Sunday, Salta-Alemania
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 they spoke of. I
stopped by some heavily touristed pousada and thought 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 6 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 woman was selling the Indian’s cheese
and refusing to let a cyclist camp. Fuck her, I thought to myself.
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 guys walking in a field. 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
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 always 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.
