The ticket collector tried to calm the situation but the mother was having none of it and other people were roaring support. 'The driver is unfit to drive'  they shouted. A couple down the back puffing cigarettes and swigging from a bottle of rum agreed heartily. Eventually the driver pulled in and sulkily surrendered the wheel to the ticket collector. All was calm again.

Not to be deterred from our original intentions, we got off in the first big town and started hitching. There was more traffic now but nobody was stopping, all signalling they were turning to some mysterious place left. Eventually a little car whizzed by and ground to a halt -our first lift in Argentina. He was German and she was a Portena, on holiday from Europe with their two shy kids. The young couple looked puzzled when we told them our plan. This isn't the route 40 they said. We'd missed the turn further back. Oops.

Nevermind, we would still see Quebrada de Humahuaca. Our lively conversation became peppered with words such as "Wow!" "Look at that!" "My God!" Until eventually we were lulled into silence, gobsmacked by the beauty of such colourful mountains. The landscape appeared as rainbows made of stone. We camped the night in Humahuaca village, a dusty colonial town of narrow streets, adobe houses and Spanish style churches.

It was dark by the time we got to Salta. We caught a taxi to the campsite and fumbled around in the dark to pitch our tent. We couldn't believe our eyes the next morning. Before us was a huge, blue, shimmering swimming pool the size of a lake. One of the biggest in the world seemingly. It takes a week to fill, our camper van neighbours told us. The campsite itself was big and busy with a holiday atmosphere. The weather was gloriously sunny. We weren't going anywhere. 

Two days later we're hurtling through tobacco country in the back of another pick up south of Salta. We were crammed in with three Argentine hitchers but we didn't mind. This is the best way to see Argentina - loud and airy, screaming as opposed to talking. Quebrada de Cafayate unfolded before us like a pop up picture book, a red canyon with weird and wonderful rock formations.

We argued over which was The Toad, The Friar or The Obelisk. The road took us to the town of Cafayate and back onto the Route 40. The area is famous for its scenery and vineyards; in particular a fragrant white wine called torrontes. We waste no time buying a bottle, and then another. The following day is spent by a campsite pool. This is camping 5-star.

The Route 40 continues south to Chilecitos. We're in the back of yet another pick up with a family sitting up front. They passed us drinks and snacks and then signalled they were turning left towards Tafi de Valle. We went with the flow and decided to tag along. So long for now Route 40. The road ascended dramatically, zig zagging through the 3050 metres high Abra del Infiernillo (Little Hell Pass). Within minutes the weather transformed from scorching heat into misty cold. We were driving through cloud. Suddenly it started to rain. The driver stopped and covered the back with tarpaulin, with just our two heads jutting up.

I felt like I was tucked up in a motorised bed. Soon we descended into a green and temperate landscape. The fertile hills held cows and sheep. Tafi de Valle is well known for its local cheese and a collection of mysterious standing stones.

We spent a torrential night in a busy campsite. The same family returned to collect us the next day and kindly take us further. Green fields turn into subtropical forest and finally, sprawling cane fields. Several lifts later and one epic long day waiting, we arrived in Catamarca. We had had enough of hitching. Let's just get a bus as it's mostly desert from here on down. Yet we had problems in the bus station. All buses were fully booked for at least a week. Oops again. 

We were back at the side of the road in the blazing sun. There was zero traffic. A local told us we'd have a better chance at a border transit stop 2km ahead. We walked and walked, my legs wobbling from the weight of my rucksack. Sweating, arguing. We had run out of water and words. Eventually we reached this transit office truly in the middle of nowhere. The guard was friendly and we take an impromptu shower with a hose. We still marvel at the fact that we can drink from a tap. A truck pulled up to register its load. The guard asked can he take us and the driver readily agreed. He was going a long way, past La Rioja. We couldn't believe our luck. 

Or could we? Our driver hadn't slept in two days. His cheeks were fat with wads of coca leaf he constantly chewed to stay awake. We bounced along in the cab as he regaled us with stories of 20 years of trucking. Every roadside shrine had a tale to tell and he knew them all. Catastrophic bus crashes where the victims still wandered the roads at night, bloody and dishevelled. I took a mental note not to hitch at night. I was finally getting the hang of the Argentine accent. What's with the "vos" thing? We met the driver's son coming the other way with a mountain of tomatoes in tow. The driver then stopped to help a family in a broken down car. They climbed into the container behind and we towed the car to the nearest service station an hour away. We bypassed La Rioja and kept going until eventually our coca chewing storyteller told us this is it, he turns west here. 

Another sleepy town in early evening. We discovered there was a bus passing through for Mendoza at 11pm and yes there were tickets. We passed the time drinking beer in front of a café. As the sun went down people emerged from their houses to sit and talk outside in the balmy air. All were friendly. The café owner and his wife performed some impromptu tango and later he passed me his lucky numbers to play in the lottery. He expounds for ten minutes on the magical powers of the number 7. 

The bus eventually arrived but our bags were locked in the ticket office and the woman had disappeared. We panicked slightly but some locals ran off to find her. She soon came running and apologising. By now there was a crowd gathered to see us off and they waved as we boarded. 

The bus was large and comfy. We settled in. San Juan appeared as a busy terminal at two in the morning. I woke up hours later and noticed we were not moving. The bus was parked at the side of the Route 40 in the middle of nowhere. I dozed back to sleep and woke up again an hour later. We still had not moved. What was happening? Other passengers were getting restless. Suddenly an ambulance appeared. Was there somebody ill? Had our driver had a heart attack? The back doors of the ambulance opened and I expected to see two guys climb out with a stretcher. Instead one guy climbs out with a can of petrol. We had run out of gas. Would we ever get to Mendoza?

Reprinted by kind permission of The Grapevine www.thegrapevine-argentina.com