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I arrived in Salta, Argentina by bus from Chile. Almost halfway into a cross-continent solo trip, I felt my burnout creep closer, and my patience with delays running dangerously thin.
I was bone-tired from lengthy bus rides crisscrossing borders on the South American continent. However, I wanted to reach my goal; the metropolis of Cordoba.
Needing a break, I sat in the dimly lit lobby of my budget-friendly hostel and picked up a pamphlet in front of me. The title on the wrinkled paper read “RN40: Drive Through the World in Northern Argentina!” At the top was a picture of a smiling pair of travelers in a shiny SUV, seemingly astonished by the lush rainforest surrounding them.
The RN40 in Argentina (or National Route 40), is one of the longest roads on earth, covering over 3100 miles (5000km), from the ruby-colored valleys up north to the wuthering heights of mighty Patagonia down south.
The prospect of a bus-less journey through cacti deserts and salt lakes, with roadside empanadas and functioning AC, sounded too good to be true. Like they say: you had me at bus-less.
After a night’s sleep in an actual bed, I grabbed two new travel friends and we sat off for the local car rental company to begin our adventure.
Day One: Salta-Cafayate
My German friend easily took the driver’s seat, as I called shotgun. Stevie Nicks sang out the first tones of my curated road trip playlist just as our folksy Honda navigated out of the lawless traffic of central Salta, towards the looming forest further up the highway.
We made an early stop for knock-off Coca-Cola’s, paired tastefully with amused-looking locals who seemed confused by our presence in their little corner of the globe. Soon, we were suddenly engulfed in a pillow of thick, green leaves in three directions.
The distant city sounds of Salta died out instantly, replaced instead with a cacophony of wet gravel, swaying piedmont jungle trees and the mesmerizing drip-drip-drop of a looming rainstorm. I lowered the volume on the speakers and the three of us fell into a pleasant silence.
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After months of traveling city after city, I found myself finally having time to reflect on the journey that somehow brought me here. My bare feet were kicked up leisurely on the dashboard of a silver sedan, joined by two strangers, making our way up into the mountains of the Northern Argentinian rainforest; all because I had a case of travel burn-out.
I chuckled to myself, finding some humor in one of those “what even is my life” moments that sometimes happen when you’ve said “yes” to multiple, increasingly out-there ideas consecutively.
A Nervewracking Mountain Road
We continued to drive up, up, up, reaching for the rapidly darkening clouds that were covering the mountaintop toward which we were heading. We had just turned the sharp corner on the dirt road snaking its way up the mountain when the sky opened and a warm, all-consuming summer rain drenched the valley.
The rain completely covered the windshield causing my friend to swerve uncontrollably on the gravel. Holding on to the car door, I tried to breathe through the rising panic, as I felt the mountain wall give the car’s side a little kiss and I felt my heart falling through my stomach.
Gaining control of the car, my friend finally maneuvered us back to the middle of the road, as if nothing had happened. The relief was palpable. Refusing to adhere to the severity of the situation, I fished up my phone that had slipped through the cushions in the tumult and felt my heartbeat slow down to the steady beat of “It’s Raining Men”.
After making it safe and sound up the staggering mountain, we found ourselves no longer surrounded by deep rainforests.
Parque Nacional los Cardones
Instead, outside my car window, the climate had dried up, making way for the Parque Nacional los Cardones.
Home to some of the mightiest cacti formations in the world, as well as large, empty plains, the park painted an impressive canvas of orange, pink and beige, resembling that of California’s Joshua Tree.
A welcome warm sun shone high in the sky, as we drove along the empty and seemingly endless two-lane road, edging closer to our first stop.
Hungry, thirsty, and astonished by the highs and lows of the completely different worlds through which we had just driven, we pulled up to the sleepy and picturesque village of Cachi.
Ordering an impressive spread of empanadas, hearty Argentinian beef stew and buttery tortilla de patatas to share, we sat quietly, taking in the colonial Spanish architecture around us.
We agreed that it resembled some of the southern European villages we all grew up vacationing in, with yellowed white stone walls and window sills painted in vibrant teal blue. Even with the rusty steel signs hanging off artisanal markets and wine bodegas seeming as if taken from the set of a low-budget Western movie, the village still felt incredibly genuine.
Satisfied, we wiped our greasy fingers on cheap napkins and got ready to head on onward. The sun was just starting to set, and we still had a couple of hours of driving ahead before reaching Cafayate.
Welcome to the RN40
Just as we steered out of Cachi, I looked up from the passenger seat and saw the signs proudly calling out “Bienvenidos a RN40”, and couldn’t help the excited gasp that escaped me. Under us, the pavement suddenly bled out into a dusty red gravel track, seemingly heading straight into the red rock formations in the distance.
The single-file road stroked alongside desert hills, where sand and stone melted together with gigantic cacti standing tall and pastel green, creating a postcard-worthy take on the great African plains.
My head rested heavily on my arms folded in the open car window, as I listened to my friends mumble along to Walk On The Wild Side. The dusty air kicking up from the ground felt rough in my throat, and the warm afternoon sun coated my sweaty dark curls in an orange glow.
Village of Cafayate
The sun finally dipped below the hills, as we spotted the first stone buildings of Cafayate popping up like a Tetris in the distance. The old Inca village is the home to 12,000 residents, many of whom are active in the flourishing local wine industry.
We dropped our backpacks at the quaint little Hostel Ruta 40 and headed out in the warm evening. Despite it being a Monday night, the little village was bustling with music from every corner. Children were running around with their friends while their parents played dominos and drank wine on the patios of dimly lit wine bars.
Spotting some string lights and a chalkboard menu (the universal sign of a decent food place), my friend pulled us along, and we stepped into La Casa de las Empanadas.
The pinkish walls were covered from floor to ceiling with marker scribbles from former diners, wishing us “great RN40-ing!”, as well as the odd phallus-doodle, of course. Locally produced wines lined the shelves behind the brick wall bar, and the entire place smelled heavenly of cheesy, herby meat and charred dough.
The last droplets of ruby red Malbec ran down the side of our glasses and my companions and I were reduced to a leisurely slow murmur, as we wound down from a day of experiences and two bottles of the dirt-cheap house red.
The bill was paid, and before I knew it, my head hit the threadbare pillow in our shared dorm and I was out for the night.
Day 2: Cafayate- Cordoba
Coffee and the fresh early morning air rolling through the open car window after a couple of hours of fitful slumber helped beat the headache threatening to break out between my temples. Steering out of Cafayate, we set our sights on the road trip’s final destination; Argentina’s second city, the hipster mecca of gritty Cordoba.
Hour one of day two started in high spirits, as we left the serene red stone desert behind us. We bid our goodbyes to RN40 and drove east on R307 towards a mountainous, greener landscape looming in the distance. During our ascent up the hill, the biome around us seemed to morph before our eyes.
Suddenly, the sand became bush and the cacti gave way to a lush carpet of moss and grass, rolling along the hills. Not for the first time did we all agree that we’d somehow transported ourselves from Argentina to my friend’s native German Alps, with cows lining the road and heavy, crisp white clouds hanging low in the sky.
Tafi del Valle
As we descended from the mountains, we stumbled upon the little village of Tafí del Valle. The village, lined with oak cottages with robust chimneys, quaint B&Bs and herds of sheep seemed as if taken out of The Sound of Music.
A bit hungry and emotionally weakened, we agreed that it was all a tad homesickness-inducing. We came to a stop at De Angeles Panaderia, an artisanal coffee shop with freshly baked Argentinian medialunas and a collection of beatnik poetry in the café’s take-one-give-one library.
Adorning the walls were orange murals of desert landscapes, not unlike those we had been driving through the day prior, and retro-style pictures of rock icons. A young girl was sitting at one of the wooden tables, doing her homework in a shirt covered with flour and coconut flakes.
Meanwhile, a man, who I assume to be her dad, stood by a well-used Italian espresso machine, nodding along to some classic Spanish rock. Upon our entrance, he broke out in an excited smile.
After stammering through a short conversation, we sat down in the sunshine, leaning our heads on the brick wall, and stuffed ourselves full of buttery pastries and macchiatos dusted brown with heaps of cocoa.
Back in the car and with our glove compartment filled with dulce de leche cookies for the road, we prepared ourselves for the longest part of the drive so far; the staggering eight-hour stretch towards our final destination of Cordoba.
A Final Stop
Behind schedule already, we had to skip any longer stops. We steamed past tiny villages, melon stands, soccer fields and then – a whole lot of nothing. It was, in a way, very welcome. Slightly overwhelmed by all we had seen in the past two days, a couple of hours of driving along mostly empty dirt roads through the Argentinian midlands was ideal.
The mundaneness of the road gave us space to fill, in a way that only strangers you’ve spent two days cramped together in a small sedan with can.
About an hour before finally reaching Cordoba, we made a last quick stop. An endless sea of white salt contrasting the (usually) clear blue sky, the Lago Salinas Grandesare natural salt lakes make for quite the Instagram pictures.
Another two hours in the car followed. As we were creeping closer and closer to Cordoba, the sun was setting, making way for an inferno of spotlights up ahead in the distance, and marking the imminent end of our road trip.
Kicking up my feet on the dashboard, I saw the pictures from the pamphlet I had picked up in Salta two nights prior match up with the skyline in front of me. I concluded that my decision to skip the bus was one of my best yet.
The travel burnout was now reduced to a low hum in the back of my mind, replaced with rekindled curiosity, wanderlust and a whole lot of empanada grease.
Tips for Driving the RN40 in Argentina
Looking to get off the bus and go see these magical places for yourself? Great decision. Here are a few things to know before you go:
Slow and Steady Wins the Race
These plains are vast, and the mountains steep and you’ll want to see and experience every nook and cranny. To do so, you’ll need to take it easy. Rather than racing your way through, spend an extra night in one of the many B&Bs in the area and take that detour.
Along the road, you’ll see places pop up on your GPS that seem interesting. Go for it. You’ll never regret arriving an hour later than planned as much as you’ll regret that waterfall or farmer’s market you didn’t go to.
A Fed Car is a Happy Car
The distances along RN40 in Argentina can be long, especially towards the end of the trip. So, to avoid any unwanted nagging from co-riders, keep some emergency snacks and drinks in the car. Personal favorites of Argentinian classics include Alfajor with dulce de leche and the Danish-styled Pan de Leche.
Photo by Klara Larsson
Salta is a Great Place to Start, But Not a Highlight
You’ll need only a day or two to explore the city; take the cable car up the mountain, and maybe visit the art museum. Rather, spend those extra nights in Cordoba, one of the coolest cities on earth, instead. Don’t miss the Güemes neighborhood, a melting pot of cultures and anti-cultures, and well-dressed hipsters.
Top Tip: For god’s sake, get the expensive car insurance.
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Author Bio: Klara Larsson is a solo traveler and writer out of Gothenburg, Sweden, whose search for new experiences has taken her all around the world; from her native Scandinavia to both South and Central America, on trains throughout Europe, and to the colorful Middle East. With a passion for volunteering and budget travel, Klara aims to inspire young people to take the step and go traveling!
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