The evening I arrived in Quetena after being lost and found by the bus, the bus driver introduced me to Miguel, a guy who rents out a room in his family's house from time to time. Miguel found the story of my arrival humorous, and was more than happy to offer the room to me. He guided me down the sand streets of the pitch-black town to the entryway of his house. When we arrived, he removed the panels of corrugated sheet metal that guarded the entryway, and I brought my bike into the yard. This walk was the first moment I could really relax and actually take in my surroundings. The cold air, crystal clear sky, and smell of the desert, brought me back to all the long winter nights I had sleeping out in the high-desert of 29 Palms, CA.
The following day, I road to the volcano where I made my way up to 19,060ft, and after descending the mountain, I took the same route back to Quetena. The trip had taken me just over five hours, and I figured it was better to play it safe and spend another evening in Quetena, rather than take chances trying to find somewhere to sleep on my way to Chile. I road back to Miguel's house and he was happy to hear that I had both found my way to the volcano and had gone as high as I had. As I settled into my room, his son appeared moments later with hot water for coffee, and a bowl of soup for lunch. As I enjoyed the soup, Miguel came in and asked if I would like to join him when he went to tend to his herd of llamas later that afternoon. I thought it sounded like a great experience and told him I'd join him. He added that there were some old paintings on the rocks near his herd that I may like to see.
Two hours later we hopped into his pick-up truck, grabbed his son from the neighbor's house, and the three of us made the 45 minute drive out to his llamas. He makes this journey every day, twice a day: once to let the herd out in the morning, and once to bring them back in at night. Wolves and coyotes are a serious problem out there, but they won't attack the llamas if they are all contained in one small area. As we drove to his herd, he explained that years ago, he lost his entire herd of 40 animals in one evening. Coyotes or wolves had killed all of them but had only eaten a few. Miguel said that since all of his animals had bled out many hours before he arrived, all the meat was bad and all was lost. So now, although it comes at a huge expense of time and gas, he makes the journey daily so that history doesn't repeat itself. Miguel also has a small home near his herd that he stays in several nights a week.
We dropped his son off with the herd about a half a mile from his farmhouse, and Miguel and I drove over to the house and parked there. We walked for a ways past large rock cliffs and he showed me the paintings that I assume were done by natives who lived there hundreds of years ago. While showing me the paintings, Miguel's son had moved the herd to a field closer to the house, and afterwards he came over to see what we were doing. Miguel left me with his son to explore the strange rock formations littered throughout the area, and he went back to tend the herd.
After his son brought me on tour of the area, we rejoined Miguel and the two of them set off to bring the llamas in for the night. I figured the best thing I could do at this point was stand back and not direct the animals in any way, either intentionally or unintentionally. It was really quite amazing to watch the two of them bring the animals in. I can only imagine what it would look like if two people with my herding experience tried to move a herd of 70+ animals into a pen.
When it was all said and done, we made our way back to the house in Quetena, and I will be forever grateful that he shared that with me. Miguel is extremely proud of his llamas and of all the things he has in life. When he asked if I could send him photos when I get home, the first photo he wanted me to take was one of him infront of his truck with his son.
The next morning I woke up to the idle of a diesel truck at about 5am. I knew that Miguel was heading back to the herd to let them out for the day. I dozed back off, and two hours later when I opened the door from my room to the yard, Miguel and another guy were standing around a llama that was peacefully sitting with a towel wrapped over hits head and eyes. I instantly had that shocked feeling, as if I had just walked in on something I shouldn't have. Neither of them had seen or heard me. I quickly ducked back into my room. I knew what was going on, and I didn't want to receive the offer usually given to guests throughout a variety of cultures: to cut the animals throat. While I understand that it would be a "cultural experience" I have no desire to cut a llama's throat or anything's throat for that matter. So I lingered around a bit until I knew they were fully underway, and then I wandered back out to see what was going on. Miguel greeted me with the bloody knife still in hand, as if this was a perfectly normal event for him and me both. Of course, it is a perfectly normal event for him, but it's certainly not what I'm used to waking up to. He said, "Give me a minute, and I'll get you breakfast." I said "thanks" and went back into my room. The next couple of minutes were excruciating. I had visions of a plate being brought to my room with a beating llama heart, or with fresh balls of either variety, all in the name of a delicacy for the honorary guest. As the door swung open, a huge sense of relief passed over me as my eyes locked on to the plate of bread and thermos of hot water! Phew!!!
As I loaded up my bike, the family had gathered around the llama and each person went about their duty. The daughter, who I'm guessing was thirteen, skinned the animal. The mother made an incision through the membrane covering the entrails, and was dutifully fishing through the intestines, almost as if she was looking for something specific along the length of them. Miguel and his son were skinning the animal as well. It was about as far from home that I could be at any given moment. It's not that I have a problem with any of this occurring, but when I looked at the family going about their work, the scene couldn't have been anymore different than my own life and childhood. Heck, I used to complain about spending a couple hours hanging Avon books on mailboxes with my mom. Here Miguel's son, who was maybe 10 or 11, was out herding llamas on his own one afternoon and then butchering them in his backyard the next. Certainly a different childhood than my own.
It was a long days ride from Quentena to Chile. The route itself was easy to navigate, but the section of road between Laguna Colorada and the border was not fun. A good portion of it was deep and rutted-up sand, and there was no escaping it. I tried riding off of the road itself and in the fresh sand covered with a solid layer of small stones, but that was equally not fun. I reached the Chilean border that afternoon and it was another straightforward and simple South American border crossing. Note: if you're heading this way, the Bolivian Aduana is not at the border. If you are heading South past Laguna Colorada on the main 4x4 route, you will undoubtedly see a sign directing you to a mine where the aduana office is. I don't remember the distances exactly, but the mine is closer to Laguna Colorada than it is the border. If you are going to the border via any other route, I don't know what your options are. From the border I rode a little further west to San Pedro de Atacama, a rather unexciting and expensive tourist town, but it was a necessary stop for gas.
The picture below is of flamingos in Laguna Colorada. I couldn't help but chuckle when I arrived there. Laguna Colorada is a massive lake with a gravel road going all the way around it. Yet, each and every 4x4 tour that arrives at the lake parks in the same exact spot. I can hear the driver now, "Get out now and take your pictures here! This is the spot to take pictures of Laguna Colorada!" There were four 4x4 parked there when I arrived, and I'm sure the trails of dust heading to and from the horizon had either just been there or would be arriving shortly.
I took a day off from riding in San Pedro and caught up on the website, and then I headed east to Argentina the following day. I was on the road by 7:30am and ready for a long days ride. Well, it ended up being much longer than I expected. I checked out of Chile in San Pedro, and then road the desert road to the Argentinian border at Jama. As luck would have it, the border had a power outage and the line of people waiting to cross was huge. Three hours later I was back on the road, and riding at 120kmph on more deserted desert road. The bike started gradually swerving from left to right, and then the swerving became more abrupt until it forced me to pull over. What the hell? Oh, look at that, I have a flat rear tire. That was the first flat I've had while actually riding, and I can't imagine what an instantaneous deflation of the front tire would feel like: hopefully I'll never know. I pulled the wheel off the bike, and breaking the bead was easier than it has ever been since the tire was so hot from riding it on little to no air. I pulled the inner-tube out and saw that the patch I put on in Uyuni, Bolivia, had come off. I took out my patch kit, threw another patch on, and had the tire remounted, all in record time. I took off again and less than 10 minutes later the patch came off again. Grrrr. I repeated the process again, but this time I put in a spare tube that I patched back in Peru. The patch from Peru was my first patch job ever, and it has since held up through very long highway drones in Argentina.
That same day I came to another salt flat. This one wasn't nearly as big as the Salar in Bolivia, but it was dry, so I was finally able to ride on a salt-flat. It was not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. After about 2 minutes it gets old fast, although I imagine doing it on a 1000cc sportbike would be a lot of fun!
Continuing eastward, the sun was starting to go down and I was still fairly far from where I wanted to end up that evening. I saw a small but lively looking town on the right side of the road and figured I'd call it a night there. As I pulled into town, there were backpackers everywhere. The town's called Purmamarca and I guess it's a really popular spot for Argentinian travelers who are all on their summer vacation right now. I road around for a couple minutes to get my bearings, and then parked my bike in the plaza and started searching for a place to stay. Everywhere I went was full. Everywhere. The sun was down and I kept searching. I found two hotels next to eachother that had plenty of vacancy. They were also over $150 a night. I ran into a group of backpackers from Buenos Aires who were in the same situation. They told me how earlier that day, they passed through the town of Yala, south of Purmamarca, and how they had eaten lunch at a place with rooms. They added that the food was great, so even though it was dark, I decided to give it a shot. Literally as I pulled out of the town, it started to rain. My favorite! Riding in the dark, in the rain, with a tinted visor, crappy headlight, and with knobby off-road tires! When I hit the main road running south, I came up on a slow moving pick-up truck and decided to follow it. Its headlights were much better than mine, and I figured the truck would find the rockslides for me. (there were plenty of signs indicating rockslide areas) It was after 10pm at this point and the road seemed to go on forever. I wasn't used to the scale on my map of Argentina, and I underestimated the distance. After 45 more minutes of riding visor up, visor down, and everything in between, I arrived in Yala. There was a police station on the border of the town, so I pulled over to get directions with the information I had, which wasn't much.
The police officers came out of their one room station, and the first looked at me and said, "Your clothes are waterproof right?" I looked at him and shook my head no. "So you're wet then?" he said with somewhat of a dumbfounded look. "Si," I replied. The truth is, I have rain gear, but I was too lazy to put it on becasue I thought the town was just down the road. After having established that I was indeed soaked, I took out the piece of paper I scribbled this restaurant/hotel's name and address on. "Do you know of a Sara Chatal? She has a restaurant." The first officer maintained the dumbfounded look he had when he found out that I was soaked. The second grabbed the piece of paper and said, "Si, I know her. We are bringing this guy home and we can bring you there." Wow this is great, the police are going to bring me there! The day is finally over!
I followed the police pick-up down the main road and then we took a left onto a side street. The road was completely covered in mud, and it headed into what appeared to be the woods. Keep in mind, it was pitch black and my visibility was zero. Where are these guys bringing me? A couple minutes later and with a few more puddle/pond crossings under my belt, we pulled up to a white house that was completely dark. I didn't see any signs stating that it was a restaurant, hotel, hostal, hostel, hospedaje, store, or anything other than just a house. I pulled up along side the truck and they told me that this was the place. I thanked them, pretty sure that I was worse off than I was 10 minutes ago at the police station. They drove off, and I got off the bike and walked up to the front door of the unlit house. I knocked a couple of times and a light clicked on. The door opened and a middle-aged man answered the door. "Good evening sir, sorry to bother you, but is this the home of Sara Chatal?" "No," he says and then stares at me for a second. Alright then. "She lives back there," and he points to his left, where the second story of the home over-hangs a cement patio area, or a car-port of sorts. Everything is pitch black and there is a section of chain link fence pulled across the patio/car-port entrance.
"Sir, do you think you would be able to get her?" I ask. "Just clap," he quickly responds. That was the second time that day I was told to clap to get someone. While searching around Purmamarca, I pulled up to a hostal's iron gate and was ringing the bell. Two women saw me standing there and said, "Just clap your hands." I paused for a second, "Seriously, or is that some kind of a joke?" I responded with a smile. "No, seriously!" So I stood there and clapped. It was about as effective as the unanswered door bell. As I pondered clapping my hands for the second time that day, the man who had answered the door sensed my moment of hesitation, and stepped outside and clapped his hands. They were like the hands of god. I was looking into the dark abyss behind the chain link, and seconds after he clapped his hands, the lights kicked on in the car port area and two dogs came running and barking. Now I could now see that the living area continued beyond the car port, and a door opened and a woman stuck out her head. I looked to my left and the guy had already gone back inside. "Hi, Sara!?...Sorry to bother you. My name is Jeff and I met 5 people in Purmamarca that said that you had rooms here. They said that they had lunch here today and that you make great empanadas." She walked out the door and came over to the fence. The line about the empanadas seemed to be the key words. As she walked over, I could see that he eyes were still adjusting to the light, "Well I don't rent rooms but I do have good food! Come here young man and get out of the rain." She pulled aside the fencing and offered me a seat at a picnic table. "I only have empanadas, is that ok?" Actually, I'm really not hungry. It's 11pm and I really just need a place to sleep and I still haven't found that place. "Of course, empanadas would be great. Thank you so much!", I said with a smile. She went back into her house and I sat there, shaking my head at the picnic table as I watched precious time tick by. A while later she emerged with a plate of empanadas. As I dug in, I asked, "Sara, do you know of a place that has rooms in this town?" "Yes, there's a hospedaje back on the main road and about 1km further south." She was walking back to her kitchen to bring me a soda, when she stopped and turned around. "Do you have a tent?" "No, I don't," I responded. "Well I have a tent you can use. You can set it up here. I will bring you some blankets and a pillow." I was shocked. "Thank you so much! That would be perfect!" Her daughter came downstairs with a stack of blankets for me, and she helped me set up the tent. After everything was ready, Sare wished me a good night's sleep, and asked when she should have breakfast ready for me. While sleeping on cement is never really a good time, it can feel suprisingly comfortable when you're too tired to care. It had been a long first day in Argentina, but with this show of hospitality, it couldn't have ended on a more positive note. The next day I road back up to Purmamarca to check out the colorful hills (that I had missed the day before) in broad daylight.
Since then, I've been heading south on Ruta 40, which is Argentina's equivalent of Route 66 in the US. If anything its more popular than Route 66. I've never had anyone ask me if I road Route 66, but starting in Mexico, I had other travelers asking me if I was going to ride Ruta 40. So far, the road has been nothing to get excited about. I road 500 miles of it yesterday, 500 miles more the day before, and quite a bit of it the day before that. I picked it up just north of Cafayate, and that's where I saw the first Km marker indicating that there were 4362km (2710 miles) to the end. I originally thought that Ruta 40 went all the way to Ushuaia, but Ushuaia is actually another 200 miles south. Either way, that mile marker was the first indication I've had had that this trip will eventually come to an end. With that realizatoin came a variety of emotions. The first: Wow, I only have 2710 more miles to go. The second: Wow, I still have 2710 miles to go! And the third: After all the planning, all of the good times on the road, and all of the bad, only 2710 (+200) miles separate me from reaching reaching my "objective" as I worded it in the "The Journey" tab on this site. I never thought reaching Ushuaia would be as important to me as it is now. Don't get me wrong, I am completely content with the experiences I've had on this trip. Yet with that being said, I need to reach Ushuaia! It's as simple (or confusing) as that.
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