Reach for the altiplano...
Día 51-52: ...climb every mountain higher (174km)
Part of Chapter 7 Flirting with the Atacama
Post #45
Ciao amiga
When I look back on my life I want to have stories to tell. I want the moments I’ve shared to have been long moments. Moments that stretched across a county or a continent. Moments that expire in a whisp of smoke that proves the fire was lit.
I want to say we sped down the Andes’ highest mountain; that we swilled wine at a bodega in La Rioja; that we danced in Salta; cried in Chilecito; ate helados in Belén. I want to say we stuffed ourselves with spicy empanadas in Cafayete, cooked aubergine in a Daft Punk van in the Patagonian desert; that we cerveza-d on a balcony in Valparaíso, camped cliffside at Quintero, drove 2000km over a snow-covered monkey puzzle pass; that we gazed at the red canyons of Talampaya, paced the streets of Santiago and blared Volver by Lagrimas de Sangre on Ruta 40.
And then I realise that we did do all of those things.
I’d like to say we had a perfect time, and everything was always good. But that’s not true. Sometimes it was difficult; that makes it real.
It was a delight to travel with a friend of so many years and, vehicle-supported cycle-touring (despite slightly bending the sustainability rules) was a revelation.
Safe journey home Nicole. We and Olaf shall never forget. x
The Altiloop
The Atacama Desert is an arid, Mars-like region, around 1,000km in length, buffeted by the Cordillera de La Costa to the west and the Cordillera Domeyko to the east. Within this corridor lie the salt plains that drew our hungry eyes. Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia is the most famous but there are many others such as Salinas Grandes in the province of Jujuy [Hu-huy!] in Argentina. Cycling these grand canvasses was high on our list.
As much as we loved Che's country (I really didn’t want to leave), we both agreed that San Pedro de Atacama was a town that we couldn’t miss. Pinned below the salt plains of the Atacama, San Pedro is a renowned tourist spot in Northern Chile. The small matter of Paso de Jama lay between our empanada laden bodies and the small town. Jama is a mighty pass between Argentina and Chile that lies 4,200m above sea level. Komoot suggests a 400km from route with some 6,000m of climbing to reach it.
The only problem with this plan is that a weather front is moving in that will make it cold. Like, really fucking cold: -10 or lower at night with high winds.
“You don’t want to be up there right now,” said the bike mechanic. “It’ll be ten days at least till it clears.”
Furthermore, we’d yet to cross a pass on our bikes and soroche1 is a real issue. With our skimpy tents and assortment of light woolen buffs and headbands, we weren’t fussed about sleeping outdoors unless we absolutely had to. Over breakfast at Bixi in Salta, we hammered out an alternative plan.
The plan
Design a 5-day loop tour, avoiding the coldest parts
Leave the heavy bags and tents in Salta
Book 4 cheap hostels to stay inside each night
Return to Salta, grab the bags, and get on an overnight coach to San Pedro
Día 51 Fish dinner and mullets
Salta to San Salvador (GPX 101km), 840m climbing
We cruised out of town on decent roads with bikes light and our sense of adventure replenished. The southern side of Salta had been stark red rock like the set of The Martian. The northern side is more akin to Fitzcarraldo; thick green jungle and wide blue reservoirs skirted by quiet, ribbon-thin roads.
At Cuesta del Gallinato, a sign marks the site of crimes against humanity dished out by the state between 1976 and 1983. It was here that the bodies of militant social and political dissidents were dynamited. More names on the list of los desaparecidos2 who were abducted and assassinated by the brutal terrorist government of that era. These signs are a welcome, if disturbing reminder of dark history, something that Che was no stranger to in his later years. History underpins culture and identity and should be actively studied to protect and adapt our present.
We had prepped for a big old hill but mercifully it was over much earlier than expected, maybe we’re stronger than we think. From then on the curving, cruising descent was most welcome. At the pentagonal dam Dique La Ciénaga we toy with ordering the second fish dinner of the trip. Jake is happy to eat the occasional animal if it is farmed in a sustainable manner, and I’m inclined to agree. The expansive waters to our back seem local enough. In the end, I can’t remember why, but we decide against. The waitress then dumps a massive trout on our table so we do as we’re told and dispose of it semi-guiltily.
At the evening’s apartment, Jake facetimes Nicole with news of his unashamedly bogan mullet, something he had been threatening to do for months.
The semi-serious tension on the call has huge comedic value for me. See photo evidence below.
Día 52 Civilian unrest
San Salvador to Purmamarca (GPX 73km), 1,330m climbing
A startlingly pink Bougainvillea bush hangs over an empty pool scattered with dead leaves. A morning sight that fires you up for another day of exploration.
Yesterday we punched the air and waved to teachers waving banners and singing in the road. Today in the plaza flags flutter in the breeze, plain-clothed protesters chant and drum at a lengthy line of riot police. Sun glances off their visors as they ring the city’s government buildings, batons poking outwards. The mood is not tense, but the grievances are real.
Pablo tells me this is a campaign for an improved minimum wage. He claims the living costs have reached 200,000 pesos (around £400, but dropping all the time) a month.
“How much do you get paid currently?”
“40,000.”
Don’t let the high numbers full you, Argentina is tottering on the brink of economic collapse, it’s prices spiraling ever higher whilst populists lurk in the shadows. With no other alternative to a corrupt and decadent status quo, can you really blame workers for taking a chance on politicians with unclear motives?
The way to the altiplano3 is cluttered with switchbacks. These are best ridden outside the white lines, with a healthy sun streaming down, and a midway stop to goat watch whilst you swallow empanadas. Luckily, all 3 elements are present to spur us on today. The only downside is the incessant and repetitive cumbia that almost compels Jake to put his fist through the TV screen. You can’t have it all.
It’s the sort of day that should be capitalised on with the perfect track to eek out more thrust from tired legs. Although cycling earphone free is the most direct route to deep immersion, sometimes the right song hits different. Today I have two great moments. My adolescent rejection of Blue and Simon Webbe (for sheer embarrassment) is pushed to one side. I embrace the joy inherent in enjoying a song that is important to people that you love.
The second song is a recommendation from the ultimate record hound
. I Would Die 4 You is a Mariachi El Bronx reworking of Prince’s 1984 track that speaks of dappled sunshine, friends laughter and above all, release.That man does real recommendations.
Legendary LA punks The Bronx are, for me, a top 10 of all time band. Before I heard Black Flag, Bad Brains or Minor Threat, they were the band who introduced me to hardcore, and who opened up an entire world to me. To be fair, I was the right age; They released their second album in 2006, when I was becoming obsessed with Radiohead, Fugazi and guitar music in general.
A few years later, frontman Matty Caughthran had a radical revolution. Having become obsessed with old Mexican and Latin American music, he convinced his bandmates to drop the electric guitars for a new side project. They picked up 7 string flamenco acoustics, trumpets, consulted some traditional Mexican maestros and formed Mariachi El Bronx in 2009.
Lukas and I were driving to Matt's today, 36 degrees c in the van, the sun sweltering the glass and baking every pour. When their cover of Prince's 'I would die 4 u' came on the playlist, it was sheer perfection. One of those moments that felt almost transcendental - you can't explain why it was so epic, it just was. Therefore, i thought it might sound even more epic whilst scaling a mountain or overlooking a glistening lake, so though I'd send it to you
Press play, you know you want to.
After a complex period through Bipedal therapy, I’m approaching the euphoria of Baptism of gravel again. This photo encapsulated the moment pretty well.
Odometer: 52 Tours. 250 hours. 4,230 km. 42,500 m.
The story so far
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7
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soroche = altitude sickness
los desaparecidos = the disappeared
altiplano = plateau
Glad you gave Simon Webbe a chance. Loved Keev’s choice too , very familiar with Prince’s version, now he was extraordinary!