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.