September 5, 2009
Cachi to Angastaca
From Payagasta I cycled to Cachi, only ten kilometres south. The village predates the Spanish conquest and has timeless colonial era architecture with arch vervandas and cactus planks used in ceilings and furniture; lease not the attractive old chapel is worth a look, with it's bell-tower which is more a parapet with a cut-out where the bell's mounted. A perfect place to stop a day, relax and enjoy the many cafes serving traditional Andean fare.
Sep 6 Sunday: South from Cachi, RUTA 40 is hard going. The surface is loose and dusty and the road meanders up and over the dunes on the western side of Calchaqui valley. The land on the left towards the river is flatter and mainly brown cultivated cropland, dependent on irrigation channels. I passed many an arch veranda farmhouse and saw the occational gaucho on horseback. By noon I'd barely coverd twenty kilometres when I could see the village of Seclantas ahead, across on the opposite side of the river, up from the riverbank against the bare hills on that side of the valley. At the same time, I could smell charred vegetation; and rounding a bend, saw the riverbank on this side all blackened and still smoking in places, all the way along to and beyond the bridge cross to Seclantas.
It was more than a kilometre detour across to the village. I'd packed bread and bananas and a drink for a pinic lunch anyway. There were houses in amongst the willows on this side though: to the right of the tee-junction turn-off for the bridge, including a petrol station with an adjacent cafe. How would I've sustained myself on bread and bananas for the rest of the day, especially with the torturious road ahead, I'll never know because Is vanished, so ordered a rather big lunch: Lomo Completo con Papa Fritas; which is, a thin cut of steak with a fried egg, together with letuce, onion and tomatoe salad in a crusty sandwich, served with chips.
The cafe was inside a large airy steel-frame building with a counter along one end and at the other end, a wall-mounted TV was showing a concert. The sound was low until the woman behind the counter, perhaps seeing me watching with interest, picked up the remote and turned the volume up. The band was Bolivian and the music Folc Lore: the sound sustained whistle of panpipes, twang of charango and howl of vocals, plus chanting backing vocals. The musicians filled the stage: a wall of fawn and light coloured ponchos with colourful patern weave, topped by black broad brimmed cowboy hats. And on a stage a step down and in front of the main stage, were dancers wearing dragon masks. The next song started and new dancers came on stage, dark skinned young women with hair in pig-tails and wearing black bowler hats. Is remindered of a street festable in La Paz. They wore a lot of beads, lace bodices and flowing knee length shirts, and dainty strape and buckle shoes, not much use for cycling.
Onwards, the road swung away from the river valley and steadily up and through a low gap in the mountains; then swept down, levelling out with a village called Molinos off across the scrub and cactus, against the hills on the right. Eventually the road crossed Rio Luracalao and came to a crossroads, with Molinos the turning right and RUTA 40 continuing left. The road was pretty okay for the next ten or so kilometres; a little corrugated but well compacted down. It curved in and out, following steep hills and orange rock piles on the right, with more flat brown cropland though with rows of emerging green crop, stretching to the river on the left. After that, it became largely un-inhabited desert, the road deteriating to loose sand, resulting in a sluggish slow pace in which I saw the sun wain and I looked at my watch a lot, and didn't reach Angastaca till after nightfall. I stayed in the hospidaje in the village previously and it was my gold for the day. Once I'd checked in, carried in my bag and had a shower and cleaned up, it was good to sit in their restaurant where I ordered steak with salad and a jug of wine. There was a group of four in, two young couples conversing in French.
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