Desert Biking, Border Crossing, Late-night Dancing... Yahoooo!

Thursday October 30.

The alarm went off at 6:15am.

And again at 6:30.

And again at 7am.

We got up at 7:40…ish.

Why up so early? We wanted to beat the ferocious unforgiving sun. After a self-catered breakfast and journaling, we bought silly hats and rented bicycles for half the day.


We took off into the desert. Our silly hats worked wonders against the sun. Pedal pedal pedal.

We glanced at the map. Destination numero uno: Valle de la luna. Valley of the moon.


The air around us breathed arid desert. The ground was dry, cracked and dusty. Mountains rose in the distance. The sun was brilliant overhead.


Once inside the national reserve, we followed the paved (and sometimes rocky dirt) road as it swelled and sank. We were careful of oncoming cars around the sharp bends and sand patches that would try to take the bike tires out from under us.



Valley of the moon. And they’re not kidding. The terrain was of the lunar type. Dunes rising up and a rough white salty surface. It was oddly beautiful as we rode by. At times we took our wheels off the beaten path and the real mountain biking began. Nate was in his element, giving me pointers as we bounced along. I have to admit, it was pretty fun.


The day stretched on and the heat (and more noticeably the dry heat) made my head a little swimmy. We climbed up a mirador and took a few bumpy shortcuts. We headed out the reserve, stopping for water and a breather at the security control.


Nate wanted to find a single track. I wasn’t as game. So we went to a swimming pool and dipped in briefly. After 6 hours of biking, I took refuge back at the hostel, but Nate wasn’t done yet. He spent about an hour more of biking around on scary single tracks and valle de la muerte.

Dinner was filling and followed by a furious internet session over cakes slices. Calling Salta to reserve hostel beds became expensive. A few beers later, we were asleep.

Friday October 31. Halloween is my favorite holiday. By far. But I haven’t been doing them justice the past few years. This year would be no exception.

Our bus left at 10:30am. Stamp stamp. Our passports were branded before even leaving the city limits.

With Chile behind us, we cruised through the desert in search of my 38th country. The mountainous Andes shielded Argentina from view as rolling sand plains extended for kilometers at each side.



The Argentinean border control was a blip in the middle of nowhere. We filed out of the bus and into the scored sandy parking lot to wait.



The immigration official had trouble finding an empty spot to stamp my passport. Stamp stamp! Welcome to Argentina!


We had failed to use up all of our Peruvian soles before crossing the last border, so we were relieved when we could unload them at the snack shop. 1 sol was appox equal to 1 Argentinean peso. Mmmmm… empanadas.


The bus journey dragged on. We exhausted ourselves playing cards, listening to music, staring at the rainbow colored mountains and salt flats, and watching Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

Our bus arrived early into Salta. What?! We’re still in Sudamerica, right?! Early? What’s that mean?

Our cab overcharged us. The hostel and dinner were expensive. Wait a minute. I thought Argentina was supposed to be inexpensive. That’s way we hopped the border from Chile. Sigh.

I wanted to go out for Halloween, but everyone else was tired. So we sat around with more Cuba Libres than we could ingest playing cards until late.

Saturday November 1. Pancakes up to the ceiling.



Inspired by Mr. Joe Pancake, we decided that the American breakfast treat would suit us quite nicely. We ended making too many and stuffed ourselves.



We became quite familiar with the hostel to bus terminal route. Bus tickets were ridiculously expensive. Ridiculously. We better hurry and get to Patagonia while our bank accounts still have a little bit of padding.

Errands. The sun was hot.

Dinner was homemade tomato soup with tortellini and non-melted tuna melts. Nate and I were definitively going out to party. I had the dancing itch. We found out that a Saturday night in Argentina usually starts around midnight or one. We played cards and pre-gamed until 12:30.

About 9 blocks up from our hostel is where the nightlife began. The streets were blocked off and swarms of people populated the outdoor restaurants and bars. We grabbed an energy drink to keep our eyelids open as we people-watched. Everyone was out. Teenagers. Middle aged. And older folks. Everyone was dressed up.

The music started thumping and the streets filled. Around 2am we skipped through the masses to find a cab to Salón VIP, THE place to be on a Saturday night. This multi-tiered dance club was outside of the main square and was just beginning to fill up when we arrived.

Lights. Music. Black light. It was all there.

The music, however, was not what we were used to and we had trouble dancing to it. Everyone just seemed to be standing in place and swaying slightly. After a few drinks, the music changed to our liking. We made our way to the dance floor.

Hours flew as we moved and grooved. By the time the music changed back to the non-desirable genre, it was 4:30am and we were ready to go.

The cabbie was chatty all the way back to the hostel.