F&F Automotive Services

Now that we had finally found a place where we could get to work, the next morning we did just that. We are so familiar with taking apart Ruby’s engine and box that it was only an hour or so until we were about to split the engine from the box. Every now and again one of the workers would pop over to see what we were doing or to try and lend a hand, but largely they just let us get on with it and that was fine by me.

The only downside to being here was that the engine crane they had was way too big to fit under the rear door. Normally, when taking the engine out of a car it’s advantageous to have the crane above, but in ours, while this is still the access, the clearance is limited by the roof. This meant we resorted to some big pieces of wood, ratchet straps and shunting. It’s much easier to manoeuvre it on a crane but we had done this several times without and we knew we could do it. As we did the final wiggle to split the engine from the box, the problem became apparent very quickly. The pilot bearing was no longer in the flywheel and had fallen out into the back of the clutch. I have no idea how, but the last time it had been refitted was by the garage in Ecuador and it seemed like they must have somehow dislodged the bearing when doing this, as we had no oil leaks or problems before.

Now that we knew we had been running without the pilot bearing, we knew that we also needed to pull the gearbox. Last time it had done significant damage to the back of the bell housing and oil seal scroll. We needed to have custom parts made in England and then the bellhousing resized to fit them. Who knew what it had done this time.

After some more wiggling, the gearbox joined the engine on the floor and we wasted no time in draining the oil. A pretty gold and silver stream erupted from the drain plug as it was removed and it seemed that our newly rebuilt box had taken a bit of a battering internally. We hoped that the gears themselves were not damaged. The last thing I wanted was to have to buy another differential. With the oil drained, we removed the bellhousing. The cause of the horrible noise was immediately obvious. Once again the oil scroll had come out of the back of the housing, no doubt because the input shaft had not been held in place by the pilot bearing and had therefore been free to hit it. Now free to move up and down the shaft, it had moved down and crashed into the diff, shredding itself to pieces and also the rear face of the bellhousing as it moved around. It was nothing that wasn’t reparable however, and I was glad that the box itself appeared OK, the oil scroll taking the beating rather than the diff.

Now we were faced with the usual predicament: how to get some parts. Once again, I sent an email to the engineer in England and awaited his recommendations. As ever, he was quick to respond. He told us that he no longer used this system and instead used some simple seals. After several emails back and forth, we determined that a new slimmer seal would fit into the undamaged part of the lower section and that the bellhousing would have to be machined once again to accommodate a new oversized secondary seal. The mechanics in the garage looked at us sceptically as we announced we would order in the parts. They told us that a shop here could do it. Probably they could, but we have been burnt too many times. That evening we tried to explain over some drinks outside the van that as travellers there’s no going back and there’s no warranty and so we liked to keep things with the same person when at all possible. Plus, as an added bonus, Richard had kindly offered to send us the parts for free, leaving me to pay just the postage. Perhaps a shop here could do it, but I doubt it would be cheaper than that.

Whilst out on the laguna route in Bolivia, we had seemed to be quite lucky. We hadn’t experienced the car-destroying breakdowns of others and we had only lost some accessories. Luckily, driving in our convoy, our friends had grabbed our step as it got smashed off on the floor. After several days of bashing our legs against the van as we got used to getting into it at a completely different height, we had got used to it and carried it around on the bike rack. Now though we were somewhere we could get it fixed and we got the local metal workshop to give us a price. After he quoted us £50 for a small piece of aluminium welding, we were sure we had made the right decision in waiting for the parts from the UK. Normally this takes around a week.

It was the 14th of December by the time the parts were sent out, as we had to wait for them to arrive and be modified in the UK first. Still, we were in high hopes of getting out before Christmas. There seemed to be plenty of time. It was not the only part that we were waiting on either. Back at the beach, our Wallas had decided to give up on us yet again. Unlike last time, where it flashed some odd code that was not in the manual, this time was clearer. As soon as we went to start it up we got a very clear ‘glow plug error’ code. We had messaged Wallas again who had advised us to use the Argentinian branch. After a long time, we had finally managed to order and pay for a part through them. We thought that this would be the quickest way, as coming from Buenos Aires was a lot closer than coming from England. The only downside was that they had quoted us more than the cost of the part was worth in shipping. Apparently the only way to get it cheaper was to send it with the local post, which they assured us would be fine, and so we paid and waited.

After being here a little while, we had begun to get to know the people. The garage was surrounded by a kind of shanty town of houses on three sides. On our left, a series of containers stacked on top of each other made up the rooms for Lucho, one of the main mechanics in the garage, and his family. Juan, the main bodywork guy, also slept there. It wasn’t long before we met Maggi; she was a lovely, welcoming lady who insisted on giving us bits of food every time she saw us. We learned that their family was from Venezuela and had been living in Chile for a while now. There were also several kids, although they spent a lot of the day in their rooms and didn’t seem to do a lot. We hadn’t been there long at all before Maggi insisted I come upstairs. She runs a little hairdressing business out of one of the rooms and she plonked me down on the chair and began to give me a whole pile of free clothes. While I hadn’t gone up there to get my hair done, I decided it was about time. She offered to cut, dry and dye it all for £10, which was a ridiculously good price. I thought after nearly 5 years, this was probably a sign I was meant to go for it.

After returning downstairs with all my new clothes, I went back for my haircut. I was a bit apprehensive when she let me flick through a load of different hairstyles, most of which were bobs. When I explained I preferred it longer though, she pulled up something that looked nice and we went for it. I have never really enjoyed the hairdresser; I always find that I come out disappointed and not with the cut I felt I had asked for. Most people seem to relish that salon blow dry, whereas I’d normally come home and wash it straight away. They always seemed to do something weird with my fringe that I just had to get rid of. It’s probably why I haven’t been for so long. And now I sat in her chair in a shipping container and let someone I barely knew do what they wanted. I tried to relax and tell myself it was just hair and it didn’t really matter, but it wasn’t easy. There was no consultation about the colour, but she just winked at me and told me this one would cover up my grey hairs nicely!

After the dyeing, we went outside on the balcony to wash it. She had a portable sink and had brought buckets of water up with her. There was no running water in her ‘salon’ and so things were pretty basic. She took it all very seriously though; she had all the products and everything. It just shows what you can do with not a lot if you want to.

Now I was looking youthful again, it was time to chop. I watched hesitantly as she lopped several generous inches off it. Then again, I told myself, it definitely needed it. As she worked we talked: about her life in Venezuela, about our travels and about Chile. At least my Spanish is now at a point that it can handle that — I mean, you’d hope so after this amount of time, right? I watched as she began to blow dry and, to my surprise, it started to look great. I was ready to summon my best very polite Brit in a bad situation, but I didn’t need it. She did an awesome job and I loved it! Ironically, the cheapest haircut I’ve ever had in my life was probably the best one. What a lovely little pick-me-up, given the current situation.