Argentina travel report

Travel report about Argentina by P.H.J. den Ouden:

Ariel’s dark brown weathered face smiled at me. Four hours next to each other on the back bench of a rundown bus had bonded the gardener and me. His machinegun Spanish was answered by gestures and short textbook sentences.

“If you are in Buenos Aires you have to visit my hotel”, he said for the umpteenth time, while showing me an advertisement of a white estancia that oozed luxury.

“Si”, and I smiled.

“You see that bush over there?”

“Si”, and I nodded.

“That’s the same kind we have in the garden of our hotel.”

“Aha”, and I smiled in acknowledgement.

“You want something to drink? You must be thirsty because of the dust.”

“Si. Gracias”, I replied relieved. In the rush to get on this bus, I missed the opportunity to get the water I badly needed in the scorching heat. This cheery chap had sensed my distress. Together we watched the endless plains of the Pampas. Grass appeared in all its colours; green, yellow and brown dominated the view. The flat skyline was only interrupted by the big power line, which ran at a few hundred yards distance parallel to the road. The cows and countless colourful birds didn’t seem to mind the infringement on their natural environment. For the last few miles the scenery had changed. More and more pools of water crept into the picture. A few seconds ago we survived a dangerous swerve of the bus. Driver Mario had managed to stop the bus just short of the water on the right side of the road. Just my luck, because the opportunity of swimming in caiman infested waters didn’t appeal to me.

The red sandy road finally managed to claim a victim. The holes and stones had attacked the wheels continuously, but in the end the Bailey bridge in view of our destination was too much for the left front tire. I welcomed the break. I could rest my weary body after the longest bungee jump in my life. Several near misses with the ceiling had reduced my enthusiasm for Argentinean buses to below zero. I wrestled my way through the pile of food, luggage, broomsticks, cement and other strange looking appliances to get out. Mario and his sidekick took this misfortune in their stride. They acted like they were used to changing tires. Ten minutes later they proved that assumption with hardly a stain on their uniform. We left for the last few miles to Colonia Peligrini in the middle of the Esteros del Iberia, a flora and fauna extravaganza in the north eastern province of Corrientes in Argentina.

Sunset in Esteros del Iberia

Argentina is a vast country. From La Quiaca at the northern border with Bolivia to Ushuaia, the gateway to Antarctica in the deep South, it takes more than 5000 kilometres by car. However, traffic is dominated by Kamikaze drivers with Latin passion and joining them is a sure way to an untimely death. A much safer yet equally unpredictable way to travel is taking the bus. During a month travelling through the Northern part of Argentina, the land of silver, I got used to this mode of transportation. It’s a good way to view the many varieties of the country sliding by.

Most travels start in Buenos Aires. At Retiro Bus Station I got a shock. The hub was vast, tens of berths containing buses of all sorts and makes. People were swarming all over the place like Victoria Station during rush hour. Most people were clearly on the move. They dragged big suitcases along, which had to contain more than a few days’ clothes. Two floors of over a hundred ticket boxes. Every one of them showed advertisements convincing me that I finally found the only operator worth travelling with. Everywhere pictures of smiling people sleeping in the most comfortable seats on this planet. I got bombarded with slogans, noise and a huge range of choice. This example of free market economy overwhelmed me. Which one had the best offer, I asked myself in dismay until I saw in the corner of my eye ‘Informacion’. The lady in the little booth showed me the smart little cards containing the operators to the destination desired. In my case over 100 possibilities suddenly had been reduced to just 13. I picked the first one, Chevallier.

For 220 pesos – about 66 euro - I reserved two seats, planta superior, primera fila. Upper deck, first row, ensured the best view in front of the bus to Salta in the North West during the sixteen hour ride. Diversion was badly needed. And provided. From our luxury seats –semi cama - we saw a man running across the street with two bottles of water in his hand. He was heading for a car, which had an overheating engine. Flames were clearly visible. The owner looked like it happened every day. Hand in pockets he watched the fire slowly getting out of control. The sight of the non burning part of his car made me believe that he wasn’t a great believer in car maintenance. Donkeys were pulling carts full of produce, mainly melons. Kids in their school uniforms waved at the passing cars and buses. Little lazy towns lay besides the roads. Numerous half tyres were sticking out of the ground, all accompanied with the sign Gomeria, tire shop. I arrived in Salta well rested and ready to explore the city, that had been founded in 1582 by Hernando de Lerma on the trading trail from Peru to Buenos Aires. Back then travelling through this country was an arduous enterprise, nowadays a breeze.

If you pick the right bus, that is. You have to rely on your gut feeling or experiences of the past. Whenever I got tickets out of a computer the bus was in good order, the driver had a smooth style, the meals were included, the seats could almost be changed into regular beds and the bus had an upper deck. If the ticket was issued by hand I knew that I could expect the unexpected. Only one thing you can always count on: The bus will be in time. If the departure time has passed and no bus is in sight at the berth you expected to leave from, you can bet a fair amount that you haven’t understood everything the ticket vendor told you. In Posadas, the capital of the province Missiones, the salesman was nice enough to put me in a chair in the Bariloche office after the 19.20 bus left one passenger short at berth 4 in stead of berth 19 or 20. He escorted me to the next bus, which left an hour later. Also at berth 4.

La Garganta del Diablo, Iguazu

Missing the bus gave me an hour to reminisce over Missiones. While phones rang, people discussed last night’s football match and buses pulled up continuously, I still could hear La Garganta del Diablo, the Devil’s Throat. This waterfall is part of the awesome Iguazu falls. Two kilometres wide the Iguazu river drops suddenly seventy metres. The Devil’s Throat is the highlight. It’s a gigantic horseshoe, high on the outside, low on the inside. The water flows over the edge into an ever present fog which obscures the bottom of the pit. Rainbows appear and disappear. Flocks of birds seem to challenge the river’s watery fingers to lash out, flying close to Iguazu’s vertical path. The roar of the tonnes of dropping water sounds like hundreds of trains passing simultaneously. Or is it the cry out of hell? On the Argentinean side you could almost touch the uvula, while feeling the Devil’s cool breathe. The thunder touched me more than the world famous sight from the Brazilian side of the falls. Not that it’s mediocre. No, I agree with the Argentineans. According to them the most beautiful part of their country can only be watched by the Brazilians.

The bus for Buenos Aires interrupted the devil’s concert in my head. I had to leave for this spider in the web of public transportation. In the early nineties the railways were privatised by former president and playboy Carlos Menem. A decade later the profitable lines in and around the nation’s capital remained. The other lines perished. So the buses are the long distance way to travel. In between the major cities you have a broad choice of companies. Quality is sometimes not up to our expectations, but the majority of long distance buses are quite comfortable and cheap, especially if you can spare the costs of a hotel in the night bus. Reservations are not necessary on most lines, but if you want the best seats booking a few days before leaving is recommended.

Of all those bus rides I remember the worst one. Not the smooth trips along well paved highways, not the perfect seats that provided six hours of uninterrupted sleep, not the drivers that sailed through traffic in a breeze. No, I remember the horrendous one that ended with a flat tire and the smile of Ariel.

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