It’s been a couple of weeks since I last posted a blog. While I’ve enjoyed the break from writing, I’m discovering that time on the road quickly blurs together. More and more, I find myself scrolling back through photos just to remind myself where we’ve been and what we’ve done.
SALTA
28 – 30 APRIL. Picking up from my last post, we spent three days in Salta. Most of that time was spent at the municipal campground on of the city. Cleaning the trucks, doing laundry and school work. You know, normal daily life stuff. Huw & Sara came to visit, each afternoon with large amounts of steak for the bbq. They are truly gutted, Gwenda-the-Defender’s motor is done. Sadly, this is their second new motor. Their confidence is gone with the Ford transit version for Gwenda. She’s now on the back of a truck making way to Buenos Aries, to the port of Zarate and into a container UK bound. Sara will fly home in advance, Huw will follow once the ship has set sail.
We didn’t actually see anything of Salta. Which is kinda funny as it was an area I was looking forwards to checking out. But once I arrived I was quite happy to just chill in the campground. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been on the road a long time. I was curious about the 3 mummies that were said to be on display in the local museum. But on a closer check, only one mummy is on display at a time, and the entry fee was $20 per person. We’ve seen plenty of mummies and so had a bit of a blaise attitude towards it.
We did stop at a massive butcher shop on our way out of the city and filled our freezer with $200 of prime Argentine beef!
FANGIO’S LEGENDARY RACING CAR
3 MAY. Back out on the road, Passing through a small town, we stopped to admire a beautifully weathered 1940 Chevrolet coupé — a faithful replica of Fangio’s legendary racer. Occupants were a family of three, slowly inching their way toward Alaska. We spent half an hour chatting roadside, hearing about the painstaking restoration back to original spec, the constant struggle to source replacement parts, and the challenge of maintaining such an old machine and their dream of making it to Alaska on an incredibly tight budget.
Behind the Chevy trailed the most unusual camper we’ve seen yet: a tiny boat converted into a lightweight caravan, chosen simply because the aging coupé couldn’t tow anything heavier. There was something wonderfully romantic about the whole setup — slow, impractical, probably forever breaking down — yet completely alive with adventure, ingenuity, and the kind of determination only long-distance travellers seem to understand.
We bought one of their postcards, sold by donation to help fund the journey. Good on them. I’ll be interested to follow their progress. My guess is it’ll take years before they finally reach North America.
Sitting inside the old car brought an unexpected wave of nostalgia — fixed seatbelts, huge cushioned seats, leather straps, and that unmistakable old-car smell that instantly reminded me of Mum’s Morris Minor back in the mid-70s.
A VILLAGE PARADE
A little further up the road we stumbled into a village in full festival mode. Naturally, we had to stop. We arrived just in time for the parade: young schoolchildren marching proudly in procession, followed by older students playing instruments and carrying banners. Then came the sports teams, teachers, coaches, hospital staff, police, public servants, and finally the gauchos riding in on awkwardly prancing horses.
Some horses were beautifully groomed, others clearly not. Some wore shoes, most didn’t. Proud riders had travelled from all over the region to take part. The crowd celebrated the spectacle enthusiastically, but I found parts of it difficult to watch. Many of the horses looked wide-eyed and frightened, their heads pulled tightly into unnatural positions, trained through force to prance stiffly through the streets. It was one of those moments where culture and personal perspective collide uncomfortably.
STONEBRIDGE HIKE
4 MAY. Our last night with Kevin and Pascale turned into a memorable one. We camped nearby and set out on an evening hike up the hill behind us to visit Puente del Diablo — the Devil’s Bridge — a delicate natural stone arch left standing among eroded rock formations shaped like giant scalloped seashells.
The climb was no joke. Starting at 3,664 metres, we gained around 450 metres over 4.5 kilometres, much of it steep and lung-busting at altitude. We arrived shortly before sunset, scrambling around the rocks snapping photos while the fading light turned everything gold. Kevin and the kids lingered behind to photograph the rising full moon and night sky while the rest of us carefully descended most of the trail in darkness, thankful we’d packed headlamps.
Dinner ended up being late, but absolutely worth the wait: homemade pizzas back at camp.
The following morning we parted ways with Kevin & Pascale, they are heading back to explore another corner of the Puna before crossing into Bolivia and down towards the Pantanal in a few weeks.