Uyuni to Arba Pampa

If yesterday was a rest day, I don’t even know what today was. My body has declared full-scale civil war. I’m absolutely f***ed. Weak, hollow, like I’ve been wrung out and left in the Bolivian sun.

Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t even sit up. I just lay there, drifting in and out of sleep while the day blurred past. Every now and then Maree would come in, give me a poke to make sure I was still alive, then disappear again. No action, no adventure, no nothing.

Today was just a day of surrender.

This morning I tricked myself. Woke up thinking, sweet, I feel good again. Had a bit of breaky, feeling optimistic. But nah, my body wasn’t buying it. Rebellion still in full swing. Better than yesterday, sure, but food still looks like the enemy. I eye it up and think, that’s just gonna make me feel like s**.*

My lovely Maree is a saint though—kept feeding me ice blocks all day like I was some feverish five-year-old, which feel like!

Then we made a call. We found out it’s only five hours by bus to the boarder town to Argentina. So instead of wasting another day in bed, we figured, bugger it—let’s jump on a bus, well get closs to Argentina. From there, the next day, it’s just 10k to a campsite. Even if I still feel rough, at least we’d be making headway.

I don’t get it. Every morning I wake up thinking, yep, I’m back, I’m sweet as, let’s roll. Today was no different—body clock woke me at 6, I felt normal, even hungry. Full breakfast too: eggs, fruit, yoghurt, coffee. Perfect start.

But the moment we packed the bikes and rolled them to the bus stop, my body went full rebellion again. Just shut down. Weak as a wet tissue. Luckily, all I had to do was slump on the bus seat while our bikes were tucked neatly underneath.

The ride itself wasn’t bad—bit of podcast, bit of snoozing, bit of gazing out the window. Easy as. By the time we hit the border town it was close to 5pm. We put the bikes back together, found our hostel (booked yesterday, clever us), then shuffled into town hunting food.

Now I feel like I’m about to give birth to a chicken. Honestly, I just hope this food sits quietly in my stomach tonight and doesn’t stir up more drama.

Tomorrow’s the big one—Argentina. Here’s hoping when I wake up, and more importantly when I get up, my body finally decides it’s keen to keep this cycling gig going.

We rolled into the morning slow and easy, lounging at Casa Grande Hostel — that is, until Evon, the sweet-but-savage old lady who ran the joint, charged me for a second coffee. Bit rough, Evon. But she’s lovely, so I let it slide.

Breakfast down, we spent a good chunk of the morning chin-wagging with an English bloke who’d been crook for days with food poisoning. Poor bugger was stoked just to talk to humans again. Before we knew it, the clock struck checkout o’clock, and we turned into a pair of ants in a panic — shoving gear into panniers, strapping bags, and legging it out the door.

I was buzzing. Finally felt alive again. Today was border day — Argentina, here we come!

The crossing was surprisingly slick. All computerised, none of that usual South American paper-shuffling and stamp-whacking chaos. Just a couple of clicks, a smile, and boom — new country, new adventure.

First mission: the bank. We quickly realised we’d been a bit naive not bringing more U.S. dollars — turns out Argentina’s another place where cash is king and ATMs are stingy. You can only pull 100,000 pesos a day — about $100 — and the fees are daylight robbery. Oh well.

Next up: food. My hunger was back, and she was angry. The market didn’t disappoint — plates piled high with meat, rice, potatoes, and some kind of rich, saucy goodness. Even a salad! I know, I know — “H, don’t eat the salad!” But bugger it. Sometimes you’ve just got to roll the dice.

Now, I hadn’t mentioned this yet, but Maree’s been battling a bit of a dodgy gut lately. Let’s just say her tummy’s been turbulent and her bum… well, she’s spending more time investigating toilets than landmarks. We figured a night of camping might help, so we planned to head 10 km out of town to a campsite.

Except, about 3 km out, Maree pulled over. I thought it was another puncture — but nope. Her chain was hanging limp like a sad noodle. Shit.

I parked up and went full bush-mechanic mode. Now, I’m no bike whisperer — I know the basics, a few tricks I’ve picked up along the way — but this one had me scratching my head. Tried all the usual suspects: derailleur, wheel alignment, chain tension. Nada.

By 3 p.m., I called it. We turned back to town to find Wi-Fi, a hostel, and hopefully a miracle.

Every door we tried was shut. Three strikes. I was ready to sleep on the footpath when we finally found a place open — more expensive than we’d have liked, but at that point, I’d have paid extra just for a roof and a toilet.

Once we were settled, I got to work. YouTube to the rescue. After a deep dive into the Landon You Tube

I reckon I’d cracked it. The chain and derailleur were back in working order, and I’d learned a few more tricks to tuck away in the ol’ metaphorical toolbox.

We headed out late to hunt down food and found a roadside cart sizzling with chorizo. Sweet mercy. Chorizo sausages and chips — the kind of greasy, glorious fat that brings your soul back from the brink. I swear I could feel it pumping down my veins, fuelling every cell in my body.

By the time we crawled into bed, my tummy was happy, but poor Maree’s wasn’t. Let’s just say… when you travel as a couple, privacy becomes optional, and en-suites can be both a blessing and a curse.

I woke up at 4 a.m. starving.

If an alpaca had wandered past, I swear I’d have chewed its leg clean off.

Luckily, we still had a bit of fruit from the market, so I had myself a quiet banana and orange party, trying not to wake Maree snoring softly beside me.

A few hours later, I heard movement from the ensuite. I won’t go into the details, but let’s just say the soundtrack wasn’t good. “You alright, babe?” I called out.

There was a long pause. Then a weary, “Ugh… not really.”

I offered the obvious: “You wanna stay another night?”

She hesitated — we both just wanted to keep riding — but eventually sighed. “Yeah… I think I’d better.”

So we did.

Once the room was sorted and Maree tucked in with her water bottle and weary pride, I headed out into town. The first mission: cash. I joined a queue that stretched out the bank door and halfway down the footpath. Apparently, Saturday mornings in this town are everyone’s “get money” time.

After dropping a fresh stash of pesos back at the room, I hit the streets again on strict instructions: find electrolytes. On the way, I stumbled across a supermarket — the first proper one we’d seen in weeks. It felt like stepping into paradise. Shelves stacked with shiny packets of dehydrated veggies, potatoes, nuts, and, jackpot — salami. I filled my arms like a kid on Christmas morning.

I hauled my loot back to the room, then finally made it to the markets. They were buzzing — stalls of clothes, plastic bits and bobs, and the smell of fried dough drifting through the air. I couldn’t find a single chorizo in sight (apparently a nighttime delicacy), so I made do with a couple of empanadas and an ice cream that dripped all over my hand in the sun.

Back “home,” I killed time the best way I know how — fettling the bikes. Cleaned the chain, tweaked the gears, gave her a little love. Maree, meanwhile, continued her love affair with the toilet.

I’m itching to cross into Argentina now — the border’s so close I can almost taste the Malbec. Fingers crossed tomorrow Maree’s finished her fling with the loo. Not that I’m the jealous type.

I woke to the sound of Maree continuing her ongoing affair with the loo.

“Still leaking, hun?” I joked through the door.

The hotel we’d been holed up in wasn’t exactly the dream spot for recovery — pricey, a bit soulless, and not much for me to do while Maree communed with porcelain. So, I did what any modern traveller does: opened trusty old Booking.com.

A small unit popped up — half the price, good reviews. “Let’s give it a crack,” I thought.

Best decision ever.

We checked out, lugged our bikes down the street, and were able to move straight into our new digs. And honestly? It might just be the best place we’ve stayed on this whole trip.

A proper little home, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, lounge, all ours. No shared loos, no random snorers, no cold showers. Just us.

And the cherry on top? Netflix. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed zoning out to a movie until that familiar red logo flicked onto the screen. I sank into the couch like it was an old friend.

I even cooked us a proper meal, a simple stir-fry, but after weeks of fried carbs and dodgy chicken, it tasted like luxury.

Movies, real food, and a bit of peace. Maree’s colour is starting to come back, and for the first time in days, she’s smiling again. Looks like my girl might be ready to ride tomorrow.

It was hard leaving the comfort of our little parallel universe of perfection this morning — a real home, hot showers, Netflix, the works. But we were both gagging to spin our legs again.

We rolled out into what felt like an alpine plain — wide open spaces, soft light, distant rolling hills. The kind of landscape that makes you feel small in the best possible way.

We hit cruise mode early on. Maree might’ve stopped leaking out her arse (small victories!), but she was still running on half a tank, so no need to smash it. The universe clearly had her back — gifting us a tailwind that gently pushed us along all day. Barely a pedal stroke needed.

We stopped for the odd break, but ice cream dreams were crushed — there wasn’t a single tienda in sight.

By afternoon, we cruised into Abra Pampa, a dusty little town that looked just fine for a night’s rest. Maree was fading again, so we called it. One more solid sleep, and she’ll be right as rain.