THURSDAY, OCTOBER 12
Any biker riding through Cochico, please stop and pay the old man my respects and give him my thanks. He pulled me out of black depression. His contentment did it. And human contact. I got back on the bike with a changed vision. Instead of kilometres to be crossed, the desert had become something to look at and enjoy. I had been comparing it unfavourably with the game-filled Ogaden that I had enjoyed in my youth. The Argentinean desert is no better nor worse, prettier nor less attractive. It is different. That is all.
Either a light rain or heavy dew must have fallen in the past weeks. The road is raised and the runoff has left green strips of fine grass each side of the tar. A small falcon with a white under-tail and white beneath the wings hunts the road edge. I spotted, right beside the road, three small coveys of a dun coloured game bird, somewhat resembling guinea fowl. A small pink flower grows in patches. And I was struck, as I rode along, how little I know of the world in which I have lived. I am old for a learner. I need to move along at a fair pace.