Yamaha Journey Vol.13

In Panama, the Pan-American Highway comes to a sudden halt. Blocked by a stretch of dense, roadless jungle between Panama and Colombia known as the Darien Gap, the overland traveler is forced to make their passage to South America by sea or air. There were no boats sailing when I arrived so I packed my bike on a small plane and bid farewell to North America as I flew high over the impenetrable forest below. Despite missing my bike, it was thrilling to see the Darien Jungle from the air and an hour later I landed on a brand new continent. The colonial city of Cartagena on Colombia's Caribbean coast felt like a different world. An ancient port town where merchants, pirates and swashbucklers have plied their trade over the centuries, its docks teemed with seafaring trade of all kinds. In the old town the cobbled 16th century streets bustled with raucous market traders pushing handcarts of mangoes and papayas while Latin beats blasted from the brightly colored buildings with their flower-filled balconies. A warm sea breeze and the swaying palm trees reminded me I was in the Caribbean and I reveled in the tropical heat and exotica. Soon, I would be winding my way up into the towering peaks of the Andes, thousands of feet above this ocean that lapped gently at the dockside. I was aware that the whole of South America lay in wait down the road, and felt the same thrill of unconquered territory ahead, as when I had set off from Alaska.

Peru arrived like a horn blast. After the empty green slopes and tranquility of Ecuador's landscape and people, Peru's wild highways and blaring cities snapped me out of my reverie. Vintage muscle cars and thundering trucks delivering crates of ‘Inca Cola' overtook me with inches to spare. In the capital, Lima, there was only thing for it - park up for the night and relax with a Pisco Sour, the classic Peruvian cocktail of brandy, lime juice, egg whites, syrup and bitters. I took a deep breath; I was back at sea level but not for long. My route through northern Peru had taken me across empty coastal desert but from Lima I turned away from the Pacific and back up into the heart of the Andes. Before I knew it I had climbed 15,000 feet on the kind of road that motorcyclists dream of - switchback upon switchback, twisting and turning until I looked down below me and for a moment I was truly on the top of the world.

In these remote mountainous areas of Peru and Bolivia the indigenous Quechans provided flashes of colour. The women in their patterned shawls and full skirts in reds and pinks tended to their herds of llamas and alpacas, whiling away hours spinning the soft wool to make blankets and ponchos. In Bolivia, their outfits were topped by the famous bowler hat, a legacy of the British railways workers from the 1920s. To see this icon of my homeland in this faraway world was strangely comforting, especially when the road became rougher and snow began to fall. In the space of a day I had gone from baking desert to freezing mountaintop, and with darkness looming I feared I would be pitching camp in a snowdrift but to my relief, a tiny tin shack of a café appeared and the elderly owners offered me their stone floor in front of their blazing fire. ‘Where have you come from?' they asked me the next morning. ‘Alaska' I said. They looked confused. ‘But yesterday, from Lima'. ‘Lima!' they exclaimed, ‘It is so far!'

Back down at sea level, I followed the Pacific coast along Chile's long thin landmass. The sudden arrival of well-made highways, traffic lights and road signs were a culture shock after the trails of the Andes but soon I was back in the wilderness as I entered the Atacama Desert, famously the driest place on earth. Not a single drop of rain has ever been recorded here and towns were few and far between. In preparation I strapped cans of fuel to my bike and a few miles later passed an abandoned pump and an ominous sign, ‘Proxima Gasolinera 470km'. It was going to be a long, hot ride. The boundless desert and nearby beaches provided camping spots aplenty and each day I marveled at how me and my little bike had found ourselves here, so far from home. There were no signs of civilization except for the occasional long-distance trucker kicking up dust so I was amazed to come across the deserted mining settlement of Humberstone, an eerie ghost town where the company stores, buildings and equipment had been abandoned nearly 100 years before, still perfectly preserved by the dry desert air.

It was two long, weary weeks later that I finally rolled into Ushuaia, dusty and tired but I had never felt more alive. I looked out over the icy waters of the Drake Passage, next to a group of penguins huddling against the wind. Antarctica was just a few hundred miles away across the water, and Alaska was nearly 20,000 miles behind me. My bike and I had come a long way; it had become a true friend and loyal companion, just like the horses were to the gauchos. Now it was time for us to head home. I didn't know what would happen next but I did know that life would never be quite the same again.