We left Bucharest, capital of Romania, on Day 38 of our Travels. It has rained constantly, forcing us to give up on camping and stay in hotels. We’re on our way to Belgrade, capital of Serbia, dodging raindrops and thunderous black clouds. We get to Vidin, a town on the border where a slither of Bulgaria juts into Romania and Serbia. We’ve crossed the Danube 3 times to get here in this windswept, forgotten corner. Romania and Bulgaria are both countries of so many contrasts. There are beautiful mountains, delicious pastries and grills, friendly people, cosmopolitan vibrant cities and stunning roads, mixed in with desolation, poverty and pre-mechanisation farm labour practices. We travelled through 100 years in as many kilometres. And we’ll go back again someday because both countries are fascinating and enchanting.
We find a guest house that is willing to let us park the bike in their locked and gated driveway, giving us a chance to clean up, dry out and wander into town for a bite to eat. 6 euros gets us a delicious dinner and again in the morning 10euros buys us a delicious breakfast. We are 100kms away from the Serbian border, southwest of the Danube at Negotin, where we stop for coffee and croissants and a Sunday morning gathering of the locals, after a wet morning’s ride. It was so warm and cosy, that it was only a glimpse of a blue hole in the clouds that enticed us back onto the bike. The blue sky was just an illusion as the weather closed down even more into a misty blanket of gloom. The twisting deep valley road got more and more oppressive and by 4pm we weren’t happy bunnies, anymore. Our Navigator directs us to a no longer functioning guesthouse where the nice man over the garden wall directs us back 8kms to the small town of Kucevo, where we find a rather large expensive looking hotel, with blokes lounging around smoking, relaxing, drinking . A holiday mood abounds. Decidedly bedraggled and weary we trudge up the grand steps to be greeted by a cheerful chappie. “Do you have a room for the night and how much, please? ” we ask. “ Affirmative and 60 euros” he replies in perfect English. “Oh dear” we lament, “that’s too expensive for us, we are on a camping trip but the rain is a bit hard, too bad”. We hang around a bit keeping dry on their undercover patio, thinking about Plan B when Cheery Chap bounds up again. “We have a room for 20 euros in the old part of the hotel. Would that be alright? There is no bathroom, but you can use the facilities at the swimming pool.” “Perfect, thank you” while B is unloading and I am doing the paperwork , the cheerful guy notices my first name and bursts into song from the musical Hair*. He is so funny and fresh and enthusiastic it lifts our mood immediately, plus the mention of a pool. And what a pool! Olympic size! Heated! And all to ourselves! We park the bike in the secure area at the back of the hotel, find our way in again through the non-functioning kitchen, go for a swim and a splash and have a lovely time. Our friend recommends a grill in the best bar in town, underground in a cellar where there is more of the holiday and festive spirit and a delicious meal for 11euros. We’re beginning to like this place and this gem of a town in a deep gloomy valley.
We awake to blazing sunshine and it stays that way for the next 20 days. What a relief. This deep dark wet valley is now gorgeous. The greens are greener, the blues are bluer and all is well. Doom and gloom gives way to sunshine and smiles. What a turn around after 5 damp days. We thoroughly enjoy the next 140kms to Belgrade, stopping there for a delicious brunch as recommended by a chatty Austrian girl and her Serbian boyfriend. We watch busloads of silver-surfers emerge and play follow-my-leader as they scurry after the flag bearing guide. I leave B to go in search of a sticker, no luck, but am overwhelmed by the cosmopolitan air in this very modern European city. With leftovers from the Serbian grill the night before and some more padkos from the huge Belgrade breakfast ( these platefuls are massive) we complete the 300 kms from Belgrade into Hungary to a campsite site in Kiskoros in no time at all. We presume we are in Hungary, because that’s what it says on the map and the border posts, but our confusion is justified by all the Lidls, Aldis and Tescos at every crossroad. To make room for our shopping I hand our two oversize enamel tea/soup cups to a familiar looking beggar (just like the one outside Lidl here in our village in France) The campsite is not far away and a particularly buxom, blonde lady bounced over and poured us a welcome glass of home made red wine, exclaiming its virtues in mix of Italian, German and Spanish. We understood her perfectly and enjoyed the wine.
We start the next day with the rest of the German and Hungarian Campers by entering at ‘our own risk’ the muddy waters of the Thermal pool. We are allowed in for 20 minutes, on condition we are not pregnant and are over 14years of age. It is 38 degrees and every now and then farty-sulphur bubbles blow up from the murky depths. We feel like hippos wallowing at the waterhole and drift around slowly for about 12 minutes, and that’s enough. We put our bike gear on over our wet costumes which now act as cooling radiators as the air rushes past. Hungary seems to be full of trucks and highways and we come to an 8-leaf clover intersection where all the vehicles converge, drive around in convoluted loops and then disappear to all 4 points of the compass. I frantically tap B’s left/right shoulder and we make it through the turmoil and head off to Budapest, now just 140kms away.
Budapest is stunning. Wide avenues. Decorative roofs. A very modern city jostling with its historical and cultural roots. We stop under a tree to park, rest and regroup ourselves. Water is freely available from a spout in the pavement and icecream is sold by the weight. We ride through the tunnel up to the Old Town and the nice guard lets us into the ‘buses only’ area. He must be a biker. It’s a magical fairytale world at the top with turrets and castles and everything Walt Disney could dream of, fit for a Princess. We park up and I wander around taking photos and looking for a sticker. An American couple have introduced themselves and are chatting about the bike they hired for their tour around the capital cities. Us girls swop tips on how to pack and what to wear while the men share bike stories. My one pair of shoes and two t-shirts/shorts don’t quite match up to her ball gowns that are being flown from hotel to hotel. “Are you listening? B”. Actually we love what we do and they love what they do, so we have a laugh and say farewell.
We find a campsite at Lake Balaton after two failed attempts. The first one was too expensive, the second one occupied by dozy teenager-receptionists with faces in their phones and and the third one just perfect. Full of the glories of nature and a herb garden at the entrance for the campers’ consumption to enjoy and sprinkle on their BBQ’s. Our Czech neighbours wandered over with some home made ‘Apple Palinka’ (50% proof), which we enjoyed before going for an evening stroll along the lake’s edge. A swan with beady black eyes watched us and we watched a very dramatic bird swoop and scoop on the lake, repeatedly taking off and landing. At sunset its headlights came on and the sea plane/bird was piloted to roost by a man in a deck chair.
With the lake on our right we ride through Hungary, past pretty, pristine and pleasant villages and countryside. The lawns are mowed, not a blade out of place. No rubbish. Have the Stepford wives been here?. The sun is still shining so its next stop Zagreb, capital of Croatia. Blue trams and shiny metaltracks criss-cross the road and we play dodgems with the taxis, cop cars and pedestrians. We are in and out of Zagreb in a flash. We find a shopping complex to replenish the foodstore pannier and there’s also a Decathlon. Ever since we left home we have struggled without a rubber mallet. Tent ropes need pegs. Pegs need to go in the ground. All sorts of gound. Soft. Hard. Rocky. Sandy. Muddy. Ropes stretch and pegs bend. There hasn’t always been a rock or brick to use and the boots are usually still on our feet. We’ve tried to get on without one, but realise it is an essential piece of kit. We just need to find a lightweight one that still does the job. Decathlon has it. And also some triangular hardened aluminium pegs that don’t fold over and bend after a few whacks. All sorted, we find a suitable campsite on the edge of Zagreb to test our new purchases. Its out of Croatia and into Slovenia as still riding with the sunshine we decide to go to Ljublana, capital of Slovenia, for lunch.
Slovenia has historically been the crossroads of West Slavic, South Slavic, Germanic, Romance, and Hungarian languages and culture. It is part of the European Union and its currency is the euro. We didn’t know this at the time which was rather fortunate when we got to the Highway toll booth. The nice lady let us through without paying as it is cash only. We explained we hadn’t been to the ATM yet and didn’t have any Slovenian money. “Never mind”, she said as the barrier lifted to let us through. Slovenia continued the theme of fairyland, with 85 kms of stunning scenery and pointy red roofed castles high up on the peaks. The whole point of going into the capital city was to find an ATM to withdraw Slovenian money. There was nowhere to park and all zones are allocated for pedestrians and bicycles. We pretended we were both. I dismounted and waked in front of B, still on the bike, as we tried to be invisible down the high street. It didn’t work. The Police Patrol in their Playmobile look-alike dinky cars waved an index finger at us and basically said “scoot, now”. We find a Lidl out of the city centre, go to the cash machine and to our surprise it spews out Euros. This is when we realize we could have paid the cash only toll fee as we always have a few of those. Oops.
Different currencies and differing time zones have made this trip both interesting and bizarre. There is no time difference between Romania and Bulgaria, but one hour less in Serbia. There is plus one hour between Bulgaria and Turkey. Slovenia, Serbia and Hungary are on the same time zone. Greece is the same time as Turkey, but not Italy, Croatia or Bulgaria.
We cross from Slovenia back into Croatia, where we find an expensive tourist lumpy, bumpy campsite right on the sea, full of Italians. Apart from not knowing the time, we are confused again about the country. Nobody is where they should be and everybody is everywhere else!
It’s Day 45, Camp 41; we stop for an evening swim in the Adriatic Sea before bed and dream about spotty dogs and tomorrow’s adventure ride down the Dalmation Coast.

*Hair tells the story of the "tribe", a group of politically active, long-haired hippies of the "Age of Aquarius" living a bohemian life in New York City and fighting against conscription into the Vietnam War. Claude, his good friend Berger, their roommate Sheila and their friends struggle to balance their young lives, loves, and the sexual revolution with their rebellion against the war and their conservative parents and society.

photos on HU TravelStories and 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Good writing. I want to go to this part of the world soon.

__________________
http://www.journeyrider.net Latin America blog (07-8)

Are we in Italy? No, we are in Croatia, it just seems very Italian. We start the morning with an early swim in the Adriatic Sea, and put our bike gear over our wet cozzies to give us a cool ride on this hot, hot day. We’re riding the 534kms Dalmatian coast from the campsite at Rijeka in the north all the way South to Dubrovnik (https://goo.gl/maps/nV7ingfscYC2).
It’s amazing. Sheer drops into the bluest of seas on our right and steep rocky mountains spotted with scrubland on our left. The road winds and twists, up and down, sometimes near the water, sometimes inland. We saw people randomly bobbing around in the sea, virtually at each curve of the road, over the low stone wall that separated road from sea. We whizz by, keeping cool and start looking for our own camper’s swimming paradise. We also saw a big break in the water a good distance away. As it appeared to travel with us we reckoned it was either a whale or some dolphins. Other turbulences that we saw from high vantage points were left behind as we rode, so we reckoned these may be underwater rocks. The Italian waitress at the lunch restaurant in Senj assured us there were no whales or dolphins in the bay. A little bit of research on t’internet told us otherwise. The lunch was a very expensive Spaghetti Cabonara at 30euros, almost a 3 days food budget. We need to rein in a bit and get back to basics on the food store front. I keep a daily record of all costs and we really are trying to stick to the smallest spend possible over this 2month adventure. We’ve roughly estimated 15 euros fuel, 15 euros food and 15 euros accommodation, rounding it up to 50 euros a day. So far, so good. I wandered around Senj, searching for a sticker, and found the seaside town to be very interesting. New constructions added to old and clearly a place that had been severely damaged in WW2.
We found our camping/swimming paradise at camp Sibuljina, where the bright alert friendly receptionist locked the office and personally escorted us to ‘the best site in the camp’. It certainly was! We could fall out of the tent into the sea. We travel with two pairs of shoes each, boots for riding and our trusted Keen Sandals for everything else. They are great for swimming as they help us float and keep nasty things from stabbing our soles. The shallow waters of this pebbled seaside were cluttered with large black sea urchins. Hopping carefully from pebble to pebble, we cross the danger zone and flop into the perfectly temperatured water. Our site faced the sea and the promenade, which encourage friendly folk to stop and chat, discuss bikes and what to see and where to go.
The next day’s ride was just as glorious, stopping for a swim and picnic on the island of Rogoznica. The coastline is stunning, the roads fabulous and very little traffic. Speed limits are a bit restrictive, being 70kms most of the way, but occasionally 90kms/hour. At one point on a straight stretch, which was 70kms hr, we had a big flashy car ‘pushing’ us, so B drifted to the right and let him overtake on the dotted line, no problem. Unfortunately for him there was a copcar in the layby out of sight around the corner who captured him with his radar. We rode on by steadily at 70kms/hr, feeling a bit bad that we had waved him on making it easy to overtake (and speed). Feeling thankful it wasn’t us we started to look for campsites, the first one too steep, second not near the sea, third one too expensive and the fourth one at Sutikla, just right. We keep our cozzies on all day, so it’s easy to park, pitch and swim. We join the throngs of ‘promenaders’ along the beach front and restaurant area before settling in for another cosy camp.
There is a 9kms stretch of land dividing north and south Croatia. It is where Bosnia-Herzegovina owns a bit of coastline. Talk goes that if we cannot get across on our bike, with our white ‘green paper’ we then may need to catch a boat that transports vehicles across this little break in the boundary. We’ve heard the queues are long and the guards are a bit moody. Taking no chances, and because the border post is 150kms away, and we have a site already booked a bit beyond Dubrovnik, a further 50kms, we want to be there before 10 am. This means a very early pack up and push-off at 5.30 am. It normally takes us one and half hours to get going so by 7am we are ready tackle Bos-Herz. None of the stories were true, we got smiling border guard, who just waved us through and we had a fabulous breakfast in Bos-Herz for 3Euros. Yes, they take euros, but are not part of the EU.
Re-entering Croatia was just as easy and we got to camp Kate way ahead of schedule, with enough time for a ride around the city of Dubrovnik and a pre-lunch and chips, followed by an afternoon swim and snooze. 24 years ago, when I moved from South Africa to the UK, I teamed up with a work colleague. We are still in touch and with the help of social media we have arranged to meet up in Dubrovnik square. Their ship-cruise schedule and our bike-cruise schedule have coincided by about 3hours. We have a wonderful hour celebrating our 24 year friendship over another and plate of chips, before their tour guide waves her flag and we say farewell.
Windy gusts blew the tarpaulin and poles down in the night, even though we are tucked into a bank of bushes. Guy ropes seem to stretch when wet, flap in the wind and then the pegs work their way loose. B improvised with a couple of bungees, which did the job as they give more flexibility whilst at the same time keeping the tension when the wind blows. We’re having a four day break from touring as more friends are arriving by plane from the UK this afternoon. These are friends from 37 years ago and for the past 6 years we have spent some part of the June holidays with them somewhere around Europe. We do the WALL in Dubrovnik city, have a sunset supper beach picnic and get shaken up by an earthquake registering 3.5! We swim and swim and walk and walk and talk and talk and laugh and laugh.
Day 51 dawns with thunder and lightning, but nevertheless we need to pack and go. Its June 29th and we have 5 days to get back to France to fetch our grandchildren for their annual holiday with Ouma and Oupa. We know it’s at least 750 kms to Trieste in north Italy, so another early set off at 7am. We feel confident about the Bos-Herz crossing and stop again at the cheap and tasty breakfast café. When we were there 4 days ago, B had taken out his stylo-pen that he uses to type with on his android phone. He had written a few messages/mails at breakfast, but when we got to Dubrovnik he could not find his pen. A finger-pen, being not so easy, makes this e-pen rather valuable and it is NEW, because he’d lost one in Thailand earlier in the year. They are not cheap to replace. The lovely breakfast lady remembered us and produced the pen, along with the breakfast. Whew!! B is so lucky. We take the coastline/ mountain road as far as Senj, where we find a charming camp site on the beach. More swimming, splashing and a presentation of Slivovitz by a German neighbour and his South African son-in-law both on 650’s ended a very pleasant 474km ride that day. We branched off onto the highway the next day and rode in appalling cross winds the 429 kms from Senj to Bologna in one go. But that’s another story https://goo.gl/maps/grEWzuffBh42

https://photos.google.com/u/1/album/...tmy_eptkVSnERw


photos on H U Travel stories and 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

Brausch, for photos see: Horizons Unlimited - The HUBB - FAQ: Reading and Posting Messages

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Inspiring, Informing and Connecting travellers since 1997!
www.HorizonsUnlimited.com

Our Eastern European tour was a great success. We tested the bike and ourselves for 2months and 15,000kms and are pleasantly surprised at the outcome. We can pitch a tent for 57 days. We can survive in rain and cold and heat. We can eat cold spaghetti out of a glass jar and we still love each other.
However, there are a few modifications to be made on the bike: the most pressing one being to install a Scott Oiler. B is meticulous about regularly oiling the chain at 100 kms intervals. When the bike is unloaded it’s an effort. When the bike is loaded it’s a BIG effort. “One, two three, heave” we call as we synchronise feet placements, arm movements and shoulder pushing. For our RTW (Round The World) trip, which is looming, this is not something we want to do. After a bit of research on the internet, a Scott Oiler is purchased, delivered and fitted. We plan to try this on our next adventure to Norfolk, via the Battle Flower Show in Jersey. We had struggled a bit on the steep uphill curves when tackling the mountain passes in Romania and Central Italy, so B put his action plan to swop front-ends of the X-Country and Sertao into place. To boost our finances we participated in the annual Bric-a-Brac that takes place in the rural French village where we live. The proceeds go into the RTW fund. It’s now the middle of August and we have a chance to test the modifications.
The 410kms ride on the highway to St.Malo was cold, wet and windy but ended in glorious sunshine at the ferry port. Whilst waiting for the ferry we dozed off in the warmth of the afternoon sun. We have pre-booked a campsite on the East side of Jersey island as the population swells during this grand event. It is held on the 2nd Thursday of August, having started in 1902 to celebrate the coronation of King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra. The storms that challenged us on the French mainland riding to the ferry port continued during our stay in Jersey. Wearing full rain gear we circumnavigated one side of the island, spotting the WW2 bunkers and lighthouses and getting our bearings for parking the bike during the show. We ventured into cosy harbour cafes to sample traditional Jersey Ice Cream, Potatoes and Black Butter (Spicy Apple Preserve). The day of the Flower Show arrives and still in our hi-vis full suit rain gear we stand in the queue. We are approached by a rather frantic Marshall who mistakes us for part of the missing skydiving team. We assure him that motorbikes are our thing, not jumping out of planes. Coincidentally, he is also South African and takes the joke one step further by introducing us to fellow Marshalls as part of the sky diving team, who have now been found. The language of Jersey is a Jersey-Norman dialect with an unusual accent that has a strangely familiar South African twang. We checked with our new friend that he is indeed from SA and not a Jersey man.
The show was brilliant, full of colour, fun and noise. The marching bands led the flower-decked floats up and down the parade road for at least 2 hours. The sun came out for the show and the wind blew the storm clouds away. The three nights under tent had seen the tarp blow away and tear a bit, the challenge of a different tiny 2 man tent suffocating and cramped and the need for 100% waterproof panniers paramount. We are now narrowing down the specifications for our RTW.
• B needs a chair with a back, not a Tripod chair
• 3-man tent, imperative with vestibule
• Waterproof front panniers
• Waterproof liners for back sling overs
• A bigger platform over the back to double up as a table, with holes for cups
• More efficient lighting fuel for the petrol stove
• Repair my heated vest
• B needs bigger gloves
• Collapsible pots, kettle and plates
• Windshield for stove
• Lighter weight ground sheets.
After three days where we encountered all weathers, bar the snow, we continue the journey and catch the ferry to Poole. The bad weather continues, which is rather disappointing for mid-summer, so when we land at 19h30 we question whether we will make the 200kms journey to our friends near Gatwick before the storm breaks.
Well the decision is made for us. We stop at a café to top-up our UK sim card and I switch the Garmin Navigator on to add addresses and compare distances and routes. It drains the battery: the same battery that caused us so much trouble in Belgrade. We are now stuck in Poole late on a Friday night with a loaded motorbike and no power. “Push”, says B as he foots it down the level road and I do my best. Surprise, surprise, we are at sea level and there are no hills. We get further and further away from the café and then spot a slightly uphill driveway. No-body is at home and some very kind unknowing people have lent us their driveway. We push the bike up and with an almighty push back down the driveway, it starts. The relief is huge. A decision is made to re-route ourselves to family in Worcester, where we will tout the bike shops on Saturday morning and invest in a brand new battery. We set off in the dark, and complete the 250kms, arriving just past midnight to a warm, if not surprised welcome.
Battery purchased and fitted and after a few days catching up with our South African family, we set off again to do the 320kms cross country ride from Worcester to Norwich. This is another mega South African reunion with a week of partying and some shopping. We can tick chair, pots, plates and gloves off the ‘to buy’ list. We catch up with a fellow biker at a bike-show-in-a-field-pub. The homeward route takes us 300kms south to our friends near Gatwick, another ferry and home to our lovely rural French village home. The ferry arrives in Dieppe at 5am, again cold and very wet. What happened to the sun this summer? We know it is 540 kms to home, but having only semi-dozed on the carpeted floor overnight, by 8am we are getting tired and hungry. A quick boil-up of coffee at a laybye restored us for a few hours, but when we spotted a patch of grass bathed in sunshine next to a parking zone in the cropped wheat fields, we could not resist a zizz. Parking the bike on its centre stand, we hopped over the Armco barriers and flopped onto the grass, hitting the sack immediately, keeping our helmets on, which are perfect pillows.. About an hour later, we heard a very concerned voice “bonjour, bonjour” calling us. As soon as we responded with “ merci, je suis fatigue, je suis d’accord “, our rescuer nodded and departed. Such a kind act, the poor car owner had probably thought we’d been flung over the edge. Suitably refreshed the remaining few hours ride to home was pleasant enough, where we put the bike in doors, closed the shutters and went back to bed.
https://goo.gl/maps/1UFwxNfbpuA2
B is delighted with the front end modifications and I am delighted that the Scott Oiler has made me redundant.
Our sweet dreams take us to Thailand, on a flight booked for 6 week’s time. See you there.

Photos on 2up2wheels.blogspot.com

[LEFT]Fortified by a Cactus at the Rodeo, we found a back road that circumnavigated Santiago and pointed us in the direction of the coast and the Pacific Ocean. It was already late, having waved farewell to lovely Alfredo and his horse, been unwelcome in Santiago, watched a Rodeo and clocked up 180kms, so when we rounded a sharp curve and steep hill down into the little town of Curacavi, we decided to call it a day. We bought basic supper/breakfast provisions at a supermarket and googled a campsite. How Lucky, one right here. And this is where the difference between ‘camping’ and ‘camping’ became apparent. One means ‘picnic’ and one means ‘pitch a tent for the night’. The one we found meant ‘picnic’. No amount of smiling and arm waving could persuade them to have us pitch our tent on their lawns. “Why do you want a campsite? All camping is free at the rivers”, said the nice Gary. Before we throttled him, he mentioned that they have very nice comfortable cabanas at a reasonable price of 15 euros. The bike was parked safe and secure right outside the front door to our cabin under a vine bearing the tiniest sweetest yellowgrapes. Perfect for breakfast.
We follow route 68 to the coast and experience the first of many roller-coaster rides that go round and round and down, down then up, up at all angles and speeds mostlyaccompanied by WIND. Wind that blows you forwards, backwards and even sideways. A northern wind is a tailwind, but turning to the left or right around the curves is another story. It’s head-on or a sideways whack. The ride into Valparesi is pretty damn terrifying, so when we got to Papadu the icecream, empanadas and a photoshoot of Pelicans restored our equilibrium. Fortunately the roads are wide enough to accommodate the buses and trucks that are ever present. The navigator showed a campsite (with a tent sign) at Les Molles, which would bring our day’s ride up to 238kms. Just about right. A few turns over Passovers and ramps found us at the entrance to the campsite: down a very steep gravel road, which got steeper as it went on towards the reception area. For some reason I have developed a bit of an aversion to gravel and steepness and with a pounding heart started the descent on the back of the bike. Halfway down, my fears overcame my bravery and I screamed “stop, stop, I have to get off”. Silly me. B can’t stop a bike halfway down a slope!! We pulled up outside reception, on the level, and I leapt off the bike. Shaking. Control yourself, Girl! After a few minutes of deep breathing and with a smile on my face I approached the lady at the desk. “Buenos, Camping, por favour” and made the shape of a tent and pointed to the motorbike. The reply was curt and to the point “ No”.
I stood there, shocked and speechless. Not exactly the reply I had expected. Doing a quick about turn I stepped out of her office, stood in the parking sandpit, raised my arms skywards and in a most unholy exaltation shouted very loudly “I HATE $%^&* CHILE, NO PARKING, NO CAMPING, NO MOTORCYCLES, I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE”. Tantrum over, B and I set about searching on Google for a ‘campsite near you’: 30kms away! Perhaps!
Just as we resigned ourselves to another hour’s ride and search, the receptionist appeared with a phone in her hand, holding it out to me. “Hello”, I said and a male voice replied”Hello, we have found a site for you. It is at the end where we usually park the campercars. Will that be alright?”
“Yes, thank you”. I gasped, before he changed his mind. And so B rode about a kilometre down the sandy track passing tents, landcruisers, geodesic domes and I walked. I just want to feel the ground beneath my feet. We had a beautiful site, with a clear view of the pounding Pacific, albeit a bit windswept. Nevermind, we lashed our guy ropes to the fence and picnic table and watched the sunset. Peace was restored in the Niemann Camp.

Fortified by a Cactus at the Rodeo, we found a back road that circumnavigated Santiago and pointed us in the direction of the coast and the Pacific Ocean. It was already late, having waved farewell to lovely Alfredo and his horse, been unwelcome in Santiago, watched a Rodeo and clocked up 180kms, so when we rounded a sharp curve and steep hill down into the little town of Curacavi, we decided to call it a day. We bought basic supper/breakfast provisions at a supermarket and googled a campsite. How Lucky, one right here. And this is where the difference between ‘camping’ and ‘camping’ became apparent. One means ‘picnic’ and one means ‘pitch a tent for the night’. The one we found meant ‘picnic’. No amount of smiling and arm waving could persuade them to have us pitch our tent on their lawns. “Why do you want a campsite? All camping is free at the rivers”, said the nice Gary. Before we throttled him, he mentioned that they have very nice comfortable cabanas at a reasonable price of 15 euros. The bike was parked safe and secure right outside the front door to our cabin under a vine bearing the tiniest sweetest yellowgrapes. Perfect for breakfast.
We follow route 68 to the coast and experience the first of many roller-coaster rides that go round and round and down, down then up, up at all angles and speeds mostlyaccompanied by WIND. Wind that blows you forwards, backwards and even sideways. A northern wind is a tailwind, but turning to the left or right around the curves is another story. It’s head-on or a sideways whack. The ride into Valparesi is pretty damn terrifying, so when we got to Papadu the icecream, empanadas and a photoshoot of Pelicans restored our equilibrium. Fortunately the roads are wide enough to accommodate the buses and trucks that are ever present. The navigator showed a campsite (with a tent sign) at Les Molles, which would bring our day’s ride up to 238kms. Just about right. A few turns over Passovers and ramps found us at the entrance to the campsite: down a very steep gravel road, which got steeper as it went on towards the reception area. For some reason I have developed a bit of an aversion to gravel and steepness and with a pounding heart started the descent on the back of the bike. Halfway down, my fears overcame my bravery and I screamed “stop, stop, I have to get off”. Silly me. B can’t stop a bike halfway down a slope!! We pulled up outside reception, on the level, and I leapt off the bike. Shaking. Control yourself, Girl! After a few minutes of deep breathing and with a smile on my face I approached the lady at the desk. “Buenos, Camping, por favour” and made the shape of a tent and pointed to the motorbike. The reply was curt and to the point “ No”.
I stood there, shocked and speechless. Not exactly the reply I had expected. Doing a quick about turn I stepped out of her office, stood in the parking sandpit, raised my arms skywards and in a most unholy exaltation shouted very loudly “I HATE $%^&* CHILE, NO PARKING, NO CAMPING, NO MOTORCYCLES, I WANT TO GET OUT OF HERE”. Tantrum over, B and I set about searching on Google for a ‘campsite near you’: 30kms away! Perhaps!
Just as we resigned ourselves to another hour’s ride and search, the receptionist appeared with a phone in her hand, holding it out to me. “Hello”, I said and a male voice replied”Hello, we have found a site for you. It is at the end where we usually park the campercars. Will that be alright?”
“Yes, thank you”. I gasped, before he changed his mind. And so B rode about a kilometre down the sandy track passing tents, landcruisers, geodesic domes and I walked. I just want to feel the ground beneath my feet. We had a beautiful site, with a clear view of the pounding Pacific, albeit a bit windswept. Nevermind, we lashed our guy ropes to the fence and picnic table and watched the sunset. Peace was restored in the Niemann Camp.

Leaving behind the fishy smells of downtown Arica, we book out of the much more pleasant smelling Hotel Avenida. Knowing that the money will be different again we hand all our Chilean Pesos to the receptionist in part payment and settle the rest by credit card. Well, that's one way to keep the wallet less confused. We start the early morning 10kms ride to the Chile/Peru border and arrive in good time, and nice and relaxed. We've heard that it takes a long time, so were not particularly worried about the long, long queues that line the road. I amble ahead of the line to see what is happening and the kind security man let us through ahead of the cars, out of the already hot sun. We park up, find all the paperwork, cover the bike and secure it with disk lock. There are lots of people wandering around and the security man advised us to watch our belongings. I cannot exactly remember the order of events, but the Customs Booth sent us to the queue at the Immigration booth, who sent us to another room where we presented the bike papers. A charming man whose only English consisted of the word 'Wonderful', stamped and copied and declared the bike 'Wonderful'. We then joined the Immigration queue again and whilst waiting I chatted to the lady in front of me. Our turn came and we presented all our papers, except for the one we should have filled in before getting to the desk. That was the Transport one that a man was 'selling' at the entrance for 1000 pesos. It was a compulsory form and we didn't have 1000 pesos. We had paid the hotel bill with all our money. And there is no ATM at the border post. Stalemate. We can't buy the form and we can't get any money and we can't get through the crossing without the form. I spot the friendly lady from the queue just coming out of the Transaction booth and dash over the demarcation line. Please can you help, I beg, explaining about the form/lack of money. "It's a gift" she says as she hands over 1000 pesos (50p)! I thank her profusely, and as she drives off in her car, we continue with the immigration and customs performance. Note to self, next time keep a bit of local currency!! We've already been through 5 paperwork process/booths and are very glad to get back to the bike, glug some warmish water and set off. Only to be stopped a few metres down the road at the barrier. This time we had to unpack the whole bike and get every bag scanned, which involves a lot of bungee untieing, mesh unhooking and velcro unsticking. Grrrrr. Especially as B still finds it sore to lift, push, carry, etc. and this feels like a one woman weight-training program. We haul the bags into the scan room and back out to the bike and reverse the process of loading everything on again. We had arrived at 10 am, it was now 12h30, or so we thought. The nearest town on the Peru side is Tacna, and the 53kms ride there was pleasant enough, just desert and more desert. It was easy to find the main street and whilst B rested on a parkbench in the shade, I wandered around looking for a Telephone shop to buy a Peru Sim Card, and a shop to get a map of Peru. No maps for sale, but a nice lady in a tour shop gave me a little tourist brochure with a map on. That'll do. We are ready to leave town and ride to Moquequa, a mere 150kms away. It's now 3pm, we should be there by 5pm. Except that it's NOT 3pm, it's already 5pm. The clocks changed by 2 hours when we crossed the border. What a weird feeling to have lost so much time by stepping over an invisible line. We decide to give up and find a place to stay. There's a happy Red Umbrella beckoning us to stop for a coffee and a 'bookings.com' search. Luckily there are plenty and we choose one the other side of town, except that we can't get there. The town is blockaded off-limits to traffic. It's fiesta time. After many u-turns and round-abouts we are back at the Red Umbrella having a re-Search. This time we find a whole house just around the corner for a fabulous 14 euros. Done. Having lost 2 hours we had a very early night, the clock said 10pm, our bodies said 8pm. Looking at our little Tourist Map, we opted for inland Route away from the PanAmerican Highway along the coastline. We woke up well rested at 6am, (body clock 4am), departing leisurely at 10am (we thought) for a 150kms ride to Moquegua, fuel stop and an afternoon ride of 266kms to Puno. We calculated that the fuel stops were at convenient intervals and there was enough time to enjoy the day. What we didn't calculate and what the Tourist Map didn't show was the enormity and elevations of the mountains, coupled with the ferocious unpredictability of the weather. This time, the PLAN and REALITY misfired horribly. But that's another story.

We had been advised by the very helpful proprieter of the Hotel in Abancay to take the River road along the Valley to Puquio as the only other road out was treacherous and full of landslides. He described, with the help of google maps, the route along the river for 150kms then a bit high up and over the mountains before arriving in Nasca, where the altitude was better. We are given hope that the next few days of the 1000kms ride to Lima would be easier on our lungs and arms. The first ‘easier’ bit was a continuous 30 minute steep downhill ride to get to the river bed, but we got there and could breathe a bit better and relaxed into a leisurely winding ride alongside a raging river. A few challenges broke into our relaxed frame of mind, namely washaways. Riding along the valley road, we crossed about 5 causeways which got progressively deeper as we got nearer to the river itself. The causeways are cement dips in the tarmac where the gushing mountain waterfalls cascade over. That’s fine if you are a big truck. The biggest washaway presented more than a challenge for me. I leapt off the bike and we watched for some time as the bulldozer moved tons of wet earth out of the way. A truck went through. A car went through and B lined up ready to go through. Everytime the bulldozer scrapped and moved the earth the watery pit was becoming deeper. It was B’s turn to move through. I video’d the whole performance which took an alarmingly long 3.40 minutes. 30seconds in to the crossing B almost lost his footing, as the gushing water hollowed out the earth where his feet were. He had to keep moving. The bulldozer man was revving up to shivvy B along and the Yellow hardhat man was blowing his whistle furiously. I was just screaming hysterically.
Then came along an Angel in the Pink Wellies. She marched across the pitted water-filled remnants of the road, grabbed the side panniers with one hand and the back pannier with the other. She steered B, holding him up first this way, then the other, as with their 4 feet they manoeuvred their way across the raging river, shin deep. Three and a half minutes later they were on the other side and the bulldozer carried on. The yellow hard hat man got me a lift in a pick up and I was driven through eezy peezy. By the time B and I were re-united the Angel in the Pink Wellies had plodded her way back to the starting point. How could we say Thank You? While we were faffing around, shaking wet boots and calming down, she strode over again, this time wading knee deep. Big hugs and thanks you’s and a fistful of Pesos did it for us and her.
The valley road at 3200m went on and on for over 100kms, with magnificent gorges and canyons and plateaus. By the time we got to Piquio, the mist had covered all the landscape and even though it was only 1pm we found the one and only hotel, parked the bike, stripped off wet boots and socks, snuggled up in a warm bed and, being a Sunday, found FI on Radio Five Live to listen to the AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX.
Puquio is a tiny bus stop town. Huge tour buses and coaches zoomed through on the one and only route joining Cusco to the Coast. By 6pm the stalls were set up and the restaurants opened, all in freezing mist and muddy conditions. We had delicious spaghetti and chicken soup, with goats cheese topping. On returning to our hotel, we discovered two more bikes in the parking garage: Two Honda XR 250’s ridden by the lovely Linda and hubby Mike. We had a great evening in the lounge swopping stories and the bestest moment was being introduced to an App called ‘ioverlander’. Exactly what we had been looking for: a live app, continuously updated, by overlanders for overlanders. I felt a huge weight disappear from my stress levels as any type of overlander information appeared; from regular campsites to wild camping, with prices, and recent updates. Fantastic.
Getting out of Puquio was an uphill adventure of 55kms of curves rising back up 1000m to 4600m again. We daren’t stop, just keep going along this beautiful plateau for another 100kms. The temperature dropped to 13degreesand in amongst the Pampas we spotted leaping creatures called Vicunas, a short haired long necked wilder version of the Llama. Large signs instructed all motorists to HOOT continuously to scare them off the road. The weirdest thing is that they are so well blended into the Pampas that up to 10 metres away they are ‘invisible’, that is until they leap. We blew our hooter continuously so they would leap away from us. It sort of spoilt the magnificence and beauty of the amazing ‘top of the world’ peace.
Before the descent into the Desert Ride to Nasca we have a picnic and enjoy the sun and stare in wonder at the winding road we must now take to get to the coast. What goes up must go down. And down it went all the way to a large patch of sand and wind. We rode across this sandpit for another 100kms on the straightest road ever, with the wind trying very hard to push us over. The buses and trucks also did a good job as every time they passed we were whacked sideways by the wind and landed a few more inches nearer the edge of the road. Everything here seems to be in the extreme category.
We find the Nasca Lines and climb the towering steel stepped structure to for a bird’s eye view. I buy a little stone, engraved with a replica humming bird.
At ICA we stop for an icecream and put our new App to the test. Yeah, a hotel within budget, with a pool and breakfast just around the corner. Such simple Luxury after a gruelling 10 days of testing us almost to our limits.
Lima is in sight! where we are staying with the family of our wonderful doctor friends/rescuers from Chos Malal. It is with huge thankfulness that we arrive at their house and get a glorious welcome. Suddenly our world has become normal again. We get introduced to a Camu drink (Red Berry) for breakfast and spread Peruvian Butter (mashed Avocado and lemon) on our toast. We shop at an Inca Market for goodies to take home and hear that our baby Grandaughter has been delivered safe and sound.
Lima is a green goddess in the middle of Sand, fed by 5 permanent rivers. The gardens of Lima are filled with bird sounds and visited by beautiful hummingbirds, busily drinking from the honeysuckle. I present our fabulous friends with a thank you and memento of our stay with them.
We need to return to France as our 90 days insurance/trip is up, but will return within 3 weeks to carry on.
As I write, I must explain that that didn’t happen. On the day we were due to fly back to Peru, B was rushed into hospital here in France for an emergency operation. He is now recovering, with absolutely no bike riding for 6 weeks. Travel plans are on hold.