I've eventually left San Pedro behind and won't dwell on the long day I've had on that monotomous climb. This evening I'm camped at over four thousand metres on a loop of old road, hidden behind a heap of spoil pushed up by the road builders. I am less than fifty kilometres east of San Pedro and it's going to be a cold night.

Oct 8 Thursday: I awoke during the night with feet feeling cold as ice, and remained awake shivering a long time afterwards. Still shivering this morning, I curled up and waited until the sun began warming things up before getting out of the sleeping-bag, eventually breaking camp at twenty past nine. I made good progress as Is propelled along all day by the wind. Glad I was not riding the other way like two weeks ago. Today was so easy in comparision. I'd even to use the brakes mush of the time to check my speed and stopped often to take photos. I covered the hundred kilometres to the border, plus the six downhill to Jama, where I got an Argentine stamp in my passport at the aduana, before pulling up outside the YPF cafeteria just shy of of four o'clock. I'd earned a coffee and when I entered, Lawence of Arabia was on the wall-mounted TV in the corner. I drank the coffee and remained sitting when it was reduced to foamy residue in the bottom of the cup, happy to watch the film to the end. The Spanish dubbing didn't seem to work. Perhaps out of sync or something.

Later while putting the tent up on the sheltered side of the service station, a man in biker gear brandishing a camera came round the corner from the forecourt. He took a picture of the open plain beyond then viewed it on the rear of the camera. He turned and began walking back but paused to watch me as I struggled to get a peg into rock-hard ground. He spoke and although I just about made out what he wanted; to take a photo of me standing by the tent: he was speaking another lauguage, not Spanish. I obliged with his photo-op and then he disappeared back round the corner of the building.

Oct 9 Friday: Went round to the cafeteria first thing and saw four identical shinning new red scooters out front. When I looked at the number plates on the rear, underneat the numbers and letters, in small lettering at the bottom was a dealership name and address ending with Sao Paulo. I went inside and saw my friend from yesterday afternoon and his three compatriots sat round a table in loud discussion over breakfast. After returning from the counter with a steaming cup of coffee and media lunas and taking a seat by the window, one of the Brazilians rose and came over. He spoke Spanish well as we exchanged usual niceties, telling me they were on the way to San Pedro; then, told me that they'd overnighted in the hospidaje at the rear; which, if only I'd known, I would've been snug and warm sleeping inside too, instead of camping. Though it wasn't as cold as the previous night, probably because Is wearing two pairs of socks

Made even better progress today, covering fifty-eight kilometres by half past eleven. I noticed that much of the way was slightly downhill, something which wasn't noticable when riding the other way over two weeks earlier. Together with the headwind it does much to explain why that day was especially tough. After riding along the causeway which curved it's way across, the road continuing round to run parallel up from the white plain of the salina: it wasn't far along on this stretch which was gradually uphill so I suppose things even out, that I stopped at an abandoned village called Huara Huascar. There only remained roofless adobe, mud-brick walls of a few streets, much the same hue as the cream-brown surroundings. Down below was the vast white salina and purple mountain range on the far side. Lunch was bread from San Pedro spread with Dulce de Leche, then in the afternoon, the road sweeped round a hillside and went up out of the wide salt basin, for the final twenty kilometre straight to Susques. The red table-top hills and rocky pillars were more impressive when riding west to east. Going west I didn't notice how dramatic this stretch was. And today although thirsty I wasn't tempted by the coca cola sign at the roadside for the big hotel, three kilometre before town, because of the extortionate price of fourteen pesos for a small can they charged that morning on the outward ride leaving town.

Oct 10 Saturday: The children in Susques stared up at me. Perhaps they'd never seen someone so tall and light skinned. I passed down Quebracha Mal Paso round ten. Perhaps it should be called "Buen Paso" in this direction. Shortly Is riding out across wide open plain towards Salinas Grandes. At half past eleven Is riding the long causeway with white plain either side, past salt extraction works and visiter centre, then another gradually uphill of fifteen kilometres, back to the stone hut where I'd overnighted nearly three weeks earlier when Is coming the other way. Today it was lunch time and Is glad to get in out of the wind which had really picked up in force and was raining sand and grit. Inside I boiled up water and made packet soup and cut three chunks of a loaf of bread I'd bough in Susques. I'd a tough struggle with crosswind in the afternoon on an exposed switch-back climb until turning up and over the summit, from which the road plunged down about two thousand metres, into Quebracha Huahuacha. This evening I'm back in Pumamarca, at the same campsite as before.

Oct 11 Sunday: Back today riding southbound on route nine, with constant traffic in both directions while being buffeted by crosswind much of the way to provincial capital, San Salvador Jujuy. Even though I'd stopped for lunch of Empanadas in a village out by the highway by-pass, I cycled off and into the city-centre as I fancied ice-cream followed by coffee. By then the wind had settled and it turned out a warm energy sapping afternoon as I rode the bumpy uneven streets back out to the highway. I missed a turn and then got a bit lost and ended up on the Autopista towards General Guemes, which continues to Salta. But then I saw the right road across the oncoming traffic, so rode back the wrong way on the shoulder, hoping to come to a gap in the central reservations' steel barrier. But there wasn't any gap so, I'd to un-couple the trailer from the bike and lift both across, then crossed over to old route nine, the cornise as it's known locally. It was then a short few kilometres to El Carmen but a hard ride, such was my state of fatigue. On the other side of this small town was where Is headed.

The campsite was still in weekend mode, with vans-pickup-trucks and cars, plus dome tents occupying all the prime spots. There were families with small children, groups of young people, couples and rapid word clipping chat with each phrase ending on a stressed sing-song before dropping back to gutteral babble. Such is the accent of Buenos Aires, like speeded up Italian.