Belen to Cacheuta

What an epic day… we cycled a whole 20 k.

I’ve been feeling a bit mentally drained lately, and straight off the bat this morning I just wasn’t feeling it. The thought of another day getting slammed by headwinds nearly made me cry. I just wanted it to leave me the fuck alone.

By the time we rolled into Lourdes, I was done. I told Maree I needed a mental health day, and she was all for it — no questions asked.

Lourdes had this funny wee pet shop that sold a bit of everything — gardening gear, DIY bits, kitchen stuff — and best of all, silicone sealant to fix my sleeping mat. Jackpot.

We found a cute little hostal on the edge of town and checked in. First job: fix the mat. I gave it a wash, sprayed it with soapy water, and watched bubbles pop up from half the dimples on the top. On the top! Not where the ground is, but where I sleep. What the actual hell. Must be a design flaw, surely.

I left it to dry and climbed into the hammock for some much-needed downtime.

Later in the arvo, I peeled myself out of the hammock and sealed up the mat — more hole than mat now, I reckon. Meanwhile, Maree had been gagging to make pizza. There are pizza ovens everywhere in Argentina, and today she finally got her dream moment. I helped by doing the most important job — eating it.

No wind. No endless roaring in my ears. Just peace. And for the first time in a while, my head felt calm again.

And up and away we went… until—clunk.

Not even ten minutes in. What now?!

I yelled out, “Thelma!” — that’s my bike’s name, if you’re new here — and sure enough, it was the derailleur. My welded Frankenstein of a gear shifter looked bent. The chain wasn’t sitting straight on the cogs.

Cue some solid roadside bike fiddling and a whole heap of swearing. After a bit, I admitted defeat. We needed to head back to the hostal, use the Wi-Fi, suss out the damage properly, and come up with a plan.

Back at base, we started tossing around ideas. A bus to La Rioja, maybe — a bigger town with proper bike shops. The hostal owner mentioned her partner was in La Rioja and due back Friday; he could maybe pick up a part for us. Sounded like a plan.

So I hit Google and WhatsApped every bike store in town. That’s when the frustration really kicked in. Most said they had the part or something “similar” that would work — but when I pushed for details, it turned out none of them actually had anything compatible with my setup.

I widened my search to Catamarca and even Mendoza. My brain hurt. Every message I sent or received had to go through Google Translate, and half the time I wasn’t sure if what I was saying made sense. Then I’d get replies that made even less sense, and I’d spend ages trying to decode what they really meant.

It was a long, stressful day — and by the end of it, things looked grim.

I crawled into bed, but I didn’t sleep. My brain was a whirring mess, stuck on one thought: what now?

I woke up and jumped out of bed, determined to give the derailleur one last fiddle. Turns out what it really needed was a bash.

I pulled it apart, laid the welded bit on a flat surface, and gave it what for. Then I reassembled the whole contraption and gave the gears a tune-up. Took Thelma out for a quick spin, and to my surprise — she was shifting. Not perfectly, but in a “she’ll do in a pinch” kind of way.

I rolled back to tell Maree. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I said, grinning.

So by 11am we were back on the road, cruising out of town in the blinding heat and a slight headwind.

I didn’t realise just how mentally drained I was from the whole bike drama yesterday — I was pedalling, but my brain was running on fumes.

Later in the arvo, we stumbled on an old ruined house — no roof, but the walls still standing, blocking the wind, sun, and road noise. Perfect spot for the night.

We figured we’d wait till dusk to pitch the tent. Smart, right? Yeah, until the mozzies came out for their evening feed.

In a mad scramble, we threw the tent up — only for the zip on the bug screen door to completely give up on life. So now we’ve got bugs inside and a sauna.

Another glamorous night in the wild.

We were up at the break of… the mosquitoes eating our faces off.

We needed to find water for brekkie anyway, so we hit the road. There was a small village about 10km away, and we crossed our fingers it had some. It did — if you bought it. So, begrudgingly, we did.

The wind had turned up early today, so armed with water, we cycled on until we found a bit of shelter — basically a pile of gravel we could crouch behind. That was breakfast.

From there, the wind just never let up. We were crawling along at 5km an hour. At one break, we took refuge in a roadside shrine — in Argentina, they’ve got these wee chapels for people killed in car crashes.

Next stop was under a dry river overpass. It was peaceful enough, except when a truck thundered over. That’s where I had a wee meltdown. My head was firmly on Struggle Street with that wind.

The next break was another shrine — not a concrete number this time, just some poles with a tarp. That’s where I cracked. I told Maree we were fighting a losing battle. If I kept going, she’d have to commit me. Plus, the 18km to Aimogasta was going to take four hours at this rate. We’d be wrecked.

So we decided to try hitching — yeah, with two bikes. We took turns every 20 minutes: one with their thumb out, the other hiding from the wind and sun in the shrine.

Eventually, a bloke with a trailer pulled over. Legend. We got the bikes loaded, picked up his girlfriend on the way, and he dropped us at a park he reckoned was safe to camp at.

After rapidly inhaling an ice block and a fizzy, we decided to move to the Municipal Camp instead — it was free and had security, unlike the park.

On the way, we stopped by the bus station to see what ran through. We’d both decided — enough of this insane wind. Let’s just get to Mendoza.

There was a bus to La Rioja in an hour and a half. Easy.

The whole process was smooth — no yelling, no smashed bikes, no confusion. Just slick.

It was bliss sitting quietly for the two-hour ride.

What wasn’t slick was finding accommodation. The hostel we saw on Google Maps didn’t exist. The next one was way too pricey, but they kindly let us use their Wi-Fi to hunt something down.

So here we are — a wee apartment for the next two nights, cheaper than any hostel we’ve stayed in. Time to relax.

I must’ve WhatsApped over 30 bike shops in Argentina trying to find a derailleur — no luck.

So today, new plan: message every bike shop in Santiago. As you can imagine, there’s a lot of Google Translate chaos involved.

I WhatsApped my arse off for a solid two hours this morning until my stomach started roaring like a caged beast.

We went off to find brekkie and struck gold — a proper feed of eggs, ham, and cheese.

Next mission: bike boxes. The bus to Mendoza required the bikes to be boxed up, so off we went hunting. We wandered into this random shop that sold everything — fridges, toasters, microwaves… and bikes. The two customer service lads were absolute gems, all chat and smiles. They handed us two bike boxes and even chucked in a roll of tape. Nice one, boys.

We flagged down a taxi for the 5km to the bus station, Maree half-buried under the bike boxes in the back seat. At the counter, we dropped the boxes off and bought our tickets. Then we meandered our way back, soaking up the dusty afternoon streets, the shouts from vendors, the buzz of it all.

We stumbled into this store that looked like if Countdown and The Warehouse had a lovechild — fluorescent lights, random aisles of everything imaginable. We grabbed some dinner bits and bus snacks before heading back to our wee apartment.

Then it was back into admin mode. I combed through replies from the morning’s messages — still no luck on the derailleur. Maree was on a mission of her own, trying to find someone who could fix our tent zip. We can’t keep waking up as mosquito buffets every morning.

Then, mid-afternoon — bing! A message from a bike shop that actually knew their shit. They reckoned they could get me a derailleur. Bloody magic. Let’s see what happens from here — still gotta get it ordered, shipped, and attached. But hope’s back on the table.

After ticking off the day’s admin, we smashed a bowl of nachos — first time in ages. Then I found gold… Netflix. Yeah baby, movie time.

We arrived at the bus depot early — bikes to box, again. My box disintegrated as soon as I touched it. Lucky the lads yesterday threw us a roll of tape, because mine’s now 80% tape, 20% cardboard.

We had to slip the luggage handlers a bit extra to get our boxes on board, but honestly, worth every peso — they actually treated them kindly for once.

Once on the bus, between micro-naps, I’d glance out the window.

“Hey babe,” I said to Maree, “I’m bloody glad we’re not cycling this part.”

Flat as far as the eye could see. Straight road. Scrub. Sand. Wind whipping across it all like a hairdryer on high. Truth be told, I haven’t enjoyed much of Argentina — well, maybe up until the red pancakes. After that, it’s just been dust, sun, and a constant headwind.

This bus plan? It’s a good one. Not justifying it — just stating facts.

Finally, we rolled into Mendoza. We quietly rebuilt the bikes at the depot, then rode through the city streets to our pre-booked hostel.

First on the list: food. We wandered into town and found a simple feed of meat and papa dish — hearty, salty, exactly what we needed.

Over dinner, we got talking about how we miss the street cat ladies — those warm, wild-hearted locals from earlier in our travels. Argentina feels more modernised, a bit shinier, but it’s lost that raw simplicity we loved in the Andes. I suppose that’s just the way things go — change happens, whether you’re ready or not.

Getting out of Mendoza — yep, navigating another bloody city. At least it had bike lanes, which was great… until we kept veering off them. The thing about bike routes through cities is you’ve got to know where they actually go. Ours kept shooting off in directions we didn’t want to go, so we’d jump on the road again, only to find the lane reappearing further along. I reckon we’d have been better off trusting the bike route — but hey, hindsight’s a great thing.

We stopped early for a coffee break — a cappuccino that nearly broke the bank. But when it arrived, we saw why. It wasn’t your average cuppa. Whipped cream piled on top, melting chocolate chips at the bottom of a tall glass. Happiness right there.

Once we finally found our way out of town, we started cruising up into the hills. A wide valley opened ahead of us, with fresh snow on the surrounding peaks — a first for us. It felt strange after weeks of hot, dusty, wind-blasted desert.

Our target for the day was Cacheteuta hot pools, not the free kind this time, but worth the detour.

By mid-arvo we’d reached the little village of Caceteuta. We tracked down the campsite owner, locked the bikes up, and made a beeline for the café across the road. A solid lomo and papas later, we were ready for the soak.

Inside, the pools were chaos — echoing walls, families and teenagers splashing everywhere. We didn’t even hesitate. Straight outside, where we found a delightfully hot pool all to ourselves. Owww yeah, that’s the ticket. With the weather overcast and cool, most people stayed inside, which was perfect for us.

Entertainment came courtesy of a skimpily dressed woman doing Insta photo shoots and her wannabe porn-star boyfriend, who only looked up from their phones to take turns snapping each other.

After turning into prunes, we wandered back to the campsite, set up the tent, and collapsed. The pools had turned me to jelly — I barely hit the sleeping bag before it was: goodnight, nurse.