(Sorry for taking so long to post)
Although the town wasn't much to get excited about, I ended up spending several days in Ushuaia, typing up my previous post, doing some bike maintenance, and waiting out the rain. In addition, I spent some time seeking out firsthand information on selling my bike, rather than relying on the conflicting hearsay I received from other bikers. Ushuaia is a tax free zone, and I had heard rumors that I could sell my bike there, but a trip to port's aduana office snuffed out any hopes I had of offloading the bike in Ushuaia or anywhere in Argentina.
One of the days in Ushuaia I went to a large, Elf car-parts store and garage to pick up some oil for my bike. Elf is a brand of car not available in the US. The shop was clearly part of the franchise, so I was surprised when they said that I could change my oil in their garage. After buying the oil, I asked the clerk if any of the mechanics could change my wheel bearings: I had replacement bearings, but I had never removed old wheel bearings before. He went into the large and modern garage bay, similar to that which you'd find at any car dealership in the States, and asked around. He came back with Mauricio, one of the mechanics, and he told me to bring my bike inside and that he could change the bearings. I rolled the bike over to his corner of the garage and took off the rear wheel and set it on his workbench. We stood there and talked bikes for a while and I told him a couple tales from my trip. I explained that I had never taken wheel bearings out before and he was happy to turn the project into a quick lesson. Work continued at a snail's pace which is the status quo in Argentina. It's no bother to me, but I couldn't help but wonder if the owner of the car on the lift behind me was going to be a little disappointed when he showed up to pick up his car that evening. After the rear-wheel bearings had been changed, I asked if he still had time to work on the front wheel and he quickly replied "Of course!" I was starting to wonder how much this work was going to cost me; after all, this wasn't his shop, nor was this a mom-and-pop garage. As he worked on the front wheel, I thanked him for letting me hang around and for showing me how to do the work. "No problem! It's great when people want to learn how to do this stuff, and it makes my day more interesting."
He finished up work on the front wheel and I remounted it to the bike. We stood around and talked for another 45 minutes or so, and all the other mechanics took turns looking over the bike and asking the usual, "How big is the engine?", "How fast does it go?", "How many Km's to the liter does it get?", and "How much did it cost?" questions, and then I asked Mauricio how much I owed him for his time. He gave me the "what are you talking about?" look that has become the normal response from people who have helped me throughout this trip. I was even more shocked this time than I usually am though. I had assumed that at a franchise-owned garage in a touristy town like Ushuaia, the mechanic would have to bill me labor hours whether he wanted to or not, simply because it wasn't for him to decide how the billing is done. In addition, while I've found that being a traveler can usually go a long way in small towns, in tourist towns, you usually get treated like all the other tourists, and I was actually expecting the manager to write me a bill with special 'tourist' rates. Yet the complete opposite happened, and he continued to insist that I owed him nothing. I've finally learned to accept that for what it is rather than try to force someone to take money.
As I pulled through the bay doors I realized how much I was going to miss the little experiences like this when I got home. The fact that he did the work for free was certainly nice, but I realize that not everyone can have work done on their cars or bikes for free, or there wouldn't be any mechanics. The part I will miss is how personal everything is down here; even at a franchise-owned garage. I know that at home, I wouldn't be allowed to set foot in a garage for liability reasons alone: The waiting room is as far as I would get, and you may get a quick glimpse through a glass door at the actual work area. It's almost guaranteed that you won't talk to the mechanic, let alone receive instruction from them. Though, if you did, there would be the overwhelming sensation that you are wasting his or her time. Yet here, not only was I invited into the garage, but Mauricio was excited to share his knowledge with me, and shoot the breeze about life while he was working. With that being said, it's safe to assume that the car on the lift was going to be spending another day up there: I guess there are trade-offs to everything.
I left Ushuaia on a cold and rainy day, and I road north toward Rio Gallegos on the same route I had taken south. I hit a bit of a snag at the first Chilean border crossing when the gas station didn't have any gas. I needed to top-up there in order to guarantee I'd make it to the next station in San Sebastian. The gas station attendant said they were completely out of gas: as in not even 10 liters (2.5 gallons). It was around 5pm, and he said that the gas truck may arrive around 7pm, which in Argentina means there is a good chance the gas truck will arrive within the next two days. I thought I may have had enough fuel to return to the gas station I passed in Rio Grande, but I had been hammered with severe winds all day, and wasn't sure how much fuel I had left. As I had learned on my way down to Ushuaia, severe winds can make you think you have a hole in your gas tank, by cutting gas-mileage down from 48 to 32mpg. I decided to wait for the gas truck.
While sitting in front of the gas station, an Israeli motorcyclist named Moran arrived and found himself in the same predicament. We asked the attendant again if he there was anyway he could pull a couple liters out of the pumps. He said no again. Even though Moran doesn't speak Spanish, I explained to him in Spanish that if the gas truck didn't arrive we could camp at the gas station and wait for the truck to come. The attendant overheard us, as I had hoped he would, and he said that he could give us some gas. Go figure. I rolled my bike over to the pump and I could tell from the look on his face that he had been given very specific instructions not to sell any gas. The way he looked over his shoulder at the border office 200yards away, and glanced back and forth for onlookers, made me feel like we were in the middle of a drug deal, rather than buying a couple liters of gasoline. He ended up filling both of our tanks, charged us the normal price on the meter, and then he insisted that we not tell anyone that we had bought gas there. I'm still not sure what all the fuss was about.
That evening we set up camp in a small park in San Sebastian. A group of about a dozen guys working on a pipeline in the area were cooking dinner over one of the park's large grill pits and they invited us to join them. They were testing the local pipeline for leaks and were waiting for their "gopher" (think of the canister sent through the tube at a bank drive-thru, but on a much larger scale) to complete a 50km section of the pipeline. Like all Argentinians, these guys know how to grill and there was no chance of us cooking ravioli as we had originally planned: they simply wouldn't allow it. They had a massive amount of sausage, chicken, lamb, and steak all roasting over the grill, and while I'd been disappointed with the only two mixed-grills I had at Argentinian restaurants, Argentinian home-cooking has always been exceptional.
Moran and I spent the next several days riding north on Ruta 3, which is without a doubt, the most boring road I have ever been on. It's so boring that it's challenging. Hour after hour, and day after day of perfectly straight roads and nothing to see, can easily make you feel like you are losing your mind: at least I felt like I was losing mine. I wasn't seeing purple elephants or anything like that, but each day it became increasingly difficult to focus on the road and remain as attentive as you need to be. Judging by the number and nature of the wrecks on the side of the road, I wasn't the only one. There was a tractor trailer that had gone off the road, and somehow, someway, the cab of the truck folded under the trailer portion, much like a tractor-trailer-sized Pez dispenser. About an hour further down the road, we arrived at a wreck where a tractor-trailer had just hit a car head-on. Judging by the skid marks in the road, the trailer drifted into the car's lane. The police and ambulances were still at the scene, but judging by the amount of blood on the doors and hood of the car, an ambulance wasn't needed, and another memorial will be added to the countless others that line Argentina's motorways.
I've never seen a wreck like that before, but really nasty car wrecks always creep me out a bit. The idea of someone's life ending or changing forever because of one moment of carelessness is always a little unsettling, and in this case, it certainly helped me be more attentive while riding the drudgery that is Ruta 3.
We visited Peninsula Valdes which was the one and only highlight of our journey on Ruta 3. The Peninsula is home to penguins, sea-lions, seals, and several types of whales that migrate through the area. Killer-Whales are often seen hunting seals just offshore...though not this time of year.
Moran continued north from Peninsula Valdes, and I stayed in Puerto Madryn for an additional day and waited on news from a potential buyer interested in my bike. I didn't hear any news from the buyer, so the next day I continued north again, spending most of the day droning north on Ruta 3 to a beach town near Viedma. The following day, I continued North to Tres Arroyes, but then veered off of Ruta 3 and headed east on Ruta 228 towards Necochea. About an hour after sunset, I arrived in an extremely small town and asked the owner of the general store if there was a campground in the area. He told me that there wasn't, but that his friend and owner of the eatery next door had a big and secure back yard and he was sure I could set my tent there. I walked over to the restaurant and introduced myself. Moments later I was setting my tent in the man's backyard and calling it a night.
A couple days later I rode the last leg of my journey into Buenos Aires, and made my way over to Dakar Motos, a bike shop and hostel that is popular with motorcycle travelers. By that time I had decided to send the bike home, so as the shop arranged the shipping, I had the shock rebuilt and I spent two full days cleaning the bike. It pained me to wash the bike, and I felt like I was stripping it of it's history: There were layers of dirt on there dating back to Honduras! As much as I didn't want to clean it, customs can give you a really hard and costly time bringing a bike into the USA if it's covered in foreign soil. After the cleaning, aside from the repair welds on my pannier racks, the bike look likes it never left my driveway!
Two days before my flight, Omer, the Israeli I met and road with for 5 weeks in Central America arrived in Buenos Aires as well. His girlfriend flew into Colombia back in October and they have been riding through South America together ever since. It was great to meet up with him again, and to meet his girlfriend. We had a good time laughing about our time in Honduras, which included the flying car hood and the ride into La Mosquitia, which is still one of the best days of my trip. In a sense it was surreal to sit there and talk about it. It really wasn't that long ago, yet sometimes it feels like a different lifetime, and at other times like yesterday.
I bought my plane ticket home several weeks ago when I was in Calafate visiting the Moreno Glacier. My girlfriend Kali was the only one who knew about it, and she did a remarkable job keeping it a secret from my family and friends! On Friday, February 27th, I boarded my flight home from Buenos Aires. It was hard to believe that the journey was actually over. How could it be? The trip had been a part of my life for so long, long before I began on May 16th, and now it's over? While it's hard to grasp that it's over and that I'm actually sitting here typing this from Connecticut, I'm happy that it has come to an end, and I know that it was time for it to come to an end. I can honestly say that I got everything I wanted out of the trip and more. I wish I could somehow sum-up my journey with some final thoughts, but I think those of you that have been following my journey will understand that it's not something I can sum up in a sentence, paragraph, or a single post. I only hope that the posts and photos on this site have somehow been able to capture at least a piece of the people, places, and experiences that have undoubtedly changed me forever.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank my parents for always supporting me as I've pursued my dreams, even when my dreams are often the last thing a parent would want their child to do. A mere 'Thank You' isn't sufficient for my girlfriend. She has offered her unwavering support since the day we met, and I admire her for being the woman she is: I can't imagine how difficult the last 9+ months may have been for her. I want to thank all my friends and family who encouraged me in the months leading up to and during the trip. In addition, thanks to everyone who has emailed me with feedback and/or commented on the site, and to those whose donations have helped keep the website updated. Knowing that people were actively following the site kept me motivated to post and I had a lot of fun sharing my experiences.
Finally, I want to thank all the people that have helped me along the way and have asked for nothing in return: Your generosity will never be forgotten.
So what now? A lot of people want to know when my next trip is and I can honestly say that I have no idea. Right now, just a couple days after returning home, I can't even begin thinking about another huge trip. There are plenty of places in the world I want to explore, and I certainly hope there will be another trip, but there's not even the beginnings of a plan at this point. In the nearer future, I would really like to ride to Alaska with my girlfriend, but a lot of that depends on how quickly I can find a job. Speaking of a job: Anyone need a motorcycle guide in South America? Their driveway shoveled? Car washed?
Although there is no plan in the works, if you've enjoyed this travelog and would like to be notified in the event of another trip 2, 5, or 10 years from now, please send me an email and I'll add you to a mailing list. Don't worry, I don't sell vintage rolex's, purple pills, or smut, so I won't spam you.
Until next time...
Statistics From The Road
Duration: 9 months 11 days (287 days)
Distance: 28,000+ miles
Countries: 13
Tires: 4 fronts, 6 rears
Oil Changes: 15
Flat Tires: 3 (+2 with rental car in Costa Rica)
Pulled Over by Police: 9
Was Asked For a Bribe: 2
Paid a Bribe: 1
Received a ticket or a fine: 0
Ran Out of Gas: 1
Noteworthy Crashes: 4
Tip-overs and such: Too many to count
Electrical Fires and/or Electrocutions while taking shower: 2
Robbed: 0 (I did have a $5 watch taken off my handlebar in a hotel lobby)
Bouts with stomach problems: 287
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