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.