV to see how stupid we looked because now closeted in a hotel owned by the same management with all available powerpoints (2) firing up electric heaters to try and dry the wading clothes. Amusingly the bar heater only model is called a `hotty' while the other fitter with a fan earns the model designation "windy".
It started with fountain spurt from the exhaust but on closer inspection the gearbox and differential oil were contaminated by water. So I set off toward town in search of a garage but within 300m there is a guy on the side of the road with what looks like a world touring motorcycle (Yamaha XTZ 750). Naturally I stop. He's Italian but lives locally with his Chilean wife and they run a local restaurant. So Spanish is the easiest means. When I ask about finding the best garage to do the oil changes he says follow me and were are soon pulling into his nearby driveway where oil, assistance and friendship are available in ample measures. I offer to pay for the oil but as expected this is declined so we talk about motorcycle travel ( he has ridden in Italy, Libya, Peru, Ecuador and naturally, Chile) exchange e-mail addresses and promise to keep in touch.
A final experience worth a mention is our sunny Sunday visit to Coquimbo. This town lies perched on a steep isthmus rising from the sea about 7 km immediately south of La Serena. In contrast to the latter Coquimbo is no tourist destination. The 2nd world housing clings to the sides of this barren cape, tiny Playskool type - door in the middle and tiny windows each side, all impossibly close together with flat skillion roofs. Hardly a tree and no blade of grass to be found. To further blight one's impression some authority has decided to erect a gigantic hideous concrete Cruce del Tercero Milenio (Cross of the 3rd Millennium) at the base of the isthmus towering above all and able to toured through internally. Despite the potentially good views we couldn't bring ourselves to support same by paying a visit. For a bit of variety and as a potential contrast with the upmarket beach district and charming town center of La Serena we set off walking down the beach to Coquimbo. After a few kilometers we were finally thwarted by a creek crossing too deep to ford without exposing virginal gringo flesh to the sun god so made our way inland and caught the bus for the final leg.
This tortuous milk route winding into town along took us past the harbour which looked the happening place on the weekend. Ferris wheels, other rides, weekend junk and food markets. Jumping the bus we started wandering around; that led us to the fish markets - a row of low buildings where almost every sea creature known to me and more that weren't were laid out on low concrete platters. Sea urchins, jellyfish, a dozen or more types of mussels, cockles. pippies, oysters, scallops, sea snails / slugs / cucumbers, squid tubes big enough to wear like a barrel and tentacles to match! Intermingled with, but facing the fishing fleet over the water was a group of cheap seafood stalls with plastic table sand chairs spread out in the open but sheltered by roofing on which several score of pelicans were perched. We had already spotted a couple of the local flock raiding the fish scraps waste bin at the back of one of the market fishmongers; greedily scooping in long bills that emerged with bill pouches full of fish heads, fins and skeletons that were quickly swallowed despite the relative narrowness of their necks vs the capacity of their endowed collection equipment. Is this Darwinian natural selection in action?
We sat down at a table amongst the locals to indulge several of many great things Chile has to offer. A generous sizzling bowl of abalone ($10Aus) a slab of grilled salmon (similar to the Oz Atlantic $6) and a bottle of excellent local Riesling ($5). Mean while we were entertained by busking musicians, local families enjoying a day out including kids attacking impossibly large ice creams and the highlight of the day - the local larikin pelican. This extrovert, when he got tired of being un-rewarded by bunting punters with his bill on the rusting `ocean viewing platform' would waddle down the stairs then parade along the narrow walkway that ran in front of the restaurants facing the ocean with a beady expectant eye for any morsels that might be thrown from, or left unguarded on, a plate. Reward for his cheek and bravado according to pelican ultra hip culture - check the website www.pelikans_behaving_badly.org for updates on the latest directions in fish market prowling!
So to the desert in the far north - next installment.
- 1st installment sent 28/7
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