A couple days into the Panamericana and I ran into a museum of all sorts just a few kilometers off the highway. This is when kindness and hospitality of the locals make up for the punishing roads.
Paintings, type writers, guitars, retro bicycles, number plates, wheel skins and even an ancient petroleum pump graced this extraordinary shop with its even more extraordinary owner. It’s Argentina when you get baked outside and you step inside and you meet this colorful people.
Instead the rugged and undulating landscapes paint a picture of an area that is barely inhabited and hard to describe, but the dust in my face tells I have been away from home for a while.
‚Va lejo?‘, a man asks and I just give him a nod, put my head down and keep going.