In Villazón, Bolivia ended at a small bridge with a sign in the middle splitting the two countries. Immigration was a messy affair with us having to sign-out, then enter Argentina before being allowed anywhere near Customs, leaving poor Bolívar alone and still legally in Bolivia. Argentina began with more of the same, parched plains and an empty road but with the definite feel of a new country. There were small towns, and while not prosperous, they didn’t have the mantle of poverty that’s found north of the border. After the prairie came the mountains which were colorful and patterned. Smooth pinks, purples and rust reds rose to the left of the river while on our right, brown slopes creased into earthen pillars and protected clusters of small houses below.
Choosing where to enter a new country depends mostly on what stopping points are available on either side. On such days, bureaucracy comes first so it’s never a good idea to have too ambitious a driving plan. With little showing anywhere in the line of accommodations, we hoped for the best. Stopping after 200km in Tilcara, we got a shock. The streets were bursting with tourists disembarking from buses, dragging wheelie cases and stopping to do their hair while preening into phones. It was like riding your camel out of the desert only to find that the oasis ahead was Manhattan. In rush hour. After a half-hearted circuit of town, we left.
Everywhere it was the same story: no room at the inn. At a gas station in Jujuy, groups of bikers at bistro tables had settled in for an afternoon of coffee and cigarettes. Clearly something was going on that we didn’t know about. One group recommended a hotel on the outskirts but when we got there, Fran refused to get off the bike. It was one of those 1970s jobs, with oversized blue-mirrored windows and an air of desolation. It was after 5:00 PM and we’d no choice but to drive on to Salta. What a day, 500km, a two-hour border crossing and an arrival after dark. It wasn’t a good start.
Click Arrows for Slideshow:
We’d picked the worst date to arrive - National Flag Day. It was also a Thursday so everything was closed the next day as well. Though we’d been lucky to find a hotel, they were charging an extra $29.00 to pay by credit card, for one night’s rate of $62.00, so our stash of newly-converted pesos was now severely depleted. On Friday and Saturday we joined the queues at several ATM machines but they ran out of cash before we got to the top of the line. On Sunday we were able to make two $40.00 worth of withdrawals, each with a fee of $10.00. We found ourselves looking fondly back on our 2002 visit when there were four pesos to the US dollar, and about six on the blue (black market) rate. Now a dollar cost 905 pesos, and on the blue rate, somewhere in the mid-1,200s. And inflation was soaring. The highest denomination banknote was 2,000 pesos but you hardly ever saw those. Nearly everything was paid out in 1,000 notes (USD 1.07) which when introduced a mere five years ago, were worth $58.00 on the black market. This left everyone wandering around with bricks of cash and always needing another little elastic band. Between the queues at the different banks, the endless counting, and the stashing of cash among your socks and knickers when you finally got “home”, honestly, the best part of the day was gone.
Admitting defeat we opened a Western Union account. I’d read of this years ago but told myself that by the time we were ready for Argentina, things would be different. Ha! But it was the only logical option, the fees were lower and they gave the blue rate. All you have to do is send money to yourself, take a large bag and go to one of the many WU stores to pick it up. Our first excursion took us to a small gift shop five minutes’ walk away. It smelled of incense and a miniature buddha fountain bubbled in the corner. Smart move I thought, a water feature can be so calming. There were three people ahead of us and the customer at the counter was unloading blocks of orange cash from a backpack. This took a while but the soft whirr of spinning banknotes in the money counter was soothing so the wait was quite pleasant. We left wondering why we’d waited so long.
Badly needing a place where we could drink our morning coffee without having to get dressed and leave the premises, we found an apartment. In Bolivia’s altitudes the sun had been hot and the sky never anything but a deep blue. But here it was cold and grey, and Salta had changed. The streets were dirtier, some were sprouting weeds. Walking to the Royal Enfield shop for Bolívar’s 10,000km service, we were hop-scotching our way around various “deposits”. Visiting these dealers was a nice way to meet the locals. They were always welcoming and pleased to meet riders from abroad. This shop however was the exception: strictly business with no inducements to linger. But they were swift with the service and you can’t ask for much more than that.
Argentina was not an easy place to live. Most businesses wanted cash but that cost time and hefty fees, not to mention hauling its bulk around. Fran had good secret pockets but the downside was his bust was now bigger than Marilyn Monroe’s. Credit cards were accepted in gas stations and supermarkets with no strings attached but nearly all forms of accommodations charged a fee, beginning at 5% and going up, and up. God knows how the locals coped, not knowing how much their wages would be worth next week. And how flippant were we, reading of high inflation without ever grasping what it’s like to live in such a mess. Having just left a country with a two-tiered gas system, we hadn’t given much thought to it being replaced by one with a two-tiered financial system. We decided we needed a break. We’d run away, to Paraguay, a land of equal opportunity gas pumps and ATMs with big cash and small fees. A burden was lifted just thinking about it.
The road east was long and straight, I counted only one corner. The nav app’s near-permanent status was: in 140km, take the second exit off the roundabout. There were a lot of sweet-nothings along the way and we were fueling every 200km, but we put it down to the headwind. When we’d reached the halfway point by 1:30 PM we pushed on. Herds of goats, wandering cows and at one stage, galloping horses, occupied the very wide and grassy verge, relieving much of the monotony. Ten and a half hours and 820km later, we reached Resistencia and a more than decent hotel. The steel-ass queen was reborn.
The great escape ended at the border crossing of Colonia Cano. Leaving the main highway, route 9 grew smaller and narrower as the grass crept over its edges. In places there were large holes, stretches of dirt and roving sheep. The only other traffic was a tractor, and a small lamb running against the pain of being left behind. The road stopped at a fence and an open gate. Behind the wire was a dirt lot and two wooden buildings and beyond those, the grey Paraguay river. A very casually-dressed customs officer came out to meet us, took Bolívar’s TIP without checking the numbers, and disappeared. Two soldiers brought us up the steps of the veranda and processed our exit. The final stop was at a desk with two smiling girls behind a large ledger. Recording our details in careful script, the Irish passports caused more than a little excitement. Then we paid ten pesos for the ferryman. The girls walked across the grass with me to the boat, and Fran went ahead to load Bolívar. And with that we glided slowly away.
Click Arrows for Slideshow:
Can't imagine needing to carry that much cash around. Your knickers may be at your knees! Poor Argentinians. I sure hope that improves for them soon.