Mud, slide, slim and the Earl Grey horizon - 20 Nov 2002
Back to the bright lights
The galloping gaucho comes to town...
Retirement home
We're off to see carpinchos
Home of the Falkland War Vets
Utopian Tea Time
Obladi, oblada, Obera
We crossed back over the River Plate on the same boat as before so not much to say there exceptÖ Just as weíd taken our seats the steward came in and announced ìAndhfghrfhg Wdkfkfkgkgfkdî We assumed he was announcing the imminent departure and took little notice. Eventually I sussed that he was actually broadcasting our names and began to panic that there was something wrong with our papers. This was compounded by the fact that we were marched back to the immigration desk. It transpired that they had been so excited stamping the passports of a couple of gringos that theyíd forgotten to take the stubs off our tickets.
As we resumed our places I felt the eyes of the other passengers burning into the back of our heads and I squirmed a bit in the seat for having held up the departure. Complete paranoia, of course.
There was the usual dash for the upper deck as the boat had left the confines of the harbour and we were lucky and unlucky with our neighbours in the sun. I spent a delightful trip chatting with a most amiable young Uruguayan who runs a bar in Monte Video. He chuckled as he explained that his name Juan Pablo was the very same as the pope. He also pointed out that it was ironic as he had not a religious bone in his body. We chatted about all manner of stuff including politics, economics, blah, blah, which may sound boring, but it really was most informative and I thank him for that.
I, on the other hand, had been trapped into conversation with an American. The conversation kind of started OK, him berating Bush etc. But then his true colours shone through the thin faÁade. He claimed that he had lived for a while in a couple of Central American countries doing very little, like ourselves. When I said that we had been in Guyana all he could say was how dangerous it is, not that he has been of course, ìbut it is dangerous because the guidebooks say so.î
It was becoming clear that he was one of those people who despite their lack of knowledge on a subject they will not listen to another opinion. There was a couple of others topics on a similar vein and I was beginning to feel embarrassed talking to him, in case people linked us together, so I admit that I wanted to provoke him. So I said ëWell actually Iím not looking forward to the US ñ the gun culture scares meí He claimed that many people in the US did not agree with the carrying of arms, and came up with the statistic that you are 4x more likely to be shot if you have a gun for your own protection.
~I suggested that guns should be outlawed anyway.
~But itís in the constitution!
~So change the constitution!
~But itís the constitution, and we have had it for 200 years.
~Isnít it time for an update?
~We were the first country to be free, the constitution made us free.
(I restrained myself from saying I wonder if the blacks felt that way about segregation while the so called constitution did nothing to protect them)
In the end I think I had annoyed him enough and he began reading my book!
Anything for some peace.
We managed to get sun burnt for our gabbling on the sun deck. Thatís life. On the bus back to town we did a bit of translation of our Spanish book ñ Matilda by Roald Dahl (we thought weíd start easy). While thumbing through the book we noticed an entry above ìInglesî which was ìingleî. This apparently means groin (feminine noun) and so but for an accent the English are groins and not only that, womenís groins. My, what fun we used to have with dictionaries when we were at school!
Buenos Aires turned out be a great success. The parts that I had ordered from England for the bike had arrived and cleared customs within 3 days of dispatch. The bike had been put back together and was generating the requisite number of volts. All was right with the world.
Pat had a permanent smile on his face that he had suddenly had the best Xmas present that he could wish for. It feels weird that we were about to be back on the road again by bike itís been a long time. It feels like we are starting again and I suppose we are ñ a new continent and a whole new set of cultures. That evening was spent reuniting all our bits and pieces and putting them back in their rightful places in different places on the bike.
The weather, however, was not living up to the Southern Hemisphere early summer that we had hoped for. Torrents of rain pounded on the glass roof of the hotel for about 18 hours and we ventured out only on the briefest of missions. We had made our plans to head off to the Gaucho Festival about 80 miles away at San Antonio de Areco and so sat back and hoped for things to clear up a bit.
The galloping gaucho comes to town...
The weather turned for the better ñ merely overcast with a few showers and so we decided to chance it and head of to the promised excitement of excellence in the pursuit of equine skills.
Either side of the road all the way up were signs of the flooding that had happened. Dirt tracks off to the side were all horribly rutted and we wondered whether these were the sorts of tracks that weíd be going on later in the trip. Fields had been turned into huge paddling pools. Streams had broken their banks to the point that every water course appeared as a major river. I rode carefully observing the ìroads liable to floodingî signs. There was a brief sprinkling of rain, but the donning of my waterproof over suit soon stopped further precipitation (for the meantime at least).
It was great weather for the storks though and I now understand why there are so many babies in these countries- so many blimming storks. Also a bunch of birds of prey, relishing the fact that the voles and mice were having to swim on the surface rather than hide in the grass.
The roads were generally good and we made rapid progress only for the showers to start again as we arrived and started looking for accommodation. Memories of Belgium came flooding back as I walked into hotel receptions and dripped on their floors. Par for the course, all of the hotels seemed to have been filled with gaucho spotters. We were left with two options; one a hotel which was surrounded by a foot of water (none internally at least) and run by a smarmy git who seemed to think that he could charge what he liked for Gaucho Week, the other was a very ordinary businessmanís hotel which was marginally cheaper. We opted for the latter even though the former had far more charm simply because the manager of the first was such an oily turd.
We ventured out for the afternoon and discovered that the field where gaucho antics were to be demonstrated was one of the most major victims of the deluge that we had seen so far. The old bridge in town, of which we had been given a rendering on a brochure, in no way resembled the picture. Indeed, it seemed to be more of a stone duckboard adrift in the village pond. I really have not seen such a sad soggy scene since Norway in 1986 ñ but thatís another story. At least we had been correct in our assumption that camping was out of the question.
We had two major strokes of luck. The girl in the tourist office spoke clearly and distinctly and we managed to translate the most part of her discourse. (It will be interesting to see how long it is before references to our understanding of Spanish disappear.) The other was the fact that San A de E has an Irish pub; named ìPatrick Islandî no less.
We were directed to a pena for the evening. This is a catch all title for an eatery that has live traditional music and dance on the bill. Although proceedings were due to start at 9:00, no one had entered the premises by 9:15 and so we took the advice of the owner and aimed to return at 10 ñ 10:30. So we adjourned to the Irish pub, of course.
There were actual Irish Argentineans in attendance who spoke with a distinct Irish brogue even though they were some 4 or 5 generations down the line. We were enlightened by them as to the blend of cultures that make up Argentina; Spanish, Italian, German, English, Irish ñ you name it. We were aware of the Welsh area of Patagonia, but it really was quite a shock to find so many others. How ignorant we are. It turns out the San A de E is the ìcapitalî of Irish Argentina.
Dinner and the pena were quite excellent. We ordered the picantes, which is a bunch of bits of cheese, salamis, ham, bread and stuff and got a huge portion for the princely sum of 95p. The best of the offerings was a bowl of pickled lamb in a garlic, parsley and vinegar dressing. Yum.
The dance and song commenced at about 11:40 and being as how we still have not got into the local time frame, we had to retire knackered after about 45 minutes of performance. This is an awful shame as it was really very good and seemed not to be too much of a show for the grockles. The band looked a bit porked off that we were leaving so soon into their act and probably marked us down as folk trying to get away before the hat went round.
For me it was lovely, the fact that it had such a family atmosphere, children dance with parents, sisters with sister, etc. There was no pretension here, people clapped along to enhance the rhythm and drank wine, hugged friends and family in the sheer fun of it. The peopleís expressions, untainted with modern day make up and fashionable hair dos, were natures canvases. The outdoor life and enjoyment of life made their faces rich with character, moulded by years of laughing and drinking, rain and winds, sunshine and hardship.
We got to see the gathered hordes of gauchos the following morning. That morning was seeing some of the gustiest an forceful winds we had seen since sand storms in the desert. Heaven alone knows what effect this would have on a crowds of horses gathering in the square, but we would see. I was planning to give them a wide birth in case a couple lost control.
The town square had been set aside for their parade and associated cultural stuff. As the horses and riders gathered around the corner, a huge group of kids performed dances outside the town hall. This time there was a mixture of expressions and it seemed that the odd one had been dragged away from their Gameboy to perform for the tourists. The vast majority were very proud of their fantastic outfits and were all smiles. All went well though as they did their stuff to the accompaniment of recorded music. Even when the power failed they continued in the true fashion of showbusiness ñ not only finishing of the dance they were on with, but finishing the show unaccompanied. Impressive. The senior gaucho and gauchess, obviously in charge of the 100 or so children, and leading the dancing beamed with pride as their gauchettes had the professionalism to continue to dance without accompaniment.
Next up was the procession of gauchos led by the dons. These guys at the front were dressed in the black suits that one expects but with huge amounts of silver adornments; belts, knives, woggles and all sorts. Forget horse brasses, there were on another plain. Behind them came the real plains gauchos; ponchos, sheepskins on saddles, berets or wide brimmed hats ñ tough looking guys. (Note we may seem to have been conned by this seemingly real looking show, but over subsequent days, the countryside was dotted with these guys doing their stuff. Itís all genuine and they are extremely proud of their traditions)
Throughout the parade the horses were impeccably disciplined and even when dust balls blew harshly into their faces they trotted serenely under perfect control. Most unbelievable was the last sets of gauchos leading unbridled novice horses in packs of up to ten sprightly horses, following their leader in neat groups, turning tight circles, and one even managed to get his group to walk six abreast with his own down the width of the road. Not a whip in sight or a sharp word voiced. With the weather as it was, this was truly an awe inspiring sight. To give these people respect was unquestionable. I felt privileged to be there and be able to witness their skill, pride and professionalism.
The whole town has small businesses dedicated to the accoutrements of the gaucho. Beautiful soft leather boots, silver ware, knives and also a lot of stuff for polo players ñ another favourite with Argentineans. We regrettably passed up the chance to buy into the silver ware and on reflection this was a major mistake. We have not really seen the level of craftsmanship elsewhere and their simple designs were stunning.
It were bloody perishing and we trotted off as soon as the parade had finished in search of a warm gaff to take coffee. As they served a reasonable priced lunch, we continued to enjoy the shelter a while. As other poor freezing folk queued for tables, I started to feel a little guilty and even though an excellent group of young men kicked off a guitar and song session as we finished our repast, I turned Hippy away from the idea of taking a bottle of wine and continuing to make an afternoon of it. Once again, as we left the band looked at us, somewhat affronted, as if we were a bit odd for not staying for the full show. Tourists, eh? Iíll never understand them.
Looking for some bread on the way back all we found was an art shop/museum. Well itís better than nothing. We were really taken with his gaucho character portraits but unfortunately he had none unframed, so as a true salesman he was, he whipped us up a cartoon drawing in 2 minutes flat. So we had to buy didnít we! But for a quid whoís moaning. We also went for a more horsy number to round it up to under a fiver. There were loads of newspaper clippings and it seems that he is a world renowned gaucho painter, who seems to be a little stuck in a rut and down on his uppers. We were tempted by a book on poetry on gauchos, of course, that was littered with original illustrations. It was beautiful, and bound with aluminium foil embossed capybara skin, and reasonably priced for what it was but the weight and size would have been a posting nightmare. Shame!
Heading up towards IguaÁu falls the next day we were entertained by the signs at the side of the road. A couple of funny shaped blobs with ëLAS MALVINAS SON ARGENTINASí under it. Well thatís subtle, not! Know I need to take you on a minor Spanish grammar lesson to explain the full meaning of this notice, so bear with me. In Spanish there are 2 words for ëto beí, one used in circumstances where a situation has permanence and the other to suggest temporary conditions. Now the word ësoní comes from the former word ëto beí. So in effect the sign is not only saying that they feel that the Falklands are Argentine, and Britain should give them back, but also that they always have been.
(Note for pedants - Slight red herring, here, as this form of the verb is always used for positions and places so it probably should be son anyway)We met an American on the road who sped past us, who we caught up with when he was on a fag stop further up the road. Nice bloke, Mike, seeming fed up with America and planning to settle in Argentina, after a while travelling in Central and South America. I could see where he was coming from; this country has a lot going for it. We chin wagged a bit and made loose plans to meet up further north.
One reason to like Argentina is that the law has a certain fairness towards motorbikes. The main roads are littered with toll gates and the first we approached tentatively, as the listing of charges had nothing about bikes, so bid that mean we had to pay as a car. On the contrary, bikes are gratis, free and for nothing, they even have sweet little gates at the side of the toll posts for bikes to travel unhindered by other waiting road users. How nice is that!
Now itís a hard life this travelling, so we need to treat ourselves every now and again. So we stop at a town with some thermal baths for a little R and R. The town is somewhat devastated by the recent rains and the campsite is at least a foot under water, and the supposed beaches have been consumed by the muddy waters of the river. So we head back into town to a slightly scruffy looking hotel. The room is large, but on more attentive inspection later, itís cleanliness is sketchy to say the least and the other clients have a kind of down and out aura about them. But itís only a couple of nights and weíve certainly been in worse. The true function of the Hotel became clear in the morning when the quad, where the bike was parked, was unlocked by a lady in nursesí uniform. Somehow we had booked ourselves into an old peopleís home. We may have retired somewhat early but this is a little ridiculous. Little things were all beginning to make sense - like why the main courtyard with the majority of the rooms round it was locked, to stop the senile folk wandering off, I presume, and why people had given us very funny looks when we had told them where we were staying.
That morning, we had one of those bureaucracy sagas trying to send the pictures we had bought and some films. It was rather reminiscent of a tiresome incident in Bulgaria. To cut a long story short. It took us three hours to:
~go to the post office and queue to buy brown paper and post them
~to be gabbled at in spanish (How dare they?)
~we didnít understand
~she gabbled louder and faster, she is now angry
~we gathered that we had to go to customs down the road
~searched the town for brown paper
~couldnít find customs
~nice man showed us
~entered and waited
~and waited
~and waited
~taken to a different room
~and waited
~people cleared drawers rifled through piles of papers looking, for I assumed a relevant form
~we waited
~a form was found and parcels stamped
~back to queuing in the post office
~oh no we are back to the same woman
~she is now happier and we in theory have our parcels wending their way to the UK. (but will they get there)
Now we definitely deserve some R+R. Lovely afternoon lying in the sun, dipping in the thermal pools and getting burnt, watching the locals sporting tans that would make many African look pale. We felt pale, but then we are Brits abroad and are supposed to be pale.
We had read about a nature reserve on our way up to the falls that can compete with the Pantanal in Brazil for wildlife so we decided to give it a shot. We reached the sizable town of Mercedes by mid day and took a break for lunch, we did not realise and until the food arrived how big the portions were. Since we had both been educated into eating what is put in front of you and the food was edible ñ we ate. We were stuffed and a siesta was begging, with the heat and humidity at its peak. So we searched for a hotel. After our stay in a scruffy home for the elderly, the option of other seedy hotels was unappealing. So we spontaneously decided to head on.
Now, part of the reason to take a rest and head the next day, was that the next leg was 120km of dirt road, and with the recent rains we had thought it best to hit it after a nightís rest. But now here we were heading north on gravel. Pat stopped, ëI didnít fill up!í we did a bit of calculation and figured that we should just about be able to make it there and back and anyhow, the village we a heading to, does loads of boat trips to see the animals so there must be petrol for the outboard motors, mustnít there. The road is not bad and dry, although it is clear by the way that the surface has set that the road turned to a mass of claggy mud when itís wet. The journey is punctuated by jay walkers in the form of humungous eagles, usually in pairs devouring road kill and playing chicken as we approached by leaving it to the last second to nanosecond to take flight, with our front wheel brushing their wing tips.
Ahead of us there was smoke, then more smoke, then the road was consumed by dense grey clouds. They was burning off stubble in the fields along side the road. The road had been straight all the way, so as we headed into the oblivion of the smoke we felt the heat of the flames from the verges searing through our bike gear. We rode on, the road gradually reappeared from the haze of smoke. We had survived.
The last 10 km was sand, bloody sand. It always comes along when youíre knackered. We wibbled a bit but in true weeble style we didnít fall over. To be fair, it wasn't the worst deep sand. If fact there was just a little scattering of sand on the top of a hard surface. I'd have been overjoyed in Sudan.
We tried to be as thrifty as possible and thought that as we hadn't camped for a while this seemed like the perfect opportunity. The camp site was pretty straightforward to find, but the lack of other campers had us a bit worried. Communication was at a basic level and we sussed from it that the chaps showers were not working and we'd have to bunk up in the girls for ablutions. Not a big problem as we had the place to ourselves. I left Hippy erecting the tent and headed off on the bike to find food suitable for cooking. This boiled down to bread (oh, I managed to find a bottle of beer, of course).
We spent the evening fighting off mosquitoes and taking in the sunset while drinking tea and eating buns. Hardly a top romantic moment, but a nice change to be out of hotels and out in the country.
The up side was that at least Pat got his carpincho spotting badge, by being the first to see one under the light about 200m away and then later one about 2m awy wandering around our tent.
MaÒana we headed to town to see if a) we could find petrol and b) we could sort out a boat trip to see the wildlife. The second proved to be somewhat easier than the first. We found a reasonably upmarket lodge that offered boat trips out to the floating reed beds with English advertised as the communication medium. During negotiations with the charming fluent English speaking girl, it became clear that the English communication was simply for arranging the trip and then we would have a Spanish speaking guide. What the heck, we had our trip planned.
Petrol finding was one of those ®Go to Luis's - if he doesn't have it, he will tell you who does® moments. Luis did not have and did not know who did. I should point out hear that the hamlet only had about 600 people in it an each family occupies a block of lan, so despite the lack of population the search for petrol in the heat of the day was a tiring process. We spent an hour or so asking random people if they knew who had petrol with no joy. As we figured that we would just have enough to make it back to Mercedes, we gave up and headed off for the boat trip. On the way back to camp we bemoaned the lack of gasoline to the man who ran a little kiosk at the end of the village. He cheered us up with a lovely glossy guide to the mash animals.
Our pilot was a top guy and equipped with our idiots guide to game written in two languages, we managed to get on quite well and we saw all the things that we had wanted and expected to with the exception of otters. The stuff we did see seemed mostly unphased by the motor boat and stayed within photo range. I shall surely be proved wrong with sarcastic comments from my web master. On display were carpinchos (that's capybara or huge guinea pigs to you), marsh deer, cayman and a huge assortment of birds. But, as I said, no otters. C'est la vie.
When we got back to the camp site, there was a container of petrol like fuel sat outside the ablutions block. Speculatively, I picked it up and gave it a shake. It seemed like the right stuff, but I put it back down and walked away. It would be very bad Karma to nick someone else's gas. Just as it hit the floor, a chap trotted over and started following me with the container. Clearly, word had got round and some kind soul had rustled up the juice. We did not quibble at the inflated price once we'd managed to clear up that it was 2.5 pesos a litre, not the 3.5 that we initially thought.
We were so chuffed that we went out and had dinner and had two beers for a change. The offering was quite greasy to say the least, but seemed wholesome and nourishing for the whole part. At least it was dirt cheap and we even got a crËme caramel for pud. We retired quite happy.
I could not sleep that night, my stomach was complaining and there was one of those lone mosquito caught in the tent that went silent and hid if you switched on the torch and then whined in your ear when you turned it off. B........ds! In the wee hours of the morning I was still awake and was further distracted by flashes of light. Now, the electricity on the campsite had been a little dodgy before we had settled down so I took no notice till I realised that it was in the wrong direction. This was sheet lightening; no thunder, so hopefully it was either too far away or it was just an electrical storm. I had been ignoring toilet urges all night till I finally gave in at dawn and wrestled with the tent to get out. This is when I realised that this was more urgent than I had thought and shuffled into a pair of trainers and headed for the loos. I exploded and, on coming to, I realised I was wearing Pat¥s trainers. It never ceases to astound me in these circumstances how much your body can lose in one go.
On my return to the tent, Pat was up, and bright and breezy, ready for an early start. He had mistaken my early rise for eagerness to move on. It seemed hard to explain that, yes, I was very much awake, but felt like crawling back into my sleeping bag and trying to sleep.
Yes, Hippy was more awake than I was and I thought this was auspicious and we'd be down the road before the weather turned for the worse. Why it had dawned on her that she had my shoes on while she was doing the poo of all poos, I'll never understand. I guess I'd better check them for stains. I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Clearly Hippy was not in much of a condition to move, but the weather and the road combined had me worried.
In the end, I gave her a bit of extra time to see how she felt and hiked off for a mile and a half to take the beer bottle back that I'd bought without a deposit the other night. We tend to work on our Karmas as much as possible and are beginning to believe that such considerations do have a bearing on our fortunes. God help us when we get to India. We'll probably be avoiding treading on insignificant creatures.
When I got back, Hippy was busy doing stuff in the way of packing and this I took to be good news. We packed up in short time and hit the road.
All was well for the first section. The sand did not seem half as bad as it did at the end of a hard days ride and so we were set for an easy ride back to the tar. Just then we rounded the corner and were faced with a quagmire. To this point of our trip, we had not had to contend with mud and so it did not seem too daunting. For the first 20 metres that is. We fishtailed for the next 80km, avoiding on coming petrol tankers (there's irony for you) and other large vehicles. Some were gentlemen, others not - either giving us no quarter or spraying us with mud. One truck with a trailer worried me a little as it came from behind, the truck at one angle on the road and the trailer sliding randomly behind. I had visions of it wiping us out as the trailer swung beside us.
In these circumstances Pat is under full concentration, and I try to remain as calm as possible. Knowing that me panicking on the back as the back wheel slithers around is unlikely to help matters. But today was the added problem that my stomach, was gurgling ominously, and the frequency was increasing.
On one of our many breaks, a charming lady pulled up beside us and asked if we were OK. We soon got to talking in English and it was obvious that here was yet another of the English Argentineans. She offered to take Hippy to Mercedes with the baggage and leave me with less to handle. Bad timing. Hippy was in desperate need of relief and mortally embarrassed so we turned her away very politely and said that we'd struggle on on our own. It would have been sensible to go with her, and I was sure that she would have understood if I demanded to stop to deal with yet another call of nature, but at this precise moment all I wanted was for me to not have to make polite conversation and to have a road empty of people to empty out in privacy. I had visions of never finding Hippy in Mercedes and having more stress thrown into the equation. Before she left us, she gave us the name and number of some folk with a tea plantation on our road north and suggested that we call in and see them. Margaret Boaden, thanks for stopping.
The point where we fell over was the usual reason; I had to steer the bike down the ruts left by vehicles so that there was a reasonably hard surface to ride on. All was fine until the bike started finding other old ruts in the bottom and started pulling to the side. At this point, the front wheel would catch the edge of the rut and steer into it. In sand you give a bit of gas and pop out of the rut and run along side and then back into it. Here, there was just a bog at the side and so I had to try to fight back into the groove rather than running out. This involved slowing down and ultimately one time we fell over because we were going so slowly.
To say it fall over is a bit of an exaggeration, the groove in the mud was so deep that it leant on its side in the mud at about 45 degrees. My foot was now ankle deep in mud and trying to step over the bike was a mission to move my foot against the suction of the squelchy mud. Now off the bike with both feet in mud the task off lifting the bike was at hand. I gritted my teeth and clenched my buttocks as I bent down to heave the bike up with me at the back end and Pat on the front. Clearly, it was best that I walk the next few metres to a point where the mud was less deep. Pat negotiated the bike through and I went to get on. Because the bike is quite high and I have little legs my method of ascent is to put my left foot on the foot peg and swing the right leg over, like mounting a horse. So I did this, My left foot caked in mud slid off the peg as I tried to mount and I went splat. I was now stood in the middle of a desolate road covered in mud unable to get back on the bike, with stomach cramps feeling dreadful. The tears started to well up in my eyes. At this moment all I wanted was to say 'beam me up Scotty'¥. Instead I take a deep breath and make a second attempt to get on the bike, that now had a muddy foot peg to match my boots. I made it, ungracefully, granted, but I was reinstalled in navigator position.
All the while, I was trying to coax Hippy onto the bike knowing that she was not in the best of sorts. I was starting to get tired and slumped forward over the tank. I was so relieved when we were back as a team and ready to set off.
Other stops included bailing out mud from the engine. I had visions of the engine and oil overheating to compound our misery. Thankfully the rain kept off and other than a couple of dramatic weaves, we got there with not too much high drama.
The last 20 km into Mercedes were predictably excellent and people looked at us as if we'd been having a lark. When we got to a garage to fill up/toilet stop/clean the bike/get refreshment, I had to explain to a couple of chaps that this was not divertido (fun) but peligroso (dangerous). It was the best I could manage at the time.
The afternoon provided us with a sweltering ride up to Yapeyu to leave us closer to our destination in the north.
Hippy was confined to bed with her non improving tummy. I did my best to find some very ordinary food for her to be able to keep down and I was frustrated in my search by the distinct lack of anything. I asked for a fruteria which the locals looked very puzzled about. Fruit is hardly a huge dietary supplement in these parts and the idea of a dedicated shop was somewhat alien. In the end I managed to find a 3kg bag of oranges for 16p and 1 kilo of bread for 32. Along with a pot of marmalade, it constituted something of a major haul and probably enough emergency rations to keep us going for a few days for a total of under a quid.
Back at the hotel, Hippy was not particularly lively and I only just managed to coax he into eating an orange. As she slept for the best part of 15 hours I did my best to entertain myself with the television in the room. It was rather funny watching ®The Three Amigos® - an American spoof of ®The Magnificent Seven® dubbed into Spanish. Well, it seemed funny at the time.
Morning came and there were more signs of life from the Hippy and so we went off to see the town. It was rather lovely, but a little left behind by other areas of Argentina. Originally a Jesuit mission (until they were kicked out), the town fell into ruin and in keeping with most ruins of the world, the locals used the stone of their buildings to put up new ones.
There is the preserved birthplace of a certain Jose de San Martin in a little park by the town. This guy is the southern coneís version of Simon Bolivar. A great liberator, he fought the Spanish and freed not only Argentina, but Chile, Paraguay and Peru to boot. It seems that when he got to Peru he met Bolivar on his way south and they didnít get on. Big personalities and all that. Anyway, that all goes to explain why we havenít come across the ubiquitous Plaza Bolivars that there are in the north, but every town here has a Plaza San Martin instead. I suppose the British equivalent in omnipresence is Victoria and Albert this and thatís. They did not liberate a lot though.
In the centre of the square was a huge monument to the fallen of Corrientes province in the Falklands War. It turns out that most of the forces sent out on that ill fated mission were the humble folk of this northern region ñ ill equipped and experienced for the cold and bleakness of the war zone. There is great bitterness towards the Buenos Aireans for the fact that the local people were essentially used and abused. This is not a great place to be British and we felt a certain amount of ill feeling from the management of the hotel. I have a certain amount of sympathy and so when we were ripped off over the hotel bill that evening, I said nowt.
I cheered myself up with a bit of maintenance on the bike and was not cheered. The front brake was full of the mud from the day before that had turned to concrete under the heating of braking. This had jammed the brake pads at the top and caused the brake pads to work at a jaunty angle explaining the poor braking. Checking the gearbox oil level, all of the thread from the filler plug crumbled away but for a single ring of thread. Obviously the butcher who had had this gearbox before had over-tightened every screw and ruined the threads. I now panic that any time I need to check the oil the remains will crumble and leave a gaping hole in the side of the box. We spent the evening musing over ways of plugging it should this happen.
We called up the folk that Margaret the wayside angel had mentioned to us and they heartily invited us to join them for lunch the following day. We guessed that being in someoneís home we would be getting ®safe® food and Hippyís recovery would advance.
We shot up the road to the Las Marias tea estate followed by the most amazing weather front I have ever seen. Black clouds seemed to be welling from nowhere and rose in stalkless mushroom with bands of blue sky showing through ñ an extraordinary sight. This was a rain storm to be avoided. As I rode, I spent as much time looking in the mirror as ahead expecting this monster to catch us from behind. Fortunately, the front was moving at 100 kmph, just as we were.
As we arrived at the gate of the estate and asked directions to Charles and Doloresí house the weather got its chance to close in. As we back tracked the 200 yards down the road to their gaff, the heavens opened and we made it into their garage just as huge torrents descended. We stood waiting to meet our hosts feeling a little bit scruffy. Rain had started to run off our clothes and parts of us were still daubed in mud from the other day. Large gobbets of mud fell from our boots as they approached.
Introductions made, we were introduced to our accommodation. Now, Hippy and I are not accustomed to such marvellous hospitality and when our room turned out to be a rather sweet little guest bungalow in the most gorgeous grounds of the house we were a little embarrassed. The room had even been prepared with fresh flowers in a vase and all that kind of stuff. How nice is that? We had intended to make pleasant small talk and eat lunch and then carry on up the road to Obera to meet Mike (the American from a couple of days ago). As the rain showed no signs of abating and our hosts were so charming, we overcame our hesitancy and readied for a night of luxury.
We lunched at a grill in the tea estate itself and were more than impressed. The entrance to the plantations was like one of the more impressive wine estates in France with mature gardens and ponds masking the industry behind. The restaurant overlooked the sports facilities provided for employees; rugby pitch, football pitches, tennis courts and the like. Other members of the family came and dined at other tables and the story began to unfold. The downside of the nice restaurant surroundings was that I felt that given the hospitality being shown to us it would have been pretty poor form to put the lucky scarf on. Hippy and I fretted through lunch wondering how the boys were getting on.
Charles, a Brit born and bred but with family interests of his own in Argentina, is married to Dolores, the granddaughter of the founder of the estate. He now is a director of the tea company and so was well able to tell us how things ran. Delores manages the gardens on the estate, home as well as being wife, mother, philanthropist and much more.
Yerba mate is an infusion that we have mentioned before briefly and a staple for the folks of this region. It was first planted on the estate in 1924 as a cash crop on what was then, simply a cattle ranch of 1500 acres. By shrewd business skill over three generations it has grown to 60,000 acres and grows yerba, tea, and forestry along with a new venture under the auspices of Delores of which we have been sworn to secrecy (suffice to say it is not likely to be subject to an investigation by the DEA).
Most impressive of all is the community that has grown up with the estate. In the spirit of the great industrialists such as Cadbury and Lever, facilities for the workers include housing, schooling, health care and sport facilities. On the estate there is a small vegetable garden where the produce is given to poorer kids at the school to supplement their diet. There is still a huge commitment to all of this which makes a refreshing change in the world. TARAGUI tea, folks, get it in a shop near you.
We felt a little at times as though we were being head hunted to work in the school. Not such an unrealistic option. We shall certainly keep this at the back of our minds.
Charles has a hankering for adventure himself and is planning a trip down from the States via the West Indies, Guyanas and the coast of Brazil by microlite. We spent lots of time talking of travel keeping the poor chap up past his bedtime. We do tend to forget that folk have to work in the morning. We'd spent a bit of time on his computer looking up travel sites and the like that may help him out and took the chance to look in on the Bolton score. Oh, how happy we were. I've always fancied the young side that the Tykes put out and I was overjoyed that we'd managed to slip four past them. Top stuff.
Rather sweetly, a special tour of the estate with an English speaking guide had been arranged for us on the morrow (there being a visitor centre and everything). If you have any questions about tea and yerba production from germination to packaging, do feel free to contact us and we will tell you directly rather than bore general readers with the spiel.
It would be remiss not to mention they're collection of animals. A couple of dogs prowled the gardens and were impeccably behaved. The Rottweiler seemed quite content to slobber over your fist in its mouth without needing to chew. The parrot was a little cheekier and would use its beak as well as legs to gain purchase when climbing up to your shoulder. This was fine but for the fact that it seemed to get a taste for human flesh and preceded to chew at ear lobes and the like. I was much reminded of an aviary in Yorkshire. My how we laughed. It had the usual parrot vocabulary ®hola® etc but also had a rather endearing chortle. I find it hard to believe that most parrots do not do this as it must be one of the human vocalisations that they hear the most from their delighted audiences.
After a lovely lunch of a lentil stew with pork sausage and beef, we were sad to be leaving, but the weather looked fair and we though it best to make tracks given that the weather is due to unsettled for a while.
Charles and Delores, we thank you.
As we left, C + D were intrigued as to how we were going to meet up with Mike. I, too, was concerned as the directions to a bar that he had given us seemed a bit sketchy. We assured them that meeting up with over landing bikers took a matter of hours once word gets round in a town. Rather like petrol buying, really!
At last, the roads began to rise and fall and turn. The scenery changed from generally flat gaucho land to hills with trees and valley with little streams. It seemed to get cooler, too. I had the impression that we were rising up pretty high. After just a couple of hours weíd this functioning little town and were faced with our meeting up mission.
We cruised down the main street looking of something called Cento with no success. We decided to head out of town to a camp site, set up and then return to find our local guide. Just as we were reaching the edge of town, I saw a car coming up from behind with its lights flashing. Pragmatism dictates slowing down and pulling over in such circumstances. Sure enough, the car passed and pulled up in front of us and out steppedÖ..Mike. Job done. He had just been setting out in a taxi to look at a property when he had spotted us riding through town, turned his taxi round and came chasing after us.
Perfect.