From a traveler's diary,

The Gardibaldi pass over Ushuaia seems to be impassable for motorcycles because of the ice. I receive contradictory information en buy equipment to make non-skid chains. Around noon it starts to snow and I postpone my departure to wait for better weather. The 2 German motorcyclists, Tom and Jochen, which are in Ushuaia on Honda Dominators, find a truck that can bring the motorcycles across the pass in the evening and I decide to go with them. It's no use postponing it any longer, winter has started.
The truck is a cooling wagon full of frozen chickens, piled on top of each other as stiff as a poker. They don't look very happy, but who would without a shirt at minus 20º. During the loading I look worried at the stainless steel floor with nowhere to fasten a rope. According to my German friends it's o.k. but I have serious doubts.
In the evening a little van on nail tires drives to Rio Grande and we drive along with it, so that we can pick up our bikes the next morning. In the nocturnal hours we pass the truck, armed with non-skid chains, climbing slowly upwards to the top of the pass.
In a small youth hostel in Rio Grande I don't sleep a wink because the Germans are sawing the entire Black Forrest. I call them names and curse but it doesn't help at all and in the early morning I wake them by pulling their sleeping bags because I want to see my bike again.
The drivers haven't waited for us to help them unload and there is damage on the Yamaha. The side stand has broken off and the only plastic that was still in tact isn't anymore now. I grumble..

After lots of boiling hot tea and coffee and the sun coming up, it's 8 º below zero, we start driving to get to the pond that is supposed to pick us up from Tierra del Fuego. The last 100 kilometers the road is made of good gravel and the Yamaha is having a party sliding the windings.

The little boat is already waiting for us impatiently and with a quiet sea, it takes us across from the Street of Magellan to the mainland of Patagonia. At the border from Chile to Argentina we laugh ourselves silly because of the rummage of the customs officers and their always o so important routine of stamping and filling in forms. We buy chocolate of our last Chilean pesos and with brown mouths and tears of laughter in our eyes we jump on our horses again. The dusk is already growing over the wintry landscape, and the first stars are can be seen on the clear and bright firmament and they accompany us on our way. Tom and Jochen are not really making headway but I set spurs to the Yamaha to reach Rio Gallegos at the Atlantic Coast before the night. Here and there the road is snowy and full of wholes and without the moon it gets pitch-dark. In the early evening I find a garage that wants to weld my side stand back on its place.



A decent chap lies under the motorbike and I have a good laugh about his unintelligible Spanish that he fires at me without mercy. He doesn't even notice that I don't understand any of it. I've learned to nod yes and no in time and to most people talking is more important than listening. In a little motor shop that sells me a tire, chain spray and motor oil, I listen to the story of the Argentinean economy. The decline of the last 6 months is critical. Many people have become unemployed or have lost their business. All imported goods are suddenly 3 times as expensive and nothing is sold anymore. In spite of this, the Argentineans are incredibly cheerful people that approach you with interest and a big sense of humor.
There is always a hand and a pat on the back and a good luck wish. The chat is without exception about soccer and the wedding between Alexander and Maxima (that prince of yours is a lucky man, sharing the bed with Maxima under the expensive satin sheets) (and lucky he is!) Everybody is sorry that the Dutchmen are not playing at the soccer world cup. They think very highly of our qualities. I don't agree with them...

Tom and Jochen go to Buenos Aires and back home after that. I go on towards Chile. In the afternoon we shake hands and leave. Sometimes saying goodbye hurts a little but not this time. It's great to do what I want again without consulting others. I turn on the gas and drive freely over the flat, barren and cold landscape of the incredibly beautiful pampa, with the sun low in the northwest, the wind in the back and the high clouds full of ice. Much oil is extracted here and the nodding donkeys are sucking the earth like giant mosquitoes. As far as that is concerned, Argentina is completely independent. It's incomprehensible that the government makes such a mess of a country with so much potential.




At some places the road is covered with snow and I have to climb through the mountains carefully because the road freezes and until now I've been lucky with falling. I stop for an hour before the sun goes down. There is work to be done because my electric socks don't get warm and my rain trousers are leaking.
Tomorrow I have a 750 kilometers long day ahead of me to Barrilloche in the Argentinean ski area. Later on in the evening I see clouds in the north and worry about the road condition. The roads are not salted here of course and they say that the winter has come early. In my nocturnal hours I write to Emma, a beautiful English woman that I've been diving with for a few weeks at the great reef before the coast of Honduras. I can't help missing her a little in these quiet hours.

At 8 o'clock in the morning I wipe the snow off the saddle and under a heavily clouded sky I head north and hope to reach Barrilloche in the evening. The road does not freeze up but the air is cold and the icicles growing on my mudguard break off and hit my helmet. It really shocks me every time. Here and there I see a shepherd on his horse, showing his animals the way together with his dog. My feet are warm again and my motor doesn't mind the cold at all. Halfway I stop at a petrol station for tea and sardines sandwiches and after that I drive the last 400 kilometers in one go to reach San Carlos de Barrilloche in the dark. There is a fine place to spend the night and I run into some old friends I met earlier on my journey and we chat until the early hours.