Argentina II: How the West was Fun

Halfway across the international bridge we entered Argentina for the second time. Coming into the border area at Posadas, there were about forty motorcycles in one queue, all with either Paraguayan or Argentinian plates. Fran, who sometimes likes to break the rules, took a shorter car line and received a warm welcome when we finally reached the Migración kiosk. Who says crime doesn’t pay?

We had to force Customs to give Bolívar a permit. I think they thought we were just coming across to shop. There was some discussion about when and where we’d left Argentina last time and we got a bit worried, remembering that lonely outpost and our unorthodox departure by ferry. Fran got whisked off to a small office while I was left with another officer on his break, though it’s always hard to tell as no aspect of life in this part of the world is ever undertaken without a maté cup in one hand and a large thermos in the other.  He looked stern but was chatty nonetheless, recounting his trip to Scotland the year before. “The wife,” he explained, “she just loves that show ‘Outlander’”.  He himself had been very taken with Edinburgh, pronouncing the last syllables in an extended growl, like a Pitbull having a good day. He said it was like being in a Harry Potter movie, and his eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look at the memory.

It took three days of flat, boring grass and tree plantations to ride the 1,000km to Pilar, in the northern part of greater Buenos Aires. At the Royal Enfield dealer there, we told the tale of Bolívar ’s woes and left him in what seemed to be good hands. And they were. In less than two days, everything undone and disturbed by the Salta mechanic had been put back where it belonged, and more importantly, the fueling system was remapped. On the third day we took off for a 150km test ride and before we even reached the Autopista, even I could tell old Bolí was feeling better. He was smoother, quieter and in spite of the endless straight road into nothingness, the drive was a pleasure.

Our plan was to explore as much of Argentina’s north as possible. Nobody, but nobody, recommended visiting Rosario but it was a natural stop. Driving in past the harbor, some truck drivers were having an impromptu barbeque at the entrance to the port, the only bright spot in an otherwise grim part of town. (It was here that an entire cargo ship would be quarantined a short while later, due to an outbreak of Mpox. A sad claim to fame.) It was a typically bleak Sunday afternoon, everywhere winter grey and shuttered with the desolate air of all living souls having fled the city, but it turned out to be a surprisingly nice stay. The hotel would be the first, and the last for a long time, to charge exactly what the booking said it would. They also directed us to a restaurant that was Argentina at its best. Our solitary walk along the cracked streets was a black and white silent movie, with the underlying terror of not getting there before closing. On reaching the threshold of “León” however, we entered a world of brilliant Technicolor, humming with conversation, the clink of glassware and waiters seen but not heard in their shin-length white aprons. For the first time we felt we were truly in Argentina.

Further on in Cordoba and Catamarca, the culinary tour continued. There were barbeques of unidentified tubular objects and three-course lunches and wine served on white linen tablecloths, again by professional male waiters who seemed in no hurry to clear the room even when 3:00 PM came and went. The road had been flat, straight and forlorn since leaving Paraguay, and until San Miguel de Tucumán, the highest elevations had been the ant hills. I had a hard time keeping awake. One day I did succumb and when my head fell forward and bashed Fran’s helmet, it woke him up too.  Well……not entirely true but he had been in danger of entering a fugue-like state. After that I opened my visor to stay alert and thought I never wanted to see another blade of grass again.

Once past Tucumán we began to climb the dark forested mountains towards Tafí del Valle. In a very short time, the scenery went from moist low cloud and golden grasslands in the east, to desert and cacti in the west. It was magnificent, to be alone up there, transfixed by the sweeping plains towards Cafayate. When we got down, we were in the wine region but the spiky brown vines were still in winter hibernation. It was here we launched our first attempt at Route 40.  We didn’t get far. North of the village of San Carlos the asphalt ran out and was replaced by deep gravel and washboard. After 8km of teeth rattling and thigh clenching, we turned back. It was a good thing too. Stopping for a medicinal coffee we discovered it continued like that for another 100km.

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This region was on the tourist trail but the season hadn’t begun in earnest yet. Away from the main plazas, we found side streets with quiet coffee shops, Sunday morning parades and a lone saxophonist playing to an audience of four. The camper vans from Paraguay and the tourist minivans in and out for a quick lunch, played second fiddle to donkeys taking their daily constitutional and children playing street soccer. We drove out among the vineyards to the river and desert canyons, and up the beautiful Ruta 68 to Alemanía.  At the old station on the abandoned railway line, we drank coffee in the shade, with nothing but the echoes of long-departed railway workers to break the silence. Another 100km further north we could have come full circle and found ourselves back in Salta.  But we didn’t.

From Cafayate, we doubled back to Tucumán to visit a good (Argentinian) friend of a good (German) friend. Not knowing a soul in this huge country, it really was a pleasure for us to be welcomed into the home of a local family. After that it was just the three of us again and the empty Ruta 40, which began with a climb into fiery red mountains, only to be followed by a foggy decent into flat and mind-numbing desert. Driving in heat and dust one day, and a grey, lunar landscape the next, the temperature sank to seven degrees Celsius.  We had to stop to refuel from our spare Bolivian gas.  Over 200km with no visible towns or gas stations. Never had we felt so alone.

Though we always had a rough idea of where we’d stop for the night, where we’d be sleeping often remained unknown. We relied solely on Google maps for potential accommodations but learned the hard way that not all were still in business. In Belén we found a small apartment building on main street with a young girl in the downstairs lobby doling out apartments as easily as hotel rooms. In the tiny mining town of Guandacol, the door to a decent-sized hotel was opened a crack and a disembodied face simply said “No”. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise because next door was a neglected-looking motel with a “For Sale” sign in the window.  Some time after ringing the bell, a cleaner came out, stood on a chair and slowly opened the triple-locked doors. Inside in a small inner courtyard I got the welcome of a lifetime by the owner (manager?). Slightly startled, we were settled-in with offers of coffee or tea, and there was, oh Lord what a welcome surprise, even a small dining room. It was almost too good to be true, so we had a quick look around to see if there was a drain in our room (y’know, to wash the blood away). Later, in the yellow glow of dinnertime, Fran ordered a local beer and I a $4.00 glass of wine, or so I thought. But this is Argentina, where nobody messes with glasses; it’s the full bottle or nothing. And so, to the quiet murmur of mining engineers eating and conducting Zoom calls in the corner, we wound our way down to a warm and pleasant tipsiness.

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While our access to cash had improved greatly with Western Union, accommodations in Argentina remained a thorn in our sides.  Driving long distances made booking in advance preferable (who wants to start looking for a room after a seven-hour day?), but often there was nowhere to book.  When there was, it was seldom that we reached our hotel or apartment without a price increase on arrival. If it wasn’t a credit card fee, it was their very own fabricated foreign exchange rate, and always a complicated explanation of why the government’s 21% VAT waiver for visiting foreigners couldn’t be applied. The oft-repeated refusal to take payment on check-in made the situation worse when only after several nights in, did you find out exactly how much the price had changed. “Tranquilo, tranquilo” they’d say when we arrived dusty, tired and hungry, looking like tumbleweeds dragged in from the cold. “There’s no need to worry about money right now”. But I wasn’t too tranquilo later, when handed a calculator with an increased amount and no sign of a detailed bill. This carefree lifestyle of “no plan, no route, no problem” has its downsides and one of them is every morning we wake-up homeless. Lengthy discussions at reception desks where we never came out on top had me wishing for Foghorn Leghorn by my side. He’d tell ‘em, and he’d tell ‘em good: “That's mathematics, son. You can argue with me, but you can't argue with figures”*, but alas, in Argentina, apparently you can.

Since we couldn’t get away from needing shelter, sometimes the frustrations felt all-consuming. Often, we wondered, were we just plain nuts or what? But in the morning, all would be forgotten once we climbed back on Bolívar and immersed ourselves in Argentina’s grass roots. Literally. In Mendoza we’d reached as far west as we wanted to go, at least for the moment. It was time to turn around and drive the more southerly Route 7 back to Buenos Aires.  Again, it was hit or miss with hotels along the way. Our last stop before the capital was the old city of Luján, with its colonial Plaza Belgrano dominated by a neo-gothic basilica dedicated to Argentina’s patron saint, the Virgin of Luján. It was here our phone died, that good and faithful device that had served us well since its purchase in 2019 in Cali, Colombia. We were under extra pressure too, needing a phone for navigating the drive into Buenos Aires the next day. Of course, a battery couldn’t be found anywhere. We did find suitable phones in two stores but with 20% and 25% extra to pay by credit card, the hunt now became one of finding hard cash. Did we have enough on hand, and if not, what time did Western Union close? It was already 7:00 PM. This was typical of life in Argentina. We went “home” to retrieve our various stashes and begin counting. (I’ll include a photograph. It’s too painful to describe.) With less than an hour to spare before closing, and considerably lighter of pocket, we had a new phone and eventually negotiated our way through the Buenos Aires traffic without incident.

In Recoleta we were in good company with Evita lying a few blocks away in her mausoleum. It was a relief to do laundry, hang-up the bike gear and become real people again, if only for a little while.  Most of all it was good to see and talk with old friends. I’m not saying that Fran’s company isn’t stimulating, and truth be told, Bolívar’s is often better, but it has to be said, there is a certain loneliness to the life of the long-distance nutter.

*Foghorn Leghorn, Looney Tunes.