The Chilean border official's estimation of 300k to the next town, and there being no streams with which to obtain drinking and cooking water, I took to be completely untrue. Nonetheless, I knew I'd a tough few days ahead. But more on that in a moment.

There was a good white frost on the tent this morning; and I spent allot of time thawing it out. While waiting for it to do so I moved the bike and all the gear out off the shade of the trees into a clearing and the sunshine where I'd already moved the tent. Here, it was pleasantly warm to pack the bike without stopping to put my hands in my pockets to warm them.

With bright morning sunshine and a sharp wind in my face insuring it remained cold, the rough and bumpy road continued across an open area with pasture on either side and with more wooded hills ahead. My 27inch wheels and thin tires felt flimsy on such road. And then with the green roofed buildings of the border post in sight, I notice the front wheel soft. I removed a glove and pumped the wheel up hard hoping that it is only a slow puncher, and leaving the tube to be patched later in the shelter of the tent. Incidently, it remained hard a couple of hours.

The Gerdameria, two of them anyway, where doing a bit of painting of the woodwork on their building when I arrived at the border post. The two young guys had old warm sweatshirts on with hoods up to keep paint out of the hair. An older whithered faced officer came out wearing gloves and paint-brush in hand. When I told him Is crossing the border into Chile he looked with misgivings and told me of the river that most be forded motioning with his hand to indicate it being above the knee.

I inquired about a village called Radman."This is Radman here" he informed me, refering to the group of green and white buildings with the Argentine flag fluttering on a pole in front. "There is no village on the Chilean side" he added. After getting my passport stamped by a fourth officer that wasn't deployed to painting; remaining in formal uniform in the off chance of the perhaps once a week border crosser turning up, Is free to go and see what the river was like.

The riverbank was 200m away and glancing back, the painters had downed brushes and watched perhaps not believing I'd be able to cross. Actually, when I got near enough, I thought myself, I wouldn't get across. The currain looked swift along the opposite bank; and I'd little idea how deep it was as it was a bit cloudy. I looked but there wasn't any stick amongst dead wood nearby with which to test and wade. I took off my socks and shoes and put on the light trainers I use off the bike and set off into the water with the Bob-trailer bag held up infront of my chest. I stepped slowly making a line for an old concrete ramp on the opposite bank: all the time going deeper and I could feel the pull of the currain. The bag all the time feeling heavier to a point that a moments laps of consentration would sent me hurling over into the river. The bag is no longer waterproof, so that would've been a disaster for the contents as well as myself getting soaked and the shivering cold consequent.

Two metres from where the concrete ramp emerged above the water, I'd to stop, as wading any farther revealed a great hole where I'd perhaps go in to the waist. Instead I made a line to the bank upstrean of the ramp making it and gladly stepped out on the bank. Now, I had to go back and get the bike. I left the trailer hitched and it swung around with the currain pulling the bike with it. I alleviated this problem by turning upstream to ford at an angle that caught the currain less. In any-case, leaning on the bike provided the stability of a stick.

I had thought that the river, being a natural barrier, would've been the border, but no; when regaining the road the other side of the ford it was a few hundred metres more until I saw the Argentine kilometre board: KM70, and shortly after a stock fence and cattle gride with the usual "Welcome to Chile" sign. The way ahead was an open wilderness with the now usual wooded hills; no sign of any village which Carlos mentioned. At the quiet Chilean border post, I produced my bag of food for inspection; food which now would have to last longer than I'd bargained for. I pointed out butter that I'd forgotten about and the lady said I could hold on to it.

I asked how far it is to Porvenir, possibly the next town. "6-7 horas en auto" replied she, sayiny that it took 6 to 7 hours to drive. How many kilometres? I ask. "No se, circa... I don't know, but it's around 300km" I now thought, I'll be really stretching the food I bough the day before in Rio Grande, but knew she didn't really know. In any-case Is thinking it was allot less. I had my water-bottles filled and rode on prepared for the worse.

She also answered my quiery on streams for drinking and cooking water saying there were none, which I took to be as relieable as her estimation that it's 300km to Porvenir. Infact, during the day ahead, which remained sunny but with the sharp breeze which hindered progress somewhat, I was to come upon many streams. And the countryside remained pleasant enough with stretches where the road past through pastures the home of big Guanachos; and regular stretches where there were wooded hills on either side. I past one settlement of a couple of houses and a police post. Here, I asked how far to Porvenir, to a replied of a distance 60km less than what the lady at the border said taken into account the kilometres already covered.

There was only a very occational car which past. One though coming from behind halted level with me: a pick-up truck with the window down, and the driver, a stocky dark haired young man, addressed me in sloppy learned from movies American English. "Hey, where yeah gonin?". "Cameron" I replied remembering the next place on the map and covering my irritation that he feels the need to speak to me in English: Spanish is the national laungage after all. Confused and not quite knowing which laungage to speak, I stick to Spanish. I ask how far to Cameron. His eyes rolled as I don't believe he Knew but spouted out "ninety-nine" and then "lets go!" sounding like a US army officer shouting during morning drill.

The irritating point here too, is as if I come half way around the world to ride a bike but secretly feel I prefer to sit in a car. Or perhaps I cycle to save the money otherwise used on buses. Moreover, such people cannot understand the sense of achievement of having rode from A to B totally under one's own steam. Thousands of kilometres of pedaling in an unbroken meandering line...