1/6/2011 - Salta, Argentina: Emersion

I´m making the permanent switch to wine and beef here in Argentina. Wine, because it´s dirt cheap. For a good red it´ll cost about two bucks. And that´s not even bottom shelf! And beef . . . oh yeah. As soon as I crossed the border I got one of the best sandwiches I´ve ever had at, of all places, a runned down gas station. I had a Milanesa, which is almost like chicken fried steak, but super thin and topped off with a fried egg and veggies. It may have been because I spent four hungry hours at the border, but it was a welcome change from the soup and dry rice in Bolivia.

It´s weird, but yet again things drastically change at the border. No more goofy hats, round dark faces, or dirt roads. Here come Argentina with its uppity young travel scene, paved roads, and very Western / European culture. It all comes with a big price tag in comparison, but really I´m stoked to be able to find parts and have options come meal time.

First stop on the list is Jujuy (pronounced hoo-hooey). It´s New Years Eve and it´s a big city. I´m still traveling with Ray, so we hit the town for a drink. We find the one open bar, and it´s filled with sad drunks without family. I guess it must be a family holiday. It´s not really how we celebrate the new year in the States, but a relaxed New Years is just as well. While we were out, we did hear some very important information. The Dakar motorcycle rally is coming to town in a few days. So I stick around an otherwise desolate town so I can watch a bit of the biggest motorcycle race on the planet.

I find out there´s camping , so the day before I get all geared up to leave. On my way out of town, I hit a small ditch and notice my bike isn´t sitting right. Its another subframe bolt. They really are feisty little buggers. No big deal, I know where a tool shop is, so I head straight there only to find out it´s siesta time and they´re closed. Fuck siesta time. Everything is closed from one to five in the afternoon. What a hassle, so I head to another place for the slight chance they´re open. Then it happens again. My bike is snapped in two. This time I open the bike up to find that the extra stress of a missing bolt and water rusting out the inside of my frame has caused the actual frame to rip apart. So there I am again in a foreign country with my bike in shambles. No calling Triple A. Ray was kind enough to find someone who knew a mechanic. They arrived and told me that he´s bringing a truck to take my bike to the shop. Sweet. Saved again. I´m glad I broke down in the city rather than somewhere else. Too bad this giant fat guy arrived on the smallest motor scooter you´d ever seen. It was like a giant slobby, smoking clown, on one of those teeny little bikes. (I have the greatest picture of this dude, but its on my iPhone which finally died, oh well.) Not really what I was expecting, but he helped my jimmy rig the bike with my cable lock so I could get to the shop. Three hours, fifty bucks, and about twenty cigarettes later, I´m back on the road.

The next day was Dakar, and after a great nights sleep camping. I´m ready for the festivities. There are cool tents, bitching bikes, trucks, and motorcycle enthusiasts everywhere. After the madness died down, every passer by wanted a picture with Ray´s giant BMW. It was nice to kind of feel like a rockstar, since all the racers had their bike shipped to the start in Buenos Aires. Pssshh . . . pussies. Didn´t even ride there. It´s all in fun though, and it seems as if Argentina and Chile really are taking in the race well. It´s only been here three times in it´s long history. It hilarious when I´m buying empenadas on the side of the road or at a stop light and strangers ask if I´m in the race. I should probably lie, but it´s still fun.

Having fun and looking goofy at the rally

Then after late night and short days ride, I arrive in Salta. I set up shop for a couple of nights, as it´s supposed to be one of the coolest cities in South America, and I also desperately needed new parts. So after I got all my work done, I was ready to relax and have a drink at the hostel bar. Now I´ve been traveling for about five and a half months now, and this is the first hostel where all the backpackers spoke only Spanish. It was great, I got to practice and make some new Argentinian friends. We all go out for dinner, and have Parrilla. Which is some normal beef barbecue, but with a healthy portion of mystery cow guts. I´m guessing: heart, kidney, liver, intestines, and some crazy blood sausage. Intestines weren´t my fave, too chalky and chewy. But the heart was damn tender and tasty. Definitely a new experience. (Can you tell when I´m writing and hungry? Seems I like to talk about food a bit much. ha)

After our meal two new Argentinian buddies and I head out to down town. It´s a long walk, but when we arrive it´s awesome. It´s almost like the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. I´m begining to like Argentina. It was a blast dancing and chatting totally emersed in the culture. It´s funny we were all talking with these three girls who were totally uninterested until my buddies tell them I´m from North America. Instantly they were all smiles and eager to chat with us. It´s hilarious, but sometimes you´ve got to drop the "yeah, I´m on a motorcycle and driving to the end of the world" line. Anyhow we all dance for a bit then the girls take off. (Standard) and I somehow lose my buddies at the club. So I take the long stumble home solo, and call it a pretty awesome totally Argentinan night.

Too much fun in Argentina