Cafayate

Salta-Alemania, Sunday

It wasn’t beautiful in the beginning and I wondered if I had brought grey skies and dismal urban landscapes with me. It was cool and overcast grey skies filled the clouds. I said my goodbye to the innkeeper and asked him which route he preferred to connect to Ruta 40—go to Ruta 33 and then head through a mountainous Ruta 40 to the south of Salta, or take 68 South until it caught up with Ruta 40 in Cafayate. The owner new the roads well because his son ran mountain bike excursions in the area. He said it was brutal climbing and Ruta 40 was tierra in the mountains and there were passes in excess of 4000 meters and there was nothing—no water, no food, nothing. I considered 150km of such riding and considered the weather (overcast and cool and threatening to rain) and the time of day (9:45 a.m.) and that I didn’t remember Moraline’s description of such a section close to Salta. It sounded like a great day ride. It sounded like a great challenge if it was the only way through. But it was out of the way and Ruta 68 to Ruta 40 would get me to Patagonia more quickly.

Soon the landscape opened up and mountains flanked me to the East and West as I rode South. It was very pretty but the Indians didn’t seem friendly and many ignored my hellos and well-wishings. I bought ham, cheese, bread, and water at a small tienda in Corelel Moldes for $15 pesos—premature, I thought, but it was Sunday, and what if that was the last store? At around  4:30 it began to drizzle and I passed a hospedeja in La Vina in a farm house and inquired but the man said he could not find anyone to run the place. I rode on, realizing I had until 7 before sundown. I was now in Valles Calchaquies and could see the Rio de los Conchas. Huge mountain faces began to appear from the Andes. It was suddenly spectacular. This must have been what Moraline spoke of. I stopped by some heavily touristed Pousada and though it couldn’t hurt to ask to camp there. The woman—European—seemed flustered at my question but said she could give me a bed for 240 pesos, about 4 times the normal price for a bed. Spanish speaking tourists flocked around my bicycle and I gave a short lecture and then rode on, angry that the white women was selling the Indian’s cheese and refusing to let a cyclist camp. Fuck her, I thought to myself, fuck that bitch.

I hugged the opposite side of the road, looking for a relief from the steep cliff that flanked the river. Finding one, I rolled my bike along the river bank, searching for a spot across the river to camp. I leaned the Bike Friday against a boulder and walked upstream and then crossed the river. As I looked into the green pasture I was spotted by two Indians. I realized the other side of the river abutted a farm—not a good place to be. Plus, my cover was blown. I walked back across the river, my feet now soaked and shoes filled with red sand, and rolled the Bike Friday back onto Ruta 68. The mountain became more startlingly huge and green and beautiful. Suddenly I entered a reserve area and the fences on either side of the road disappeared. I passed three wild mules that looked at my angrily. I passed 6 cows grazing off the side of the winding mountain road. I passed Alemania, a very small village on the river. I continued to look towards the river for a spot but soon saw a spot on the side opposite and rolled the bike slightly up hill. I realized this was part of a cattle grazing path but given the time of day—6:45—I believed the cows were done for the day and an early departure would avoid any bovine conflict. I set up camp quickly and pulled out my large fighting knife. I wiped down the body with a quarter bottle of water and towled off and ate the rest of the salami and cheese but saved some of the bread for the morning. A baby cow and larger cow eventually reached my area but did not graze close to the tent, preferring to moo in displeasure.

Alemania-Cafayate, Monday

 

Flanked on mountains on all sides, sun rising through the clouds and burning their greyness into what will soon be an intense blue.

I awoke at 6:30 yesterday morning to the noise of the small calf whose chest was covered in blood—barbed wire wounds, I suppose.

I packed my bags and moved my bowels, covering up the refuse with rocks. As I rolled the bike back on to the road, I noticed that the cows left more of a trace than did I.

I rode through canyons of brown and light blue and yellow and red and maroon and grey and tan and in skies covered with dark black and grey clouds and in skies pierced with clear strong sun and in blue skies free of water and in blue skies flanked with white clouds. I rode in stillness and heat and wind that pushed at my back as I continued my last twenty two famined kilometers into Cafayate.

I had sufficient water, always being cautious with the realization that dehydration can mean quick heat stroke and death. Yet I underestimated the desolation of the area. Each time I would see a sign—“empanadas ricos,” “quesos,”—I would stop and ask if they had something to eat or drink. In the two cases where there were inhabitants, they both told me there was nothing. There were 4 or 5 other signs along the way for artisanal cheese. I had eaten such cheese in Colombia on a tough, rainy day of climbing off the road side. I had imagined such a kiosk would save me. My hopes would raise as I would see a hand-painted sign for “Queso.” But each time my hopes would be shattered. There would be no one at the stall, or no one to come from a home even as I called. I began to distrust these signs. Even as I rode much closer to Cafayate, the wineries were closed as well. One could obtain no food or water from Alemania to Cafayate. This will be instructive to me as I continue with my ride. I will have two days of food and water with me.

When I arrived in Cafayate I found a large hostel for 30 pesos and was given the rooftop on which I camped for the night--the mountains and skies visible from a spectacular panorama. 

No on to Ruta 40, which will take me south to Tierra del Fuego.

Salta

I read the olds posts of Moraline's journey to Salta and I thought it was possible two men could be in the city at the same time yet never cross paths. I arrived here at 7 this mornign and took a cab for 11 pesos to a great hostel in a 19th century building and the cab driver stuck another car and knocked off his side view mirror and I tipped him 4 pesos for his troubles. I dropped off my gear (way too early for check in) and sought out to look for possible shoes, shorts, cassette, and chain. I found all these things quick. I'll wait to Mendoza, though. Patagonia is no joke, but to Mendoza I can risk it. Need new chain and cassette after that, and the shoes are 3 years old and in 1200km we'll see. But I'll drop cash for gear. A rich man can buy often. But a man of modesty buys infrequently but buys well.

Salta is beautiful and rugged in parts. The center is European but there are plenty of spots with only dark skinned people with little money. I sought out these places and ate a dinner menu for 20 pesos with a bean and meat stew and a chicken slab with ravioli. I walked upstairs to the central market and only indians ate in the intense heat. I ordered a beer and watched the indians harass other indians to come to their establishment. I drank my beer and watched the game. The girl wanted 18 pesos for the liter and I let her have it but I paid anyway. It's 10 pesos at the grocery.

Earlier I ran for 45 minutes in 34 degrees. I did knee raises, dips, and pull ups and began to feel stronger.

I fixed my belt with glue and glued the pannier I had fixed earlier with a bolt. I washed my jeans, shirt, and running shorts in the shower and then put them on and they were dry soon.

The women here are astoundingly beautiful, both dark skinned and light. I'm a bitter man who needs solitude so it's hard to be nice to even beautiful women. Yet Salta is a great place. I didn't ride my bike here but I did a good run in the heat and used the jungle gym as a workout I found the most crowded place filled with Indians and ate my dinner and drank my beer with them. I then found a crowded grocery and waited in line with the Indians. I know the white people of Argentina are easy. I know they would like me. I know the Indians either hate me or distrust me. So I go to them. Why make it easy. Patagonia wants to kill me, why not be with similar humans. 

I took no photos.

Argentina

Rode over 5km to border check at Paraguayan side of river across from Concepcion, Paraguay, to Posadas, Argentina.  Most people passed in cars without any issue, yet I was stopped. Where was my stamp that showed my entrance into Paraguay. I told the man that I searched for police and military at the border crossing but no one would stop and inspect me. I told the man I looked for both the Brazilian and Paraguayan military forces to ensure my correct entrance, yet no one was there to protect the border. He asked me if I knew of the large edifice at the border crossing in which I was supposed to surrender upon my crossing. I did not know of the surrender procedures. I looked across the river. So fucking close. I could run across the bridge in less than 5 minutes in peak condition. I could cycle across the bridge in maybe 2-3 minutes. The man walked with me over to an office, leaving the border completely unprotected. To leave the border unprotected on account of an American cyclist--I knew this must be serious. The man gave my passport to another man. The man looked at the visa stamps, he looked at my information. He paged through the passport. He pretended to look at a computer. The other man walked back to his post to protect the border. I demanded credit for my obtaining the Paraguayan visa a great cost and effort. I demanded credit for making it through Ciudad de Este alive in the dense and dangerous traffic and in the hot sun and soot of the air. I demanded credit and recognition for cycling all the way to the border crossing on a circus bike and heavy bags and in the last days in 35 degree heat and sun with no shade due to the agri-business. Did he know of the dangers and my struggles? Why did he let the motorists pass? Ah, were they preparing a festival in my honor, was this some sort of a trick for the surprise party. I hoped the surprise party would have fresh fruit and the yerba mate with the mint served cold. That would be refreshing in the heat.

Sadly the officials did not want to learn about my great struggles and my travels. They did not want to discuss racks and bags and gear and saddle sores. They just knew that had me, some dumb gringo who had clearly done something wrong. They could detain me. They could fine me. They knew it. They just didn’t know what to do in all the excitement. It was tantalizing beyond their wildest dreams. I told the man that many of my friends had passed these borders and never had a hear of a problem. I told him I had a blog and he walked away and said “no acredito” and I though he was to search for this blog on the internet. I looked at a sign behind the man and it said “primary fine: 197,000 G.” Ah, I was at the primary fine station. This is where they collected $45 from idiots due to a set-up in Cuidad de Este where it was impossible to obtain an entrance stamp. At the exit, it was impossible not to get an exit stamp. It made no difference—I had already invaded. I had already penetrated the Paraguayan borders. Why not congratulate me on my efforts and allow me to freely escape? In a boat I would be spotted. They would sink my boat. I could not safely swim underwater with the bike Friday. Plus, I had seen from my run yesterday that the beaches were heavily monitored. I had no choice but to deal with the officials.

The man told me I had two choices: Return to Ciudad de Este and obtain the entrance stamp or pay a $45 fine here. I told the man that to cycle back to Cuidad de Este would be 8 days round trip and in the sun this did not seem practical or appealing. The man went back inside the primary fine office and spoke to an older, heavy set woman. He returned and spoke more about the $45 dollar fine. I told him that if I had to pay it, I had to pay it. No, no, he said, I didn’t understand. The woman came out. No, no, there is an opportunity to pay a $20 fine. Ah, this is even better. I gave the woman a $20 bill. She returned my passport with a special stamp. I showed the special stamp to the man guarding the border and I knew I had one more obstacle. He had told me earlier it was prohibited to cycle across the bridge. I had to use the colectivo. I told him earlier that I had cycled across many bridges, but he was guarding the border and would not grant me access to the bridge. Fortunately, a colectivo arrived at that moment and I was able to place the rig into the center of the bus. A man came to collect a 6000G bus far fee for the 3 minute ride. I made friends with a two men on the ride and told them I was to take another colectivo to Salta and then ride the Patagonia per Moraline’s orders. Moraline provides orders on the internet, I told them, and I purchase folding bikes and carry out these missions. Do you know if his missions? The man asked me if I liked Argentinean women? Yes, very much I told him. He said they didn’t have the big asses of the Brazilians and used his hands to draw the shape of the huge asses of the Brazilians. He pointed to the woman sitting next to me and said that she was a Brazilian. She was sitting and so I could not make out the shape of her ass.

We crossed the bridge and reached the border and the Argentineans were orderly, warm, and welcoming and smiled at me and were delighted to hear of my mission. Across the Patagonia on a bicycle? Loco. Me, I would never do such a thing. And due to my bicycle and the special welcome and the smiles, no one wanted to inspect the bicycle. I just rolled it right on in and to the smiled of the border officials I rode out of immigration and into Posadas, a hot and sunny and beautiful day with the friendly city welcoming the tires of my circus bicycle.

I began to climb up a small hill and spotted a part with equipment. Ah, just like Brasil—I can conduct muscle-strengthening exercises. No pullup bar, but I was able to use one of the jungle gyms with bent knees to perform pullups. I was weak and my abdominal muscles were weaker. I did dips, knee raises, and modified pull ups. I wore my cycling gloves as the heat of the metal was intense. A woman at a nearby bus stop gazed at my conduct and smiled approvingly. To feel such love, to feel such welcome. Would I soon find a woman? In Argentina they are tall and feminine and shine God’s beauty through a special warm sunlight imported from rare, happy places.

I then set off to find Avenida Bolivar where my hostel was to be situated. As I rode I noted a long line in front of the Bank of Argentina and a large pile of bread in front. The American phrase, ‘Where’s my bread, motherfucker?” came to mind. Yet the bread was to keep the masses happy. Please, take a roll, stabilize your blood sugar as you wait in the hot sun with your umbrella before we tell you we cannot give you any money. Take this bread in exchange for currency. A passed a large metal statue of a man pouring hot water into his yerba mate vessel. He was a worker, and workers worked near the statue working slowly, pacing themselves in the heat. No need to work too quickly in this heat. I myself know this. One must work in great moderation. One must close one’s shops from 12-4:30 due to the heat.

I arrived in the hostel and exchanged pleasantries with the staff. I told of my travels and my expectation to ride the Patagonia and as I discussed my desire to locate a drill a young man, Tomas, offered to drive me to his workshop at 1:45 in the afternoon and there we could repair my bag and not too far from his workshop was the bus terminal where I could purchase my ticket. I wandered the streets looking for a large box but all the shops were closed due to the moderation of work from between 12-4:30. Tomas arrived on time and I threw my bike in the back of his car and hopped in the back of the truck for a 5km ride through the city. The back of a truck is an excellent way to feel the air of a city and see its inhabitants. We arrived at the workshop and an old man—Vito, the owner of the shop and a family friend—matched my bolt to his drill bit. We widened the hole in the pannier and then Tomas and Vito went to work applying the bolt. I had assumed that I was to perform this relatively easy procedure—and given my familiarity with the pannier, I was the most qualified. But they wanted to display their craft and it was thrilling to watch the two work together. The interior of the workshop was a wearhouse space with stacks of wood, woodworking equipment, saws, and unfinished cabinets. In front the beautiful hand worked and hand carved furniture was displayed. I thanked both of the men for their help and Tomas told me he had travelled Asia and Australia and Europe for 2 years and he knew of the importance of helping a voyager. I rode to the bus station as a grass fire burned nearby. I purchased the ticket to Salta for 565 pesos. I rode back to the center of the city and noted its still beauty in the summer heat and beside the river.

I went to the nearby market and asked for cardboard. Earlier, a pharmacy had given me several small boxes but they were not adequate. I patched together the larger boxes from the supermarket with tape but the affair was embarrassing and I did not impress my spectators as I had in Nice with the Swedish man at Hotel Cronstadt. It was a messy and unstable affair, and Tomas’ mother told me my bicycle would be safe and why take it apart and box it. Looking at the ramshackle of boxes patched together haphazardly, I wash ashamed and defeated. Yet Moraline had spoken of the dangers of no box. Christ, I hoped the bicycle and bags would not be robbed.

This is an Argentine reggae group, Los Cafres, playing in the hostel in which I am staying. The hostel is a small, family run joint run by Tomas' mother.They have very popular videos on You Tube, but their live album is what I heard. They play in Corrientes tomorrow--a pity, as I am passing through Corrientes today but must continue to the Patagonia.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66zO9Fkb_Z4

The ruins in Trinidad, Paraguay. The locals sell tickets for what is basically an a dilapidated Goldman Sachs building constructed in the 15th century to colonize the area.

As I took this photos, fire ants attacked my feet. I was standing on a mound.

The nondescript beach of Encarnacion overlooking the river.

This is a perspective of a more modern, built up section of Encarnacion. The interior consists of older, more charming structures.

Argentina across the river.

In Tomas's truck.

The finished furniture.

Vito, Tomas, and Tomas's friend

I should have taken off my shirt as well.

Paraguay

The last two days of riding have been brutally hot with brutal sun--35 degrees and no shade and humidity. My arms and neck and face and head are burnt. Yet when I make it to the place to sleep each night I forget about the oven.

The last two days have been a mix of orderly, large agri-business fields of soybeans, canola and corn, and small pueblos. The European settlements are prosperous while other settlements are terribly poor.

On Saturday I passed a stretch of road with ramshackle wooden shanties and metal and plastic sheet roofs. These families had nothing. It is one thing to see the humble farm homes, but another to see people living off the side of the road. The farmland was fenced off—large, agribusiness with signs identifying seed and fertilizer. Were they migrant families? If so, why did they have electric hookup and why did some of them have wells? Some NGOs helping them out? Fucking miserable to see this. I faked a cheerful oam-pah as I passed and people cheered back. But jesus, I thought, this is fucking terrible. Fucking awful. One thing to be a humble farmer but another thing to be a squatter.

I rode in the heat and no music. 6 water bottles, one of them began a sugary orange juice which I later diluted. The head and the humidity and the rolling hills were an intense challenge. Moraline speaks of the ripio—I tell him now: if there were ripio today I would quit. I’m having enough gear trouble as it is on smooth road, and the heat murdered me today. And then to see the poverty, jesus Christ the poverty.

I rolled into town—my second day of finding sleep in a Paraguayan town—and the cities are not laid out in a square but are splayed out on either side of the highway. To find hotels, you take a gamble with the approaching side or you ride through the center and take the ones at the end. I take the ones at the end, and try to get one or two streets in. The young man at the counter spoke in fast Castillian and didn’t want to give me a break. Yes, he won—my Spanish is bad and my listening comprehension is poor. I hope he feels satisfied that he proved this.

The price was 70,00 G, or $17. The room was decently clean but the wastepaper basket in the toilet had used toilet paper in it. A single sheet lay on the mattress. Tile floors.

When I arrived the young man was intrusive and not aware of my wearied state. He wanted much information of me and even though it was clear my Spanish was weak he would not slow down or try Portuguese. He took a photo of my bicycle with his cell phone. He had me pull out my camera to take a picture—he then asked me if I had a cable to download the photo and I told him it was deep in my bags. He then told me to sit down to speak to him. He spoke too quickly and I understood nothing. I pointed to my map and he said more things I didn’t understand. He asked me if I wanted some water. Finally I was able to take my bicycle in my room—not before he rode the bike down the hallway, experiencing the awkwardness of the loaded rig. I imagined Moraline’s knifing this kid’s throat. “You touch my bike you die.” I showered and hit up the market. Water and food are of first importance upon arrival—a restaurant later. I picked up apples, oranges, water, beer, milk, crackers, and orange juice in two trips. A man—maybe the neighbor, maybe the owner—was far more calmer with me. Perhaps the son was just a dumb fucking punk with no manners. As I left to get some dinner the son rode in on his motorcycle and gave me a friendly hello. Maybe both of us were just too awkward upon meeting, but the main thing is that I am a paying customer and he is the hotel fella—he’s gotta do a better job in such an international place like Paraguay. Speak slow and simple, fella, and you’d be surprise how much Spanish your customers know.

As I walked outside on the brown, dirt-covered cobblestone streets, the sun hit me hard and ate into my already burned arms and face. It was a strong sun, but the agriculture here loved it. They grow it all—soybeans, corn, canola—and large agribusiness has taken its roots.

I sat down at a hamburger stand and ordered a liter of beer, a hamburger, and an empanada. I had already crushed two small cans of beer in my room. It was fine fast food and I passed time speaking to the man and woman owners of the joint. They spotted me at the cyclist who had ridden by earlier and wanted to know about my travels. They were good and fair people and my bill was 21,000 for the burger, the liter of beer, and the empanada—just less than 5 bucks in total.

I swung by the grocery for some erva mate. The Paraguayan erva mate is far superior to the Brasilian erva mate. It consists of flakes of the leaves of the erva mate plant rather than a powder of the plant with many particles of stem. The latter makes it narly impossible to drink in a chimmarao with a bomba. The former makes it pleasant. In addition, the flavor is markedly richer and greener.

At the first market I saw a man with terrible deformed bare feet. There is great poverty here—and a great disparity of wealth and poverty. I expected to see this in Brasil, and perhaps this is what they speak of in the North of Brasil. I am cooked by the sun. I am nursing a 200ml flask of aguardiente.

Moraline asked me which I preferred: wind or rippio. Now it must be wind. Wind is a physical struggle and it doesn’t destroy gear or ruin one’s ass. Wind is just hard, like climbing. Yet I remember the wind of Oregon and how I barely moved. The wind of which Moraline speaks is worse.

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Contrasts: Dick Proenneke, independent, watches out for himself, skilled, lives a long life, and then the squatters who are totally fucking helpless and clueless, totally fucking ignoran of everything. They have to have someone else drill them a well, they do not cut down their own trees and make their own lumber, they have to have someone jery-rig them electricity, they cannot make or hunt their own food. I want to say it is the state, but according to some it is the colonial powers who, using violence, killed away the ancient ways of these people. Fucking horrible.

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Sunday:

It was a roasting-hot 35 degrees and brutal sun. The young man’s mother made me “café” in the morning, but it was hot milk served with bread rolls-delicious and exactly what I needed. I drank erva mate in the morning and, again, the Paraguayan version is superior and easy to drink. The riding again consisted of difficult rolling hills with no shade in the intense sun whatsoever. In 60 or 70 degrees one could hammer these miles—but in the humidity, the sun, and the heat, one withers. I took to the road at 10 and by 1 I needed a cold drink. I walked into a small store and saw empenadas and pointed to a carne empanada and a cola and sat down. As it was served, I spied a buffet in the center of the establishment.  “You have a buffet?” I asked. Indeed, for 34,000 G—about 10 dollars (on the high end of the Brazilian spectrum), I could eat. She took away the empanada and I dug into the buffet—which, on its own was perhaps worth the money. Especially in the heat, and especially given the poor quality of food I had been eating as of late. But it was more than a buffet. The young men came by with spits of meat-chicken, pork, beef. I only accepted small portions, but the grilled meat and the salads and cola restored me in the shade of the restaurant. A young boy attempted to attack the Bike Friday three times but each time the Bike Friday was rescued by the boy’s brothers and sisters. I can only imagine Moraline’s trying to kill the 2 year old child. German families sat in large numbers eating.

Despite the rest and the food, the remainder of the ride was difficult and grueling in the sun. I learned I must apply a second coat of sun block mid-day—a heavy morning application does no good past 1 in this sun and heat.

The moods of the cities began to brighten from industry and poverty to agri-business and prosperity. German towns began to appear and the homes began to improve in condition.

It was 4:45 when I finally reach the city of Trinidad, sunburned and at the cusp of heat stroke. Yet there was nothing. I had seen a hotel earlier near some 15^th century Jesuit ruins, but where was the city and why did Hector recommend I stay here. After 3 attempts at directions, I cycled through the cobblestones and was led back to the hotel near the ruins. On the way women and high school girls danced together in a large ceramic and concrete barn to folk music.

They wanted 200,000 G—I had already paid 70,000 for the last two nights, and Hector had told me he paid 50,000 in the larger cities. I incredulously asked for an explanation. She said they were the only place in town and this was an historic location. It was true—the site is important for people who care about Jesuit ruins, and it is situated in a beautiful and pastoral town and one cannot complain about the settings. I asked for a cheaper room and she said she had something for 130,000—still $30, still on the high end of what I would have paid in Brasil, still almost twice the price of a good room in Paraguay. Walter—born in Holland, lived in Brasil, Europe, been here for 20 years, hotel for 8. White German wife. Eats berries from tree every morning. Just had bad moto wreck in Argentina.

Water and his underground shelter. He has been planning for 5 years. Alignment of pyramids with stars. G8 countries all have their missiles pointed at comet or asteroid. Parts of it will hit other countries. China is the sleeping dragon, will take over world. Iran, North Korea, Venezuela.

Walter’s compound has food, water, and a bicycle that generates electricity. There are huge, vast spaces of semi-desert in Paraguay where there are no roads but only salt flats. The US has huge underground bases under these salt flats and also has large air fields. There are areas where your car and cellphone will suddenly stop working if you try to approach.