June 1, 2011
Final Day Joy and Blues.
I was awakened by nature's call at six o'clock and went out of the tent peeing in the dark moonless night looking up at the stars. The sky at night unpolluted by the lights of cities is a wonder I now take for granted having camped in the wilderness for so many nights. Very soon I'll be looking back with fondness on these nights. Presently I get back into the sleepingbag and slumber and wake waiting for the light of day.
With a hundred and twenty-five kilometres to Salta ahead of me, Is turned out as the first glow of light appeared in the East which soon shone lighting the top of the mountain to the West of where I'd camped on the old road round the hillside.
I could sit outside the tent this morning as it wasn't too cold. I had walnuts and raisens to make the porridge oats more interesting. I linger over my cup of tea contemplating the campsite and the coming day.
Is on the road early enough to have the road ro myself. The valley still in dark shadow except for the hilltops on the my left where the sun shone. The absence of humans was shortlived however when I turn a bend and see truck-wheels up-turned of a semi-trailer upside-down, it's load of sand spilled out over the verge. Men in uniform stood in contemplation of the mess. As I got closer to see I saw they were firemen but there was no firetruck nor truck that had been towing the overturned trailer. Cycling onwards and a few hundred metres from the scene, I am met by a tow-truck coming at speed out of a bend on the wrong side of the road, swerving in time just before reaching me back to the right side of the road. Later too as the road continued sinuously on, on two occations cars appoached at such a rate of knots that they'd drifted completely over onto my side of the road through curves.
Presently, the sun has risen over the hilltops but glows weakly through wisps of cloud which have moved in. The sky ahead has become slate grey. A little further there's spots of rain and I smell the wet bitumen. Alas the rain didn't amount to much and the cloud lightened to white cotton wool with the sun breaking through.
The valley is narrow at first with jungle clad slopes. The red-rock country of yesterday is now far behind. There are small farms with small fields worked by men using horsedrawn implements. Within a short few kilometres though the valley widens and farming methods become twentieth century with large fields of golden maize and earthy brown fields being ploughed and tilled by tractors. Hung on the fence along much of the roadside are dry brown leaves which on closer inspection I discover to be tobacco.
Increased traffic was a worrying factor as I approached the city. I've said before and it gets a little boring. Some Argentine drivers are crazy! Fine are the many that slow and wait when there's oncoming traffic, or, when there is nothing coming swing-over to the middle or even the opposite side of the road to pass me. But these considerate drivers aren't going to save me from possible serious injury or even death because of the irrisponsible action of Macho Morons that pass at one-hundred miles per hour within inches of me, that's, whether there's oncoming traffic or no traffic on the road whatsoever.
An example which happened showing the shear lack of common sence of these idiots, and arrogants too. A big tanker-truck was appoaching, its wheels because of its size were on the painted white line in the middle of the road. Suddenly, I hear a car coming at speed from the rear. It began to sound its horn frantically saying get out of the way before passing me with only inches to spare. I don't know where he (the driver) thought Is going to go as there was a hedge tight by my inside. He obviously doesn't have the social intelligents or grace to understand that the public road is a shared space used by all modes of transport, not just the reserve of cowboys like himself.
The road and I entered a large village. I am glad to be away from the speeding drivers out in the country. I see a comidor and stop, pushing the bike up the step onto the veranda and lean it outside the window before entering. The server puts a card on the table infront of me and I choose from the list. I order a Lomito Completo which is a steak sandwich with lots of salad and a fried egg, and a small can of beer to drink. Lunch is peaceful. The television is on quietly in the corner. There is only one other table in use, occuppied by a young indigenous man and his daughter, a little girl with platted pigtails swinging her lower legs pendium-like under the chair she sat on while now and again turning her head to say something to her daddy.
The road onwards in the afternoon was wider and straight, so the cars were less of a worry. I grew increasingly tired as the afternoon wore on; due as much to, the chain being clogged in black oily congeal dirt, than it having been a long day. As I reached the urban limit to the South of Salta passing-by Barrio Santana, I began to feel the bonk where a cyclist feels empty and knows he or she has to stop soon. But at the same time there wasn't far to go. I'd just past under an overhead sign saying "El Centro 14km" and was drawn on by adrenalin. I did though stop at the next YPF service-station for a coffee thinking that I would like to arrive in the city in a refreshed state.
The final few kilometres were a ride from red traffic-light to red traffic-light in afternoon rush-hour traffic until reaching the streets of the city-centre and eventually coming to a halt. The end of the day and the end of the tour. It didn't seem any different in the present to any other finish of the day in the past ten months, apart from being back where I'd started last August. I then caused a bit of a stir when I entered the same hostel, the same hostel in which I resided in the last time. Where I told the same receptionist where I'd been.
Today's ride: 127 km (79 miles)
Total: 15,415 km (9,573 miles)
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