Andrés Carlstein - Odyssey to Ushuaia. A Motorcycling Adventure from New York to Tierra del Fuego

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carlstein, Andrs, 1974

Odyssey to Ushuaia : a motorcycling adventure from New York to Tierra del

Fuego / Andrs Carlstein. 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-55652-440-4

1. Carlstein, Andrs, 1974JourneysNorth America. 2. Carlstein, Andrs, 1974JourneysSouth America. 3. Motorcycling. 4. North AmericaDescription and travel. 5. South AmericaDescription and travel. I. Title.

G465.C296 2002

918.0439dc21

2002000573

Cover and interior design:
Monica Baziuk Cover photograph: Peter Santa-Maria

2002 by Andrs Carlstein

All rights reserved First edition

Published by Chicago Review Press, Incorporated

814 North Franklin Street

Chicago, Illinois 60610

ISBN 1-55652-440-4

Printed in the United States of America

5 4 3 2 1

This book is dedicated to fathers and sons. I offer it in memory of my father, Dr. Rudolf G. Carlstein-Reyes, and to Charlie Stewart, formerly of Bethel, Alaska. Wherever you are now, Charlie, I hope youve reunited with your son.

I SIMPLY COULDNT HAVE done this trip alone. There were far too many people that helped me along the way to list them all, but there are several who merit specific thanks. I would like to thank first my family, particularly my mother, Ann Furlong, and my sister, Astrid Baker, who handled my stateside business while I was away. Id like to thank Carl Williamson, Paul Morroni, Mark Van Horn, and all the friends who helped prepare me for, and shared in, the journey.

I extend a very special thanks to my writing mentor and friend, Robert Gannon, without whom this book wouldnt have been written.

My warmest appreciation also goes to Robert and Peter, my fellow rum riders, for their time, effort, dedication, energy, patience, and for being who they are. Luckily for me we didnt always get along, otherwise the trip wouldve been infinitely less entertaining. Thanks, guys.

Id like to also thank the following trip sponsors and their representatives: Sheryl Bussard and Kawasaki USA; Larry Langley and Progressive Suspension; Paul Collins and Givi, USA; Carl Williamson and Williamson Sports Motors; Pat Widder and Widder Enterprises; Craig Stenger and Clearview Windscreens; Andy Goldfine and Aerostich, Inc.; Sandra Blackmer and Russell Performance, Inc.; Mike, Doug, and Juan at Corbin Saddles; Doug Flagg and Kershaw Knives; Max Martin and Avon Tyres; and Rob Hart and Walter Goldstein at Crazy Creek Products.

M Y SUNGLASSES HAD BEEN STOLEN from my pocket in a Peruvian coat-check, so I had to keep the tinted visor on my helmet down to curb the tremendous glare. Salt, pure and blazingly white, lay in all directions. There was enough salt to kill every last slug on the planet. Aside from the mountains visible to the southwest, there was no earth nearby. All around me lay a flat white desert of salt where not a creature could live. I wasnt taking any chancesthe crusty white lake bed we rode on reflected the bold midday sun, sending rays into my eyes from all directions and threatening to cause a kind of snow blindness, even though there wasnt any snow in sight. Temporary blindness, no matter what the cause, was a condition that would make riding my motorcycle off the salt impossible. This was the Salar de Uyuni, a 7,500-square-mile dried lake at 12,000 feet, formed when a huge bowl of ocean water was driven skyward with the rising continent millennia ago. And we were stuck on it.

My two companions and I were unsure how to proceed. I think we need to go southeast, I finally said. That travel agent said there was a road down there, and we havent crossed it yet. Im sure thats the way.

Robert, a big, graying man in his fifties who looked like a retired lumberjack or burly ship captain, sat on his massive black BMW bike to my right. He flipped up his helmet and a bushy beard popped out. Reminiscent of something from a cartoon, his beard looked like an expanded white sponge that couldnt possibly return to its original size and fit back in his helmet. He slowly took off his gloves and examined the global positioning satellite receiver (GPS) mounted on his handlebars for what mustve been the tenth time.

The third man in our group, Peter, sat on his large, red-and-white BMW bike with his legs spread wide for balance, arms across his chest in frustration. His piercing Colombian eyes were set with a gravity they rarely displayed. Yeah, but the other guy said theres also a road straight south from the Isla de los Pescadores, Peter said. We came straight south, and still theres no road. I think we need to go west. We dont have enough gas to run around looking for a road. It has to be one or the other.

We were at an impasse. Normally during a disagreement between two members of the group, the third person settled the tie. But Robert just looked at us in silence. Between the GPS, maps, and local information we had figured we couldnt get lost. And technically we were right. We knew exactly where we were, but we couldnt find a way off the salt. The solid land lay just a couple hundred meters to the south, but between firm ground and us was a wide moat of sandy-salty mush that would surely swallow up at least one of our bikes if we tried to cross. Normally foolproof, the GPS wasnt helping us because there were no good reference points in the software to tell us where the road was in relation to our position. The sacred GPS, as Peter dubbed it, could only tell us what we already knew: that we were somewhere along the edge of the salt lake, but not on hard land.

We didnt want to end up like that French couple last yeartheir truck sank into the muck and they were stranded, suffering in the burning days and freezing nights under the endless, cloudless sky for nearly a week before being rescued. They were consular representatives from France, and Bolivian Air Force planes began looking for them when they didnt arrive at their destination as expected. Nobody knew where we were, let alone gave a damn, so if we got stuck wed have to be our own rescue party. Worse still, we were running out of water and gas, and we had nowhere to turn for more information. I was sick of the constant committee frustrations that come when making group decisions, and decided it was time to act.