Tom and Helge watch Bob (butt to the camera) checking out his panniers.
THE INCA EXPEDITION: 1999
Reported by Marick Payton
Getting Started . . . The Hard Way
The Pancho Villa Moto Tours Inca Expedition, led by the legendary mototcycle adventurer Helge Pedersen, promised five weeks and 5000 miles of “adventuresome” riding through Chile, Argentina, Bolivia and Peru. Bikes and riders arrived in Santiago, Chile, on 9/2/99. We were greeted by name at the airport (they had a photo cheat sheet) by a cheery elf of a man, who guided us through the dense crowd to the cluster of other Pancho Villa adventurers. I soon learned this was the incomparable Guillermo (Willy) Samyn, organizer, facilitator, persister in the face of all adversity and, more particularly, owner and driver of “La Cucaracha”. The Cockroach would be our chase vehicle, bus for pillon passengers when the roads got too rough for riding two up, and ambulance for the injured. In the work-a-day world, Willy and his lovely wife Anna are managers of the Santiago Yacht Club in Vinya del Mar.
The entourage, once assembled, included:
Ride leader: Helge Pedersen, formerly of Norrway, now Seattle, riding a BMW F650
Riding tail for PVMT: Alberto Clave, Mexico, Kawasaki KLR 650
John Bennett (Australian John) and passenger Jennifer Regan, Australia, KLR 650
Jim Breheney, III, San Francisco, KLR 650
Mike Conners (Colorado Mike), Denver, KLR 650
Bob Hamilton, Tucson, and passenger Jessa Tewalt, San Francisco, BMW R1100 GS
Dwight Hughes and wife Scooter (who joined us in Cuzco), Belleair, FL, KLR 650
Mike Mathews (Carolina Mike), Simpsonville, SC, Honda Transalp
Dennis Mathewson, Lummi Island, WA (and Ireland and Mexico), KLR 650
John Mckibbin (Canada John), Tantallon, Nova Scotia, KLR 650
Kyle Mulligan, Hilton Head, SC, BMW R1100 GS
Mike Ofiesh (California Mike), Millbrae, Calif., Honda XR 600
Marick Payton, Menlo Park, Calif., KLX 650
Lance Raber, Oregon City, OR., KLR 650
Bill Robertson, Greenville, SC, Suzuki DR 350
John Shelton (Chicago John), Waukegan, IL, KLR 650
Tom Suryan, Seattle, BMW R80 GS
John Smith (California John), San Francisco, KLR 650
Ron Young, Burbank, CA, BMW F650
Karen Ofsthus, Helge’s companion of 11 years, accompanying Willy in La Cucaracha
The rest of our first day was spent settling into our hotel and exploring the pretty, prosperous and bustling little beach town of Vinya. Day two was filled with the excitement of liberating our motorcycles from Chilean customs and saddling up, for the first time, in South America. This exercise provided our first experience of the customary South American custom of “hurry up and wait.” We hurried up to the customs facility and waited and waited and waited for the custom officials. Their eventual arrival occasioned some serious smoozing on Helge and Willy’s part to assure expeditious and trouble-free release of the motos. Then began the several-hour exercise of dragging the bikes out of the container, splashing a dollop of gas into their dry tanks, reconnecting the batteries and praying to the gods of internal combustion machinery that they would start. The gods favored some more than others, as is always the case in human affairs, but, in the end, we were all “on the road again,” big smiles beaming from within our helmets. That night Willy and Anna hosted a get acquainted meal for the group at the Yacht Club, with muy Pisco Sours to lubricate the social interaction.
Tom and Helge watch Bob (butt to the camera) checking out his panniers.
Early the next day the ride began. We headed across the mountains to Argentina. The bright spring day was bursting with the promise of a joyful ride through fascinating foreign climes. Across the narrow waist of Chile we went and up the mountain we started. We, and a lot of very big trucks and buses. Into long, dark tunnels. So far, so good. But then at about 8,000 feet it started to snow. Soon we rode through a ski resort, passing underneath its busy lifts. By the time we reached the border crossing at the top, the road was covered with slush and ice. The Argentinean officials tried to talk Helge out of this obvious folly of riding motos through the mountains in these conditions. He assured them we would turn back if it proved too hazardous and we pushed ahead. It’s not clear that any conditions are“too hazardous” for Helge, a man who spent 10 years riding the world, including the infamous Darien Gap. As it happened, the officials closed the pass right behind us and it remained so for a week, with 1500 buses and trucks stacking up on both sides. An hour later or a little less resolve on Helge’s part and the whole trip would have been in jeopardy.
So, what is “too hazardous,” after all? A goodly number of our intrepid group took a tumble on the ice. I believe the record was seven times by Ron on his BMW F650, a tall , heavy bike not well suited to slipping and sliding on the ice. He looked up from his last tumble into the engine bay of a huge truck that had managed to stop inches from his head. This was clearly “too hazardous” for him and he declared “no more.” As it happened, Carolina Mike’s bike had quit running at this altitude and was being ignominiously portaged into Argentina by La Cucaracha, along with its discouraged owner, . So, Mike mounted the F650 and Ron took his place in La Cucaracha and the journey continued. Twenty miles and a seeming eternity later, we dropped down low enough into Argentina that the road was again clear. From there, the ride on into Mendoza was uneventful. Still, we all began wondering, not for the last time, what the heck we had gotten ourselves into. The mood at dinner that night was a heady mixture of relief and apprehension. Being committed to following the intrepid motorcycle adventurer Helge Pedersen for five weeks began to seem a bit more adventuresome that we had bargained for.
Photo by Kyle Mulligan
Mendoza was an attractive town and we were all disappointed that we had gotten in late and had to leave early the next morning. That was to be the pattern for the next several days as we relentlessly marched toward Bolivia. Our destination for the next day was San Augustin del Valle Fertil. Most of this day’s ride was on asphalt. A high point of the ride was the luncheon stop in the little town which is home to the shrine of Difunta Correa. As the legend has it, the young Difunta’s husband went off to join some band of brigands. She went off to find him with her infant son and died in the desert. When she was discovered her milk was still flowing to her son. This was declared a miracle, though this was long disputed by the Catholic Church, and she became the patron saint of travelers throughout Argentina. Her shrine was on a hill, covered with little memorial houses and automotive bits and pieces, leading California John to rechristen her “our lady of the fan belt.” There were some apprehensive moments when it was discovered that the local filling station was out of gas. We took comfort that our group included many on the KLR Valdez, with its six gallon tank, and rode on. An interesting cultural phenomenon engaging us for the remainder of this Sunday ride to the Valle Fertil was all the families picnicking on the side of the road at literally every pull off. The Valle Fertil itself was a beautiful oasis in the the relatively desert terrain. Our hotel was at the top of a hill, providing great vistas of the valley. A large water reservoir surrounded our hill on two sides, adding to the scenic beauty. As is typical for a PVMT tour, our accommodations were the best available.
On our ride out the next morning we were introduced to the dirt roads that were to be typical of the next several weeks riding. The morning’s ride was on relatively easy roads half way between hard pack and loose sand. We soon experienced our first of many flat tires. Lance, one of our most experienced dirt riders, lent a hand for a quick fix, using a new patch kit called “scabs.” They sure went on quickly. but we discovered they started leaking just about as quickly. So, one flat turned rapidly into two. Later that morning we rode through some truly beautiful red rock formations. In the afternoon a strong wind came up, blasting us with sand and adding a new dimension to the riding challenge. Included in the day’s ride notes was the following:
“Road climbs along sharp curves to the Miranda Pass with spectacular views along the way. Sound your horn on blind curves and stay well to your right.”
This day’s ride was also our introduction to what was to become a routine experience through northern Argentina, Bolivia and Peru: long, long detours off a relatively good dirt, sometimes even paved road onto crudely graded paths through the desert. The ride notes advised:
“Resist temptation to ride on smooth looking road under construction. . . . There are deep ditches and high mounds which could ruin your whole day.”
At this point I’d begun to think I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up on the Paris/Dakar race through the deserts of northern Africa, a thought that was reinforced the next day. However, this day ended with everyone arriving safely in Chiliceto, albeit tired and very dirty. So, again, a quick shower, a hearty dinner and to bed, in anticipation of another early arousal, quick breakfast and hasty departure, this time heading for Santa Maria.
All of the challenges to date scarcely prepared us for the ride to Santa Maria. The road was looser than ever. At one point, a dry river crossing had a big sand drift across it. I was following Helge, who slowed more than I expected as he hit the dune. As a consequence, I ended up having to come to a quick halt in the middle. Paddling with my feet and spinning the rear tire furiously, I managed to get through without dumping it. In the afternoon a wind even fiercer than the day before came up, producing numerous moments of complete white-outs from the blowing sand. It was very scary riding along on a sand road unable to see more than a few feet ahead, knowing you share the road with large vehicles who can see no better than you. Stopping was unappealing since you could well be rammed from behind. Proceeding was equally problematic since it was often impossible to see what side of the road you were on. Fortunately for my peace of mind, Helge, riding along at about 60 mph in these conditions, would stop every 20 minutes or so and wait for me, puttering along at a mere 40 mph, to catch up. In the middle of this trek we encountered a road grader, creating its own white out, as it futilely tried to level the road in these conditions. We quickly learned that graders were an abomination to bikers as they covered the somewhat packed tracks with an attractively flat but trecherously slippery layer of loose sand.
Photo by Karen Ofsthus
In these conditions we had our first bad crash of the trip. Bob and his lady friend, Jessa, took a big tumble on their R1100 GS, managing somehow to high side in these slippery conditions. Both humans and machine took a serious beating. La Cucaracha came along shortly, picking up the injured and leaving Karen, to guard the battered moto. She sat huddled against the blowing sand under a poncho until a large truck came along. The driver offered to haul the bike into Santa Maria, an offer enthusiastically accepted. Fortunately, several of our gang were there to help load the behemoth into the truck. Eventually, word reached those of us who had already made it to Santa Maria that there had been a crash when some folks who had been riding with Bob finally reached the hotel. With dark having fallen, Helge enthusiastically set out to retrace a route the rest of us were still giving thanks for having survived during daylight. Half way back to the crash scene he came upon the truck, with Karen and the R1100 GS on board. Jessa and Bob were dutifully medicated with Advil and ice packs. Six of us gently lowered the Beemer from the truck to the ground (that’s about 100 pounds apiece), and we all hit the sack, glad to have this day over.
By this point a number of us had began to expressed our opinions, with varying degrees of passion, that this tour so far–long challenging day after long challenging day–didn’t allow any time for exploring the culture of the places we were traveling through. Not to mention that we had begun to wonder if we would survive this adventure! We were encouraged to be patient. “When we got to Salta tomorrow we will have a lay-over day in a really nice Argentinean city,” Helge assured us.
On to Bolivia
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