I feel trapped in San Pedro but I picked up a nagging cough in Bolivia and need to rest up before riding over Paso Sico to Salta. I pass the time with my friend Paul, who I met in Uyuni, and another friend, Stefan, who’s on a 990 heading north. I convince Stefan he needs to ride the southern lagunas route and we get photocopies of my maps he will use. It rains every day I’m in San Pedro, some sort of historical event I’m told. The appeal of Argentine wine country and my distaste for tourist traps overrides my need to rest and I make for the border.
Paso Sico is a nice alternative to Paso Jamma, lots of dirt and remote, the kind of riding I like. I meet a nice Brasilian couple on vacation driving to Salta and we leap frog each other as we stop for pictures of the snow capped peaks that dot the desert plain. I arrive at the Argentine aduana and the agents are shocked that I’m riding this route alone on a motorbike. I don’t understand what the big deal is but I will. I spy a ping pong table as I’m walking in to the office and tell the agent how much I love table tennis and he’s insistent that I come in and play. The table and paddles are in a state of disrepair but no one cares once the ball is served up. I jump out to an early lead in spite of not having played in years. I’m careful to note my opponent is not the least bit happy with the disparity in the score. And the fact I haven’t yet gained entry into the country isn’t lost on me. I systematically begin a sequence of subtle forced errors that swing the score in his favor and the mood becomes festive again. I spend an hour suffering narrow defeats but it was great fun and my entry into Argentina the most enjoyable border crossing of my trip so far.
My Brasilian friends show up at the aduana as I’m departing. The skies are blue and the conditions dry for the most part but about a mile from the aduana the road turns into a gauntlet of deep mud. Now I know why the aduana agents were surprised to see me out here alone on a bike. Often times I make a desvio through the desert to avoid such hazards but in this case the desert is in worse shape than the road. I get up on the pegs and the bike augurs in and it’s a slip sliding affair to the other side. I cross two more stretches like this one then the road opens up as it runs along a ridge of snow capped peaks. The road conditions inspire confidence and I open up the throttle and push the SE around the corners. It’s a beautiful day and I’m thankful to see the sun. I crest a hill that conceals a half mile stretch of mud. A chunk of the mountain has slid down onto the road. How much rain does it take to displace such a significant amount of earth? At 70+ mph and oil soaked brake pads I’m unable to chop speed and hit the mud with great force. The bike immediately goes sideways as a cascade of mud shoots violently into the air. I fight the tank slap but it gets the best of me and I go down. At 15K feet the fully loaded SE is a handful to upright. At 15K feet in a foot of mud it’s near impossible. I make two attempts and each time I slip and fall as I get the bike to the tipping point. I laugh at myself as I visualize what I must look like slipping around in the mud as I wrestle with the bike. I pause to catch my breath and figure I’ll unpack the bike to lighten it. Then I remember my Brasilian friends are behind me. After a few minutes more, sure enough, I spot their truck. The husband gets out and we share a laugh at my expense and we stand the bike up with little effort. The next 20 miles are littered with these half mile stretches of mud and after a lot of bike wrestling the gauntlet of mud gives way to hard pack. I say goodbye to my friends who were following me in case I went down again and I push on to Salta.
Salta is quite festive and a refreshing change. My friend Paul shows up the next day after riding Paso Jamma. He is riding to Paraguay so we will part ways here. I spend a few days resting and enjoying the local fares and continue south to Cafayate. Again I encounter a number of flooded roadways from the heavy rains. A couple of the crossings are rather fierce and I’m happy to have the added height of the SE. I’m reminded of Tupiza as I wind through the colorful windswept rock formations. Cafayate is a small quaint little pueblo boasting a fruitful wine production. By chance I arrive as a couple ADVers happen to be passing through headed north and are having lunch. I chat with Loic and Pete for a bit, we exchange route information, and say our goodbyes. Though touristy, I like the pace of Cafayate and spend a few days sampling great wine and steak before heading to Mendoza, a city iconic for it’s wine offerings. The front forks struggle to support the load of the bike now and I fear most of the oil has leaked out so I plan to service the suspension while there.
Mendoza is larger and more modern than I expected so it’s one of those instances where expectations don’t mesh up with reality, not necessarily in a bad way. Mendoza is where I finally succumb to the Argentine siesta, which I’ve been fighting since Salta. The siesta is a like a time out in the middle of the day. Most everything shuts down by 2PM for a “break” and reopens around 7PM. If you’re running errands you damn well better have them done by 2PM or you can forget about it. The whole town gets its second wind by 7PM and kicks it late into the night. It’s a bizarre custom for me as I’m usually moving around by 6AM and usually in bed by 10PM. It’s a strange land where I find myself ingesting a steak and a bottle of wine at 10PM, stay up to 1AM and sleep to almost 9AM. I must be on another planet.
I ride up to the KTM shop anxious to get my forks serviced only to learn the shop is a bit short on the KTM side of the house. In fact, I only see 3 KTM dirt bikes in the back and the rest of the joint is stocked with Japanese bikes and scooters. I peek into the service area to see a couple scooters on the lifts and see nothing indicating there’s any major twin cylinder service occurring here. The techs have no interest in servicing my forks and I walk out as I run plan B through my head. But this is Latin America, the land where things just seem to work out. A truck screeches to a halt in front of me as I get ready to throw a leg over the bike. An enthusiastic man, who saw my bike from the road, approaches me with arm stretched out, “De donde eres?”. “Estados Unidos”, I reply. We shake hands as I explain my situation and he makes a derogatory gesture and basically tells me not to waste my time here. His friend has a suspension shop, Ajar Suspension, who he calls as we speak. He can get me in now and I’m on my way after getting directions. The “too good to be true” warnings echo in my subconscious as I ride through downtown Mendoza. My reservations are eased when I arrive at the shop to see a well maintained machine shop and assorted tooling for race bikes. Juan answers all my questions without hesitation and I have total confidence my forks are in good hands. I spend the day chatting with him about bikes and the Dakar as he meticulously disassembles and services my forks. Hanging out with Juan for the day is definitely the highlight of my stay in Mendoza.
(not actual route but close, no joy with bing maps)
I figure a shake down ride is in order after getting the suspension serviced so I plan a day ride to Maipu to indulge in my love of wine as I visit the local wineries. Many of the wineries in the region were founded by European immigrants and I take a tour of Bodega Giol which was founded by an Italian and a Swiss gentlemen. The bodega received international recognition in 1910 for its 75,000 liter Oak barrel and bronze statue commemorating the Spanish Revolution. The giant barrel also garnered recognition from the king of Spain. Many of the old wine production processes are still in place today and it’s fascinating to walk through this historic facility. The bodega was successful for many years and won numerous international honors. It became state run in the 60s and is now a museum but still produces some wine. It’s quite a feeling to enjoy a day in Maipu drinking great Argentine wine.
I spend the rest of my time in Mendoza sight seeing, hanging out, and reconnecting with friends. It turns out my friend Claude, who I met back in Tupiza, is in town and he invites me out to dinner at his campsite. I have to take a picture of his rig every time I see it. It’s set up for some serious adventure travel and he put it through the paces in Africa and South America. He’s reached the end of the current segment of his travels and is heading to Buenos Aires where he and his Range Rover will ship back to France. I enjoy my time in Mendoza but Patagonia is calling me. Up to this point I wasn’t sure whether or not I would continue south on ruta 40 or cross into Chile. Since I have a soon to be expiring passport I opt to head for Chile where I can get it renewed at the embassy in Santiago.
