Covered in dust

 It´s kind of difficult to bang out some articles in an internet cafe that´s been blasting the same Brazilian/Euro-techno trash track for the past twenty minutes, it´s kind of throwing me off. Trying to drown it out with some Rick James. We´ll see how well I do.

After a quick hub fix in La Cumbre, I was off on the road once again, this time for good. All the wheels were rolling the way they should be, and the gradual descent from La Cumbre along ruta 38 was the perfect way to start the journey. With red sandstone rock formations to the west and steep green mountains to the east, I found myself biking along a carefully weaving tight-rope of two very different micro-climates divided by the road. Very much the same feel of a more verdant New Mexico, what with all rising canyonlands and numerous homages to aliens and flying saucers. Definitely bat country.

My first destination was Cruz del Eje, and with no intention of spending another night in a hostel with other tourists, it was time for some stealth camping along the river, which is not very risky business in this country seeing that no one really seems to care. In the morning, I got some help from Roberto and his amigos with finding an alcohol stove and fuel for free. These guys were great, true kings of the club, and by club I mean gas station.

After the pleasant ride down from La Cumbre the day before, I thought I´d be in for more of the same. Unfortunately, the rest of ruta 38 turned out to be absolute crap. I was looking at a good 200 km or so of the flattest, shrubbiest, dustiest stretch of road I´ve seen since Fresno. It was shit. I hated it and I won´t dedicate anymore words to it except that it gave me heat stroke and I had to spend two days recovering in Chamical, at which point all the power went off in town because it was too damn hot.

Ruta 38 - behold the charred walls of the damned

The one oasis of humanity along the way was Castro Barros, a small town 17 km into La Rioja province. I pulled into town in desperate need for water right when the sun was setting. Full of boarded up antique buildings straight from the 19th century, Castro Barros had the outside appearance of an old western ghost town, yet as I started refilling my water supply at a school spigot, the town started coming to life with kids riding up and down the streets on mopeds or horses.

Soon, I was invited over for dinner by a family of truck drivers who shared with me their cheese, meat, bread, beer and stories. One of the sons, Daniel, a part time history teacher, gave me the inside scoop of the old town over dinner. His hometown used to be a major hub for all kinds of cultivation, producing anything from watermelons to smaller melons to yerba. As soon as the government discontinued running train routes through the province in the 60´s, the local economy quickly went south. If that wasn´t enough, the government restricted the town´s water supply to a pittance, thus sealing the fate of a once thriving cultivating community. Those that chose to remain became subsistance farmers, drawing what little water they can find from local wells and surviving on little more than a few acres of yerba, some chickens, pigs and donkeys. Daniel tells me this is how a good portion of the populace of La Rioja is living these days, and despite the socialist overtures from the likes of PM Kirchner, the folks of Castro Barros and other small towns are fighting for every drop of water they can get their hands on. Nunca cambio.

I wish the rest of my way down ruta 38 was as enlightening as it was with my family in Castro Barros, but the rest of the road continued to be grueling flatland with no interesting sights for another day and a half or so. On the way to Chamical, the thermometer reached 43 celsius (roughly 109 degrees in American) and I could feel the first effects of heat stroke begin to set in. Luckily I reached Chamical before I was grounded and managed to find a place to stay, but not before all the power went off in town due to the extreme heat (44.5 celsius in the afternoon).

After two days of rest, it was time to continue on the final leg of ruta 38 to Patquia, then onto ruta 150. Again, the day was more of the same lame flat bullshit for hours on end. Then, right around sunset and when I couldn´t take anymore of this endless flat crap, I see this obscene mountain of green materialize out of the dusk haze, and for the first time in hundreds of kilometers, I start climbing! I soon find myself in the strange desert/jungle hybrid that is Paganzo, a small town of only two large families. Once again, I managed to find a place to stay on a stranger´s property.

The next day, I was eager to make it to Talampaya, a national park of great renown and recommended by many an amigo. It completely skipped my mind that the day was Christmas eve and pretty much everything was closed, including the gate to cañon de Talampaya. The terrain looked exactly like Capitol Reef in Utah so I was really excited to do some hiking around and camping. Oh well, my bad. You tend to lose all sense of time and holidays on journeys like this.

My destination for the day changed from Talampaya to Pagancillo, and to my surprise I come across two American cyclists, Jason and Craig, and Swiss cyclist Sonja. Lodged in our shared cabaña, I find out these folks are on their last leg of their South American journey (Craig and Sonja started in Guatemala, Jason in Alaska). Over dinner, we shared stories, and by we I mean I just listened to all their amazing journeys, and stole their route through Peru.

It was hard not to gaze upon their steeds without massive amounts of envy, for everything was hand made, stitched, and constructed from spare parts, garbage cans, and pant legs with the tenderness of a mother polar bear, custom made to meet their unique needs. Not a trace of REI stink was smelt. Real love was put into these rides, the kind of love that could only be forged after a year or two of traveling up and down South America (and North America in Jason´s case). And they manage to carry absolutely everything imaginable. That big plastic container on top of craig´s bike is a fuel can, which is stacked on a guitar. All three of these gauchos are carrying guitars. Not ukeles...guitars. And here I am thinking I had to leave the drums at home. But yeah, great advice from these folks...and they got a website.

Then, on the warmest Christmas day I´ve ever experienced, it was on to ruta 40 through the sierras de Sañogasta, a 4500 meter climb and a subsequent 4500 meter drop. This was not the easiest ride seeing that twenty percent of the road was sand and there was not a cloud in the sky for a brief reprieve from the sun. No matter, this place was fun, kind of like southeastern Utah but with parrots and Christmas cheer. Traffic was surprisingly dense, what with all the folks in the surrounding areas making the Christmas pilgrimage via taxi up to the shrines at the peak of the road. The drop down was the best and windiest biking I´ve experienced pretty much ever, and since I´ve yet to bike Peru I´m sure it´s not the last of it.

Some last good advice from Jason, Craig and Sonja: bomberos, or firestations, provide free lodging for travelers such as myself. Needless to say, once I reached Chilecito, I had to try out this theory for myself. Lo and behold, this advice turned out to be true, as I was welcomed with open arms by Francisco and Elena at Los Bomberos de Chilecito. This is great. In another day, I will be crossing the great Catamarca desert towards Salta, where I shall find more free lodging at firestations. For the first time in a while, I am heading directly North, which means I´m getting a little bit closer to home.

hell yeah

Feliz Navidad

Spent Christmas conquering a 4500 meter mountain pass and celebrating with two cans of lentils and a rotten can of tuna. Now my stomach is filled with malice and rage.

My plan is to spend a day or so in town to fix up a few things and rest the pistons. I´ll give all you folks back home an update as soon as I find a place to stay. Tons of great pictures on the way.

I´m off!

DreamCrusher flies again! I will see you folks in a few days. In the mean time, you can keep track of me using this map. See you later, La Cumbre.

Pure Evil

Albert Christ - every town should have one

It´s official: Christopher Hitchens is dead, Obama signed away due process for American citizens, the senate in all there wisdom is solving the deficit by passing more tax cuts, I have only three songs by Warren G with me, and I´m stuck in La Cumbre until monday. This is a weekend of pure evil.

Red meat

The bike mechanic told me I have to wait til monday, and he absolutely refused to let me have a go at the hub myself, so here I am, trekking around a random town that I was only supposed to pass through on my way to Ruta 38. Anytime a stop is forced on me like this, in means I have to pinch pennies to make up for lost time, which means I´m eating nothing but corn and lentils until my wheel gets fixed. For 5 pesos, it´s actually a pretty decent mix.

What to say about La Cumbre that hasn´t been said in my last post? I had the chance to go hiking around town and the mountains yesterday. That was fun and breathtaking and all that noise (they got a novelty-sized Albert Christ overlooking the town), but I find when I´m stopped in a place for too long, I get pretty anxious and want to get on the road while my leg muscles are still coarsing with the power of Satan.

Speaking of Satan, I finally opened up The Argentinian Reader, a history textbook donated by Evan and Sarah, and it´s loaded with fiendish tidbits about the evil origins of this country. My favorite section is a first hand account written by a German mercenary--a certain Ulderico Schmidt--in service of the Spanish crown. In 1554, he is dispatched to a very early colonial Buenos Aires.

The new European arrivals were welcomed enthusiastically by the native population. Every afternoon, the indigenous Argentinians paraded cartloads of honey, meat, and other delicious things into the European camp as a sign of friendship. The Spanish were not having a lot of luck collecting food on their own and wanted to see where the Argentinians were getting all this awesome grub, so one day they decided to follow their Argentinian benefactors back to their homes to see if they could find the source of all this abundance. Instead, they were quickly discovered, got their asses kicked, and sent back to their crappy colony in disgrace.

Ulderico wasn´t too keen on being disgraced in such a way, so the next day he and the rest of his buddies suited up for slaughter, marched to the Argentinian camp and murdered as many folks as they could. They didn´t even do a good job at that since so many Argentinians managed to escape the massacre and run to other villages to tell all the other tribes to avoid these crazy christians at any cost.

Without the daily parade of free food on behalf of the native folks, the Spanish colony quickly began to starve. A few Spaniards came to the realization that since they aren´t really using their horses, they might as will eat them. Well apparently, even when facing certain death at the hands of famine, eating one´s own horse is an executable offense, and so these fellas were quickly strung up. After a day or so dangling in the hot Argentine sun, the bodies started looking rather delicious to the rest of the colony. It was only a matter of time before someone started clipping off some toes or a hand or greedily making off with a whole thigh. Human flesh became the new craze amongst the inhabitants of the fledgling Buenos Aires, and it is here we find the origins of the famed asado tradition. Fortunately, no more horses were hurt.

The news of cannibalism spread to the native Argentinians, who according to Ulderico, assembled like Voltron and did everything they could to kick the crazy Spanish out. Since killing the invaders only increased the food supply for the remaining Spanish, the native folks finally managed to burn down the colony and force Ulderico and his pals to swim back to their homeland. Pure evil.

Alright, I´ve spent enough time at the computer. All this talk of devouring human flesh has made me absolutely ravenous. I´m heading to the public gallows to see if they have any fresh convicts strung up today. Wish me luck!

Always bring a cone wrench (updated)...

...because nobody wants to fix your busted wheel. Seriously. Everybody seems to hate performing a hub overhaul, seeing that it´s one of the more tedious fixes when it comes to a bike, and mechanics will invent a litany of excuses in order to get out of the task.

Somewhere between La Granja and Ascochinga, I start hearing that familiar ¨ping¨ coming from the back wheel that punctuates every full rotation. A few elimination tests confirm I have a busted ball bearing or possibly a pitted groove in my hub, and since I neglected to bring a cone wrench set with me (one of the more important items you can bring on a long distance journey like this), it means I have to find una tienda de bici.

After camping out in some kind of dual purpose horse pasture/soccer field, I rise early and head for the nearest shop approximately 35km away in La Cumbre, which means a harrowing 6000ft climb up some beautiful sierras before a quick descent to the other side of the mountains.

It is my first big climb with a full loaded bicycle, so needless to say, I´m granny-gearing most of the way to the top. Lucky for me, I was surrounded by some of the most prestine grassy mountainsides--pocmarked by the occasional granite protrusion or herd of cattle/horses--I´ve ever had the pleasure of passing through. It´s springtime here. Everything is beautiful, and all the sights offer a perfect distraction from muscle pain and busted rear hubs.

The quick descent into La Cumbre is coupled with the violent rhythm of a shattered ball bearing bouncing off the granite cliffsides all around me. I´m riding as hard as fast as possible since it´s Friday afternoon, which means it´s my last chance to catch an open shop before everything closes for the weekend. I roll into town in beast mode, passing all kinds of cars while frantically searching for the nearest open shop. The folks at the local ice creamery finally point me in the right direction.

Turns out I´m a little early. La Cumbre´s got a different schedule than most towns. As I soon find out, besides the supermarket and a few kiosks, nothing really opens until around five or six in the evening. It´s not so bad. I could think of worse places to be stuck, and plus this place has kind of the same feel as one of the countless Northern California coast towns along the highway 1.

One ice cream and a wedge of rockefort later, the ¨bike shop¨ opens, and as it turns out, it´s more of a strange combination of a a bunch of different shops, selling everything from top of the line Shimano hubs to fire crackers and crappy beer mugs. I´m not worried. The mechanic´s got all the right tools hanging up on his wall so I know he´s up to the task. Or so I thought...

As soon as a start tapping on my rear hub and telling him ¨this is broken¨ in my terrible Spanish, without even checking the rotation for himself, he´s already shaking his head and telling me ¨no, no, no¨. He takes the wheel off  and--spinning it in his hands--tells me "everything is perfect".

Now I´ve been in this situation before back in California, where I know something screwy is going on with my wheels but I can´t convince the mechanic to crack into the hub and take a look. They´re stubborn, these professional mechanic types. I´m generalizing here, but I find that most of the time bike mechanics are the polar opposite of car mechanics, in that they´ll try really hard to convince you that they´re nothing wrong with your bike. It´s the primary reason why I got into bike building and maintenance in the first place.

So, back to the La Cumbre guy, I tell him he´s not going to hear the problem if he doesn´t put any weight on the wheel. I beg him to take a quick ride, which he finally agrees to. He coasts up and down the street with the rear wheel clicking all the way. I think he finally knows something´s up. He pulls beside me and starts eyeing the rear wheel carefully. He takes it off, unscrews the lockring to the cassette, and just when I think he´s going to start working on the hub, he slaps on a new lockring and tells me "there, it´s fixed".


¨Would you like a box of buckshot with your new lockring?¨

He sends me on my way. I make sure he hears the rear wheel continue to click as I pretend to ride off. I return a few minutes later a tell him the noise is still there. He takes another ride, a much longer one this time.  He returns with a look of confidence and tells me it´s definitely my front hub. "What the hell" I say to myself as I agree to let him do a quick overhaul on my front wheel. I sure as shit haven´t regreased anything in there since I built the damn thing. He´s quick with it, but the end result is fantastic. I now have a freshly greased front hub and a back wheel that continues to click with every rotation.

Nothing was really solved yesterday. He promised to look at my bike again this evening, so I´m crossing my fingers and hoping the issue finally get´s solved. It´s rattling pretty bad in there, so I won´t be surprised if I have to buy a new hub if everything´s ripped to shit, which is kind of what I suspect. Moral of the story, bring cone wrenches and grease with you on a trip like this, because no one wants to fix your shit.

Anywho, looks like I´ll be in La Cumbre for another day or so, which gives me more time to work on some articles.

One last meal.

The perfect send off...Cordobian fajitas

Almost on the road

I should´ve started somewhere else, somewhere busy and miserable like Buenos Aires or Mexico City, because Cordoba is just one of those cities you can´t leave behind, the kind of place where you´ll think of all kinds of crazy excuses just to stay an extra day or so, which is kind of what I´m doing right now. Despite the language barrier, I´ve made friends here (locals and extranjero), dated wonderful ladies, and formed an intimate bond with the city streets via bicycle. This place has it all.

My daily routine consisted of going to language school from 8:30-12:30, during which time I pretty much spaced out and thought about cooking a bigger steak than the day before. Five pounds of cow for lunch was all I needed for a twenty mile sprint into the sierras. The mountains offer an entirely different landscape than the city. As soon as you get past the first toll on Ruta 55, you find yourself surrounded by steep peaks coated in all kinds of green craziness. The growth on the mountains seems young; the trees are small and spaced far apart from each other, yet the countryside has the look of unfettered wilderness, a land only occasionally bisected by a small dirt road or remote house.

It´s what I love most about this place. The city is around 3 million strong, yet all one needs to do is bike west for thirty minutes and you wouldn´t have a clue. No sprawling suburbs or vast fields of who knows what. Just untouched green hills and wide flowing rivers, the perfect temperature for a post-bike swim. The countless stray dogs are kind of a bummer, especially the few that charge after me and nip at the heels. When you´re not on two wheels however, they´re all really sweet.

But that´s enough about trees and animals and all that hippity dippity BS, because the key characteristic that makes this place unique is the people. I´ve had the pleasure of knowing and hanging out with some of the most amiable folks I´ve ever encountered in my travels, and I hate to say this so early in my journey, but it´s going to be hard to top the level of humanity and hospitality that Cordobans seem to personify. My friends here have been patient with my very slow progress in their mother tongue and are always quick to correct me after having a good laugh at my awful pronunciation. To spite them, I´ve taken to speaking Spanish with a thick southwestern accent. However, everyone seems to understand me a lot easier when I do this, which means my plans have back-fired once again. To top it off, I spent my last two weeks hanging out with the coolest lady in the city, but that story´s just between us.


Anywho, tomorrow the real journey begins. I´ll be heading for La Falda and then who knows. Carlos tells me to head northwest towards the national parks, which sounds like a plan. My blog updates will be more frequent once I´m on the road. I swear!