The road from Lobos to Saladillo started off well.  The wide shoulders compensated for the heavy truck traffic, the sun was bright and cheery, and I even saw a few gauchos out herding cattle.  And yes, it’s true, they do wear a black beret. It still makes me smile every time I see it because it seems so out of place - a cowboy dressed up as a French artist.

 The day started its downward spiral, however, with the wind.  A crosswind, it wasn’t strong enough for me to have any real right to complain but just heavy enough to be annoying.  Because I’m sure I’ll meet with worse, I’ll hold off on talking about that any more, thus saving myself sympathy for future blog entries. I labored slowly on towards Saladillo.

There are lots of shops along the road advertising homemade cheeses, vegetables, and dulces.  Oooh, dulces… in Mexico this translates as sweets or candies.  How perfect, a little roadside store selling fresh traditional sweets!  I pulled my bike in eagerly, imagining with pleasure the fruit or honey or whatever concoction I’d soon be eating… only to be foiled by the Argentinean translation of dulces as “jams.”  I like jam, but didn’t like so much the thought of buying a big glass jar and carrying it with me as I go. Maybe it would be worth it for the hilarious pictures of exploded jam jar in my pannier?

Instead, I restocked my water and chatted with the store owner about my trip.  “To Saladillo?  Strong wind, very difficult” she told me.  Just what I like to hear.  She was impressed with my plans, although concerned for my safety - “How do your parents feel?” and “Alone? Aren’t you afraid?” are questions I get a lot.

 Then, back on the road.  The huge trucks hurtled past, honking at me, and I thought smugly of the nice wide shoulder.  Excellent road choice, Malena.  All those other journals complaining about biking in the Pampas, and here I was on the best road out there.

Until, of course, inevitably, about 30km outside of Lobos the shoulder ended.  Suddenly, I was on a flat, narrow road with all sorts of trucks honking at me and no shoulder to speak of - just bumpy grass probably littered with broken glass lying in wait to test out the invincibility of my new Schwalbe tires.  Oh, and a nasty crosswind.  All the clouds had disappeared, and the sun was beating down on me. The Argentinean tap water, especially when warm, tastes kind of disgusting, so even my water breaks weren’t much fun.  And, of course, the frequent honks from behind, always signaling a rush of air as the driver passed much closer than is comfortable, were something I came to dread. I began wondering “Why am I doing this?  What is so wonderful about biking?  Why did I like it?”  This was no fun.

 And so it went, for what seemed like ages.  The fields all blended together, I yearned for shade, I kept watching my odometer more and more often: 35km, 40km, 42km, 44km, 44km.  More fields, more flat plains, more fences.  Surely it’s been more than 44km - nope still there.  And so it went.  Time certainly was passing more slowly. 

Then I realized my odometer was literally stuck at 44km, which was sort of a relief.  At least I wasn’t going crazy.

The day continued, along with my black musings, and about 15km before Saladillo I saw a sign for the Indio Muerte campgrounds - 5km.  Sure, might as well go there, and end the day sooner rather than later.  I pulled off and immediately came to a total stop in several inches of sand.  Great, 5km of this.  Bugs were everywhere, my arms were bright red from the sun, I was nearly out of water, and there I was, walking my bike through sand.  Why am I doing this again?

Oh well, the campground was at a lake so surely there would be water.  I arrived and a woman came out to meet me, looking surprised.  I could put my tent anywhere I wanted, of course.  The lake?  Oh, there was no water in the lake, it had dried out.  Things looked a little dead at the campground, except for the occasional loose cow and the many swarming mosquitoes.  Hmm, not exactly what I imagined it to be like. Again, the mental refrain: “Malena, seriously, why are you doing this? You have nothing to prove.  You don’t need to do this.”

 Nothing to do, of course, but put up my tent and practice my Spanish With the woman there.  LLemala (pronounced “Shamela” here in Argentina) had lived at the campground for six months with her husband and son. She gave me some nice cold water as we exchanged our stories.  She was 23, and her son Gonzolo was 6. Her husband was 20, so I’m not 100% sure how the math on that one worked out!

“Look!” she pointed to the road.  “Una bicicleta!” It was her husband in the distance, slowly pedaling himself and Gonzalo the 6km home from school.  When they arrived, I brought out the photographs of my family and New Orleans and showed them to her.  She told me how pretty everything was, and we laughed my picture of the crocodile jumping for a hot dog.  I gave her and her husband, Jonathan, each one of the little cards I had printed up with pictures of my Southeast Asia trip. 

 Llemala brought me inside and showed me all her pictures of her own family.  I noticed she put the pictures of me carefully inside her main glass-covered display of photos.  My globe-trotting grandmother had given me the advice to carry some pictures and share a little part of yourself with the people you meet along the way, and it has really, truly been invaluable.  The cards I had printed up are worth their weight in gold and one of the few luxuries in my bag I don’t resent, even in a headwind or going uphill.

“Would you like to eat dinner with us?”  she asked me.  “Claro!” I told her.  Chicken barbecue - mm, sounded much nicer than the rice and crackers I had planned on.  She invited her younger brother Julio over as well, and in the meantime let me take a nice hot shower in her bathroom.

 Dressed and refreshed, I sat down at their table with a nice glass of wine.  I spent the evening joking with the family, playing card games, and enjoying a tremendously good chicken.  We laughed at how we all knew “Sit down” and “Quiet!” in each others’ language from high school teachers yelling at us.  “Lo mismo todo el mundo!” (The same everywhere in the world) Julio mused. I told them about how in Cambodia, the locals eat tarantulas and crickets - “I prefer pollo asado!” and they let me try on their black gaucho berets and Argentinean sombreros.  I didn’t make it to bed until after 1AM and felt far more welcomed and looked after than I deserved. 

So, I guess now I remember why I do this crazy bicycling thing.