Early morning the day after my little volcano side adventure I was once again mid-mission of getting dressed with everything in my panniers that was even remotely resembling pieces of clothing. Well aware that the upcoming descent would have me peeling layers in no time, I put on yet another pair of socks just for the heck of it. I know I’m Swedish and all, but sometimes I just don’t feel like being cold.
Starting at 4700 masl, at the very first meter of paved road in a good while – I headed down.
Up high…
Down. Down. And down some more.
Down. Way passed the tree line. Lightyears passed the universe where those double socks wouldn’t put you in a mental institution.
Down – 200 km and 3000 vertical meters all the way to the oh so cute township of Fiambalá.
To an equally longed after and needed oasis of rest.
… & down low
And rest I did. I could tell you about doing nothing but showering and eating for days on end. But I think I’ll just rely on the good old ‘a picture says more than a thousand words’ with this one.
How to know a touring cyclist has had a good rest?
She’s spent 4 nights in a place – ending up with nothing but 2 photos on her 3 cameras – and not a single clue of what she’s actually been doing the last 100 hours.
Yes. All those beds were actually for me.
And no. Pannier explosions simply cannot be helped, no matter how carefully one tries to open them. Please tell me I’m not the only one travelling with panniers suffering from a severe case of chronic stomach flu?
As all this took place a good while ago, I would need to go back to check maps and dates to give a fair recap of my last weeks in Argentina. But as I really need this time online for some research on my upcoming route through the salars of Bolivia, that simply isn’t going to happen. Priorities, you know? :-)
I do however want to get something online for you guys before I head out there. So coming up are some glimpses of the last chunk of my many months through Argentina.
Some impulsive decision making and a few too many failed attempts of using my credit card, I ended up spending a good chunk of time going cashless and carefully living off the last bags of rice, lentils and oats that I still carried.
With zero possibilities to do anything in the towns along the mostly paved Ruta 40, I decided once again to simply stay away from them and take the less travelled route through Antofagasta de la Sierra. The small town or big village also known as ‘the loneliest place in Argentina’ with a good 120-150 km to closest town in either direction.
Reaching it I was relieved to find that the ATM I’d been told about actually did exist. The feeling of salvation was great, for those 5 minutes before I learned that it had been out of cash for a little more than a year. I swore and laughed all in one go. Went ahead and bargained hard to get myself 2 new kilos of rice for my last coins. And got on with it.
Half a day’s worth of traffic
Not many towns. However there were villages marked on my map. And it’s funny how those things work. In China, a completely blank spot on the most up to date map can turn out to be the location of a million-people-city bigger than my own capital. In the mountains of Argentina, an on the map named village generally looked something like this.
Name: Forgotten
Altitude: Approx 3500 masl.
Population: 1 human. 2 dogs.
Meet Herman. Mayer. Goat dude. And quite a rockstar!
I rode pass some cool stuff. An erupted volcano, being one example.
And my first ever salt flat, being another.
Salar del Hombre Muerto
Still broke I reached the small (through not if you ask Herman!) village of Salar de Pocitos. Crazy winds forced me to ride well into the evening on the hunt for some sort of shelter for my beaten up tent. Exhausted after 8 hours of headwinds I came onto the village road where I found only one person. The right person.
Less that 15 minutes later I was sitting on a bed with a cup of mate in my hands. The short elderly lady from the street, whose name I too would need my diary from this evening to recall, was already back in the restaurant building next door. Preparing llama milanesa sandwiches for her waiting customers.
This lady and her husband wasn’t only running a small comedor. They were running a two room guesthouse. A guesthouse I never got to see. Because the bed I was sitting in, belonged to one of their 6 daughters.
‘Do you have a mother? I am a mother. None of my daughters would be that stupid. But if one of them would be alone on the wrong side of the world. Out of money. With one bag of rice and a box of matches. I would pray for someone to help her.’
Our conversation had lasted no more than 3 minutes.
Sitting on the bed I looked down on my feet. Kicking some of the loose gravel making up the floor of the room that was now mine. A single tear left my sunburnt cheek and fell into the cup that I held with my both still way too cold hands. Exhaustion and gratitude was all I had left in me.
I slept well that night. And in the morning I was fed with bread and goat cheese until it came out of my ears. Though my Spanish was starting to be quite alright, no one really spoke that much. Somehow the silence did the talking for all of us.
I can still feel the hug I got as I left. And hear the words she used to take farewell.
‘No seas estúpido.’
Don’t be stupid.
Poor mothers.
To no-one’s surprise, I didn’t listed exactly as carefully as I potentially could have. With my panniers top loaded with even more of that bread and goat cheese, I was safe. Safe as in fuelled up for enough time to feel comfortable with making a couple more of those stupid calls.
When doing stuff like turning onto ‘prohibited roads’ it’s usually a good idea to expect and get ready for some sort of consequence. Here – I had to pay with nothing. Except some equally sudden and brutal cravings for chocolate :-)
Erhm…
One afternoon I found myself making it back onto the main road I’d been avoiding for so long. Back on pavement, rolling into the town of Susques. And can you guess what I found myself of there?
That’s right. Hardcore CASH!
Though even more importantly, a few first signs of – finally – being seriously close to Bolivia.
Until next time,
Fredrika
