Day 11 - From freezing cold at 160km/h to sweltering hot and an argentinian diva

Im beginning to be convinced that the further north we head the less the argentinains know about the famous practice of breakfast. Woken up after a restful sleep, good to see dad had a nice very rhythmic sleep, to head to the kitchen of our hostel to find we had now discarded with the tasteless egss and were down to toast and jam. At this rate i will be eating crumbs from behind a dustbin by the time we reach santiago, although with the speed at which i have been consuming vast qauntaties of beef i figure this crash diet may be the answer to my dieting needs.

Completely satisfied, we suited up for an easy day on the road. Only three hours riding to el chante for another two nights off. A tirrade of romantic rnb assulting my eardrums, we hit the open road and twisted on the throttle. For someone of the three who has become the 'techie' of the trip, i was bewildered to figure out my two unknowledgeable counter parts had been in my helmet advising me in three kilometers we were about to turn left. Three kilometers? But how did they know, how is this possible! Did they have a gps installed on their bikes and i didnt. Gracefully asking how they had come to this conclusion, both advised me in slow forrest gump type monotones that they were using the maaaaaap and the odooooometer. Oh. I see.... Well done Qantas, you managed to spend millions training me to navigate only to find me thwarted by a map and a 50 cent computer from the stone age.

Twisting through the serene landscape, reminding me something of a cross between the middle east and the amazon we came accross a glacier run off carving its way through a series of left and right sweepers. Bliss. Concentrating on the perfect combination of throttle and grip, perched behind david and leaning over into another glorious right hander i had a sphincter tightening moment. Unable to do two things at once, because i am a man, i was watching the end of the corner rather than the rapidly approaching red light of davids bike in front of me indicating a rather abrupt stop. Needless to say many unkind words were yelled to myself as i went whizzing past in a serries of hicups and jolting, thank you mister ABS man! David had seen dad parked on top of a cliff by the side of the road, stopping to "make ze picture". Not wanting to be left out of the photoshoot we rode up the embankment which to my amazement became steeper and steeper. But from anyone elses point of view i was going nowhere. My rear tire had decided to revisit its younger years and build sandcastles, eating into the ground like a dog digging up a three day old bone. Sufficiantly embarassed when my brilliant thought of revving even harder to dislodge the helpless bike failed, i surrendered and lifted it on to firmer ground.

After another group photo shoot we all tore out of the parking lot onto another desolate stretch of highway. Sitting behind david i noticed that he was on the correct side of the road... for australia. Sniggering to ourselves and wondering when he would find out the error in his ways i decided to call my blissfully unaware brother and advise him of the part of the world we now rode in. Following the highway Ruta 40 (a famous motorbike route) we snaked our way through the arabian paradise and settled in for the straightest bits of road since alabama. Always up for a good pose shot, i described my brillant plan to the boys and we stopped to exchange cameras and instructions. Cue longest stretch of road with two pinpricks of headlights cresting a small rise, gradualy growing larger to a brief glimpse of two bikes riding in quick succession past the camera. I am a regular steven speilberg, brilliantly executed esxept for one small thing. I forgot to hit record.

Arriving in town to a cloud covered behemeth of a mountain range rising majesticaly into the white ceieling we were met with an odd sight. El chante is a town founded only twenty years ago for the pure basis of opperating as a basecamp for climbers loony enough to scale the hidiously high peaks. Im convinced that the reason argentina has not become a world superpower is due to the fact they have a little something they like to call 'siesta'. The place just never gets anything done, including the 800 unfinished buildings with contracters asleep by their toold. If you ever wanted to invade argentina, which im not sure why anyone would, do it between the hours of twelve noon and four in the afternoon. Everyones asleep! Shop opening hours work like this. When you could be bothered to wake up, to twelve. Sleep for four hours, reopen for one hour then spend the rest of the night getting drunk with your children in tow. Yes children, more of that later.

In desperate need to post our postcards to prove to our loving women back home we do think of them, and trying to post them as soon as possible to get a jump on the three week express (yes thats express) postage time we stumbled down the half finished town in search of a post office. Even more chardes insued including one of me miming out the choosing of a post card to the stamping of one to be met by a brief. "jdhfljdhlahflahflahfaflakfalflafnalfalfn.....jafaf?" This town as with small off the beaten track towns had developed their own kind of spanish gibberish they pass off as 'slang'. Now this town has one main street with two corners on the block, after painfully extracting information from a passer by we were told it resided on one of these corners. Insert many trips up and down the strip, many converations involving the word 'corner' to find it four strrets away in a culdesac. Thats it! Straight to the pub.

Now. I have developed an intense burning desire to meet the man that invented the local argentinian beer 'quilmers' and shoot him. It seriously tastes as if its been distilled through dirty diapers, and then bottled off in a tacky label, somehow gaining a reputation as the beer to have. I would like to meet their marketing team, for i believe with their help i can become president of the united states. Unfortunately the delightful patagonian boutique beers we had become a fan of were not here, so we opted for their homebrew. The white "light coloured" beer had a beautiful initial taste, finishing off with a delightful after taste of dish washing fluid. Take two for the dark couloured beer which had a faint after taste and a direct in your face initial taste of which dave instantly picked as "electrical fire". I have no idea how he knew this smell/taste so well, all i knew is i needed to vomit.

Dinner was a spectacular display of how much meat they can possibly cook at one time. Following a huge mass of crowds that had begun walking in a general direction and with nothing else better to do we ended up at the local gymnasium at ten at night. Apparently we had stumbled upon a rock concert, kind of. Local bands playing salsa music filtered in through our earlobes and we were met with a huge mass of people wedged inside the dusty makeshift concert hall. Everywhere i looked there were kids at eleven and twelve running back and forth with carefree parents drinking freely their beloved "quilmers". Children it seems do not have a specific bed time here, yet only go to bed when their parents pass out in a garden. Why is this country not leeding the free world? Suddnely a low excited spanish voice rumbled over the speakers in giberish. Then the crowd went ballistic and a fat/pregnant lady arrived on stage and started belting out a song, which i deduced from her facial expressions was about her dog being run over. We had experienced a pop idol, so incredibly famous that i yawned and called it a night. Well don el chante, well done indeed.