Belen

Le long détour vers Belén

Se réveiller à 4 000 mètres au cœur de La Ruta de los Seismiles est une expérience qui reste dans vos poumons et votre âme. L'air est raréfié, vif et d'une fraîcheur incroyable. Mon plan initial d'atteindre la Laguna Peinado avait été contrecarré la veille, ce qui m'obligeait à un détour considérable. Pour rejoindre El Peñon, ma prochaine destination, il me fallait entreprendre un aller-retour de deux à trois jours, en rebroussant chemin jusqu'à Fiambalá. Revenir sur ses pas peut souvent sembler une corvée, mais la route était si spectaculaire que la voir depuis la perspective opposée m'a semblé un cadeau. J'ai pris mon temps, roulant lentement et m'imprégnant de la beauté vaste et aride du désert d'altitude avant de finalement rentrer à Fiambalá.

Rythme et Regret sur la Ruta 40

With plenty of fuel still in my tanks, I decided to push straight through toward Belén. I had considered stopping in Villaville, but the day was drawing short, and Belén offered the security of being one of the last major towns on my route. The ride was hypnotic. I found myself back on the legendary Ruta 40, the backbone of Argentina. At one point, I crested a rise and passed the iconic kilometer 4040 marker. In the flow of the ride, I didn’t stop for a photo—a small decision I’d later kick myself for—but at that moment, the connection between the bike and the road felt too perfect to interrupt.

Le Coût de l'Inattention

The sense of peace evaporated the moment I arrived at my hotel in Belén. As I began the routine of unloading the motorcycle, I noticed something was wrong. One of my waterproof side bags had shifted during the vibrations of the ride and had been pressed firmly against the red-hot exhaust pipe for hours. The thick plastic hadn’t just melted; it had fused. When I tried to open it, the bag tore apart like a cheap grocery sack. My heart sank as I looked inside. The heat had burned straight through to my gear, melting a jagged hole through both my sleeping bag and my sleeping pad.

There is a specific, stinging disappointment that comes with a self-inflicted error on the road. In the world of motorcycle travel, a single minute of inattention during the morning pack-up can be incredibly costly. A loose strap or an open pocket isn’t just a mistake; it’s a lost piece of essential equipment. At home, if you forget a detail, you can usually recover. But when you are in constant motion, you are always exposed. A sixty-euro sleeping bag and a thirty-euro pad were ruined simply because I hadn’t double-checked a clearance of two inches.

Patchwork et Préparation

I had no desire to play the tourist in Belén; the city held no interest for me beyond its utility. My evening became a mission of damage control. I went out and bought more gasoline to pack for the upcoming mountain stages and hunted down some heavy-duty adhesive tape. Back at the hotel, I performed a sort of roadside surgery on my sleeping bag. Feathers were leaking out of the charred holes like snow, so I meticulously patched the fabric with tape. It wasn’t pretty, but it seemed to hold. The sleeping pad, however, was a total loss—a plastic casualty of the road.

That was my time in Belén: a lesson in vigilance, a bit of Scotch tape, and the quiet realization that the mountains don’t care about your mistakes. With my gear patched and my fuel topped off, I prepared to leave the pavement behind once again.

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