At the border between Ecuador and Colombian there’s a queue of around 100 people snaking out of the immigration office, along the shaded front windows of the administration buildings, out onto the pavement and into the sunshine. There are two immigration officers processing everyone, taking around five minutes for a standards stamp in or out and longer when oddities occur. The ice is soon broken as people debate the manpower situation and the first or final impression left with visitors. I’m amongst a lively crowed of Colombians, a grand old lady from Chile, a man from Peru and an American, who leaves in a rage after around thirty minutes. After an hour or two people begin to drift off for short periods, to get some lunch, find the Banos – toilets – or just stretch their legs. A procession of street traders bring by the contents of a small shopping centre, their captive audience willing to engage for a change. People gradually sit down and spread out, a potentially tedious time, becomes a relaxed afternoon in the sun. Everyone shares what they have with one another, the talk is fast and furious, with people kind enough to include me with the highlights in broken English. It almost seems a shame after five hours when I eventually reach the head of the queue. Everyone says goodbye, I get my check out stamps and head for Colombia to start the whole process again, where we all meet up again and pick up where we left off.

In the distance are the familiar orange cones running down the centre of the road, signalling a Colombian military check point. I spot a soldier holding up a red baton “Pare” – stop – written in white letter. There are around eight men visible, all dressed in army fatigues, Fidel Castro style caps. It’s hard to distinguish police from the army, as they all wear militaristic uniforms. They are young conscripts, probably about 18 years old, armed with SLR’s, overseen by a slightly older soldier, armed with a sub machine guns. I park up, open my visor and greet the young recruit with a smile, who taps on my panniers. I get off the bike and open them. On top of one is a paper back with Mark Thomas – Stand up comedian and activist, the book is about the arms trade and how companies like BAE bypass UN embargos – holding some kind of automatic riffle, which seems to have caught the soldiers attention enough for him to take across to the head honcho for further examination. The soldier in command spends a good few minutes thumbing through the book then motions to me as if patting a dog, it’s rude to call someone over using the European action of drawing a vertical hand towards the face as if fanning it. I’m a bit worried he might think the book’s some kind of revolutionary terrorist training manual. I walk over and he looks me in the eye for a moment, then in English with a thick Colombian accent he says “The arms trade, muy interesante”, as he hand back the book.

The cars you often see on the road in South America are like a trip back through yesteryear. People often know the story of the VW Beetle, still produced in Brazil and Mexico until a few years ago, well the same is true of plenty of other 70´s classics. My favourite has to be the box like Renault 4, with its dashboard shift, but it doesn’t stop there, Renault seemed to have shipped there entire plant from that period, making up until very recently, the entire range from that era. I know it’s not most people idea of a classic, but I’d be quiet happy to drive around in a brand new Renault 4 back home.

After a night in Popayan, I head out of town heading north. It’s early Sunday morning, a light mist hanging over the Colonial Spanish buildings. I reach the main road as peleton of around 50 cyclists, rushes past, everyone on a racing bike, fully kitted out with Tour de France style shirts and shorts. In Colombia, cycling is a huge sport and as I continue to ride up into the mountains I continue to pass groups of racers small and large, often lead or tailed by a car with bikes secured to a roof rack. The terrain is undulating hills with a mass of thick green foliage, waterfalls and rock slides forcing their way through on occasions. Climbing one particularly steep and windy piece of road four or five teenagers belt past in the opposite direction, riding BMX´s, their chins resting on the handle bars. I can help thinking the down side has to be the back breaking peddle back up with no gears, but they’ve got this covered. A few miles on an articulated lorry crawl past me, its trailer towing a couple of lads on their BMX´s.

There are regular toll booths, preceded by ramps to slow the traffic, an impromptu food and drink stop for many. As the traffic slows to queue to go through the booths, hoards of street traders appear at the driver and passenger windows, offer light snacks, ice creams, fruit, juices, maps, monkeys, exotics birds and more. You can even make phone calls as the now familiar cry of “Llamadas, llamadas” – “Calls, calls” – rings out. Throughout Colombia, people with mobiles attached to chains, signs around there necks saying “$300 minuto”, - The $ sign is used to represent passos - selling minutes on there monthly contact, hoping to make a small profit. There are numerous micro businesses in Colombia. Outside the post offices, people sit at tables with type writers on them, dictate a letter or have then craft your CV. The coffee men and women patrol their patch, homemade trolleys holding around 20 thermos flaks, they spend the day keeping everyone topped up with caffeine. Shoe shine boys and men are everywhere, providing shade and the morning paper for their customers, who are plentiful. At a quiet village I pulled into a small petrol station with a restaurant, the roof is thatched with palms, so dried they’re almost silver. After eating I return to my bike, noticing cardboard on the windscreens of each vehicle to keep out the heat and on my saddle, another sheet of cardboard. I hand a young lad a few coins, you have to take reward initiative.

If you’re not at the top of the pile, life is tough for people in Colombia and there is a huge golf between rich and poor, which is acutely visible in cities such as Medellin. Driving past the vast favelas, families often live in one room buildings they have built themselves, while a few miles down the road, vast tracts of land are home to modern, gated, high rises. The grounds are landscaped, often with pools, heavily armed guards with dogs manning the gates and patrolling the perimeters. The same heavy security is present at the many up market restaurants, bars and boutiques. The poverty on the other side of the divide is what helped Pablo Escobar establish and maintain what was the Worlds most successful drug cartel for so many years. At it’s height, the Medellin cartel was turning over 18 billion dollars a year, some of which was used to help the poorest, giving rise to an engineered Robin Hood type reputation. In the later years this enabled Pablo to elude capture as he found sanctuary and protection in the favelors. The down side was the violence, at the cartels height, the murder rate in Medellin stood at over 30,000 deaths a year, not to mention the beatings and bullying. Pablo Escobar was eventually in 1993, in a joint offensive against him and his cartel mounted by both the Colombian and US government.

The second front of violence for many years came from the FARC & ELN, whose support has been eroded by the fall of communism, along with the present administration policy of confrontation and dialog with both organisations, along with dramatically increasing the size of the army and police forces. Security has been bolstered around main roads and cities, pushing the FARC & ELN into the hills and countryside.

Today Colombia is relatively safe, although you do still hear stories. I met two guys from Manchester who were particularly unlikely, being held up at gun point twice, once in a park – it was three in the morning and they’d has quiet a few beers - and on anther occasion when they walked into an internet cafe that was being held up. The FARC still set up road blocks and people warn you to keep an eye on oncoming traffic, if there is none for more than around 10 minutes pull over and wait. Also, motorcyclists in Colombia wear bibs displaying their number plates, front and back in large reflective letters. I didn’t find out about the law until a day or so ago, which was introduced to stem the rise in drive by motorcycle shooting. The irony is, all the stories of violence don’t tell the true story of Colombia. I have almost always been welcomed with warm smiles and friendship, the people have continually gone out of their way to help me. Add to that the climate, the eternal spring, never too hot, never too cold and surly it’s the perfect combination.

Driving through a deserted industrial area, the taxi pulls up outside a poorly lit entrance. There are two police on a motorcycle, the pillion has a pump action shot gun pointing into the air, the butt resting on his hip, the rider a sub machine gun around his chest. The door men are searching people carefully before allowing them through a second line. Inside, the club is long and thin. There is a furnished mezzanine floor, with a DJ booth, the rest of the club is unfurnished. The ground floor has a bar at the far end, there are black drapes covering the walls of what was once a warehouse. Large speakers hanging down on thick chains, an array of strobes and prism lights catching the rising smoke which seems to be more than just Marlborough lights. Compared to the bars, restaurants and clubs I’ve been to previously Medellin’s middle classed district of “El poblado”, this place is a lot more earthy, with heavy hip-hop, reggaetón – Jamaican dance hall and reggae, blended with Latin American styles - and dub. It’s getting on for 3am and the club is packed with everyone swaying in unison. I’m out with a couple of people from the hostel, Julian and a Poland – he won’t tell anyone his real name. The drink of choice is quarter bottles of rum, which line the hip height shelves running the length of the club, away from the bar. We buy a bottle and some coke and are passed three glasses full of ice. Poland disappears into the thick of it and we watch as he chats and joking with the locals, filling their faces with a mix of smiles and bemusement. An hour or so later I’m suddenly tapped on the shoulder, its Poland. The music loud and I’m not sure what he’s saying, but he seems to want us to follow him. He’s with a Colombian in a smart white shirt and Kengol flat cap on backward. We follow in procession weaving our way through the crowded dance floor up to the mezzanine floor. It’s suddenly becomes like something out of a film, as towards the back of the room is a shady figure surrounded by an entourage, which seems to be mainly private security, dressed normally, but scanning the room. People seem to know who this group and are keeping either a respectful or cautious distance. I decide to hang back, as Poland strides forward to be introduced and with his usual out going, tactile approach, slaps the central figure on the back as he shakes his hand, shouting something in his ear. Then there is “A moment”. Perhaps it’s a piece of intentional drama, intimidation or he could feel insulted. It’s seen as very rude in Colombia and most of South America not to look people directly in the eye when shaking hands or making a toast. “The moment” hangs there for what seems like an age, there is an obvious tension in the room, his henchmen and the rest of the room seem to be waiting for a reaction. Poland then burst out laughing, holding out his hand and perhaps inadvertently stares him straight in the eye. He’s met with a motionless, deadpan, icy stare. It doesn’t look good, then very slowly his face melts into a smile, then a head nodding laugh, as he grabs Poland’s hand and shakes it. You can feel whole mezzanine area relax again as the music fills the void, my queue to go back down to the bar for to get for some more rum and coke.

There are no roads connecting Colombia with Panama, the two countries are divided by swamp land and forest known as the Darien Gap. To get to Panama I need to find a boat in Cartagena or fly from Bogotá. The boat trip includes a couple of days on the San Blas islands, you classic desert islands, with just a handful of inhabitants, so there’s no contest, the boat it has to be. In Cartagena I head to “Club Nortico”, where I’ve been told I’ll be able to find a private yacht big enough to take me and the bike across this notorious piece of water to Panama. On arrival at the marina I soon get talking to a German call Andreas, it seems there are no boats sailing at the moment, as it’s “The windy season”. I get a few more contact in town and on the internet. In total I speak either verbally or via email, around half a dozen people, all telling the same story. It seems everyone’s moored up until the middle of February. There is lucrative trade in taking people around the Darien Gap, so for all the main players to be anchored, it seems pretty conclusive. Back at Club Nortico I give it one more try, it seems most people here are sailing around the world. It’s the hurricane season in the pacific, so everyone is waiting in the Caribbean waters until late March, before going through the Panama Canal, to continue south. It looks like I’ll be back on my bike heading towards Bogotá to air freight, what a crying shame.

A hundred miles or so out of Cusco, the bike starts to lose power, as the road climbs high up into the hills. My head starts to feel heavy and thick, as if I have a head cold, the feeling caused by the blood thickening due to the altitude. Although the sun is shinning, it soon becomes cold, there are few signs of human life beyond the very occasional collection of grey stone buildings, stone walls dividing plots and penning in flocks of lamas, their ears tagged with coloured threads indicating ownership. Beyond grass and moss, there is no vegetation, just sheep and lamas grazing by the lakes left by the melting snow. Pulling over to stop for some lunch, I suddenly notice that one of my two rear pannier lids is missing. A determined thief could jemmy off either lid, but they stop grabbing in busy towns and it means I can leave the bike for short periods. It's around 100 miles since I'm absolutely sure I last had the lid, so I turn the bike around to retrace my steps. It takes around two hours to double back, but there is no sign of lid, so I swing the bike around again, hoping I'll spot it on the second sweep. Occasionally a piece of derby in the gutter glints in the sun momentarily raises my hopes, but each time they're dashed. After an hour or so I pass through Chalhuanca for the third time, then back up into the hills, as I notice the light starting to fade. It's still a good few hundred miles to Nazca and one hundred mile to the next town, although it's tempting to make up the miles, I know it's going to get very cold once the sun disappears, so once again I track back to the little town of Chalhuanca to find a place to stay for the night. The next morning I picked up where I´d left off, back up into the hills, which eventually ended up with a helterskelter ride through the desert, perhaps the best fun I´ve had on the road since routa 40, as the road become a continuous set of switch backs, climbing up and down the dunes, the road ahead often visibly clear for miles, enabling to ride as if I'm on a race track for a good forty miles.

The Nazca lines were created between 200BC and 600AD, depicting 100´s of figures from simple lines to complexed animals, humans and in one case what seems to be a spaceman. There are many unanswered mysteries surrounding the lines, primarily, the fact that the figures are only coherently recognisable from the sky, the fires fanned by the fact that some of the animals depicted are not native to the area, with some theories suggesting alien visitations, the lines marking out the landing strips. The most likely explanation lies with the precious resource of water. The Nazca people built stone tunnels over the streams of water flowing from the Andes, down to the desert plains, protecting it from the sun and using s-bends to slow down the flow, an engineering feat that's remarkable for the time. People understood that the stars, moon and the sun had an effect on the seasons and it's thought that the lines where used in religious ceremonies, created for the benefit of the celestial gods. To see the lines I went out to an airfield on the outskirts of the Nazca, where the length of the runway is lined with lots of private tourist offices, outside each a light aircraft proudly parked. For me I was as excited about going up in a small plane, as I was about seeing the lines. The pilot was gung-ho to say the least, performing acrobatics to ensure we all got a good view of the lines, banking at 90 degrees in one direction, before flipping 180 degrees, so that people sitting on the opposite side got an equally good view. Even the landing is a treat, as sitting next to the pilot I got a birds eye view as, instead of floating in like a swan, the plane comes in nose first, levelling out at the last moment. The lines are a wonder, any explanation only ever an educated guess, the most amazing thing, that they have remained visible for over two millennium. Back on the ground I head back into Nazca and head for the night market. Coy is on sale everywhere, a delicacy found throughout South America, it taste a bit like chicken wrapped in bacon, although guinea pig is not to everyone's taste. Replica football shirts are on sale for a few dollars, the counter fitter carefully copying the finest detail, my favourite the England shirt, with "Inglaterra" emblazoned across the front in large letters.

Standing in the centre of the tiny oasis town of Huacachina, you are surrounded completely by sand dunes, rising high above the roofs and palms trees that circle the mineral lake. People for many years came to take the water for their healing properties, but more recently this has been superseded by sand boarding. The town is no more than a dozen or so buildings, around which winds a road leading up onto the sand, where dune buggies raw up the surprisingly steep banks, their passengers strapped in, beneath sturdy roll cages. The pace of life in Huacachina – pronounced wakacheana - is very laid back, reminiscent of the hippie beach communes in Asia. I find a cheap and cheerful family run hostel, with a large shaded back garden, parrots and Macaws in the trees, hammocks swinging in the late afternoon breeze and should the temperature sore, you can always cool off in the pool. I've been really looking forward to sand boarding, interested to see how it measures up to snow boarding. The boards are the same shape as a traditional snow board, but they're made of chip board covered in vinyl, the binds, and Velcro straps with no support. Fernando our guide takes us to what would surely be a black run in the Alps, I'm not sure if I've bitten off more than I can chew as images of broken limbs flash though my mind. Strapped in goofy style, I shift my hips to get moving, expecting to hurtle down hill at great speed, when it soon becomes clear that the friction ratios of sand to snow are worlds apart and although the dunes extremely steep, I'm going no where fast. After a few attempts standing up, I resort to stomach boarding, which is just as much fun, my teeth soon full of sand from grinning. The real highlight of the dunes is not the sand boarding, desert views or oasis, it's the roller coaster buggy ride. Fernando has been tearing about on the sand for over twenty years and takes great pride and pleasure in scaring the living day lights out of his passengers. Forget Alton Towers or Euro Disney, get your family down to the nearest sand dunes for the ride of you life. The buggy roars up a dune, almost coming to a stand still as it hits the saddle, the angle hides what's ahead, the peddle floored we plunge over the edge, into an almost vertical drop, that than on any other surface would surely be suicidal, but we seem to sink in giving us enough grip, before Platoing out at the base, as shrieks of joy erupt from everyone. We manage a few more runs on the board, but the majority of our time is spent racing up and down dunes or banking at speed around steep cambers, the momentum and centrifugal force ensuring the buggy doesn't roll. Back in town the slow pace draws you in, so much so that it's another few days before I even think about heading into Ica, a town close by, to try and organise a new pannier lid. It turns out, with the help of a taxi driver to translate, to be a breeze, as a few hours later I am presented with a, not identical, pretty dame good replacement.

From Huacachina I head slowly up the coast, swinging back into the mountains occasionally. It's surprising how much of Peru is desert, as it continues beyond the Atacama, stretching up the coast of Peru all the way to Ecuador, disturbed occasionally by short stretches of agriculture as the mountain make their way to the sea. It's always enjoyable riding through the baron landscapes, as there is more often than not very little traffic or people about, which means fewer hazards, live stock, children and rickshaws, which have a habit of darting out into the road in more built up areas. As Ecuador approaches, the sea starts to run along the roadside, shrimp trawlers bobbing up and down on the sea, as the waves crashing onto the endless sandy beaches. Small towns offer the delights of the sea on their menu boards, simple palm covered restaurants and bars appearing on the beach from time to time, along with flat pack wooden holiday homes, raised off the ground slightly, their veranda steps leading to the sand.

The traffic starts to build up as I approach the boarder crossing into Ecuador. Leaving Peru is straightforward, my passport stamped, the bike paper work signed off with handshakes all around. I try to change the rest of my Peruvian Soles into the Ecuadorian currency, but people only seem to have US dollars, so in the end I give up and head off, trying to find the Ecuador immigration. It often surprises me just how difficult it is to find immigration offices, they are often miles apart, sometimes with no sign outside or on the building. After a mile or so the road splits, no signs to indicate where I should be heading. I keep stopping every so often to check I am heading in the right directions and haven't passed into Ecuador surreptitiously. Eventually I find the immigration control, where I am shown into a small and invited to sit down, in the corner is a small colour television showing the tennis, as a couple of officials are anguish over some documents. Often when I present myself, along with the motorcycle the border staff seem completely baffled and a succession of telephone calls take place, with people disappearing to speak to senior ranks, eventually settling upon a solution. The paper work is filled in carefully, each pen stroke and letter, double-checked against the DVLA documentation. After further consultations, inspection of the bike and double-checking all the documentation, a noticeable relief descends onto everyone's faces, the paper work is handed over and I'm sent on my way. I need petrol and have no money, so look around for someone to change my money with and I soon discover a currious thing, after a recession in January 2000, the legal currency throughout Ecuador became the US dollar. I´m not sure how you go about changing your whole of your nations currency to USD, I assume you just send the president down to the cambio or post office with everyone money, on a day when you know the rates quiet good, making sure you keep the receipt, just in case things don´t work out, then you can change your money back without any additional commission.

The vegetation builds gradually as the land becomes more fertile, soon the road runs down an avenue of banana plantations, the trucks loaded with ripening bananas ready to topple. The towns seem very modern compared to Peru, although people are still vending their wears at every junction and petrol station. The countryside seems to be more mass agriculture in some parts, in the hills is almost identical to Peru. After a while I swing off the main road to head towards Riobamba, where this evening there is a big street procession with music and dancing. Away from the coast, the ever present Andes take the road up into the clouds, as it begins to rain, the road twists, climbing, until eventually I rise above the rain. With the sun shining out of blue skies, its possible to looking down on the grey storm below, catching the odd lighting strike. I'm dry and its quiet warm, but I sense the inevitable as the road begins to dip and I descend back into the rain for another drenchting. Gradually the rain clears and I´m back in the sun, up in the hills I pass though lots of small rural communities, people all dressed up to the nines, making their way to or in some cases already congregated in the central squares, sound systems pumping out music. I round a corner a few miles out of a very small town and there seems to be some kind of hold up, I can see what looks like bamboo barrier partially blocking the road and as I get closer I can clearly see three people with cloth masks covering their faces, the eyes and mouth cut out. Its as if they are still setting up, as one seems to be dragging more veggitation onto the road, while another clearly has a machete. I swing the bike straight around and head a few miles down the road. I wait for a bit, as traffic continues to flow by, including a pick up packed full of children – pickups used to run local taxi services – along with smaller lorries that I remember passing earlier. Looking at the map there are no other roads to Riobamba, beyond a detour of hundreds of miles. I drive back to see what is happening, from a safe distance, I can see the traffic seems to be going though and although the situation looks intimidating, there is no aggression and they don´t seem to be trying to rob anyone. I sandwich my self between two trucks, tall enough that I'm hidden from view, keeping an eye on the break lights, ready to swing back around again if it looks like we're stopping, We're going around 25 mph and to my left the bamboo road block appears and I can see one of the masked figures, as which point I pull out around the truck and accelerate away, not looking back, just riding flat out for a good ten miles. There are often protests in South America where people block off the roads, but this would involve broken glass, rocks and barricades to ensure that nothing can pass and robberies are usually hit and run and although it was very intimidating there the people didn´t seem to be very aggressive. After recounting the story to a local that evening, I discover the answer lays with the festival "Dance of the Innocents" – a commemoration of the death of children under twe years of age, ordered by Herod when Jesus was born – where tricks and jokes are played, combined with dancing and masquerades. Although perhaps the road block had been part of these festivities, at the time it didn´t feel very festive, especially the choice of masks, along with a machette, but I guess it’s just another version of the "Trick or Treat" culture now associated with Halloween and in retrospect you´ve gotta laugh.

Towards the sea front in Arica is a beautiful old wooden church painted a pale pink, the edges outlined in white, its bell tower rising into a steeple. The steps are overflowing with people spilling onto the square, waving Chilean flags, holding a loft banners which seem to be a mix of trade unionism and Christian symbolism. In another part of the square a middle classed man, much to the good natured amusement of his friends, struggles to open what appears to be champagne, as it eventually pops, spraying the surrounding crowed, producing a big cheer. Down on the front there is a market, a group of teenagers with a flag start to chant, a few girls in the group seem bashful, eventually bursting out laughing as they catch each others eyes. As the night goes on a procession leaves the front of the church walking through the town, a few people seem to be against the march, shouting as the parade passes, but on the whole the mood is festive, even the large numbers of police seem relaxed, the news having broken of Pinochet death.

From Arica I cross the last few hundred kilometres of the Atacama then start to climb high up in to the Andes towards the Bolivian boarder. There are lush pasture with the classic Bolivian glama lama are grazing everywhere, snow caped mountains reflect in the fresh water lakes. As I reach the pass through into Bolivia, the bike starts to loose power, the air now so thin that it affects the combustion of the petrol, it's something I've been expecting and for the next few weeks while I remains at altitude, the bike, to the untrained eye, will appear to be a clapped out wreck. Bolivia is a very poor country and it's like stepping back in time, as I watch a husband and wife turn drive their cow to turn the soil, pulling a simple wooden plough and cow, all colourfully dressed, never without a hat. Small groups of young children shepherd flocks of sheep, lamas and cattle, often board staring into the distance, their chins resting on their crooks. It's only 100 years ago that scenes like this were still common in England and they always remind me of a set of John Constable table mats we had when I was growing up. There seems to be a gentle strength, in the smiling weather beaten faces of people, often waving as I pass, that keep making me think I back in the Himalayas, the resemblance is uncanny, add into that the landscape and it's spooky.

Electricity and telephone lines start to appear, feeding the simple, self built, red clay coloured box houses, often entirely covered in hand painted advertisements, for which the owners receive a few cents. The muddy streets are full of hustle, as the traffic grinds to a standstill, slowly edging its way towards a military check point and toll booths at the lip of the valley that is La Paz. The favelas shanty towns, for once, look down on the hart of the city below, where narrow, sometimes cobbled street rise up the steep banks, street vendors sharing the cramped pavements with the many homeless street children and families. The women are all dressed in colourful "Polleras" , the colourful Spanish peasant skirts - imposed on the people by the Spanish conquistadors - and hats that have evolved directly from the traditional English bowler hats, balanced precariously on the side of each head. It may look as if their clothing has not changed since colonial times, but fashions change as quickly here as anywhere else, much of the skirt material, ironically, now imported from Korea. In the never ending street market, one stall does a brisk trade in soft drinks, served in clear cellophane bags, tied at the top with a straw sticking out. Large Andean nativity figures are on sale everywhere, it´s almost Christmas, peace on earth, except in the section selling imported chiming Christmas lights, hundreds of sets all playing out their tortured tunes in disharmony.

As in every big town or city in the World there is a corner that will be forever, well Ireland in most cases, but in La Paz there is an English pub. I say pub, it’s a room upstairs, reached through a unassuming doorway in a cobbled Bolivian street. The place is full of characters from all over the world, all with a tale to tell, many expats living and working in La Paz. I end up spending a lot of time with an Irish guy Paul, who´s spent the last month tethered each day to an abused Puma, as part of an environmental project to reintroduce animals back in to their natural habitat. It´s not clear if this particular cat, maltreated in a circus would survive alone, but in other cases, they have great success, the biggest problem they have is finding volunteers to work with the animals. Later I end up talking motorbikes – I can just about blag it – with a rather flamboyant Colombian, well know in the bar, who, it turns out, hasn´t quiet managed to break from age old stereotypings when it comes to funding methods.

Copiapo has a frontier feel, north is a thousand kilometres of desert, fifty times more arid than California’s “Death Valley”. A team of scientist tested for any sign of life, duplicating the tests carried out on the Viking missions to Mars and found none. As a result NASA now test all their scientific equipment bound for Mars in the Atacama, the driest place on earth.

Heading out of Copiapo its cloudy and cool to the point where it feels as if it might rain, there is mist that leaves a fine spray on my visor. The road rises out of the sand like a causeway into the sea. Almost perfect dunes rise like hills either side, the moment ruined slightly by huge bill boards advertising ham, hotels and plant equipment. After a few miles the billboards and rubbish subside, as for a while the landscape mimics the perfect dunes in “Laurence or Arabia”, the tankers on the road pre-empting what lies ahead with their hazardous load sign “Sulphuric Acid”. Dirt tracks start to appear, leading off to the nitrate mines, slim gauge railway lines run along side the road, crossing from time to time, electrical pylons lead to heavy duty processing plants, pumping out waste into the atmosphere. As the climbs, the clouds remain steadfast in the wind, it’s getting quiet cold and I have to stop to put on another layer, not really what I was expecting.

There is not a huge choice of roads through the Atacama, the Pan-American being the major artery, with mining traffic and wagon trains, it’s gets quiet busy in places, so I decide to take some quieter ripio roads. Now I’m travelling on my own, I have to be careful, I have good maps and a compass, but I have to keep reading the map to ensure I’m on the road I think I’m on. If I make mistake, I could end up having to double back, leaving me short of fuel. It’s some of the best riding I’ve done, right up there with Routa 40, there’s no wild life, but I’m treated to an array of colorful, ever changing, lunar landscapes, with deep blue skies, the clouds now long gone. As alien as the environment seems, I feel cocooned as I ride, it’s not until I stop, get off the bike and remove my helmet that it really sinks in where I am. I drink plenty, but I can still feel my lips drying out, as there is no moister in the air and the sun is fierce.

It’s such a vast desert it takes days to cross. I have planned out a route so that from time to time I can swing out of the desert, on to a costal road, where every two or three hundred kilometres there´s a town, in some cases quiet large. As I approach Iquique, – the name means peace and tranquillity – I pull in for petrol and spot a dog running at speed towards me, followed closely from behind by another, both barking, showing off their teeth. By the time I get to the pumps there are three matted mongrels in a semi circle around the front wheel snarling and gnashing. As soon as I take off the helmet and get off the bike, the spell is broken, it’s as if a 1930’s beat cop had just turned up, as they do the canine equivalent of walking away whistling. The bikes filled up, I put on my helmet, start the bike and all three are straight back on me, one circling from behind to cut me off, as I pull away. My biggest fear is running over one of the dogs as I accelerate onto the busy main road, all three dogs in pursuit oblivious to the oncoming traffic. It’s reminiscent of the flash back in “Spaced" where Daisy is being chased by a pack of dogs to the theme tune from “Rhubarb and Custard”. It seems barking dog really just enjoy the chase, the one to really watch are the “Silent running”, where some primeval instinct takes over, their eyes the big giveaway..

As I wind my way down through the desert drift and cliffs towards Iquique, I’m in for one more surprise. As I round a bend, the whole town appears below, the sea stretching out to the horizon, all in the shadow of an enormous sand dune, dwaffing everything below, including the fifteen story tower blocks.

Heading up into the mountains, the night is starting to draw in, there are no towns coming up so I decided to free camp. The terrain is very rocky and the road is carved into the mountain side, as it winds its way towards the Chilean border near Pismanta, the road rising to over 4850 meters at it´s peak. The trouble is, there are no new good spots, as up in the hills, the road takes up any available space. As the twilight starts to fade I eventually pull off behind some bushes, it´s not great but it will have to do.

Suddenly I´m awake, the tent was awash with a bright light. Poking my head out I can see a car parked a little way off, I can hear the engine running, then I´m dazzled as the full beam is switched on. Back in the tent I check the time on my camera, it was just after two in the morning. I sit listening to the engine ticking over, assessing the situation, until my train of thought is interrupted as the engine is cut and the lights go out. I look out again, I can see two men standing by the car talking. Clutching my keys, I think for a moment, I'm not going to sit passively, if they come over I'll abandon camp, just get on the bike and go. I can still hear voices, I look out again, they're still chatting by the car. I can't decide if I'm over reacting, but decide rather than take any I´ll leave. I pack up as much as I can from inside the tent, rolling up the thermarest, stuffing the sleeping bag into its sack, getting as ready as possible before going outside to take the tent down, listening through the silence the whole time for anything untoward. As I emerge from the tent I immediately go over to the bike and start it up, placing the helmet over one of the mirrors, scanning the landscape to keep an eye on the car, working out the best route to the road. I start to take down the tent, the lights come on again, but I don't miss a beat. I'm tempted to brush my teeth in an attempt to enhance the normality, confuse then with subterfuge, at which point the engine starts. I'm acutely aware of my surroundings and the position of the car, but keep packing, without looking towards them. The car gradually moves towards the road and begins to come level with the tent is, it slows momentarily, before continuing on, eventually disappearing into the night. It seems rather dramatic once the cars gone, it's scarred the bejesus out of me, so I'm not hanging about. It´s about 150km to the border, it´s a bright night, the skies are famously clear here with stellar observatories located throughout the area, the moon almost a full with the stars shinning down. I'll ride on to the border or the next check point then ask to camp near Gendarme, who oversee all Argentine borders. After about 40 minutes I feel really tired, winding my way around the mountain roads, so think better of it and start to look for another spot to camp, but I have the same problem as before. Then on the right I can see the night sky is reflected in what must be a lake, on the other side of the road from the water is a track. I turn off the road, killing my lights the path eventually leading to a horse shoe of rock face, far, far from the road this time, it seems like a good spot. The tent pitched I lie in my sleeping bag, it feels cool now, there's been no traffic since I pitched my tent, until I hear a car approaching way off in the distance, I watch the surface of the tent as if passes, nothing, I'm well out of sight.

I leave at first light the next morning, the miles fly by and I know I´m almost at the border, I´ve passed a number of deserted barriers with small concrete guard houses, but no sign of life. There's no other traffic on the road, so I figure I should clear both sets of customs within an hour and be in La Serena by lunchtime – I have done a big loop back around a thousand kilometres to go snow boarding. The advice was well intentioned, but the ski lifts were closed. I say closed, they hadn't even been built, but still there was a refrigerated tunnel with no lights, cool in both senses of the word. Eventually I reached a manned check point and the young Gendarme looks perplexed. No problem, this is my fifth visit to the Argentine customs, i´m an old pro. I produce my plastic zip folder ready to blind him with paperwork when he politely interrupts. Very slowly, with a mime to accompany he explains, the penny drops, the crossing is closed. His superior office appears, although I don't really understand what he's explanation, a date emerges, it opens in three days time. For some reason I don't feel that perturbed as for the third time I head back to see my good friend routa 40, I'll get to see the bit I rode in the dark last night and at least I know the way now.

I think Martin a cyclist I met that evening summed it up best. After recounting the tale to him over a cold beer, he simply commented in his classic Amsterdama accent "…yeah, but it's a good adventure". And the photograph above, that´s the view I woke up to in the morning. OK, perhaps not quiet as composed, but it was pretty damned close.

Each small outpost or town is like an islands in the remote wilderness that routa 40 runs through. I ask how far the next fuel is each time I stop, although this is no guarantee as some petrol stations have no gas, so far I’ve had no problems though. Shortly after Rio Mayo the ripio very suddenly ends, after days of gravel, sand, mud and dust, stretching out into the distance is pristine asphalt and I’d be a liar if I didn’t say it feels luxurious. The dry arid scrub continues, as in the distance the snow capped mountains of the Andes appear, for miles not appearing to get any closer, until eventually green plants and trees start to appear, becoming lusher, as the road reaches the streams and rivers of melting snow flowing down the mountains.

I pull in to fill up with fuel at Esquel, a smart mountain resort town, full of elegantly dressed people. The petrol station has a little café and I get some odd looks as I sit down to eat my empanadas, – spicy beef in pastry, similar to a Cornish pasty – I must look slightly dishevelled and dazed, starring into the distance as you do after hours on the road, covered in dust and in need of a good scrub after camping out the last few days. Outside I check the bike over and notice rear tyre tread is very warn, although it still feels solid. I should be able to get a tyre in Mendoza, but it’s a couple of thousand kilometres away. The map shows the roads in different colours, from which you can gauge the quality and surface, it looks like routa 40 is ripio free all the way from now on. Each time I stop I check the tyre, it seems OK, although I know it’s more susceptible to punctures and splits, but I should be able to nurse it home. I island hop my way through beautiful mountain towns, reminiscent of the Alps, I feel very at hone. The road from time to time swinging back out into the parched scrub, the snow caped mountains a permanent back drop.

Zapala is a small Argentine town that seems to have grown as a result of the near by oil exploration, – you often see “nodding donkeys” pumping oil up from the ground - it’s ordinariness a breath of fresh air after the ostentatious resort towns. I ask in a couple of Hospedajes – cheap hotels – for a room, but they are all full, so I stop at a café where people are sat outside on the pavement sipping coffee and drinking mate – the national drink of Argentina, a mixed leaf brew, served hot and drunk through a straw, constantly topped up with got water. It’s fairly late so ask one of the waiter if he has any ideas, he writes down the name of a hotel and explains it just a few streets away. I walk through the smoked glass revolving doors and spot the prices on the wall behind the check in desk, it’s clear I’ll be trading the sales rep´ chic opulence of Zapala´s number one executive hangout, for a night a the municipal campsite. Beyond the shantyesq outskirts of the town is a grey gravel road lined with cypress trees, which opens into a large square, the trees marking the perimeter. The camp site is empty apart from a small one man tent. There is a light coming from a simple white flat roofed building, with two dogs asleep on the veranda. I get off the bike as the door of the hut swings open and a jolly looking man appears, introducing himself as “Antonio” who rapidly explains in Spanish, well I’m not too sure exactly what, but I catch the odd word, smiling and nodding. As I finish pitching the tent to the amusement of the dogs, Antonio appears again, motioning to come in. The room has a stove, fridge and sink at one end, at the other, a large open roaring wood fire with an asardo rack on top with a chicken slowly cooking, there is a table and chairs with two people sitting down drinking mate. I’m made to feel very welcome and introduced to Gretel from Sweden and her Peruvian boy friend Manco, who are sharing the tent outside. Through broken Spanish and with Gretel translating back and forth, talk turns to carnival, which takes place throughout the Americas in February each year, indigenous traditions mixed with the Christian celebrations before lent begins. In Sweden there is no carnival, but “Waffle day”, the Scandinavian equivalent of “Pan cake day. “In Peru mucho ropa, in Brazil no ropa” Antonio explains laughing as he removes the chicken from the rack – ropa is Spanish for cloths. I have bread and mushroom soup, but Antonio insists I have some chicken, which he shares equally between us all, served with chilled tap water. As the night draws on the others retire and Antonio switches on an old television set with two chrome aerial rising into a v on top. I’m not kidding; we watch a polo match, which is excellent, my glass topped up with chilled tap water throughout the evening, served as though it were the finest wine, a perfect evening.

The tyre is holding out and I have about 800 kilometres to go, the road is empty and I hit a stretch which is so new you can still smell the paint on the double yellow line that runs down the centre of the road, rising and falling as the road winds it’s way gently through the hills, the brown shaded layers of sedimentary rock exposed, creating waves of colour across the entire valley. Higher still, the road suddenly become ripio, patches of tarmac appear occasionally, sticking up two or three inches above the ground, it seems the road has eroded, to the extent, that after a few miles it’s pure grey gravel. As the road drops down again there are short stretches of potted of tarmac, but these are a nightmare as the rear tyre hit hard against the sharp edges of pot holes. I can feel a wobble emanating from the rear of the bike, I pull over expecting the worse, but the tyre is fine. Checking the bike over I notice two screws from the pannier rack have come lose, I tighten them up and the wobble disappears.


As I approach San Rafael, vineyards start to appear and the area becomes populated, the road shaded occasionally by lines of trees running for miles on either side of the road. The road runs straight through the middle of the town, where I spot a shop with trials bikes outside,, inside is a rack of vertical tyre running the length of the side wall. After a quick inspection of my back tyre, checking the size, I become the proud owner of a “Sahara” knobbly rear tyre;, all I have to do now is get it fitted. Half a mile down the road is an open fronted concrete building, tyres pilled up all around, with some seriously heavy guitar rifts emanating from within. Inside I find a long haired “dude” with Jack Sparrow facial hair jamming on an electric guitar, his friend drumming along with tyre irons on the side of an old oil drum filled with water, unaware of my presence they play for a good few minutes before spotting me. These guys are obviously born to perform as each time a tool is picked up, it’s thrown spinning into the air, caught from behind, the whole thing seem to be a carefully choreographed show, as effortlessly the old tyre is removed and the new one fitted. As I check the bike over and load it up to head off, the amps fired up again and the jam session continues.

The Moreno glacier is alive as it creaks audibly, the streams of ice flowing at a pace so slow only stop motion photography can do it justice. Granite weighing hundreds of tones found in the Peak District, is know to originate from the Scottish highlands, carried south as the end of the last ice age. Famously in Chamonix, a plane mysteriously disappeared in the mountains, only to reappear decades later at the foot of a glacier, the crew perfectly preserved. The pilots brothers, in his autumn years, was asked to identify the body, commenting later that it was like starring back in time, as his brother had not aged a day since the disappearance. The Moreno glacier is very light turquoise, with subtle variations in shade catching the early morning sun and as the face warms, gradually crumbling, to join the iceberg already flowing slowly down steam. The dramatic natural setting, along with the accessibility makes the glacier quiet ore inspiring, as it snakes away down the mountainside grinding the rock below.

I’m not sure if Routa 40 was ever built or just evolved through a constant stream of pioneers searching for tracks south. It’s as if, inspired by David Lynch´s “Straight story”, someone has driven bulldozer from one end of the country to the other, exposing the soils beneath. The south of Argentina is still very wild, with a landscape that changes rapidly. The ripio at first is flat and compacted, stretching out across the pampas grassland scrub, but the challenge comes when the road begin to rise and fall, with steep sharp bends following the natural contours of the hills. Parts of the road are rutted, washed out by the rain, with deep pockets of sand and gravel that catch me out regularly, the bike wobbling to the point where I almost lose it. The sculpted landscape is almost unreal, colourful soils exposed with spectral colours repeated randomly, one hill will be shades of purple and pink, another covered entirely in green bracken, the next peat brown. There is little sign of any human life for hundreds of miles, with dust rising from the road in the distance every few hours to signal an approaching pick up. I can tell when I’m close to a remote outpost, as cattle start to appear, accompanied sometimes, by gauchos – Argentine cowboys - on horse back, whips in hand, dogs at their feet, herding their live stock. Small groups of Guanaco – a light brown lama with a white underbelly, that with all other lamas is a member of the camel family - graze on the arid scrub or in oasis like meadows that appear occasionally. As I spot three or four ahead I slow down, edging forward until I’m spotted, off they bound, bar one who stares, mesmerised, his head tilted slightly, until it suddenly occurs to him “…you might eat me”, he then scarpers to catch the others. The road starts to rise again as hills appear either side covered with light coloured grasses. I can see a couple emus in the distance, but not close enough to get a good look, until the road rounds a blind bend to reveal a slightly started bird. I slow down as it begins to run in front like a motorcycle outrider, trapped momentarily by a steep bank on either side of the road, it does a waggle of its plumage as it occasionally changes track, it’s head turning back, eyes bulging, the bank then flatten out, allowing the bird to stride off. As the hours pass the terrain gradually becomes semi desert, I seem to be riding through a very arid dark brown canyon, something quiet small is waddling across the road, as I get closer I can see it’s an armadillo. I stop and get off the bike then hesitate, I know where I am with most animals, but an armadillo, he might want to eat me.

Tress largos is a tiny dusty outpost on Routa 40, sheltered by a few hills stemming the Patagonian winds. My bike is running on fumes as I pull up by a couple of rusting old pumps standing outside next to a few simple buildings. There is no one about so I walk over to the cabin close by, out front are two battered old pickups and a horse grazing. In side a couple of gauchos are sitting on stools at the far end room at a bar, playing cards, while the rest of the room has dark wooden shelves with supplies, what look like home made saddles, shawls, blankets and knives, tables and chairs fill the remaining floor space, as an old television shows the footballs through a haze of static snow. I’m not sure what the owner’s saying, but it seem welcoming, I sit down, as they continue to play dice, slamming down the cup and shouting. After about 20 minutes I wander out to the pumps with the proprietor, fill the bike with petrol and asking if it’s OK to camp on the grass. There’s an evening breeze, so I shelter the tent from the wind behind a wall, only for it to change direction once I’m pitched. Oh well, I’m not moving, so I head back to the bar to watch the rest of the game with an ice cold beer and giant Lomos – stake sandwich with cheese and ham, before retiring to flapping hell to ponder a question that’s occurred to me. I’ve heard a lot of good music in Argentina, there was a great alternative station in Buenos Aires a bit like XFM, plus there’s strong Latin vibe, but recently I’ve heard a disproportionate amount of Phil Collins, come to think of it, the young emo goths running the Internet cafe in the northern metropolis had no signs angst as the radio played a Collins track, then it occurred to me, perhaps Phil Colins has died!

The tip of Argentina and Chile is split territorially, the boarder running like the central vein on a leaf. At the bottom is the remote Island of Tierra del Fuego, where the divide continues. Famous for Puerto Williams, base camp to numerous Antarctic expeditions and Ushuaia, the most southerly city in the world. Ushuaia is set on the banks of a natural harbour, surrounded by snow caped mountains. Reminiscent of the small out post featured in “Northern Exposure”, with its simple corrugated houses painted bright colours and steep banking hills, rising up. The area is being developed, with tourism “...on the riser”, ski and boarding runs are opening up as new lifts are built. La Pista Andino camping is set at the foot of a ski lift, with a piste basher sitting on the lush green grass and horses tethered halfway up the piste. I pitch my tent in the wooded area, to shelter from the winds, summer is well on its way here, but in Patagonia it’s not uncommon to experience every season in a day.

The weather forecast for the next few days is snow followed by high winds and rain, so to avoid being hemmed in on the island I get up early to break camp, Michelle and Mike are tracking back to pick up tyres, so I´ll be on my own. It’s been a cold night so I warm my self by the wood burning stove in the campsites kitchen cabin, just long enough for large crisp snow flakes to start falling; the odd thing is, there are blue skies visible just beyond. I fire up the bike and head North East towards the only pass through the mountains, as I climb the snow becomes heavier and the temperature plummets. A week or two ago in Buenos Aires in the sweltering midday sun and to the amusement of the female shop assistant, I’d brought some white “Steptoe & son” long johns, which I now have on with a pair of jeans and waterproof trousers . I have three long sleeved t-shirts, a fleece, then my bike jackets, two pairs of socks, boots, a snood around my neck, gloves and a helmet. The snow sometimes becomes sleety which is worse than snow, as sleet can not be brushed off the visor, instead it smears with the same affect as put on a pair of glasses with thick lenses. As I continue to climb the inside of the helmet steams up, I try to flip the visor up to wipe it, but it’s frozen shut as the temperature has now dropped. I don’t really feel the cold, except for my knees which take the brunt of the strong icy wind. Beyond a few outposts, the island is empty, except for a few ranches. As I begin to descend from the pass the sun comes out, just in time for the asphalt to become ripio. I’ve heard the road to Parvetir is paved, so for a bit of variety and feeling a little mediumcore, I swing left. I’m looking to cover around 200 miles, but should be able to make up quite a bit of time on the tarmaced road. The territorial line may split the Island, but the road ignores this, so in a day you can cross from Argentina into Chile, and then back again, all within in a few hours. It’s just 142km to the port in Parvetir and the promise of covered roads does not materialise. The repeo is in full affect and the sunshine has given way to high winds, snow, them hailstone which look a bit like polystyrene balls. The road is undulating as it is bending, the texture a partially frozen slushy sand. Suddenly after a steep declined the road is literally “the beach”, it’s so close you can almost reach out and touch the icy waters. The snow is setting on the beach road and I’m beginning to wonder if I have taken a wrong turn, it seems slightly ridicules, trucks surly wouldn’t drive across this. I’ve now been on the road for around six hours. Since the ripio started I’ve seen one truck, there’s been no other traffic and I know I’ve got enough fuel left to reach Parvetir, but if I´m on the wrong road, I could be in trouble. I´ve calculated it’s around 40km to go, so all I can really do is carry on and hope for the best. As the road rises again it becomes lose and I’m riding at a 50 degrees lean into the wind to remain upright. I’m quiet enjoying the uncertainty, but once the 40km are completed with no sign of the port town, I start to worry. Up in the hills the snow has settled on the ripio, the cold has penetrated beyond my knees and the thought of a warm refuge is in the forefront on my mind as in the distance Parvetir appears. I quickly find a small family pension to stay at and without any supper, after a shower, get into bed with extra blankets. After around fifteen minutes I’m nice and warm, except for my knees, which are still only partially defrosted. Tiera Del Fuago – Island of Fire, I´m might have to write to the ministers of tourism about a possible name change.

Isambard would have loved the iron bridge leading to Viedma, although the road surface was rutted out. With the help of a friendly policeman, we are escorted to the municipal campsite on the tree lined banks of the Rio Negro. Once part of a utopian vision with its tables, benches and asardo areas cast in cerement, then painted chalk white to match the immaculately defined pitches with their white edging and planted boarder, top off with state of the art shower block and toilets. The Weeds now emerge from the cracks in the concrete, having long ago invaded the rest of the site, as the paint flakes beneath the graffiti, the shower block and toilets looted and smashed. Still a scraggy old mongrel befriends us; the caretaker lets us use his shower, as the water streams within inches of live wires and electrical sockets; a member of the local bike club, having picked us up on their radar, turns up with his wife and newly born baby to make us welcome, inviting us for mate – Argentine national drink – the following morning at the garage he works at. Add to two bottles of cheap plonk, some good old fashioned campfire cooking and the stars to stare at, it’s a pretty good night.

As we head for the “Peninsular Valdés” the scrub with it’s trampish beauty becomes even more arid as patches of sand and chalky gravel break up any plant life, which is never more than a couple of feet off the ground, creating that “big sky” affect, interrupted occasionally, as “The Orb” so aptly put it, by “little fluffy clouds. In Puerto Piramides we find some asymmetric cabanas – small cabins with a simple bedroom and bathroom – set on a sandy, eroded, hill side over looking a coved beach with the late evening sun glistening on water. I do a double take as I look through the window down on to the bay, as a whale leaps, not quiet leaving the water, and then crashes back down, sending white washes of water in every direction. At first I imagine it’s been pure luck that I looked out at that specific moment, but moment later again a whale hurls itself into the air, again not quite managing to leave the water, but flipping it’s body leaving only the silhouetted “Y” shape of it’s tale to remain visible momentarily, before disappearing into the sea. In the morning we arrange to go out on a small boat, it’s the mating season, so the annual pilgrimage of whales is taking place, as the depleted numbers of whales gather to woo a mate. The sea is like a mill pond, we head around the headland to a small bay, then the skipper cuts the engine, as he points out a black twenty foot whale with her albino cub, moving in out direction, spinning slightly as they approach so that on occasions a flipper emerges. Then suddenly there is an enormous a reverberating acoustic boom, which seems to echo slightly, as the mother spout water from her blow hole, it such a powerful noise it catches people unaware, bar the skipper who smiles. For a few hours we dart about in the boat from one group to another, watching these enormous creature play, with their young in tow, it’s really quiet something,

Ripio is a term Castilian term used to describe any road that is not covered in asphalt. The surfaces can vary with compacted earth, mud, gravel and sand, there’s an endless variation depending on the terrain and weather. If you have ever ridden a bicycle on gravel or sand, you’ll know the surface becomes fluid, causing the wheel to slip and slide, as the steering takes on a life of its own, pulling you off balance. The ripio mantra being, much like in snow boarding, “Speed is your friend”. You need to go against everything your mind is telling you as the course you were steering is suddenly pulled away, you want to slow down, but instead you accelerate hard to win back control, the back wheel grips pushing you forward again, not giving the bike time to sink or veer off in an altogether new direction. Most ripio is compacted by the constant stream of big trucks, so the deep gravel and sand is not constant, but you do need to get tuned into the road surface, loosening you grip, relaxed, ready to react.

As we head still further south across the Patagonian plains, there is slight wind, but nothing on the scales constantly described, with stories of people pinned down for days, unable to move, unable to walk forward standing upright. We stop for lunch at a truck stop and talk with a waitress who asks where we are from and we are going, she laughs when I tell her Ushuaia “….mucho viento, muy viento” – very windy”. Moments later she is talking with a truck driver who suddenly roars with laugher, as she explains where we are heading pointing to the motorcycles outside. The laughter subside, then he looks over at us again, letting out a deep hearty chuckle, which he keeps surfacing every time he clocks us or he bikes. Truck drivers here look like truck drivers anywhere in the World, rich in girth through lack of activity, facial hair seems de rigor, with nautical beards and retro moustaches. On the road though they dispel the stereotypical image of the stoic loaner, waving the palms of their hands from side to side as they pass in the opposite direction, on these otherwise deserted roads. The other image that will stay with me and breaks down further any stereo typing, is the way these big, rough, kings of the road greet friends at the truck stops, by kissing them gently on the cheek, it just doesn´t happen at the motorway services in Newport Pagnell.

Traffic becomes a less common site as we head into a much more remote stretch heading towards Rio Gallegos. You can go for well over two hundred miles before seeing any sign of a town or petrol station. Salt lakes are now a common site with pink flamingos standing in the shallow waters, occasionally taking flight. There are small groups of brown lamas, with black and white markings on the road side, they look more like deer than traditional lamas, as they spring to life on catching sight of the bikes, bounding over the fences that run along the road, occasionally darting in front of us. Slowly the landscape again changes with peat brown hills appearing before us, as the road again drops away into the distance, the twilight sun tingeing the landscape with an orange glow, I do believe that’s a WRAP Mr Coppola.

Jorge, with his beaming smile, beanie hat and bright yellow and blue motocross top, comes out to meet us, he speaks little English so after a short conversation in broken Spanish and an inspection of the bikes, he puts his arm on my shoulder looks me in the eye and says “Mi amigo”, there can be no finer welcome.

From humble beginnings Jorge started a motorcycle club in Azul many years ago, from this grew a small shop at the front of his plot – Jorge and his family live in a bungalow at the back - and a club house. In one room is a large open fire place, with an asado rack – asado is an Argentine barbecue – and a small work shop, with double garage doors opening onto the street. In the other room is a kitchen dinner and bunk beds, with an en-suite loo and wood burning spittoon style water heater and shower head. If you fancy a shower, gather some kindling in the back garden, search around for some scrap paper, then from a basket of logs build yourself a nice fire. After an hour, open the window to clear any smoke that’s not left via the chimney and your ready for a nice hot shower. The club house is covered with graffiti, drawings, painting, murals, photographs, stickers, sculptures and memorabilia from all over the world, along side are messages in a multitude of languages and scripts. It’s all word of mouth in the overland motorcycle world and anyone passing is welcomed and offered a bed or a camping pitch for as long as they like. The price for this? Narda, nothing, zilch. It’s only through constant pressure, persuasion and direct action that a donation box was eventually made by a guest and screwed to the wall.

We set up our tents in the back garden near a sculpture made from old bike parts, a vesper body, headlights and assorted junk. Chickens and chicks waddle about on the freshly cut green grass, between the trees and motorbikes. There will be an asardo the following night where they’ll be cooking up a whole sheep to celebrate Jorge’s wife Monica’s birthday, with twenty or so friends and family and we are duly added to the list. Life at “La Posta” is very communal and supper is already being prepared by another biker, Mike a 65 year old from Scotland who looks and sounds like Clive James – he’s originally from New Zealand – who believe it or not I know from a motorcycle meet I’d been to in Derby a few months before. He sends us out for more pasta and beer and we return to a feast and ghoulish tales of the winds further south.

As we are getting ready to leave the morning after the asado Jorge has one last gesture of hospitality. I have a problem with my side stand, loaded the bike sits almost vertical and there is a danger it could be blown over. Jorge as an engineer solves the problem by shortening the stand, then welding on a new wide metal plate to prevent the stand sinking into the mud. He jokes that this will be mucho pesos, but once finished refuses any money, so it back to the donations box. It’s really great when you come across places like “La Posta” and what shines though above everything else is just how content Jorge seems with life.

The road now stretches straight disappearing into the horizon, as the meadows begin to give way to a slightly more arid landscape, with thick green brackens & thistle like plants with colourful flowers. The drainage ditch continues either side of the road along with a simple fences to keep live stock off the road, interrupted only occasionally by ranch gates marked by tyres painted white on tall poles, the tracks again run off into the distance, with no ranches in site. Falcons & hawks become a common site as they catch the thermals, hunting their prey or more likely home in on road kill. There is rumour a spreading that theirs a corner coming up in the next few hours, but there have been such roomers before and they’ve come to nothing. The miles flow by and still nothing changes and the horizon remains the same as the fear begins to set in. It’s been a long time, will I still be able to coupe with a corner, but deep down I still have what’s needed. Then it appears far off in the distance, is it the light playing tricks, as the sun is fierce and the clouds scarce, I’ve learned in the short time I’ve been on the road it’s best not to get you hopes up, but soon it becomes more defined, it’s far off but it’s defiantly there. As the road rushes past I prepare, I see the camber of the road slowly change, I reduce my speed slightly, before accelerating out on the other side. It’s a vintage bend that folk law is built around and I know future bends will struggle in comparison. We could learn a lot from these Argentine engineers I think as road stretches out again into infinity.

We stop on the outskirts of Saldungary to pick up some food and double check the directions to a near by lake where we’ll free camp. It was bound to happen eventually, we’ve heard plenty nightmare stories about the police, brides, corruption and trumped up traffic violations. A really friendly man and his son who speak better English than our Spanish are explaining how to get to the lake 30km down a dirt track as a police pick up truck cruses up and down the deserted street. We head into town to find a supermarket not too far away and park up. We exchange a few smiles with people as on the way and are filling our basket with a few bits a pieces, when a kindly gentleman suddenly appear pointing and saying “Policia……policia”. I go straight out to where the bikes are parked, where the police truck has pulled up, the officer standing in front, he looks a little bit like 'Ponch' Poncherello from chips. He points at the bikes and then the road sign, as it dawns on me we are parked the wrong way up a one way street. Through gestures he suggests we move the bikes, as he climbs back into his truck. After finishing the shop, we come out to load up the bikes. He’s still their courteously keeping an eye on our bikes to make sure nothing untoward happens to them and on seeing we are ready to head off he smiles, fire up the truck and thunders off.

Sandra and Javier at Dakar Motos help us clear the bikes through customs and get the bikes ready before heading off. Javier had a voice similar to Enzo´s (Jean Reno) character in the big blue and is happy to advise as we work in the garden or in the work shop. It’s almost a week since we arrived and we have been staying in the bunk house at Dakar Motos, which has be come a home from home, as an endless stream of people pass though to chat during the day or stay a few nights. Sami from Finland is about to head north to Uruguay, but has a problem, as a Finish company is building a pulp paper mill and people are unhappy about possible environmental issues. Sami’s not involved, but does not fancy meeting the wrath of the protestors, the solution? Become Austrian, by simply affixing a “A” over the “FIN” on his number plate and to complete the guise, implement some good old fashions Austrian stereotypes, by wearing leather shorts and braces. Well perhaps not the last bit then. Sami did however have some good advice on drying out wet boots. Boil up some hot water, add small rocks or pebbles, simmer, drain and serve within the boot for that just dried taste.

It’s like one of the speeded up clips from “The Monkies” as we zig zag our way back and forth across Buenos Aires spaghetti road system, trying to find Routa 3, the road to Azul. Stopping to look at the map a battered old car pulls up half on the hard shoulder and half still on the inside lane, as traffic drifts into the middle lane to avoid a collision. Opening his door to block off the lane completely, a portly old grey haired man, with a short sleeved shirt and slacks gets out comes over smiling, his intentions obvious, to see if he can help. After much pointing, warm smiles, shrugging and some exchanges of Spanish, unable to help, he slaps me on the back, grins and wanders back out into the on coming traffic to get back into his car and drive off.

Once outside Buenos Aires and the surrounding suburbs, the land becomes flat meadows with very little between the 360 degree horizon apart from the very occasional tree, the sky is clear and blue. The road runs straight, with large parallel grass covered drainage ditches – perhaps 15 foot wide – interrupted only by the occasional white washed drainage tunnels with dirt tracks crossing above, leading to a small villages & ranch, not visible from the road. The road becomes quieter with big old trucks appearing out of the heat haze infront and the occasional faster car appear from behind & then roaring past.

As we head towards Azul in the distance there is a man in a day-glow orange jumpsuit waving a large red and white chequered flag and beyond him is a filter system of cones reducing the flow in both directions to one lane. It’s not entirely clear what the flags mean, but after being beckoned on through by numerous other people with a various styles of flags, we are brought to a stand still, the other traffic passed, then we are waved on with thumbs up form the workmen who smile as we pass. The road works continue for mile and miles, then the surface deteriorates severally, we ride on the hard shoulder avoiding pot holes and scattered truck parts as we go. After perhaps 40 miles of cones, surfaceless road and hold ups, what should appear but the opportunity to pay for all the shenanigans at a toll booth. Sadly, if you are on a motorbike, you are not entitled to pay the toll and instead are ushered on to a dirt track at the side to avoid setting off any toll booth sensors. Azul is now just a miles down the road, where we plan to stay with Jorje who runs a motorcycle club which has a slightly different philosophy to the Hells Angels.

After climbing up two vertical steps to board one of the giant red diesel heading to “Retiro”, I can hear a man addressing the people in the adjoining carriage, I not sure what he’s saying, but sense he is pacing the carriage as he speaks. Outside the widow we pass one of the many cathedrals sponsored by Adidas & Coca Cola, which have been built to honour the second God in Argentina, football (Buenos Aires as a city has the largest number of football clubs in the World). The man from the adjoining carriage enters ours and starts to speak, walking as he does so, through the carriage. He places a small clear cellophane bag on the knee of each passenger. The bag is tied at the top and contains two credit card size bars of chocolate, half a centre meter thick. No passenger reacts with malice, instead everyone listens patiently to the pitch, then once completed, the man, with some speed, returns to each person, collecting the package, making the occasional sale as he goes. It’s a pretty tough gig for some people here.

The business district is a far cry from the other parts of the city I have seen and it’s soul seems to have been surgically removed, as generic global brands, logos and advertisements replaces a more independent, self sufficient world that exist just a few blocks away. Almost every capital city in the world has a business district where people can work, safe in the knowledge that they will not see anything they haven’t seen before and their daily routine and diet can continue unaffected by the people beyond. Should they need a gift or present to take back home, there are also plenty of opportunities to buy something soulless they could have brought at home in the first place, but this is not Buenos Aires and this is not Argentina.

Later in the week we head to Palermo, which is a bohemian district full of artists, musicians and colourful 1920’s/30’s European influenced colonials architecture, laid out around plazas and parks, We grabs some bread cheese and cold meat from a super market and have a picnic lunch in one of the parks, shading ourselves from the midday sun under some trees, as we watch a band sound check for a concert later that evening. Families chat, children play, there is a vendor selling bubble machines to children, who fills the air with hundred of tiny bubbles that float across the park and people of all ages, often in the national strip, play football between the trees and planted boarders.

As with all big cities there are the usual problems, but people do seem to be considerate and respectful of one another here, from the eldest to the youngest. On the trains there is an endless procession of people hawking socks, pens, diaries, each time placing the merchandise of the knees of each person in the carriage, then wrapping up any deals before the train pulls in at the next station. From time to time unaccompanied jugglers – often children - or musicians will entertain passengers and at the end of each performance everyone claps and a few people dip into their pockets for some spare change. People seem to have an innate sense of solidarity here, the people on the train at least.

It’s impossible to peal back the layers of a city in a week or two, so you only get a peak at what life is really like for people who live here. We’ve been very luck to be staying with Javier and Sandra who’ve told us a little of life in this sprawling metropolis and just by being with them we’ve pick up a little on how things are, but to really get to know a place I guess you have to stay a little bit longer. My favourite quirk I have discovered since being here is that if you are selling a car, motorbike and so on, to let people know, you place a bottle on the roof, a site you see through city.

After about another thirty minutes, a few more shrugs, lots of smiles and some small talk on the street with passers by, we spot a large over landing bike pull into a petrol station. I signal to the driver, he nods, breaks sharply, then darts across more on coming traffic, stopping on the forecourt. It soon becomes clear without leaving the cab that biker is Javier who’s come out to try and find us, he signals to follow, the pursuit is on, we wind our way through more streets, arriving eventually outside Dakar Motors, the first rescue of the trip executed seamlessly.