Around the world by bike

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2 December - Rio Grande – San Sebastian (and by car to Punta Arenas) – 38 km

The following morning, the wind looked deceivably less fierce than the previous day. After hurriedly packing up and cycling out of town, I found the wind no less violent than the day before. Battered by wind kilometre after kilometre, each turn of the pedal became an achievement in itself. The wind, however, blew in random gusts and every so often blew me off the road and into the barren land along the side. I stopped counting the times I’d to pick myself up, push the bicycle back and try again. Worse was it also blew me into the road. Even though drivers were very courteous, it was still nerve-racking. If that wasn’t enough, it was freezing and, at one point, started hailing. While wondering if things could get any worse, the wind gathered strength, making it impossible to cycle, all one could do was hold on to the bike, hoping not to be blown over. God knows I must have made a pathetic sight as a kind truck driver stopped and offered a lift to San Sebastian about 40 kilometres away. The safety of the truck gave false security, and once in San Sabastian, it was back on the bike.

The border crossing between Argentina and Chile was only about 10 kilometres away and quite a low-key operation. The immigration office made a sad and lonely sight: a small, unimpressive building in a vast windswept wilderness. There was nothing around but barren land as far as the eye could see. It also marked the end of the paved road, adding to its desolate appearance. From there on, a dirt road ran for the next 140 kilometres to Porvenir, from where ferries departed for Punta Arenas. Still, it took a while before all was checked and cleared.

From the immigration office, the route headed straight into the wind. While pushing my bike along in high wind along that desolate and windswept stretch of road, I felt somewhat lonely and sorry for myself.

Even while pushing the bike, I was blown over and into a ditch. While lying in the ditch, I looked up into the face of a llama. It appeared even the llama was surprised to see me. I got up, dusted myself off, waved the llama goodbye and tried again. As it was another 140 kilometres to the next town, it was time to take stock of my dire situation. Sitting by the side of the road I had no idea how to get myself to Porvenir, as the water I had was only enough to last a day. The wind blew with such force one couldn’t even get on the bike, let alone cycle, and was blown over before both feet were on the pedals.

When a helpful Chilean driver stopped and offered me a lift to Punta Arenas, there was no other option but to accept his kind offer. The Patagonians were incredibly hospitable.

3-4 December - Punta Arenas

Once in Punta Arenas, it was a short cycle to Hospedaje Independencia where one could camp or stay in one a dorms. It was easily the cheapest accommodation in town and, therefore, packed with backpackers from all over the world. Much of the region once belonged to one person, namely Jose Menendez, wool baron of his time. Even today, the area is still sheep country, and wool and mutton remain the region’s primary income.

Francois (a cyclist from Hostel Argentino in Rio Grande) arrived by bus, and it was like meeting an old friend. The weather station put out an alert for high winds (according to them with gusts of over 100/120km per hour), and it was best to stay put and recheck the weather the following day. That evening, all huddled together inside the hostel kitchen where the owner made Pisco Sour drinks for all. By the end of the evening, it didn’t feel that cold when stumbling out to the tent.

5 December - Punta Arenas – Puerto Natales – 21 km

The weather looked much improved and, after a leisurely start, cycled out of Punta Arenas but, once again, it was only possible to clear the city limits (about 10 kilometres), and the wind hit with full force. I genuinely didn’t know how others did it (I subsequently found most waited it out). It was too scary to continue cycling as the wind wasn’t directly from the front, but mostly from the side and as it came in gusts, it either blew one off the road or into the traffic. I was better to admit defeat and I turned around and flew back, down-wind, into the city centre.

From Punta Arenas, a bus ride took me to Puerto Natales. Arrangements were made with Yuta and Francois to do a trek once in Puerto Natales. Even the bus seemed to have had great difficulty staying on the road. What an unforgiving area Patagonia is. The plains were rather barren, treeless and windswept. Now and again, there was a lonely and forlorn-looking estancia, some even deserted. Once in Puerto Natales, Josmar Hostel offered dorms as well as a well-protected campground and as it had a restaurant, it was a perfect place to stay.

6 December - Puerto Natales

Francois and Yutta arrived and the day flew by as preparations took place for our eight-day Torres Del Paine trek. Local hiking shops rented out bags and walking sticks, and we stocked up on foodstuff. The backpacks were rather heavy, and I wondered if would even be possible to make the first few kilometres (and that was before we packed the wine). Only essential stuff like tent, sleeping bag, and eight-day’s supply of food and warm clothes were already a massive amount of gear to carry.

7 December - Torres Del Paine - Las Torres – Campamento Seron

Torres Del Paine National Park was very well organised. We grabbed a 7h30 bus to the park and then a small minibus to Hotel Las Torres, where our first day’s hike started. After heaving our heavy packs, we strolled off to our first campsite.

Our route came with lovely views of snowy mountains and lakes. Our first campsite was somewhat exposed to the elements, and the wind blew as it can only blow in Patagonia. We somehow managed to cook, but I was quite sure we were going to lose the tents during the night.

8 December - Torres Del Paine - Campamento Seron – Refugio Dickson

On waking my ankles were reasonably sore ankles but paid no attention to it as little aches and pains usually came with the territory. I’d spent the best part of the previous four years on a bicycle and hardly ever placed any weight on my feet and ankles and could, therefore, expect them to be slightly tender.

After our leisurely start, it was a short stroll to our second campsite. Again, it was a short and relaxed day – a good thing, too, as it started raining and it drizzled all day. On reaching Refugio Dickson, we were wet and cold, my ankles were throbbing, and it was quite challenging to walk. Dickson was, however, one of the most excellent camping areas on the trek, and had a lovely Refugio with a fireplace, communal sitting area, coffee and tea - and one could even order food. Inside the Refugio, it was very social, with many wet and cold bodies (and boots) huddled around a small fireplace. When it came to wet boots and cold feet, hiking was the same the world over.

Outside it was bitterly cold and, although dressed in everything I had, nothing seemed warm enough. Soon, it started snowing and turned the entire landscape a brilliant white. The falling snow was quite a novelty to me, but it wasn’t as romantic as imagined. Instead, it was terribly cold, and there was no romance in that. Fearing the poor tent would collapse under all that weight, I scraped off as much as possible.

9 December - Torres Del Paine - Refugio Dickson – Campamento Los Perros

Like the previous day, there was no rush in packing up as it was a short walk to our next camp. Rumours had it, it was even colder there and we only left at around 12h00.

Although trying to ignore the pain by taking anti-inflammatories, it was still a struggle to walk. The walk, however, offered stunning views of glaciers and surrounding mountains. My pace got slower and slower, and François accompanied me as I crawled along at a snail’s pace. Wobbling along and, aided by my two walking poles, I dragged myself to camp. It’s a terrible feeling knowing you're holding up your fellow hikers, but there was little one could do. On arrival at camp, it was bitterly cold, and it was essential to get my tent up as soon as possible as I knew there would be no getting up once inside.

People were incredibly kind and helpful, all offering painkillers and lotions. I, however, knew there was no chance of crossing the pass in the morning. The pass was a steep climb of about 1,000 metres in deep snow and it was at least a six-hour walk to the next camp.

10 December - Torres Del Paine - Campamento Los Perros

I was virtually stuck in my tent and couldn’t move. My ankles and feet were too painful to place any weight on them, and the slightest bit of pressure sent shock waves of pain through me. I waved Francois and Yutta goodbye and then had to think about how to get out of there. Without any command of the Spanish language, it was difficult to arrange anything. Eventually, information from people of Los Perros was that one could arrange for a horse but not from Los Perros. It would take walking back to Dickson and maybe there staff could arrange a horse. How that was going to be achieved, I didn’t know, as it was quite impossible even to stand.

Later in the day, a group of British horse riders arrived, and it was good to hear a language I understood. Their guide came to my tent and offered to take my backpack back to Dickson if it was possible to make it there on foot. I was incredibly grateful for his very generous offer and, come hell or high water, I was going to get myself back to Dickson.

11 December - Torres Del Paine - Campamento Los Perros – Refugio

Two of the horse riders were South African doctors, then working in London. True to nature, they had a fair amount of medicine and offered painkillers. Thanks to them, it was possible to at least get out of the tent and stand on my feet.

After the tablets kicked in and aided by my walking poles, it was a slow shuffled back along the path. This wasn’t only embarrassing but incredibly painful. I kept on telling myself “it’s only pain", but it didn’t work. Even my usual motto of “even this will pass” were empty words. It was slow going, one step at a time, not even painkillers seemed to help and that after taking almost all of them. It’s amazing what one can do when you have to. I stuck the walking poles into the ground and dragged myself forward; a slow, painful and tedious task.

On shuffling into Dickson, I was immensely proud of myself for making it there, a task that, only a few hours before, didn’t seem possible. In Dickson, three other trekkers were waiting for horses. Like the previous night, it was necessary to pitch the tent and to do all essential tasks, like filling up with water, getting food and going to the toilet, as once inside there would be no getting up again. Aided by my walking sticks, it was possible to keep moving until all was done and exhausted, and I flopped into the tent.

Soon, a fierce wind picked up and it was essential to secure all tent ropes and pegs. While crawling on all fours, I hammered in pegs and tightened strings. What a sight it must have been! Still unsure if the tent would hold up in such a strong wind, I supported it by leaning against the side where the wind came from. It blew so strong it was hardly possible to hold it up, even while leaning against it with all my weight.

12 December - Torres Del Paine - The “rescue.”

Early morning, and quite unexpectedly, a message was received that a horse had been arranged. The horse was, however, on the opposite side of the river. Swallowing the last four painkillers, it felt the tablets had no impact on the pain. It was through sheer determination I managed to get the tent down and pack the backpack in the high wind. Eventually, the camp owner came to help, and I limped off towards the river.

Driven by high wind, the river was a torrent and boatmen found it impossible to hook the boat onto the overhead cable, already spanned across the river. By then both ranger and house were waiting on the opposite side. Eventually, everyone gave up and headed back to the Refugio. After a hearty lunch, the men went back to the river to check on conditions and wind.

Eventually, the boat got hooked onto the cable, and with me and backpack on the boat, made it across by literally pulling the boat along the wire. Getting out of the boat, across rocks, and onto the opposite bank was a slow and painful task, and most likely quite a spectacle.

Eventually, I met the very patient ranger and my horse - I later discovered he was the most experienced and longest-serving ranger in the park. Once heaved onto the horse by strong hands, we galloped off following a horse trail, through a very isolated part of the park. After about two hours, and by then with a sore backside, we came upon at a dirt track where an off-road vehicle awaited us. I’d no idea it was going to be such a mission.

With a most skilful driver, it was off on a fascinating ride through the park. A jeep track went up over mountains, through rivers and marshlands and past some of the most stunning scenery the park could offer. What an adventure it was, albeit a bit uncalled for.

An ambulance waited at the main gate of the park, and it was rather embarrassing to be loaded in and taken to Puerto Natales Hospital. The fact that I’d been hiking and sleeping in the same clothes for five days, and that everyone wanted to have a closer look at my feet, which had been in the same shoes and socks for the same amount of days, was part of my embarrassment.

At the hospital, x-rays were taken, feet were examined, and was declared me and healthy except for pulled ligaments and severe tendonitis. Although the doctor indicated my injuries would take four weeks to heal, I paid little attention to it and was sure I would be up and running within a day or two. I’d the luxury of an intravenous painkiller, but it did not make the slightest of difference and there was no hopping and skipping out the hospital, as anticipated.

It was 11 p.m. when a taxi was hailed for the short distance to the hostel. Finally, I could rest my weary feet. The total cost of rescue and hospital came to US$470. Not an excessive amount, taking into account what all had to be done, and how many people were involved in getting out of there. I can only thank the helpful and professional staff of Torres Del Paine National Park.

13-25 December - Puerto Natales

All wasn’t well yet and, fortunately, the staff at the hostel offered to get the much-needed anti-inflammatories from the pharmacy. At last, it was time to shuffle along for a much-needed shower. Thank goodness for my laptop, which kept me occupied. All in all, it was my fault for once again thinking I could do more than the body was capable of. After nearly four years of cycling, my ankles were weak from a lack of walking and a reminder I should live a more balanced life.

Both Yuta and François arrived back from their hike, and both had a wonderful time. Needless to say, I was green with envy.

I waited and waited for my injuries to heal, but it was a slow process. At least anti-inflammatories and painkillers allowed a slow shuffle to bank and shops. Day after day, I waited, but progress seemed dreadfully slow. The daily shuffle to the supermarket was a painful exercise at a snail’s pace. My friends moved on and, still, I waited. It was unbelievable a common ankle injury could take that long to heal. I was fed-up and desperately wanted to get on the road. I, however, received the sad news that severe tendonitis could take three to six weeks to heal. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear. There are, unfortunately, certain things in life one can do pretty little about. This was one of those situations, and I’d no option but to wait.

Morning after morning, I woke with great anticipation, only to find there was little improvement since the day before. Close to despair, bored stiff, and with virtually nobody to talk with, cycle into the wind didn’t sound all that bad.

The hostel was a favourite among young Israeli travellers, and they visited in their hordes. They seemed to favour South America as a travel destination and moved in packs. Seldom, if ever, did you meet an Israeli travelling solo. They, therefore, and understandably, had little need for conversation with others and stuck very much together, speaking only Hebrew.

And I waited … And I waited … And I waited.

26 December - Puerto Natales

At last, it felt as though my injuries were on the mend, and could at least walk about with less pain than before. That evening Ernest arrived from the north, looking slightly haggard from weeks of battling the wind (at least he had the wind, more or less, from behind). Harsh conditions along the Carretera Austral in Chile and the infamous Route 40 in Argentina could wear any traveller down. There was much catching up to do since I’d left him in Melbourne two months earlier, and chatter continued until late in the night.

27 December - Puerto Natales

The following morning, I went to the ticket office to get information on the Navimag Ferry which sailed between Puerto Natales and Puerto Montt – said to be a spectacular three-day voyage via the Chilean channels and fjords. The weekly ferry sailed that very evening and they had a cabin available. A quick decision was made to take the boat, something I’d been dreaming of for many years. Although somewhat costly, it included four nights and three full days of sailing plus all meals. Also, it would allow three more days for my ankles to heal but, most of all, it would get one out of the fierce Patagonian wind and cold conditions (or at least, it was what I’d hoped).

The odd thing was, boarding time was at 21h00, but the boat only left at 4h00 the next morning. Excited as a child to be on the move again it was off to the harbour. Shortly after 21h00, we settled into our cabin on the Navimag ship, “Evangelistos”, and although our cabin had four berths, we were lucky to be the only occupants.

28 December - Puerto Natales – Puerto Montt - Day 1

Early morning our ship sailed, and by 6 a.m., it was manoeuvring through narrow passages and fjords. Snow-covered, jagged peaks surrounded us and a fierce wind whistled by, and I was happy to watch the spectacle through my cabin porthole.

By afternoon, the Evangelistos sailed passed vast and spectacular Glacier Amalia and, although it was bitterly cold, I ventured outside for a picture. The scenery was impressive with thousands of uninhabited islands, snowy mountain peaks and icy-looking glaciers in the distance.

We’d already had two excellent meals that day, and at supper, discovered one could request a vegetarian main course instead of the usual fish/meat/chicken – and was served a delicious vegetable stew and rice which came with a small side salad.

29 December - Puerto Natales – Puerto Montt - Day 2

Breakfast, like the previous day, consisted of bread, porridge/eggs, cheese, ham, fruit, yoghurt, cereal, juice and coffee. All meals on board had been excellent, and there were more than enough to go around. The captain pointed out a shrine on a small island that was the Guiding Spirit of all sailors, and a shipwreck known as an “insurance scam” before heading out of the channels into the rolling swells of the Pacific Ocean.

Although dinner was excellent, as usual, there were far fewer passengers in the dining hall, and it was somewhat tricky to balance one’s food tray on the way to the table.

30 December - Puerto Natales – Puerto Montt - Day 3

Breakfast was again enjoyable, but some passengers still seemed a bit “green around the gills”. By midday, our boat was back in the calm waters of channels and sailed, yet again, smoothly along without having to cling onto every conceivable item.

Early morning fog burned off and brought excellent views of the Southern Andes Mountains with its jagged peaks and snowy volcanoes. For the first time, there was calm sailing and sun at the same time. The outside upper deck with bar/lounge was popular, and by afternoon some paler passengers resembled well-cooked crayfish.

Once again, we stuffed ourselves at dinner time and, as any good ship would have it, there was a bit of a party on our final night.

31 December - Puerto Montt

Our ferry docked at Puerto Montt during the wee hours of the morning, and on waking up most trucks had already left the cargo decks. After breakfast, it was time to disembark and continue with our regular lives.

It was a short cycle to the city centre and to the hospedaje where Ernest previously stayed on his way south. In typical Chilean style, it was a rickety, three-level, shingle-clad home with lace curtains and wooden display cabinets, housing all kinds of family heirlooms. It felt I’d finally arrived in Chile proper. The elderly owner was quite an interesting character (he had owned the home – named merely B&B – for the past 40 years).

It was New Year’s Eve, and that evening our search for some excitement revealed very little as most restaurants and bars were closed, and it appeared most people celebrated at home. There were, however, spectacular midnight fireworks at the pier, and our host invited us downstairs for a drink where his family and friends were welcoming the new year.

1-2 January - Puerto Montt

Still not confident on my feet, two more days were spent in pretty Puerto Montt. I lay watching TV while Ernest proceeded to polish off two bottles of whisky and a case of beer. Nothing has changed, and that for a man who claimed he had no money to pay for accommodation, let alone for a boat trip.

The weather in Puerto Montt was relatively mild, and I was happy to be out of Patagonia - it wasn’t as scenic as it sounded, and all I remembered was a ferocious wind and a hike that went very wrong.

That afternoon, a reasonably strong earthquake hit Chile. Fortunately, it was quite far north and only a moderate tremble in Puerto Montt. Our rickety guesthouse swayed from side to side, but luckily no damage was done, and no one seemed perturbed about it.

3 January - Puerto Montt – Puerto Veras – 20 km

At last, it felt I could give cycling a try and it was a short cycle ride to picturesque Puerto Veras. Founded by German settlers and still known for its German traditions, Puerto Veras was picture-postcard pretty. With its location on the shore of Llanquihue Lake, and its unmistakably Germanic architecture, pretty residential neighbourhoods and well-tended gardens, it was extremely touristy.

I guess scenic places like that will always come with hordes of backpackers, fancy hotels and pricey restaurants. Unfortunately, it was overcast and drizzling, and there was no glimpse of the famed Osorno volcanoes or the snow-capped peaks of Mt Calbuco and Mt Tronador from across the lake.

I was happy my ankles held out, and felt slightly more confident to continue north. Walking was still causing some discomfort, but it gave no problems cycling.

4 January - Puerto Varas – Frutillar – 43 km

Frutillar was the next settlement along the lake and another town founded by German settlers in 1852/6. This was a time during which many German settlers arrived under the official colonisation programme of Southern Chile. Although there was no camping on the shores of the lake, there was a lovely spot in someone’s garden under a large cherry tree. I was happy the second day of cycling went well without any aches or pains.

5 January - Frutillar – Osorno – 70 km

One couldn’t wish for a better start to a recovery cycle. Route 5, or the Pan-American Highway, was in excellent condition with a broad shoulder. A tailwind as well as beautiful sunny weather made for effortless riding. For the first time in a very long while, I could cycle in short sleeves and could appreciate the countryside. Needless to say, I was delighted and even more delighted to find lodging right in the centre of Osorno. It was an excellent room on the ground floor, with a door leading outside, TV and hot shower. Osorno isn’t on many travellers’ list, but it made an excellent overnight stop on our way north. A walk around town revealed typical wooden houses, an imposing cathedral as well as a fort.

6 January - Osorno – Los Lagos – 95 km

We followed Route 5, Chile’s longest road and one that ran for 3,364 kilometres from Peru in the north to Puerto Montt in the south and which formed part of the Pan-American Highway. It was another perfect day for cycling in Chile’s lake district. The weather was warm, with a slight tailwind, and our path ran past forested areas making for excellent scenery with the Andes mountains as a backdrop. A short detour led to the small and very un-touristy village of Los Lagos. Situated on the Calle-Calle River, it was a quaint community with rickety accommodation in the centre of town. I loved these small villages with their central plaza that everything seemed to revolve around.

7 January – Los Lagos – Loncoche – 84 km

After crossing the Rio San Pedro, Route 5 continued north with a gentle tailwind and through a Eucalyptus forest, making for comfortable and enjoyable cycling. The weather was warm, and the way gently undulating, past densely forested areas and vistas of snow-capped volcanos. I was thrilled to be out cycling again. Roadside cheese stalls made for convenient shopping, and for the rest of the way, I dreamt up ways of enjoying it.

Eighty-four kilometres further was the small hamlet of Loncoche with excellent rooms in the town centre (outside and ground floor). Loncoche was a typical small Chilean town with a plaza, municipal building and church.

Ernest went to the supermarket and came back with a bag full of salad stuff after which he proceeded to make a noodle salad, adding heaps of cheese.

8-9 January - Loncoche – Temuco – 88 km

It was another perfect day - clear skies, sunshine and no headwind. I knew my luck had to change sometime. After a leisurely 88 kilometres, the large town of Temuco came into view. It took a bit longer than usual to find an outside ground-floor room, something that was always preferred to being cooped up on the third floor with no external windows.

Temuco was a pleasant city with a leafy plaza making staying the following day a simple choice. A non-cycling day always came with the usual chores of laundry and Internet. The municipal market had the typical Chilean produce of cheese, fruit, fish and meat, as well as horse butcheries - something that was somewhat foreign to me, but appeared quite prevalent in Chile.

10 January - Temuco – Collipulli – 102 km

Albeit a slight headwind in the afternoon, it was still a super day on the road. The cold south had softened us up, and loads of sunscreen were required. Being in warm weather without a howling wind was indeed a pleasure.

The small town of Collipulli was up next and came with a historical Malleco Viaduct, today a National Monument. It consisted of a railway bridge built in 1890 and which was the highest such bridge in the world at the time. I loved these little villages where people went about their lives without the tourist influence. Like the other towns, Collipulli had a central park/plaza, colourful wooden houses, a local market, church and town hall. A guesthouse in the centre was an excellent place to chill of the evening.

11 January - Collipulli – Los Angeles – 77 km

Blue skies abounded, and the sun was out as we biked along the Pan Americana highway (Route 5) north. It was a wooded area with many large rivers and a few camping areas.

As in the previous days, there were plenty of small food stalls along the road, mostly frequented by truck drivers. Closer to Los Angeles, the countryside became more rural with vast farmlands. Not to be confused with the Los Angeles in the USA, this was an agricultural town with the highest rural population of any Chilean municipality.

Los Angeles was situated close to the Laguna del Laja National Park and, therefore, a jumping board for those wanting to visit the park. The region was hard hit by the previous year’s earthquake, and the town was still busy recovering from the disaster – rebuilding was in progress, and many buildings were still in ruins. Our abode came with a TV and a BBC channel – I didn’t seem to have missed a lot. In fact, it was sometimes amusing to see what the BBC considered world news.

12-13 January - Los Angeles - Chillan – 113 km

After making a few sandwiches for the road, it was already 11h00 - nothing unusual in that part of the world, as people went to bed rather late and only got going at around 10h00. Ernest spotted a welding shop and had his bike's front rack repaired - it broke on the gravel roads along the infamous Route 40 when he was blown off his bicycle.

Our route ran north past densely wooded areas, waterfalls and viewpoints towards Chillan. Chillan was another town situated in a rich agricultural region, on a vast plain, between the Andes mountains and the coast. Chillan was interesting as it had an old city with cobblestone roads and was the birthplace of Bernardo O'Higgins. O’Higgins, regarded as the liberator of Chile, was the driving force behind Chile’s independence from Spain.

Chillan was rather relaxing with many squares and parks; in fact, it was so relaxing we stayed the following day. The town had a beautiful town centre with a mall and delightful street-side cafes, as well as a sizeable open-air street market.

Being situated in a region of seismic activity, Chillan had always suffered from devastating earthquakes throughout its history. Earthquakes partially destroyed it in 1742 and 1928. It also sat near the epicentre of the 2010 earthquake (magnitude 8.8) that again caused severe damage. On our visit in 2011, the destruction was still clearly visible, and our abode was slanting to such a degree I thought it possible to roll out the door.

14 January - Chillan - Linares – 109 km

Signboards indicated it was still about 400 kilometres to Santiago and that we were in Central Chile. It did indeed look as such while cycling past large farming areas on the fertile plains of central Chile.

After turning off for Linares, a little cycle path led into town. Again, I was surprised by all the old buildings; unfortunately, most were still off-limits due to the 2010 earthquake. Close to the town square was the Cathedral Church of San Ambrosio de Linares, one of the most beautiful buildings in town. This was indeed a Roman Catholic country as I spotted a rather large number of cathedrals for such a small town.

After finding affordable accommodation (with cable TV) and with storage for the bikes, Ernest, as usual, lit his petrol stove and cooked pasta. The cooking process took place in the bathroom, not the most hygienic way, but it was delicious, nevertheless.

15 January-Linares - Talca – 56 km

For the first time in a long while, a slight headwind hampered our efforts and after 56 kilometres and feeling somewhat lazy, Talca made for a perfect overnight stop.

Talca was located in the Maule region, the largest wine-growing region in Chile. It wasn’t only home to several wineries, but it was also a University town, and it sounded pretty good to me. Unfortunately, Talca was another place severely damaged by the February 2010 earthquake. All the budget accommodation in the older part of town had been destroyed, and only empty lots remained where those hostels once stood. It was somewhat shocking to see such devastation. For the past three days, our overnight lodging was in towns affected by previous years’ earthquakes - Chillan, Linares and Talca. Even at the recently re-opened hotels, the open doors didn’t close, and the closed doors couldn’t be opened. It was sad to see the collapsed buildings and empty plots where buildings once stood.

There wasn’t much to do in Talco but to take a walk to the local Santa Isabel supermarket (which you got in every town) to get some supplies for supper as well as the next day. I guessed earthquakes weren’t a thing new to that area as I understood the name Talca means thunder or a volcanic eruption in the Mapuche language.

16 January - Talca - Curico – 73 km

On leaving Talco, a good tailwind assisted us, but it wasn’t long before a loud bang brought us to a sudden halt. Fortunately, it was only Ernest's back tyre that had a blowout. The rest of the day was enjoyable cycling as it was a wine country, and the farms passed very much resembled those back home in the Western Cape. On reaching Curico, the very pleasant Hotel Prat was a perfect choice. With its kitchen for guest use and outside ground floor rooms, it was rather convenient.

As was the case with the other towns in the area, Curico was destroyed by an earthquake in 1928 and was left severely damaged by the previous year’s quake. Fortunately, the Plaza de Armas (the main square) was still intact and remained the most visited place for its trees and pretty historic bandstand.

Curico is situated 46° N, with the result in summer the sun only sets after 9 p.m., and it only got dark at around 10 p.m., making for somewhat long summer days. I could, therefore, understand their need for such long siestas, and most shops would be closed between 12 – 4 p.m.

17 January - Curico - Rancangua – 112 km

Vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see, always with the ever-present Andes to the east. It was a pleasant day of biking while heading for Rancagua. Again, it was reasonably hot with a slight tailwind and after a good few stops for cold drinks, we reached Rancagua. I didn’t expect much but was, once again, pleasantly surprised.

Rancagua had a historical section with many old buildings. It was a fair-sized town with a charming central square known as “Plaza of the Heroes” and was the place where the Battle of Rancagua took place. Referred to as the Disaster of Rancagua as, during the fight for independence, O’Higgins and his army had to beat a hasty retreat and hide in the nearby caves.

18-24 January - Rancagua - Santiago – 92 km

Santiago (population about six million) was one of the most convenient capital cities to cycle into. Next to the highway, a service road led straight into the city centre and Ernest knew precisely where to go, as he flew into Santiago from Australia. It was comfortable cycling to Hostel Chile Inn - where Ernest stayed a couple of months earlier before cycling south. The hostel was located in the Bario Brazil, a district close to the city centre and within easy walking distance of almost everything. The underground metro railway station was about 100 metres from the door and made for easy exploring. The metro could take you just about anywhere in the city at a reasonably inexpensive rate.

Our hostel was one of many old three-storey buildings in the area. Most of these buildings came with soaring ceilings and large rooms. I understood these were former grand homes, most with upper decks and ground floor courtyards. The staff at the hostel was very hospitable and invited all for a free barbeque on the deck. We danced the Macarena till the wee hours of the morning together with the staff and a broad mixture of guests (Italians, Germans, Brazilians, Venezuelans, Mexicans, and, of course, Chileans).

The next few days were spent wandering around town, enjoying the novelty of taking the underground around the city and the funicular up to the San Cristobal hill. Besides a statue of the Virgin Mary, the viewpoint offered panoramic views of surrounding areas.

My laptop gave endless trouble, and I handed it in for repairs, but on receiving it back found it was still faulty. On a Friday afternoon, I took it to a more reliable store, but could only get it back on Monday. On collecting it, I found it only spoke Spanish, but at least it was working. After last-minute shopping, all was set for our final stretch in Chile before heading over the Andes to Argentina.

25 January - Santiago - Los Andes – 81 km (+3km through the tunnel)

After a whole week in Santiago, it was time to move along. Soon after leaving the scenery abruptly changed. Gone were the wooded areas and I was surprised to find myself in a desert-like landscape. The route north to Los Andes was via a reasonable steep climb over the mountain in sweltering weather. Fifty-five kilometres after cycling out of Santiago, a tunnel prevented cyclists proceeding any further. Tunnel staff quickly spotted us, and came to the rescue with a truck and dropped us on the other side. From there on it was a pleasant downhill run to the Los Andes valley and to where a small roadside stall with a beautiful lawn got our attention. The fact that they had a campground out back and sold homemade bread made staying a no-brainer.

26 January - Los Andes - Roadside camping – 50 km

The following morning our path headed mostly uphill, as could be expected. Our pace was slowed considerably, as we stopped numerous times for photo opportunities and to fill our water bottles. By the end of the day, camping was on a hill above an emergency truck stop with excellent views of the surrounding mountains. The adjacent cascading stream from the snowy mountains provided fresh water. Even without a single alcoholic drink, Ernest washed in the river’s icy waters. It was still early, and a relaxing afternoon was spent enjoying the sunshine. That evening, while having supper, a jackal came wandering past. Soon it was pitch dark and a zillion stars lit the sky. Truly magical moments.