Part of Chapter 6 Bipedal Therapy
Post #41
Villa San Augustín to Pagancillo (GPX 119km & GPX 33km)
Día 43 Loyal friend
Jake and Nicole left for La Rioja in the van yesterday. So it was time for a new acquaintance.
I managed to attract a friend by dropping a scrap of bread. He’s a street dweller with a messy hairdo that’s patchy in places. Though his physical appearance may be questioned, his loyalty must not be in doubt. After minimal dough payments, he slept soundly on the other side of my slim canvas wall, ready to fend off things floating near in the night, like bad spirits, or malevolent plastic bags.
In the morning, he trots out of camp alongside the wheels he swore to protect. Proudly glancing over from the sidewalk as the outskirts of San Augustín drift past. Across the dry riverbed and out towards open desert with no sign of stopping. As my average speed increases, the lolling tongue offloads heat. Three kilometers. Four. Five.
Q: A ruckus with territorial cousins?
A: Initiate a cautious sniffing diplomacy, before slipping away when a gap opens up.
Q: A busy road with no spare tarmac?
A: Take a detour through the bush and reappear minutes later, beaming.
At eight kilometers I can’t put off a reward any longer. I stop and rummage for some crackers whilst the black nose lollops closer through the shimmering heat.
It’s not till the town of Usno, 11km after departure that his progress is halted; a pack of local officials block his path. I do not see him again. He’ll have run a half-marathon if he makes it back home tonight.1
I push through the 100km barrier today; the cycle a useful output for anxious energy. The road is a line dissecting an expanse of frazzled tierra; cracked red earth leads to nowhere in every direction. It’s arid, forceful heat that presses me into the tarmac. It’s hard to find shade in the breaks. And harder to find shade for my eyes when I realise the dog nicked my sunnies.
The valley stretches miles across, interrupted only by low flung bushes that provide shade for nomadic guanacos, lurid green parrots and lesser seen desert foxes, flitting beneath bushes that shield them from the burning sun. Flightless Greater Rheas, South Americas largest bird (weighing up to 27kgs), bob and weave across the tracks, an ostrich lookalike if ever I’ve seen one.
Much later, humans came to walk these lands. They painted llamas on rocks that had fallen from above and were smashed into blank canvases.
One of the only man made constructions here is a state-of-the-art visitor center that rises sharply de la nada.2 It’s a base camp for visiting the UNESCO World Heritage site of Talampaya which, since 2000, has been a protected zone. The centre piece is a 250 million year-old canyon, where dinosaurs once freely roamed and Gavin Williamson’s destruction of my students’ exam results was just an unfortunate blip on the horizon.
That night I set up my tent at the adjacent campsite and arrange for my two mates to come and meet me for a little excursion. Jake’s penchant for dinosaurs is the perfect bait with which to reel him in. They even have a Triassic Walk with scaly reptiles from millennia gone by.
Día 44 The Red Cliffs
The coach steams down a purpose built highway, cold air sifting through a soupy interior. Dust billows in clouds from beneath the next vehicle. The tour guide is drowned out by engine noise and a scratchy microphone; the chances of hearing the quips and lame jokes diminished further by an off road section that scuttles its way through low gorse and orange gravel. We’re bumped out of our seats as we rattle onwards.
The red cliffs stretch high above. We gaze at the walls of a funnel that guides swooping condors from a barren plateau to a wide, dry riverbed. The arching towers are the spitting image of Utah’s red rocks that I’ve admired through television screens. I didn’t realise Argentina had such endless diversity.
Necks crane till adam’s apples pop from straining throats, Nikon lenses zero in on human forms, minute against a vast ochre canvas. A young couple amass hundreds of almost identical photos; their bodies the focal point, rather than the sandstone cliffs behind them.
At break time we’re offered a coffee so sickly sweet that Nicole and I swap glances after a quick sip. It’s an offensive taste to any one who likes their café puro. After a meandering visit to some punchy towers we’re back in the coach for the journey home.
New beginnings and elusive cheese
The visitor centre is a pilgrimage point for bus loads of national tourists, thronging to buy cold lemonade and canteen sandwiches.
“I got swarmed by a load of middle aged women. I didn’t even get to order food,” complains Jake.
When we eventually manage to evade the crowds and order bean stews and choclo, talk turns to future homes. Jake and Nicole are edging closer to settling in Brazil. This is big news. These long travel days make you braver, reach further, take more chances. I’m so excited for them both.
Later, we arrive at Pagancillo after a topless hour and half coasting the flats under a big, hot sun. We exchange our remaining dollars with the hotel owner, leaving the deal with fat wads of 80,000 pesos each. It’s the sort of quantity you need to strap with elastic bands; a pleasing feeling for the penny counting traveller.
“You see? Our economy is fucking shit,” he concludes sagely.
It was a shame to miss out on Pagoncillo’s highly recommended restaurant.
“Any food tonight?” I had asked the women who opened a dilapidated door painted with fluorescent planets and winking stars.
“ANY FOOD TONIGHT?” She shouted back to the chef.
“I haven’t got any CHEESE. Go for a walk round the block and then come back, I’ll see if I can get some,” came the muffled reply.
We hadn’t asked for cheese, but liked the response so much we decided to do as he suggested. An hour later and sadly, the cheese hunt had proved unsuccessful, so the second choice restaurant it was.
No matter, sorrentinos and cold beer do the job, we all agreed, as we strolled home under a perfect full moon. The night air was cool after a scorching day.
The story so far
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
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Believe it or not, this tale pales in comparison to the efforts of a dog follower of American Steve, a fellow transcontinental bike tourer.
Down south in Patagonia, Steve rode with a group of friends for two whole days with a local fan. There were no towns between these two settlements set 80km apart, so concern did start to form amongst the touring group that they had effectively kidnapped a wandering pooch.
By night, they fed their new friend around the campfire and thoughts turned to naming, adoption, and even the complexities of emigration.
Arriving to the destination town, they held up a sign asking if any driver would take the canine back the way it had come. But upon arrival the dog greeted his street mates like old friends. Soon, he was collected by a a woman claiming to be his owner. Apparently, it had been driven to the next town in revenge by an angry ex-boyfriend, and unceremoniously booted out to his new life.
He had just needed some company for the journey back home.
‘Out of nothing’
Every experience so delicately related. Bless that mutt !
You had me laughing out loud with the end. No CHEESE at the inn, he deserves your custom just for that