Highway 60 To Fiambalà

I had a conversation with Julia about Instagram travel. I liked roadside picnic’s Instagram photos before I met them.

Instagram is the way overlanders keep in touch which is more Layne’s department than mine as I enjoy my own page and struggle with social media. If you follow overlanders online you will end up seeing the same photos of the same places on all the accounts. And everything is always fantastic. Except these guys who go off on their own and give us leads in places no one else has checked out. I was pleased to meet them when we finally did in Chile. And in a few weeks they ship back to Seattle from Chile. Oh well. 

All this to say our idyllic wild camp was crap. The weather was horrid with Scotch mist falling and making everything moist. Underfoot we had a positive plague of prickly burrs which didn’t stick to you but made walking painful even in thin soles shoes. Rusty was walking in tip toe anywhere there was grass or plants on the sand. What a pain. 

It looked Instagram worthy I guess. And it is on iOverlander where I reported our findings without holding back. But let me tell you not every day in the road or in a van is unbounded joy. This Easter morning was one of the less joyful. 

We said goodbye to Konstantin and Julia with plans to meet later. They have to do papers for their cats to enter Chile and went south to try to get them done Monday in the nearest big town. We’re hoping they will cross the border with us but if not we plan to meet them on the beach 

Wednesday got back on Ruta 40 south to try to get up Fiambalá in time to relax for the afternoon. The green bit is the road we’ve driven, the orange is Easter Sunday on the road and dotted orange is where we want to go. 

I wonder sometimes if our journey is a bit too un-dramatic. It’s just driving around but for us we get to see places we have never seen before, vast tracts of desert in Western Argentina I’d never heard of, but we travel largely without drama, no corruption either. All those stories of being treated as an ATM by officials seeking bribes has never happened to us. I hope this journey shows it’s no more dangerous here than there. We look at Google Maps and iOverlander and figure where we want to go, no bandits anymore than you’d expect on I-95 up the east coast. 

If you are intent on avoiding police check points Easter Sunday is a great day to drive. We passed lots and only one was staffed and she waved us through. They do that mostly but when they do stop us a quick look at my Florida driver’s license and  we’re on our way. No big deal. 

The light under black clouds was terrible and I fear my shutter was set a bit slow so some fuzz has crept in and it annoys me. Belen means Bethlehem in Spanish. 

I figure it was poor enough it could pass for the more famous one in Palestine.  

Northern Argentina is a remarkable desert and poverty is everywhere with attendant motorcycles, street dogs, loose cattle and donkeys and goats. Personally the donkeys look like mules to me, they’re that big and mules are a cross between a horse and a donkey.  

High quality asphalt on historic Ruta 40. As usual. 

Argentina isn’t doing road maintenance anymore so the roads that are good are good and the ones that aren’t will remain bad for the foreseeable. 

The government is run by an economist whose drive to operate in the black has cut govern contracts, employees and work so because we’re travelers we notice the piteous state of the roads. 

Ruta 40 varies between excellent to scene g and awful as well as occasional random stretches of gravel. And streets in towns and cities are even worse. They make me miss Chile and its smooth asphalt. 

Did I mention the social poverty? Leg of goat anyone?

People that can afford cats don’t ride utility motorcycles and scooters. 

Street dogs are better looked after than you might think. Only Mexico are dogs starved but in northern Argentina they don’t look as well looked after as in the prosperous south. 

This is a town street in Fiambalá, our destination. 

We passed through a village called London. And no it did not resemble cities I’ve seen by that name in Canada or Britain. 

There is a lot of adobe in this desert. 



No road work means this sort of nonsense may be in your path: 

I have no idea what this scenario was, below, but I had to drive on the left to get past it. As you do in Argentina. 

This desert scenery is worth the drive. 

Konstantin and Julia are going south to La Rioja on Highway 40 but we were turning north on Highway 60 to Fiambalá, and our ultimate destination is Paso San Francisco one of the strangest border crossings between these two countries and we’ve crossed lots of them.  

Paso San Francisco is 300 miles long with no services so we are going to take some extra gas just in case. The pass is 15,800 feet high and is mostly paved though forty odd miles are said to be gravel in Chile. It’s autumn so it’s going to cold up there. And the big issue: it’s only open Tuesdays and Fridays and Rusty’s permit expires on Thursday so we have to get it done next Tuesday. 

Ruta 60 through the desert. More Arizona. 









Layne stopped to check out a tourist booth while I walked Rusty. 



We arrived around 3:30 Sunday afternoon under a weak sun in about 70 degrees.



A monument to women: 









We’d found a picnic area used to spend a free night as listed on iOverlander. It’s got a clear sky for Starlink, a trash can, some local dogs I fed much to Rusty’s disgust and a toilet so foul I don’t think it counts as a facility. 

It worked for us: no prickles, a flat cement pad to park on and no noise. And Rusty liked it. 

Driving South To Go North

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.