Fascist fries for firefighters

Who needs tattoos

 Here I am in Salta, lazing around in my first big city since Cordoba, taking a break from the road to and trying to take in one last bit of Argentina before heading for Bolivia, where the empanada situation has yet to be determined. Having reached this far north, it appears the rainy season has officially begun. Like clockwork, the storms kick in right around dinnertime, flooding the streets in minutes. Rumor has it this storm system stretches across northern Argentina, over the Andes in southwestern Bolivia, and cuts out somewhere halfway into Peru. The locals are telling me the rain lasts well into February, if not longer, which means I´m looking at a very wet couple of months ahead of me. I for one welcome the change in climate. The heat, sunburns, and chapped lips have been taking their toll.

Taking a few days break in a town or a city is quite a difference from spending hours a day on the road. Time moves a lot slower when you´re on the saddle, with seconds turning into minutes, days turning into weeks, and so on and so forth. This is by no means a bad thing, as it gives you a chance to take in every sight and every sensation of each environment on the route. I´m always surprised by the fact that I´ve only spent two weeks on the road. The long days on the bicycle makes it feel like it´s taken months to get to this point.

 As always when I reach a town, I head for the nearest firestation for a place to stay. This time around, the bomberos weren´t ready for my arrival and told me to come back the next day when they were less busy. This meant a hostel stay, another first since Cordoba. After weeks sleeping on rocks with a punctured sleeping pad and taking midnight dumps in scorpion country, I felt like I was checking into a five star hotel. The host gives me sheets, a towel, and since I smell like piss urine, points me in the direction of the nearest shower. The water is hot...another first in a long time.

Taking a break is blast...for a bit. I tend to eat a lot of crap when I´m on the road; cans of lentils, rotten apples, freezer pops, pasta with nothing but a little bit of olive oil and salt. With butcher shops and a refridgerator close at hand, all these little conveniences mean I can fill my stomach with some substance. Lomo...french fries...lomo covered in french fries and palta and pimienta and cebolla. And since I´m getting so close to Bolivia, the produce is getting a lot more diverse...and cheaper. Por ejemplo, today I bought a kilo of figs for $2.50 USD. Now I just have to figure out what to do with a kilo of figs.

Hostel stays put a lot of things in context. Meeting with so many fellow travelers from other parts of the world gives me a chance to compare my own experiences with other folks that aren´t traveling by bicycle. For the most part, other travellers make their journey across the continent using the vast bus system that connects the numerous cities of South America together. One can jump from Salta to Rio de Janeiro in a few days or so. I can´t say I don´t envy the speed in which all these "backpackers" traverse the country. A journey that takes me two and a half weeks is but a day long bus trip for the vast majority of hostel residents. On top of it, they get to punctuate each one of their day trips with warm beds and hot showers.

The other method for getting cross country is hitch-hiking, which appears to be sort of a rite of passage for a lot of university students from Buenos Aires. Pretty much every town on ruta 40 and 68 is filled with college kids from the big city looking for a ride to the next big tourist spot. Tis the season for hitch-hiking. School is out for the next few months and despite the heat, people want to spend as much time as possible outside.

DROP ACID, CHILDREN!!!!!

Spending a day in the life of your average "backpacker" is quite a difference from my daily experience on the bike. For one, everyone speaks English, and after two weeks of speaking stilted español, I can finally articulate all the crazy notions that´ve been bubbling inside my head for the past couple of weeks. And it´s a chance to exchange useful information about the places you´ve been to and where to head next.

Franciscans getting fancy at the Church of St. Francis

But despite all the luxuries and social interactions that come with a hostel stay,  it´s simply not the same as being on the open road and staying with families. This was discussed at length with Craig, Jason and Sonja back in Pagancillo. The whole point of traversing the globe in a bicycle is to take your time, relish every moment, and more importantly, connect with the environment and the people. You never really know a place until you talk and share a meal with someone who´s lived there their whole life (or maybe a few years).

Though hostels give one a chance to relax, I feel like they ultimately deprive a person of an integral aspect of a journey. They are like little embassies that displace travelers from the environment and locals. For me, with all the amenities and the english speakers that hostels have to offer, these sanctuaries are like going back home for a short period of time and resume the same patterns of interaction that one would have in his/her motherland. Sure, I may be speaking with French folks or hitch hikers from Buenos Aires, and as fun as it is to hang out with other extranjeros, it´s far from an immersion experience.

Province State Theater

The day I checked out of the hostel was the day I promised to hang out with two Brazilians and a French tourist for a walk around Salta. After dropping my stuff off at the firestation, we continue on our way to the central plaza. The situation was hard to maintain. We could only speak spanish to each other and we were all equally challenged in that regard. Still recovering from my ride the day before, I was ravenous for any food I could get my hands on, so I basically stopped at any and all kiosks on the way, eating everything from a tub of ice cream (which I shared) to a huge bag of kettle corn and a novelty-sized bag of cheetos. At first, my new amigos were amused by my antics, but I think they began to get a bit concerned as soon as I brushed off my second hot dog. Their worries were well founded, for my second hot dog turned out to be only half cooked and quickly began to ravage my stomach, but not before I finished the damn thing out of spite. Hunger is a fatal weakness of mine. If something´s smothered in mayo, butter, and ketchup, I´m going to eat that shit no matter how much it makes me want to throw up.

Check it out, they got fresh trucks from the States

I tried to follow the crew for as long as I could, but the hot dog was taking it´s harsh toll and I had no choice but to return to my new home at the firestation. I recovered instantly and went out in search of more food...fresh food. I wanted to try my luck with french fries so I bought out the nearest verduleria of all their papas and spent the next couple of hours frying that shit for myself and the bomberos. As it turns out, I´m a damn fine fascist fry maker. I was impressed by my work, and so were my firefighter amigos. My fries tastes better than Morm-n-Out.

Chilling with firefighters brings me back to what this trip is all about: overcoming language barriers, making hella tasty food, and sharing your work with locals. More so, it´s about getting out of your comfort zone, stepping into a world outside your own, and forming good bonds with people living half way across the globe. At the end of the day, I´ll do just fine with a smelly sleeping bag and a punctured sleeping pad as long as I´m meeting all these great folks.

Juan Antonio Alvarez de Arenales - known for invading
pretty much every country in South America