Friday, 21st January, Simoca: night driving
Driving at dusk is foolish. Night is on the way, and generally it makes sense to have found lodgings while there is still the light to do so.
But it can be breathtakingly magical. The driving in Northern Argentina has been some of the most beautiful that we have done: red chiselled rocks to lush green cascades of valleys – all paved and dreamlike, and it’s hard to stop just because the day is thinking about stopping.
It’s summer here, and the landscape and atmosphere are like the best of the south of France: the breeze blows warm, the twilight is alive with smells and sounds. As the sun sets, and I look out across miles and miles to the horizon, the sky is rippled with cloud formations that a London girl knows nothing of, accustomed usually to seeing small bursts of grey skies peeping out from between buildings.
Leaving Bolivia, above the distant horizon every night, we’d see moody dark swells of storm patches, lit dramatically by angry lightning bursts. Now here in Argentina, it’s the hot crespucular descent of summer evening to night. On a motorbike, I feel like we’re the only people in the world as the wind gushes up past the step of the sidecar and strong into my face. I love it. Moths throw themselves into the beams of the Russian, the faces of people light up in the darkness as they walk along the dusty sides of the roads. There’s a silhouette of trees along the horizon against the gunmetal blue of the sky, and the serenade of cicadas to accompany the confident growl of our trusty and beloved steed.
I don’t mean to meander into the realms of exaggeration, but Argentina really is perfection. It has surpassed all my high expectations, leaving me quite dumb as how to begin to describe how lovely it is.
After a day of driving with Ale, we crawl into Simoca, a small town, dusty road, kids play football in the bright lights of a municipal football ground. We crawl into bed, exhuasted. Tomorrow to Cordoba.
