The history of the Conquistadores saw to it that South America has an overwhelmingly Spanish feel. Argentina is no exception and if this metaphor holds true then Buenos Aires is the Madrid of the southern hemisphere.
The people are Spanish to a man as is the language, the coffee, the siesta, the architecture, the street layout and even the place names, despite the invaders having been shown the door by their transplanted émigrés 200 years ago, this year.
Even the economy is Spanish with low output, high unemployment and a basket case for a currency.
We left Hotel Splendid at a head splitting 6am, full of undigested meat and un-metabolised alcohol from the blow-out the night before; the perfect preparation for 550 spine-rattling kilometres to Cordoba.
Dave, a gregarious Australian on an eternal search for harmony lead the nineteen of us on day one of the expedition, supported by Ivan, a peripatetic Frenchman with a sing-song accent and a firm grasp on more languages than the UN.
Tenderly and clearly keen to impress, Dave introduced us to his new love who was going to travel with us for the next five thousand kilometres.
Cameron was a cute 21 year old and it soon became apparent that she and Dave rarely spent any time apart. He was besotted with her and saw to her every need; every day was to start with the same plea from Dave to treat her gently and most importantly not to keep her waiting.
Ivan tried to hide his feelings for Cameron and told us that it was a temporary thing and that soon he would be moving on but she clearly had a hold over him as well. Between them, they did their best to keep her satisfied, spending the whole days underneath her, greasing her nipples and lubricating her under-carriage.
Cameron, of course, was Mercedes truck, retro-fitted to accommodate 21 passengers as well as baggage, tents, canteen, food and a host of other travelling essentials. Liveried in the white and orange of the Dragoman brand, she made no promises, offering only the low-key ‘Not Your Every Day Journey’ as a clue to what lay in store. As the five mile daily commute up the A38 in Bristol was therefore out of contention, all that was left was a roller coaster ride of passion and intrigue across the interior of an unknown continent.
As we pulled away from the kerb in the half-light of that chilly morning, Dave gave a team talk that was one part reassurance mixed with equal measures of fire and brimstone. Jobs were allocated, kitty collected, itineraries discussed and the prime directive was laid out by Dave’s velvet glove, which all the while concealed the iron fist of authority. The first casualty was Rosario – not a sweet Spanish over-lander but stop one on the published itinerary.
“It’s not very interesting” said Ivan. “Cordoba is much better”.
Harmony - at the time it seemed such a small word but it was all that lay between us and the abyss.
Harmony had her first road test at breakfast. We pulled into a cold and windy truck stop two hours later and with military precision, the food was prepared and consumed while we shivered. Wasn’t Argentina supposed to be steaming jungle, carnivals and the sun-drenched destination of wealthy jail-breakers? Clare and I took to jogging around the dusty trailer park with our cornflakes to generate some heat. Nineteen glum over-landers trudged up Cameron’s steps after washing-up, vainly trying to wring some warmth into their red and chapped hands.
For the next four hours, we drove past no people and one single, very large field, in parts knee deep in last year’s unploughed stubble and in others, fallow. The occasional horse raised its head to watch us pass and there might have been a tractor but it could just as easily have been a pile of wood with a tarpaulin over it.
No jungle, no gyrating South American beauties clad only in strategically positioned sequins and definitely not a Ronnie Biggs to be seen.
We stopped at another petrol station for lunch and stamped around the forecourt blowing some life into our numb fingers. Lunch was served next to an enormous pile of something somewhere between sand and rubble and the local dogs executed increasingly tight fly-bys in the hope of stealing scraps.
Washing up was done and the canteen repacked before the odyssey continued. The field remained stubbornly uninteresting but when we passed through some townships there was a ripple of excited chatter as there definitely were some piles of wood with tarpaulins over them - but still no people.
The countryside was strangely empty of life.
We played cards, read books, listened to DJ Dave’s mixes, slept, woke, slept again but mostly stared trance-like at the passing panorama of flat land and distant clouds.
After 13 hours on the road we arrived at and promptly got lost in the outskirts of Cordoba. After a couple of rotations of the same city blocks, Dave eased Cameron to a halt outside El Aldea hostel with a loud hiss of the air-brakes.
We decamped to single sex dorms, abandoned the secure lockers on account of the doors hanging off their hinges and dived to secure the lower tiers of the bunk beds. Several pleasant Quilmes later, we ambled out for food, only to discover that Argentina, like Spain, doesn’t think about an evening meal until long after the News At Ten. So we tramped back to Aldea, nursed a couple more Quilmes before trying again at a more suitable hour.
Mixed Grill arrived on the table at Betania Steak House at bang on 10.45pm as we were nodding off into our half eaten Empanadas, exhausted from 13 hours sitting down and a 5am wake-up call.
I had been told to expect great things from Argentinian meat.
We perked up sufficiently to tuck into a wide selection of beef and pork but it was tough and dry despite the unending quantities and I eyed Clare’s pasta enviously. We surrendered to exhaustion before desert and I nursed my distended belly the 400m back to the hostel and lay down to sleep.
I dreamed of an empty field.
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