Humahuaca, Argentina - guest blogger

After more than eight months on the road, you're probably weary of me prattling on about ballbearings and bruised buttocks. So "The Bicycle Diaries" is pleased to introduce guest blogger Graham Kitchener . . . also known as Base Camp Manager:

That's quite a glamorous title: Base Camp Manager. It conjures up images of rugged types, wind swept and interesting, battling against the elements of a Himalayan tented camp, at the base of an ever-advancing glacier. The reality I'm afraid is far less impressive.

Base Camp it could be, if one counts the flat I live in being the place Pauline left from all those months before, with cupboards containing odds and ends of her equipment, discarded just prior to departure as surplus to requirements. Base Camp Manager I suppose, in the sense that most days I receive a text from Pauline advising of her current position, which I then plot on a world map stapled to my wall. I occasionally get the odd challenge though, requiring me to leave the comfort of my Georgian stone-built, terraced base camp "tent" and venture up into the icy ramparts (it is winter after all) of the city, to employ the services of a worldwide courier company, to carry an essential piece of replacement kit to wherever Pauline may be at that precise moment.

There have been times though when I have had an opportunity to prove my worth. Moments that also show modern day technology at its best. Take the time Pauline was in France. She was in the beautiful city of Bordeaux and was having enormous difficulty exchanging money. Back here at Base Camp, I powered up the internet, searched for the Bureau de Change in Bordeaux, then plotted it on Google maps. Once I found the address nearest to Pauline's location I was able to give her directions, even, thanks to Google Streetview, down to the colour of the door and what shops were either side of the office!

Occasionally in mountain expeditions, where the men are men, and the women are too, opportunities arise to experience an advance camp further afield. So it came about, just 6 weeks after Pauline left, that I was able to venture further afield for a month to Spain and join up with her to cycle the Camino, all the way to Santiago de Compostela. A phrase that was often said, which summed it all up, was : "and we cycled here"! It pales though, compared to the almost mythical number of 5,000 miles now cycled. However, the Camino was a truly memorable adventure and one that still pops into my head often. It was hard to return to the reality of every day life back in Edinburgh, but it did give me a better understanding of the daily life that Pauline has to endure. I recall being quite grateful, after 25 days in a sleeping bag, to be curled up under my duvet in a proper bed. So after almost 250 days living in a tent I can only imagine how feral Pauline must now be.

The other way that I justify my title is to assist Pauline in the production of maps to post on her blogs, which give her readers a better idea of where exactly she is at that moment. It is something I assume most people take for granted these days, but for Pauline to be able to write a blog and within an hour or two have a map drawn up back here in Scotland and added to the blog, still seems fantastic to me.

I'm guessing that when you are the one physically doing the adventure it may not dawn on you just how fantastic the whole thing is. It was only after returning from Spain and the Camino that I looked back at the photographs and the little mementos I had gathered along the way, and realised just how rich and varied it had been, not to mention an adventure of a lifetime. So for Pauline to already be able to look back at having cycled through Belgium, France, Spain and Portugal, to then board a gigantic ocean-going freight ship to sail across the Atlantic Ocean to South America, cycle across Argentina and over high passes of the Andes . . . you couldn't make this stuff up! Rich and everlasting memories in the making, and privileged we are that Pauline has taken us along with her in her personal, colourful and captivating blogs.

Currently I am in the midst of planning to meet Pauline again, this time for a greater length of time in a much further afield advance camp (more on that nearer the time). Part of this planning process is physical training. After 5,000 miles and pedaling almost every day, I'm quite confident Pauline is very fit. For me I'm not sure watching videos of Mark Beaumont cycling and reading books on other peoples cycling adventures are quite good enough training sessions, especially if those sessions take place over coffee and cake. Getting the old gluteus maximus in shape for the pounding it is about to receive on top of that is quite another thing. I haven't looked recently, but I fear all that coffee and cake could have turned mine into something the size of a small country with the softness of a large blamange.

By the time I meet Pauline again it will be more than 10 months since she left the UK, and more than 8 months since I last saw her (not counting the marvels of video calling on Skype). It is a real test of friendship. In the past we were regularly away on adventures together. Although I feel part of her current adventure it's not the same as actually being there, feeling the wind in your face, picking up on the smells and being able to say to each other; "wow, look at that view". The other test of friendship is being able to spend an extended amount of time in each others company, 24/7, something we are about to do. I am reminded of the lyrics to an Abba song:

"Times of joy and times of sorrow
We will always see it through
I don't care what comes tomorrow
We can face it together
The way old friends do"

So in just a few weeks it will be time to go west, saddle up and join her big adventure.

I just hope I can get my duvet and mattress in my saddle bag.

Graham Kitchener, aka, Base Camp Manager

When Graham is not busy as base camp manager he is an independent film-maker and keen outdoors type. If you've enjoyed his blog here, you can follow his musings regularly on his own blog at http://gkitch.blogspot.com

The story so far. Click on map to enlarge

Salta, Argentina - 5000 miles

A few miles north of Cafayate on 9th March I passed the 5000 miles cycled mark. Woohoo! If you've not sponsored me already, that´s got to be worth a few bob for Oxfam on my Justgiving page. I celebrated with a packet of fruit pastilles!

The cycle north from Cafayate took me through the spectacular desert rock formations of Quebrada de Las Conchas. Then, after weeks of cycling through semi-arid desert, it was a real treat to pop out the other end into Valle de Lerma with its lush farmland and wooded hills. There were all sorts of novelties along here - freshly-mown grass verges, green fields with grazing cattle, acres of ripening crops and people messing about in boats on the reservoir, Embalse Cabra Corral. Slightly less welcome was the heavier traffic after so long on the one-car-an-hour Ruta 40.

Valle de Lerma delivered me to the beautiful, old city of Salta. I ambled through the colonnades of the colonial buildings that border the main plaza, sipped cappuccino under the arches and got a sore neck gazing up at the San Francisco Church. I was glad of the opportunity for a lazy day as it's all uphill from here. Over the next couple of weeks I'll be cycling up to heights of 3500 metres, onto the Altiplano and the border with Bolivia. Blimey!

Some more pics on Flickr and a map below.

Click on map to enlarge

Message for Zelda - how brilliant to hear from you. Unless I have to file for bankcruptcy, I am planning to come back to NZ. Pop me an email some time at symaniak88@hotmail.co.uk.

Cafayate, Argentina - It's a wonderful life

A week ago base camp manager Graham sent me a text to say that I was closer to La Paz in Bolivia (where my compass needle is currently pointing) than to Chiloe Island, my furthest point south. This made me feel pretty good and it also made me reflect that it's quite amazing the distance that you can cover by bicycle - all you need is a little bit of time and a little bit of patience. Just by cycling a small distance each day, an inch on the map perhaps, it seems that, before you know it, your wheels have turned for thousands of miles. Obviously you'll cover much less distance than in a vehicle but the journey will be so much richer. You'll feel every contour of the earth and each breath of the wind. You'll smell the sweet aroma of roadside oregano and hear frogs croaking in the pools that form in the verges after the rains. You experience the gradual transitions in landscapes and appreciate the subtle changes. Of course, it will drive you nuts at times when there's an impossible headwind or a wearisome road stretching to the horizon. But even then you'll grit your teeth and remind yourself that it's character-building. Most of all, travelling by bicycle opens up adventures and encounters that escape the motorised traveller. You don't have to cycle for thousands of miles through South America to experience this. Slap some oil on that old bike in the shed and take a short ride along a route you would normally do in the car. Marvel at the fine detail that is opened up to you by the slow pace and intimacy of travelling by bicycle ... the little details that you never noticed before ... the little details that make it such a wonderful life.

After Chilecito my own bicycle journey swung way out west as Ruta 40 left behind sparesly-populated areas and crossed an even emptier stretch with few towns, gravel roads and lots of river crossings. It became a real mountain road again, climbing up into the foothills. I'd been staring at this tricky section on the map for weeks, slightly anxious about the logistics of cycling across it. But in the end I made the crossing without any real problems.

Pituil was my first stop after Chilecito and I stayed in a simple hospedaje run by the lovely Rosa who also managed a small kiosk, served meals and cut hair! My tank was filled by two enormous steaks that I ate in front of the telly with the family and next morning I was sent on my way with my panniers stuffed full of peaches and apples from the local orchards. Then the longest empty stretch was conveniently bridged by the remote outpost of Hualfin, a pleasant little hamlet with a lovely old church and all the services a touring cyclist needs - a small shop, a service station and a hospedaje! A welcome splash of green was provided by the small vineyards,now heavily-laden with ripening grapes.

I cycled a little higher beyond Hualfin on ghastly gravel then crossed a barren plateau below snow-capped peaks before flying down a 40-mile descent that took me swiftly to the next settlements and the Indian ruins at Quilmes. What remians of this holy city today are a series of terraces and low walls, some with decorative stonework, built into a natural hollow in the mountainside. They are not as impressive as more famous sites such as Macchu Picchu but when I visited early in the day as the sun was creeping over the mountains, I was the only person there and I thought it quite special to gaze down over the ruins, the forest of candelabra-cacti and the beautiful valley with its meandering river, shimmering silver in the morning light.

North of Quilmes Ruta 40 took me across vast vineyards and delivered me to the delightful, wine-making town of Cafayate where, like the wine, I'm chilling for a few days. Cafayate is just how you would imagine a South American town to be. There's a smart central plaza with tall palms and views to the surrounding hills. On one side of the plaza is a beautiful old church with twin bell towers and on the other sides attractive colonial buildings that now house pavement cafes. It's touristy which is fine by me after the last few weeks of hard graft. I'm staying in a gorgeous wee hostel with rooms set around a tiled courtyard where there are rambling plants and comfy seats in cosy corners. I was lucky to get a room at all! Not only is the town very busy but there were so many mucky river crossings on the road here that Shirley and I arrived up to our knees in mud - I'm surprised anybody took us in!

It's here at Cafayate that I part company with Ruta 40 as I cycle a more direct route to the old city of Salta. It's been an incredible journey along this famous road. Although I've been cycling on it for weeks, I've covered less than half of its length. Perhaps one day I'll come back to cycle the rest ... in a few years time ... when I've forgotten how tough it's been!

There's an updated map below and some photos added to my Flickr site.

Belen, Argentina - I've just found God

All along the desert roads in Argentina there are roadside shrines dedicated to the Difunta Correa, an unofficial saint whose infant, according to legend, survived at her breast even after the mother's death from thirst in the desert. Today desert travellers place gifts of bottled water at these shrines.

But if I'm to worship anything it should be the god that is well known amongst two-wheeled adventurers - the God of Cyclists! The God of Cyclists moves in mysterious ways - as I set out through the dangerous streets of Buenos Aires, I meet local cyclist Juan who guides me safely to the city limits; when Lesley, Chris and I are caught out by a storm on the vast empty pampa, the day's only bus shelter appears within minutes; when my progress is barred by flash floods, roadworkers instantly appear to ferry me safely across.

There are no roadside shrines dedicated to the God of Cyclists but if there were I'd donate a bottle of oil in the hope that I'll continue to enjoy good fortune on my bicycle adventure.

Click on map to enlarge

Chilecito, Argentina - Desert solitaire

I'd no sooner slipped into the swing of cycling through western Argentina's semi-arid desert landscape than the weather turned upside down and delivered storms and floods! There is nothing simple about cycling in Argentina but it continues to delight and excite!

Cycling across the dry lands of Argentina requires a carefully thought out strategy - here's mine: My days begin at 5.30am when the alarm goes off. A quick breakfast is followed by a cup of coffee before packing up and hitting the road at 7am, just as it's getting light. If all goes to plan, I'll cover up to 50 miles by lunchtime and make it to the next oasis town where I'll get water and shelter in the form of a campsite or hospedaje. Then, as the afternoon heat and wind build, one just has to do as the Argentines do - take siesta. The other day I actually covered 65 miles by lunchtime but I had motorised assistance for part of it. I´ll explain ...

Every few days the hot, humid weather sparks off almighty storms with thunder, lightning and torrential rain. When the last big storm struck I was in the slightly strange spot of Talacasto - a bleak road junction in the middle of nowhere and a former stop on the now disused railway line. It's the usual story - when the railway went, so did the people. Today all that remains are the rather sad empty shells of a dozen once-loved houses and one occupied house. Brothers Juan and Luis live here and run a busy restaurant on the junction. I'd planned to re-supply with water at Talacasto and camp for the night to bridge a big gap between towns. However, rocky ground, lack of cover and busy weekend traffic made camping an unattractive option and then I discarded it completely when the mother of all storms began to build as skies darkened and clouds stacked up behind the mountains. I asked the brothers if, by any chance, they had a room to rent. They didn't but they did have a spare room on the gable end of one of the empty houses and I could sleep there. They even made a bed up for me when I would have happily just slept on the floor. With accommodation sorted, I had quite an enjoyable evening. A local male folk group, Los Camperos de Cuyo, arrived and played and sang as the storm raged outside with thunder, lightning and more rain than you can shake a bicycle pump at. I'm afraid I attracted a lot of attention from Los Camperos and was even serenaded which was all a bit embarrassing as I'm not exactly looking at my best right now (and even my best is not that great). My clothes are bleached by the sun; my nose, being too large and closer to the sun than the equator, is slightly burned; my new trainers are already rank; and I'm permanently covered in a slimy mix of sweat, suncream and dust. However, I was the only single female there and Los Camperos were outrageously drunk. My wee room was a welcome shelter from the storm though rain eventually began to seep under the roof and down the walls and I had to move the bed to the centre of the room to stay dry. When I popped out to the loo in the middle of the night, the shells of the empty houses were eerily silhouetted against a night sky illuminated by flashes of silver lightning - honestly, it was like something out of a horror film. The brothers wouldn't take any payment for the room but when I left early next morning, I slipped a thank you note and some pesos under their door.

The upshot of all this was that the storm sent flash floods across my road the next day - torrents of caramel-coloured liquid mud, impassable by bicycle. I'd just pulled up at the first flood and was considering my options, when a vehicle stopped behind me. It was two roadworkers who'd seen me cycle passed their camp earlier and had followed to give me a lift over 20 miles of flooded road. And so I made extra good time that day across a big gap on the map.

I've come to dread these big gaps between towns - 40 or 50 miles of absolutely nothing along a long, straight, flat road. I worry about running out of water or getting caught in a storm; about something disastrous going wrong with the bike or with me out here alone; and I worry about having the mental stamina to keep going all on my own. Along these roads there are kilometre markers and I play games with them to motivate myself. After the first 10km, I tell myself, I'll stop for a drink of water; after the next 10km, I'll eat a dulce de leche bar; after 30km, I'll put more suncream on. And so the miles pass and eventually, with a huge sense of relief, I'll spot trees on the horizon that signal the next oasis town. Soon I'll be rolling along through orchards, vineyards or olive groves.

Of course, interspersed along these gaps are pockets of fabulous scenery like La Cienaga, a mountain range of red and orange rocks with a spectacular gorge. The road wynds through the gorge on a slim ledge and all along the roadside there's a wonderful variety of cacti, some in flower. A chap waved me down on the road here and was most insistent that I understand that these mountains are not part of the Andes. They are in fact sedimentary rocks that were formed when La Cienaga was once covered by the sea a quizillion years ago in the crustywotsit period. At least I think that's what he said!

North of La Cienaga I stayed in a delightful hostel in the olive-growing village of Guandacol. Run by Ricardo and Marisia, they've created a lovely garden of native plants, built a shaded verandah and added some nice rustic touches indoors. It appeared to be a gorgeous little spot but Ricardo explained that there were problems here: The mine that I'd cycled passed earlier was sending huge clouds of airborne dust over the village, it was contaminating water supplies and only employing twenty people from a village of several hundred. It still seemed like a little slice of paradise to me as I sipped iced water on the verandah and watched the passing butterflies and birds.

As if all the physical challenges of cycling in Argentina aren't enough, I now have to cope with an ever-expanding siesta period the further north I travel. Shops can be shut all afternoon until 7pm, no matter that you may be on the edge of death by starvation due to a chronic lack of groceries. The most striking example of the siesta was back in the modern, bustling city of San Juan. One minute it was like Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday afternoon and the next like Achiltibuie on ... well ... any day!

It was during siesta here that I was asked for money for the first time in Argentina. Sound advice will tell you that if money is demanded from you in a South American city, you hand it over. But to honest I found this guy more annoying than threatening. Travelling to countries poorer than your own is a great opportunity to share wealth around but I want to share it with honest, hardworking people like Juan and Luis in Talacasto or Ricardo and Marisia in Guandacol, not with useless bums like this. So he didn't get a single peso from me and eventually shuffled off.

No such "big city" problems further north in the friendly little town of Villa Union. I'd planned to take a couple of days off here to visit nearby national parks on the bus but I ended being trapped for five days by unprecedented rainfall and floods that not only closed the parks but also cut off my onward route north. I was lucky to find a hotel room to escape the weather as the town was almost full hosting a fiesta. The room faced the noisy main plaza and the bathroom was an entymologist's delight. I was about to say that at least it was out of the rain but on the first night I was woken up by water dripping onto my face as rain flooded in through the roof.

The national parks never did re-open while I was in Villa Union but I did manage to take a trip to the Laguna Brava Reserve, a spectacular place at 4000m in the high Andes. At its heart is a beautiful salt lake where flamingoes feed in the shallows, guanacos graze on the sparse vegetation and condors cruise overhead.

Any disappointment about missing the national parks was quickly banished by the onward cycle to Chilecito over the Cuesta Miranda, a beautiful mountain pass where Ruta 40 becomes a narrow dirt road cut through escarpments of red rock. Across the landscape here march battalions of cacti 20 to 30 feet tall. They're just like the cacti in cartoons - it´s quite superb! Chilecito is a lively town with some nice colonial buildings and trendy cafes around a central plaza. I'm sure it's famous for many things but in my journal I've noted that it´s the first place in South America where I've seen ponchos for sale!

Over the last week, the afternoon storms have amalgamated into prolonged periods of torrential rain and I find myself more often facing a flood across my road that I just have to wade through if there is no lift on the horizon. And just as I was about to upgrade to an unthinkable Factor 60 suncream, I'm wondering if I should instead pick up something for trench foot. Oh dear - I've cycled into the wet season!

More photos on Flickr.