If I was going to suggest an easy country for a three week bike tour in a beautiful and exotic part of the world that wouldn’t require a lot of training, that included amenities like comfortable accommodations found less than 100km apart, cool temps for biking, safe roads, a bicycle culture, beautiful beaches, lake swims, interesting topography, great views, and friendly people, I would suggest Malawi. Our travel here was among the most stress free of the trip.

We spent only 18 days in the country, entering the day after David’s birthday and exiting on mine. Lake Malawi extends vertically down most of the country and we were able to ride near the shore most of the time. Especially wonderful were the beach front lodgings, some in the higher end range where we might stop just for a break and for a taste of real coffee, some at the other end of the range with a thatched roof , cement floor and outhouse, then some in the mid range with amenities for tourists. I loved the peacefulness and the many beautiful sunrises and moonrises in those lodgings. Much more densely populated than Mozambique many more people walked along the road and many, many people rode bicycles. Approaching larger towns I needed to be vigilant, not for large trucks, speeding bus traffic, or inattentive drivers (as was my focus in other parts of the world when approaching large towns), but I needed to be aware of what the many cyclists were doing. I have found that in countries where cycling is not a hobby, but a mode of transportation, the roads feel much safer. Drivers expect bicycles to be on them; they understand the space they need and they generally respect their right to be there. In Malawi, also, there was little traffic, which made the roads very safe to travel.

Like in Mozambique, where I didn’t see many large trucks hauling goods from one place to the other, it suggested to me there was little industry other than farming. In abundance, however, were the signs of NGO’s (charitable non-governmental organizations). Joint projects between the government and various aid organizations were everywhere–to grow cassava, maize, beans, vegetables, coffee, tea, to process fruit juice, charcoal, sugar, to irrigate and improve the land for crops and on and on. We saw several orphanages along the road, most likely for children whose parents died of AIDS. We saw many missions and their schools, both of the Christian faith and newer buildings of the Islamic faith. I had questions about all the charitable money spent. Malawi, like Mozambique is one of the poorest countries in Africa. We met farmers whose cash income was just $30 per month. It seemed to me with all this evidence of aid money being spent we should have seen a little more prosperity.

Charitable giving also became evident in the enthusiasm we were greeted by village children. Children whooped and hollered “Muzungu!!” for “white person” in joyful glee at the sight of us and came running from all directions. While I do feel their joy was often genuine and without guile, we also began hearing the phrase “Give me money! Or “Give me pen!” more and more often; and more and more often, after a wave of the hand, we were given the gesture of an upturned palm. I began to feel that the children were used to muzungus giving them things. Then I remembered in the past people talking about visiting villages in the third world. Before they left home they put together boxes of school supplies or other useful kinds of things to hand out to children rather than giving them candy or money. Indeed we met cyclists who carried balloons, or even frizbees to give to children. Come to think of it, I’ve also contributed to the project of two world cyclists who handed out bikes to children in two different orphanages in areas they traveled. What better thing to do than to bring joy to children who have so little (especially compared to the closets of toys children have in the world I’m from), children who appreciate even the smallest of gifts? The downside is the demanding expectant child whose first words to us when she/he reached the side of the road was “Give Me!” I don’t have an answer to what is the right thing to do.

Last night Julie and I toasted the return of paved roads a day too soon. It is under construction for 66 more kilometers; which was pretty good for cycling, except for the last 10k. Most of the road was smooth, wide and traffic free; then we slogged through deep, sandy stretches; pushing our bikes and eating dust clouds from passing vehicles. My new chain broke just 2k from pavement. I removed the bad link and added four more, so I can use a few more gears now. The terrain has changed to a savanna, with long vistas and more tall Maasai, with stretched earlobes and beaded adornments. It’s been ten days since cycling on a smooth highway and when Julie said that she needed to stop since something was rubbing; I stopped and she ran into me full speed. Julie fell, scraping her elbow, and broke a buckle and hook off my right side Bikebin. I was able to repair it with some spare parts sent to me before this trip by the company president (and inventor of Bikebins). They are holding up remarkably well.

Eating dust.

Baby Baobab

The tales we had heard about Mozambique worried us. We were told the roads were very bad with huge pot holes, many of them sandy, suitable only for 4 x 4’s. The Lonely Planet Guide said you couldn’t bicycle there—bad roads, no shoulders, big trucks, reckless drivers. Where would we stay with few hotels and long distances between towns with hotels? Though violent crime was less, the rogues were said to be very smart and we would need to be careful. In fact, the stories we heard were similar to stories we often hear in the neighboring country before our next country of travel. People are concerned about our safety and want to be sure we are aware of the problems we could encounter. Sometimes there is a bit of superiority communicated with a nod to our oddness “What can we be THINKING about bicycling there?” Though I know this, I still worry at borders and usually approach them with some trepidation.

From almost the moment we entered Mozambique the tales proved not so true, or rather (as is generally the case), the problems proved not to be big problems. Except for one pretty difficult rainy day where the road (under construction) was a muddy mess, the main roads we traveled were very good. Most did have narrow shoulders, but except for around Maputo and a few other smaller cities, there was little traffic. I felt almost like we were traveling on country roads in rural Wisconsin or Minnesota. As to hotels, we always found them within a days ride; and though some were quite basic and one a total dive, they were mostly pleasant and comfortable.

What I loved in our tour of Mozambique was the seemingly endless, flat, quiet, green countryside, where we’d pass tidy thatched roofed villages–numerous in the south near the coast—less as we traveled north and inland. People in these villages or walking along the road, smiled and waved when we waved, replying warmly to our greeting of “Bom dia!” (or “bom tarde” in the afternoon). I wished I knew some Portuguese as I didn’t have many conversations with people other than sharing greetings or asking, “How much?”, when buying bananas, peanuts or whatever on our breaks. I missed the wealth of cultural information we amassed and shared in our conversations in English speaking South Africa and many, many of my questions and observations remained unanswered and unchallenged.

I wondered about the emptiness of the land we traveled, the road lined, generally, with small, green, bushy trees and drier grasses as far as I could see. There were small plots of land around homes and villages where vegetables and corn were grown, but most of the area we traveled was not tilled, nor did there seem to be much industry except for very near the few larger cities. This demonstrated to me the poverty in Mozambique. Recovering from a brutal and long civil war, funded and fueled in part by Cold War politics and South African politics, that ended 15 years ago, the economy is improving slowly, slowly. Much of the economy is dependent on tourism which raised many questions for me. Mozambique has one of the longest coastlines in Africa and it boasts some of the most beautiful, quiet and remote beaches. We spent about 10 days of our travel in this area. Many, many South Africans in SUV’s pulling small trailers, usually traveling in packs of two or three passed us on the road as they made their way to beach front properties the government is selling (or perhaps leasing for 99 years…I’m not exactly sure). On the one hand tourism brings in very needed jobs and money but on the other hand there is a great difference in income levels and in culture between the tourists and their hosts. While one travels in SUV’s, the other works hard to afford cheap Chinese bicycles. Subsistence farms stand next to first world expensive retirement homes or vacation hotels. Are the new neighbors talking with each other? Are they inviting each other into their homes for dinner now and again? Are they sharing a card game or two together over beers? My guess is, not. One young Danish man we met who lived in Swaziland for years, is building a backpackers type hotel on a beautiful lagoon near the Indian Ocean using locally made materials and using local housing designs. He worked with community elders and officials in setting up the business and is involving people in the enterprise through profit sharing. He wants to develop community gardens, and perhaps set up a fisheries project. He, it appeared to me, was talking with his neighbors.

Touring Swaziland

Equal in hospitality, but with less traffic, less crime, less politics, and more laid back, Swaziland was a welcome change from South Africa. We spent five days in the peaceful Ezulwini valley where beautiful low and mellow mountains stood as a backdrop. Sean, from England, owned the Swaziland Backpackers, a comfortable hostel, simply furnished with copious pillows on carpets. There we met John, a football enthusiast from England who has traveled to most of the World Cup and World Championship games since the early 90’s. With his shaved head and earring, David teasingly called him a “soccer hooligan.” Every morning he stood out on the front room balcony with binoculars catching sight of very many birds and familiarized us with their names. In the evenings we stood around a smokey fire and chatted with other guests including John, and a Swedish/Romanian couple from a small island between Finland and Sweden, young Australians, young Norwegians, and Sean and his staff. Most of the tourists were headed for the World Cup. Their excitement was infectious and I look forward to following the games of the World Cup as we travel in Mozambique.

Bicycling through Swaziland in areas such as the wonderfully hilly road down the valley to Sebeka Rock, or the expansive green sugar cane fields flanked by the cliffs of the Lebombo Mountains, or the delightful game park where hippos and rhinoceros lazed and grazed just beyond our compound’s fence and where the staff were wonderful to us, one might imagine Shangri-la to appear around the next bend. Swaziland is not a paradise, however. It has one of Africa’s highest infection rates of HIV/AIDS. Twenty-six percent of the adult population, mostly between the ages of 15 and 35 are HIV positive. Twenty thousand young adults a year are dying of AIDS in a country where the total population is only one million. HIV infection rates are very high in all of southern Africa, including South Africa, Mozambique, and Malawi, countries we are riding through. Why is it so high here? It is a heterosexual disease, affecting men and women alike, and children born from sick mothers. The strain of the disease here, HIV1 as opposed to HIV2 (found in other parts of Africa and the world) is a particularly virulent one and easier to catch. It gained a foothold early on in the general population long before people were aware of its existence. In the 80’s and 90’s some African governments ignored or even denied the problem as other parts of the world were taking steps to contain and control the disease. Nelson Mandela acknowledged his own lack of understanding and lack of leadership in addressing the pandemic after his 50 year old son died of AIDS in 2005. Other reasons for the virus’s deadly success go hand in hand with poverty. Lack of quality education, lack of quality health care, lack of resources to access quality education and quality health care, lack of understanding of both the biology of disease and the biology of fighting disease—these realities are part of the everyday life of the average person. Projects to provide anti-retroviral drugs (which help people live) for free or at a minimal cost have made some inroads but funding is slowing and the same realities of poverty hinder the effective use of the drugs. My long ago Liberian friend, Rachel, would have explained the reason for the high infection and death rate in this way, “Disease is used to the poor.”

As David and I travel in our cursory way we don’t see the disease’s devastation. We do see some billboards educating people about HIV/AIDS and about healthy sexual practices, but we aren’t aware of the sick people or orphaned children as we go through villages. I wonder sometimes when I see a very thin person or when I observe (in some places in South Africa) that one of the most substantial businesses in town is the funeral home. In South Africa very many of the people with whom we had conversations were involved with the disease in some way. Some educated the public; one woman was helping young mothers die in hospice care; many worked or volunteered in orphanages where children are fed, but where most go home to grandparents who are raising their dead children’s children; some worked or volunteered in other HIV/AIDS projects or donated money. One person described it as a hidden disease, but if so, its tentacles envelope enormous numbers of people in southern Africa. As a relatively fast moving traveler I can only imagine the devastating effects of this disease over the past decades and in the coming decades in this part of the world.

We went on both a sunset & a sunrise game drive in Hluhluwe-iMfolozi Park, Africa's oldest established protected area.

“You must be very careful. It is very dangerous there.”

I was hoping to begin my summary of our travels in South Africa by writing “Though we heard this warning again and again from so many people our experience was very different. We found only a warm, embracing hospitality from everyone we met.” I would like to write it now with the addition of “except for those few moments in Mtubatuba when we were mugged” (see David’s blog for May 28^th). And really, that was our experience of South Africa. We talked with very many wonderful people from very many different walks of life and cultures who were interested in us and wanted us to feel welcome and to enjoy their country. Their hospitality rivaled anything we found in South America. Speaking the language has made it so much easier for us to ask questions and have conversations about people’s lives, families, philosophies, apartheid, politics, the World Cup, religion, racism, culture. South Africa has been a fascinating and beautiful country to visit.

To ignore our mugging, however, would be Pollyannish of me. It was a scary and maddening experience, though the picture I carry in my mind of brave Glenda chucking groceries at the muggers still makes me laugh. After knowing we were unharmed, my first reaction was anger, that though I yelled “Rogue, rogue, rogue, help, help!!” at the top of my lungs and people were around, no one came to help. Later, our hosts at the backpackers explained that people don’t help because they are afraid of retaliation. That understanding made me feel better but it also makes me think there is a hopelessness and acceptance of crime which helps to fuel it. Though I feel that some of the warnings we received were more about fear of “the other”, segregation, and racism– theft (petty and grand) is a huge issue in South Africa. The majority of victims, however, are not tourists, or even relatively well-to-do South Africans, who can afford security systems, guard dogs, and high walls topped with barbed wire, but they are average people living in poorer neighborhoods.

Glenda’s visit with us was one of the highlights of our tour in South Africa. It was geat to catch up with her on her life and to share our journey, seeing it a bit through her eyes. In the two weeks she was with us I felt she had a good taste of what our experience has been, from the warm hospitality of the bike shop owner and staff who picked her up, toured the city, had lunch and dropped her back at the backpackers with her rented bike, to climbing 1000m with the bike in the beautiful and peaceful Swazi countryside. We had great conversations with Ebby and Joanne, South African business women, with Sumeshini, the widowed hotel owner, with Mlonde the manager of the bar and restaurant next to the dive hotel we stayed, with the cook Tulie in the fancy hotel we stayed, to name just a few of the people we met. We also had fine interactions with countless school children and people along the road. Finally we toured a game park and wetlands area where we were treated to sights of some of the African animals Glenda had first been introduced to long ago on the Sunday night TV show “Wild Kingdom” and I got to see my first rhinoceros.

We first spotted "the almost impossible to see" African Wild Dog (this one lost his tail).

Baboons sauntered right past our Land Rover.

A Cape Buffalo.

Nyala

Giraffe

Table mountainn dominates the city cycling in from the airport.

A rotating cable car ascends into "the tablecloth" covering Table Mountain.

A parasail takes off from Lion's Head, looking south towards the Cape.

It is a great feeling to begin our bike ride along the east side of Africa. Having visited South Africa before, and also parts of East and North Africa, and having lived in Liberia for those 2 years almost 30 years ago, I am almost giddy about having the chance to cycle part of the continent. How will our experience differ from South America? Will there be as much variety in culture as we travel from country to country? How will the land lay? Will David find food without meat to eat? Who will we meet and what will our relationships be? What will my questions be?

Cape Town and its environs are in a stunning location. The city encircles Table Mountain, Devil’s Peak, Lion’s Head and Signal Hill with the Atlantic Ocean as a backdrop. I imagine there are few places one can be in this city without having some kind of view. David and I did a Sunday hike up and around this natural beauty getting a great view of the area. (Funny, but we ran into a couple from Chile on the hike. What fun to transport ourselves for a bit back to that continent in our conversation with them. We are still hoping to run into people from Argentina so we can change our 92 Argentine pesos [about $25]. Banks don’t want them.

Table Mountain at dawn from the Victoria & Albert waterfront.

We ended up staying in Cape Town a little longer than we had planned. Glenda, a friend of ours from Sacramento, was to meet us in Cape Town and bike with us for two weeks. Her plane was delayed several days because of the Icelandic volcano. Then she had to cancel her flight altogether because of continued delays and upcoming work commitments. Hopefully she’ll be able to meet us again in a month in Durban.

We took advantage of our extended stay to visit some of the museums. Interestingly enough, though we didn’t plan it that way, they mostly embodied stories of oppression. We visited the well done Holocaust Museum, which included ties to the policy of Apartheid and shared stories from the mostly Lithuanian Jews who emigrated here after WWII. We also visited the Slavery Museum. Cape Town and much of the early industries in South Africa were built on the backs of slave labor imported from, to name a few, India, Indonesia, Malaysia, Madagascar, and West and East Africa, most predominantly Mozambique. The locals could not be convinced to give up their way of life and work for the gain of the Europeans.

Oppression of many of the descendants of slavery was described in another museum we visited, the District Six Museum, which told the story of Cape Town’s policy towards them (the coloureds) during Apartheid. In the 1960’s their neighborhood, District Six, was declared a “Whites Only” area and 60,000 people were uprooted and bulldozed to the new “Coloured Area” called Cape Flats. Never being given adequate housing this area has morphed into a gigantic shanty-town with all the problems concentrated urban poverty can bring, drugs, violence, disease, lack of quality education. District Six today is mostly a wide green space as its former owners are taking the city to court and not much has been built there.

The Slavery Museum also housed an exhibit on Nelson Mandela who is one of my heroes. His uplifting and almost reverent story of his part in South Africa’s struggle for freedom also included a panel describing his mistakes while in office as the 1^st black president of South Africa. I wonder if Mandela himself might have pushed for this piece to be included to remind people (including me) he is not a god. We also toured Robben Island where he had spent 18 of his 27 years in prison for treason. His crime, in a nutshell, was to call for “One man (person), one vote.”

All of these museums encapsulated for me the hope that is in South Africa, that in looking at their history honestly, in looking at their problems honestly, understanding who they are as a united people, South Africans can take charge of their future and work to solve some difficult problems. In my very small glimpse of life here 10 years ago, compared with my glimpse today things seem to have improved. The once exclusive and very white Waterfront shopping and eating area shows a much more integrated affluence.  It was a much more  interesting place for me to wander in this time.

Dutch colonial architecture in the historic Bo-Kaap district.

This grand old mansion is now the Big Blue Backpacker's hostel.

Street performers at the V & A waterfront.

Nobel Peace prize winners; Lutuli, Tutu, de Klerk & Mandela

Nelson Mandela's cell on Robben Island where he spent 18 of his 27 years of imprisonment.

Former prisoner Sipho was our guide on the Robben Island tour.

"Pink Mink", a Protea flower.

The old "La Boca" waterfront neighborhood of Buenos Aires

We had heard about and seen the luxurious Argentine buses with seats that almost recline to beds with great service, including breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There is no transportation like this in the US. We decided to travel in such a coach from southern Argentina to Buenos Aires, 2 nights, 1 day, about 3000km. We were not disappointed in the food or the comfort. There were even vegetarian options!! We were also treated to 4 movies (only one in English with Spanish subtitles). We emerged from this cocoon a bit tired and bedraggled (biking is so much more energizing), and headed for our hostel in the Buenos Aires’ Theatre District

Buenos Aires is a huge, modern city with snarling traffic and great grey tall buildings lining the streets. It has enormous parks and monuments, the widest avenue in the world – 9^th de Julio (David’s birthday street), grand old Victorian architecture (some people refer to the city as the “Paris of Latin America” because of the architecture) and a lively mass of business people, shoppers, tourists, school kids, city workers filling the downtown streets throughout the day and into the evening. (Many people smoke and one is never far from the whiff of tobacco…different from other places we have been)

We toured the city on bikes on a beautiful sunny Sunday. First we dodged joggers, walkers and cyclists in the wetlands park near the shore. Then we visited the pink office building of the president, the Casa Rosada, where we stood on the same balcony Eva Peron gave her speeches to her adoring public. Finally we just wandered around the city finding street fairs, musicians, dancers, chess players, families, tourists, lovers, skaters, skate boarders, laughing girls, picnicers. On sunny Sundays, it seems everybody is out of doors enjoying the weather, the parks, and each other. This great gathering of people in the central park on Sundays is one thing I will miss about South America.

Rodin's "The Thinker" & David "The reCyclist"

Busy bike trail through wetlands along Buenos Aires' waterfront.

David’s view on flying:

I was alarmed at how tired and worn the bikes looked when I took them apart to pack in boxes for the flight to Cape Town, my first airplane flight this trip. Stuck in rush hour traffic on the way to the airport I thought: “ Maybe we should have taken the earlier airport shuttle?”. We arrived almost two hours early, there was no line for check-in at the Malaysia Airlines counter, and we checked our bikes with no extra charge (Julie paid $300 to take her bike to Panama City). Then the Malaysia Airlines clerk said “Do you have a return ticket for departing South Africa?” “No, we’ll be departing South Africa on bicycles”. But South Afica requires that you have a return ticket before entering the country, and Malaysia Airlines wouldn’t let us board the plane without one. So with no time to waste we found an internet cafe and bought tickets on South Africa Airlines from Durban to Maputo, Mozambique for $654, tickets we had no plan to use. (We did get it all refunded later except for the $21.98 Orbitz fee.)  Though Malaysia’s service was excellent ( free drinks, free meals, free movies) I do not like the stress of flying.

While assembling the bikes in the Cape Town terminal, a white South African said “ You aren’t going to bike into the city, are you?” (It is only 25 km). When he left, a black taxi driver said “ All white South Africans are afraid to travel through the townships. You shouldn’t have any problem”. And we didn’t.

Dawn on the Torres (towers) L-R: Sur(2850m), Central(2800m), Norte(2600m)

We hiked up in the dark with snow in the air to watch the sun rise on Saturday (04/Apr).

What does one do on their vacation after biking 15 or 22 thousand kilometers?  Why not backpack 120 km or so through one of South America’s grandest national parks, Chile’s Torres del Paine?  While it was a bit more challenging than I had signed on for (especially on my knees),  I loved our intimate experience in the Andes’ southernmost region.  We viewed and trekked through Patagonian steppes, forests, streams, rivers, glaciers, lakes,  snow capped mountains, and sheer granite peaks, some capped with black sedimentary rocks eroded at severe angles.  One night we were awakened more than a few times to the sound of a calving glacier crashing down a near-by mountain side.  On another night we fell asleep to owls hooting, perhaps after feasting on the many mice who flourish on what they scavenge from hordes of backpackers. (We contributed to this careless animal abuse when a fox tore a hole in our low hung plastic food bag and made off with our expensive peanuts, dried bananas and chocolate bars.)  My most favorite moment was at the top of a barren pass, 1229 meters high, when the 3rd largest ice field in the world came into view.  The Hielo del Sur, which we first glimpsed near Fitz Roy a month earlier, is the sculptor of this park,  in the lakes and rivers it spawns and in the wild winds and weather it influences.  Gazing to the north and west the vast whiteness stretched over and around mountain peaks.  Below us and to the south the enormous Glacier Grey filled the steeply sloped valley we would pick our way down the rest of that day.  Our “vacation” in the park was a fitting end to our incredible Andes tour.

We first glimpsed the Torres 8 days earlier at the start of our first backpacking trek in South America.

We did the complete circuit of 116 km with full packs + 17k on day trips.

The Dickson refugio, where expensive dorm beds are available.

We camped, but ate overpriced meals indoors every other day.

A spongy red bog below Cabeza del Indio (2230m)

Los Perros glacier.

It rained 3 of 8 days, sunny for 2.

Fall colors on the only high pass (1229m).

Glacier Grey flows from the southern end of the South Patagonia Ice Field

We viewed Glacier Grey on the rugged hike along it's left bank.

The glacier ends in Lago Grey...

...forming odd-shaped icebergs.

Dark sedimentary rock atop lighter-colored granite on Los Cuernos (the horns)(2400m & 2600m).

Mushrooms

Clear stream flowing over mossy boulder.

Cerro Paine Grande (3050) is the highest point in the park.

Eating at Refugio Los Cuernos with Nickolas & Lottse, a Dutch couple.

Firebush flower.

Hiking down the Ascensio valley from the Torres mirador (04/Apr).

We walked our bikes most of the 16k up from Lago O'Higgins on a bad gravel road to the border with Argentina.

We rise early today as the boat we will take across Lago O’Higgins leaves at 8:30am and it is 7 km away. After the various surfaces of gravel road yesterday, I know those 7k could take anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour. Happily the road is flat, wide, and relatively free of washboard and rocks. We arrive at the boat with plenty of time to spare. On this sunny day, gazing over the long expanse of the turquoise green waters of the glacier carved and fed lake, flanked by low mountains I revel in the beauty and quiet of the wilderness. I also think about the difficult road ahead into Argentina. Chileno cyclists do not come this way. They end or begin their journey on the Carreterra Austral at the sea port town of Caleta Tortel taking the ferry to or from the north of Chile. They perhaps shake their heads wondering why foreign cyclists bother with the difficult border crossing. In our original plans we, too, had opted to avoid this stretch; but in talking with other cyclists who had made the crossing we decided we should do it. It seemed the best route to Ushuaia. We were told to expect the first 12 km of gravel road to climb about 400 meters to the pass and Argentine border. Then a 6 km path will lead us down to the shores of Lago Desierto (even that name suggests desolation and despair!) where we will camp and take another boat across in the morning and then ride 40k to El Chalten. On this dirt path are deep narrow ditches impossible to ride or push a loaded bike through so we will need to remove our panniers, push the bike for 2 km or so and then go back and portage our luggage. All comment these 18k will take the whole day and it may be painful; but as the ferry leaves the shore on this crisp, beautiful, clear day so also leave the dreaded thoughts of what the day will bring. I enjoy conversations with Canadian cyclists Julian and Shauna, Austrian cyclist Phillipe, Spanish cyclists Santiago and Gari who join us on this crossing as we take in the views, feeling the breeze chill as the boat approaches the southern ice fields.

Two hours slip by and the boat lands. After a visit to Chilean customs for our exit stamp and a quick lunch the group disperses as people will continue at their own pace. David and I fall in behind as the road deteriorates quickly into a jeep path, rocky and steep. We didn’t know we would push so early. Hoping the road surface improves we slowly make our way up the pass. Two hours later, riding some, pushing mostly we reach a high point with views of a forested area leading up to the pass. The jeep path into the forest is much more pleasant and interesting than the rocky road.  We ride some, but push mostly as the path now climbs and falls, making its way through the old forest over and around roots, rocks, streams. There is much to distract me when walking in an old woods, but I must focus and forge ahead.  I don´t want to stumble.  I hear hollow knocks and I stop. The sound is very near and I am rewarded by the sight of a large red-headed male and a female Carpenteria (Magellanic)Woodpecker (relatives of the fabled Ivory-billed and looking very much like Woody) on a nearby hollow tree. They are fun for me because I had seen them on a poster when first entering Chile months ago, and though common I had not yet seen one.

We push on, aware now that we have gone several kilometers past 12k and there is no sign we have reached the pass. When will that last 6k of the REALLY difficult path begin? Then, through the darkened trees, in the light, is framed the barren granite peak of Fitz Roy, a name for a mountain at the bottom of a map I had seen many months ago in Colombia when looking at possible routes through South America. It had captured my imagination then, perhaps because of its Scottish name in a Spanish country, and because it was a world away from my trip’s beginning. Seeing it so close and so strikingly beautiful here, I feel what ever difficulties there are on this path I am very happy to have come this way.

Fitz Roy disappears as the path heads down through the trees. We finally reach the top of the pass and the border of Argentina after almost an hour and a half in the woods (3 1/2 hrs total and 18k from the shore.  Our information is sometimes wrong…does this mean the 6k will really be 10?) So, do we begin portaging here? The path doesn’t look that much different from where we have come, it is mostly downhill, and we continue pushing on. To cross a fairly large stream we pick our way carefully over fallen logs, portaging our luggage for the crossing and up the steep hill on the other side. Our bags are heavy and we happily put them back on our bikes at the top as we continue. There is very little riding now. We come to a marshy, mucky area. No bridge. No fallen logs to help us. No easy way around. Only to slog through it. I laugh, as I am sure I have never been in a more ridiculous place with my bike. After 3 hours on this 6k path of many obstacles we reach an opening in the woods and we see Fitz Roy again looming behind Lago Desierto. We are almost done. Only 2k left. The path descends sharply. Then it deepens and narrows and it is difficult with our panniers. When too narrow we take them off. We put them back on the bike as soon as we can. It is sometimes easier to walk on the banks above the ditch giving the bike more space as I bend and hold tightly on the brakes. I hear a call from our friends who are camped below us. (I later find out it was just a random Austrian hoot from Phillippe) I am encouraged and I quicken my pace. My bike is even more encouraged and she is getting away from me. I trip up and find myself flung head first, sprawling on my face in the ditch, my bike safely wedged behind me. Happily I am wearing my helmet and my head takes most of the force of the fall (I think this is a good thing as all I have is a bruised shoulder). David runs up. I’m laughing because otherwise I would be crying. He asks if I am okay and then suggests I reenact the scene for a photo. Then I take off the front panniers, leave them (David offers to go back and get them later) and I carefully walk my bike down that last k. When I arrive at the rustic Argentine Customs I share with the four young men that this was the most difficult road I have taken in all the Andes… Their faces fall. ….but it was among the most beautiful. They smile, stamp my passport and I join my friends at the campground.

We are rewarded with this view of Fitz Roy on a nice segment of road through woods.

A primitive 6k trail greets us in Argentina.

Julie tumbled over her bike going down a steeply trenched part of the trail.

We got filthy fording streams & mud.

Here began our treacherous, final steep descent to Lago del Desierto.

Ignacio & Alonso are "Los Clandestinos"

Rain greeted us as we began our tour down Chiloé Island where we will spend the next five days.  Because of its southern location (far from the early governments in Santiago), its temperate, rainy Pacific coastal climate, and its separation from the mainland, a culture unique in Chile has developed, a culture that mixes the traditions, religion, architecture, stories, foods, and skills (to name a few) of the Chono, Huilliche, Spanish, and German peoples (to name a few).  Perhaps part of the hospitality we have been experiencing comes from this mix.

Our plan to spend the day biking an 80km route to and around the city of Ancud dissipated in the soaking drizzle.  We got a late start, drinking coffee leisurely at our breakfast as the wind blew and the rain misted.  When finally ready to load the bikes, David remembered the flat tire he had on his bike from the night before.  Delayed about 15 minutes as he patched the tire, and we were on our way.   After 5km or so, David´s cable on his rear derailleur snapped.  Hoping there might be some shelter from the misty wind at the top of the hill where he could fix the bike,  one such shelter appeared…a covered bus stop.  It always amazes me how quickly David deals with break-downs.  I  barely had time to translate one page of our Spanish guide book before he had replaced the cable.  Back on the misty, chilly road, a cup of coffee seemed a good idea.  We came upon the Parque Ecológico y Mitológico de Chile, a privately run park we had been told was for children.  We stopped to check it out and see if they had a snack bar with coffee.  No coffee or food was sold, but we were invited into the family’s home by Francisco, a Santiago policeman, who with his family was visiting his father, the park’s creator.  Francisco offered us coffee, bread and cheese.  His three sons, Alfonzo, Juan, Ignacio, and his niece Daniela, played and sang folk music for us, music they had performed at festivals as members of the band The Clandestinos. Then Francisco gave us a private tour of the park sharing some of the stories and myths of the island.  The park was a labyrinth of paths in the thickets of the woods.  Various creatures, carved from wood by Francisco’s father stood in small clearings, caves, branches of trees, under swinging wooden walking bridges, inside miniature wooden houses, all constructed by Francisco’s father.  My favorite was the bruja (witch), a very wise old woman who held all the knowledge of the culture, understood healing and balance, and was consulted by all with their problems.  In the religion of the Huilliche and Chono people she was the shaman.   You have to love a tradition where old, wrinkled woman are honored and respected.   Of course, such a strong figure was called a “witch” by the proselytizing Jesuits in the 16th century and relegated to children’s stories (I think, perhaps, she lives on in the island in the guise of a strong Catholic Mary).

After touring this work of love by Francisco’s father, David and I got back on the bikes.  The rain continued off and on as we rode a short 20km or so arriving in the late afternoon in Ancud. Once the capital of the province, Ancud suffered greatly in the 1960 earthquake, the strongest earthquake ever recorded, measuring 9.6 on the Richter scale.  The town seemed a little shabby at first glance.  This impression did not last.  First we met Lorena, hotel manager, who gave us a lovely room and didn’t turn up her nose at our soggy appearance.  In our exploring of the town the next day we toured a very good museum that introduced us to the wooden churches for which this island is known.  The cultural mix and the climate’s available trees produced unique architecture in its churches that UNESCO has declared World Heritage sites.  We will see some of these churches in the next few days.

Wooden churches in Chiloe have been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.