It is probably not a good idea to go out drinking and not return until five AM the last night before getting back on the bike again. I didn't heed this advice and consequencially Is feeling fragile at breakfast. My head hurt and my whole body felt shakey. I didn't feel like doing anything, lease not get ready for the road. Instead I'd another cup of coffee. I was filling my fourth cup when Ruth, the girl doing breakfast sympathetically asked "Que pasa Sean?" She didn't need an answer as she saw my hungover state. With hand raised and fingers holding an imaginary beer-bottle to her lips and in a burst of giggling she said "Si! Borracho." I told her I'd been to a Club21 with others from the hostel, and as it was a strain to speak Spanish at that moment, I passed out through the sliding-door to the terrace where I slumped down in a swing-chair.

Sitting on the terrace looking out over the low roofs at the mountain-range to the west was what I would miss most about the backpackers in Salta. I liked it best to sit up here with a book in late afternoon just after siesta as the city came to life with traffic noise and husle and busle from the street. I'd often remain reading until sundown with redden sky and darkening outline of the Andes. Now, it was good to sit drinking coffee; the mountains still easily seen in clear morning light before the sun reaches it's meridian and becomes sore on the eyes without dark-glasses. In the morning too the din of revving engines and honking horns is relentless, and I knew that my day cycling would begin on those busy streets looking out for errant cars.

It was a little after ten when I eventually made my way downstairs. I took the bike out from the bay where it was kept and checked the gears and the brakes. I then went into my dorm where luckily the other occupants were up and out so I could make as much noise as I liked and began putting my stuff together in the bag; looking underneath the bed when I'd finish to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Time seems to fly though as it was nearly eleven thirty when I pushed the bike out the door onto the street, waved goodbye and cycled away. I was feeling much better now that Is riding, and knowning the street-layout pretty well, it wasn't long until Is riding through the southern approach to the city on Route 68 in the direction of Cafayate. Cars swished past me a little close for comfort until the road passed underneath the flyover turn-off for the airport and road to Chile, as from here on the traffic was much reduced, and generally gave me ample space on passing.

It was aroundabout two when I rode into a YPF service station and a much looked forward to lunch stop. In the cafe I ordered a "Loma Completo" which in Argentina is a steak sandwich in crusty baguette with fried egg and salad. And while waiting for it to come out on the counter, I openned the fridge and took a two litre bottle of coke as as well as quenching thirst, the sugar is a great provider of energy. But later after wolving down my sandwich and having drunk three plastic cups of coke, it would've taken a bit more than a quick energy boost to get me going again. I slumped over the plastic table I sat at. It was hard keeping my eyes open. They closed anyway and my head dropped forward onto the table but with a start, jolted up and back again with my eyes openning wide. It was time to go if Is going at all.

It was after three and quite warm when I got back on the bike. A few kilometres on from the service station I turned right onto Route 33 and rode towards the wall of mountains on the western side of the Lerma Valley. After three kilometres I passed through a roundabout with an exit to the village of Chicoana to the left, then continued on across flat patchwork farmland wherein amongst the many fields of a green crop growing in rows which is eventually I believe, taken up, dried and smoked, were many pale brown cultivated fields with the hum of tractors tilling the soil; passing in a cloud of dust. I passed a farmhouse where hens pecked at the roadside but as I approached, made a hurried run in through the gateway in a busle of flapping wings and shrill cackling. I reached the hills with a shock ripple of short inclines and declines with bush-clad steep rising ground on the right, and a bank down to a nearly dry gravelly river on the left with the opposite riverback rising in a bush-clad humpy ridge. The road then made a gradual descent and swung left across an old iron bridge, and on the other side went right and gradually up. Having ridden this road three years previously though, I knew about a camping spot a kilometre further. Although a paid campsite it only cost five pesos which is pence instead of pounds and besides is an idealic place on flats by the river amongs the willows. I'd polenta for supper and even though it wouldn't be getting dark until seven thirty, I laydown in the tent at six and instantly slept til morning.