Each small outpost or town is like an islands in the remote wilderness that routa 40 runs through. I ask how far the next fuel is each time I stop, although this is no guarantee as some petrol stations have no gas, so far I’ve had no problems though. Shortly after Rio Mayo the ripio very suddenly ends, after days of gravel, sand, mud and dust, stretching out into the distance is pristine asphalt and I’d be a liar if I didn’t say it feels luxurious. The dry arid scrub continues, as in the distance the snow capped mountains of the Andes appear, for miles not appearing to get any closer, until eventually green plants and trees start to appear, becoming lusher, as the road reaches the streams and rivers of melting snow flowing down the mountains.

I pull in to fill up with fuel at Esquel, a smart mountain resort town, full of elegantly dressed people. The petrol station has a little café and I get some odd looks as I sit down to eat my empanadas, – spicy beef in pastry, similar to a Cornish pasty – I must look slightly dishevelled and dazed, starring into the distance as you do after hours on the road, covered in dust and in need of a good scrub after camping out the last few days. Outside I check the bike over and notice rear tyre tread is very warn, although it still feels solid. I should be able to get a tyre in Mendoza, but it’s a couple of thousand kilometres away. The map shows the roads in different colours, from which you can gauge the quality and surface, it looks like routa 40 is ripio free all the way from now on. Each time I stop I check the tyre, it seems OK, although I know it’s more susceptible to punctures and splits, but I should be able to nurse it home. I island hop my way through beautiful mountain towns, reminiscent of the Alps, I feel very at hone. The road from time to time swinging back out into the parched scrub, the snow caped mountains a permanent back drop.

Zapala is a small Argentine town that seems to have grown as a result of the near by oil exploration, – you often see “nodding donkeys” pumping oil up from the ground - it’s ordinariness a breath of fresh air after the ostentatious resort towns. I ask in a couple of Hospedajes – cheap hotels – for a room, but they are all full, so I stop at a café where people are sat outside on the pavement sipping coffee and drinking mate – the national drink of Argentina, a mixed leaf brew, served hot and drunk through a straw, constantly topped up with got water. It’s fairly late so ask one of the waiter if he has any ideas, he writes down the name of a hotel and explains it just a few streets away. I walk through the smoked glass revolving doors and spot the prices on the wall behind the check in desk, it’s clear I’ll be trading the sales rep´ chic opulence of Zapala´s number one executive hangout, for a night a the municipal campsite. Beyond the shantyesq outskirts of the town is a grey gravel road lined with cypress trees, which opens into a large square, the trees marking the perimeter. The camp site is empty apart from a small one man tent. There is a light coming from a simple white flat roofed building, with two dogs asleep on the veranda. I get off the bike as the door of the hut swings open and a jolly looking man appears, introducing himself as “Antonio” who rapidly explains in Spanish, well I’m not too sure exactly what, but I catch the odd word, smiling and nodding. As I finish pitching the tent to the amusement of the dogs, Antonio appears again, motioning to come in. The room has a stove, fridge and sink at one end, at the other, a large open roaring wood fire with an asardo rack on top with a chicken slowly cooking, there is a table and chairs with two people sitting down drinking mate. I’m made to feel very welcome and introduced to Gretel from Sweden and her Peruvian boy friend Manco, who are sharing the tent outside. Through broken Spanish and with Gretel translating back and forth, talk turns to carnival, which takes place throughout the Americas in February each year, indigenous traditions mixed with the Christian celebrations before lent begins. In Sweden there is no carnival, but “Waffle day”, the Scandinavian equivalent of “Pan cake day. “In Peru mucho ropa, in Brazil no ropa” Antonio explains laughing as he removes the chicken from the rack – ropa is Spanish for cloths. I have bread and mushroom soup, but Antonio insists I have some chicken, which he shares equally between us all, served with chilled tap water. As the night draws on the others retire and Antonio switches on an old television set with two chrome aerial rising into a v on top. I’m not kidding; we watch a polo match, which is excellent, my glass topped up with chilled tap water throughout the evening, served as though it were the finest wine, a perfect evening.

The tyre is holding out and I have about 800 kilometres to go, the road is empty and I hit a stretch which is so new you can still smell the paint on the double yellow line that runs down the centre of the road, rising and falling as the road winds it’s way gently through the hills, the brown shaded layers of sedimentary rock exposed, creating waves of colour across the entire valley. Higher still, the road suddenly become ripio, patches of tarmac appear occasionally, sticking up two or three inches above the ground, it seems the road has eroded, to the extent, that after a few miles it’s pure grey gravel. As the road drops down again there are short stretches of potted of tarmac, but these are a nightmare as the rear tyre hit hard against the sharp edges of pot holes. I can feel a wobble emanating from the rear of the bike, I pull over expecting the worse, but the tyre is fine. Checking the bike over I notice two screws from the pannier rack have come lose, I tighten them up and the wobble disappears.


As I approach San Rafael, vineyards start to appear and the area becomes populated, the road shaded occasionally by lines of trees running for miles on either side of the road. The road runs straight through the middle of the town, where I spot a shop with trials bikes outside,, inside is a rack of vertical tyre running the length of the side wall. After a quick inspection of my back tyre, checking the size, I become the proud owner of a “Sahara” knobbly rear tyre;, all I have to do now is get it fitted. Half a mile down the road is an open fronted concrete building, tyres pilled up all around, with some seriously heavy guitar rifts emanating from within. Inside I find a long haired “dude” with Jack Sparrow facial hair jamming on an electric guitar, his friend drumming along with tyre irons on the side of an old oil drum filled with water, unaware of my presence they play for a good few minutes before spotting me. These guys are obviously born to perform as each time a tool is picked up, it’s thrown spinning into the air, caught from behind, the whole thing seem to be a carefully choreographed show, as effortlessly the old tyre is removed and the new one fitted. As I check the bike over and load it up to head off, the amps fired up again and the jam session continues.