ARGENTINA: Land of a Million colours

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!

open 3-phase electricity in the street 

 a tot of this traditional drink with coca cola knocks you back a bit at this altitude!!

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.

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.

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 7^th 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.