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gripped by financial turmoil and at risk of default. As we understood in the days to come, even finding cash would be very difficult; the only alternative was to send money to ourselves via money transfer.
We barely had time to get used to the company of the Argentinians before we set off over the Jama Pass to see what it felt like to ride a motorcycle at an altitude of nearly 5,000 metres. In Purmamarca we stopped to admire the colours of the Quebrada de Humahuaca, where the mountains seemed painted by the most eclectic of painters, who spared no colour from his palette. But the amazement of those who tackled this road grew with altitude: the hairpin bends, on almost perfect asphalt, led to the 3450 metres of the Salinas Grandes, an enormous expanse of salt crossed by the thin strip of Ruta 52. We continued to the Argentina / Chile border and a red desert plateau dotted only with low bushes. Then salt lakes of water so crystalline they seemed like mirrors reflected the horizon where the gaze got lost.
The wind picked up and the temperature dropped. We stopped and I checked the GPS: we were at 4,859 metres above sea level. Oxygen became precious and movements were slow and reduced to a minimum, but this did not take away the happiness in our eyes; we never thought we’ d get up there on our motorcycle. The descent was a nose-dive of less than 15 kilometres in which we lost 2000 metres of altitude to reach San Pedro De Acatama. While the town had by then become a tourist hub for those seeking movie-set adventure, the real
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