Points To Ponder: rewriting, naming and blaming.

June 6, 2011

Monday sixth of June: This is the last page of my journal, but as of yet I've still to write six pages covering the last two weeks of the journey which for me were especially memorable as I approached it with new enthusiasm after my enthusiasm had gone stale and twice Is for packing it in before reaching the end of tour gold. My reward for persevering were two weeks of dream cycling on empty roads, and with lots of photos to show and give an idea of the wild and wonderful scenery as I approached the end here in Salta. Not for nothing is the city called "Salta la Linda" and yesterday afternoon (Sunday), I went out hunting for more photos and beneath is the result. This page, both in text and pictures, I'll add to within the coming months as I slide back into a non-traveling lifestyle again. The remaining pages covering those final two weeks will be written slowly as time permits. I would like to thank all for reading and for remaining interested in "Northbound from Argentina through Brazil" to the end; but most of all, I owe Neil Gunton a huge THANKYOU as this wouldn't be possible without him and the fantastic website CrazyGuyonaBike which he's created.

I had ten days or so to relax in Salta before my flight home and I staid in a backpacker's hostel. Having spent so much time alone in the past months, I wasn't the most sociable person in the first couple of days but little by little I came out of my shell and got to meet some wonderful fellow travellers. I also had the desire to see once again some of the incredible landscape in the Provence of Salta. I have already cycled most of the roads and visited places such as San Antonio de los Cobres and Cachi to name but a few, so I took the easy option of booking an excursion tour through the hostel which turned out to be a great day out with five others making up the tour group including two Swiss, a German, an Englishman and a fellow Irishwoman. Our driver was also a knowledgeable guild pointing at interesting things on the way and telling us the history. The Tour to the Clouds as it is called goes to over four-thousand metres. The only place I didn't like on this excursion was the drive across Salinas Grandes, a salt lake as I don't see the attraction it being a blank white plain: Furthermore I didn't have sun-glasses so I'd to cover my eyes as the light of the sun is blinding. Other than that I enjoyed the Quebrada (gorge) de Toro and of coarse there were lots of photo-opportunities...

Railway viaduct in the Toro gorge: Salta. The road, (Route 51), to the left (out of shot) is gravel on this stretch.

Six-hundred years old cactus: many times taller than Michael's height of one metre eighty.

Men at work: Alto plano mining town, San Antonio de los Cobres: Salta.

Lets get away from the road and the snappers.

Don't mind us; steal the show posing for the camera as you will.

Salt extraction for industry and fot table-salt on Salinas Grande; at ten-thousand kilometres square it is the third biggest salt lake in the world.

Route 52 descends from over four-thousand metres to Quebrada (gorge) de Humahuaca (homa-whac-ka).

Cerro de los siete colores. (the seven colours hill).

A few days later, I went on yet another Tour. This time to the village of Cachi. My companions today were an Australian and a Frenchwoman. The scenery on the way was enchanting.

Cappilla de San Rafael on El Paso de Piedra Molino.

Passing Cerro Tintin on the drive to Cachi.

Cerro Tintin and Nevada de Cachi to the right.

Looking somewhat like a place in a Western (film) where the outlaws escape over the border to Mexico, a street in Cachi: note the door is built into the corner.

And yet a third tour to Cafayate. I haven't uploaded much photos for this one as there are already enough of the route taken on the penultimate day riding here to Salta. My fellow tour-goers today were Roy a horse-breeder from Australia, Casey from New Orleans (USA) a lady with a nice Southern drawl, and Patrick a humourless student type from Switzerland. I actually remembered names for a change.

Another corner with Capilla de Guemes (the church) visible through the arch.

Roy got into this shot of the entrance to a rock formation called the Amphitheater.

Salta has lots of places to go of an evening. One place however people from the hostel visited frequently is La Casa Molina. There isn't a stage but musicians take along instruments to play and to sing where they sit around tables. It is in essence like an Irish pub but where Argentine folk music is played instead.

We, our group of six weren't so interested in the music however. While people sitting around tables with drinks, turned from the waist up to face and listen contently to a melody strum on a guitar and to a singer sing, we sat around a table in a corner and listened to Michael.

"In Nucastle vit ni shirt in Winter man."

He was well spoken only switching to thick geordie when anyway mildly passionate about anything; or, drunk.

"Ay did accountancy but twas booring, and everybody hates accountants. So I did a masters in English Literature, but there's nei jobs there man."

He then mentioned a string of wellknown people from Newcastle many of which went to the same school as him. He quoted what his teacher said to a certain future footballer.

"Alan Shear! If yeh don't stop thinkin of football and do yer schoolwark, yell never amount to anything!"

He then laid into Sting, Mark Knopfler and......

"Tony Blair, uh, he's a dick!"

All nod in agreement. Phillip from Germany pipes in.

"Actually in Germinney we call him Tony Smiles-Lies Blair."

Causing a laugh all round.

Laughter and good times aside, it's now time to reflect on ten months on the road.

It began in July two-thousand and ten after a year on the road in South America in which I wrote up what happened most evenings. But after a year this wasn't enough. I wanted family and friends back home to follow my journey more closely than what was in the occational email. I chose therefore to type in on the computer a transcript of my often untidy penwork. I spent hours nay days on Crazy Guy reading help and guidence for creating a journal. It seemed complicated, but once writing, it came intuitively. There was a name to think-up and I came-up with Northbound which was representive of the over all direction I planned at the time as well as having a nice round ring to it. Also at the time, the North East of Bazil was where I saw myself cycling to. The country that I found myself in and would start off in as well as cycle the first few weeks until crossing an international frontier was Argentina; thereafter, I'd be cycling from Argentina through Brazil. Hence the title.

With a title for the journal, I wrote on Monday twentysixth July: I've been busy beginning my journal on Crazy Guy and while I like the finished result, it's creation is a hard process mentally, condensing down the information to concise easily read text. However, having posted the first page yesterday, I see the hit count today is eighteen.

Under way, the journal engendered a delay on the road each week which I thought as much beforehand but never envisaged how intense updating the journal would become. I would write about the relevant happenings and endeavour to creat an interesting adventure story, steering clear of waffle. Having put pen to paper in the evenings, I would go on the keyboard, cutting out irrelivant detail while embellishing the interesting from memory and meanwhile keeping the text short and concise while remembering that it most be easily followed and understood.

Sunday fifteenth August: I've read a few history books and I know Tucuman is the location of The Congress of 1816. I stroll along a street from the plaza unbeknown to me that it's called Congreso after the historic events that took place here. Outside an old white house with ornate double doorway and with the celestral blue and white national flag hanging limply on either side, I see a lot of people crowded around; many entering through the doorway, while others pose out infront for photos.

"Senora que es esta?" I ask a matronly lady standing looking on in awe what the house is.

"It's the house of the congress. The birthplace of this nation" she replies.

I returned later to go in, but out in front there's street theatre in period dress depicting an episode from the year 1816. A lighthearted piece of satire featuring three characters, a solder in Napoleanic military uniform, a princess in a flowing scarlet dress and the smartly dressed govenor. During the acts there was much drama and the actors and actress pulled faces expressing senses of fun, emotion or disbelief. Meanwhile, there came howls and laughter and clapping from the audience gathered around in a cresent. There were raised voices and phrases I didn't quite follow, but although lost through much of it, I watched to the end.

And here's a short outtake from Monday twentythird August:.........I've just spotted a spider in my tent. I try to lift it out but it got away. I wonder where it could be. later I spot it on top of my sleepbag. This time I take no chances. I pick up my book and swipe it dead...........

The former I've rewritten in a lot fewer words than orriginally. The later I open in the past tense and then tell the story in the present which I believe helps recreat in the reader's head a picture of what happened.

The plan to cycle to the North East of Brazil came up against a problem, namely, bank ATMs wouldn't except my bank card: and you cannot go far without money.

I was in a small town after crossing the border when I discovered this. I tried all three banks but was unsuccessful in withdrawning cash. I put it down to the regional and national banks in this town not being set up for foreign card-use. I therefore changed enough dollars to live on until reaching a city where I thought it would be easy to use the ATMs at an international bank.

Tuesday twentyeighth September: I tried a bank again. This time international bank HSBC. I first try to withdrawn cash but unsuccessfully. There's a lady from customer service at another machine helping an elderly lady use her new card. I wait until she's finished and ask her for help. I type in my PIN and she guides me through the procedure in the little Spanish she knows. Then to confirm the transaction, the card most be put in the sensor afresh and retained. We were not having any success and were trying for the fourth time: up until then each time we got to this confirmational stage, the sensor failed to read the card and the lady after retaining the card from the machine, held it up carefully examined the magnectic stripe before putting the card in anew and retaining it. The fourth time however, Is relieved to hear the machine gun clicking sound of the cash being counted and then see the hatch opening with a wad of banknotes gliding out. I said thanks. Needless to say the ATMs here are different to elsewhere and are not intuitive to use. In fact they're complicated and I don't think I could use them without assistants.

I liked cycling in Brazil. But as Is living on money exchanged from dollars, Uruguayan pesos and the reals from that one complicated withdrawnal in Brazil, to continue according to plan would've entailed crossing back into a neighbouring country and taking out a big wad of cash. And I foresaw the scenario of reaching the North East of Brazil still unable to withdrawn cash from ATMs when that wad would be growing thin. So I resolved to cross back to Argentina and cycle South; eventually to Patagonia.

Cycling South I always thought I'd retitle the journal, but the truth is I couldn't come up with a new title; one which I like, like as much as what I had already got. The word Northbound has a nice ring to it, or it inspires adventure or whatever. Part of a composite joined up by prepositions to two equally rich words: Argentina and Brazil. So I wouldn't change the title. The outcome is, I've learned that any future journal should steer clear of directions or places in the title; instead, it's probably a better idea to pick a title which is a phrase to do with the journal's character or spirit. However, the exsisting title became this journal's identity notwithstanding cycling Southwards.

The provence of Buenos Aires isn't Brazil. Tuesday twentyeighth December: Breakfast was porridge made palatable with vanila flavour yogurt and tea. It was good to be on the road at an early hour where a big bank of dark cloud met on the horizon golden wheat. There were spits of rain but it was bright ahead. As I made progress, the countryside changes from snookertable flat to low gentle slopes and hills. Further still the cloud began to clear revealing mountain ridges. From late morning the road past along and up a valley amongst the mountains. It resembled the Scotish highlands a bit. At some point the road dropped steeply down to another valley with small patchwork wheatfields with heather margins sloping up from the roadside to rock-outcrops and escarpment.

This was a day riding in the aforesaid Buenos Aires often dismissed as flat but as I wrote mountains enough that Is glad to have ridden through. I've long been convinced to go, see and experience for myself, places that others are dismissive of even though they haven't gone to see for themselves.

I progressed into Patagonia. And rode Route 3, the road dismissed by almost everybody as udder monotomous: you cannot argue with these people. They've seen pictures of the country enroute and read negitive discriptions, and it isn't trees and blue lakes, the pictures on glossy brochures and the Patagonia in guidebooks that they're after.

Thursday seventeenth February: Thankfully the day remains still. The sky cloudless, though there are white cumilus rising off in the East; like the plumes of many powerstation cooling towers. I see lakes which aren't really there. Looking ahead, the road fades into the sky while the brown plain on either side continues on and on to infinity to the blurred horizon with hilltops floating in midair. I see no animals until I see a fox by the fence. Seeing me it runs but then stops and stands it's ground panting like a dog while stirring at me.

Towards evening the long road reaches red hills and passes by colourful barrancas. There are lots of guanachos on the road and I hear the high pitched call of a singular animal standing on a promitory. I am growing tired and need to stop just as I reach the turnoff for Busque Petroficado Monument National. According to the sign it is fifty kilometres away along the dusty track visably leading away from the road and across the hills to the West. I sit down to rest at the junction using the side of the Bob-Trailer as a backrest. I doze off and hear a familar voice call my name. I wake-up with a start and looking around see no one there. All is empty and silent except for a distant whine of an appoaching truck.

So far I haven't mentioned people. Argentina by nature is vast and sparshly populated especially in rural areas. With the exception of pockets of native American people, the population is by and large of European decent. Furthermore most learn English at schools these days and speak with varying degrees of proficency.

Friday thirtyfirst December: at the hostel in Tandi was Flora, a young woman with a little girl's face. She is a teacher at St Patricks English Language School in Buenos Aires where she herself was a pupil and because of that is fairly fluent in English. Her main fault is she smokes too much. She's trying to quit but the craving gets the better of her.

"Anda what do they think of us where you come from?"

Her question left me thumbling in vain for an answer. The us meant the populous here.

"Well." I reply after much dithering."People that have not traveled much lease not to South America, lump you altogether with the rest of Hispanic America as being short and dark skinned. But having been around I find people look quite European. Also many places haven't Spanish names but more usual German and I've even seen English place names.

I eventually reached Ushuaia, the most southern city in the world; then on the way North lose heart in the journey and many days were a drudge to the end. Indeed twice Is set on packing up and going home. I stuck it out though and was rewarded with a final few weeks of absolutely memorable cycling. I had a great sense of satisfaction riding northbound to Salta: finishing where I began.

Lessons learned if any; supposedly having already cycle-toured for many years beforehand, I built on my experience inasmush as I for example became more adventurous in my approach to wild-camping. But seriously the biggest learning curve has been the journal itself. I began it in a cluttered manner and acclimatized to writing it as I added pages. And the last word is I'll relish reading it when older and continue cycling and revisit the same places many years later.

And finally a cautionary tale: do not get carried away.

Thursday thirtieth September: the afternoon began with me almost falling off my bike. As I cycled out off town, I saw her walking towards me on the pavement. She was tall, full figured and immaculately dressed in dark pin-stripe blazer and trousers. She had a fine face, ivory pale skin with rosy cheeks and long dark hair flowing down around her forearms, one of which she had raised and playfully ran the fingers through her fringe, lifting the hair from smiling eyes. Smiling but smiling inwardly to herself; they were vague to me as she strode porposely and I cycled, and we past shoulder by shoulder going in opposite directions. I turned my head looking back mesmerized; unwittingly steering onto the verge which sloped down. Somehow I pulled myself together, putting down my foot before the inevitable fall

Journal finished. Thanks for reading.

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