Well and truely into Argentina now!

We haven’t had much luck with thermal baths so far on this trip and the campsite near Huaflin lived up to our very much lowered expectations. More akin to a WW2 concrete bunker with a non-stop flow of tepid water from a lone PVC pipe than the image that you have conjured in your own mind. But the scenery had been a mixed bag of stunning and dreary to get there from our 6 week extended stay in Sucre Bolivia.

First day on the road and it simply felt great to be laying down some kilometres, a re-enforcement that adventure we are on is just ‘right’. 

On the road again

300 enjoyable kilometres later we arrived in Uyuni, a dusty, scorched, high altitude town whose existence was due to the huge salt flat nearby, one of Bolivia’s touristic highlights. We had opted to see this 10 582 km2 natural attraction by organised tour, not my usual modus operandi. But as the name suggests there was the very real likelihood of returning with a bike caked in corrosive salt.. I didn’t want to be somewhere like the cold, wind-blown prairies of Canada when Zorra decided that salt and anodes make bad friends.

Some shots of playing on the salar:

Rusted trains next to the flats

I look scared but I could have taken him!

Yea, like I have my wife in the palm of my hand!!!

You can almost see the curvature of the Earth!

Run Carlie Run!

The ‘salar’, as it is known, is a massive seasonal lake, drying in the summer to form a flat, hard packed surface of brilliant whiteness surrounded by volcanos and desert at 3600metres above sea-level. Our tour was led by Edwin, his occasionally starting Lexus 4WD packed with 7 eager tourists, and a forgotten bag containing our collective lunches belied his 23 year experience. After a frighteningly fast and semi-controlled hurtle along a sandy road and the obligatory stop at some crappy tourist stalls, we hit the salar. The light at this altitude combined with a clear blue sky made for an astonishingly bright day as the horizon stretched out to an undefined point. Occasionally ‘islands’ of rock would gently emerge from the shimmering heat as we spent the hours until sunset exploring.

An island inhabitant

Next day we stuck to the tarmac to Tupiza, a friend having taken the shorter dirt road a month previously rated it a 3/10 for its ride-ability. By 4pm we were happily seconded within our hotel and ready to wander the streets later for dinner.

It was time to cross the border into Argentina, follow thislink to read that painful story!

This is what I think of Bolivian road blockades !

We were in Argentina and within 70kms had been stopped twice by the authorities. The first a military check point, the young soldiers more interested in our story than any contraband we might be trying to smuggle into their country. With a top-up of cold drinking water we were off, this next time with a pause at a police check point complete with full vehicle x-ray scanner and super friendly cops wanting to show off their own motorbikes.

Friendly fellows!

 

We had heard that camping was very accessible all over the country and were keen to save some money on accommodation. For our first night we had the campsite of a nearby national park all to ourselves and the friendly and tea-bag stealing jays. Supposedly jaguars and monkeys call this place home but predictably they avoided us, so far on the trip we had seen nothing but over-grown guinea-pigs, this was not about to change soon.

The entrance to the national park, it got better, and cleaner, inside!

As we had entered the country from a different point than that which we had planned, we now needed to detour yet again north if we were to see the famous Humahuaca Valley. Tilcara was our home for the night and this time our very first designated paid campsite. With litter, random patches of prickly grass and an amenities block designed on former Eastern Bloc concrete architecture, it lacked that certain something.

There was nothing to hold us here for more than one night; we knew that we were within reach of the famous wine regions of Argentina. So with these expectations we got an early start to the day. It was tempting to take a right and head over the famous Jama pass and into Chile but with around 1000kms of desert and salt flats there and back we settled for the touristy town of Permarca for a morning coffee and the stunning backdrop of folded colours of rock strata.

Amazing colours! No, this has not been photoshopped!

Past Jujuy and then Salta, we took the road through town of the latter rather than the quicker ring-road. Normally I don’t go for fast food, my abhorrence of McDonalds and its constipation-inspiring contribution to the magical world of burgers, well known to those around me. But for some unknown reason we both had a hankering for a Burger King Whopper with fries since Ecuador. And since Quito we had avoided any large cities that may have been capable of satisfying our unhealthy urges. Salta would be complicit in assisting to lower our cholesterol, instead we chose a couple of soggy sandwiches from a disreputable-looking shop in the industrial outskirts of the city.

Within an hour of the heavily trafficked and pot-holed streets of Salta we were winding our way up switch-backs of good quality gravel, heading towards the pass, 30kms, 2000m in altitude and 15 degrees cooler. Once over the pass and I almost jumped in fright. The change in landscape was as sudden as it was different. In front stretching for many miles was a dead-straight road traversing a high plateau filled with colossal cacti, some up to 6 metres in height all surrounded by monstrous, jagged peaks, higher still.

As the sign posts for our final destination for the day began appearing with more frequency, so started the first of the vineyards. Without a moment of hesitation I pulled the bike to a stop and parked in front of the first ‘bodega’, or winery, that we came across. I am genetically programmed not to spit wine but I also have a rule of no alcohol on the bike. My compromise a very small sip from a glass that had generously been poured large! With our first bottle purchase safely packed in the pannier we got to Cachi and set the tent just as some voluminous rain drops began to throw up dusty clouds from the ground.

Wine country at last!

That evening we would enjoy our first Argentinian wine over a plate of local cheese and cold meats sitting on the plaza, thinking, “this is how most people travel” and secretly wishing that we could indulge a little more often.

The stylish life. We still slept in a tent that night!

The road south to Cafayete would be our first experience on the famous ‘Ruta 40’, a 4800km road from the north to the south of the country and known throughout the motorcycling world as one of the toughest roads in South America. These days, to the dismay of many hard core off-road enthusiasts, much of the road is either paved or under construction. The section we would tackle today was not one of these. Only 174kms, the road started off in good condition. It had me thinking of all those online who said that a 650 V-Strom with two people aboard could not do these types of roads. I would show them a picture or two together with a selection of well-chosen words. Then came the sand and with a sickening wobble of the front end and a reluctance of the rear to do as it was told, my day just got harder. And slower. To date my off-road experience was exactly what we had encountered on this trip, I was on the learning curve and it didn’t feel great to have my wife and 50kgs of luggage on for the ride. I had tackled mud and come off three times. I had gravel under my belt but sand sends my testicles north! I battled on, repeating my mantra “stay loose, stay up and toughen up” as I tried to hit the obviously sandy patches with a fist full of accelerator. 

Routa 40 - not so hard.....

I'm smiling but that's sand behind me.

With a sense of relief that is accompanied by a variety of sounds and swear words, we reached the asphalt section just outside of town. Sure, it was only a small section of the famous ruta, but it was conquered. I had earned the sticker that I would now buy to adorn the pannier.

Cafayete was a town that justifies the usage of an adjective I am loath to use, quaint. Its large, shady central plaza ringed by outdoor cafes and restaurants, laid back atmosphere and general friendly vibe inspired the sudden urge to spend a bit of time here. We were camping on the outskirts of town in a place we now dub ‘disco-camping’. The Argentinians simply love music. Loud, bass heavy and during times when normal humans were designed to sleep. Otherwise we would have been given natural night vision. Two discotheques around a kilometre distant held the beat until 5am when the camp site across the road took over the DJ duties in a decibel 10 or 12 higher. Thankfully the next night was considerably more tranquil.

Meanwhile we had made the random acquaintances of three unique creatures. The first was a shaggy black dog with the twin habits of pestering for pats and sleeping under the BBQ next to our tent. We named him Ralph, until we discovered he was a she, and he did not leave Carlies side for a moment for the entire duration of our stay in the town. It was actually Ralph who lead us to the second set of new friends, Percy and Madeline, a couple of Aussies who had been befriended by Ralph the day before. As serendipity would have it, we would spend hours together in each other’s company, chatting and enjoying the local wines over the next few days and even make plans to do it all again in Mendoza in 2 weeks’ time.

Our first asado (BBQ), note the interesting utensils!

Ralph, NOT Percy and Madeline!

Next stop was the thermal baths mentioned at the start of the story. Yea, sure, we got clean but not much more than a quiet night’s sleep. Then we decided to spend our eighth wedding anniversary doing what we love, riding into parts unknown to see just what it is around the corner. What appeared was a dramatic, sand-dune filled valley, hemmed in by mountains worn by time and weather. It was as if the bones of the earth itself were showing. For this most special of days we spent the afternoon lazing in a huge variety of well cared for and clean thermal baths in a spectacular red rock environment. Finally we had found the elusive thermal baths that we had been searching for for so long and timed perfectly for our anniversary. 

In true form we decided that tomorrow we would yet again depart from the plan and head over the San Francisco pass and into Chile to hit the coast for some long awaited seafood and beach time. Cross the valley floor, search for some supplies and the non-existent immigration office and off we went. By 10 am we were curving through valleys of unspeakable red ridges, the colour a dazzling juxtapose to the surrounding black and yellow mountains. As the road levelled off at around 2500m we found ourselves in a series of valleys plagued with unnatural colours and an equally unnatural and frustrating cross wind. As gusts of up to 80kms hit the left side of my beard poking out under the rim of my helmet, I knew that it was time to lean the bike over, sometimes at an angle of near 10-15 degrees and force the wheels to remain true to the dead straight road way.

the colour was amazing.

that is a 6834m volcano in the background

Really, in the middle of nowhere!

Now that's high!

Our morning view.

Forcing our way north and upwards we began to see massive, snow-capped volcanoes looking down on us from over 1 ½ kms higher still than our 4300m above sea level. Finally we made it to the immigration check point, a more desolate outpost than you could imagine. Wind-blown, cold, hemmed in by mountains and closed by metres of snow in the winter, it reminded me of the stories you hear of Siberia. And of stories we had heard that the road on the other side of the border was bad. Just how bad we had no idea as the Spanish they speak here in Argentina is difficult to say the least. The wind was still howling as we reached the pass and international crossing at 4726m, the highest we had ridden the bike yet. Then the road changed right under the sign, from smooth carefully thought-out tarmac to soft, rocky and corrugated dirt. We powered on at a much reduced rate, my wobbles and concentration now set on max as the wind found significantly less friction between wheel and surface, pushing me with frightening regularity to all points on the road.

Luckily there was no traffic on this stretch of lonely dirt, surrounded as we were by breathtaking scenery. There was one group of intrepid travellers however, a threesome of Brazilian riders heading from our destination. We stopped our bikes and confided. His Spanish was almost unintelligible to my ears, the salient points however were that the road ahead was ‘peligroso’ and ‘mas malo que aqui’ (dangerous and much worse than here). With a parting salutation wishing us luck they were off towards the relative enjoyment and safety of the Argentinian tarmac.

this is what the moon would look like if it had a sky!

I don’t like to admit defeat but after another kilometre of painstaking ground, I had to make the call to return. We had travelled 15 kilometres in 40 minutes. We were in remote country and would not be able to camp until we hit lower ground around 100kms away. It was 3pm and I had almost lost the argument with gravity countless times. At least the ride back would be through the same picturesque scenery we had just enjoyed!

That night was spent in one of the refugios along the roadway. Meant for stranded motorists in the winter it still made for the closest night in a hotel for a while and the sunset was serene. The following morning is was around 200kms of backtracking and another 120kms of new ground to Chilecito. 

Slowly we are making our way south.

One Tough Day!

So we want to cross an international border. For many people this might be a daily occurrence. For many people of Villazon, on the Bolivian, Argentinian line, it is clearly is. They walk to and fro, carrying goods from one to the other without paying import duties. The government had turned a blind eye to this illegal activity until recently, a new law stating that you could only bring one bag of illegal goods into the country rather than the previous three. This was provocation enough to send the locals into a frenzy. And rather than accept the wisdom and enforcement they had chosen to take to the street. Or the border as the case maybe.

We had chosen this day, of all those available in the calendar, to cross this very same border. Of all the gin bars in all the world, we had to walk into this one!

I don’t know her name and I didn’t want to learn it but she was the ring leader. Sitting, fat assed by the hinge of the border crossing, she barked instructions to her minions to stop anyone from crossing the border from the Bolivian side. Was she empowered by the state to be the guardian of an international border? Had she a mandate written on paper that she quite possibly could not even read saying thus? No. What she did have was the opportunity to subject us to what would become a very challenging 48 hours.

Do I blame her and her disgruntled minions? I want to say ‘no’. I asked her when we might be able to pass. In between a pearl and a knot in her knitting she said December. While her minions laughed I held tight control over my urge to swear badly in a foreign language.

We decided to head to the next border crossing, 300kms over bad roads. With a parting salute recognized the world over, we hit the road east. It was lovely scenery through a deep canyon unknown to many tourists. As the road breached the rim things got tough. To say the wind howled would be to use mild language. To say that the wind was not icy cold and gusting would be a bold lie as I focused now on the twin challenges of forward momentum and gravity on two wheels. And this road just kept going, and going, and going. Through a windswept valley and over yet another pass we ploughed onwards. As we finally spied our destination, Tarija, a city of 50,000, my thoughts were only of one variety and the adjectives cannot be printed. We were still 1.5 vertical kms and countless precipitous curves on a very poorly maintained road from home, warmth and shelter. It was now just a test to get down far enough to not freeze overnight and camp as the sun lit the western clouds for the last time this day.

The next morning started badly. It was a streak of bad luck that would epitomize the day, we didn’t have enough water to have our daily coffee. My caffeine intake, a result of owning a restaurant, was high enough to be an addiction; not getting my morning coffee would subject me to a blistering headache that would last until my craving was satisfied. Today, that would not happen! Score one for the other side!

We headed down the mountain, dodged traffic in the city and continued south towards the border. As we did so we also dropped 2km is altitude and into the jungle of the Bolivian Rainforest. And you don’t have rain forest with out rain. 9 kms from our destination the dark clouds opened forth a torrent of fat drops. With no where to shelter we powered on, albeit now at a greatly reduced 30km/h. as the rain slowed we pulled our soggy behinds off the bike and began the process of checking out of Bolivia. The process was lethargic without being painful, the official behind the counter had clearly been practising his scowl, however he still had remnants of friendliness that he would need to work on.

With a whoop and holler we crossed the bridge into Argentina; unwittingly we would cross this bridge another two more times. The fellow at pest control was friendly to a level of annoyance but being new to the country from one where ‘tolerance’ was the best you could expect, we lapped it up.

3kms later, and while we didn’t know it then, our adventure came to a sudden pause and someone had pressed play on our day from hell. Firstly we walked into the migration office for exiting passengers. Then we joined the correct queue, much longer ,aromatic and unair-conditioned than the former. As we patiently waited in line the bugs began to enjoy my exposed, flabby white flesh. Finally we made our way to the front of the line, but no, their computer was down and they would have to go to some mysterious place to process our very expensive immigration documents.

Meanwhile I handed over my temporary import permit to the Bolivian official, a young lass, harassed by the queue in front of her. Quite unexpectedly she invited me outside. With a serious expression in direct contrast with my own friendly, hopeful countenance, she explained that my documents were out of date and that she would have to confiscate my motorbike. She thought that she might be able to avoid a scene my breaking the news to me in the fresh air. I was ready for this and proceeded to show her that the incoming customs agent had actually written down the wrong date of departure. Bullet dodged.

Back inside and Carlie had received our stamped passports after whatever magic needs to happen with the immigration computer systems. Now it was time to import the bike.

“Do you have insurance?” the first question. In my retarded linguistically way I launched into an elaborate, yet truthful, reason as to why I did not. I had time to practise this speech on the ride south and was rewarded with the chance to say it again to the boss of customs. If this man smiled then I truly believe his face would have cracked into two beaded pieces. I never learnt his name but his eyes looked in two different directions while his personality was certainly one tracked, to make my life difficult. There was no reasoning with the fellow. As my Spanish pleas achieved nothing but to make him serve another in line, Carlie began the waterworks.  This was not a scripted piece of performance but I was happy to let the tears come forth. 

Maybe there could be some value in a crying foreigner in the customs house that I could cash in on. No, I am not going to win ‘Husband Of The Year’ for this. But Mr Beard was unmoved, his demeanour not altering a whisker at my wife’s tears.

The young lass from the Bolivian customs stepped in. Clearly not ready to step on international toes she did however offer her laptop to see if we could buy some insurance on-line. But our bad luck streak was only just beginning. She had no credit on her account. Then I could not find a site from which to buy insurance. I did find a phone number that I could call. With this we thanked the young lass and decided that we would then try our luck in the nearby village. Maybe get online, make a phone call and get some insurance to satisfy our mactachoied menace. However we had no local currency. We could not ride our bike further into the country and the walk was in the light rain. Let me say that at this point here that there are no kind words or light hearted conversations you can have with your spouse of 8 years that can make things better.

The village we arrived in was in the process of shutting down for siesta. New to us, this culturally instituted laziness as we saw it, would thwart any attempt to even make a phone call. The only public phone was in a shop that was closed until 5pm, 4 hours from now. Anyone I asked to use their cellular phone had no credit. I offered to buy some. Sure, they would have to wait until 5pm to buy credit however. How is it that in a continent where anyone over the age of 5 has a phone in their hands has no credit? What the hell are they doing with these little black things?

Food called and we found a small place that would take dollars for a mildly unrude exchange rate. The mamma who served us was incredibly friendly. For the next 10 minutes she told us exactly how to solve our dilemma. Unfortunately she failed to realize that her version of Spanish was completely new to us. Now I am not saying that she didn’t have a comprehensive grasp of the language, but what she didn’t grasp was our lack of it. We thanked her for her help and had the best mashed potatoes this side of my nans kitchen.

We continued our search for a phone but to no avail, by now I knew that my chips were down, that this day was doomed to be a good story but a shitty experience. Our walk back to immigration was more of a trudge, marital harmony shattered, we were now moving into survival mode. We had decided to return to Bolivia. Then, miraculously, I spied a phone box. As tempting as it was, I had no local currency with which to feed the beast. Another visit into the exiting migration office and plight explained they rallied together to give me the change required to make a call. And what should happen but the machine was out of order, this was the day I was having. But then a technician arrived. My hopes began the upswing. 10 minutes later he told me that it was broken, not having a degree in this field I still knew this. What he did inform me was that it was not about to be fixed in the near future. 

The ride back across the bridge to Bolivia may have been disheartening but not nearly as much as seeing a line 50 people deep at immigration. My mood at joining this line, the second time on the same day, was dark. When asked to let in 6 people in front of me because they had been sitting down for the last 20 mins was posed then I can only say that I was not at my diplomatic best with my response. An hour later I handed my completed papers and passports to the clerk, the same unsmiling creature I had mistakenly farewelled for good earlier in the day, I was told that there were irregularities and to wait outside. My patience, not my most endearing feature, was at breaking point. But I know these situations require a smile and pandering, again, not my most readily function. After half an hour I had had enough, shoving my documents at the official I challenged him to tell me what was wrong. I then had to explain to HIM how everything was in order to which he readily agreed to and got the necessary ink flowing. I was beyond caring now, just wanting to hug my wife who had be sitting, guarding the bike for the duration, enduring her own torment of enquiring bystanders wanting to know everything from make, model, origin and foot size.

We headed into the Bolivian border town, any border town is always shabby at best, seedy at worst and this was no different. After a couple of laps we found a place with parking for the bike. Overpriced, underwhelming and with doors that closed with a hopeful twist of the ancient keys. The proprietor, a man with wide girth, a too small belt and helpful nature pointed us towards a place he knew that sold insurance. But our luck was still with us, it was closed. Returning to the hotel we reached out to our online friends. We could only access the internet from the stairwell and of course the computer battery ran out. At this stage we had been reduced to laughing about our predicament. Then a friend emailed a document to us that would work to get us through the border. Then I realised that I had forgotten the password to the email account. Murphy was sitting on my shoulder like an evil spirit.

Finally I managed to get a hold of the document, I would show these Argentinian peons that I had insurance.

With not just the forged insurance certificate but a fictional, printed, email conversation and receipt in hand we made our way to the border yet again.  It was just like old friends on the Bolivian side, “Ah, you again, got your insurance?” was my greeting. Checking out was easy as we made our way towards the Argentinian side. But the cosmic joke that we were unwittingly the butt of saw a new clerk at the desk of the customs office. She cared more about staying inside the air-conditioned office than my intricately crafted story of how I purchased international insurance for my motorbike for her country and we were in.

The score now was in bureaucracy’s favour but with the stamped import permit based on a forgery I felt that I had scored a late equalizer. As I opened the throttle southwards the adventure took proportion, if it was easy, then everyone would be doing it.