We awoke to find that we had camped at the highest, most exposed point possible on that section of the route, which would explain the ice and borderline hypothermia issues. The cold brought with it another issue... flat batteries. Only Dreagle would start at first but after he started the Bumblebee he then called it quits. Charlie managed to connect two of the batteries up the wrong way round which rapidly began to melt our improvised copper wire jump leads. A good deal of perseverance with frozen fingers and anglo-saxon language finally got all the bikes on the move. We ploughed on through cowboy canyons until disaster struck yet again. Dreagle blew his chain at the back of the pack and no-one noticed. Gaz went sprinting off down the road whilst Paddy pushed the bike behind. After an epic 2km chase Gareth hunted down the leaders and we managed to beat our last complete chain back in to life. On we went in to ever-more dangerous roads as the altitude increased and the crumbly sides steepened. We eventually rolled in to a mining town called Atocher and decided that Hell probably looked similar. Gale force gusts of wind whipped through the steep sided valley dragging huge clouds of dust and rubbish and whipping up raw sewage from the shallow river running through the dusty streets. The bikes went in for more servicing to try and cure Moiras distraught gearbox whilst the hunt for fuel continued... badly. A mining truck with 3 swarthy looking locals offered stopped to talk to Paddy, Gareth, Gilbey and Charlie. They said they could take us to fuel and then suggested that only one of us jump in the truck and go with them...no...I don't think so. Suspicions aroused we jumped on the bikes and followed them across the river and off in the direction of a valley behind the mine. As the terrain got worse the bikes bogged down and, once again, the suggestion was made that one of us jump in the truck...no... still don't think so. After peering around the corner of the valley and realising that there was nothing there we decided that we were more likely to receive a good kicking than a can of fuel and so we turned around and headed back in to town. We eventually acquired an extra 20litres from the head honcho and that was our lot. By the time the repairs were done and the fuel was found the other half, rather annoyingly, caught us up, and then poked off to head south of the border. We heaved a sigh of relief as we rode out of that town, but not for long. The climb out was so steep that the bikes ground to a halt and the pushing began. Little did we know just how much of this there was still to come. After a lot of climbing and pushing we topped out on a plateau with the altitude approaching 14,000'; bikes and furballs working hard. Progress was delayed by some very poor signage which led us down the wrong road; but lady luck smiled on us and our salvation came in the form of an intrigued 4x4 driver who pointed us in the right direction. The view was one of apocalyptic awe as we watched a sandstorm the size of Yorkshire engulf us, and the mountains, for hours. The temperature dropped with the sun and the climbs got longer and steeper. The pushing continued and then the inevitable happened. Craig became the pariah of the furballs as Jasco's clutch finally let go at the bottom of another steep climb. To make matters worse there was no sign of civilisation, we were totally exposed, the sun was going down and the storm was showing no sign of abatement. Things were not looking to peachy.
We reached the top of the hill and decided to freewheel down to the next valley to try and shelter for the night. As we rounded a corner at the bottom salvation crept in to sight. Out of nowhere appeared a tiny mining colony called Tolamayu. Hope rose, but the lowest point of the journey was soon to befall us. We wheeled the bikes in to the central courtyard and the mechanics set to work on dismantling the clutch, whilst a couple more went off in search of a mechanic, or a truck to take us to the next town. At first things looked good, we were told our chances of a fix or a lift were high but this was soon disproved. The news then came that Jasco was terminal and we were in real trouble. We were stuck with low fuel stocks, a very poorly bike and a group of miners coming off shift in to the encroaching night; who were eyeing us up as a potential cash cow. We'd already heard news that some teams had had their taxis and most of their belongings stolen so we were less than hopeful. This was it, we were going to be left with nothing at 15,000' in a dark, freezing sandstorm and no way out...shit. Then, as seems to be the way of things, a saviour appeared. Gilbey struck up a rapport with one of the miners who then took us under his wing. Paddy joined Gilbey with the other phrase book and by the end of the night the furballs were safely encased in the miners' community hall, bikes and all, with a borrowed gas stove and full bellies. This guy had nothing more than a tiny square concrete room to live in with his wife and mother (who slept on the floor), a few basic belongings and a very poor life expectancy thanks to the diseases common to all South American miners, and yet his generosity and compassion were truly incredible. Naturally, a few beers and some extra cash were handed over to his family, but it was hard to express enough gratitude for his humbling display of kindness. It seems that this night has stuck in the memories of the furballs over and above the other incredible events of the journey; simply because it was an experience that could only be brought about by venturing far from the beaten path, hitting a low and turning it in to an incredible high. We offer our eternal thanks to the people of Tolamayu for saving our asses.