What a strange night, I felt pretty uncomfrtable to pitch my tent at this spot the night before but it was a good decision. The suprising hard climb from San Pedro de Atacama, Chile to the border pass Paso de Jama resultetd in some forcing cycling days. As I crossed the border, I was confronted with many lonely kilometers in the wind and an unwelcoming environment. I ran out of supplies even if some Argentinian motorcylists happily gave me some can food. Without a stove it is hard to appreciate the value of it. I cycled like 5km, enough to be unseen from the border police. Eargely I searched for some wind protection and found a construction site which I examined for recent trace of work. I guessed nobody would arrive in the night to start working and hardly pitched my tent while the wind kept throwing the loose stones against me and the ruined tent. It was about time to leave the storms or to sleep in hotel rooms. My tent was nothing more than a tarp. The last weeks sucked out my energy. Although it was a wonderful trip I desperately needed a real break. San Pedro wasn't it and the unexpected difficulties to cross into Argentina, where I expected lower altitude, green nature, coffeehouses and people to talk with, were challenging. My tent was nothing more than a curiosity with its broken pole and zips, the tarps to protect me from the cold winds over 4000m altitude. Weeks of sleeping in the cold without equipment and warm clothes exacted a price, I ran out of energy to enjoy my nights.

Once I watched a documentation about natural birthing. You see weird actions in water and hammocks, and I still don't know why I watched it till the end, but I remember something useful about it: Women, no matter how exhausting and painful the act of giving life will end, are able to blend these hours out of their memory. This effect is noticeable at cyclist brains as well. Hours of headwind, hard climbing, rain, pushing through sand, mosquitos or boring landscape are vague memories of the past, even if just an half hour ago. I think this a necessary trick of our concience. Otherwise you won't get up at six in the morning to face minus degrees in an isolating environment, being punished by sun and wind, climbs and road condition. And even if I kind of negatively write about it, I would do it again. The adventure is fascinating.

 

My road lead me strickty east. I was looking forward to reach the outer area of the Andes. Since I arrived in South-America I almost never left the mountain ranges. It has to be time for a change. As I passed another salt flat I was already cycling 60km on a flat terrain but faced a last mountain range.

In researches for my former route to Buenos Aires, I looked up the altitude of some northern Argentinian cities. I should go down soon. My fight against the wind became legendary. First it made my life wonderful, I flew over the salt flat like a motorcycle. Short after it hit my right side and I had trouble to avoid the oncoming cars. 200 meters after my turn to the left I had to stop my bike. The tailwind was a danger. Its changes to the side were alarming. It played with my bike tennis and so I stopped. It through down my bicycle anyway. Later that day I should discover my guitar got damaged unrecoverable. After ten month of barely using it I had to leave it in a trash bin. But my way to this trash bin was still a long ride. A pickup saw me pushing along the road and asked if I need help. Well, fucking yes I did. He gave me a lift till the summit at 4300m and I smiled as I looked down to the numerous serpentines I will never have to climb. Waving back at me my helpers wouldn't foresee that I will be faster at the bottom of the mountain. Right after the top a misty fog swathe everything. Little by little I passed by every car which denied to give me a lift as I was hiding behind my panniers while thumbing. As the fog vanished I was overwhelmed by the scenery. The road was winding down into a huge canyon. The colors were spectacular. With the arrival in Purmamarca the festival of coloration was at its peak. The mountains are called "Colorados" and can be consistent of seven different colored mineral though it is very impressive. Encircled by the most beautiful multicolored mountains I did some beautiful trekking and could enjoy some cold beer in a bar before falling happily in my welcoming hotel bed where I stayed two days to rest my body. Even if this were the first days with Argentinians I still wasn't sure about life in this nation. Purmamarca is to touristic to build an opinion. So, I left to Salta, to get an insight in Argentinian lifestyle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Instead of choosing the highway I took a road through a forest. The road was a reduced speed one-lane and I cycled up and down through a spring touched quiet territory. All I could hear was my broken pedal and the sounds of nature. After a while I was putting my bike aside and just listened to my surroundings; the overview over an endless forest/jungle. I recognized how much I missed this. Green nature. But my stock of water was at a low level and I did not want to take the risk to stay and pitch my tent. But this beautiful recovery, a come back to green leaves, birds and flowers changed my daIy target to arrive the big city. Instead I slept at a police station in La Caldera just a few kilometer outside of Salta. It is a well organized argentinian village as usal. The brand new camping ground was empty, I still was traveling out of season. Since I left Joanna in Bolivia I became kind of a maverick even if a beer with some artists at the Plaza San Martin and some interesting talks with the police officers might be look like a social life, in a more profound contemplation it is just a part of travelling with the focus of moving. As I cycled in Ecuador I heard of Lonesome George, a 80 year old giant tortiose male on Galapagos, which is the last of his kind and who is unwilling to reproduce with any other tortoise from another island. I had no desire to transform to Lonesome George and needed some time off this lifestyle and I was sure I would get it in Salta.  Due to my stay in the village I could enjoy a full day in the city instead of paying for a bed in a dorm, trying to rest my outworn body while the hostel life is pulsating until late night.

 

Salta became exactly what I expected and wanted it to be. After a day of relaxation I could buy new pedals to stop that intense noise. Furthermore I could check some other things on my to-do list before I met Trevor again who arrived with his motorcycle just a few days before, we got the Saturday evening started. The Argentinian most beloved alcohol is Fernet. It's a better version of the German Jägermeister, not that sweet and it contains more herbs. You drink it cold and mixed with cola. I can't recall the last good club a danced in. It was time to use my legs for other things than going by bike. It became a nice night. After months of being the very strange Gringo, I was downgraded to be just an interesting Gringo. People are almost as white as me and have almost the same attitude in a club than in Europe. I feel free with both situations, to be in the center of interest and to be a still colorful fish, but the ocean is stuffed with other attractions. My current traveler-look will be eye catching everywhere I am. All these weeks in the desert demand a tribute. I had a fantastic time since Ecuador but I needed these days in the green nature, booze and dancing.

 

This was the beginning for a better understanding about my itinerary for the next weeks. My mission was to arrive in Santiago de Chile, Chile at the 9th. of November to meet up with Niseema. But riding through such a landscape, 3000km away from your destination, makes it hard to calculate. The weather, my body, the upcoming roads, problems at the border controls or with my bicycle could always appear and slow me down. Even sights became an issue. To have appointments is a misconception. Extended days followed. First goal was to reach Cafayate, a tourist spot to explore the Calchaquíes valleys with its beautiful multicolored moutains in different ranges and forms. There are some breaks in the mountains which are called natural amphitheatres. Due to its great accoustic some musicians play their instruments to entertain the tourists. I just had in interest in the cold beverages. The area is also well known for the quality and originality of the wines. Many of the most impressive sights in the Valley of the Río las Conchas (Quebrada de Cafayate) are along the paved, 183-kilometres-long National Route 68 that goes from Salta to Cafayate. Therefor I had a nice time while cycling on that road.

Soon after I left Cafayate and the gorgeous vineyards behind me, a long struggle followed. I turned on the famous Route 40. It is the longest route in Argentina and one of the largest in the world. Strong headwinds forced me to concentrate and relax at the same time because I was extremely tensed after hours and hours against the wind, a never changing environment, a straight road. The noise of wind made me mad and its shaking does not allow to put down the concentration. Enough time to develop thoughts to give up the trip. But I continued. Every day then same insane procedure from sunrise to sunset. The region of Cuyo became the most boring part of the whole trip, so far. Since Portland, USA I usually got entertained pretty well but 1/3 of the Argentinian population lives in the metropolitan area of Buenos Aires and led to abandoned areas. The monotonous nature provides the rest for that tasteless dish: soup of boredom, hard to spoon. This amount of people in one city becomes even more impressive if you look at the size of the nation (North to South 3700km). Therefore it was normal to be almost alone on the streets. This solitude would be a nice threat in a gorgeous environment but I wasn't cycling in a one. There were nice parts but it did not overwhelm me. The valley between the mountain ranges almost never varied. It consists of sand, loud parrots, some vineyards and long straight roads which connect almost nothing with nothing. Furthermore, and if I am strict on this matter it is the most important fact, the strong headwinds are horrible for your mind and body. Kilometer for kilometer, always the same lonely lasting fight. You against the wind. My intermissions, I had lots of them, became a dance-parade. I might have accepted the circumstances or just turned crazy but I began to dance while every pause. Once I even got applause for my moves by an passing car driver. One evening, just before I reached a city, a farmer put away his tools and shouted "bravo" while he gave me loud applause. The pedal strokes felt like hell at this daytime and he really cheered me up.  This was such a nice gesture and at least for some moments my battle was eased. Anyway, night after night I looked at my map and saw the distance to Mendoza shrinking. My mind played tricks on me by knowing that, the moment I once arrive in Santiago de Chile, I won't cycle until the end of the year. It turned out to be a burden. I just counted the hours I had to continue against the winds. and finally I reached Mendoza and did not even pause. Instead I crossed Mendoza and slept at a fire station nearby. A hard rain punished my tent. Beside the broken zip and the open door I had my old problem: how to protect myself and my bags of water coming into the tent. Somehow I managed the night without getting wet and the last kilometers to cross the Andes could start after a long breakfast with the fireworkers at 5:30 in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could have spent some time in Mendoza but I made other plans. Unfortunately there is just one reasonable street to cross into Argentina. The map showed several other roads but after consulting some locals it became crystal clear that I won't take a sandy dirt road to cut down on the distance. I already accepted the detour to and through Mendoza, now I saw myself cycling north. Really frustrating if the wether turn to cold rain. The road makes a turn to the right and the climbing begins. A strange feeling to cycle north. At least I imagined tailwind, all I got was a rising coldness of scattered headwinds. This makes you doubt every fairness in this world. It began to drizzle as I pumped up my tire. Since three days I had problems with my tube and my thin tire gives no protection. The tube was the last I had and patched several times. One was leaking slowly. I was so hungry and I saw the approaching ascent. A car pulled over. They asked if they can help me. A quick view on my map showed a little village nearby. Food and shelter to repair my bike. I decided to lift my things in the back of the pickup and enjoyed the ten kilometer, an hour with the bike in drizzle and not ending pumping of my tire replaced by a five minutes ride. At the kiosk I met two German cyclists. Instead of repairing my bike I hoped the best and followed them to Uspallata. This village is the junction to end going north and finally start the real climb through snowcapped giants. As a result of our cooking/ wine camping, I forgot about my actual problems. Surrounded by this impressive nature I stopped after cycling just ten kilometers. It took over an hour to patch the tire. I had to do it twice. My wish to arrive in Santiago for peace and bike parts was at its maximum. By now my shifting had the same problem like in Colombia. I just could use my front blades. With this three gradations I cycled over the Andes! Never mind, the surroundings were a pleasure. After some hours I saw my friends again. The canyon forks up once. Immediately as we turned right a harsh headwind punished me. The road was under construction and the ascent was at its maximum. Time to fight. We passed lifts of ski resorts. Two days ago Armin had to pass this region in a snowstorm. I was so hungry as I arrived in Los Penitentes, a luxury hotel resort in deep sleep. The mountain walls had not enough snow to ski and almost all hotels were closed. I had to cycle at the total maximum and decided to end my day, pitched my tent on the nice green backyard of one of these hotels and ask in the only local little store for something to eat and drink. The others continued and I relaxed behind the wind protection.

 

The morning became a sightseeing tour. I knew I will pass the highest mountain of the Americas on my right side but I could not catch sight of it. Aconcagua showed his face just for a few seconds. I would not even recognize it as the highest mountain but a sign showed me which snowcapped giant is the highest with 6960meter. I was thinking about climbing it but it is a question of time and money. The surroundings are on sea level on both, Chilean and Argentinean side. It would take some days to acclimate. Moreover they try to sell two week expeditions for that reason. The mountain would be not that hard to climb on the normal northern route but under this circumstances I doubt that I will try to climb Aconcagua.

Due to the laws a shuttle bus had to take me through the tunnel which divides both nations. The border is a bunch of shit. To modern. The wish of importance leads to disappointments. Because I am cyclist I was not allowed to cross neither as a pedestrian nor a car. I was send from one to another and finally arrived at the same woman who send me away in first place. The guy in front of me was a bus driver and gave his papers to the worker. As a result I waited 25min before she checked every passenger instead of me who was second in line. Then she explained me that I need other papers. Her tone of voice was like in a war situation. I searched the office. Even if I am not the first cyclist to cross, it was quite surprising for them and he had to print and cut my papers while another bus arrived. This time I just went to her directly. I was afraid about my unprotected bike outside. She gave me another piece of paper for another control. I still had no acceptable status as a cyclist. The police officer told me to check out like a car and pointed to the control stations. Besides a long queue I saw a free spot and gave my passport to the lady. It did not take long until another police officer arrived. Totally pissed, red faced and fleshed teeth. I was telling myself "This guy has some issues. Certainly with me but in gerneral with life." Loud and wildly gesticulate he explained me that he and him only can allow somebody to go further ahead in the queue and at what time? I explained him that I talked to five other person before and everyone wears a nice uniform. I follow what people tell me and did not see him and don't know about his kind of work. Moreover I asked him about his leaking respect as he continued to be a pain in the ass. Now I became the terrifying and wrathful person but than I asked the lady openly peaceful if she is ready. He tried to convince the worker to stop signing my papers. I smiled at her and she just hit the stamp in my passport. "It is already done." After all this trouble I arrived at the next control. I had no food or flowers or anything else dangerous with me. I placed myself in line with the nicest smiling worker, had a short chat about my travel and could pass without showing all my bags.

I literally flew down into the steep canyon. The Chilean side is much greener than Argentina. I felt good to be finally so close to Santiago and Niseema.