Argentina: Land of a Million
Colours
Our convivial BBQ came to an
abrupt halt when the lightening started to flash in an ever decreasing circle
around us. We had noticed the very tall lightning tower next to the campsite
and had similarly wondered about the gridwork of metal lines and arches over
the swimming pool, when we had an afternoon dip. Now we knew why. Securing the
tarp over us and the bike, like a green shroud, we crept into our ‘cave’. We
had purchased an ultralight bike cover for anti-theft/spying reasons, but it
was beginning to be useful against the rain as well. It means we don’t have to
unload the bike every night, just cover it and using the two massive eyelets,
hook the chain through them and the front wheel. Once covered with the green tarp
we become an almost invisible hump on the landscape. The deluge happened a few
hours later, but we remained dry and cosy. In the morning we discovered the
other tent-campers had given up and found refuge in the kick-boxing hall and we
were indeed on a dry island surrounded by water and mud. A little doggie with a
sore leg had crept under the tarp and taken refuge on our island of dryness. Even
the basketball court was a lake. This fabulous outdoor complex comprises open
air kickboxing, weightlifting, a running track, and outdoor keep fit circuit, a
huge swimming pool, a handball court, volleyball pitch and football field, all
on concrete slabs and fenced in, where appropriate. At 5pm it erupts with kids,
parents and super keen trainees of all ages, carrying on up until midnight. The
Argentinians seem to be sport mad. It’s run by the municipality and is part of
the school program. The camp cost us 60 pesos per night (2.50 euros). Our
little town in France should take note! By the time we finished washing the mud
off the ground sheets, the lake had dried up on the courts and the kids were
practising their skills again. We set off as soon as the sun came out, only to
stop a few kms later to put our rainsuits on when the sun lost the battle with
the rainclouds. At the next fuelstop, fed up with water trickling into my boots,
I put on my Belstaff overboot gaiters, which had been sprayed with
waterproofing stuff. B carried on
without gaiters, which he later regretted. We have questioned ourselves a lot
about what/what not to load on the bike and even though some stuff may be used
very rarely, it makes for comfort in the long run. We continued for the rest of
the day in rain and sun, stopping briefly to withdraw cash, buy provision for
the next 2 meals and landed up at Humahuaca, 340 kms later. We had seen the
church of Seven Colours, and had heard about the mountains of Seven colours and
on the road to Humahuaca we found them. A short stop at the tourist bureau in
JuJuy gave us the chance to pick up a local guide map, where we were informed
that this mountain is best in the morning and the other best in the afternoon.
We were riding in rain at the wrong time of the day for the best views, but nevertheless,
we were astounded at the millions of coloured pigments the landscape had to
offer. En route we noticed groups of young people hitching/waiting for a bus,
with large backpacks , bed rolls and guitars strapped on. Humahuaca is a small ‘ancestral’
town, with many signs for hosteria and camping. A band of Gauchos, dressed as
if in a movie with leather leggings, lassos and spiky spurs on the pointy
boots, plus the big hat and scarf rode past up the dirt track as we entered the
big gates of an advertised campsite. Well, a field really, with a large
communal round table and logs to sit on, power points and concrete BBQ stands.
We parked up, dismounted our metal horse and both staggered dizzily as if
drunk. Feeling a bit weird, I looked at B who was also leaning a bit sideways
and finding it hard to catch his breath. In the few hours it had taken to ride
here, we had climbed over 2 kilometres in altitude to 3000m above sea level. Of
course when you are sitting on a bike, being enchanted by the view, battling
with a groove ridden road and dodging trucks, its not surprising we didn’t
notice. Getting off the bike onto hard ground and trying to unpack and pitch
camp, was a big effort. We acted like some slow-motion zombies. The youngsters
at the big table called us over for tea and while we acclimatised, we swopped
stories and found out that it was the long 10 week University holidays.
Backpacking, playing guitars and thumbing lifts was the thing to do. After a
very slow-cooked spaghetti dinner, we went to bed, before sunset as lying down
was the easiest thing for us to do. The guitar playing and sing-a-long around
the campfire lasted till the wee hours, as we drifted in and out of sleep. Feeling
a bit better in the morning, we were up before the ‘kids’ and as cooking was
rather an effort, decided to treat ourselves to lunch in town. A slow laboured stroll
over the bridge bought us into the centre of this busy market town, where fresh
veg and fruit and flowers (bunches of Gladioli) were being traded. We noticed a
higher proportion of police than we would have expected in such a small town,
directing traffic and intermingling with tourists and locals, almost directing
them subtly apart. We had a delicious lunch of Llama stew (pronounced Jama) and
still out breath wandered slowly back over the bridge for an afternoon kip. Supper
was a jam sandwich, followed by an early night, accompanied by more guitar
playing and singsong. The ‘kids’ are 20-25years old students studying Maths, Science,
Marine Engineering, Drama and International Relations. They are delightful,
interesting and interested in whether we had ever seen The Beatles as “ All Argentinians
are mad about The Beatles.” On the third day of our stay in this fascinating
little town, having walked and not ridden the bike at all, we felt strong
enough to tackle a ride to an even higher altitude. With the traditional right
cheek to right cheek one kiss, we said our farewells and took a very early walk
into town for breakfast. Whilst sitting at the same place as the Llama stew
lunch we noticed a bit of a flurry, the outside pavement chairs were brought
inside, and a security guy came in to check the clients. The President of Argentina
was in town, actually driving in a cavalcade of 4x4’s and mini-buses down the
very road we were in. Hence the large police presence. As the cavalcade rode
past, we noticed escorting trailbikes with rifle-bearing pillion bodyguards. We
tried to spot the President, but left that to the locals and went back to pack
up and set off North. Having learnt that fuel stops are far apart, we needed to
fill up first. Impossible. All roads were barricaded, blocked and re-routed. We
just couldn’t reach the two petrol stations in town until Mr President had finished
his task, which was to re-inaugurate the railway line, defunct for more than 25
years, but now restored. Eventually we were given permission to pass over the
railway line, down through the market, squeezing our bulky way through alarmed
stall holders to find the once manned barriers now unmanned. All the roads in
this town are cobbled and dirt roads, no tarmac. We wiggled through them as we
knew that the Great Man was on the other side of town. By midday, after a
planned 8am getaway, we getaway!
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| open 3-phase electricity in the street |
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| a tot of this traditional drink with coca cola knocks you back a bit at this altitude!! |
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| Armed guards for the President |
We punched Abra Pampa into Garmin,
a mere 85kms away and another 500 metres up. The weather is sunny, blue skies
and red mountains, dashed with splashes of green and pink and yellow. On the
way to Abra Pampa, the joints in my fingers feel very heavy and stiff. When we
dismount for a pee stop and watery drink, I notice B’s lips and the tip of nose
is a bit purple/blue. We reckon its high enough and time to go back down. The
aim was to get to the Bolivian border where the famous 6000km route 40 from top
to bottom of Argentina starts. It’s out of the equation for us. So we turn
around and go back the way we came, except that we see a gravel shortcut. The
first 8kms was ok, although a bit too corrugated for my liking. Expressing
myself in loud terms that I was not having fun, we stop for a chat. Some Llamas
joined in by peering at us quizzically. “It’s
only another 100kms” says B, let’s give it a go. The dry river beds had washed
deep sand across the compacted dirt road. We go for about 10 seconds, hit a
sand patch and fall over. And in front of the Llamas, too! We untangle our
legs, slither out from the sandpit and try to lift the bike. It is way too
heavy for both of us to lift, out of the deep sand, being out of breath and
huffing and puffing. We strip the recumbent bike, bag by bag, until we can get it
upright. B rides it back to stable ground and I trudge 4 trips of load while he
packs it back on. We have to stop and rest every few minutes, for a task that
is usually effortless. The 8kms back to the tarmac felt very long and was not
pleasant. Back on the road, it was a wonderful ‘asphaldo’ ride, at the right
time of day this time all the way back, passed Humahuaca, where Mr President
was still busy, through more stunning scenery we had missed previously due to
rain, into the tourist town of Tilcara.
A good day’s ride of 200kms, with a variety of colours, shapes and adventures.
The tourist office was still open
and offered us a hostel for 800 pesos, No way Jose. Reluctantly, she found us a
private camping site inside a mud-walled enclosure for 160 pesos. We noticed
that a few locals had lop-sided faces where big balls of stuff were being
chewed and very bad teeth. It’s the local anti-altitude medication. No way, Jose.
We find the elevation here in Tilcara more suitable, and as we ride further’
downhill’ to Salta feel better and better. We had noticed that most people
carry a thermos slung over backpack or shoulder and purchased one during our
little jaunts into Humahuaca town. The lady-owner
at the Kraal camp filled ours with boiling water for our day’s journey. During
our travels we had noticed small encampments/ outposts brightly decorated with
red flags and red banners and shrines. Not sure what they are, and not sure who
to ask we dismissed the inquiry, however upon leaving the city of Salta we
found ourselves being held up in traffic by a ‘posse’ of horseriders, escorted
by policemotorbikes. We noticed the horsemen crossing the pedestrian bridges
over the highway ring road. The bridges are completely encaged with wire
netting to prevent any skittish leaping. We deduced that these were traditional
folk on the move, following the red flag paths of their ancestors as there were
great gatherings along the way at these sites. Not sure, could be right/wrong.
Still suffering from 4 days of little sleep and not much air, we stopped for a snooze on the green grass of the central plaza in Salta, before weaving our way through more colours and shapes than we’d ever imagined on the 68 to Cafayate. We’d given up on riding route 40 from Cachi to Cafayate, and as beautiful as we’d been told it was, we are sure the 68 was just as good. It’s a Sunday and the petrol stations have queues going around the block, so we eat lunch at a restaurant opposite the station. When B sees a gap, between main course and dessert, he hops on the bike and fills up. We join the magical Route 40 at kilometre 4346. Since collecting our bike at Buenos Aires 12 days ago, we are 3000kms into our journey. It’s another glorious day through magnificent red cliffs and rocks, where we stop at 2000m altitude for a coffee break. I toss a piece of left over gristle up in the air (from the delicious T-bones steaks we BBq’d last night) and it must have shone like gold against the red landscape. Shortly afterwards two large birds of prey circled overhead. We found a campsite at a Marine Corrall on a man-made Hydro-electric Dam (dique) setting up on the patio. Another refill of boiling water for mid-morning coffee saves us the daily £2 spend. What a valuable thing is a flask. The scene shifts from White Canyons to Red ones, from Green Vineyards to Yellow deserts. We count at least 15 dust-devils swirling in the distance and put on a spurt when one charges towards us, just clipping our rear end and giving us a wobble. We learn to read the difference between mirages and river crossings. The one recedes and the other approaches, rapidly. The road is made up of asphaldo (tarmac) rises and concrete troughs. There’s no point in building a bridge, it will just get pushed aside by the muddy waters. So we approach each trough carefully, some are filled with rivulets of sand or water or both. A large muddy pool is in our way. Rule number 4: if you can’t see the bottom, don’t ride through it. I volunteer to wade through in my shiny dry boots, in a direct line of sight with the bike, testing the depth, and checking for hazards such as hidden rocks, pot-holes or deepsand. We know it’s not a sink-hole as we’ve seen cars go through (and I don’t disappear). Next time though, I’ll take the 2 Nordic Poles we carry to give myself a steadier step and bit more prod. It’s safe and B follows in my wake.
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| revellers / cabaljeros |
The pale yellow sands soon change
to a slight fuzz of green, then a carpet of blue flowers, followed by white
ones. We find a municipal camping ground at Belen, with a fabulous pool and not
so fabulous disco that pounds out its beat until 4 am. Don’t these people ever
sleep? We had just settled in for the night when the night watchman asked us to
move. “Manana, por favour?” He advised us quite strongly to leave nothing
outside the tent and cover everything up, bike included. The whole night, there
were bikes buzzing up and down and people wandering passed, giggling and
carrying on. Not so good. We’re up and off just after dawn, doing 250 kms before
lunch to get out of the heat. Its difficult to see where the pale grey road
ends and the pale grey sand begins, only separated by a few whispy yellow tufts
of dry grass. In the heat of the day, in 37 degrees, we are stopped by the
gendarmes who want to see the permit papers for the bike. A left turn a short
while later brings us to green velvety hills and cacti bearing gorgeous flowers.
We stop for a coffee break, but the miggies force us to gulp water quickly and
as there is a crowd of vulture like bird swirling overhead, we move on. My
wading trick a few days ago and riding in wet boots for a few hours has given
me a cold and thick head. The bike and B are performing like a dream, but as chief
navigator, with a thick head, I fall a bit short. We lose Rte 40 and find
ourselves 100kms off track. Seeing a sign that says ‘petrol, 60kms’, we think
it wise to head that way. The only bit of action for 150 kms of straight,
straight road was a cool dude shiny brown horse, clip-clopping down the road
with an egret on his back. They must have been good friends for a long time as
there were dry white streak down the horse’s rump. We find the fuel stop and
then google maps informs us the nearest camping is 114 kms away! We ride to
Malanzan, a place in the middle of nowhere, go to the cop shop and get escorted
by bakkie (pick-up truck) to the municipal site, where there is an outdoor
shower and lovely pool and a kiosk selling beer. Amazing.
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| riding into a miggie swarm, splat!! |
Its 27 degrees and 9 am when we
start the 300kms round route to get back to rte 40 at San Juan. We head
straight for the bank, which is closed for maintenance. Its now Wednesday, we
are a bit tired from all the late night revellers at the various campsites and
the long hot rides, but tackle the 150kms ride to Mendoza with gusto. A roadside
melon farmstall catches our eye and we ride in to spend a few minutes in the
shade of their bluegum trees to soak up the shade and sweet juices. A couple of
pet vultures were roaming around with the chickens. We arrive in Mendoza by mid
afternoon and yippee the bank is open for withdrawals. We park the bike on the
pavement opposite the bank, find a café nearby, order a beer and cooldown. What a lovely city. All the streets are laid
out in the familiar grid, each lined by rows and rows of big leafy trees, fed
by an underground water system straight from the Andes. B finds a mate to share
a cigar with, who also very kindly pays for our coffee. We are in awe of the
road builders here, who battle against a shifting unstable land, and also the
friendliness and kindness of the Argentinians. As we ride, people wave and give
us thumbs up signs. In Salta a grandparent couple asked me to take a photo of
them, with their phone , next to our bike. When we stopped at 2000m at the top
of the pass near Cafayate, we were photographed and had hands shaken and good
luck messages given. The ultimate kindness was yet to come when at the end of
this very long day we failed to find a campsite. Camping has two meanings here in
Mendoza/Argentina. One is for day picnic only, the other for overnight. Googlemaps
directed us to 4 picnic campsites, no overnight. It 7pm on Wednesday 7th
Feb and we’ve ridden 480 kms through seering heat, limbs are weak and rest is
uppermost in our minds. At the 4 th turn-away site, a charming gentleman and
his wife overhear our plea and in perfect English offers to lead us to a very
nice overnight campsite just a few kms down the road. He starts off up the hill
and slows down to wait for us to follow. Now the thing about 2 wheels and 4
wheels is that with 2 wheels you need to keep moving to stay upright, or have
somewhere to put your feet down. He stops, we stop. B shouts “Jump” and we
clear the bike as it slides into the sand at the road’s edge and falls over. At
least now there are 4 of us to lift the bike. I get in the car and B follows onto
the asphaldo, round a round-about and here we are. Its heaven. There is green
grass, purple BBQ stands, pepper trees with little pink pepper clusters and all
the buildings are painted yellow.
The giant who threw his paintbox
around in the mountains, and built marvellous clay and sand landscapes finally
found time to lay down a calm square patch of green and a cool blue pool, filled
with mountain water, here in Mendoza. We booked in till Saturday.
I scramble into smelly bike
gear, grab ID documents for me and the bike, a couple of apples, a cooldrink
and my gift cake. The weather forecast shows a red thermometer, warning of
exceptional heat today. The towtruck is driven by Marcus. nd hospital, Buta Ranquil. It is
hot, hot, hot. In fact so hot that one of the tyres on the trailer threw its
tread. I’m learning fast how to be an apprentice and handed Marcus all the
tools from the back of his pick-up so that he could remove the wheel. Luckily
this trailer had a double wheel system . We drove into the Auto stop just
outside Buta Ranquil on 3 wheels. While this was getting repaired I walked to
the hospital with a weird impression I’m in a Clint Eastwood movie. No shade,
just a cocacola, marching in full bike gear, no helmet, and this apparition
steps in from the heat into the empty hospital foyer. Drumroll. The doctor who
had attended B was not on duty. It was very difficult to explain “that on
Monday we had been treated there and I had returned to say thank and that my
husband was OK. The three ladies sitting around the Coffee table kept telling
me it was Wednesday everytime I said the ‘Lunes’ for Monday. In the end I gave
up, big smile, many Gracias and trudged back to Marcus and his 4-wheeled trailer.
Marcus couldn’t find the house where the Peugot 205 was and this was when I
discovered the reason for his closed window. At every passing person, he
stopped, opened his door and yelled out “ hola, etc etc in Spanish,where is
bla,bla,bla”. That door got opened and shut a good many times before we found
the broken down car, which was tucked out of sight behind the garage under some
trees. Lucky I had my dungarees and boots on, posing as an apprentice, as it
needed both of us to push and pull and steer this car out onto the road to get
the winch attached and hauled upon to the platform. The back of the pick-up is
full of bike gear, the bike loaded and car loaded and its time to go back to
Chos Malal. We arrive at 9pm, a good day’s work ! One of the English speaking
doctors (US/Argentinian) has kindly offered us a room in their house to rest
and recover. His wife is a GP and when they came off duty they took B with
them. The drive back was uneventful, except for the rabbit skin I saw drying on
the Armco barrier. It’s desolate out here! Marcus and his mates offloaded the
car, and then we arrived at the lovely cool house of Eduardo and Milka where the
bike was unwinched, covered and locked. With our dirty, dusty baggage scattered
all over their lawn, we settled in for a super supper and lots of stories about
Argentina and Africa. B, me and the bike are all together in the loving home of
Eduardo and Milka, who are expecting baby no 1 in 4months. Our Valentine’s Day
ended happily after all.
