Rio Mayo (Rio my sho)

After staying an extra day and getting a few things settled in Esquel, we headed to Rio Mayo, and what was supposed to be the beginning of 300 miles of gravel and dirt (ripio).  It was cool and windy as we left Esquel but we were used to this.  (sorry no pictures again, I will do better)

This is about where the wind starts howling constantly.  It blows from mid-morning until late at night.  The nights are getting exceptionally long now too.  It is 11:00 or later before the sun sets.  It is 9:00p as I write this and it is like it is 5:00pm.    

Within the last 30 miles or so before we got to Rio Mayo, my bike started acting up again, just like it had when I was in Santiago.  Bogging down, slowing to 50 mph, then 30, then 25.  I would shut off the key and it would run fine again for another 2 or 3 minutes.  Then it would repeat all the way into Rio Mayo.

Rio Mayo was pretty much a one horse town.  We found the only Hostel and booked a room.  Chuck and I both came to the conclusion that the problem was the fuel filter.  To get to the fuel filter you have to remove the top glove boxes, the crash guard (the one that had been welded and probably didn’t fit right), then the gas tank.  Then you had to remove the fuel pump from the gas tank, take the fuel pump apart to get to the filter.  Chuck in the mean time had gone inside to use some JB weld on a plastic part of my glove box case, hopefully making it waterproof again.

All this work was done on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant / hostel, with the wind howling at more than 50 mph.  The wind actually blew the tools off of my KTM tool case which blew down the block.  We fortunately found it later a half block away.

I had bought some acetone in Esquel to clean my hands after using some glue on my CB.  When we finally got the to the filter, I used the acetone to backwash both the filter and the pre-filter.  Re-assembled and hoped for the best.  All this took a couple hours.

We ate dinner, and retired to our overheated ‘habitacion’.  Heat seems to be persistent, everything seems to be overheated.  The hotel rooms, the restaurants, the buildings; it is almost like since it is cold outside they overcompensate inside.  We have asked many times for the heat to be turned down, but there is seldom any control in the room nor any ability for anyone to turn it down.  We generally sleep with the window open, if we have one.  In this case, no window, no vent, no control, so we slept in a hot room.

The next morning we were up and left after 10:00a.  Our destination was Baja Caracoles, another one horse town.  The bike has run fine ever since we got it back together.  I will have them change the filter if I can find someone in Buenos Aires to do some maintenance.  

The Accident (Not Rio Mayo)

First let me apologize for not having any photos.  In retrospect I should have been more diligent in my picture taking, but hopefully you will understand why maybe my priorities changed.

Well, we didn’t exactly make it to Rio Mayo, Argentina.  On the way, I had decided to stop and take a couple pictures of the very scenic area we were riding through.  In order to do this I have to remove my rain gear.  When I stopped, Chuck went on and I was going to catch up with him after I took my pictures.

The city El Bolson was about 6 miles ahead. We were planning on getting gas there. I was looking at my speedometer at MPH and gas usage odometer, also trying to gauge with my GPS how far it was and the speed in KPH to El Bolson, the time and when I looked up I had wandered into the center of the lane, which was also occupied by … a tour bus. I was traveling at least at 70 mph south bound and knowing these buses he was probably doing about the same north bound. So our combined speed was somewhere around 140mph.

I glanced off the side of the bus with a loud whooomp sound.  The back of bike came around to my right and just flung me off.  I hit the road looking at my bike leaving me on the left side and all my stuff from my left side case being flung everywhere.  As I came to a stop I watched the bike enter the left shoulder in a cloud of dust and flinging rocks.  I stood up, not exactly knowing what to expect in terms of pain. 

But I felt nothing, no pain, it was almost like I had ended up just standing in the road watching all this happen.  But I looked down at my rain gear and it was shredded.  The bus had stopped and slowly the drivers emerged, one at a time.  I looked at the road and saw all my stuff behind me.  So I started walking back towards the bus, flinging everything in the road to the shoulder.  Eventually I walked all the way to the bus.

Still no pain, but now I could tell much of my protective gear had done what it should have.  My pants knees had holes, the elbow of my jacket had a big hole, my glove had one of the protective pads pulled out, almost everything I was wearing had something damaged, and my rain suit was damaged beyond repair.  Because it was shredded, I looked like a scarecrow, with all the pieces flapping. 

As I greeted the bus drivers all they could say ask was “estas bien???”  Are you ok?  I think maybe they were more shocked then I was, that I was actually standing and walking around and not laying on the roadway.  I told them I had to go check “mi moto”.  They followed as I picked up my stuff from the shoulder on my way back to the bike, probably 150 yards down the road. 

When I got to the bike, it was laying on its left side on the gravel shoulder.  I started to pick it up, but it was too much and someone from a vehicle that had stopped came over and helped.  We got it stood up and I was surprised at how little damage there was.  Sure, the crash bar on the left side was broke, there were some cosmetic blemishes, but the bike looked very rideable. 

So I tried to crank it, and it didn’t do anything.  Chuck reminded me later that I probably had the kickstand down with it in gear and it won’t start like that.  Eventually I kicked it down to neutral and it started right up.  More people stopped and asked “estas bien?”  “Si, si … bien!”

The bus drivers turned the bus around and came back to where I was.  I also noticed at this time that not only had my left case come off and was mutilated but my right case was nowhere to be seen.  About then another driver came from be the bus carrying the other case that had apparently ended up on the right side of the road.

At first I thought the bus drivers were just going to say, ciao and go about their business, but eventually they said “policia!” in El Bolson.  I said si, no problema.  I managed to fix the right case back onto the bike, but the left case was missing all the latches that held it on and held it closed.  The bus drivers offered to carry it for me in the bus.  I agreed to follow them.  I got on the bike and just like the bus was gone. 

I finished putting on my gloves as fast as I could and I was off.  About this time, Chuck came from the other direction.  I just waved him back to El Bolson.  We followed the bus into El Bolson, where he stopped at a policia guard house on the side of the road.  Fortunately the police officer there spoke some English.

The bus drivers had already gotten off the bus and to the police officer when I arrived.  There was a lot of discussion before and what seemed like an indication that we would need to go somewhere else to file a report or something.  Then the officer turned to me and asked me if I was ok.  I said, yes, I was ok.  He asked me for my documentation; passport and motorcycle title, for their report?   He asked me what I happened and I told him. 

At no time was there any finger pointing, yelling or accusatory behavior on the part of the police man or the bus drivers.  After all you hear about how the gringo is always at fault, I was very surprised.  Everyone seemed mostly to be earnestly concerned with my health.   Eventually, after all the information was written down, the policeman turned to me and said “what do you want to do?”  I was shocked, what do I want to do, “nothing!”  and that is the way we left it.

The bus drivers had left me my broken case, got back on the bus and left.  Chuck had waited at the bikes to keep an eye out and he did not want to induce a request for ‘suguros’; insurance, which we didn’t have.  I went back to the bikes and we started figuring out how to re-attached the broken case with cords and straps. 

The police officer came back and we asked about a welder for the crash bar.  He said he knew one but could not tell us how to get there.  Then he stopped a passing police truck and asked them to guides us.  They took us to Marcus and Juan who, looked at the bike, then Marcus had us follow him to his shop.  On the way he stopped for some necessary bolts for reassembly. 

Marcus worked on the bike for probably two hours, getting the welds just right, figuring out the bolts needed and eventually getting it back to functional condition.  In the meantime, I adjusted the chain tension and found a small drain screw in the radiator that had loosened and was leaking. 

After all this, I asked Marcus how much and he said “nada!”  I said, no I would not and left him something for his time and effort.  By now it was proabably 3:30p and we needed to be on the road again, this time only to Esquel, about another 80 miles, to find a place to stay.

Esquel (Es quell)

As we went to Esquel, I was reminded just how bad this could have been.  While we were El Bolson finding Marcus, we were passed by three touring bikes, I believe they are something like Vasqerous or such.  They beeped and waved.  As we drove to Esquel, we passed one of these bikes that had obviously hit something very hard.  The front end and wheel were completely collapsed, there was a helmet on the road, but rider of the bike and the other two riders were nowhere in sight.  That outcome had to be much worse than mine.

Here are a couple pictures I have taken after the fact of the damage and repair work done on the bike.  

Crash bar welded below the bag by Marcus.

Strapped on Luggage bag that will due until I get a new one.

Fortunately my stupidity is all something that can be taken care off by that little green thing under the gas tanks in the second picture ... my wallet. 

San Martin de Los Andes

We decided to ride a back road through the Andes into Argentina.  It meant 30 or so miles of gravel and dirt but it beat the alternative of the ferry and the Caraterra Astral.  It began raining as we got closer to the border and the dirt.  Enough so that when we got to the dirt it was well packed and in my opinion relatively fast, except for the pot holes.  Chuck struggled a little with the looseness and probably remembering the difficulty we had in Ecuador / Peru and I struggled again with some of the bone jarring the road induced in the bike.

Argentina Border Crossing Control Building

But the crossing went well no issues, very quick and we were in San Martin de Los Andes without much issue.  San Martin de Los Andes is a lot like Colorado ski resort town.  We rented a condo, with three floors and two bedrooms.  It was nice.  We stayed a couple nights as Chuck was also trying to get over a cold and I needed to work on my CB, the trigger button had broken. 

We eventually found another switch in town and JB welded it into the CB.  The trigger works now, but for some reason we have now lost all range with the CB.  Chuck will just not get the blessing of hearing my hacking voice as we ride, due to my cold which seems to make me cough continually while riding.

Eventually we got packed and moving the second day, but only had to travel to Bariloche about 100 miles, but about 30 on dirt.  We were eager to get to Bariloche because we heard we could finally get some good Argentinean beef.  What we have had so far, has been nothing to write home about.

Bariloche (Bear’ a low che)

Again, with the rain, the dirt on the road to Bariloche was full of pot holes filled with water and there was a lot more traffic than most of the dirt roads we have traveled.  I found that about 45 mph was the right speed to reduce the vibrations and keep the bike moving in the right line.  It took us some time but we made it through the dirt and finally arrived in Bariloche.  I had scoped out a hotel that seemed to be ok, so that’s where we stayed for the evening.  We consulted the desk clerk about a buen carne a rez.  His recommendations were de Belochi de Alfredo and de Parilla la Tony.  Because the ‘Alfredo’ was closer that’s where we went. 

WOW!  What a steak, it was great.  We had family style mashed potatoes and salad, as well.  The steak you could cut with a fork and melted in your mouth.  One of the best steaks I have had in a very long time and I like me some steak.  If you make sure you get a good steak house, the Argentinean beef is excellent, but you can also get yourself some very tough stuff in the less catered too establishments.

That was the highlight in Bariloche, the next day we were off to Rio Mayo.

Santiago

I had picked out the D&R hostel in Santiago not really knowing where the right place in the town to stay.  But I had located the KTM dealer and figured anything close would be good.  On the road to Santiago we ran into a KTM rider and his wife from Santiago.  He was very familiar with the KTM dealer and said that they were no longer located there and had moved to another area of town.  That was not on their web site!

This is another thing we seem to run into all the time.  Web information, e-mail, contact numbers, addresses; nothing seems to be right.  It’s almost like most businesses just say, if you don’t know how to get in touch with us then we don’t need your business.  But sometimes it can be downright frustrating trying to find something.  The KTM dealer had moved but did not update their information.

Anyway, the Hostel was right where it said it was, although not well marked and locked up.  So we weren’t sure we were at the right place, but in order to get someone’s attention we had to ring the bell and then deal with the language barrier if we were wrong … but we weren’t. 

Alfredo, one of the owners, at D&R Hostel (I am coming to Texas!)

Alfredo and Francisco are the proprietors/owners but don’t speak much English.  When we asked if they had any open rooms, they said no!  But then they had Makarana (yes, like the song) come down.  She spoke English pretty well and after a lot of back and forth between them, they decided if we would take a room they had not yet finished (like still under construction) that they would give us a break.  We looked at it, it was fine, no curtains, no beds, and a lot of clutter but who cares.

We developed quite a friendship with these guys.  They are young but are trying very hard to make a business out of their hostel.  The service was good, the building and room were adequate, but the friendship, assistance and sense of belonging was GREAT.  I recommend this place to anyone.  Don’t expect a Hilton or a Marriott but do expect to get treated right.

They agreed to add a couple beds and we went to find the KTM dealer.  I had left the key on while we were inside, so when I returned my bike would not start.  We jumped it with Chucks bike and it started fine and ran fine, so off we went.  But about 2 miles latter my bike started acting up.  Bogging down, not running, dying.  We tried to get on the highway but it would just die.  I didn’t like not having a shoulder on the highway so I found the first exit. 

Dead on the side of the road.

I stayed there on the sidewalk while Chuck went on the to KTM dealer.  It was about 5pm but Chuck did not return until about 7p.  No one could come and there wasn’t a tow truck anywhere.  The freeway had slowed from rush hour, so we decided to limp to the dealer.  I found if I turned the key off for a second or two, the bike would start running right again for a little bit.  But, when I started it after a two hour rest, it ran fine, to the dealer, back from the dealer to the Hostel for the night and then again back to the dealer the next day.  I have written this up in detail because this problem is still vexing me today as we rode from Esquel, Argentina to a small town called Rio Mayo (rio mah’ sho). 

Anyway, we got the bike to the dealer, met Josephina who is about the only one there that speaks English and got the bikes in for service and I was thinking a look at the problem. 

I had decided since Chucks wife was coming to Santiago and I was going to be on my own for a while that I could almost economically justify buying a plane ticket and coming home for Thanksgiving.  So that is what I did.

I left my stuff at D&R, the bike at the dealer and came home.

Back Again …

I showed up to a home coming at the D&R, with Alfredo greeting me like a long lost brother (or may be father).  I got settled, reclaimed my luggage and set off for the dealer the next morning.  The only thing they had done was to change the oil.  How disappointing.  I asked them to change a tire I had brought back with me and I was very fortunate that they even did that.  I was not very happy, mostly because I still didn’t know what the bike had done previously and they didn’t do anything to fix it.

I met Chuck later that day at the hostel and the next day we were packed, safety isn't as big of a deal in South America as it is in the US.  I took this of one of hostels neighbors cleaning his windows.  

Safety third - 30 foot drop to the parking lot below

We bid Alfredo and Francisco caio and we left for Temuco.  Again, thank god for cruise control.  Lots of highway miles and nothing interesting to see.  We were stopped by the police at a regular policia stopping.  We thought we were going to have to go through the old "show us your insurance card" routine again.  But, the first officer asked Chuck for his motorcycle documents, and Chuck immediately produced his Aduna registration, I started to get mine, but before I could the second officer just waived me off, and said go ahead.  Then we started joking around and eventually it was just a fun time.  Here is Chuck surrounded by the two police officers.  I could not persuade them to pull their guns! :-)

Obviously guilty!

Temuco
Francisco had told us about Temuco, it was nice and safe.  It may be, but we sure didn’t feel safe and the area was anything but nice.  We met Alonso at his hostel Mackay.  Again, no sign, we just had to guess.  He eventually came out and flagged us down.  Nice guy, we asked about dinner and he just shrugged and said, “Sunday, the only thing open is McDonalds.”  Ok, McDonalds it was.

Our original plan was to continue south to Puerto Montt, grab a ferry and ride the Caraterra Astral.  But, after looking at some of the problems with the ferry schedule and with the road after the ferry (there is several miles of “bough” you had to travel through) we decided on another route up through Argentina and ruta 40.  We stayed only that night and we were up early the next day and gone.

Calama

We had asked Pedro before we left how good the roads were from Ollyangue to Calama.  His answer is one we now get as a pat answer for any road in South America, “the road is good!”  Actually, the road was awful, again miles and miles of wash boards and dust.  We also ran into our familiar friend, the perfunctory stop for road construction.

Road Construction Stop

Waiting for the blasting to end.

Finally we reached pavement and the jarring stopped about 30 miles outside Calama.  I made the comment as we rode into Calama, that it could be any town in west Texas.  Windy, dusty but good gas stations, a mall, numerous stores and all the roads were paved.  There were lots of nice hotels as well.

But we were in for a shock, unlike many west Texas towns, Calama is EXPENSIVE!  The first hotel we stopped at wanted $220 US a night for a room with two beds.  After searching for 2 plus hours we eventually settled on a Hostel (which was more like a hotel) for $187 US, ouch!

During the ride to Calama, my speedometer went out, which is not too bad.  But also so did my cruise.  We were getting ready to do a long stretch of highway, so I ended up tearing out my electrical for the cruise/speedometer to find that a wire had vibrated to the point of breaking.  After a quick strip and fix, it was working again.

That night Chuck and I walked the streets of Calama and found another marching band playing for a dance troop that seemed to be dancing as a benefit, although we could not figure out what for.  It was colorful and I found myself tapping my toe and smiling while the young, middle age and old men and women danced in the plaza.  

Dinner was pretty basic although Chuck did seem to have a problem with his order of papa fritas (French fries).  It took almost a full hour to get them, even though he asked about their status several times.  Some fairly gruff looking biker types came in and because they ordered papa fritas; as well, he eventually got his fries.  J

La Serena

The next day, we were up early and rode through the Atacama desert.  It was about 500 miles, and was I glad to have my cruise control working.  There was nothing but rocks, road, sand and wind.  Not even a lot of traffic.  We eventually made La Serena and again this turned out to be very nice, mostly touristy.  The hostel that Chuck found was very nice and if we weren’t in such a hurry to get to Santiago to get the bikes serviced, it may have been a great place to spend a little time.

We asked for a recommendation for dinner and the proprietor in broken English said three blocks up and to the left, I forget the name.  We followed directions and … nothing!  So I asked.  The soldier in Spanish sorta indicated we had missed it back a block, so we went back, not just one but two.  Then I asked a guy with a guitar who looked like he just got through playing somewhere.  He said, in broken English, oh, you missed it, go back a block.  So we did ... again … nothing, nada, zip!

Eventually we found a café on the side of the road, had dinner and a beer; while watching everyone leave the walking mall.

We were up early again the next morning and off to Santiago.

San Juan

We stopped at this small town called San Juan.  Initially, we were thinking a coke and some cookies, but as we talked to the store owner, we found out they actually had a hotel/hostel.  We were pretty beat up by the road, it was probably 2:00p or 2:30p and we decided to see if there was a room at the inn. 

The Hostel at San Juan

The hotel was very clean and a lot larger than we expected in this tiny little town.  There were absolutely no guests, so we were surprised when the woman said she had only one single room with double beds.  We weren’t equipped to argue with her, so we took it.  It also was fairly expensive at around $60 US.  But we found out later this included dinner and breakfast.  Eventually a whole group of German tourist arrived to take all the rest of the rooms and we found out they had actually given us the room they had reserved for the four tour drivers.  We very much enjoyed our stay at the hostel in San Juan.

The next day we asked the proprietor about directions to Ollanguy (O’ ya wee) the town on the Chilean border.  He said the roads were good and all we had to do was to stay to the right and we would be ok.  These directions lacked clarity and in some cases they were just absolutely wrong.  And the road was a mess.  Lots of rocks, pot holes, sand, salt and again the thing I was learning to love the most, wash boards.  Never, never trust free advice.

My front tire caught the loose sand and spun up into the berm

The distance to Ollangue was probably 40 or 50 miles.  But given the misdirection and the quality of the roads, we didn’t arrive at the border until the afternoon.  This included a ride off I had where I had avoided a rock on a very sandy track and then followed the sand up the side where the bike stayed until Chuck arrived to help me pull it out.  The sand had also pulled of one of my saddlebags that needed a little “adjustment” to make it fit right again.  This route also included a railway crossing but not like most.  The road just led up to the rails and we had to cross the rails without the benefit of any lead up, just bare rails.  This is the MAIN road from Bolivia to Chile????

Ollangue

Directions at most border crossings are unclear.  This border was no different.  We looked for the passport processing office (usually the Police office) but could see nothing.  We saw the Aduna for processing vehicles, we drove the a small pedestrian opening and went in.  He asked for our paperwork and was very efficient in processing our vehicles out of Bolivia.  When we asked about processing our passport, he just shook his head and pointed in the direction of the Chile office. 

So the Chilean imagracion is about 3 or 4 miles across the border.  We were thinking he meant the Bolivian passport office was there.  We rode across the divide and of course found no Bolivian office, so we rode back.  This time there was another person in the Aduna office who pointed to a small Bolivian flag, across the tracks sticking up from behind a train.  There we found the police officer who processed our passports.  Nothing is ever easy!

Aduna at the Bolivia side of the border

Policia on the other side of the tracks

Chile was very much more efficient.  After going in the wrong door, I met a receiving agent.  She asked for all our information and processed our passports and motorcycles.  Afterwards we noticed that she had put down Honda’s instead of KTM’s for our motorcycles.  I guess it’s because we bought our bikes at Wild West Honda … hmmm.

We did not have enough gas to make it to the next major town Calama, but we had been told that Ollangue had a gas station.  So we went into town looking for gas.  It turns out the station had closed a long time before, but we were told that a Hostel in town sold gasoline out of the back.  When we found the hostel we were told they would have gas in a hour to come back after lunch.  When we returned we decided to stay for the night.

Gasoline from a barrel

Here we met Pedro.  Pedro was from Santiago and owns a trucking company specializing in the transport of copper ore from Bolivia to Chile to be processed.  One of the nicest guys, one could ever hope to meet.  He let us tie into his cell phone wireless to use the internet and then spent an enormous amount of time giving us advice, directions and descriptions of different places to visit in Chile.  We had dinner and breakfast with Pedro and his crew.

Pedro

We also met a group of five bikers traveling from Brazil.  They were riding BMW’s and an Africa Twin.  It looked like a couple of them had had a get off or two as the bikes were scraped up and pieces missing.  They had ridden from Uyuni to Ollyangue in one day, what had taken us two.  We didn’t speak the same language but we did speak motorcycle!  We took pictures before we left the next morning.

Leoes o' oeste (Lions of the West) with Pedro and us.

On to Calama.

Uyuni

The road from La Paz to Potosi is paved, and not completely filled with Trucks and Buses, so we made pretty good time.  The scenary was spectacular, there were places that made me feel I was looking at that the Grand Canyon in the states.

Figure 4Canyons on the way to Potosi

And we actually found gas along the way.  I marked out a hostel and it took a little time to find it.  When we did, they had an excellent place to park and a room for about $30.  We went and had dinner, and settled in for the night.  Potosi is somewhat a tourist destination, so there was a little walking mall, movie theaters and generally felt very safe.  We had breakfast early and left.  We left town, again without filling up because we could not find a gas station. 

We paid a toll for a brand new road from Potosi to Uyuni.  It had only been open a month, very little traffic, smooth and about of 120 miles of nothing but twisty road….  It was a blast.  But at about 80 miles the reserve light came on and there were NO stations, nothing, nada.  Chuck actually had about 46 miles on his reserve when we finally pulled into Uyuni. 

We ran into some Germans just outside Uyuni and asked if they could follow us to make sure we made it.  They had some extra gas, in water bottles held on back with bungees.  Saftey third!

New friends from Germany

Uyuni

The line of cars at the station in Uyuni was at least a half mile long.  But, we have found out that usually in Bolivia there is a “moto” only line.  I kinda snuck around until one of the attendents finally motioned me in.  And we were now traveling with the five Germans on BMWs, so there were seven of us in total.

I sometimes wonder why others don’t get pissed off because of our cutting in line.  I have never had an issue, if fact many of those in line will get out of their cars to come ask us about our bikes.  This time seven bikes filled up but there were no complaints.  The gas truck just arrived to fill up the tanks in the station and I heard later that some in that line had been waiting since the day before.  We followed the Germans to the hostel they were looking for.  Talking a few weeks later with others who were there, we were told that the gas truck had been days in arriving and they had to find gasoline on the black market from people with drums.  (see later note about Ollangue)

After getting a room at the hostel, we removed our luggage, left it in the room and decided to ride out to Luna Salada (the Salt Hotel).  We had tried to get a reservation but they had indicated that they were fully booked.  But we decided to go anyway, see the hotel and have a beer.  When we got there, they said there had a problem with one of the tours and they had some open rooms.  We went ahead and took a room; how many times do you get to stay in a hotel made of salt. 

Hotel Luna Salada (Salt Hotel)

The road to the hotel was brutal though, entirely wash boarded, some sand but totally beating up the bikes.  It had taken over an hour to travel about 20 miles.  We decided to not go back that night, and just rough it without our luggage.  However, someone was coming out to work and agreed to stop and pick up our luggage.  They cut off the lock on the Hostel room, got our luggage, paid our Hostel bill, bought a new lock and brought our luggage for their cost only.  Nice!

We stayed at the Luna Salada for three days.  The second day we traveled onto the salt, which is the largest lake deposited salt in the world.  NASA usebs the surface of the Salar de Uyuni to calibrate their satellite instruments, as it is much more accurate than the surface of the ocean.  The elevation on our GPS (approximately 12,050 feet) did not vary over ten feet during the entire crossing of about 40 miles. 

The Salt as far as you could see

The outside edge of the salt is actually wet.  It rains on the land surrounding the salt then drains into the salt.  You must be careful not to drive into the wet salt and become stuck. 

We had lunch at the isle de Incahuas.  Pretty much a tourist destination, but still worthwhile.  Chuck had a young admirer, the daughter of one of the workers in the kitchen.  She has apparently never seen a giant with a gray beard.

Chuck's Admirer

She was not camera shy

On the way back, due to the vibration on the salt, the gas can bracket had cracked and broken.  The tanks were lying flat on my side cases.  We pulled it up and held it in place with a bungy.  At the hotel we asked about a welder in town, who could reweld the bracket.   Turns out the hotel had someone employed, who welded.  He came out in front of the hotel, ran a couple wires to the electrical outlet and welded up a fix. 

Welding the gas holder back together

He welded a brace on Chucks as well.  But he ran out of welding rod before he could add a brace to my second side.  He asked for nothing but we gave him what amounted to about $20 each.  I must say, as he started to weld he did not have welding goggles on, and we told him we would not let him weld on our bikes without goggles, so he went and put on his safety gear.

On the second day they moved us to a suite, because the tour that missed the previous day, was now expected.  The suite was huge, a large living room and two bedrooms, one with two doubles and the other with a king size bed.  Unfortunately, we would have gladly traded the upgrade for a few steps closer to the front door and the bikes.  As it was, the suite was literally the furthest room away at 300 steps (Chuck counted).  Carrying our luggage out was a workout at over 12,000 feet elevation.

That's loose salt on the floor

Grotto's outside the rooms along the main hall

As we left the hotel on the final day, we asked about the roads on the opposite side of the salt.  We were told that it was a pretty good road.  Here is some advice, never trust free advice. J 

Here's the map, simple right?

Chuck had programmed an intercept from the previous days track.  So as we got close he took the lead.  I became concerned when we crossed our track but kept going.  We were getting closer and closer to the edge and the wet salt.  What was worse was that Chuck had taken an angle away from the direction we needed to go.  As he stopped to look at his GPS, I caught up and convinced him we needed to back track.  He said he would follow me.  I turned but as we headed back I crossed tracks from vehicles coming from shore.  I stopped to make Chuck aware of the bumps and my bike sank into the salt, getting stuck.  I waved Chuck across the tracks to the other side and he came back and helped me get my bike unstuck.

Stuck in the salt.  It looks like Snow.

We made it to the dirt road on the other side of the salt.  It was about 30 miles to San Juan, but the road was brutal.  Sand, rocks, dust and again, the worst wash boards.   Along with all the questions about which way to go, it took us at least three hours to get to San Juan.