Alfonso escorts me to the edge of the city. I proceed up the Andes to the Chilean border, where they charge me 12 escudos and remove 10 liters of petrol from my tank. Weird. I continue on my way up the Andes, where at this time of year I have a choice: do what the rest of traffic does and drive onto a flat deck rail carriage to take the train through the tunnel; or, ride over the top. The tunnel is two miles long and you pay; the road over the top peaks at 12,800 feet and is only open January to March. The weather is good, so up I go.
The road is metal and rough, and I struggle with the altitude. At the top I decide to climb a bank a few feet so as to take a photo. There’s red volcanic dust everywhere. The road is very rough, but worth the ride. On the top I am at the same elevation as Mount Cook in New Zealand.
The first stop over the border into Argentina is Uspallata, and I spend the night there. I traveled 264 miles today.
At the frontier crossing I meet a hitchhiker coming the other way from Buenos Aires, so we trade a bit of currency. Very convenient.
I go on to Mendoza, the first big town, and replenish my maps at the Argentine Automobile Club. There is an abundance of apples and grapes, which grow here. I stay at Residential las Hera. The bed is 400 pesos, coffee and sandwich 150, petrol 450, and postage 100. All together, $2.75.
I’m now traveling on a concrete highway. It takes me four days to travel east, straight across Argentina to Buenos Aires, with frequent restrictions to speed due to of swarms of yellow butterflies. If I don’t take care to avoid them, they splatter all over me and my black parka, making me look like I’ve had paint dumped on me. The traffic is all long-distance truck and trailer units, which require a bit of care and attention on my end; I must speed up to pass safely, and also try not to get blasted by butterflies while at speed.
The ride is very good: 1,042 miles, of which 925 miles are sealed road and poured concrete. My average speed is 55 mph. The weather is good, the people friendly and well-dressed, and the towns are neat and tidy. In most towns, I have a ride around.
I travel on to San Luis and Mercedes, with fine warm weather and excellent roads followed by good food, wine, and coffees. I spend the next night in Pergamino, and then I’m off to Tigre, on the edge of Buenos Aires and the river Plata. In Tigre, I stay a few nights at Club Scandinavia—a tip off from local travelers in Bariloche, and perfect for a traveler like me.
My next six days are spent in Buenos Aires, where I meet more friendly people, including a Triumph dealer, Salatino, who lets me clean and service my bike in his workshop. Salatino, it turns out, was once Argentina’s motorcycle racing champion.
At this point, it is recommended unanimously by local bikers that, on a spare black front number plate that I carry, I should identify myself as a New Zealander, so as not to be mistaken as a North American from the United States. Since it reduces the chance of being stoned or shot at, I paint “New Zealand” on both sides of the Triumph.
I’ve met some very friendly people in the cities and on the road, and I usually end up collecting a few addresses of their friends and relatives. In Buenos Aires I meet Francisco Bali, riding a 600cc BMW, who gives me a city tour and directs me to meet his brother in the next big city, Rosario. The Drysdale family have me for lunch and give me the address of their son in El Salvador. These are just some of many.
Six million people live in this city, and the traffic and air pollution are definitely an experience I won’t miss. I take note that Argentina has 43,733 miles of roading, of which only 2,175 miles are paved, and that the average temperature in Buenos Aires is 75°F (25°C) in the summer and 50°F (12°C) in the winter. On the last evening in town, there is a spectacular lightning storm—very impressive.
After being vaccinated for yellow fever, I’m ready for my journey north.