We spent a slightly bizarre Good Friday night in the campground at Cafayate with amplified and endless religious celebrations.
It was one of those cultural moments where you sit back and let the locals get on with it as it wasn’t a public celebration similar to carnival but it was a local intimate celebration of a faith we none of us shared.
Saturday morning we got on the road, Ruta 40 to be precise to drive south toward our planned border crossing. The solid liberated route we’ve covered already, while the fat finger dashes show our proposed route toward the border with Chile.
Julia and Konstantin went ahead in their Sprinter and we leap frogged occasionally when they stopped for coffee or I stopped to walk Rusty and go water the mesquite shrubs. When we travel with other overlanders we select an end point and agree to meet there, rather than try to travel together with our different vehicles and driving styles.
We passed this Argentine cyclist and no I don’t know what his story is but I liked the flying frying pan.
Wineries and motorcyclists were the mark of a holiday weekend.
These section of the highway had crap asphalt all patched and rough and then on top of that there were numerous badens which is what they call fords. And some of them had water.
Not my idea of fun in rainy season.
We picked up a hitch hiker for thirty miles and helped him on his way. Marcelo is Brazilian from São (“San”) Paulo and is hitching his way to Ushuaia when it’s freezing cold down there.
Argentina’s historic Ruta 40 with better asphalt.
Another mysterious cyclist, a policewoman either on patrol or commuting.
Police checkpoint ahead is the sign. Not all of them are staffed and one that was just waved us through. No bribery corruption or hassles.
We flashed past some weird shrine.
And the threat of falling rocks.
And more of those accursed badens.
Some people have money.
Wine country. 74 degrees but it felt hotter and we were hovering between seven and five thousand feet. We actually drove with the a/c for a while as the air felt oddly humid and close.
Oh and there was a mile of dirt road just because this is Ruta 40. Apparently they built a lovely brand new bridge but ran out of money to pave the connecting road. Stupid stuff common in Argentina.
Fruit and vegetables for sale:
More badens.
And locals.
Once again the wide desert valley was not what I had expected. On the map I saw the road coasting alongside the river and I expected more greenery and farming.
Pretty desolate.
One more mad cyclist in the middle of the abomination of desolation.
When we finally did get into a canyon it was cold, 59 degrees, windy and drizzly. “Back in Patagonia,” said a disgruntled Julia.
Wild camping not far from the highway but a long way from noisy Easter celebrations.
I spotted a fox patrolling along the river. Rusty was distracted happily.
The Belen River leading to the town of Belen (“Bethlehem” in Spanish).
Konstantin and Julia had meat to grill so lacking a fixed structure they borrowed our Scotti portable grill and we feasted on meat and salad and pasta. We none of us had had lunch so we were ready to eat and forget to take photographs. Sorry.
Rusty got his not to worry.
The grill before I forgot to take pictures:
Konstantin found passion fruit Snickers candy bars in Brazil and gave us this one to try.
Chocolate with an aftertaste of passion fruit. Delicious and I’ll be looking for this when we get to Brazil.
In light of the forgotten photography I close with this file photo of Konstantin and Julia, great cooks and great company.
It was a good day.
