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Blog | James McKerricher Icon_16x16_light_rss RSS

Borders





``The religious landscape of the Andes is still a country of supernatural rocks, springs and huacas`` -Ronald Wright
                                                                                                       
Geographically speaking the border between Chile and Bolivia seemed arbitrary. Much of our time in Chile was spent following the coast, and in our minds eyes Chile is a country of crashing surf and desert hills. But for our last few days in the country we put the ocean behind us and climbed up into the Andes. The supernatural energy was palpable well before we crossed the border. The ride from camp to the border was a short 37km ride along a road that snaked among smoldering volcanoes, and salt flats.  

With none of the confusion or drama that can often characterize a border crossing we put Chile behind us and said hello to Bolivia. On the Chilean side we dealt with a stern and humourless official. On the Bolivian side we were received, in a spartan office decorated with posters of Jose Sucre and Simon Bolivar, by warm and jovial officials, It was the firs sign of things to come.  

The contrast that was immediately obvious lay in the people. Stout, round faced and smiling. The luxury of blending into the crowd, if only superficially, that we enjoyed in Argentina and Chile is no longer possible. Now our interactions with locals have taken a curious twist; though who is more curious about whom is not entirely clear.  

A short ride among a maze of indistinguishable roads led us to the tiny village of San Juan, where we were received by an older woman who smiled from within, and exuded the warmth and hospitality that we´ve now come to associate with Bolivia. It´s good to be here.

Posted November 29, 2011 by James McKerricher
Bolivia | Chile | Tour Updates 		Btn_share_twitter Btn_share_facebook


The Salt Flats of Bolivia




Not since the Pampas of Argentina have we traveled for any distance on flat terrain. Those first few days out of Buenos Aires were a blessing in disguise; mentally tiring, but the perfect warm-up for the hills ahead. Those days without hills have become a distant memory as every day since has been a day of roller-coaster ups and downs. What a treat it is to enter the Salar de Uyuni, the largest salt flat in the world, where the sensation of riding over a completely flat landscape only adds to the otherworldly magic of the place.

At 80km the ride was a short one, and given that the entire ride was over absolutely flat terrain one could be fooled into assuming that everyone arrived in camp early in the day. But for a completely flat ride it felt surprisingly, well, not flat. From a distance the land looked even and homogenous, but as we  approached a more complex truth was revealed. Every year the salt becomes saturated during the rainy season; as it dries it forms large hexagonal crystals. These hexagonal crystals form an endless puzzle with a little ridge hedging each piece. As the cyclists rolled along, their wheels on the ridges sounded like a drum- thump thump, thump thump; little speed-bumps with every spin of the wheels.

Many riders observed, in amazement, large holes in the salt, deep and glacial blue and  large enough to swallow a bike wheel. But as the local adage states ``you don´t have to know where the holes are. Just where they´re not.´´ At times it felt as if the salt wasn´t salt at all, but miles of crunchy snow. As  Svend put it, the salt felt like ``Spring ice in Canada: hard in the middle, and slushy at the edge.``

But it wasn´t the crystals or the holes or the slush that slowed the riders progress; it was the opportunity to take unique photos that took up so much time. As the salt flats were one of the most anticipated days on the journey, it was great to see that everyone took the time to soak up the magic of the place, and capture it with bizarre and hilarious photos.

Our camp that evening was in  Coquesa, a small town of stone buildings, sitting on a fringe of green grazed by alpacas. Overhead sat a rugged brown volcano, and beyond us an endless sea of salt. It was a place of fairy-tale beauty, and the perfect place to end a day of surreal sights.

Posted November 23, 2011 by James McKerricher
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A look back





In a way Antofagasta was the perfect city for a rest day at this point in the tour. We stayed in a run down yet spacious motel, perched on the edge of a surf swept beach. It was quiet, had a pool (with water!) and was a short bus ride from town. The city itself didn't have anything of specific interest, but offered many western comforts; nice seafood restaurants, a scenic and developed waterfront, and a massive shopping center: a final bastion of western comforts before we head off to the hills.

Nov 2:

The morning starts off cool, with a low veil of sea fog sitting over our heads. By 9AM the fog has burned off and the day promises to be hot. A short steep climb takes us alongside a scar of earth; massive machines work away on widening the road. Slowly the signs of civilization diminish.

Shortly after lunch we pass through the hamlet of Baquedano; a strip of kiosks and small restaurants surrounded by rectangular homes topped with corrugated steel. A relatively attractive middle aged woman trolls the streets in a school girl outfit, presumably she does a brisk business out in these parts.

Camp this evening is squished against the road by a steep rocky hill. Trucks honk as they roll past, regardless of the hour. Despite a waxing moon diluting the darkness, the scintillations of a star filled sky seem impossibly intense.

Nov 3:

One road all day, no villages, no coke stops, no plants. Just rock and road. It's a long day of climbing followed by a steep descent- which thrills some and terrifies others. Camp this evening sits in a (presumably innactive) gravel pit. It proves to be a good location, as the high walls of the pit provide an element of protection against the wind that tears through camp until well after midnight.



Nov 4:

Shortly out of camp we enter an otherworldly landscape; hard, salt crusted earth juts up upon itself, like a plain of chunky meringue tops. It's hard to travel far without being tempted to stop and snap a few photos. Gradually a few hardy grasses appear sprouting out of the salty earth, and shortly after that the ground is covered by a short, stiff, brown mat of grass. Goats, sheep and llamas are our first signs of civilization. We roll along under the watchfull gaze of Licancabur volcano, as it smoulders away.

After three long days of riding we see our first green plants and trees. The oasis town of San Pedro de Atacama comes into view, promising two rest days of cold beer and hot nightlife. It's been a tough stretch, despite the short length so It's good to know that we can kick up the heels for an extra day. We're now two riding days from Bolivia, and the rumour mill in camp is working overtime.

Posted November 13, 2011 by James McKerricher
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The First Month




After nearly 4 weeks of riding our group has crossed from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It´s a small accomplishment admittedly, it´s not even the widest part of the continent, yet it´s an accomplishment that we can regard with pride. The days go by quickly on this tour; individual camps and roads blend into a scattered slide-show of foggy memories. But the major landmarks are observed with a sort of reverence, real indicators of the distance that has been covered thus far. Crossing a border and putting a country behind us is always cause for celebration. Our first pass over the Andes was an experience that none on the tour will soon forget. And now that we´ve reached the Pacific it really feels like we´ve made some progress.

The curious shape of Chile follows the natural boundaries of the landscape. It is the Andes that push this narrow sliver of land against the sea. This is an observable fact as we make our way up the coast from Santiago. Soft peaks, laden with cactus and scrub, roll down from our right, level of, then crumble into the ocean on our left. Lizards flick under rocks as we pass, and circling vultures float overhead searching for their next meal. Blooming flowers lend a dash of colour to the land that results in a scene of surprising beauty.



Do not, for a moment, fool yourself into thinking that because we´re traveling along the coast that this is some leisurely beach cruise. Each day holds big changes in elevation; one moment we´re looking down on a dark stirring ocean from a distance, the next we´re catching the unmistakable scent of salt spray in the air. ´´Rolling hills´´ is a frequently used descriptor on these tours, but for this stretch the term, again, feels somewhat inadequate. Yet our hard work is rewarded with camps of epic beauty, on secluded beaches, well out of the realm of the guidebook toting crowd. Our evenings are spent wandering around camp, cameras in hand, attempting to capture the magic of the scene, and hold it with us. Tomorrow holds another camp, another adventure, and soon this place will blend into the mists of our memory.

Posted November 04, 2011 by James McKerricher
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Is Overlanding Dead?




``Overlanding is dead.`` It´s a common lament among long time overland drivers. The expectations have changed, a sense of adventure has been lost. People want the comfort and the adventure without any of the compromise. The days of traveling through the middle of nowhere with a rough itinerary, a few maps and a week´s provisions are over. Or so I´m told.

I posed this question to Jono, the driver, as he swung the truck around another hairpin curve overlooking a vertigo inducing precipice. Something in the TDA mix keeps me coming back year after year, and I´m trying to figure out what it is exactly.

``Overlanding isn´t dead`` says Jono, ´´The industry has changed, people want more comforts, risk tolerance has shifted, but there will always be a certain percentage of people willing to put up with the risks and the discomfort in search of real adventure.´´  He then went on to tell me about a few rogue drivers that are leading crazy trips in the far flung corners of the globe; West Africa, the Middle East, Mongolia. Tours that take people off the beaten track, and allow them to experience something different.

He swings the truck around another corner, and the side-view mirror clips a cactus. I hang out the window to observe the margin for error he´s working with. My hand rests on the door latch, my seat belt is undone. The road we´re traveling on is taking us from an abandoned mining town up in the mountains to Playa Blanca National park. Perhaps the park is a major tourist draw, but I´m sure gringos don´t come via this trail.

``Take this trip for example, look at this road.`` The road drops down below us in a dramatic series of tight turns. ``These guys are doing this crazy road on bicycles, now that is something different.´´ Three hours later and we´re rolling into our camp nestled among a bizarre collection of leaning granite boulders next to the sea. Again I am amazed at how quickly the landscape can change.

The next morning we´re set to leave. I look over the days navigation instructions, as Jono puts the truck in gear. We lurch forward for a second then the truck starts kicking up the fine powdery sand that gives Playa Blanca its name. Jono puts it in reverse but to no avail. Out come the shovels and the sand mats. From the moment we set out to accomplish the task we knew we had to succeed. Two and a half hours later the truck is back on terra firma and we´re covered in sand. We´re ready to find our way to the next camp, and I´m one step closer to understanding what it is that keeps me coming back for more. 

Posted October 31, 2011 by James McKerricher
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Dirt




It will never cease to amaze me the distance that can be covered by a strong group of cyclists over a day, a week, or a month. Countries and continents are crossed with the simple combination of determination and teamwork. Every stretch has it’s own pains and pleasures; the challenges are always changing, the pleasures unpredictable. From the beauty of a mountain top sunset, to the joy of a simple conversation in a foreign tongue; everyday is different, every experience unique.

“It feels like we’ve finally left” Jason Gannon commented as he crested the final hill to reach camp on our first day out of Cordoba. Many echoed the same sentiments. The stretch from Buenos Aires to Cordoba was vaguely familiar; the climb into the Sierra Chicas was otherworldly.

The last few days into San Juan have had multiple challenges; loose gravel and sand, intense heat, and relentless wind. The wind has been a real wild card each day. It usually manifests as a cross or head wind during the day, testing the will of even the strongest riders. During the evening it refuses to settle down, testing our tent securing abilities.

Our rest day here in San Juan has provided the much needed rest for all. The little town, in the heart of wine country, boasts the succulent meat, and bountiful wine that we’ve come to expect of Argentina. We rested, we ate, we drank, and now we’re ready for all the surprises that lay in the week ahead. Next stop Santiago!

 

Posted October 11, 2011 by James McKerricher
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The dream comes true




Our journey begins here in Buenos Aires, a buzzing city of 12 million nestled against the Rio de la Plata. From the moment you arrive your eyes are working overtime to take in all the wonderful sights: diverse architecture, colorful graffiti, vast parks, mad traffic and beautiful people all vie for your attention.



While the city is massive, the interesting parts are all within reasonable walking distance. Each barrio has its own flavor, its own highlights. Wander these neighborhoods and you begin to gain a sense of the diversity of this city. It isn’t until you pursue your interests that you really understand what makes this city buzz; get lost in a colossal bookstore, attend a riotous soccer match, dance the night away, or tuck into the world’s finest steak. Buenos Aires is a city of meat, not garnish.



It has been fantastic to explore this city for a few days as we prepare for our journey. But as our time slips away , many of us find ourselves asking- “do we really have to leave?”

Posted September 25, 2011 by James McKerricher
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