Subject :  Argentina: The North-west  

Date :  Thu, 19 Jul 2001

 I´m sending out this story from the city of Potosi, in Bolivia, at 4.100 above sea level. I really like to write. It gives me the opportunity to re-live my experiences. Also, it gives the the chance to share with you those experiences. Allthough, honestly, sometimes, with honourable exceptions, I get the impresion that I am sending out this mails to a bottomless barrel. I would love to receive indications that this is not falling down a black and frightening hole, as the ones I saw today, in the mines near this city, where hundreds of human beings live sunken in the depths of a mountain, with the darkness, arduous work and coca leaves as their sole company. How can our world be so beautiful and so cruel at the same time?? 

 ARGENTINEAN NORTH-WEST

 I leave Buenos Aires for good. I`m heading to the city of Rosario, where I want to visit the offices of the Motociclismo Erre motorcycle magazine, one of the largest in Latin America,hoping to sell them an article about my trips. No such luck, they do accept collaborations and will be happy to publish my story, but no cash will change hands. Thanking them and promising to send an article and the photos as soon as I`m back home, I head into my friends Guillermo Brown home, in Arequito, hoping to crash there for the night, getting a good rest to explore some of the roads of the Cordoba sierras the next day. 

 After so many kms. of paved, straight highways of the eastern provinces of Argentina, it is such a pleasure to ride the tight twisties of the small road that cruises by the shores of the embalses, man made lakes, in the heart of the Cordoba province and climbs to the low summits of the sierras. The curvy road ends at Alta Gracia, famous among other things, for having the house of Ernesto Che Guevara and the shop of Oreste Berta, the famous Argentinean racing car magician.

 I just spend a night in Cordoba city, after getting payment of a few sweaters I sold here last time. As early in the morning as the 8:37 a.m. sunrise allows and a sleepless night permits, I head out of the city and up the freeway that leads to the vacationing town of Carlos Paz, set in the shores of a beautiful lake. Then, deviate from the main road heading to Tanti and to some green line that in my map is marked as a dirt road.

 The moon surface looking slopes of the western sierras of Cordoba greet me and my bike with an unbelievable dirt road that ascends from the lake area and gets tighter and tighter. Takes me a while to get the hang of the dirt surface after so much time riding on tarmac. But after a while I`m flying up the hills and taking turns with my most elaborate dirt riding style. Oh boy, this is fun! The Dommy feels happy here. All the drawbacks and limitations she shows on the highway are forgotten and excused here. She behaves almost as a pure blood dirt bike, even with the huge amount of weight she`s carrying in the back. Did the Japanese engineers that designed this baby knew what she`s really capable of? I don´t think so, she looks so much as a street bike. Somebody up there decided to equip her with a pretty decent suspension and great Brembo brakes, and her XR heritage shows up on the dirt, she´s fun to ride fast even in she doesn´t like much to jump over things and I dislike to wheely her, or any bike for that matter, so is a fast low flying romance between the two of us.

 The road turns a bit wider. There are small sand banks at the sides of the road, of which I warn myself about. Watch it! After coming out of a wide turn, hard on the throttle, I go open a bit to much, get sucked out by a soft sand berm, the same sand I warned myself about a few turns back, and start looking how to save the crash. The sand gets me sideways, completely out of the road and into some nasty looking bushes. Somehow, I knew right that instant, that I was not crashing. The second I`m diving into the bushes I apply gentle right wrist, the bike straightens itself, protests with a spurt, and trusts herself out of the bushes, while leaves and spikes splash all over us. What a save! I curiously notice, that I`m not trembling with an adrenalin over dose, as usually happens after such an incident. It was a lucky get off and I thank God, of course. I keep riding hard, it is the best antidote for fear. There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.

 For the disappointment of the dirt rider in me, the road straighten up completely, going down into a deep valley. After a stop for a snack of cookies and mate, I join the main 15 highway heading north-west to the province of La Rioja. After enjoying yet another large stretch of straight highway, ( - On a long trip, you fell as the distance itself is actively calling you, atracting you  Jhon Berger ) I arrive by sunset in the city of La Rioja, where I have scheduled a Sunday brake (even Him didn`t work on Sunday) to rest and watch on the TV the car races and the final match of the world soccer junior tournament between Argentina and Ghana. (Of course, Argentina won by far).

 Rested and with spirits up, I leave La Rioja early in the morning, heading into the mountains. I`m going to pass through Anillaco, a small village famous for being the home town of, the now jailed, Argentinean ex president Carlos Saul Menen. The endless horizon of the Pampas is finally taking shape. The great planes are finally meeting the majestic Andes, and they are doing it slowly, gradually. Plenty of rolling hills flooding the horizon determine it. Leaving the village, about 50 clicks up the road, my transmission chain decides quit her miserable life. No problem, I`m carrying a spare transmission set. The only person, from the many cars that went by, that stops to ask me if I need help, does it so before I realize that the new chain has about 7 extra links. On top, I`ve lost the indispensable file from my tool pouch somewhere. So, I spend the next 2 hours figuring out how to cut a brand new chain to the needy length, while busting my knuckles a few times with a rock pretending to be used as a hammer. Those wild goats up there in the canyon walls must³ve wondered what the hell is that crazy biker yelling and cursing all about!!

 I ride another 200 km. before finding a suitable place to replace the front and rear sprockets, to break in with a new chain. I ride into the city of Catamarca to buy some food and then head straight up the famous Cuesta del Portezuelo, deviating from the main road and hoping to find a great road, which I do, and a nice place to camp, which I don´t. Enough of cheap hotels, I will have enough of those in Bolivia and Peru. On the way up, while enjoying the riding and the scenery, I spot a couple of potential places to camp, but pass them up hoping to find the perfect place farther up the narrow twisty road. It is pretty late already when the pavement ends and the dirt road and a heavy bank of fog, begin. I think of turning back, but the old moto motto: always up ahead, never backwards won`t let me. I keep riding deeper into the foggy and dark highland, only to realize a few clicks later, the foolishness of my sturdiness. Finally, I turn back and get to the place I`ve seen before, a small camping spot with enough space to set my tent next to a pick-nic table, by the side of the road. 

 - I`m sleeping in a bed. I hear some king of barking. It sounds more like a yelling. I get up and out of the bedroom. There is some friends with their dogs sitting around the living room. It is a Saint Bernard, but small looking dog doing all the noise. I gently slap the dog in the face a few times to shut it up. My friend says nothing, I go back to bed. - It`s a dream, I wake up from it. I`m in my tent, somewhere up in the Cuesta del Portezuelo. The yelling  barking is for real. Some kind of animal, I hope so, is outside, close to my tent, doing all that noise. It was inside my dream! I listen carefully to descifrate what it really is. Could be a small dogs, or wolf. Maybe it is a bird of prey. It keeps going on and I can not fall back into sleep. I yell back and it shuts up for a while and then keeps going. Finally, I turn my flashlight on and get up to take a look around and, might as well, take a leak. The think shuts up and is not heard ever again. Back inside the sleeping bag, I listen to every sound the night makes. The leaves from the trees hitting the tent, the wind whistling through the branches of the trees, the insects singing theirs croaks. I`m a bit scare. Scare? I smile at myself. What is there to be afraid of? There is nothing to fear but fear itself. I go back to sleep.

 THE CALCHAQUIES VALLEYS

 I`m on the road heading north out of Tucuman city, where I stayed the night. I see a smaller road heading west up in the mountains. Check my map, looks like fun. Lets go. The scenery gets more natural and the road sign I was waiting for shows up: Twisties!! This is the road to the famous Calchaquies valleys.The narrow piece of asphalt starts to climb a green rocky canyon. The vegetation is exuberant. It is a 2nd., 3rd., hardly 4th. gear road. I`m enjoying my spirit of. The altimeter starts slowly increasing up to 3000 meters as the vegetation disappears and the landscape turn into a barren paramo. The road descends then into a wide valley decorated with a blue lake and a couple of small villages. No time to stop, I`m eager for more twisties. It climbs up again to the Abra del Infiernillo. My altimeter reads 3200 meters. Its windy and chilly up here. After another pass, is down the hill again, into a much broader and drier valley. I stop for some tea, and think about how special any place can be, as long as you make it so.

 Deep into the valley the road passes by some of the most amazing rock formations, kind of remind me of some parts of Arizona and Utah, then merges with infamous route 40, which runs along all Argentina from the Bolivian border to the End of the World, well, almost. For my surprise and disappointment, this stretch of route 40 is paved though, nothing like the tremendous stretches of gravel down south. I get to the Quilmes ruins, one of the few pre Inca remains in Argentinean territory. I only take a look around since I`m up to see plenty of ruins up north. While I`m doing my usual bike check up in the parking lot of the complex, a gentleman approaches and asks me where I`m from. I get ready to answer the questions, when he interrupts and reminds me that we met last year in the Valley of the Moon, in the San Juan province. Sure, I remember, he was part of the nice bunch of old folks who took me in their van to see the natural park, while my Super Tenere got a rest at the visitors center. Is this big world really a little village or what?

 I see in my map, that there is a big body of water up ahead, so I head there and camp on the shores of a huge man made lake. Next day, I ride through the nice city of Salta, do some site seeing, without forgetting to buy a new file to replace the one I lost and got me into some trouble when my chain broke. Then head to visit the city of Jujuy, after which I plan to ride up as far as possible to get near the border, to spend my last night in Argentina camping in the mountains. The road between this two cities is just amazing. Another tight piece of asphalt, this one is a one laner, 2nd. and d 3rd. gear road. Really technical and with exuberant vegetation that seems to eat the road, covering in with shades, that under the brilliant sun of the southern Autumn, put me up for a thriller ride. I have not ride too far today, but I`m feeling tired. I stop in Jujuy`s main square to sit on a bench and rest while sipping some coffee.

 SAN SALVADOR DE JUJY

 A guy on a beautiful Africa Twin stops by. Is Javier, a local doctor and a long distance moto traveler as well. I can not decline his invitation to spend the night in his home. I`m on a bad need for a shower anyway. A fiend of him, Lalo, a lawyer, shows up and gives some great information about the Salar de Uyuni area and all the alternatives to get there. I could ride up the Paso de Jama to San Pedro de Atacama, in Chile, and then enter the area through Laguna Colorada, but I would need to arrange with a tour operator to carry my gas, since there is no possibility of getting gas up there. My bike engine is starting to consume plenty of oil, so I would have to carry oil as well. Weighting the alternatives, we get to the conclusion that it would be to risky to go alone in that route, so he points me to the main border crossing at La Quiaca, where I head the next morning.

 I`m about 25 clicks out of town, when I see I curios site, a railway track hanging by itself from both side of a cliff, I stop to take a picture and the engine quits, not to start again, I check everything and then push the bike downhill. She starts up, but works kind of funny. What to do, keep going or head back to check the engine up? I decide for the latest, since I have a long way to cover in Bolivia before reaching La Paz where I have scheduled my next major service.

 I ride into town and go directly to Lalo`s office. I wait for a few minute while he takes care of a customer, then follow him to a shop, I suppose. We go to the outskirts of town. Not a very nice neighborhood. We stop at a humble house on a dirt street, where a few old trucks and motorcycles lye around. A strange looking old guy comes out, he`s wearing funny hat and an even more funny moustache and he`s followed by even more funnier looking small dogs. What kind of please is this? Lalo takes me apart and tell me not to worry, this guy is an excellent mechanic and he charges very cheaply, then introduces me to Mr. Larco. The old guy starts talking about races and then about our common friend, Walter Nosiglia, from La Paz, Bolivia. This conversation calms me down, and we decide to leave the bike in his hands while we go have some lunch, after what I´m suppose to come back to work on the bike with the old guy. We get all the stuff on Lalo`s car and head to his house. When we get there I discover horrified that I have left my Aeroistich jacket on Mr. Larcos´s neighbored front wall. We drive back as fast as the small car allows, I`m suffering like an idiot, not only would I loose the jacket, but also the bunch of stuff I have inside the pockets, including my wallet. 

 When we get there I`m almost crying, I don`t really care about the stuff, but please, no my jacket. That would really ruin my trip. For incredible that it may seem, the jacket still is in the same place where I stupidly left it. When I pick up the jacket, a couple of kids from the terrace, tell me: ther is your jacket sir, nobody has touched it. Of course, the wallet is not in its pocket. Mr. Larco bursts into flame. He kicks open the neighbor house door and start yelling and screaming to a couple of ladies to return my wallet. Then runs into his house and gets back carrying an old Remington rifle and a single bullet which he loads into the weapon. The ladies inside are crying and saying they didn`t take the wallet. My lawyer friend, horrified, orders the old guy to get rid of the rifle, which he then hands to me!! I hide the weapon as well as I can in the driveway, since there is a lot of people already gathering to see what the scandal is all about. Then the lady of the house shows up with a video camera directing it to the yelling old guy and us. Oh my god, what a mess! On top of it all, a police truck stops, and Mr. Larco calls the cops and accuses the neighbor lady, saying that she has stolen things from him in the past.

 Ok. Ok. I`ve lost another wallet, but my dummy wallet with originals of my personal documents is safely stored in my clothes backpack. Sorry Dr. Greg! I`m so glad I didn`t loose my beloved Aerostich jacket, that I`m willing to forget about the $ 150 I had in the wallet. Plus I can get immediate replacement for my credit card. We leave the scene hoping for things to calm down, and when we are back, after an hour or so, the bike semms not to have been touched. Oh dam it, now I`m gonna have to do all the work myself. Larco comes out smiling, and tells me to go test it. What did you do to it? He says, I was not going far with my inlet valves almost close. I test it and she`s running great. He even installs a left side view mirror that is missing from the bike. How much? 10 bucks, Thank you very much. 10 bucks plus another stolen wallet.

 Back in Lalo`s house, after another enjoyable dinner, I find out that my friends, Gonzalo and Nina, an Argentinean  Norwegian moto travelers couple, where in Lalo`s house a few months back. Isn`t this world a little village anyway. After that, Lalo show up with an MT60 Pirelly, half used and give it to me. You gonna need it in Bolivia, believe me, you better take it.

 I`m finnaly in the Argentina - Bolivia border. La Quiaca, 3750 meters above sea level. The bike flew up the hill of the Humahuaca canyon, even pushing up in 5th. gear. Crazy Larco did a good job after all. While doing the custom formalities, my patience and tolerance are put up to a good test. Thanks God my lawyer friend insisted on doing a declaratory to the authorities, cause other wise I would have had a hard time to get out of the country. Once on the other side, there³s is no Bolivian pesos on the money exchange places!?! Welcome to Bolivia man!

Ricardo Rocco Paz

Alrededor del Mundo por la PAZ

Around the World for PEACE

www.andesmoto-tours.com

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