Argentina: Salta to Belen

Somehow (the story will be properly told at a later date) I found myself arriving in Buenos Aires late in the evening on 23 December and lugging my bicycle bag up three flights of stairs to the apartment of a Couch Surfing host. I slept off jetlag and Africa-tiredness for fourteen hours and then spent Christmas Day on a twenty-one-hour bus ride, attempting to decipher intense Argentinian accents – after not having spoken Spanish for more than a year and a half – and to identify pink Spam-ham-like substances ensconced in various breadish forms (a harbinger of what Argentina’s fine cuisine would offer me over the coming months) posing variously as breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 
In keeping with the haphazard way in which this entire trip tumbled together, I had rather randomly chosen Salta as a place from which to start cycling. I read a Lonely Planet summary of northern Argentina, looked at a Lonely Planet map, and made about as an informed decision as I might have made had I spun around in a circle and dizzily put my finger down. But it worked out. Salta is close to the Andes, friendly to cyclists, big enough to have a bike shop selling Shimano parts, decently temperate, lush and green, and home to my warm hosts Leigh, Noah, and Lila. Thanks to them, I spent four days replacing brake pads and rewrapping handlebar tape while watching rain clouds hover over the city and its hills. I discovered a word that described a category to which Spam-ham-like substances belonged – fiambres – and sipped my first mate. I looked at a few more maps to think about where I might want to ride, and then, on 29 December, I oiled my chain, loaded my panniers, and headed south.

South for a few kilometers, that is

Then I turned west into the mountains

Although I loved my mountain biking days in Austria and Switzerland, I’d become more of a road tourer in the years since. But as an adventure aficionado, I couldn’t resist the temptation to leave the main road and take an unforgettable, unregrettable detour into a region “created by pre-Incan and colonial history…whose houses of adobe and thatch transport the traveler back in time.” In order to arrive there, in the Valles Calchaquies, I first had to pass the monumental Cuesta del Obispo, named for the crossing in 1622 of the highest ecclesiastical leader of the region.

A tranquil eternal resting spot

As evening fell on my first day of cycling, I found myself in the middle of a very long climb through a relatively unpopulated area. A kind abuela at this rest stop let me take a wonderful hot shower – I just had to wait for the fire to heat the water – and then offered me a sheltered place to camp across the street…

…with this view. Sweet dreams, first night on the road. First of many, many more, far more than I was imagining as I fell asleep to the soft rustle of rain.

The next day I arrived at the breathtaking Cuesta del Obispo, a 21-kilometer leg-burning climb, partly on gravel. There’s no better way to start a trip than with a massive challenge – call it a confidence-booster: once accomplished, you will know you can do anything and there is nothing left to fear.

Highest point I’d ever been on the bicycle. The closest previous was something like 2800m in France in summer 2003.

The landscape changed dramatically from one side of the pass to the other. Welcome to the pre-cordillera, the dry, dusty mostly-desert that lines Argentina’s side of the Andes for thousands of kilometers.

Time to fly!

There are three varieties of llama-like animals in Argentina: vicuña, alpaca, and guanaco. The first two I only saw represented on road signs. The latter appeared quite frequently farther south, on road signs and in real life and, so I heard, occasionally on a plate.

Inspiration for a tapestry wall-hanging

Enjoying the long downhill, I was flying past a bus stop when I saw two bicycle wheels sticking out. Meet Jo and Marie, who taught me to slow down and take in the view.

A street in Cachi, first of the small Spanish-colonial-style towns dotting the dusty route we traced through the Valles Calchaquies.

And the first of many ancient vehicles to be found on side streets – and main roads – all over Argentina

Church on the plaza in Cachi

A classic photo advertising the Valles Calchaquies shows a man standing in the middle of a sea of drying red peppers. Here Marie selects from a range of peppers in all colors and spice-levels as well as cumin, curry, and black and white pepper.

Oh, siesta, the never-ending Argentinian nightmare – for a cyclist, at least. As a shopowner, it must be fantastic to open at 9 a.m., close again at 12 or 1 p.m., reopen at 4 or 5 or 6 p.m., and close for the night whenever you feel like it. But to be on the other end of the equation – to spend an entire morning pedaling in the relentless sun, sipping increasingly warm water; to arrive at the moment where your parched mouth desperately longs for an ice-cold drink and your furiously growling belly will accept no peanuts-and-raisins consolation; to have finished the last of your bread and fruit at breakfast and spent the last two hours mentally drooling over fresh pan casero (homemade bread) and juicy plums; only to reach the town where Every. Single. Shop. has closed fifteen minutes before and won’t reopen for another five hours – this is not so fantastic.

 

30 December was a meeting of travelers. I rode into the Cachi campground with Jo and Marie, where they ran into two hitchhikers from Buenos Aires they’d met a couple nights previously. While the five of us were standing around talking, Ramon and Vincent, from Buenos Aires and Belgium, rode up on loaded mountain bikes. Four cyclists on my second day of riding! (Not to happen again until more than six weeks later….)
Jo and Marie and I were contemplating a refreshing dip in the campground pool – until the Argentinians told us that in addition to the pool entrance fee, you have to pay a doctor’s fee and spread your toes for a brief examination to ensure that you don’t bring any contagious fungus into the pool area. Hmm….

 

In the North we encountered literally hundreds of hitchhiking Argentinian young people, easily identified by their overloaded backpacks with sleeping mats and pots and pans dangling behind them, as well as their flowing skirts, wooden jewelry, and musical instruments…(in contrast to their Chilean counterparts who shared the same lifestyle preferences but attired themselves in Goth and punk styles and preferred heavy metal to strings).

Happy New Year’s! After a traditional Argentinian asado (excess quantities of grilled meat) and lots of wine!

Hot and hungover, we struggled through the havoc wreaked by the rainy season on an area with very little vegetation and plenty of sand. At one point we passed through the remnants of a mud/landslide that extended more than a kilometer.

The original houses in the area were built with soil roofs. Many of them have been abandoned, leaving the remnants of their roofs trickling down the walls.

What the Valles had to offer in the way of grocery stores.

This friendly gentleman serenaded us while we ate lunch on a pile of sand in the middle of thorn bushes.

The days were blazing, there was no shade, the road was steep and rough in places, the mountains were beautiful, and we were happy.

Stealth campsite in our own private valley

Did I mention hot and dry, steep and rough? No person nor vehicle in sight. We soaked in our sweat and soaked up the tranquility.

Influenced by their French, Italian, and Spanish ancestors, Argentinians traditionally drank wine at meal times, a custom that is slowly fading but still retained in the price and availability of table wine, which can be found in just about every corner shop and frequently purchased at less than a dollar per liter. The wine-growing regions begin in the province of Salta and extend all the way into Patagonia (one of whose few wineries has chosen the name “Winery at the End of the Earth”).

Absolutely amazing riding

One of those houses of adobe and thatch from a forgotten time. Its inhabitants live in a forgotten present. I think they, far more than their Patagonian compatriots surrounded by commercialized tourism and chain supermarkets, should be described as living at the end of the earth.

This incredible shop in Cafayate was called ‘La Ultima Pulperia,’ loosely translated as ‘The Last General Store.’ With its extensive collection of spices in jars, grains and beans and dried vegetables and fruits in sacks, and dusty bottles on the disorganized shelves, it was definitely the last general store of its kind. In the classic fate of the untouched town “discovered” by tourism, Cafayate was overrun with overpriced tourist restaurants and shops, as well as the aforementioned hitchhikers. La Ultima Pulperia was a haven of tradition that refused to change with the times. I purchased local artisanal goat cheese (at six dollars a pound) from a warm and foggy former refrigerator case.
 

Hand-spun yarn hanging in the window.

Cycling through endless kilometers of vineyards on the way out of Cafayate.

The pre-cordillera is cactus land, but a long time ago someone realized the mountains were full of water and built canals to transport and distribute snow run-off, transforming substantial parts of the desert into thriving agricultural areas.

The reconstructed ruins of Quilmes. The original inhabitants were defeated by the Spaniards in the 17^th century and forced to walk more than 1000 km to an area near Buenos Aires where they were resettled. Currently some of their descendants are engaged in a land battle with the government, which granted rights to a developer to put in the swimming pool seen on the right.

We quickly and easily adopted the Argentine mate-drinking habit (though they generally don’t often drink it squatting in the dirt). There’s nothing better after a rainy day than setting up camp in a quiet forest, heating water (to somewhere between 80 and 83 degrees Celsius, depending on whose mate rules you are following), passing around the mate, and feeling yourself slowly reenergized, warmed, and invigorated.

First glimpses of snow on the high Andes.

Tradition still rules in the north, and while a use for animal skins didn’t immediately present itself, I couldn’t get enough of the fresh goat cheese, not to mention that a loaf of bread to accompany it cost 50 cents.

I became somewhat obsessed with road signs, in part because of the many LONG monotonous distances in Argentina. Every village or town was announced with an ‘Urban Zone’ sign and also bid adieu to with an ‘End Urban Zone’ sign. But just what qualified as urbanity, I wondered…

…looking back at the Urban Zone that I had just left.

  Horses are not uncommon in urban zones.

In the middle of nowhere.

Argentina is HUGE (the world's 8th-largest country). And EMPTY.

Along an 80+km stretch of nothing...

The first time I really began to understand what all the blank spaces on the Argentinian map meant, I wasn't quite sure what to do. Where would I camp? How could I carry enough water? The only other places I’d cycle-toured were West Africa, where villages are a dime a dozen, and Japan, one of the countries with the highest population density in the world. However, I soon warmed to the idea of camping in the middle of NOWHERE – the stars were breathtaking! – and added extra water bottle cages.

Argentina is all about landscapes…