Coke, Beer, Wine, Fernet Branca & Cheese - Tyred, Skint but Content - 18 Dec 2002
Rock beauty
Coke and a smile
Youíve drunk the beer, now see the ruins
Valley but no taffies
Tour des Andes
Ok, so before we set off I had to go and find a welder to fix the frame for the panniers. Strangely, the frame had broken the day before with no load on the panniers. I could not decide whether this was simply incredibly fortuitous or whether without the load of the panniers, but with Hippy standing on the foot pegs to relieve the thumping form the rough road and so reversing the usual forces in the frame, the thing had gone down the pan. Welding was arranged and done in the space of half an hour and I was only charged 5 Pesos. I was so grateful that when he struggled to find change for a 10, I let him have the lot.
This was one of those days that you could not wish to be doing anything else. The weather was dry, but not too hot, and the road weaved on good tarmac through one of the most beautiful valleys on the journey. It began with a tight gorge with menacing rock faces and broadened out into a sandstone valley, where the rock colour ranged from deep dusky pink to golden Cotswold stone. The way that nature had weathered the rock made every turn of the road a new feast of beauty. In these situation the beauty is not only, in what is there but in way that parts have been worn away, sometimes leaving a sculpted pillar, at others leaving fragile curtains of multi-coloured stone.
Some of these shapes by chance resembled, animals or devilís throats and a tourist trail with the labels had been set up. But honestly, personally the general scenery was more impressive than some of the contorted interpretations that people had made of these natural forms. Why do humans have a habit of imposing an element of tackiness upon something that needs no introduction? Thankfully, the current economic situation in Argentina means that at least there were few other tourists, apart from some that we saw confined in their buses as they drove up the valley.
We missed out on a bit of a treat. There are a group of hippy types who hang out in one of the rock formations, known as the amphitheatre, and play pan pipes and the like. Tacky, yes, but the effect is said to be rather special. We had bumped into some friends on the road and they had recommended the place to us. We arrived only 30 minutes later to find the musicians gone. Clearly our acquaintances had tipped enough for a dayís takings.The town itself is lovely, simple and perfectly formed it has the backdrop of the foothills of the Andes. It had everything that you could want from a town, good food, wine, full range of shops, pretty square. There was something serene and friendly about the place, we like it. We have moaned a little about Argentine food being just chunks of meat, plain salad and chips, but this area South of Bolivia is known for being the best food in Argy, and they are not wrong. People here, make the best empanadas, little pasties, with spicy salsa. They cook meat with sauces and make tamales. A tamale is a thing wrapped in sweet corn leaves and steamed, at the centre is spicy meat, and surrounded by flavoured mashed corn. It makes a hearty tasty meal and a welcome change from plain meat.
At the next table were a startlingly well behaved group of junior school kids out to dinner with their teacher for an end of term treat. Try to imagine this in England. I guess the venue would have to be MacDonaldís to drum up any interest. There would follow a load of whinging and whining about who got the Octopussy Destructobot in their Happy Meal and fights and tears. Here, all was tranquil and you can see where the chilled evening culture comes from.
After dinner we caught up with a couple of chaps we had bumped into in a diner at lunchtime. They had made a point of inviting us to join them in the evening and as we had seemed to be on the same wavelength we thought it might be fun. Daniel, a lawyer, and his mate had been joined by a local doctor for the evening and so, for once, we found ourselves in professional company.
Bizarrely, this select professional gathering gave us our first introduction to coca leaves. The doctor assured us that sucking a wad of coca leaves in the cheek is a great aid for the digestion ñ I am not sure which medical school he attended, but it must be somewhat more liberal than those of my acquaintance. Still, you have to do these things. Fortunately the only effect I got was an odd numbness of the inner cheek. Exciting stuff, eh? I can see why folk spend a fortune on it. Our hosts did point out that 50 kilograms of leaves go to make a gram of cocaine, so I guess that must be a bit more potent ñ donít intend to find out.
I had a vivid dream that night about being a player in a pro-celebrity charity ice hockey competition. I never have dreams that I remember in the morning and so we can only surmise that the coca had finally got to me when I was asleep. Whereís the fun in that? Since I have always had bizarre, vivid dreams all my life maybe I naturally produce coca and should avoid increasing my latent levels.
Youíve drunk the beer, now see the ruins
Down the road a little are the largest Inca ruins in Argentina, Quilmes, also the name of the best selling beer, here. So off we trot for a little culture. Riding up the dirt road, through patches of shallow sand, we saw glimpses up ahead of terracing. To be honest face on the ruins looked uninspiring. The chap on the gate indicated that we head up the side and approach it from the top. A bit of bad planning on our behalf, that it was now mid day and sun was at its height and we were trogging up hill ñ mad dogs and Englishmen. We passed a couple of llamas apparently mother and child wandering amongst the ruins with slightly dazed expressions as they inspected us enigmatically.
As we rose up the buttress of hillside that embraced the main ruins, the plan of the neat series of homesteads became apparent. The terracing that we had seen from below now blossomed into a warren of housing layouts, complete with round food stores pathways and steps up and down the hillside. Some of the original milling stones remained looking a bit like an enormous solitaire board without pieces.
Although the site was well geared up for tourism, with restaurant, museum, gift shop and hotel, no one had seen fit to build a tarmac road up from the main road to it. As there was no luggage on the bike, I took the chance to have a bit of a light weight blast down the road on the way back. It was a bit bouncy to say the least.
Now Cafayate, is renowned for having some of the best wine in Argentina, so we had to do a little partaking just to be polite, you know. We stopped at the Eschart winery on the way back to the hostel and downed a bit of their finest. My recommendation for all you wine buffs out there is a tipple from a grape called Torrontes, unique to the Cafayate region. If you can find it in the shops, try an Eschart Cafayate Torontes. A frisky number and all that jive.
The wine was fine, but Bertha was not. Stabbing at the starter button gave out nothing but a healthy clicking. Clearly we were back to electrical problems. Heigh ho. Fortunately the bike started with a gentle bit of pushing and we got back to the hostel without hassle.
Amazingly, for once the problem was obvious as soon as the seat and tool tray had been lifted out. The big cable to the starter motor had had its terminal snapped as this was the only thing stopping the battery from coming out of itís tray on the bumpy road.
Before we left England we attended a talk by a lady who had been around the world on a bike and had only had one really major trauma. Riding through an unspecified country, she had passed not so much as a house for about a hundred miles when her wiring harness set on fire. By a huge stroke of luck, it turned out that the next building up the road, at a distance of about 50 yards was an auto electrician.
It was one of those moments. Three doors down from the hostel was a vendor of car spares who had a terminal of the correct size. Opposite his shop was a mechanic with a soldering iron who fixed the lead in short order. Result! Bike fixed and good as second hand in no time.
The day was increasingly hot and so we were relieved when it became more and more overcast. The owner of the hostel, incidentally the first guy weíve met who is truly paranoid about crime in Argentina, assured us that it would not rain. I had a strange feeling in my seaweed. A little precipitation fell that hardly wetted the ground before evaporating. I teased him ìsee, it has rainedî. How I wish Iíd kept my gob shut. That night the heavens opened and we suffered the corrugated iron tinkling throughout the night. Then the roof started leaking. I was a bit unfair to Hippy, suggesting that the resulting puddles from the leak were not really our problem. Fine to say when the leak is not on your side of the bed.
I lay awake more concerned about what was going to happen to the roads. Locally, there is no provision of drains under the road and so as the roads follow the line of the mountain ridge, the seasonal streams simply run over the top at points where concrete ford have been built. Even if they were dry the next day, like as not, the fords would be filled with the silt that had been carried down from the hills.
Our next destination Tafi del Valle, was supposedly high up in the hills and we could escape the wearying heat. My map however did not indicate that to get there we went over a minor mountain range (part of some Andes things, apparently). Now Pat had, had some new bits sent out from England to adjust the fuel supply in some way, to cope with high altitudes. The plan had been to put these on when we were about to enter the main peaks of the Andes or in Bolivia. As we rose and rose into the mountains and the temperature dropped to a nice degree and then continued to drop and drop, I began to worry.
Took a break to admire the view and respond to a call of nature. There had been few signs of habitation in these bleak mountains. The odd ramshackle single storey, one- roomed stone house with a few goats milling around. It is here where you can see the reason why some people class Argentina as a developing country. As we gazed at the view and took the obligatory snap shot, we were joined by a man emerging onto the edge of the road from the cliff side of the gorge. He was bedecked with pressed, spotless white shirt, immaculate trousers and stylish black hat. The casual way that he appeared from no where and sat on the road side, taking a break with us before he continued his walk along the road - demanded respect.
It never ceases to amaze me how around the world, how even in the most deserted area of the world people will arrive almost like they have been teleported in. You do not see them approach they are just suddenly there, and perfectly dressed, even in the hottest, most dusty environments they will be spotless. You know they may have walked for miles, from the most primitive shack. But their pride demand that they look and maintain their best appearance. Whilst the comparatively rich tourist coming from their posh hotel into an air-conned car looking a complete scruff. It is one of those inverse relationships that the richer, the country the less people dress up. In the back of my mind I often wonder what the poor of the world think of rich folk who can afford to be smart who chose not to, when they struggle to maintain their dignity with the one tidy outfit they own.
We then headed into cloud. Typically for mountain roads this was the normal hairpin type. Now visibility was down to about 3 feet with our visors steamed up (I gave up seeing at all, because when I lifted my visor my glasses instantly misted over). Oncoming traffic on the narrow road, believe for some reason only known to them that lights were a waste of time.
Unable to see the edge of the road the only thing that prevented us from riding off the edge of the mountainside was that fact that the roads were edged with painted white stone which marked the way. I mentally gave thanks to the poor souls who had probably been paid three quarters of naff all to paint the stones that lined the road and saved our lives. Wherever, you are now, it is appreciated! We thank you.
I was keeping Hippy a bit in the dark about visibility. In fact for we non glasses wearers, the visibility was not so bad when the visor was up. I shall let her continue believing that I am a Jedi and use the force in these situations.The dampness of the clouds turned to rain. Hey ho.
As we began to lose altitude again the visibility slower improved and a valley of deep green revealed itself in front of us.
A crowd was gathering at the side of the road. Something must be going off. We pulled up by some of the cars belonging to fellow onlookers and others to participants. There was a bunch of para-gliders joining a weekend jolly up. Knowing very little in fact nothing about the sport I can only conjecture what one man may have been trying to do. As his chute caught the wind his legs began flaying around like hyperactive toddlers in a baby bouncer. This combined with apparent random pulling of the guy ropes meant the he managed to raise above the ground by no more than 1m and move chaotically round with his chute losing lift, falling sporadically and smothering the other participants. There seemed to be some kind of course laid out, so this may have been a tactic put off his competitors. Blighter!
Unfortunately as we giggled at their antics we knew that really we had to move on and get out of our wet gear. Tafi itself was one of those towns where there are only roads that go up or down, combined with a strange one way system it took us an unnecessary amount of time to find a Hotel in a town of no more than 1000.
The weather was grim, we sheltered from the rain and ate parilla (meat, meat, oh and more meat). As we left, Patís bike-sensitive eyes spied three sporty bikes parked up outside ñtheir riders were to be our fellow hotel guests. Already merry when we met them there seemed to be on a bit of a boyís night out away from their spouses in Catamarca.
We left them settling into their room and popped down the road to see the collection of menhirs in the next town. I could not get the image of Obelix carrying around huge chunks of rock and so was a bit disappointed when we finally got to see these little versions. The bulk of them were plain, but one or two displayed simple faces that were one moment haunting, the next full of mirth. Weíd had to hop over the gate into the park to see them as no-one seemed at all interested in admitting us by way of the ticket office, the whole place had something of an abandoned air about it. Regrettably some of the stones had clearly not been considered fascinating enough and some one had decided to add spray paint to jolly them up. I guess Stonehenge has had the same kind of treatment over the years.
Tafi is meant to a source of excellent cheese, so what could be more appropriate than a bottle of torrontes and some cheese and bread to soak it up sitting in the dry on the veranda of the hotel. Our tranquillity was disturbed by a slurred invitation to drink by the boys! Already having consumed large quantities of Fernet Branca, a strange bitter brandy, they were well gone and jovial. They offered us a cocktail of the delightful Fernet and coke which gave off a nose of petrol and tasted vile. As our faces grimaced, our thoughts were transparent to them. They took this as a sign that these foreigners simply cannot hack the hard stuff. The drunkenness of the gathered trio varied and strangely the most drunk was the only one standing, in that way that only the practiced drunk can do ñ with his feet glued to the floor while his body pivots around them. Helen likened his swaying to me when Iíve had a few. Perish the thought. We took our leave when his cup of grog slipped from his hand and poured its dark brown contents down his white t-shirt. We did laugh. From our room the chortling continued as his mates took the pee. That night was punctuated by outbreaks of shouting and laughter, slamming of doors.
Seeing only one bike left in the morning, we can only assume that the chaps finally decided to leave him to his drunken stupor and had headed off early.
Another possibility for the disappearance of the sporty bikes was a huge seething mass of bicycles and put-puts that we encountered on our way down to Catamarca. It seemed that there was something going down of a two wheeled nature on this stretch of road. There was no obvious reason for their aggregation but we saw clusters of bikes over a 160 km stretch of highway. We can only assume that there was some kind of charity run on, but it dwarfed the London-Brighton run in its scale; long, long hills rising to huge heights, no marshals to speak of and not a lot in the way of pubs/shops to refresh aching legs. Next time you get off and push up Beacon Hill remember how fortunate you are.
Weíd not made such good time as weíd hoped due to a combination of poor weather, twisty roads and avoiding these cyclists and so we arrived in Catamarca too late to see the procession bearing the Virgin Mary around the parish and to the town centre. Another classic tourist moment lost.
La Rioja sounded promising and so we pressed on, on the basis that we were now wet-in-the-boots and so we might as well keep going. When we got to the town it was clear that theyíd had even heavier rain than weíd been seeing. Every street in one orientation (the town was the usual square grid that you get here, mostly) had turned into a raging torrent and we hung well back at junctions as all the vehicles passed before us with a considerable bow-wave. A chap gave us directions to a hotel which included driving about 8 blocks up one of these rivers. As all these ìgridî towns have one way systems we would be OK so long as we could hog the road and stop nutters blasting past us and drenching us. Suffice to say, mission accomplished.
The hotel, too, had water problems and we were much relieved when they found us as room that was up 3 steps from the ground level. Second day of cheese eating. Cheese maturing, nicely. Same cannot be said about the wine that an obsequious fellow palmed off on us. I having chosen a nice bottle of cheap white from his cool cabinet, he insisted on replacing it with a ìsuperiorî wine at the same price. It was local and we figure he may know what he was on about. Indeed, I am sure he did know, the shark. What we got was a bottle of fizzy vinegar. Must have seen us coming.
The tide was still high in the morning and so we did not get our promised breakfast. (As the dining room was still being cleared of surface water) Distinct lack of Dunkirk spirit, what? The rest of town was dry and so we ventured for a bit of wandering including breakfast, internet and the ubiquitous search for rubber. At last, success ñ a tyre of the correct dimensions. The downside was that it was about 70 quid and not a tubeless tyre. I bought it feeling that here was another LaRioja shop proprietor who was rubbing his hands with glee that a gringo sucker had stepped over his threshold. Probably got straight onto the phone to his brother in the grocersÖÖ..