I am seventy-five years old and have ridden my Honda 125 from Mexico to Mexico via Tierra del Fuego, 46,000 kilometres. I cross the border, dismount and kiss the road. Kindly Mexican Customs officers send out for a celebratory case of Corona beer.
It’s already a whole new world, of white houses, maze-like markets, beautiful mosques, traditionally-clothed men and women, heavily-loaded donkeys.
The temperature and the fog may have been particularly low, but the expectation was high as Peggy my ever-faithful Aprilia and I, rolled down the gangway to start exploring the most volcanically active country on the planet.