Mercedes

The dogs chased me out of Luján. Whenever one of the many dogs that lived on the city's streets saw me he gave chase and I had a good sweat going and my heart rate was racing just a few kilometers outside the city. I was still tired from the previous day's ride and headed for Mercedes on Ruta 5. Mercedes was 37 km away from Luján and I would see how I felt when I got there. I could go further or stay the night. I still was not totally recovered from my illness and wanted another day's rest before the hard, long distances began in the Pampas.

Ruta 5 was a flat good road with a narrow shoulder that widened further ahead and it was a leisurely ride to Mercedes. Outside the city I stopped at a fruit stand to buy some peaches. I only wanted 2 peaches and the woman insisted I not pay for them and wished me luck. Near the center of town I stopped at a parilla and had a churrasco, the best meat they had the owner promised me. It was delicious and flavorful meat that you hardly needed a knife to cut through.

I took a room at the Hotel Torino which was the cheapest accomodation in town. I had believed there were hostels in Mercedes but in fact there were none. I did some laundry in the bathroom sink and prepared my gear for the camping I expected to be doing the following night and nights thereafter. It was Saturday night in Mercedes and the main square of the city was busy and I had a dinner of ravioli there near the cathedral and then I went to bed. I wanted to make Lobos the next day, which was at least 100 kms.

Luján

I had planned my route the night before and in the morning I packed my gear and prepared to leave the hostel at Tigre. Instead of heading further north to San Antonio de Areco I had decided to head southwest to Luján. From there I would be another day's ride from Ruta 3 which would take me to the end of the world.

The hostel owner asked me how I was riding to Luján and I told him. No, I could not ride that way, he said. It was too dangerous. I would ride through neighborhoods of robbers and thieves. He told me to wait and went across the street to talk to a friend and came back with him. The friend told me a safer way, but it would include riding on the Acceso Oeste Auto Pista. I would also need to ride on 2 other large highways before reaching the Acceso Oeste. I did not like riding on major highways but it was a better alternative to being robbed and beaten.

I rode out of Tigre and onto the first highway. There was only a tiny shoulder and it was hot in the late morning, the sky cloudless, the sun hot, and trucks and cars barreled past me. I concentrated on the line of the shoulder and rode ahead. On this highway I was bypassing the dangerous barrio and the hostel owner told me under no condition was I to get off the highway until I reached the exit before the toll booth.

At the toll booth (peaje) I exited the highway onto a smaller, tree-lined road that wound south to the auto pista. I was still congested from my sickness and could not hear out of my left ear and had hoped to ride leisurely, but riding on an auto pista in the heat of the day, where bicycles are prohibited, camions and buses bombing past you on a small shoulder covered in trash and dirt and broken glass, cannot ever be leisurely riding.

I rode up to a van of workers escorting 2 large tractors slowly down the road and tucked in behind the van with the flashing arrow directing traffic to the other lane. Following this van I was able to stay off the shoulder and I could relax a little. It was almost comfortable to ride an auto pista in this way and safter to ride in a convoy, but then I hit a huge bump in the pavement and my left rear pannier jumped off my rear rack, dragging behind my wheel on the road. As I slowed to stop the pannier unhooked from the rack and skidded into the middle of the lane. I put the bike down and ran back and pulled the pannier out of the road before a truck hit it. The pannier contained my sleeping bag and tools and it had almost been a disaster.

At Moreno I stopped and had a chorizo sandwich for lunch. It was brutally hot and I felt exhausted and the flies swarmed me as I ate. There was still another 30 kms to Luján. A man at the roadside restaurant gave me dirty water that flowed through a hose from a gas pump and swore to me it was potable. I was too thirsty not to drink it.

But then the shoulder (banquina) ended. It would be too dangerous to continue and I got off the Acceso Oeste and rode south through Moreno to Ruta 7, a two lane road that ran parrallel to the auto pista. The sun was now directly overhead and the wind blowing in my face, grabbing at my panniers, and it was hot and dusty riding without a shoulder on Ruta 7, but the traffic was slower and lighter than on the auto pista and it felt safer. It was a dirty area and like much of the urban sprawl of Buenos Aires it did not seem very safe.

I was gutted when I made Luján after 5pm and rode towards the center of town and the basilica. It was the most famous basilica in Argentina and pilgrims came from across the country to see it. The hostel I hoped to stay at was located just in front of it in the long, stone-paved square that faced the basilica.

Sharing the dorm room with me was Diego. He was a serious young man who had married and had a child with an older woman. He commuted 4 hours per day by bus to his IT job in Buenos Aires and was continually exhuasted. Every few months he would take a weekend trip alone, away from his family, to gather himself and this was one of those weekend trips. Diego worked in computer programming and wanted to start his own business but felt he could not take such a risk as the primary provider for his family. He was a bright but troubled young man who was trying to decide whether to pursue his dream and felt its burden and we got on well and I liked him.

Diego and I went to dinner together not far from the hostel but I was nearly falling asleep at the table. I did not have the energy to eat. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and my eyes were bloodshot and hollow. The auto pistas had severely reduced me. With my sun darkened arms and legs and face, and the gone look in my eyes, I reminded myself of that somewhat famous photography of Eddy Merckxx, shirtless in his riding shorts leaning his head back against the wall of the locker room, looking distant and far away, having ridden and lost the Paris-Robaix.

Over a dinner of Milanesas Napolitanas Diego told me much about Argentina and I learned from him about the extensive taxes that severely limit economic activity in the country. Earning more than the equivalent of $1,000/month would trigger luxury taxes. Property prices were also severely inflated and unless an Argentine had inherited a house through his parents that he could sell for cash to buy a new one, it was not possible to save enough to purchase a home. Taxes had also made cars and electronics unaffordable for most people. Much of the country existed only for the already wealthy.

It would be a difficult environment to start up a business but I encouraged Diego to try. To have lived his life without trying would result in a deep regret. I told him to have tried and failed was better than to never have tried. Our talk energized him and he wanted to talk more but I needed to sleep.

Tigre 2

Rio Tigre

I stayed at the hostel most of the day resting and trying to sleep off the sickness. I went out for one walk along the Rio Tigre. The river was busy with kayaks, wooden tourist boats and larger green barges. Later in the day I said goodbye to the Scotsman and the 3 Argentine construction workers. They were leaving together for Rosario. That night at dinner a young Dutch couple talked to me about Patagonia. They had just returned from a long car trip there. The roads were bad they said, but the penguins and the glaciers were not to be missed.

Tigre

It was brutal to fly with a head cold. I had 3 stops in 3 different airports (Quito, Lima, Santiago) and on each landing believed my ear drums would explode. When I arrived in Buenos Aires both my ears were pressured and clogged and I could hardly hear. I had not slept much during the night and was exhausted and dehydrated. I did not have a map of Buenos Aires and only knew that I wanted to ride North out of the city to Tigre. From there I planned to head West before turning South towards Patagonia.

The bicycle and gear had arrived intact and it took 3 hours to put the bike together. When I finished a woman came to me and asked me where I was going. She lived in the western part of Patagonia, in Neuquen, and invited me to her home if I was in that area. I told her my plan to travel along the eastern coast, but if I did make it that far west I would stop to see her. Her name was Angelina and she gave me her number and email and said if I should get into any trouble in Patagonia that I should call her. She and her three woman friends were traveling to Brazil and I said goodbye them and pushed my bike through the airport looking for an ATM machine.

Waiting in line to take out money a man asked me where I was from and I told him. His name was Mito and he spoke good English and lived part of the year in Miami where he owned an apartment in Brickell. His wife Carolina joined us and we talked of America and where I was going in Patagonia and how difficult it would be to travel there on a bicycle. In fact they lived in Tigre and Mito said that I would be fine to ride along the water out of the airport and that eventually I would make it. He gave me their phone number and said that I should call him if something went wrong.

It was hot and humid in Buenos Aires and outside the airport I changed out of my jeans into a pair of shorts and road north along the water. I didn’t like the weighting of my panniers and I had not put the bike together so that it felt comfortable. I also realized the rear brake pads needed replacing. I was exhausted and my head felt horrible and I just wanted a shower and to sleep but it was 35km to Tigre.

The road followed the water and dead-ended at an auto route and I was told by a man to take the auto route about 1km to a bridge which would lead me into the city to the Avenida Libertador. It was a main avenue and would take me north to Tigre. The traffic was fast on the auto route and because there was no shoulder I decided to push the bike along a dirt trail on the road side. I had not pushed it far when I hit a stretch of deep mud which stuck to my tires and then wedged between the front tire and fender. I could not push the bike any further. I had to remove the front panniers and unscrew the fender. It was the last thing I wanted to do feeling the way I was and I stood on the roadside, traffic buzzing past me, cursing the mud-covered bike and my situation.

Back on the road I found Avenida Libertador and further ahead stopped at a cheerful outdoor café for lunch. For 40 pesos ($10) I had the plato del dia which was a fillet of fish, salad, a bottle of sparkling water and a coffee. I was drinking the coffee when I thought I heard someone calling my name and I looked over and it was Mito and Carolina in their car. They had seen my bike in front of the café. I was not far from Tigre they said and wished me luck.

Avenida Libertador left Buenos Aires and turned into a narrow cobblestone road through tree-lined streets. The buildings were old and brightly painted and it was a beautiful area to ride through except for the discomfort of the cobblestones. It felt very much like Europe. The cobblestones ended before Tigre and I rode into the centro and asked at the Oficina de Turismo for the cheapest accommodation.

Tigre was a nice town with a river that cut through it and I took a bed at a hostel for 50 pesos/night. I planned to repack my panniers and to refit my bike while I was there and if I was not feeling better tomorrow I would stay another day and rest. There would be many days of windy riding and nights of roadside camping ahead and I wanted to be at full strength.

At the hostel was a Scottish guy from the Highlands who had traveled much in Argentina and on the continent. He pitied me for wanting to ride to Patagonia. He had seen that desolate, never-changing landscape from a bus window and felt the Patagone cold and wind and did not understand why I would choose to ride into it. Then he told me of the many times he had been robbed in Latin America and how he had been inside police stations in most countries and had looked through many pages of mugshots of bad guys. In Cuba he had triumphed and helped the police capture the money changer who had swindled him. The man had gotten a 3 year sentence for the crime.

The Scotsman and I talked awhile and then 3 Argentine guys invited us to eat with them. They had grilled out on the large barbecue pit and there was too much meat. The 3 of them were fine fellows and worked in construction and were staying at the hostel while doing a job not far from here. We had 2 kinds of churrasco, one covered in melted cheese, and a tomato salad and bread and it was good to be out of Colombia where such a meal was not possible. I already had a good feeling about Argentina and I went to sleep knowing that I would like it.

Leaving for Buenos Aires

Cali

A Czech girl named Katalina arrived at the hostel and asked me to accompany her and an English girl who was sharing her room on a car trip out of Cali. A caleño friend of hers named Rodrigo would take us to see the Monumento de Cristo Rey and then up to Kilometer 18 (which I had previously ridden) for a hot chocolate.

We drove out of Cali into the mountains above the city up a narrow winding road. Rodrigo was as aggressively skilled as all caleño drivers are, passing ahead of blind turns and riding alongside another car using part of its lane and the middle of the road as he prepared to pass. What had first appeared to be crazy, dangerous driving now after many taxi rides seemed to have its own logic.

It was windy and cool on the mountaintop where the Monumento de Cristo Rey had been erected. The large statue stretched his arms over the city of Cali in the valley. The Cristo Rey had been built in the early 50s to lift a curse the devil had placed on the city. The Tres Cruces (Three Crosses) that had been built many years earlier on a mountaintop not far away had failed to lift the curse and it had been necessary to construct a second monument.

I asked Rodrigo if the curse continued and he smiled, and said that it did, despite the end of the great political violence and poverty of the 40s and 50s. America de Cali, his football team, had yet to win a championship and for this reason the club's supporters believed the devil's curse to have been unbroken. A third statue or monument would be needed for the city.

After the Cristo Rey we went to Kilometer 18 on the top of a neighboring range of mountains and up a winding dirt road, at the mountains highest point, we stopped at restaurant overlooking the cloud-covered mountains. It was windy and cold up this high, just as it had been on my ride there previously, and we ordered the specialty hot chocolate into which you put small pieces of cheese, letting them warm in the hot chocolate, and then spooned out to eat. We played a game of dominos and ate a very good chorizo from the outdoor grill. This spot was a popular place for caleños to come and cool off when the city became too hot.

Back at the hostel Katalina, the English, and I had dinner and changed and took a taxi to Tin Tin Deo, one of the oldest and most famous salsa clubs in Cali. Another caleño friend of Katalina's named Eduardo met us there and we ordered a bottle of rum. The dancing was better than I have seen at any place in Cali and some of the dancers might easily have performed in the Salsa Parade. Eduardo was a very good dancer and after a few shots of rum I got my confidence up and hit the dancefloor.

From the basic awkward steps I came to Cali with I can now move well with the music after 10 days of dancing, well enough that caleñas will allow me to dance with them, though the more advanced spins are still beyond my skill level. I once believed dancing to be for homosexuals but now think all men should know how to dance. We danced for almost 4 hours and took a taxi back to the hostel sweaty and exhausted.

New Year's Eve

We had a barbecue at the hostel and then went outside to join the neighbors in a ritual to bring in the New Year. In the middle of the street a mannequin had been set up on a pole and they had stuffed him with their bad memories and memorabilia from the past year. This figure was dressed in a suit and tie and was wearing a mask of Hugo Chavez. There was much drinking and shooting off of fireworks, we each ate 12 grapes for luck in the coming 12 months of the new year, and then the Chavez figure was doused in lighter fluid and lit ablaze.

Chavez burned quickly and an englishman from the hostel walked closer with his camera but just then the figure collapsed forward and a rocket shot out of its head and the englishmen dropped his camera and dove to the ground, the rocket narrowly missing him. We were standing further back and laughing but a second rocket shot out of the figure's head right for us and we scattered, the rocket bouncing off the building behind us. But there were no more rockets and Chavez burned peacefully in the street for the next 2 hours. It was officially 2011.