Basic instinct

And here I am. Córdoba. To Argentinians standards an ancient city with building dating more than 2 or 3 centuries ago. If you’re an European reader this might not mean much to you, after all what’s 300 years when your own town or village is more than 500 or 700 years? Well from the perspective of a nation just barely over 200 years old, that’s a lot!

But let’s take it back from where I last left you. Flooded landscape, yes? Well add a few hundreds kilometres to that one and you’re there. I have, as would a snail, migrated from cities to villages, to communities and then back to cities, always welcomed with the most wonderful people. People literally going out of their way to set up a handmade shower in the community bathroom (consisting of a single tube connected to the tap and attached to the ceiling), opening up a house for me to sleep in, offering me breakfast and letting me know the whole family. People are mindblowingly welcoming and generous and every single day presents me with new faces and new stories.

Being an early riser has its perks, surely.

Then comes the day where you make a mistake. Oh boy I could make a whole post out of that day. Elated by all the adventures you’ve been through, by the asado you’re invited to, you decide to tweak a bit the road that your bike touring app had oh-so-wisely planned out for you. After all, why shouldn’t you go down this road, away from the traffic, away from the trucks? Ah.

So here I go on my day freshly woken up with my bicycle just just out of a nice cleaning bath the day before. I arrive to this road. Not what I expected: it’s a dirt road (we’re talking about a national road here, even though it seemed small on the map I hadn’t thought it’d be that small). No matter, it looks good after all and that’ll be a refreshing road after the asphalt I’ve dealt with for the past hundreds thousands of kilometres. Guys, when you have a gut feeling, a basic instinct that you shouldn’t go there, listen to it!

So, how did I find myself in such a situation? First I go down that road for 5, 10, 15 kilometres. Nothing too crazy aside my dear old friends the mosquitoes. We’re old acquaintances now and although I’ve not quite given up on teaching them on their cannibalism they don’t bother me as much as they once did. After 15km I arrive to the first rough patch: about 150m of mud lay before me. Remember how everything is flooded? Well it still is and that was one of the reasons I hadn’t strayed so far off the roads! No matter, I bid my farewells to the cleanliness of my bike and we set off trying to go through this. We finally make it. I have to unclog the wheels, but nothing so bad and I’m up and running again in no time!

Then goes another 5 or so kilometres before the next mud patch arises. I should have already turned back on the first, but there I really should have. I couldn’t see the end of it and yet still thought to myself that “oh no, this couldn’t be so long.” For better or worst my greatest flaw or blessing might well be my stubbornness (I’ll let those who know me best attest of that). “I’ve come this far, I won’t go back now.” And thus I went down that path. After a few moments it became clear that my efforts pushing my bike proved vain as the mud clogging it wouldn’t let it roll on. So I did the only reasonable thing that my unreasonable self thought of: I carried it (without the bags), trodded back for the bags then carried them in turn for the next 150m. And again. And again. I estimate the patch to extend over a bit more than a kilometre. A kilometre I spend more than 3hours crossing. Damn am I stubborn.

But at last I finally the end, mount my trusty steed (myself muddy for head to foot) and ride on. On and on. Until I meet this… river? Road? Well call it what you like. I desperately continued, me and my bike alone under the scorching light of the sun, going on and on through this river. Well not quite so alone, the mosquitoes my dear friends kindly gave me kisses -of encouragement not doubt- all the way.

You cannot imagine the relief I felt when I arrived to the small village of Logroño and the police kindly offered me a room to sleep in alongside a shower. I’m sure that any bicycle tourer will agree with me: this is the most marvellous gift a stranger can give to you. Especially when it comes after such a rough day.

on the morrow I went on and will gladly say that the road itself was a bit less eventful… Aside from splendid scenery!

Then I arrived to the city of Morteros where I had hoped for a nice meal. Well, 1:30pm is already the siesta there (including restaurants) and in my despair I turned myself to the nearest service station. Barely had I arrived that two men struck up the conversation with me. One decides to offer me my meal while the other calls his reporter friend. Not an hour passes and there I am, with my belly full, in front of the camera for the local TV. That was definitely a funny experience, and glad for the confirmation that they found my wobbly 3-months old Spanish good enough for the TV!

But there is also what comes with it. Unavoidably the next town you land in on the morrow people start striking up French conversation with me out of the blues. It took me time to realise they simply had seen me on TV!

Until next time,

Chloé