Date:
Fri, 13 Apr 2007
To: touring@phred.org
From: “Michael Ayers” <michael@terminalia.org>
Subject: Gondwana - Atrophied and Anemomically Pummeled in Argentina (eastern)
Hola Phreds,
After a crossing of the Atlantic that was slow, complicated, and costly, Stage Four was finally ready to begin after my arrival in Buenos Aires.
In many was this Stage is the most important one, at least for me, as South America probably has more places of interest and more variety of environments and cultures than any other continent of the Tour. It is also, in theory, at least, the longest Stage by far. However, with no more major oceans to cross the actual ending point and date are both uncertain and largely flexible, meaning that I should be able to include more unplanned diversions and occasional lengthier breaks. That is a situation that I have been eagerly anticipating for a very long time. Fortunately, the climate over most of the continent is reasonably amenable to touring all year long, so that also makes for more flexibility and minimizes the negative effects of my very late start.
Of course, there is one location where that is definitely not the case, namely the southernmost tip of the continent, an area that I certainly wanted to visit. Had I started around December 1st in Rio, as originally planned, I would have been able to comfortably ride all the way down and arrive while it was still summer, with up to 18 hours of daylight. Now, after the Atlantic crossing fiasco, a hurried pace would only have me arrive in early Autumn, at best, with the 12-hour, or less, days that I have become so accustomed to. At least changing the starting city to Buenos Aires helped, as it is quite a bit further south. In any case, after changing my route plan several times, I now had a course in mind that would let me see as much of the continent as possible while having reasonable weather most of the way.
Argentina could certainly be included on a list of so-called “first world” nations with most of the pros and cons which that entails. Several years ago, while I was in the early stages of planning the Tour, the country went through a bit of a monetary and political crisis, which saw the value of the Argentine Peso drop significantly. At the time the imbalance with the dollar meant that gringos could visit while spending very little cash. That image stuck in my mind, but these days things have settled down and I have found expenses to no longer be dirt cheap, though still reasonable, about on par with South Africa. As with most places, however, prices are higher in heavily touristed or remote areas. Pleasant mid-range accommodations, ATM’s, Internet cafes, and similar services are all abundant, even in small towns, which is a nice change of pace. Especially useful is the abundance of free Wi-Fi hotspots at hotels and restaurants, which is more extensive than any other place I’ve been so far. However, also more so than any place I’ve been most businesses close for at least one day a week, and, given the country’s heritage, in this case that means Sunday. Additionally, most also observe the very Spanish custom of the daily siesta, where everything is closed from about 2 to 5 P.M. Both of those situations mean that frequently, upon finally reaching a town after a long ride, anxious for some nourishing food and drink, I arrive only to find most potential sources closed. In such cases, one can usually find at least something available, but that often requires a bit of time-consuming hunting around town.
Speaking of food, Argentina is on of the best places for cuisine on the Tour so far. Supermarkets are common and fairly well stocked, some even having a hot-foods counter, one of my favorite sources for a midday meal, and a luxury that I haven’t seen with any regularity since Australia. However, the shelves do seem to be missing a few common items. An example being instant noodles, which I have become surprisingly fond of. I honestly didn’t think that there was anywhere in the world where they could not be purchased, but I have only found them in two markets so far.
However, the best food is at restaurants and, with their prices being reasonable, I have been eating indoors much more often than in any previous place on the route. Their dinner hours of 8-10:00 P.M. has taken some getting used to, however, especially as I usually am ready to fall asleep as soon as the Sun goes down. The fare would probably not make vegetarians very happy, but as an omnivore I have been having a good time. On the green side, however, this has been the first place on the tour where it is possible to get a really good salad. You can order only the ingredients that you like and a big bowl is served, with just oil and vinegar for topping. That really seems to hit the spot for me after a long ride. Another treat is the great ice cream available here. What is sold in the markets is pretty good, but the best is at the Heladerias, or ice cream parlors, of which there are many in each town. They are open all the time, even during siesta or on Sunday, so it is easy to indulge. Although, usually, the buckets on display are covered with lids, so it has been a bit of a chore for me to identify the names of all the flavors in Spanish.
My route for the early part of the Stage would be fairly matter-of-fact. I would ride south to the very tip of the continent, generally along the eastern, Atlantic, coast, and then turn around and head back north along the western side, in and out of the Andes. Once again, however, I did not get started quite as promptly as I had hoped, and there was a bit of confusion involved. The Repubblica Argentina arrived at the Port of Buenos Aires at about 11:00 P.M. on a Sunday night. Since the ship would be there until well into Monday, I, and all the other passengers, naturally assumed that we would be allowed to stay on board that night and disembark in the morning. Not so, however, as we were hurriedly dumped off the ship late that night. I am not sure whether that was the idea of the crew or the high-strung immigration agents who obviously wanted to get home as soon as possible, the latter, I think. In any case, by the time I had hurriedly packed, finished all the usual paperwork, and hauled my normal load of gear, plus all the extra things that I carry just on the ships, through the labyrinth of the ship and out to the Port gate, it was nearly 2:00 A.M. I had made a reservation at a hotel in the centro starting Monday night and, thankfully, they let me arrive one night early. An extra expense, and a big hassle to be sure, but I was glad to finally be on solid ground once and for all.
One of the largest cities I will see on the Tour, Buenos Aires proved to be a pretty good location from which to begin the Stage. There is a generally comfortable attitude there and the centro is reasonably compact, and easily walkable. But with many chores to take care of, I didn’t really explore the city beyond a six-block radius around my hotel. I did venture further out on one occasion, as I had to visit the U.S. Embassy in order to have more blank pages added to my passport. I began the Tour with a brand-new, completely empty, 48-page passport, but it had become clear that I would be out of blank pages before much longer. It was a fairly easy task, but due to some sort of technical problem I had to go all way out there on two separate occasions. The second time I was successful, but I had to listen to the man at the counter give a mild scolding for having a visa for Myanmar. I had planned to stay in town until Friday morning, but I had not finished that, and the other chores I needed to do in time, and with the weekend closures coming up, it was Monday when I finally was ready to go.
So, finally, 65 days from the last time I was on the bike, I set off once again. If I had been in the U.S., I would have definitely have found a way to take a train out to the edge of a city of twelve million people and start the ride from there. However, I have gotten used to not doing so and, in most of the world big cities have somewhat fewer hazards, such as freeways, to contend with. So I chose to ride out right from the centro, and it was not too bad, though a little slow. After the usual twists and turns, I reached a road that cut straight through the outer parts of the city heading right in the direction I wanted to go, and so I went that way.
Heading generally for the coast, there was a choice of three mostly direct routes. One big highway went due south, another, further to the east, towards the big coastal resort city of Mar del Plata, and third, which appeared on the map to be the smallest, ran between the two. Of course, I took that one, and while it was a small two-lane road, I was quite surprised by the amount of traffic it carried, including many trucks, which I judged to be too much volume for a road of that size. I assumed that situation would disappear once I was beyond the big cities of the region, but disappointingly, it, more or less, did not. That is one of the relatively few negative aspects of this part of the Tour. The biggest drawback was something that I allowed to happen to myself, though, as it turned out, there was not much that I could have done about it.
That was, of course, the surprisingly poor condition I was in after two months of complete inactivity. While still at sea, with a few weeks left to go, I knew that starting again was going to hurt, but I was a little surprised by just how much. Even the calluses on the palms of my hands had disappeared, and riding again made them sore. I suspected that it would take less time than normally to bounce back, and, fortunately, that did seem to be the case. My legs returned in a few days, in a couple more I was no longer soft on the saddle, in two weeks or so, my wind was close to normal, and beyond that I began to drop the extra kilograms of body fat I put on at sea. Thanks to the aforementioned good food, latter effect was perhaps a little slower than it would have been if I had been back in, say, Ethiopia.
That whole situation was completely unpleasant, but just one of those things that must be dealt with. On the bright side, once escaping the domain of metro B.A., the landscape quickly changes to the famous Pampas of South America, a broad agricultural area with a flatness that would make Iowa seem mountainous. Helped by the lack of terrain, my bad shape only slowed me down a little. Had there been mountains right away, as on Stage 3, I might have disintegrated. Additionally, the weather was pretty good in that area, generally warm and sunny, without much wind. One minor factor was that most of the small towns were set back a few kilometers from the highway, which made stopping for a spontaneous snack a bit unlikely. Had I been in good shape, I wouldn’t have been concerned so much by that, but as it were I went off looking for a cold drink on one or two occasions, only to find that the dot marked on the map had nothing to offer, adding some useless distance to the route.
On the other hand, the medium- and larger-sized towns in that area, and in the whole of the country for that matter, were always pleasant places to stop. Upon arrival at a typical place, the first impression is often not very good, with sometimes shabby commercial or industrial areas at the edge of town, leading one to think that the place will be useless. Then you arrive at the centro, where all of the services are, and which is usually quite pleasant. In general, touring around the country reminds me of what it would have been like in the U.S. Before it became all Wal-Martified, and that’s quite nice. The best aspect for me is that essentially every town is centered around an attractive park of plaza. It has always been my preferred touring routine to take a long rest and food break in the middle of the day, and stretching out beneath a shady tree in such a place is the perfect way to spend a few hours. It has been a little unsatisfactory that, up until now, I have rarely been able to do so since the Tour began. Even in Australia, at least in most of the places on my route, there were few such places. It was a welcome, even essential, change to have them here, just when I really needed them. In addition to the numerous statues in the plazas, many places in Argentina are named after illustrious historical figures, usually military officers. Though I didn’t go through there, I saw many signs pointing to a place called Coronel Pringles. I thought that it was rather endearing that the Argentines would name a town after the creator of a potatoid psuedo-chip in a can.
Another nice thing about the towns in that area was that a large number of local residents used bikes to get around town, in numbers that made them able to claim a greater share of the roadways. There weren’t too many cyclists traveling between towns, but inside there were plenty. Usually, they were riding what might be described back home as a “beach cruiser”, though there wasn’t any sand for a considerable distance. They also appeared to be fitted with fairly basic components with uncommon sizes, which made me wonder if I would have trouble finding spare parts if needed. Though it took a bit longer than I might have liked, and I hurt a little more than I might have wanted, I arrived before too long at Bahia Blanca, the main city of the region. It was tough to navigate through, due to a lack of signage, but thanks to a light tailwind I arrived early enough to stop early for the day and see what the place had to offer.
From there I was on the doorstep of Patagonia, the famous region of lonely steppes and harsh winds, so named by the Spanish because they considered the indigenous inhabitants there to be “giants.” I was glad to be there, but a little apprehensive, as I knew the conditions would make for some rough days. Back at the start of the Tour in Tasmania, the “Roaring Forties” declined to show up, but I knew that I would not be so lucky here. Though I dislike winds more than any other cycling hardship, I tried to console myself with the fact that in Patagonia they are reportedly even stronger in the summer (though I find that a little hard to believe), and in that one case my lateness may have helped. The winds in the region are generally considered to be westerlies, but the coastal highway, which only infrequently sees the actual coast while heading south, zig-zags along a series of wide bays and gulfs, which creates the occasional possibility of headwinds.
In fact, I fairly quickly realized a pattern that would hold until I reached the end of the continent. Each very bad wind day would almost invariably be followed the very next day by a very good day, often with strong tailwinds. This was partly due to changes in the direction of the roads, but mostly due to the rapidity with which weather systems moved across the narrow section of the continent. The only other place I have been where strong wings completely changed direction so quickly and completely was central Australia. It was very fortunate that this occurred because on at least two occasions bad wind days forced me to stop riding in the morning, well before reaching a place to obtain food, and camp for the remainder of the day in the minimal shelter offered by the low steppe bushes, because the wind actually made cycling unsafe. I can’t remember another case where I have ever had to stop for that reason. At least the pattern held and the following days had tailwinds which allowed me to catch up a little.
The other concern in the area was the return of long, lonely distances between towns. As I may have said before, whatever novelty or interest such situations may have once had for me was left behind somewhere beside the Great Northern Highway in Australia, and for good measure, left behind again in Botswana. Now such places for me are simply places to be tolerated and crossed as quickly as possible. In actuality, the ones in Patagonia were not quite as long and tortuous as those in Oz, though they came one after the other with a depressing frequency. Typically, these involved 2 or 3 days at my normal riding pace, with perhaps one or two small service stops over that distance. That is, unless the wind forced another early stop. Those sections gave me plenty of time to marvel at how the highway still carried way to much truck traffic. I was surprised at just how much stuff was being moved up and down the coast, and it seemed inconceivable to me that the country had not built a railroad to carry all that freight, which would be much more efficient.
In contrast to the lonely steppes, I was rather surprised to see how substantial and useful the towns in the region were. I was expecting dingy fishing towns, or bleak mining towns, but many were surprisingly urban and modern, or at least clean and fully-serviced. I suppose all of those trucks had to be going somewhere, after all. However, I also noticed a jump in the cost of just about everything as I progressed southwards. Along the way I took a day off in Carmen de Patagones where, had I been 3 or 4 days later, I could have gone to the Festival of 07 March, where the locals commemorate a victorious 19th-century battle against Brazil. As usual, I just missed that one.
Other stops were, just across the river in Viedma, because I needed a new tire (long story) and because I was still tired, Puerto Madryn, Comodoro Rivadavia, and Puerto San Julian. Puerto Madryn is a tourist-oriented town near the Peninsula Valdez, the first of a plethora of World Heritage Sites along the Stage route. It is famous as a refuge for various kinds of marine wildlife. I had planned on riding out to see it, but the distance to the shore is fairly large, over a gravel road, with only limited food available and no camping allowed. After having to waste a day waiting out a big rainstorm when the reserve was closed, I gave in and went out on a tour bus from town. It was alright, but not as nice as if I had gone myself, and unfortunately that late in the season, the elephant seals and many of the other animals had already started going back out to sea. Puerto San Julian was a tiny town, much more like what I expected to see in Patagonia, with plain little homes along a small commercial main street. It was possible to take a zodiac tour around the harbor to see birds and animals, the most unique of which were the tiny, black and white Commerson’s Dolphins, which were fun to watch, but impossible to photograph.
South of Bahia Blanca, the only time I strayed from the main coastal highway, Ruta 3, was to see the big colony of Magellenic penguins at a place called Punta Tombo. It was about 50 km off the highway, on the ocean, of course, along a mostly gravel road that slowed my arrival a little. Had I made it there a month earlier there could have been up to a million penguins there, but the ranger said there were only about 20% of the normal amount, as they had already began leaving for their winter at sea. Still, it was a great place to visit, as the birds are rather oblivious to human intruders and, though they are spread out over a fairly large area, the spectacle is quite impressive. I have now seen penguins on three different continents.
From there I could have either backtracked back to the highway, or continued south along the gravel road for about a day, to the little town of Camarones. Honestly, I’ve already had my fill of bad gravel roads on the Tour, and I knew that there would be plenty more of those in the weeks ahead. Nevertheless, I chose to take a chance and continued on via Camarones. With some good luck for a change, the road turned out to be not bad at all except for a few short sections. It was a completely quiet section with only one or two vehicles seen along the way, a nice change from all the trucks on Ruta 3. As usual, however, it took a little longer than I expected, and by the time I arrived in Camarones, everything was closed for siesta.
It was in this area that I began to see guanacos feeding along the roadside. They are small camels, and wild cousins of the domesticated llamas of the Andes, and are among the most graceful and beautiful creatures I have seen so far. Watching a group jump a fence is an impressive sight indeed. On more than one occasion, a group of several were frightened by my approach and escaped over the fence along the roadway, only to leave one of the smaller members of the group “trapped” on my side. The lone guanaco would then dash off along the fence line just in front of me while its family, not wanting to leave the young one alone, ran along on the other side. This enjoyable experience continued on for a few hundred meters until either the small one found a good place to get over the fence, or realized that just turning around and going in the other direction was just as good a plan. This reminded me of a similar experience I had way back in 01993 during my first tour, near Gillette, Wyoming. Of course, that time it involved pronghorns. Another interesting species seen in Patagonia was the Mara. At one point I surprised an adult with two young along the highway and they bounced off into the steppe. Bounced off is correct, as mara are essentially giant rabbits, the adult being almost the size of a German Shepherd. They walk on their toes, as do the hoofed mammals, which gives them a curious gate. In South America it is very easy to see the evolutionary links between rodents and horses.
Though it took about 10 days longer than I’d hoped, I eventually found myself at Rio Gallegos. From there I wanted to reach Ushuaia, the most southerly city in the world, on the famous island of Tierra del Fuego, in another four days. Just south of Comodoro Rivadavia I reached a point that was further south than I had ever been, surpassing the starting point of my 01999 New Zealand tour, and every day I set a new record, a situation which I wanted to continue a long as possible. However, I was not sure if I could cover the distance in four days, as the weather forecast was a bit suspect, but I was going to give it a good try. After Ushuaia, I hoped to take the weekly ferry that runs from a small port near there to Punta Arenas, Chile, in order to avoid duplicating the next few days ride. If I could get to town in four days, I’d have plenty of time to catch the next boat and still spend a couple of days sightseeing. The first day went better than I expected, despite some drizzly rain. With mild wind, and paved highway, which my map showed to be gravel, I covered more distance than expected. Along the way it is necessary to cross into Chile for almost 200 km, but I’ll include that here as that section is almost devoid of any settlements, or other features which might indicate a change of nation. In the afternoon, I rolled up with just minutes to spare at the ferry that crosses the Straight of Magellan to Tierra del Fuego. I remember learning about that famous waterway way back in grade school, and now there I was. On the boat I ran into another touring cyclist, Alex, from France. In a somewhat odd circumstance, I met only one other tourist all along the coast of Argentina, but on Tierra del Fuego, I encountered six. The others were another lone American, who was heading north and gave me some information on the ferry to Punta Arenas, a man and woman on a tandem from Germany, and later, another pair from the U.K. The last four were all ending their tours in Ushuaia, and I felt a bit sad for them. Alex and I rode together for the rest of the day, and even shared a campsite, which, a little unbelievably, is the first time I’ve ever done that in all my years of touring. The next day was a complete change for the worse. The weather was damp and very windy, and the pavement ended for the last 110 km back to the next border with Argentina, being replaced by gravel in less-than-ideal condition. There was one small town early on, but it was 5 km off the road. Alex decided to go down there, while I continued on. He seemed to be the smart one, as the only other dot on the map before the border was just a ghost town at a small petrochemical facility. (Later, I met him again in Coyhaique, Chile, and he told me that everything was closed in that little town, and he wasn’t able to get anything to eat there after all, so perhaps I actually was the smart one!) It was a cold, tiring, struggle to get to the border at San Sebastian by sunset, where there was only a small hotel with a little restaurant. That was good enough for me, as all I wanted was food and a place to get warm.
However, just according to the pattern a very bad day was followed by a really good one. As the sun came out, the pavement returned, and the wind blew strongly from the north. Despite getting lost trying to get out of Rio Grande, wasting an hour and adding an extra 15 km, I made up the distance lost the previous day and then some, and in the afternoon sustained one of the highest average velocities I can ever remember while on tour (wind aided, of course.) That left just one full day’s distance to get to Ushuaia and while I lost the tailwinds, they didn’t become headwinds either, so I managed alright. Along the way I was pleased to see the return of trees, the first ones I had seen for weeks. Also of note was the beautiful scenery created by a little mountain range known as the Andes. My first crossing of the mighty chain was but a timid warm-up, with the summit of the pass just before Ushuaia topping out at a paltry 420 meters above sea level. The passes will get slightly higher later on, of course .
Ushuaia was another town that surprised me, given its location at the “end of the world.” Useful and reasonably modern, with a surprisingly touristy feel it was a nice place to take a couple of days off. On one of those days I rode to the nearby Tierra del Fuego National Park which was quite beautiful, with some nice short hikes available through the forests. Those forests are primarily composed of southern beech, known locally as lenga, which were beginning to show their deep red fall colors. Beech forests such as those, and ones in similar austral locations such as Tasmania and New Zealand are remnants of the type of forests that grew on Gondwanaland back when the supercontinent was still joined together. That, together with it’s location as the southernmost point of my Tour made it one of the major milestones along the way. I was certainly glad to get there.
This first section, while taking a little longer than I’d wanted, nevertheless went off about as well as could be expected. Many interesting things to see, no major mishaps, my physical condition eventually returned, and the weather could have been a lot worse.
I’m not so sure about the next section, however. We’ll see.
Muchas Gracias,
Mike
--
The Tour of Gondwana
May 02005 - ???
http://www.terminalia.org/tour
Date: Tue, 20 Nov 2007 (delayed)
To: touring@phred.org
From: “Michael Ayers” <michael@terminalia.org>
Subject: Gondwana - Always Windy and often Cold in Argentina (Western and Central)
Buenos Dias Phreds,
Stage Four’s second and third sections in Argentina were occasionally tough, usually slow, and punctuated with impressive sights and at least one costly annoyance.
The first of these sections was the bypass of the South Andean icecap, continuing to the north along the eastern edge of the Andes. This part was an entirely different Patagonia to the Patagonias seen either along the Atlantic coast or in Chile. Gone were both the relatively frequent towns or cities, well-stocked with services, as well as anything resembling a decent road, at least for much of the distance. Also absent were people, at least it seemed like that most of the time.
After re-entering the country at the frontier east of Torres del Paine in Chile, things toughened up right away. I was told that the dot on the map called Fuentes del Coyle had food available. I rode to within 10 km of there the evening after crossing the border, and planned to stop by in the morning. Rolling up just after 9:00 A.M. I discovered that this “town” was only a tiny, shabby, hotel/truck stop. Not too surprised by that, I went in to get something to eat, as there would be few other services along the route that day. However, the sign on the door indicated that breakfast ended at 7:30 A.M., which I thought was odd, as that was one hour before sunrise. There were a few people milling about, none of whom seemed interested in serving anything, and no food lying around, so I just rode off. The only other food available that day was a small minimarket at the next junction, where the route turned northwards. This was Argentina’s storied Ruta 40, the classic route through western Argentina, running from near the Bolivian border south through Patagonia to Rio Gallegos at the tip of the continental mainland, on which people looking for “rugged adventure” have traveled for decades. These days the windows of every stopping point are covered with stickers from people announcing their trips, most of which seem to have been placed by men doing Che Guevara impressions by traveling on motorcycles.
Most of the southern half of Ruta 40 is still a narrow, unsurfaced gravel road, and as such surfaces go this one, in most places, was of a medium quality. There are some pretty good sections, as well as some rougher patches with loose gravel or corrugations. Currently, there are two or three short sections over the southern portion which have been upgraded to a surfaced road, always a pleasant surprise, and a couple of longish sections where such work was in progress. The latter were often far enough along in the process when I passed by that it was usually possible to ride on the new, but still closed, sections before it had been paved, which was a considerably smoother surface than the older one. Eventually, I suppose, the entire route will be paved, thus eliminating the manliness felt by all of those motorcyclists, but by the looks of things that could take many years. Based on my experiences in Asia, where the bad roads often carried just as much traffic as the good ones, I had been considerably worried that there would be nearly as much traffic as there had been on Ruta 3 along the eastern coast, with the subsequent clouds of dust and flying rocks. Fortunately, the actual load was generally rather light. I was told that there was considerably more traffic even a few weeks earlier, at the end of summer, but I suspect that even then it was not too much.
In addition to the rough surface, the other of the common cycling difficulties present in abundance along this route were cold temperatures, long distances without services, and most of all the blasted winds. The latter were generally westerlies, and though the route roughly traveled northwards there was usually enough of a headwind component for them to be a big, big hindrance. Their strength was the main problem, however. Sometimes they would slack of a bit, but often it was hard just to stand up against them. I was told again that they are even worse in the summer, though I continue to find that hard to believe. Perhaps there was an advantage to being late after all. With just those factors, I was somehow able to progress reasonably well, but if there had been even one more complication, either rain, traffic, terrain, or similar circumstance, I may not have made it through.
At the junction with the minimart, the route turned north and the first long gravel section began, continuing towards the tourist town of El Calafate. I ate what I could there, and bought what meager portable food was available and continued on, not getting as far as I would have liked that afternoon, before tiring out from the rough roads and winds. This section was only about 150 km to the access road to El Calafate but I only made it just over halfway that day. The next morning, without much left to eat and no services along the way, moving on was quite tough, especially with the even stronger winds that day. Things did not get any easier upon reaching the 30-km, paved side-road leading to the town of El Calafate, since it headed due west, straight into the wind. At the pace I was moving it would take three hours to get there and I was famished. At that point I met two tourists heading in the opposite direction, and obviously happy to be doing so. One was pulling a BoB trailer, while the other carried just a normal load. They were both from Seattle and were just several days from completing a two-year tour on the Alaska to Ushuaia route. I said that I felt sorry for them being so close to the end, but they were pleased and satisfied with their accomplishment. Booyaah! The moments we spent chatting gave me some needed rest, and after continuing on, I hatched a new plan and diverted off the highway for a few kilometers in order to go to the airport, on the notion that there would be food there. Indeed there was, and after a quick but energizing meal I had recharged enough to push ahead into town despite the extra distace.
El Calafate is the tourist center for the southern end of Los Glaciares National Park and the Perito Moreno Glacier, one of Patagonia’s top destinations. As tired as I was when I arrived, and quickly discovering that the affordable accommodation I had picked out was full, I went straight to the next place I came across, one of the nicer, and pricier, places in town. In that case, however, it was a well-deserved treat. I planned to stay over a Friday and Saturday, and take one of those days to visit the Glacier. Checking the weather forecast, it seemed that Saturday would be the better day, so I planned to go out then. Of course, the opposite turned out to be the case, and that Saturday was damp and cold, while Friday had been nice. It would have been possible to ride out to the glacier, but at 80 km from town with only a small snack bar and another hotel close by, it seemed better to go out on the regular shuttle bus from town. The glacier was as impressive as its reputation and I was able to see some large ice blocks calving off, and, finally, in the afternoon the Sun came out just a little, enough to take some decent photos.
North of Calafate came one of the hardest sections of the Stage. After one reasonably easy day, there was a length of 385 km with only one tiny settlement at near the far end, and rumors of a couple roadside food places halfway along. With the gravel and wind it would not have surprised me if that had taken a week or more. To make things a little easier I detoured to the east, off the main route, along an even smaller gravel road, which added another 70 km, but lead to a sizeable town called Gobernador Gregores, where I hoped to have a hot meal and stock up on supplies. However, after a hard ride for most of the day, it was almost 3:00 P.M. when I finally arrived, and consequently everything was closed. At this point the Siesta Effect was becoming decidedly annoying. After another hour the supermarket opened back up and I filled up for the moment, though the selection of portable food was surprisingly limited. I bought what I thought would be enough, but actually wasn’t, and then rode off, stopping a little later when a saw a nice place to camp. That particular spot was sandy and mostly free of the spiky grass clumps that grow in the area and which resemble Australian spinifex.
The following day turned out to be one of the least pleasant of the tour. In the few hours before dawn a little light rain fell. Though it stopped before I got up, it still caused considerable problems. With my first footstep I discovered that the “sandy” ground was actually a thick layer of what now appeared to be volcanic ash, presumably left over from the 01991 eruption of Volcan Hudson in nearby Chile. This particular ash, when wet, transforms into a substance resembling peanut butter, that sticks to everything in big, heavy clods. Trying to make it back to the road, just 30 meters away, up a slight hill, got my feet and the bike completely covered with kilograms of the stuff. Getting back to the road and picking all of that mud off took at least an hour. The road itself wasn’t much better, which made progress very slow, until it dried out after a couple of hours. Of course, just when that happened it curved into the wind, which was at its fiercest that day. It wasn’t supposed to be very long until one of the rumored roadside food places, but at midday it was clear that I wasn’t going to make it without great difficulty, if at all. So in the early afternoon I stopped for the day, after only traveling 55 km, and ate the rest of the food I had, a delicious repast consisting of piece of salami and a can of sliced pineapple.
After spending the rest of that day curled up in my tent behind the minimal shelter provided by a small bush, the following day went a little better, though it didn’t seem like it right away. It was 35 km due west into the wind to a place marked on the map called Tamel Aike, which I eventually reached at 11:00 A.M. The tourist office in El Calafate said that that food could be obtained there, but upon arrival that seemed to be in error. Tamel Aike is, in fact, a staging area and camp for the road construction work going on in the vicinity. The foreman there must have taken pity on me, or else was taken aback by my grumpiness after being misinformed by another tourist bureau, as he said that I could eat with the workers when they broke for lunch at noon. An offer much appreciated, and so I enjoyed a bowl of soup, a plate of spaghetti with a piece of chicken and a cup of pudding, in the company of a bunch of workers who were almost as dusty as I was. I tried to pay, a generous amount to be sure, for this life-saving food, but they wouldn’t let me. Later on, in Chile, I met the French tourist, Alex, that I had camped with on Tierra del Fuego, who had been trailing me by a few days, and he told me that he also was fed for free at the same place. Gracias, amigos. Twenty kilometers further on, another dot on the map identified a place called “Hotel las Horquetas” that was also said to have food, according to the tourist office. I even saw it mentioned in a guidebook, which referred to it as “the loneliest restaurant in the world.” Apparently, it was so lonely that it ceased to exist several years ago, and now stands in even lonelier ruins. However, at that point, the road curved back towards the north, and the wind shifted to out of the southwest. With that good fortune, I made it quite a bit farther than I might have, to within 35 km of the next town.
That was a tiny place called Bajo Caracoles, and I had planned to stop there in order to visit the nearby Cuevas de los Manos. Getting there was harder than I expected, with the return of a fierce wind in the morning. That not only made it hard to stand up, let alone ride, but also kept blowing little pebbles, much larger than the usual windblown sand, from the road surface into my face. Taking my time, it was after 1:00 P.M. when I arrived, and so I decided to put off visiting the caves until the next morning. There was a two-room hotel with a simple restaurant, which was full, and a more basic hostel next door, where I stayed. The Cuevas de los Manos (Cave of the Hands,) is an impressive rock-art site with petroglyphs at least several thousand years old. However, access is via another 45-km rough road to the northeast, that makes an acute angle with Ruta 40. Instead of riding another hard 90 km, I hired one of the locals who shuttles tourists out to the site. The extra cost was worth it as the site was the best of its type I have seen since Australia, with numerous paintings of guanacos, geometric symbols, and hundreds of handprints, which have given the site its name. I noticed distinct similarities with petroglyph sites I saw in Australia and Africa, and was awestruck at how people separated by so much time and distance have produced such similar artwork. That day, for some reason, turned out to be the only one in Patagonia without any wind at all, which made the visit to the cave rather peaceful, and the afternoon’s ride more pleasant than any other over the past few weeks.
The next few days continued to be windy, but there were a couple small towns spaced out usefully along the way, Perito Moreno, which I reached right at siesta time, of course, and Rio Mayo. There was a 40-km paved section before the former, but with the wind it was still slow going. At Rio Mayo I made a one-day detour to the east to the central town of Sarmiento, in order to visit the nearby petrified forest. Since I was late, I considered skipping that, but the pleasure of two solids days on pavement was too attractive a proposition to miss. The fossils, dating from the cretaceous era were pretty interesting, though access to the site was rough once again. There is another, reputedly more impressive, site in eastern Patagonia, dating from the Jurassic era, which might have been more appropriate for the theme of the Tour but was too far off the route to visit. This one was a nice substitute. After that visit, I had only to turn back to the west, repeating the route back to Rio Mayo, and then a further day and a half along another gravel road to the Chilean border. To my pleasant surprise, the wind, while still from the west, had slacked off a bit, and the climb to the pass at the border was low and gradual.
The third section in Argentina came after the major portion of the route through Chile, and just before the start of the Austral winter. Beginning at the Cristo Redentor pass (also known as Paso de los Liberadores), this section would ride north for a while, then turn due east towards the portion of the Stage in eastern South America. In the morning, when I awoke at the Portillo ski lodge, at the top of the pass just on the Chilean side of the border, there were some light snow flurries falling. My thoughts immediately flashed back to a similar Stage 2 day in Minbu, Tibet, where flurries foreshadowed deep snow at the summit, a two-day delay, and an eventual 5 km slog with the loaded bike over an avalanche and beyond. Consequently, I started right away, though I wasn’t particularly worried, since the Cristo Redentor tunnel was only 200 meters farther. That tunnel now represents the actual pass and the border between Chile and Argentina. The old gravel road to the actual pass, 600 meters higher, still exists. Since the 3-kilometer-long tunnel is closed to cyclists, I could have gone over that way, which I might have done had it not been already covered by previous snowfalls. Instead I entered the border station on the Chilean side of the tunnel, to see what sort of inconvenient policies would be in effect. Indeed, I was told I couldn’t ride through, though at that early hour, with little traffic due to the weather, I could easily have made it through the well-lit tunnel. Instead they arranged for one of the workers to shuttle me through, and I actually think they all enjoyed the change of pace I caused, compared to the usual trucks and tour busses. Mid-way through are a pair of Chilean and Argentine flags marking the actual border, probably one of the darkest borders I’ve crossed. Both the Chilean and Argentine immigration posts are located on the Argentine side of the tunnel, a nice idea that speeds things up for everyone.
The first part of the descent on the east side was a little snowy, and so not particularly fast, but after dropping about 500 m things warmed up, dried out, and the pace picked right up. My next break would be at the provincial capital, Mendoza, which was too far to reach in one day, but too close for two. So at the base of the descent, I stopped early at the little town of Uspallata. Just before Mendoza, I turned north again onto a busy highway. It was Ruta 40. The last time I saw that road it consisted of one lane covered with loose rocks, but now it was a six-lane expressway. Consequently, I thought it would be smart to divert on to smaller local roads to reach the city center. However, Mendoza is a city that has been destroyed more than once by earthquakes, so the normal high-rise buildings and tall Cathedral spires that mark the centro are not present there. Consequently, I got completely lost trying to get in, wasting an hour or two in the process. The city was rather nice and though I planned to stay only one day, tiredness and a little drizzly rain stretched that to three. One nice surprise was that I ran into Valerie and Daniel, two (motor-using) tourists who were passengers with me on the Repubblica Argentina for the Atlantic crossing. Their trip seemed to be going fairly well, which was nice to hear.
From there the riding conditions proved to be generally good for the next couple of weeks. Though it was still cold, the wind was now gone and the roads were the quietest of any region I have been in Argentina. There were a few items of note, however. One of these was that this area, now with a rather arid climate, is probably the worst place in the world for thorns. Though I have not been everywhere in the world, of course, I say that with some assuredness, as I can not imagine anyplace worse. The offensive ones are the little ball-shaped, spine-covered type that blow out onto the road, causing instant punctures. On one occasion I hit one of those and, when moving of the road just a meter or two to make the repair, picked up more than 10 more punctures before I realized it. In times like those I think back to the two European tourists I met in Malawi who said that they once had a tube with 50 patches. I gave up on mine on that occasion after 5 repairs.
A more pleasant experience came at the little settlement of Vallecitos, which is described in tourist brochures as “a place of pilgrimage.” At first it seemed to me to be “a place of barbeques,” as that was what everybody seemed to be doing, either in the many simple restaurants or in the many masonry firepits available to the public. That was fine with me, as lunch was the reason I had stopped there. After a nice meal I wandered around and eventually discovered the reason the place exists. It is a giant shrine to Difunta Correa (The Dead Correa), and the story goes like this: Sometime in the early 19th century, a woman, Senhora Correa, set out across the desert, carrying her baby, to rescue her draftee husband who had been left behind by the marching army after falling ill. However, she succumbs to the harsh conditions and dies of thirst. When her body is discovered, the baby is still alive, after surviving by nursing on its mother’s corpse. Considered to be a miraculous occurrence, Difunta Correa is believed to be responsible for many other miracles, even now. Today, on the outskirts of many cities and towns in southwestern Argentina there are many makeshift shrines to Difunta Correa, consisting of offerings of water, usually left in 2-liter plastic soda bottles, often numbering in the hundreds, as a gift in order to quench the lady’s thirst.
The main shrine, located on, or near, her gravesite, is a much more elaborate affair. Located behind the sea of barbeques, a pathway winds up to the summit of a small hill, on and around which people leave objects related to modern-day miracles. In some ways the place was a little kitschy, in a good sort of way, and reminded me somewhat of similar shrines in Asia. However, while the Asian counterparts are kitschy in an old-world sort of way, this one was kitschy in a distinctly new-world manner. Around the base of the hill were numerous scale replicas of buildings, a few representing churches, but most resembling homes, restaurants, or even offices. There were enough of these there that the area looked like a city capable of housing hundreds or thousands of Lilliputians. Along the covered walkway leading up the hill were hung hundreds of motor vehicle license tags, most of which looked to be decades old. Presumably, automobiles are no longer considered miracles, which makes perfect sense to me. At the top stands an old blackened cross surrounded by blobs of wax from hundreds of smoldering candles, and a small brick enclosure. Inside that lies a replica of Correa and her child, and walls covered with photographs of babies, animals, and other sentient miracles.
On the outside walls of the building, and spilling down the walls delineating the pathways were numerous metal plaques, engraved with statements of thanks. Most were general translated as, “Thank You, Difunta Correa for your assistance.” Others were more specific, giving thanks for weddings, recovery from illness, and similar events. One in particular, made from ceramic, larger, and more elaborate than the others, but located at foot level on a nondescript wall, caught my attention. It said:
“Gracias Difunta Correa, por acompanarnos en las excursiones de ciclotourismo—Pena Ciclista Bici Tour.” Google didn’t turn up much for any sort of “Pena Bici Tour,” but it seems to have been a large, organized, ragbrai-style tour a couple of years ago. Had this actually been in Asia, there certainly would have been stalls of craftsmen in the area making such plaques. Here, there were none, however, and I had not come prepared. Otherwise, I could have placed a plaque stating: “Gracias Difunta Correa para la Vuelta de Gondwana.”
Moving along, the next item of note was the costly annoyance, which occurred in the little town of San Augustine de Valle Fertil, when my beloved Pentax Optio 750z camera decided to stop functioning. Apparently it died in its sleep, as it was fine when I went to bed, but the next morning it was no more. After spending the rest of the day futilely trying to bring it back to life, I gave up and resigned to having to replace it. One day latter and it wouldn’t have been such a pain. However, that day I was going to ride out to Ischigualasto National Park, and certainly wanted some photos of the eroded desert landscapes of that park. Feeling completely distracted and bothered by this, I decided to go out to the park on one of the local tours (guides are required to visit in any case,) with the hope that I could make copies of a few photos taken by one of the other tourists. A nice retired Argentinean couple let me do that which was much appreciated.
Fortunately, the next few days were rather plain and uninteresting, so I didn’t feel like I missed many good photos. That brought me to Cordoba, the second largest city in the country. I had planned only one day there, to visit the historic Jesuit block and University, but stayed to in order to go camera shopping. I had been interested in the current crop of super-zoom cameras for a while, since I have been taking more pictures of wildlife lately. So I purchased a Canon S3i, even though the price was twice what the same camera cost online back home. On the plus side, the zoom lens is spectacular, battery life is excellent, and the camera is quite fast. On the other hand I preferred some aspects of the interface on the old camera, and the Canon is huge and heavy in comparison, which means I’ll probably destroy it before I get home.
From there I continued due east into a region known as El Littoral, but the riding conditions deteriorated rapidly. Though there is a considerable amount of agricultural land in this area, there are also several large cities, and consequently the area has the highest population density in the country, outside of the capital. The obstacle for me was the Rio Parana, a major river with few crossings. The closest one was between the cities of Santa Fe and Parana, while there were no others for 450 km in either direction (actually there apparently is a new bridge east of Rosario which doesn’t appear on the maps yet, but I don’t think that would have been much better). The biggest problem was the unconscionable amount of traffic, especially trucks using the narrow 2-lane roads, without shoulders, and the unbelievably bad driving behavior in effect, not to mention foggy skies. After a short while I decided to leave the main road for a slightly longer secondary road. However, that was not any better, with almost as much traffic and a much more bumpy surface, so I returned to the main road. It was in this area that I experienced a “near miss”-type event involving two trucks and three large dogs that still makes my blood pressure rise just thinking about it. Every place has some bad traffic now and then, but I hadn’t had a three-day stretch so bad since leaving India. A few weeks later I saw news reports of a huge crash on a similar road a short distance to the south involving numerous cars, trucks, and busses, with several fatalities and many injuries. I can’t say that I was surprised. I usually don’t advise against touring anywhere, but I don’t think tourists should travel through this region.
Arriving in Santa Fe feeling extremely stressed I took a day off there to try and relax, then started to continue on. The river crossing, however, was another tunnel closed to bikes, which required another shuttle to get through. Delayed by that and then by making a few wrong turns once in Parana, I ended up spending the afternoon in that city, which turned out to be a much more attractive town than Santa Fe. The next couple of days to the east were quite a bit quieter, which was welcome, and I finally reached the border at Colon, a pleasant resort town on the Rio Uruguay. It seemed that I had been in South America for a very long time while only traveling through two countries, which was indeed true.
Now, I was finally about to cross into number three. And for a nice change there was bridge that was open to bikes, not a tunnel.
Gracias,
Mike
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The Tour of Gondwana
May 02005 - ???
http://www.terminalia.org/tour