#50 Parting the Brown Sea - The Road to Cachi

Thinking we were done with river crossings we faced an even bigger hurdle leaving Cafayate. Although there was a perfectly adequate asphalt road to east we chose the route which would wind us through the Mars-like landscape of the Quebrada de los Calchaiques. Our decision was sealed by the recommendation by Jo and Gareth Morgan, in their book 'Up the Andes'. It's possible that the route would not have been so highly rated had the Morgan's, like us, being travelling during the rainy season. But at only 150 kilometres it seemed that even if did prove difficult, as we had been told by the service station attendant, and other locals it would, little was to be lost in giving it a go. After all we would be in Bolivia soon which would be a whole new set of challenges. Time to step it up. 

The first river crossing we came across, or actually more like pond crossing, was 30 kilometres in. Most of the drive up to then had been asphalt. 40 kilometres in we met a Swiss cyclist. She warned us of a difficult river crossing ahead. In her estimation the road was pretty good up to that point, but afterwards we could expect to encounter a lot of sand. Slightly concerning given the road we had been travelling on was sandiest we had ever ridden. Our first fall occurred just after leaving the cyclist. Fortunately the sand made for a soft landing; even more importantly the cyclist hadn't witnessed it. Second fall happened about ten kilometres further North. It took two attempts to ressurect the bike after I over compensated for its weight, causing it to tip right over on the other side. Even worse, I noticed a local on the hill above witness the entire event. 

You might be thinking by now that we were regretting choosing this route. But in actual fact, and albeit this opinion comes from someone who was not required to do any actual riding, the scenery more than made up for the near-impassable road. We weaved our way through crevices in the rocks, looked out at the multi-coloured mountain ranges on either side of us, and passed through villages made up of 20 houses or less, constructed entirely of adobe mud-brick. On the way we passed local Quechuan woman and men, herding goats, presumably living in a manner not all that different to how their ancestors had for hundreds of years. Well, I was of that opinion until stopping for lunch in Angastaco.

Church in Angastaco

While paying the bill we asked as we usually do how the road was ahead and were surprised to hear it was closed for the afternoon. We were even more astounded to discover while waiting this out in the town's leafy plaza that the reason the road was closed was not because workers were using this time to clear it, but because they were on siesta. This is South America. No matter, we chilled out with Charlie, an Argentinian guitar playing, hitchhiker who was not the slightest bit concerned we could only understand about 20% of what he said. 

When the time came we both headed down to the main road to inspect the damage, arriving just as two men emerged from the waters. They advised that in parts the river had risen up to waist-level. There was a digger working to the clear a path but it seemed the only way across was via a tow rope. This option being unavailable to us, and two other Swiss tourers wanting to cross, we were unsure what to do. The options were to turn back for Cafayate and take the paved road North, camp out overnight in Angastaco and hope that things would look brighter in the morning, or sit it out and see if there was some way across that evening, possibly on the back of a ute as the policeman in charge seemed to be suggesting.

The Swiss chose the former option; us, the third. We weren't sure if this was because they were not as adventurous as us or not as foolish. As we noticed the darkening skies the latter seemed more likely. Our thinking had been that we should take the opportuning to cross while it was on offer, as the river might be higher tomorrow. An hour later no progress had been made and with lightening and thunder ahead I was starting to have regrets. No sooner were Reece and I discussing heading back in to town than we heard the words 'moto, moto'. The decision had been made for us. 

Well it turns out that vehicle the policeman had been referring to was not a ute, but the digger working to clear the road. The plan was to cross with the bike in the digger's scoop. All afternoon the relaxed attitude of those charge had been pushing my temperament to the limit. But when it came our time to cross suddenly everyone was in a hurry with little concern for what potential damage could be caused to our unstrapped motorcycle. Cries of 'tranquilo, tranquilo' by us managed to save the the handle-protectors from near catastrophe. With Reece holding the bike up by its handle bars, and a policeman stabilising it from behind, me sitting on the floor next to the driver clutching both helmets with my feet dangling over the edge, we made it across - both us and the bike arriving unscathed. 

In amongst all the commotion we had forgotten the Swiss-cyclist's warning of sand ahead, and with dark fast approaching we were forced to readjust our destination to Molines. Two hours later we arrived. All-in-all it had taken us nearly 10 hours to travel 100 kilometres, the last 40 kilometres at a rate of 20 kilometres per hour. We were rewarded with one of the best meals we have eaten in Argentina - the usual cuisine of empanadas and pizza, but expertly prepared, and one of the cheapest accommodations we have slept in. Maybe tomorrow we would make it to Cachi.