The nokia alarm vibrated annoyingly at ‘stupid ‘o’clock’ (a great phrase nicked from another traveller - 4:30am). We needed to load the last few remaining items onto the bikes we’d not managed last night. The bikes already looked worryingly heavy and as yet we’d not loaded the additional 10 litres of extra gas to each bike. We’d fill up the containers and get the fuel on board at the last gas station possible. It was still dark outside as we rode up the steep ramp from the basement garage of the hotel to street level. Neither of us had said much this morning, we were both dealing with uneasy feelings of excitement and real concern of what lay ahead.

The quiet streets seemed so strange as we rode the 6.6miles out to the easterly dock, where we’d catch a small bolsa (small cargo ferry) to the Southerly bank where we’d start our ‘real’ journey South to Porto Velho. (find the dock at GPS: S3 08.111 W59 56.344)

At the end of a steep and rough dirt track the bolsa was already loading 4X4’s and tired looking trucks carrying cargo to the South bank. Deep ruts cut into the mud by the heavy trucks needed carefull negotiation if we weren’t to end up on our sides. We made our way onto the slippery metal deck carefully. The early moring dew had made the worn smooth metal all the more treacherous. With the bikes parked we headed upstairs to the passenger deck. The crossing would take an hour.

The tired long faces of the other passengers seemed familiar. The same sombre, lifeless expression you see every day if you ride the London tube. This wasn’t making us feel any better. We knew so little of what lay ahead. One thing was for sure, no one here seemed happy about the direction they were going in.

The loud metal grinding sound of the balsa loading door grinding on the bank was our cue to leave, and so waiting for the last truck to ‘vamos’ we kicked up side stands and rode out and up the steep bank. The long straight section of tar was a welcome relief and one we hadn’t expected. Expanses of wet green marshy land opened up to our left and right. Deep emarald foliage crept towards the tar but was cut back by the speeding trucks.

By late morning we’d made better progress than we’d expected and had reached the small town of Castanho and pulled straight into the scraggy looking gas station. We’d filled up our main tanks in Manaus but we were going to need to top them up again as well as filling up the four 5 litre plastic bottles we were using for extra gas.

500 metres past the station we descended the steep and broken surface of what was once tar down to the river. The bolsa chugged into life sending plumes of black smoke high into the air as it cleared its throat. Without shade and exposed to the raw power of the Sun the heat was debilitating. Now stationary on the bolsa’s deck the humidity struck us full force. Heavy wet material was already rubbing sensitive skin. We couldn’t wait to get to the other bank to ride and cool…a little. A beaten up white 4x4 minus one back window joined us.

Lisa’s engine roared as she gassed the incline leading from the river. I was close behind. The tar was about to end. As we crested the small rise ahead the ruins of a once strong bridge came into view. The descent to the river was not too testing and we’d cross using a stable metal pontoon which was now lashed firmly to both banks. The base of the bridge groaning as it braced itself for one last stand againt the heavy weight of rotting collapsed wood at its base thrust forward by the still passing waters below. I wondered how much longer it could bear the weight. It didn’t really matter as nothing crosses it anymore.

The landscape was looking more tropical. The track was wider than we’d anticipated and by now the semi firm dried mud had been replaced by the uneasy feel of soft turned soil. Maybe the rumours were true? We’d heard that the Northern end of the route was being worked on as Embatel (large Brazillian phone company) erected transmitters. The soft dark soil had been recently milled and looked ready for surfacing. Our heavy bikes slid uneasily on the loose dirt. Speed here wasn’t an option as we stabbed the ground with our legs in a bid to stay upright. It was time to let some air out of our new Metzlers. With the horizon blurred by heat mirages the track seemed endless. 30 minutes later and with the soft turned soil behind us we were weaving around the large holes in what was left of the old tarmac. We had no choice but to weave. The normal option of riding the dirt alongside bad tar was gone, there was no dirt only jungle right up to the track. With the heat making concentration difficult, lapses in concentration were rewarded by bone jarring thumps as wheels dove into holes and suspension bottomed out.

The first of many, many ponchas (small wooden bridges) came into view. Mmmm, doesn’t look so bad. The wood looked firm. Maybe they’re all like this? Maybe we had just let our imaginations run away with us. The small ravine we’d cross was littered with remnants of earlier ponchas since destroyed. With the right amount of speed and caution we crossed and carried on, making sure to avoid the large nails sticking out and just waiting to puncture new rubber.

By early nightfall we’d covered almost 300km, crossed another larger river on an even rustier bolsa and tackled counltess ponchas each slightly worse than the one before. The last 6 had been impassable with the bikes loaded. So unloading the bikes we walked them over the rotting wood, step by small step and returned for our heavy bags, hoisted them to their usual positions and carried on. Even with the stops and starts we’d been surprised by our progress. We’d cleared further than we’d thought on the first day. Mind you we’d had no rain…yet! The ominously dark heavy clouds in the distance suggested that was about to change.

The small bamboo carcass of what once had been a shelter stood immediately in front of the battered larger poncha. It looked a good bet for the evening- beside the poncha look bad. Better to tackle it in the morning. If we hurried we could throw the tarp over the top of the shelter in the hope of fending off the impending shower storm. With the bikes parked up we began to unload. A crack of undergrowth made us both look up; it had come from 3-400 metres back up the track. ‘Shiiiiiiiit’! The heavy paws of a large black cat were nonchalalty stepping out onto the track. It had reached half way when it had frozen stiff, every sinew taught and was now starring directly at us. We stood motionless. It was still staring directly at us. ‘Shit’, where my machette? Yeah right like that’s going to help. I wasn’t feeling very ‘Tarzan’. In a blink of an eye it had disappeared, diving effortlessly into the jungle on the opposite side. Lisa was looking at me in semi-disbelief. “Um, I’m not sure if I prefer it in the road where at least I know where it is or out of sight” she said nervously. “Does your pocket SAS book have a chapter of fighting off large cats”, I asked jokingly, hoping she’d say yes. Lisa’s raised eyebrow said it all…”don’t be so sodding stupid…protect me you’re the man”!

Our priorities had suddenly changed. Sod the tarp lets build a fire. And so 40 minutes later and with no further sightings of our scary neighbour, the fire was roaring, our tired blue tarp was above our heads and straining against the bungee cords we’d used to tie it down and we’d managed to hang up our Capestorm hammocks. With cat in mind we’d hung them as high as possible. It would make no difference but it made us feel better…a little. The light was fading fast and with the daylight receading the harmless shapes of jungle foliage took on a more menacing demeaner.

We fed the fire and protected it as best we could from the rain; Lisa was deep into the panniers and was already pulling out the stoves and a few provisons. A silent deal had been struck; she cooked, I foriged for wood from the old poncha and kept the fire going. Seemed fair? Lisa was freaking as the sparrow sized moths dive- bombed her head attracted by the head torch. Girly shrieks and un-Lisa like skipping around intermitantly interrupted her cooking. If I laughed my life wouldn’t have been worth living, but shit it was funny! We’d need to make sure that any scraps were disposed of away from our camp. Food left near us would only attract animals. We walked out onto the bridge with our torches and disposed of scraps over the side. Besides it gave us a chance to scare ourselves for tomorrow.

Laid back in our hammocks tired eyes finally gave way to fear of the unkown and we slept fitfully, waking every few hours to tend the fire.

The rain was still pouring as we loaded the bikes. Hammocks down and tarp away we were set at 6:30am. After walking the poncha a couple of times we’d figured the left side looked a little better. I’d take both bike across, starting with the R1100GS first. Things were about to go very wrong.

With the front wheel up on the now slippery wooden first plank and Lisa stood to the right I was battling to get the rear wheel up. The combination of water on rotting wood meant the wheel was spinning furiously. With a substantial drop from ‘first plank’ to ground there was no way of getting the bike onto the bridge without the assistance of the engine.

The rear wheel snagged something solid, caught and eased its way up. The slow elevation had caught me by surprise. My left leg shot down looking for something solid, there was nada, nothing. I shifted my weight to the right as fast as I could. I knew instantly it was useless. The adrenalin shot through my body. My heart was in my mouth. The GS was going over and taking me with it.

I was falling; my hands outstretched waiting for the impact of earth. Shit the bike will come down on top of me. I felt my head impact and the helmet compress hard on my shoulders. Why hadn’t my hands hit first?

That’s the last thing I remember. I was out cold. Lisa tells me I was out for about 15 minutes.

I came round with cold wet foliage touching my face and Lisa stood helplessly over me. The pain in my neck and upper back was scaring me. The fact that I had no feeling in my left side was making me feel worse.

Lisa writes:

I stood by Simon’s right side as he tried to get his bike onto the very slippery bridge……there was nothing on the left to stand on and I was unable to stand too close on the right-hand side as once again rotting planks of wood made it impossible to put even my weight onto them. So I could do nothing but watch as Simon and his bike started to go. Anyway with that weight, my helping hands would have made little impact if any. Simon disappeared over the edge of the bridge…….my first thought was how far would he go? All the way to the bottom? Then the bike …would it follow? What was I to do if it did? Luckily the bike didn’t follow him over the edge but balanced precariously as its wheels span furiously in mid-air. First action was to find the kill switch before the momentum from the spinning back wheel tipped the bike over the edge. Second was to see if Simon was still alive. The fall had been head-first into a stump of a tree and then rocks, mud and vines. He was out cold but still breathing. There was little I could do but wait for him to come around before I moved anything. Whilst waiting I tried the best I could to remove as much as possible from the bike. I was battleing to release the bags from the back of the bike as it was impossible to stand on the bridge and do it – I had to work underneath the bike and the bridge. As the straps released the heavy bags dropped earthwards whilst I scrambled to grab a handle, stop the momentum and halt a long slide into the river below and save myself from sliding even further under the bridge.

Some fifiteen minutes later Simon came round…….much to my great relief….now I needed to find out what state he was in and if he could move at all.

Simon writes:
I needed to try and stand. I could wiggle my fingers and toes OK, so that’s a good thing, my necks probably not broken. My attempt to stand failed miserably. “Shit, this could be serious”, I shouted at Lisa with a small laugh in my voice. I didn’t feel like laughing, I was scared. If I couldn’t get up we had a bigger problem than the one we were already facing. Some 30 minutes later and with help from Lisa I’d wobbled to my feet and somehow managed to get across to the shelter we’d spent the night under. Lisa had somehow already managed to put up the tarp. “Shit, I’m going”! A few moments later I was coming round, this passing out stuff ‘sucks’. As I came round the waves of nausea hit me.

It was another two hours until I could stand unassisted. The pain in my neck was almost unbearable. How the hell were we going to lift the bike? I couldn’t even turn my head. With the medical pack open we found the strongest pink anti-inflammatory tablets we had and an elephant sized white pain killer. I downed them all. Pain or no we needed to get the bike upright. The nylon rope and small metal pulleys we’d bought in Manaus were going to be used. It took us 20 minutes to route the rope and tie the bike. An hour later and we’d made no progress. The distant noise of a small Honda gave us our first glimmer of hope. We have no idea where this guy was going or coming from, it didn’t matter. With our difficulties explained we now had an extra pair of hands. Lisa had braced the rope around her waist; she would need to anchor the bike as we lifted it up. The bridge and elevation meant it was impossible to lift in one go. 10 minutes later the GS was once again upright. Lisa looked exhausted from the effort.

The oil leaking out from under the petrol tank was already worrying me, mind you the two large cracks in the rear-subframe on both side wasn’t helping me feel any better. The drugs were starting to take effect. With the help of our new friend we very slowly pushed the GS the 30 metres to the other side. The large sections of missing wood meant stepping across whilst pushing the bike was a lottery…there was simply no other way. With a resounding but sudden thud the wheels dropped from the wood and hit solid ground. I needed to sit; I was close to passing out again.

With Lisa’s bike unloaded we pushed the 650 across, the bags followed suit. Lisa had to bring them all; there was no way I could carry anything. I had no idea how I was going to ride.

With our friend gone we had no choice but to start up and ride. Our problems were about to get worse! The 1100 was refusing. The ignition wasn’t responding and the clock lights looked dulled. It was now mid-day, the heat was debilitating and we had no shade.

The symptoms suggested a battery problem and so with the bikes unloaded we hooked up the jump leads. The GS sparked to life, our relief was tangible. “Thank God for that, I thought we’d be stuck here”, I commented off hand. A few minutes later and with the engine still running we’d loaded the bikes and were ready for the off. The clunck into first gear was solid and reasuring. The engine simply died! This was to set the pattern for the day. By 5pm it was getting dark. I’d dosed myself up with a dangerous amount of tablets, which allowed me to move…kind of, and had checked the battery, spark plugs, fuel and every thing else I could think of. We’d managed to jump start the bike 7-8 times and move a few metres before the engine simply cut. We’d seen no-one else all day. Now thin white wispy plumes of smoke were rising from under the petrol tank. Shit this is really serious. By 6pm it was almost dark. We were exhausted and the heat had taken its toll. As a precaution we’d already started to ration the water. It sounds dramatic but we had no idea of how long we’d be out here. Of course we have water filters but this was still a necessary precaution. The idea of spending a second night here was a cruel one. On this side of the ponte we had no means of erecting any shlelter and no way of hanging the hammocks, but the idea of risking pushing both bikes back over the bridge was a scary one, especially without the extra pair of hands we had this morning.

“Sssshhhhh, listen”, I whispered loudly to Lisa. Sure enough in the distance and getting closer was the sound of a small motorbike. Had our friend from this morning decided to return? A few minutes later our ‘saviours’ made their appearance. Sandra and Raymundo both onboard their rust ravaged and aged Honda pulled alongside. The makeshift small trailer they were pulling was full of wood. Did they live around here? The look of concern on both their faces was actually reassuring; it meant they ‘gave a damn’. With our problem again explained as best we could we asked if they knew of somewhere we could sleep. I have no idea how long we actually spoke for or how long we deliberated our next course of action, by now I’d lost all sense of time. The only thing I knew for sure was that I needed to lie down, the pain was getting worse and with no feeling in my right arm or hand I was still fighting back real ferars.

Sandra and Raymundo lived 10km ahead, but both expressed fears of making it as the track became worse with deep water-logged holes. They described the track as ‘muddy’. A plan was formulated; Our baggage would get crammned, somehow into the small trailer and Lisa was going to have to tow me. It was now pitch black. We couldn’t leave just yet. With the major fractures on both sides of the sub-frame I’d need to somehow brace them before we left. On ebad fall could easily have the frame damages beyond repair. With the seats removed and woth the help of our Petzl head torches we’d found town webbing straps and had done our best to strap them around the weakend joints and pulled them as tight as we physically could. We could do no more.

Rope attached and bags off, Lisa eased the clutch lever of her F650GS and the slack of our rope disappeared. I knew Lisa had real and hightened concerns over towing me. She was also exhausted and now we were going to need every ounce of our concentration. The next hour was agony, physically and mentally. Six more ruined ponte’s had to be crossed and the track had become much worse. Lisa was battling as her bike slipped and sled on the thick slick mud. It was hard enough to ride on, let alone to pull 250 kg’s worth of R1100GS in the dark. But she did. Our eyes were straing to see the route through. Several large sections saw the water as high as the air filter on the 1100, thank God I’d had the exhaust lifted in Cape Town. Having the engine drown was another problem we could well do without. (A massive thank you to Raynard at Scorch in CT). Lisa was spectacular. She simply never gave in. No matter what lay ahead she simply controlled her bike and went for it. I wasn’t making her life easier. I was battling to control the bike effectively with my left arm weakened, the pain was tugging at my already suspect concentration. By now we’d dropped both bikes 3-4 times. How much longer could we keep doing this…the simple answer…as long as it takes, there was no other choice.

Our perspiration soaked riding gear was knawing at already worn skin and our MX boots were now feeling like lead weights, filled with water and mud. The sweat from our filthy helmets was now dripping into our eyes. It was the longest 10km of our lives. Raymundo was walking back towards us, pointing to the shape on our left, which had been sillhouted by the hazy moonlight. “ Minha casa”, he blurted happily. At last, thank God. It was another 15 minutes before we’d manhandled the R1100GS off the track, across a small piece of land and used the very last of our energy pushing it up the small embankment towards the wood and bamboo structure Raymundo called home.

Raymundo and Sandra have three children whose bed we were to use. I just needed to lie down. We drank untreated river water as if it was wine and collapsed.

Right, ‘the faster I start looking at the bike the faster I’ll get it sorted’ I told myself silently. I was doing my best to be optimistic; I had no idea how the hell I was going to fix this. Every thing I could think of I’d done yesterday. The wispy smoke from under the fuel tank was scaring the crap out of me.
By mid-day I’d stripped the bike and rebuilt the bike several times and like yesterday even managed to get it started several times with the help of a jump start from Lisa’s F650GS. Only occasionally did the wispy white smoke waft into the air. My problem was, no matter where I put myself I couldn’t see the origin of the smoke. It seemed to come from under the handle bars one minute and then from under the air box the next. At least if I could work out the problem I’d start to feel better. Right now I was feeling more anxious about not actually knowing the real issue I was facing. All the symptoms were now indicating a real electrical problem. With the ignition on all the lights looked dull. The white wispy smoke smelled like melted plastic. Shit!!!! I know absolutely ‘fucking nothing’ about electrics.

All our clean water had gone and we’d split one of our water bags during one of our tired drops. I had to lie down every 45 minutes, the pain in my neck and upper back was making me feel nauseous, and the drugs weren’t helping my concentration. Stupid as this sounds (yeah we know it does) we were simply too hot, too tired and too thirsty to filter the water. Sandra would come out occasionally with a metal cup of her water. The water was brown and warm and the silty taste was unusual to unaccustomed palletes. But it was water.

By mid afternoon and with the petrol tank off and ignition on, the white smoke was lifting into the still air of the Amazon. Twenty minutes later and I had my first break and had tracked some of the smoke down to the red/ green wire that leads to the wiring block, which in turn leads to the right hand switch gear. With the aid of the electrical circuit diagram (thank you Haynes manual) I’d identified the wire. Strange, it led from the switch gear down to the side stand circuit switch. There was no other choice but to start stripping back the thick black insulating material of the main wiring loom nearest the electrical connectors. I needed to see how far the wire had shorted and importantly what else it had damaged. To say I was intimadted woud be an understatement. The dozens of coiled, interwound wires looked impossible to understand. Understand or not, it didn’t matter, I simply had no choice but to solve this problem. ‘Desperation really is the MOTHER OF ALL TUTORS’.

Brain engage, brain engage. The red/green wire looked totally wasted. It had fried completey and worst it had melted itself to the nearest wire, which I’d identified as the engine kill switch wire. OK, let’s sort this. With the help of the wiring diagram I’d formulated a plan. I’d cut the side stand switch out of the equation, leave the knackered red/green wire in place and simply cut in a new healthy piece of wire from our spares box. I needed to make sure I reattached the new wire as far back as possible, the wiring diagram showed green/ yellow wire that had been damaged also fed off to the Matronic control unit and I definately didn’t want ot start ‘dicking’ around with that.

By 6pm it was almost dark. The bike was back together and the new wiring in place. With Lisa close at hand and the jumper cables in place, I nervously turned the ignition. The engine roared. The grin on my face was the size of the Amazon itself. Cautiously we let the engine run. We were bent over sniffing the bike for any scent of electrical plastic smoke. Nothing. 20 minutes later all still looked good, I’d even manged to ride the bike up and down the track a few times.

The relief was immense. I’d spent the day mulling over all the other options if I was unable to get the bike fixed and none of them were good. How would we find a vehicle to come all the way out here and then how much would it cost to get us back to Manaus. For that matter how would we afford to then transport the the R1100GS to Sao Paulo and the nearest BMW garage.

We weren’t out of the woods yet. Sandra and Raymundo had spent the day doing their best to encourage us to turn back. They desribed the route ahead as impossible for our bikes. Listing Lisa’s bikes ground clearance as a major obstacle. The other hazards we understood were the heavy water -logged track, swampy ravines and apparently the pontes became worse the further South you travel. Lisa was absolutely adamant we were not turning back. I’d be lying if I confessed to not seriously thinking about somehow returning to Manaus.

After a dinner of rice and stewed beans we slowly began to re-pack in readiness for our departure early in tomorrows am.

The R1100GS engine roared to life with a single press of the small green start button. As I smiled a final goodbye to our new friends who’d done so much to offer us shelter, I dropped the bike into first, the engine spluttered and stalled.

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!!!!!!!!!! Heavier plumes of white smoke were making their way skyward. I rushed to turn off the ignition. It was too late the damage had been done. Lisa’s face was totally aghast. I was at an all-time low. I simply wanted to dig a deep hole, crawl in and come out when the bike fairy had dropped by (Alf if your reading this, boy I would have given my right nut to have had you here), fixed the problem and we could leave…but that wasn’t going to happen was it!

It was time to start again! Inspecting the bike I could see the blistered and burnt insulating tape, which now led from under the left side of the air box all the way forward. My new wiring installed yesterday had simply carried the bikes current along a new path. I was now certain that I was dealing with multiple shorts and not just the one damaged wire. Depressingly I knew what had to be done. I was going to have to lift the entire rear end of the bike, rear sub frame, the lot, in order to get access to the length of the entire loom and then cut the lot open to repair the damage. Shit do I have enough wire? Shit do I have enough insulating tape? The large roll of new ‘Duck Tape’ I’d been given by Mack in Belo Horizante was going to come in handy.

By mid-day I was battling with the pain in my neck and back and fumbling jobs with my left hand. The sensation in my hand and fingers had still not returned. Nonetheless, I’d managed to pull off the seat, detach the suspension at the top, separate all the wiring to the lights, brakes etc, detach the pannier frames, release the frame bolts and now had the rear sub-frame elevated and held with one of the webbing straps we normally use for packing, attached to the handlebars.

I needed to rest, I was feeling faint. Besides trying to work in the heat of mid-day was almost impossible. With the oppressive heat (there’s that word again) Lisa and I were in desperate need of water. We’d not felt like this since ‘Mali’ in Africa’s West coast.

Starting again at 1pm I worked unitll 7pm straight through. I’d been wielding my Leatherman Charge continously cutting back the tacky insulating material of the entire length of the bikes main wiring loom, the loom that BMW say ‘ABSOLUTELY DO NOT TOUCH UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES’. With the entire wiring loom exposed I was feeling worse by the minute. It was a complete mess. Exposed copper threads and welded burnt plastic making it almost impossible to identify the wires by their respsective colours. By early evening It had rained heavily twice as I worked under our black umbrella and old blue tarp and I’d cut dozens of small rectangular pices of duck tape. By 7:00pm I could do no more. I’d pulled out the two main burnt wires from the entire length of meshed loom, replaced them with new wire and sperated, repaired and consequently reinsulated 34 separate shorts and finally lowered the rear sub frame and re-attached every thing I could. I was left over with one small bolt and two thin washers. I hope they’re not important I thought to myself.

Lisa had been with me the entire time, helping where she could. We both knew that if this didn’t work…that was it! There was nothing else to be done. If the bike didn’t start we’d have to begin the long and expensive process of getting back to Manaus and then Sao Paulo. In that case it could well mean the end of our jouney, totally. The cost would be crippling. With that in mind you’ll appreciate how monumentally anxious we were as we inserted the key into the igniton, took a deep breath and turned it. The instrument cluster lit brightly, OK, tha’s a positive start. Now for the engine. The small green starter button depressed easily and the big girl barked into life. I could have cried. We know needed to leave the engine running for a while in order to re-charge the battery and look for the tell-tale white plastic smoke that would mean ‘doom and gloom’. Ten minutes later and all looked clear. It was now pitch black. We weren’t going to pat ourselves on the back just yet. We’d already done that once and fallen foul of the ‘crap fairy’ this morning. I’ll ride her for a while tomorrow before relaxing. Shit we’re exhausted.

Raymundo grabbed my arm excitedly. He was yelling and pointing at the dark blue pick up that was driving down the track towards us. “Porto Velho, Porto Velho” he yelled repeatadily. I got the idea; the pick up was heading in our direction. An hour later and with a small degree of begging involved we’d convinced Davildo (the driver) to lend a hand. Our bags and kit were now stowed securely in the back and lashed tightly. For a second time we exchanged hugs and kisses and did our best to verbally repay a debt of gratitiude that can never realy be repaid to Raymundo and Sandra.

We were off. And yes the track did get worse. The heavy rain in the last two days made the going slow and difficult. By mid-day we were getting used to parking the bikes whislt one of us waded through the deep trenches of water to determine the ‘path of least resistance’. Without speed we had no air movement. We’d removed our BMW Ralley jackets some time ago and now were only wearing the inner armour jacket. The heat and humidity were at times over-whelming. Davildo had become stuck twice and needed our help to clear large bogged sections. Even with a strong degree of self control we were going through the water at a worrying rate.

Here’s the short version of an unbelievable day of riding (or should I say swimming). By 7:00pm it was pitch black and we’d stopped by two small wooden structures immediately prior to a larger Ponte crossing the Rio Novo. We been riding since 6:00am and had crossed counltess ‘really shitty’ pontes, two of which we had to physically rebuild in order to get the bikes across, waded through miles of deep water mud/clay sections and I’d passed out 3 times. We’d only made 67.3km!!!

We’d held up Davildo, who now planned to carry on through the night…mad! There was no way we could go any further. Whilst we unloaded our kit from Davildo’s pick up, he arranged with the local family permission for us to spend the night. We ate a small bowl of rice with luke warm stewed beans. The dehydration had taken my appetite. “Must keep eating”, I told myself. I knew I was going to need the strength for the days ahead.

With the day getting hotter by the second we’d already wasted valuable riding time. The situation was about to deteriate. First off he needed 1,000 Reals as he’d now decided he’d have to go to Humatai to get fuel for the return journey and this was still several days away. We battled to get him to understand we didn’t have 1,000 Reals on us. Besides he’d just pulled that number from his arse. In Portuguese Lisa and I had calculated how much fuel he’d need and added another 300 Reals on top for his pay (200 Reals is the avarge monthly income for a Brazillian). “Nope it couldn’t done”, Raymundo said off-hand. We eventually ended up agreeing on 800 Reals.

Raymundo then played his trump card. He had another problem…he had no fuel here????? I suddenly found Portugues I never knew I had. We’d spent an hour negotioating over the price for his help all of which was complety pointless as he’s now saying that he’s got no fuel. What the Fuck have we been discussing for the last hour??? It was approaching 11:00am I was shocked with disbelief. With that Lisa and I found new energy reserves, brought out the bags and kit, loaded the bikes and got ready for the off. With our thanks given to the famly who’d taken us in, we made our move.

3 miles on, our next task lay in our way. The small Ponte in front had seen better days, all the horizontal wood had disintegrated meaning that we had nothing to walk on as we pushed the bikes across. Riding the bikes was way too risky, the drop was 15 metres. It took us 1 ½ hours to strip the bikes and with the axe and machete cut new wood to lie across the Ponte enabling us to get across. We were saturated with sweat. Safely across we loaded the bikes and set off. The deep water logged tracked and thick mud/clay making the going painfully slow. With the bikes fully loaded I was acutely aware that one substantial jar could see the webbing give in and the fractures in the sub-frame crack all the way through. That wasn’t worth thinking on. Must keep going.

A small piece of old tar gave us momentary respite from the physicality of negotiating the mud. The front wheel dropped into one of the many small holes and as I eased the clutch for control the bike lurched forward and cut out. Oh shit what now? Had my efforts of repair given out again? No, but the new clutch cable I’d fitted in Cape Town had snapped completely. I was now very seriously beginning to believe in conspiracy theories. It was early afternoon and dangerously hot, we needed to stop anyway; I’d been feeling nauseous and faint for the last little while. With the bikes on sidestands we threw the tarp across the bikes for shade and dove for cover. It wasn’t going to be a monumental effort to cut the old cable out and install the spare cable I’d already routed and zip tied in place. I’m glad I at least prepared for that.

An hour later and we were on our way again. By 8:00pm we negotiated more deep water, mud/clay tracks that sucked the bikes down and become stuck counltess times. We lost count of the number of times we loaded and unloaded. On the bright side we were amazed that with repetition we were now crossing tracks and water fully laiden and at night that only a few days ago we’d have thought impossible even without the baggage. On the slightly more negative side we’d been going all day and had gained only 12 miles (20km).

The wood carcass of another old shelter provided us with hanging space for the hammocks. With food cooked and eaten we built another large fire, this time to fend off the thousands of bats that had taken an interest in us. We kept watch to the wee hours of the morning.

The impression we’d got from the Hilux driver was that they were stopping some 50k’s up the track. Maybe we’d misunderstood. With more rough track, water and rotting ponte’s to cross, 50k’s further down they were nowhere insight. Shit we had nothing on us. No money, no tent, and no hammock even our tools were in the back of the pick-up. We now had no other choice; we simply had to be in Humaita by nightfall. Had we been naive, stupid or simply dog tired and misjudged the situation? With hindsight probably all three.

The track was at least begining to look a little better, well for a while at least. For some inexplicable reason we had lashed our two water bags to the back of both bikes. We were going to need it. The day was a scorcher. By 1pm we’d made much better progress and had started to believe the Humaita was a real possibility. By 2pm things had changed and the heavy rain was a crushing blow. We were utterly water logged. The bikes were sliding manically and as we hit stickier mud/clay the R1100GS was battling. The thick orange clay we’d been riding through for the last hour had accumulated under the front mudguard and was now so thick the front wheel simply couldn’t turn. Off the bike it took ten minutes, my Leatherman and a sodding long stick to clear enough of the gloop to get the wheel moving again. Two hours later and I’d repeated this process 17 times, yep I was counting. Lisa was fighting her own battle. With no luggage she’d gained a few cm’s of height, which now made it impossible to put both feet down. With her bike sliding about she was having to take it very slowly. The dark clouds disappeared into the horizon. We were knackered and only wanted to stop…with no kit this wasn’t an option.

By mid-afternoon we seemed to have cleared the worst of the mud, even the rain was letting up. By early evening we’d crossed countless more pontes and emptied a few litres of gas from one of Lisa’s auxiliary tanks into the R1100GS. The track seemed to be endless.

By 7pm we were muzzy. Dehydration meant we were fighting off cramps and concentration was at an all-time low. Must keep going.

9pm - the GS had run out of gas again and so another transfusion from Lisa’s reserve was in order. With our plastic containers onboard the Hilux we were using a discarded 1.5 litre plastic coke bottle we’d found up the track. The large crack in the bottom meant we could only fill it 1/3 before we started loosing valuable gas to the ground. It was a slow job.

10pm – the wobbling front end of the big GS was making it hard to control her over the pontes, this wasn’t right? With the side stand down my fears had been confirmed the new Metzler was as flat as a pancake. With the head torches we examined the tyre. Had it taken a puncture from one of the hundreds of nails we run over as we’d crossed the pontes. Nope all looked clear. I’d been running the tyre pressure low for increased traction, with all the bumps and jolts the front end had taken the most likely cause for the flat was air pressure being lost through the side wall or bad beading. This was also the most optimistic answer, if it had punctured we’d be screwed for our tools and puncture were…yep you guessed it, onboard the Hilux. With my battery suspect we couldn’t risk using the electric pump. Luckily we’d stored the small hand pump in Lisa’s hidden chamber inside her right exhaust port and so 15 minutes later and with the tyre inflated again we were off.

11pm- worryingly Lisa’s F650GS had now run its main tank dry; we were now both running off her reserves.

12pm – the front tyre of the R1100GS had become flat for the 4th time and Lisa was running on her left tank reserve. The 1100 had run out of gas twice more. To maximise the fuel we’d disconnected the fuel line that connects the two front lobes of my large 42 litre tank and dropped the big girl to the right, throwing any dregs of fuel to the right where the fuel pump and pick up are situated. With the front fuel line disconnected the fuel couldn’t drain back to the left side.

12:45 – at last we’re on decent tar and heading down to the famous Trans Amazonian highway. The R1100GS front goes flat, again. Out comes the pump and some time later we ready for the off. Our concentration is shot to hell; I’d left the lights on to see. Turning the key in the ignition is giving me nothing but “click, click, click, click, click”. You’ve got to be fucking kidding!!! This is a conspiracy. What the hell are we going to do, even our jump leads are…ON BOARD THE HILUX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was on a frigging mission. After all the shit we’d been through there was no way we weren’t getting to H