discovery
adventurelog
vehicles, racers, Press and spectators that would be passing through their checkpoint. Still, the process would take a while. Knowing this, we had hatched a
plan to get ahead of the rush by leav- ing as early as possible. If we made it to the top first, we could traverse the Andes and arrive in the Chil- ean basin with plenty of time to enjoy the races. So far, so good; the checkpoint was nearly empty and our cross- ing seemed a simple matter. I rolled up to one of the guards and offered greetings. "Dakar?" The man asked with a thick accent. "Si, Dakar," I answered,
exhausting 20 percent of my Spanish vocabulary. "You racer?" He asked, fol-
lowing the logic that anyone stupid enough to be on a motorcycle in this cold must be a Dakar competitor. "No, We Espectadors," I
replied, explaining that we were race spectators, which, as it turned out, was a mis- take. For the safety of race enthusiasts, law enforcement had tried their best to keep civilians from driving on the same roads as race vehicles. It was common sense, as there were obvious dangers in having 1,000 horsepower juggernauts mingled among the usual commute fodder. So far we had circumvented this rule by being on motor- cycles, as it was assumed we were rac- ers and therefore welcome to ride any road we wished. A nice perk, if not a little foolhardy. But there was only one road to
said. "Until all racers pass." My heart sank. I understood the dangers,
and had planned the early arrival in part to ensure we were up and over the mountain before the first racers intercepted us. I made my case to the agent, choosing words care- fully both in consideration of the language barrier and the weapon at his arm (I never
might have better luck getting us across. In the meantime, take a break and get comfortable." For the tour, we had teamed up with
Nacho, a local guide and driver who knew the area and culture better than we could hope to. Occasionally when our meager negotiating skills would fail, he would step in and make lemonade of the sit- uation. He was behind us, still climbing the mountain in his old pickup. Hopefully he would arrive soon and work some magic. We dismounted and waited. Surviving at 15,000 feet is no
small matter. Cold weather aside, the lack of oxygen was physically draining. Headaches, nausea, even hallucinations and fainting were real concerns. We needed to get this done and move on as quickly as possible. Soon the sup- port truck arrived, and our guide Nacho went to work at negotiat- ing passage. An hour passed, then two.
Kllling time while waiting to get over the border.
for a second thought he might use it, but it didn't hurt to be cautious). "Por favor sir, We will go quickly over the mountain. We will be safely over before--" "You. Will. Wait." he said sternly, empha-
Chile from where we stood. And for our own safety, this border agent made a decision that would become the bane of our South American adventure. "You must wait here," he
sizing each word with a jerk of his pointed finger. I dropped my head and acquiesced, leading our group to a parking area. I dis- mounted and explained situation. "Our support driver will be here soon," I said. "He
Race support vehicles began to arrive; a few soon became dozens. The border agents took their time, methodically checking doc- uments and directing drivers to the customs building. We waited by our motorcycles, lying in the shade of our engine blocks and protecting ourselves from the ris- ing sun. We were exhausted; every move sapped our energy. I kicked myself for not doing more cardio training before the trip. Four hours in, Nacho returned with good news. "We have been
granted passage," he said with his usual nonchalance. "We must get our passports stamped, then we can go." As we approached the customs building, motorcycle competi- tors began to arrive at the checkpoint. We watched in awe as riders hammered in, received marks on their race cards, and blazed on into Chile. These folks were hardcore. One rider arrived, stopping and literally
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