Circle to Circle

by Shirley Hardy-Rix

  The actual border is more organised chaos and doesn’t pose any problems until it comes to getting the bike back into Argentina. At some Argentinean borders they’ve accepted our carnet. Some haven’t. Here no one seems to know what to do. The man behind the Aduana (Customs) counter tells us to see the woman outside. She isn’t sure what to do either so we all go back inside where there’s a lengthy discussion while everyone looks at the Carnet de Passage and our passports. Finally we get a stamp and we’re back in Argentina. The sound of stamps being banged onto inkpads and then onto passports is becoming a very comforting one.

  Shirley: We know we won’t get to Salta today but we want to get as far as we can. The heat’s unbearable so it’s a welcome respite when the rains come.

  We push on, passing through towns that don’t seem to have any hotels and some that do. Some look quite palatial and I’m tempted to recommend stopping for the night, but I know the reaction I’ll get — it’s too early to stop.

  When the time is right to stop we ride to the edge of the metropolis of Monte Quembo. It’s a dusty, dirty little town set just off the highway. We check it out and can’t find anything resembling a hotel, but we’re certainly attracting attention. Groups of men, hanging about the town, or sitting in the cafés turn and watch as we ride past.

  We head to the petrol station on the highway and get directions to a hotel that’s in the town. We still can’t find it so I ask a lady who seems to be in charge of parking. She directs us back down a street we’ve checked out before. To get there we need to do a U-turn. She puts up her ‘stop’ sign and holds up the traffic so we can get around.

  An old man walks out and points us further down the street. Finally we see the hotel at the back of a restaurant. It’s fairly rundown and doesn’t look inviting. The woman in the restaurant shows me the room. It’s a shit box — no doubt about it. The bedroom isn’t too bad but the bathroom is verging on unspeakable.

  The next town is 165 kilometres away and it’s too late to press on. We take it for the overpriced rate of 120 pesos (about $30).

  I’m thoroughly depressed but spark up a little when I buy a large icy cold Quilmes beer from the restaurant for just 10 pesos (about $2). It’s the cheapest beer we’ve had so far and tastes great. The restaurant meal is pretty good and they keep the red wine in the fridge so it’s very refreshing on this hot evening.

  When it comes time to turn in we find the sheets seem clean, which is a good thing. The bathroom lives up to my initial reaction. I have a shower and the water doesn’t run away because the drain is blocked. I have a pee, flush the toilet and it nearly floods. There’s no basket for the paper even though it is clear that paper is clogging it up. Bloody hell!

  Brian: There’s nothing to keep us here so we’re up early and on the road to Salta. We stop at a town about 100 kilometres away for breakfast. All we can find are sweet biscuits and Sprite. Not nutritionally sound, but it hits the spot.

  Salta is our last stop in Argentina. From here we’ll head further east and then north.

  In the town we visit the Museo de Arqueologia de Alta Montaña, dedicated to three Incan children sacrificed to the gods some 500 years ago. Preserved in the ice more than 6,000 metres high in the Andes the mummies are incredibly well preserved. The display of the ornaments, clothing and toys found with the children is haunting. How could anyone sacrifice children to appease the gods?

  •

  The Quebrada area is set in a basin between two sections of the Andes mountains. Over millions of years erosion has created some amazing land formations and they’re what we came here to see.

  We’ve booked a tour and our local guide picks us up from the hotel. Bill Smith — yep, that’s his name — doesn’t check the paperwork and it isn’t until he says that Brian’s name isn’t very English that we realise he’s not our guide. He was meant to pick up another couple, from Asia, at the hotel. Bill makes a few calls and drops us off at a shop to meet up with the right guide and the tour to Cafayete through Quebrada de Cafayate.

  We stop at an amphitheatre cut into the rock face. The acoustics give the local musicians a perfect platform to display their talents. There are two groups that take it in turn to play and then sell their CDs to the tourists. The tourist police are keeping an eye on proceedings.

  This rock formation is exquisite. The deep red rock walls tower above us, showing how the rocks have moved over the centuries.

  The colours of the landscapes in the Quebrada are incredible, caused by the many minerals in the soil. Deep reds and ochres and the palest of cream coloured rocks. It’s similar to Australia’s Painted Desert.

  At the Devil’s Throat you can clearly see the channel made hundreds of years ago by the waterfall that gives this formation its name. We’re blessed, they say, because we see the condors flying overhead.

  There are other pieces of rock, like the one shaped like a priest that stands at the top of a pathway, the needles, the Titanic, which does bear some resemblance to a ship sinking, and the frog — all caused by wind and rain. The erosion doesn’t stop, of course. They say the frog won’t look like a frog in another couple of years.

  The erosion plays havoc with the roads too. Our bus has to back up and around a couple of mighty washouts.

  •

  Shirley: In Cafayete we’re offered one of the local delicacies — llama salami. So far I’ve managed to avoid eating guinea pig and I don’t really want to eat something as cute as a llama. Despite reservations I try a bit and I’m pleased that it isn’t that good.

  At the restaurant for lunch Brian tries the local Burra beer — so named because it has a kick like a mule.

  This has been the perfect way to spend our last day in Argentina. Now it’s time to head back into Chile and up the coast to Bolivia.

  Back into Chile on the road to Bolivia

  4 – 11 February 2012

  Brian: The road out of Salta takes us back into the foothills of the Andes. The colours of the Quebrada from yesterday form a backdrop to the verdant green pastures. The road winds past small villages and rock formations that might not look out of place on Mars.

  The switchback corners are similar to those on the pass from Santiago to Mendoza, our first climb into the Andes. I just love these days.

  Shirley: Just shy of the border we stop to refuel and eat. I’m having trouble breathing even though I’m just sitting on the back of the bike, and I feel generally unwell. Brian says he feels light headed and headachy.

  We know we’re high in the mountains but we’re not sure how high. This is altitude sickness for sure. The pass over the Andes to Mendoza was about 3,500 metres and we both handled that well. This must be higher.

  In the restaurant we meet Pepe and Valentina who are riding their single-cylinder BMW 650. They don’t speak much English but we work out they’re locals taking a short break to Machu Picchu. I notice they don’t seem to be having any trouble with the altitude and let us in on their secret — coca leaves. Valentina kindly gives me some and shows me how to roll up a leaf and put it under my gum. You don’t chew it or swallow it. Your saliva breaks down the leaf and you swallow that.

  By the time we get to the border post I feel a little better. The coca leaf seems to work. Or is it mind over matter?

  At the border I ask how high we are. According to the border guards we’re at 4,660 metres. No wonder we feel odd. The guard asks if we’re feeling sick and shows no surprise when I tell him we are. He even laughs a little. Hmm, I don’t think it’s funny.

  Brian: No man’s land at this border goes for about 170 kilometres. The Chilean border post is in the town of San Pedro de Atacama, lower down the mountains at just 2,400 metres.

  We ride through no man’s land with Valentina and Pepe. It’s icy, awfully slippery and exceptionally cold. The temperature gauge is showing just 5°C. The bike’s struggling a little with the altitude and so are we. Even though it’s cold I’m riding with my visor up so I don’t feel quite as breathless as the wind is
being forced into my lungs.

  In the middle of this stretch of road down the Andes there’s a police car parked on the side of the highway. It’s a long way from anywhere. The police don’t stop us, they just sit in their heated car and watch us ride by.

  My mind is dragged back to the here and now when I see blue smoke pouring out of the back of Pepe’s bike. I ride alongside and signal him to pull over. Their plastic container of fuel has slipped down and is resting on the exhaust pipe, creating a hole and burning the fuel. This is a disaster averted. They’re lucky it hasn’t caught on fire. They’re obviously carrying extra fuel because, coming from Argentina, they’re used to arriving in towns and finding no fuel.

  •

  The closer we get to San Pedro the warmer it gets with the temperature rocketing back to 30°C. You can tell we’re on the edge of the Atacama Desert, the driest and hottest desert in the world. It’s certainly dry and dusty.

  This is Chile’s border with Argentina and Bolivia. Looking at the map, I work out why the police were parked in the middle of nowhere. Drug runners could come down through the passes and get onto the road here, avoiding the border post.

  It takes us about two hours to get through all the paperwork, then we start riding through narrow dirt roads and even across a dry stream bed to find our hostel. The GPS is leading the way, but seems to be taking us round and round in circles. After asking boys playing on the side of the road and a woman in a shop we finally get there.

  Shirley: We’re hot and thirsty. When I ask about beer Matias, the owner, tells me we can buy beer downtown. Pity we’ve no idea where ‘downtown’ is. It took us an hour to find the bloody hostel with the GPS.

  Things look up when Matias says he’s cooking dinner and will make some for us — chicken and rice, the South American staple. He also has a couple of beers and some delicious cold wine in the fridge. Good man.

  •

  We wake to the aroma of fresh bread straight out of the oven. Matias has whipped up a loaf for breakfast and there’s some homemade jam to go with it. Not a bad way to start the day.

  Despite the heat we head out into the desert to see the flamingos at the Salar de Atacama, the salt lake on the edge of the Atacama Desert.

  It’s a good dirt road that becomes a road of compressed salt. Brian’s in his element and poses the question, ‘Why aren’t all dirt roads like this one?’

  This is a national reserve for the flamingos. They live on the lake, trawling for food in the salt water, bringing the algae to the surface, their reflections vivid in the shimmering water. I’m mesmerised by these exquisite birds with their long, graceful legs and necks that move with such a fluid motion. To see them here in their natural environment is wonderful.

  Watching the flamingos is very therapeutic, taking me to a peaceful place away from the hustle and bustle of the roads. We sit together on the edge of the lake watching these majestic birds as they go about their daily routine. There are very few people around. This is another one of the near perfect moments of our trip.

  We ride back to town through the incredible Atacama Desert. It’s flat, a dusty grey colour and the road is perfect. It’s only compressed dirt but it’s as easy as riding on tar. Brian’s right — why aren’t all dirt roads like this one?

  •

  Not far from San Pedro de Atacama are the geysers of Tatio. The best time to see these thermals is at dawn so we’re picked up at 4 am. We’ve booked a tour with an English-speaking guide, but that doesn’t eventuate. Oh well. Luckily we discover that quite a few of the people on the tour speak English and with their help and our Spanish we understand most of the warnings, like keeping your hands out of the water because it is muy caliente — very hot. We also understand the warning against dancing even though it’s a little obtuse. We presume it’s a warning to take it easy because we’re again at altitude and it’s difficult to breathe.

  The geysers are very different to Rotorua in New Zealand. They don’t smell of sulphur and don’t spurt high into the sky. They just bubble away through holes in the earth or mounds of rock. The water comes out of the ground at 85°C — now that’s hot! This massive expanse looks quite eerie with the steam rising into the dark sky as the sun begins to rise. The steam envelops us, which offers some warmth. It’s bloody freezing up here, waiting for the dawn.

  Wandering around the geyser field we’re both suffering headaches and breathlessness because of the altitude again. I suck coca lollies I bought in the market — they taste lousy but seem to help. Brian’s avoiding hard candy, very sensibly looking after his teeth.

  •

  Flamingos are an extraordinary sight in the mist at the back of the geyser field. There are also vicunas grazing. These beautiful creatures are related to the alpaca, llama and guanco but are a finer breed that lives above 3,000 metres. Their wool is incredibly fine and they were nearly hunted out of existence. They’re very cute.

  On the way back to town we visit the mud brick town of Machuca. The 35 residents live pretty much as they have for centuries. The locals eke out a living as best they can, selling llama wool rugs and other products they’ve made to the tourists. One young entrepreneur has a baby llama available for a photo op. I’m happy to pay 1,000 (about $2) to have my photo taken with this cutest of babies. It gives me a little thank-you kiss. I’m in love.

  Further up the street we see a woman dressed in traditional clothing, spinning yarn in the traditional way. It’s an incongruous sight as she sits with wool in a plastic supermarket bag and her spindle resting on a plastic container. I ask if I can take a photograph, which is the etiquette. It’s fine, but she wants to be paid 1,000 pesos. That’s all right by us.

  There’s a group of French tourists in town who seem to be on a photographic expedition. Unlike us, they don’t leave a donation when they take photos inside the little church perched on a hill above the town, and unlike us, they don’t ask permission to photograph the spinner. One of them uses his telephoto lens and then has the cheek to show her the photo. When she asks for 1,000 pesos he says, ‘Next time’, and walks away.

  What a rude bastard! I tell him not to be so lousy but he shrugs and walks away. The cost of his camera, lens and the plane ticket to get here would be more than this woman would make in a decade.

  We’ve had a great day. When we get dropped off at our hostel a young Brazilian gives me a slip of paper with his family’s contact details, just in case we come by their way on our trip. This kind gesture is typical of the random acts of friendship that greet us along the way.

  •

  Brian: We’re a couple of days ride from Bolivia. We travel through the lunar landscape of Calama with honeycombed rocks in deep reds and browns perched on the side of the road. It’s amazing.

  When we get to the Pacific coast there are no seaside resorts or highrise hotels. Here the sandy beaches and rocky outcrops are dotted with ramshackle shacks and people harvesting seaweed. There must be some road kill here as scores of ugly local turkey vultures are fighting over something in a sandy ditch. They’re revolting creatures with bald, red heads.

  This doesn’t put me off the idea of lunch by the ocean, so I pull into a little restaurant across from the beach. It has magnificent views but it’s pretty rundown with empty shelves and just a couple of bottles of lemonade in the fridge. We decide not to risk the main foods and opt for a cheese sandwich. This is a good decision. The woman’s nails and hands are black. Shirl ventures out to the toilet and comes back in with a horrified look on her face. Apparently it wasn’t a pretty sight.

  Iquique couldn’t be more different: highrise hotels, boutiques and swish restaurants galore. It’s Shirl’s birthday tomorrow so we splurge on a room with a view of the ocean that’s well over our budget. For dinner we dine on sushi with a glass of fine local wine and a pisco sour. My wife is one happy birthday girl.

  •

  The road to Bolivia takes us into the foothills of the Andes and back through the valleys to the coast. It twists an
d turns and requires some concentration. I love these roads.

  Back on the coast we get to Arica and find the on-site parking promised by the hotel is actually in a building site on the corner. I just stand back and let Shirl take on the staff in her monosyllabic Spanish.

  ‘Parque aqui,’ (parking here) she says determinedly. ‘No, parque esquina,’ (No, parking on the corner) is the reply. She’s not going to back down. Finally the owner is called and organises for the bike to spend the night at a parking area across the road that’ll be locked at dusk. I’m impressed with her negotiating skills, considering it was all done in Spanish.

  Shirley: The archaeological museum is on a dirt road on the outskirts of town and has a wonderful courtyard that would be a great place to park the bike. Overwhelmed with my success yesterday I ask the question and the answer is yes. The bike, fully loaded with everything we own, sits safely under the shade of a tree under the watchful eye of the staff, while we explore the university’s museum.

  In a little building at the back of the desert garden are the museum’s piece de resistance — mummies that predate Egypt. This display is eerie, but amazing. Small in stature, these people were prepared for a life after death. Considering the centuries they’ve spent buried in the desert they’re incredibly well preserved — teeth, shrouds, bones. Quite fascinating.

  Brian: Back on the road we ride through some desolate country. About the only thing that grows out here in the stony ground is the Candelabra cactus. They just appear in the middle of nowhere and only bloom for 24 hours a year. Today’s not that day!

  Through the desert we start climbing again. Putre is at 3,530 metres and a couple of days there should help us acclimatise to the altitude before hitting Bolivia and Peru.

  The headache and the difficulty breathing are making it hard to concentrate. We ride into the clouds and I slow right down. I don’t want to come around the corner and find a truck in front of us. A twisty dirt road takes us off the highway into a little valley, shrouded in fog.