Ruta 40 – into the deserts of the northwest

Rain day. Our plan was a pre-dawn start to beat the heat, but the sounds of thunder and lightening, and torrential rain put that plan on hold. This is desert country. Why ride in the rain? Besides, this is also flash-flood country and desert storms can be dangerous. We have already had to hitch one ride to cross a deep and violent washout...and that was on a beautiful clear day. Good news for anyone following this blog, because now I have today to write this J




Leaving Cafayate was hard. It was just that perfect mix of small town, great accommodation, and fantastic wine. Our daily schedule consisted primarily of slow mornings, wine-tasting afternoons, followed by chilled rosé in the courtyard for cocktails. Hard to beat. But alas, the dream must be kept alive and we launched into the desert after about a week of R&R. We’re in a bit of an “in between stretch” at the moment. Between Cafayate and a place called Chilecito (next wine town) is a long open desert stretch – about 500 kms – with not much in between. The challenge has been to determine where the pit stops are, if any, so that we can replenish our water and food supplies. Carrying enough water has become a serious consideration. The midday heat has also become serious. Oh, and the wind...after about noon the headwinds can pretty much bring us to a stand-still. All in all, a rather challenging area for cycle touring.



We’re about midpoint through this section, in a place called Belén – a small sleepy middle-of-nowhere town. But, big enough to have ice cream shops and a cheap hotel with air conditioning (loving the air conditioning!). Wild camping has become a necessity because of the distance between towns – an interesting challenge in an often treeless landscape. It’s funny how things you don’t think of become critical. For example, trees...or just one...anywhere. We got caught on that one a couple days ago.





Heading into a long hot open stretch around noon turned ugly, when after about an hour the wind picked up to gale force making forward motion an exercise in futility. OK, let’s camp. Hmmm, not a piece of vegetation higher than our ankles in sight. Without shade, “camping” in the midday sun would be at best brutally hot and ridiculously uncomfortable, at worst possibly deadly. Ok, we have to find a tree. Any tree. “My kingdom for a tree!”. Not going to happen any time soon. In my mirror I could see 100-lb Amy getting tossed around in the wind, and losing ground. But then miracles happen, and we spotted a dwelling, with a couple of trees, far ahead in the distance. We pushed through and into our refuge, which was in fact, a small store with cold beverages – and the only human structure on the entire 100-km stretch. Shade and cold beer! (but first a 2-litre bottle of frosty-cold orange Fanta...I think it was the first orange Fanta either of us had ever had, but wow, did it taste good). We couldn’t believe our luck. The family graciously allowed us to pop-up our tent under one of their trees. Amy collapsed into the hammock and closed her eyes. She was a tired little puppy. Any port in a storm as they say. Lesson learned: do not rely on chance while cycling through a desert!

So, a rain day in the desert. Fortunately we are in our little air conditioned oasis at the moment. We shudder to think of what life would be like on the open road today. Flash floods everywhere we imagine. Interesting life here in small-town Argentina. At great risk of sounding like an intolerant foreigner, I am officially prepared to announce that the Argentine daily schedule has evolved from being a fascinating cultural element, to a major irritation and pain in our butts! It is incomprehensible why this schedule exists. Nothing stirs before 8 or 9 am. More than once we have packed up and left our accom at 8:30 am without a sole in sight (i.e., no reception person, no people anywhere), unlocking the front door, and letting ourselves out into empty streets. Things appear to be generally open for a few hours later in the morning, but then wham, everything shuts down about 1 pm for “siesta”, and remains closed until 5 or 6 pm. There’s another fluster of activity in the early evening until 8 or 9 pm, except restaurants, which don’t even think of opening until after 9 pm. We have no idea when the streets go quiet again, since we are never up to see it. No one posts their hours. Even when they do, or someone tells you what time they supposedly open or close, it’s as if whoever is doing the opening and closing, will get it to whenever they feel good and ready. It’s Kootenay time, times a hundred. Why would anyone go to a restaurant at 9 pm, when that’s their posted opening time? Silly gringos...come back in an hour.





All of this has been virtually impossible for us to acclimatize to, and is a nightmare for our schedule of: up-early and hit the road, get to town in the middle of siesta, then wanting to eat or buy food and bevies in the afternoon (which can’t be done), and then get to bed early (without supper). Argentina is an entire country of people living life as an ER nurse on night-shift.




OK, enough ranting about the Argentine schedule (happens at least once on every cycling blog on the internet; as one guy wrote: “why have a store, if it’s only open for a few hours a day?”). The people are wonderful, the weather is glorious, the roads are generally excellent (except for one patch of 40 km of loose gravel...ended up in the back of a pick-up for that one), accommodation is great, and the wine is fantastic.  Overall, life is pretty darn good. And the ice cream, forgot to mention...delicious!


Tomorrow, assuming the flash flooding is over, we continue south and “getting our kicks...on route 66”, er, Ruta 40. Chau chicos!