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