ROAD TO BRASILIA: MONDAY, OCTOBER 28
Brasilians are similar to citizens of the US. Both envison their countries as civilised strips of land backing onto a vast ocean with a few islands. In the US one island stretches from Denver through Vale to Aspen. Los Vegas is another island. So is Palm Springs.
Brasilia is a Brazilian island. I don't know what others exist. Perhaps Manaus? And Brazil only has one land strip/one coast.
Plane is the only way to travel to an island.
People who journey by rail or road are weird.
Riding a small bike is very weird.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
MONSTER RIDE
TO BRASILIA: SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28
What is it with Brasilians? Given the warnings I receive, I could be in the US. Warnings? To keep to the coast road. Not to travel in the interior. The Federal police were the first on the road from Santana de Livramento my first day in Brasil. And the smart woman at the gas station. Yesterday in Cutiriba a Fedral cop on a motorbike gave me the same warning. Brasilia? You have to go to the coast, to San Paulo. A huge dogleg, why? Is it dangerous? Are there brigands? Is the road so bad? The answer I receive is that everyone travels via the coast.
Not me. I leave at dawn, head due north and ride 700 kilometres - a personal record for Honda and I. The road is excellent, much of it dual carriageway. One short stretch of really bad tar - probably explained as punishment for a local politico or Governor who angered Federal Government/President.
What is it with Brasilians? Given the warnings I receive, I could be in the US. Warnings? To keep to the coast road. Not to travel in the interior. The Federal police were the first on the road from Santana de Livramento my first day in Brasil. And the smart woman at the gas station. Yesterday in Cutiriba a Fedral cop on a motorbike gave me the same warning. Brasilia? You have to go to the coast, to San Paulo. A huge dogleg, why? Is it dangerous? Are there brigands? Is the road so bad? The answer I receive is that everyone travels via the coast.
Not me. I leave at dawn, head due north and ride 700 kilometres - a personal record for Honda and I. The road is excellent, much of it dual carriageway. One short stretch of really bad tar - probably explained as punishment for a local politico or Governor who angered Federal Government/President.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
I DON'T ENJOY CITIES
fine young men
CURITIBA: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 26
Curtiba is inland A four-lane highway climbs through a lush landscape of dairy farms and forest. The air is fresh and sparkling. I fill up with a gasoline advertised as containing an additive. The bike loves the gasoline. We whiz up steep inclines. The land flattens on the approach to Curtiba. I spot a big Honda bike agency. A mob of gleeful apprentice mechanics service the bike in their lunch hour. The side stand needs replacing. Who ever did the welding for Dakar Moto welded the stand at the wrong angle so that it touches the chain and sticks behind the main stand. Awkward, as I don't have sufficient strength to raise the bike on it main stand when astride and have taken a fall. The fall broke my camera.
The apprentices replace the stand at cost. The service costs me $3 for the oil. One of the apprentice's emails me a photograph. The apprentices are great kids.
I ride onto into Curtiba and park in the Historic Centre. The Historic Centre is a few blocks of nineteenth century pretty. The rest of the city is highrise. I don't like cities. I go up to London for three days on the early morning train and catch the afternoon train home. So why am I staying in Curtiba? I try talking with a man at the cafe where I drink coffee and soda water. We soon give up on the attempt.
I guess that Brazilians, surrounded by Spanish speakers, have determined to resist the slightest encroachment.
And, if I can't communicate, why am I in Brazil.
Because I want to ride across the Amazon forest.
Then get on with it.
Right...
I remount and ride towards Porta Grossa from where the highway to Brasilia runs north.
This upland countryside is breathtaking.
Imagine the perfect English landscape of rolling hills, fields and woodland. Multiply by ten the size of the wheat fields and paddocks and woodland, multiply by ten the height of contours. Wheat glows gold in late afternoon sunshine as I approach Porta Grossa. New factories and store houses and granaries abound on the outskirts of town. All depends on incredible agricultural wealth. The town is a nothing hodgepodge. Highrises stand beside modern bungalows, neither of any architectural merit. Sidewalks are pretty, black sets inlaid with white patterns or white sets inlaid with black. I find a $15 room with a good mattress and excellent towels. The Internet is free, flat screens in an aircon lobby. I have 28 emails waiting to be opened, many from Colette, the copy editor. And the publisher, Clare, has sent me proofs of the cover. I need to work on the final proof tomorrow. No chance of moving on. The receptionist recommends a restaurant two blocks from the hotel. I quail at the choice of menu: steak with an egg or steak without an egg. The egg is edible.
Curtiba is inland A four-lane highway climbs through a lush landscape of dairy farms and forest. The air is fresh and sparkling. I fill up with a gasoline advertised as containing an additive. The bike loves the gasoline. We whiz up steep inclines. The land flattens on the approach to Curtiba. I spot a big Honda bike agency. A mob of gleeful apprentice mechanics service the bike in their lunch hour. The side stand needs replacing. Who ever did the welding for Dakar Moto welded the stand at the wrong angle so that it touches the chain and sticks behind the main stand. Awkward, as I don't have sufficient strength to raise the bike on it main stand when astride and have taken a fall. The fall broke my camera.
The apprentices replace the stand at cost. The service costs me $3 for the oil. One of the apprentice's emails me a photograph. The apprentices are great kids.
I ride onto into Curtiba and park in the Historic Centre. The Historic Centre is a few blocks of nineteenth century pretty. The rest of the city is highrise. I don't like cities. I go up to London for three days on the early morning train and catch the afternoon train home. So why am I staying in Curtiba? I try talking with a man at the cafe where I drink coffee and soda water. We soon give up on the attempt.
I guess that Brazilians, surrounded by Spanish speakers, have determined to resist the slightest encroachment.
And, if I can't communicate, why am I in Brazil.
Because I want to ride across the Amazon forest.
Then get on with it.
Right...
I remount and ride towards Porta Grossa from where the highway to Brasilia runs north.
This upland countryside is breathtaking.
Imagine the perfect English landscape of rolling hills, fields and woodland. Multiply by ten the size of the wheat fields and paddocks and woodland, multiply by ten the height of contours. Wheat glows gold in late afternoon sunshine as I approach Porta Grossa. New factories and store houses and granaries abound on the outskirts of town. All depends on incredible agricultural wealth. The town is a nothing hodgepodge. Highrises stand beside modern bungalows, neither of any architectural merit. Sidewalks are pretty, black sets inlaid with white patterns or white sets inlaid with black. I find a $15 room with a good mattress and excellent towels. The Internet is free, flat screens in an aircon lobby. I have 28 emails waiting to be opened, many from Colette, the copy editor. And the publisher, Clare, has sent me proofs of the cover. I need to work on the final proof tomorrow. No chance of moving on. The receptionist recommends a restaurant two blocks from the hotel. I quail at the choice of menu: steak with an egg or steak without an egg. The egg is edible.
SOME SORT OF ACHIEVEMENT
LITTORAL: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 25
I ride and ride and pull over to let trucks pass and pull over and let trucks pass. Late afternoon and cloud cover darkens. I pull of the littoral and into a small village which is only part Costa Brava highrise. The beach is great. I take out my camera. Rain falls. I remount and ride a while before stopping at another beach. The rain has ceased. The batteries on the camera are flat. Please take my word that Brazilian beaches exist.
Rain begins spitting again. I have ridden 600 Ks which is an achievement.
I find a hotel room at $12. The towel wouldn't dry a damp mouse. I can feel the stitching on the mattress through the thin sheet. So now I have established a price range. $12 is too little. $15 to $16 is just right.
I ride and ride and pull over to let trucks pass and pull over and let trucks pass. Late afternoon and cloud cover darkens. I pull of the littoral and into a small village which is only part Costa Brava highrise. The beach is great. I take out my camera. Rain falls. I remount and ride a while before stopping at another beach. The rain has ceased. The batteries on the camera are flat. Please take my word that Brazilian beaches exist.
Rain begins spitting again. I have ridden 600 Ks which is an achievement.
I find a hotel room at $12. The towel wouldn't dry a damp mouse. I can feel the stitching on the mattress through the thin sheet. So now I have established a price range. $12 is too little. $15 to $16 is just right.
COSTA BRAVA
LITTORAL: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 25
The lagoon comes to an end. The littoral approaches the shore. Ah, those wonderful beaches of Brazil. Of what am I reminded. The Costa Brava. Hundreds of kilometres of strip development. No, development implies a modicum of planning. This is strip chaos. Clumps of high rises interspersed with the warehouses of builders' merchants, car lots, manufacturers of every type of concrete conduit and beam necessary to the construction of the highway, gas stations and endless slow fast-food outlets hazed by construction dust.
I pick a restaurant on the banks of a small artificial lake. It advertises fruit of the sea.
The greeter seats me and enquires whether I wish to order individual plates or take the completo. I go for the completo. Plate after plate is laid in front of me. Here's the pick:
Tasteless wet black bean sludge.
Tasteless wet shrimp sludge - I recognise a shrimp.
A tasteless wet sludge that contains fish - I find a bone.
Tasteless semi-dry crab sludge.
Three fried fish - two of which are excellent. One is disgusting.
A large plate of soggy fried potatoes.
A large plate of rice.
Salad of which only the lettuce is tired.
I drink two bottles of water with gas. The bill is $11.
The bill is fine. I hope they spend the money on cookery lessons.
The lagoon comes to an end. The littoral approaches the shore. Ah, those wonderful beaches of Brazil. Of what am I reminded. The Costa Brava. Hundreds of kilometres of strip development. No, development implies a modicum of planning. This is strip chaos. Clumps of high rises interspersed with the warehouses of builders' merchants, car lots, manufacturers of every type of concrete conduit and beam necessary to the construction of the highway, gas stations and endless slow fast-food outlets hazed by construction dust.
I pick a restaurant on the banks of a small artificial lake. It advertises fruit of the sea.
The greeter seats me and enquires whether I wish to order individual plates or take the completo. I go for the completo. Plate after plate is laid in front of me. Here's the pick:
Tasteless wet black bean sludge.
Tasteless wet shrimp sludge - I recognise a shrimp.
A tasteless wet sludge that contains fish - I find a bone.
Tasteless semi-dry crab sludge.
Three fried fish - two of which are excellent. One is disgusting.
A large plate of soggy fried potatoes.
A large plate of rice.
Salad of which only the lettuce is tired.
I drink two bottles of water with gas. The bill is $11.
The bill is fine. I hope they spend the money on cookery lessons.
HEAD WIND
LITTORAL: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 25
Out of the hotel and on the road by 8 a.m. Hit the littoral near Porto Alegre. The littoral? Six lane coastal highway. Easy riding. Except the highway runs for forty kilometres before degenerating into a Federal Government project. I ride all day, diversion to diversion. Worse, the highway is on the landward side of a huge lagoon. Hills creep close on the west of the road. Ahead I spy a double line of wind turbines. The breeze off the lagoon is accelerated by the hills - at least that is the theory of a man without any scientific training and dumb enough to be riding a small motorbike into a strong headwind for the rest of the day.
The breeze cuts my speed to 10 Ks less than the majority of trucks. Trucks are in abundance. every type of truck imaginable. I take to the hard shoulder and wave them through. Three in four drivers thank me with a toot on the klaxon or a thumb raised.
Out of the hotel and on the road by 8 a.m. Hit the littoral near Porto Alegre. The littoral? Six lane coastal highway. Easy riding. Except the highway runs for forty kilometres before degenerating into a Federal Government project. I ride all day, diversion to diversion. Worse, the highway is on the landward side of a huge lagoon. Hills creep close on the west of the road. Ahead I spy a double line of wind turbines. The breeze off the lagoon is accelerated by the hills - at least that is the theory of a man without any scientific training and dumb enough to be riding a small motorbike into a strong headwind for the rest of the day.
The breeze cuts my speed to 10 Ks less than the majority of trucks. Trucks are in abundance. every type of truck imaginable. I take to the hard shoulder and wave them through. Three in four drivers thank me with a toot on the klaxon or a thumb raised.
NOT TOO BAD A DAY
MINAS DO LEAO: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 24
I hit the main East-West highway to Porto Alegre. The road runs along a ridge. The country is instantly greener: vast fields of wheat and rice interspersed with equally vast cattle paddocks, vast timber plantations along the hills. Grain silos come in groups and are as dominant as an Apollo missile. To a European, the agriculture wealth is staggering. How can people suffer hunger?
Two iguanas earlier in the day. I saw a lone white heron yesterday. Now a second flies very slowly across a patch of marsh. A sign on the right advertises Hampshire Down sheep.
I started late at 10 a.m. I have ridden 400 Ks when I pull off the highway to a small clean town, Minas do Leao, 130 Ks short of the coast. The architecture is nothing. However a small park is pretty. I find a clean hotel with parking, big towels, hot water and a comfortable mattress. Pricing a country takes a few days. I paid $26 last night. I pay $17 tonight. Dinner is chicken disaster.
I sit outdoors amongst other guests. We try and converse. Hopeless. Why am I here?
I hit the main East-West highway to Porto Alegre. The road runs along a ridge. The country is instantly greener: vast fields of wheat and rice interspersed with equally vast cattle paddocks, vast timber plantations along the hills. Grain silos come in groups and are as dominant as an Apollo missile. To a European, the agriculture wealth is staggering. How can people suffer hunger?
Two iguanas earlier in the day. I saw a lone white heron yesterday. Now a second flies very slowly across a patch of marsh. A sign on the right advertises Hampshire Down sheep.
I started late at 10 a.m. I have ridden 400 Ks when I pull off the highway to a small clean town, Minas do Leao, 130 Ks short of the coast. The architecture is nothing. However a small park is pretty. I find a clean hotel with parking, big towels, hot water and a comfortable mattress. Pricing a country takes a few days. I paid $26 last night. I pay $17 tonight. Dinner is chicken disaster.
I sit outdoors amongst other guests. We try and converse. Hopeless. Why am I here?
CAN I COPE WITH THE IMMENSE DISTANCES?
TO PORTO ALEGRE: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 24
I stop at a gas station a short way out of Santana do Livramento. A smartly dressed woman in a smart four by four advises me to head straight east for the coast. Southern Brazil is poor. It is uninteresting. The coast is rich. I will enjoy the coast. The roads are good. I can ride on the litoral all the way north to Sao Paola before heading inland to Brasilia.
I doubt whether this woman's tastes and mine coincide.
I turn north at a town called Baje.
The road crosses hills that seem increasingly dry.
An iguana scurries across the road.
An hour later a second iguana scurries across the road.
Both iguanas cross from my left to my right.
Is this significant?
Meanwhile the road continues over dry hills.
I am becoming depressed. The distances are immense - 100 Ks to get anywhere. You get to anywhere and it might as well be nowhere...Unless you are excited by a lime or gypsum mine coating everything in white powder. How will I cope with the mammoth ride from Brasilia to Manaus and on across the Amazon forest to Venezuela - 5000 Ks?
I come to a crest and find the view spectacular. It is much the same as the views that depressed me from the previous ten crests. However a sudden flashback to riding early one glorious morning along the Pacific coast in Mexico last year puts me in tune with the road and the country and the bike.
The few trucks are harmless. We travel at approximately the same speed so they don't rush up at me from behind.
I stop at a gas station. The attached restaurant is for sale. I order steak. There is only steak. Steak with an egg or steak without an egg. Take your choice.
I chose the egg.
Veg?
No.
Rice?
NO.
Beans?
No.
The steak is gristle.
The egg is edible.
I stop at a gas station a short way out of Santana do Livramento. A smartly dressed woman in a smart four by four advises me to head straight east for the coast. Southern Brazil is poor. It is uninteresting. The coast is rich. I will enjoy the coast. The roads are good. I can ride on the litoral all the way north to Sao Paola before heading inland to Brasilia.
I doubt whether this woman's tastes and mine coincide.
I turn north at a town called Baje.
The road crosses hills that seem increasingly dry.
An iguana scurries across the road.
An hour later a second iguana scurries across the road.
Both iguanas cross from my left to my right.
Is this significant?
Meanwhile the road continues over dry hills.
I am becoming depressed. The distances are immense - 100 Ks to get anywhere. You get to anywhere and it might as well be nowhere...Unless you are excited by a lime or gypsum mine coating everything in white powder. How will I cope with the mammoth ride from Brasilia to Manaus and on across the Amazon forest to Venezuela - 5000 Ks?
I come to a crest and find the view spectacular. It is much the same as the views that depressed me from the previous ten crests. However a sudden flashback to riding early one glorious morning along the Pacific coast in Mexico last year puts me in tune with the road and the country and the bike.
The few trucks are harmless. We travel at approximately the same speed so they don't rush up at me from behind.
I stop at a gas station. The attached restaurant is for sale. I order steak. There is only steak. Steak with an egg or steak without an egg. Take your choice.
I chose the egg.
Veg?
No.
Rice?
NO.
Beans?
No.
The steak is gristle.
The egg is edible.
PANIC AT THE BANK
TOWARDS PORTO ALEGRE: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 24
Panic at the bank. The ATM machine refuses my request for money. A lady bank clerk tells me that the machine is doing something to its self. I should come back later. The machine finishes doing things to its self at 10 a.m. I get money, mount up and ride.
Brazil countryside is less tidy than Uruguay.
Individually a few priviledged Uruguayans may own vast acerages. However they are aware that their's is a small country. They use every morsel.
Brazil is vast. Ten acres here or there is unimportant. Hence the untidiness. The Argentine is similar - so is much of the US.
England is minute. Each square metre is a treasure.
Panic at the bank. The ATM machine refuses my request for money. A lady bank clerk tells me that the machine is doing something to its self. I should come back later. The machine finishes doing things to its self at 10 a.m. I get money, mount up and ride.
Brazil countryside is less tidy than Uruguay.
Individually a few priviledged Uruguayans may own vast acerages. However they are aware that their's is a small country. They use every morsel.
Brazil is vast. Ten acres here or there is unimportant. Hence the untidiness. The Argentine is similar - so is much of the US.
England is minute. Each square metre is a treasure.
MUMMYS AND DADDYS
I wake in a new country, Brazil. I miss Uruguay. And I miss my fellow Herefordshires. We Hereford men are a handsome, rugged, well-mannered lot. We are enegetic lovers and make good dependable fathers.
Hereford mothers are gentle, loving and caring.
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. We Hereford men find our women remarkably beautiful.
AM I TOTALLY INCOMPETENT?
SANTOS DO LIVRAMENTO: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23
Brazilian Customs officers are similar to my wife in doubting my capacity to fill in forms. The Customs officers do the filling in. The daughter of the head man spent six weeks in Cambridge, England, on a language course. She found the English kind and more sincere than Brazilians but much less outgoing. She commented that Brazilians kiss where the English shake hands - for the English, a kiss implies friendship.
The head man says that Brits are polite while people from the US are rude.
I counter that he has been exceptionally lucky in the Brits he's met and unlucky in the North Americans.
He condemns Argentines as equally arrogant.
Argentines believe they are the best.
Brazilians are always trying to come first.
I quote. Quoting is easier than deciphering the suttle differences.
Later a Brazilian with a business the Uruguayan side of town complains that Uruguayan are greedy. Unemployment payment is the fault. Pay double the unemployment benefit or a Uruguayan won't work. He complains that he has to pay US$ 400 a month. Thank God (or the Uruguayan Government) for unemployment benefit.
I stay in a modern hotel with dirty bedspreads.
Brazilian Customs officers are similar to my wife in doubting my capacity to fill in forms. The Customs officers do the filling in. The daughter of the head man spent six weeks in Cambridge, England, on a language course. She found the English kind and more sincere than Brazilians but much less outgoing. She commented that Brazilians kiss where the English shake hands - for the English, a kiss implies friendship.
The head man says that Brits are polite while people from the US are rude.
I counter that he has been exceptionally lucky in the Brits he's met and unlucky in the North Americans.
He condemns Argentines as equally arrogant.
Argentines believe they are the best.
Brazilians are always trying to come first.
I quote. Quoting is easier than deciphering the suttle differences.
Later a Brazilian with a business the Uruguayan side of town complains that Uruguayan are greedy. Unemployment payment is the fault. Pay double the unemployment benefit or a Uruguayan won't work. He complains that he has to pay US$ 400 a month. Thank God (or the Uruguayan Government) for unemployment benefit.
I stay in a modern hotel with dirty bedspreads.
GENTLE COUNTRY
SANTO DO LIVRAMENTO: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23
A good road with few cars or trucks runs straight north to Brazil across gently undulating country. I rode south last years through Peru and Bolivia. Garbage littered the landscape, lay heaped beside the roads and surrounded every town. Uruguay is clean. Forestry is expanding - the dreaded Australian eucalyptus, devourer of soil, harbinger of erosion. A lone white heron watches me from a creek. Traffic cones narrow the road on the outskirts of town. Cops wave me through. How could I tell that I had entered Brazil? I spend the next three hours hunting Immigration and Customs. All directions take me to a main road which is closed for a fiesta. A team of single seater planes do acrobatics overhead. Drivers watch the planes in preference to the road. I find Urugayan offices first. They are beside the main road. For Brazilian Immigration I ride thirty blocks. Customs is five kilometres out of town.
A good road with few cars or trucks runs straight north to Brazil across gently undulating country. I rode south last years through Peru and Bolivia. Garbage littered the landscape, lay heaped beside the roads and surrounded every town. Uruguay is clean. Forestry is expanding - the dreaded Australian eucalyptus, devourer of soil, harbinger of erosion. A lone white heron watches me from a creek. Traffic cones narrow the road on the outskirts of town. Cops wave me through. How could I tell that I had entered Brazil? I spend the next three hours hunting Immigration and Customs. All directions take me to a main road which is closed for a fiesta. A team of single seater planes do acrobatics overhead. Drivers watch the planes in preference to the road. I find Urugayan offices first. They are beside the main road. For Brazilian Immigration I ride thirty blocks. Customs is five kilometres out of town.
ESCAPE
Silvia, Raffa and Trindad (on horseback)
TO BRAZIL: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23
My cousin, Brian, has ordered Raffa, the gaucho, to stop me leaving unless I am absolutely fit. I argue that no man my age is ever absolutely fit. The bike starts. Dogs bark, gambol and try eating my hand. I kiss Silvia and Raffa goodbye and speed (10 kph) down the grass track to the dirt road. I have escaped the delightful comforts of Los Tajamares.
I am Latin in that I share the importance given by Latins to the wider family relationship. The Deannes are cousins at three or four generations distance. They are family. And I hate them. I hate them because I will miss them every day of what remains of my life. Hopefully my young and their young will extend our sense of belonging to each other.
TO BRAZIL: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23
My cousin, Brian, has ordered Raffa, the gaucho, to stop me leaving unless I am absolutely fit. I argue that no man my age is ever absolutely fit. The bike starts. Dogs bark, gambol and try eating my hand. I kiss Silvia and Raffa goodbye and speed (10 kph) down the grass track to the dirt road. I have escaped the delightful comforts of Los Tajamares.
I am Latin in that I share the importance given by Latins to the wider family relationship. The Deannes are cousins at three or four generations distance. They are family. And I hate them. I hate them because I will miss them every day of what remains of my life. Hopefully my young and their young will extend our sense of belonging to each other.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
GOD BLESS CORPORATE AMERICA
LOS TAJAMARES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 22
When not coughing, inhaling water vapour or downing glasses of Vitamin C the past few days, I have been working with Clare. Clare is copy-editing my book that comes out next March. Extraordinary to be able to work with someone in London while on a South American estancia some fifty miles from the nearest small town. Some emails have been delayed a day, few come in the order in which they were posted. The book and the emails contain many bad words. To name a few: Bush, Blair, terrorist, liars, torture, Halliburton, corruption.
Clare and I suspect that THEY are reading our mail. I have advised Clare to put a couple of bolsters in the bed and sleep on the floor for a while - better still, move in with an elderly relative who has always voted Tory and is a member of the Tory Party.
While waiting for mail from Clare, I skimmed BBC News. DynCorp is a splendid US corporation, very similar to Halliburton. DynCorp is training the Iraq police. Keeping records is an essential part of police work. DynCorp are unable to produce records for 1.2 billion US dollars of Government funds. Nor can they explain why they built themselves an Olympic size swimming pool in Iraq and purchsed a bunch of top of the line executive trailers ~ you know, those vast things in which movie stars have affairs. DynCorp also train the Afghan police. Both Afghan and Iraq police are notoriously corrupt - DynCorp must feel right at home. And DynCorp run the anti-cocaine aerial spraying in Columbia, another nice little earner. Over the past twelve months DynCorp shares have fluctuated between $10 and $25. If the President and Board bought and sold at the correct moment, they should be wealthy. Perhaps they can stop mislaying Government funds.
When not coughing, inhaling water vapour or downing glasses of Vitamin C the past few days, I have been working with Clare. Clare is copy-editing my book that comes out next March. Extraordinary to be able to work with someone in London while on a South American estancia some fifty miles from the nearest small town. Some emails have been delayed a day, few come in the order in which they were posted. The book and the emails contain many bad words. To name a few: Bush, Blair, terrorist, liars, torture, Halliburton, corruption.
Clare and I suspect that THEY are reading our mail. I have advised Clare to put a couple of bolsters in the bed and sleep on the floor for a while - better still, move in with an elderly relative who has always voted Tory and is a member of the Tory Party.
While waiting for mail from Clare, I skimmed BBC News. DynCorp is a splendid US corporation, very similar to Halliburton. DynCorp is training the Iraq police. Keeping records is an essential part of police work. DynCorp are unable to produce records for 1.2 billion US dollars of Government funds. Nor can they explain why they built themselves an Olympic size swimming pool in Iraq and purchsed a bunch of top of the line executive trailers ~ you know, those vast things in which movie stars have affairs. DynCorp also train the Afghan police. Both Afghan and Iraq police are notoriously corrupt - DynCorp must feel right at home. And DynCorp run the anti-cocaine aerial spraying in Columbia, another nice little earner. Over the past twelve months DynCorp shares have fluctuated between $10 and $25. If the President and Board bought and sold at the correct moment, they should be wealthy. Perhaps they can stop mislaying Government funds.
Monday, October 22, 2007
OSTRICHES ARE SNOBS
LOS TAJAMARES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 22
Five ostriches stalk past the house and down the slope towards the two ponds. I have my camera. I want them to look in my direction. I whistle and shout. Shouting makes me cough. The ostriches pay no attention. I curse them for being snobs. Long necks, they would be easy victims of the guillotine. Back in the kitchen I drape a towel over my head and inhale steam...and recall that ostriches are reputed to bury their heads in the sand. Communication between my copy editor's server and hotmail seems somewhat haphazard. Her comments on various chapters are lost in the ether. Pray God the chapters come through by tomorrow. I am determined to leave for Brazil on Wednesday.
Five ostriches stalk past the house and down the slope towards the two ponds. I have my camera. I want them to look in my direction. I whistle and shout. Shouting makes me cough. The ostriches pay no attention. I curse them for being snobs. Long necks, they would be easy victims of the guillotine. Back in the kitchen I drape a towel over my head and inhale steam...and recall that ostriches are reputed to bury their heads in the sand. Communication between my copy editor's server and hotmail seems somewhat haphazard. Her comments on various chapters are lost in the ether. Pray God the chapters come through by tomorrow. I am determined to leave for Brazil on Wednesday.
FLU AND GUILT
LOS TAJAMARES: SUNDAY, OCTOBER 21
Rain falls much of the day. I am editing OLD MAN ON A BIKE for the copy editor. The electricity supply cuts out a few times. I do the steam and towel routine, acorbic acid, and try not to cough. Sylvia fusses and prepares coffee and cooks too much lunch. I suggest that an egg would be perfect for dinner. A glass door opens from the study onto a terrace. The dogs sit on the terrace and watch me type. The dogs are trying to make me feel guilty. I feel guilty at staying so many days at Los Tajamares. Brian and Carmen called this morning and made me promise not to leave until I felt absolutely fit. Old men seldom feel absolutely fit. I would be here for ever.
Rain falls much of the day. I am editing OLD MAN ON A BIKE for the copy editor. The electricity supply cuts out a few times. I do the steam and towel routine, acorbic acid, and try not to cough. Sylvia fusses and prepares coffee and cooks too much lunch. I suggest that an egg would be perfect for dinner. A glass door opens from the study onto a terrace. The dogs sit on the terrace and watch me type. The dogs are trying to make me feel guilty. I feel guilty at staying so many days at Los Tajamares. Brian and Carmen called this morning and made me promise not to leave until I felt absolutely fit. Old men seldom feel absolutely fit. I would be here for ever.
NO PEARS, FIVE PARTRIDGE
LOS TAJAMARES: SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20
I sit at the kitchen table, a towel over my head, and inhale water vapour. The steam eases my chest. I drink vast amounts of acorbic acid disolved in water. A covey of five partridge peck the far side of the garden fence. Carmen should plant a pear tree. Coughing hurts. My nose runs. So do my eyes. I sit with a roll of lavatory paper in my lap and watch the final of the Rugby World Cup on satelite TV. The players are disgustingly fit.
I sit at the kitchen table, a towel over my head, and inhale water vapour. The steam eases my chest. I drink vast amounts of acorbic acid disolved in water. A covey of five partridge peck the far side of the garden fence. Carmen should plant a pear tree. Coughing hurts. My nose runs. So do my eyes. I sit with a roll of lavatory paper in my lap and watch the final of the Rugby World Cup on satelite TV. The players are disgustingly fit.
CARE
LOS TAJAMARES: FRIDAY, OCTOBER 19
My cousins, Brian and Carmen, have departed for the vet in Montevideo with a very small, very sick dog, a miniature Yorkshire terrier. Poor beast won't eat and is very yellow. The dog belongs to their daughters. Brian and Carmen care for it. We have a Border terrier at home that belongs to our two sons. We look after it.
My cousins, Brian and Carmen, have departed for the vet in Montevideo with a very small, very sick dog, a miniature Yorkshire terrier. Poor beast won't eat and is very yellow. The dog belongs to their daughters. Brian and Carmen care for it. We have a Border terrier at home that belongs to our two sons. We look after it.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
HEAVEN OR HALLUCINATION?
LOS TAJAMARES: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
I have flu. I feel like Hell. Carmen stops the car on the dirt road. I look out over a blue paddock and through trees to a pristine lake and wonder whether I am in Heaven or hallucinating. I will get out of the car and ask the sheep.
I have flu. I feel like Hell. Carmen stops the car on the dirt road. I look out over a blue paddock and through trees to a pristine lake and wonder whether I am in Heaven or hallucinating. I will get out of the car and ask the sheep.
FRANCE IS A DUMP
France township
Brian at the station
FRANCE: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
The closest railway station to the estancias of Los Tajamares and Las Canadas is at the township of France. France is not very big. Don't tell the French.
Brian at the station
FRANCE: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
The closest railway station to the estancias of Los Tajamares and Las Canadas is at the township of France. France is not very big. Don't tell the French.
FLU IN PARADISE
ESTANCIA LOS TAJAMARES: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
I have the flu. My bedroom windows open onto a shaded terrace and the lawn. Carmen has planted citrus trees by the fence. From my bed, I watch tiny hummingbirds dip their beaks in the blossoms. A bird with a yellow breast finds a worm in the lawn. A small white bird sits on a fence post. Vast open paddocks stretch beyond the fence to the distant horizon. Carmen chides me for not taking care of myself. Brian pampers me with Vitamin C. Silvia heats water. I sit at the kitchen table with a towel over my head and inhale the steam. Flu doesn't feel so bad in Paradise.
I have the flu. My bedroom windows open onto a shaded terrace and the lawn. Carmen has planted citrus trees by the fence. From my bed, I watch tiny hummingbirds dip their beaks in the blossoms. A bird with a yellow breast finds a worm in the lawn. A small white bird sits on a fence post. Vast open paddocks stretch beyond the fence to the distant horizon. Carmen chides me for not taking care of myself. Brian pampers me with Vitamin C. Silvia heats water. I sit at the kitchen table with a towel over my head and inhale the steam. Flu doesn't feel so bad in Paradise.
ROYAL FAMILY
LAS CANADAS: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
If South America's meat packing has a Royal family, Brian and his wife, Carmen, are it. Carmen's great-grandfather founded Fray Bentos. Brian's grandfather shipped the first frozen beef out of Argentina in the 1880s.
Carmen's sister, Cecilia, inherited the family homestead here in Uruguay near Paso de los Toros. Cecilia has preserved the house as a chunk of Uruguay's history and runs it as a tourist operation. Family portraits number a President and Uruguay's great poet laureate, Juan Zorrilla de San Martin. Furniture is polished wood, comfortable leather chairs and sofas, proper old-fashioned bathtubs. I even discovered a model A Ford in an outhouse.
Cecilia provides sufficient horses to mount a cavalry regiment, swimming in a crystal clear pond, traditional country meals cooked in a wood oven and on a wood stove or outdoors on the parilla. Be a gaucho for a week, learn to spin the estancia's wool, whitewash a wall or paint a few pictures. 70 Euros per diem is cheap for the privilege of sharing in Uruguay's history.
Go elsewhere should you desire air conditioning, TV and fast food.
Carmen's sister, Cecilia, inherited the family homestead here in Uruguay near Paso de los Toros. Cecilia has preserved the house as a chunk of Uruguay's history and runs it as a tourist operation. Family portraits number a President and Uruguay's great poet laureate, Juan Zorrilla de San Martin. Furniture is polished wood, comfortable leather chairs and sofas, proper old-fashioned bathtubs. I even discovered a model A Ford in an outhouse.
Cecilia provides sufficient horses to mount a cavalry regiment, swimming in a crystal clear pond, traditional country meals cooked in a wood oven and on a wood stove or outdoors on the parilla. Be a gaucho for a week, learn to spin the estancia's wool, whitewash a wall or paint a few pictures. 70 Euros per diem is cheap for the privilege of sharing in Uruguay's history.
Go elsewhere should you desire air conditioning, TV and fast food.
Friday, October 19, 2007
COUNT THE COWS, NOT THE ACRES
ESTANCIA TAJAMARES: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
Six of us eat wood oven pizzas with cheese topping, tomato topping, or cheese and tomato topping. Rafael is part gaucho and part caretaker/gardener. Sylvia cares for the house and is a brilliant cook. She came to cooking over the past six months. She is a natural. She complains that she has to taste dishes to get them right and has gained fifteen kilos. Rafael and Sylvia are a couple. Trinidad is the estancia gaucho. Mid forties, he is a shy man of few words. I wonder that one man on horseback can cope with 1,400 acres of pasture. The size of the estancia is unimportant. What counts is the number of cows.
Six of us eat wood oven pizzas with cheese topping, tomato topping, or cheese and tomato topping. Rafael is part gaucho and part caretaker/gardener. Sylvia cares for the house and is a brilliant cook. She came to cooking over the past six months. She is a natural. She complains that she has to taste dishes to get them right and has gained fifteen kilos. Rafael and Sylvia are a couple. Trinidad is the estancia gaucho. Mid forties, he is a shy man of few words. I wonder that one man on horseback can cope with 1,400 acres of pasture. The size of the estancia is unimportant. What counts is the number of cows.
TOAD ON THE OPEN ROAD
URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
360 Ks to the estancia. This is a medium rich ranch country of gently rolling hills dotted with clumps of trees. The cows are mostly Hereford. The roads are mostly straight. Some stretches the tar is beginning to peal. Truck drivers are courteous. Gauchos raise a hand in greeting. The few cars aren't racers. The sun shines - perfect biker weather. My confidence seeps back. I edge the speed up to 90 KPH. The final ten kilometres are dirt. In Ushuaia, I changed the city tyres for nobblies. The Honda holds rock steady. A sign flags the track to the estancia. The sun is beginning to dip below a row of tall eucalyptus. The house is low and ochre and protected from the sun by roofed terraces on three sides. Two Alsatians and a dappled gun dog greet me. A man in a beret and work trousers gathered at the ankle (uniform of the gaucho) reports that my cousins are out walking. I dump my bags in an open-plan living space. Hip-high cupboards and a rack for wineglasses divides a big kitchen from the dinning area. Sofas and armchairs are gathered in front of an open fire where a couple of logs smoulder.
Outside there are views for fifty miles, beds of roses and lavender, shrubs, a small swimming pool. A roofed area the pool-end of the house is open at both ends to channel the breeze. The outer wall supports a wood oven and grill wide enough to cook assado for fifty people. The gaucho has been readying coals for the evening meal. The dogs start up a racket. Brian and Carmen come strolling down the track. I feel great.
360 Ks to the estancia. This is a medium rich ranch country of gently rolling hills dotted with clumps of trees. The cows are mostly Hereford. The roads are mostly straight. Some stretches the tar is beginning to peal. Truck drivers are courteous. Gauchos raise a hand in greeting. The few cars aren't racers. The sun shines - perfect biker weather. My confidence seeps back. I edge the speed up to 90 KPH. The final ten kilometres are dirt. In Ushuaia, I changed the city tyres for nobblies. The Honda holds rock steady. A sign flags the track to the estancia. The sun is beginning to dip below a row of tall eucalyptus. The house is low and ochre and protected from the sun by roofed terraces on three sides. Two Alsatians and a dappled gun dog greet me. A man in a beret and work trousers gathered at the ankle (uniform of the gaucho) reports that my cousins are out walking. I dump my bags in an open-plan living space. Hip-high cupboards and a rack for wineglasses divides a big kitchen from the dinning area. Sofas and armchairs are gathered in front of an open fire where a couple of logs smoulder.
Outside there are views for fifty miles, beds of roses and lavender, shrubs, a small swimming pool. A roofed area the pool-end of the house is open at both ends to channel the breeze. The outer wall supports a wood oven and grill wide enough to cook assado for fifty people. The gaucho has been readying coals for the evening meal. The dogs start up a racket. Brian and Carmen come strolling down the track. I feel great.
FEAR IS AN INFIRMITY
URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
Two busses follow me out of Colonia. Intent on watching them, I nearly cross an intersection with lights at red. A straight road shaded by palm trees runs over gentle hills. Double yellow lines mark the centre of the road. I slow and ease onto the hard shoulder. The busses hang back untill we have crossed the next crest. A driver waves as he slides by. I could learn to love Uruguay.
Two busses follow me out of Colonia. Intent on watching them, I nearly cross an intersection with lights at red. A straight road shaded by palm trees runs over gentle hills. Double yellow lines mark the centre of the road. I slow and ease onto the hard shoulder. The busses hang back untill we have crossed the next crest. A driver waves as he slides by. I could learn to love Uruguay.
WHY AM I SO STUPID?
URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
No high-rises in Colonia. The heart is Hispanic Colonial, nothing grand - small houses and cobbled streets. A fast ferry has docked ahead of us. Cars queue in three lines. A Uruguayan Customs officer asks for my Immigration fiche. He tares off the original, hands me the copy and waves me through. I suspect that I should have said, "Wait a minute. Don't I need my passport stamped or register the temporary import of the Honda?"
What will happen when I try to leave Uruguay?
Weren't my difficulties in leaving Argentina sufficient?
No high-rises in Colonia. The heart is Hispanic Colonial, nothing grand - small houses and cobbled streets. A fast ferry has docked ahead of us. Cars queue in three lines. A Uruguayan Customs officer asks for my Immigration fiche. He tares off the original, hands me the copy and waves me through. I suspect that I should have said, "Wait a minute. Don't I need my passport stamped or register the temporary import of the Honda?"
What will happen when I try to leave Uruguay?
Weren't my difficulties in leaving Argentina sufficient?
GEOGRAPHIC CONFUSION AND CRUELTY
URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
The ferry is comfortable. I sit beside a splendid lady in her eighties. She is visiting a friend in Montevideo. The friend is frail and in her early nineties. My companion celebrated a replacement hip last year by touring much of Europe. She was four years old when her father and mother emigrated to Argentina. In her father's youth the family village was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It became Italian after World War 1, Yugoslav after World War 2. Now it is Slovenia and she travels abroad on an EU passport.
The daughter of her eldest son had an emergency operation last week.
My companion telephoned her granddaughter this morning.
Her son answered the telephone.
Her granddaughter was resting.
"I'll wait," she said.
Her son put down the telephone.
He hasn't spoken to his mother in nine years.
She doesn't know why.
There was no fight, no argument. He simply ceased talking to her.
Why are we so cruel?
The ferry is comfortable. I sit beside a splendid lady in her eighties. She is visiting a friend in Montevideo. The friend is frail and in her early nineties. My companion celebrated a replacement hip last year by touring much of Europe. She was four years old when her father and mother emigrated to Argentina. In her father's youth the family village was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It became Italian after World War 1, Yugoslav after World War 2. Now it is Slovenia and she travels abroad on an EU passport.
The daughter of her eldest son had an emergency operation last week.
My companion telephoned her granddaughter this morning.
Her son answered the telephone.
Her granddaughter was resting.
"I'll wait," she said.
Her son put down the telephone.
He hasn't spoken to his mother in nine years.
She doesn't know why.
There was no fight, no argument. He simply ceased talking to her.
Why are we so cruel?
WEEP FOR ME, ARGENTINA
TO URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
The ferry company, Buquebus, runs fast boats and slow boats across the River Plate to Uruguay. I choose the slow boat to Colonia. The fare for myself and the Baby Honda is US$48. The passage takes three hours. The fast boat crosses in an hour and costs twice as much. New and gleaming apartment buildings dominate the Buenos Aires water front. Most developers and apartment owners are foreign. Few Argentines can afford the prices. Of those that can, few would risk their savings within Argentina. Mortgages? In Pesos? Don't be silly. The President has announced a ceiling on bank rates. The ceiling is 10% below the true rate of inflation. Banks aren't lending. Argentines hold their breath and close their ears and close their eyes and wait for the next crash.
Weep for me, Argentina.
I prefer to weep for Argentines.
THE ANGEL MARIA
BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16
The section head at the Customs Office is Maria de Angeles. Is it impolite or sexist to remark that she is woman of good looks? Note that I dare not write beautiful. Helpful is permissible as is considerate and sympathetic. She checks my bike papers, searches records for the statement I wrote for the Customs in Rio Grande, places in front of me a dossier that I must sign in three different directions, allows me to kiss her hand (twice) and wishes me well on my travels. I am free to leave Argentina.
The section head at the Customs Office is Maria de Angeles. Is it impolite or sexist to remark that she is woman of good looks? Note that I dare not write beautiful. Helpful is permissible as is considerate and sympathetic. She checks my bike papers, searches records for the statement I wrote for the Customs in Rio Grande, places in front of me a dossier that I must sign in three different directions, allows me to kiss her hand (twice) and wishes me well on my travels. I am free to leave Argentina.
Monday, October 15, 2007
TWO-LEGGED HEREFORDS
BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 15
I will be back in England in March. I have a date to talk with the Over 50s Club at the Baptist Church in Hereford. I often boast to Argentines that I live in the Province from which come their cows. I add that our Hereford beef is better than their Hereford beef. And I stop sometimes at the roadside and chat with a young fellow, ask if he knows whether his great great grandfather came from Hereford or Ledbury. The young won't give an old man much time for fear of what their friends will say. However, sometimes I believe that I see a slight grin.
Perhaps some of the Over 50s Club will read this diary and keep me company on my travels. Two-legged Herfords must have more to say than the four-legged variety.
I will be back in England in March. I have a date to talk with the Over 50s Club at the Baptist Church in Hereford. I often boast to Argentines that I live in the Province from which come their cows. I add that our Hereford beef is better than their Hereford beef. And I stop sometimes at the roadside and chat with a young fellow, ask if he knows whether his great great grandfather came from Hereford or Ledbury. The young won't give an old man much time for fear of what their friends will say. However, sometimes I believe that I see a slight grin.
Perhaps some of the Over 50s Club will read this diary and keep me company on my travels. Two-legged Herfords must have more to say than the four-legged variety.
DUMB OLD TOAD
BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 15
OK, so I should have looked. I didn't. My entry stamp for Argentina gave me ninety days. I presumed the temporary import permit for the bike would be identical. Not so. Thirty days. I was up at dawn, showered, packed, loaded the bike and said my farewells to the staff at my home from home here in Buenos Aires. the GRAN Hotel Espana. I rode confidently down to the ferry port. I cleared immigration and waited to board the ferry astride my massive steed. A Customs officer inspected my documents and discovered that my bike had overstayed its permitted period by eight days. I ride back to the GRAN Hotel Espana. Drag my gear up into my old room. Call my cousins in Uruguay that I will be a couple of days late for dinner. Today is a national holiday. Tomorrow I apply for the extension. The lady in charge of the Department is Maria de Angeles. Hopefully she will be angelic.
OK, so I should have looked. I didn't. My entry stamp for Argentina gave me ninety days. I presumed the temporary import permit for the bike would be identical. Not so. Thirty days. I was up at dawn, showered, packed, loaded the bike and said my farewells to the staff at my home from home here in Buenos Aires. the GRAN Hotel Espana. I rode confidently down to the ferry port. I cleared immigration and waited to board the ferry astride my massive steed. A Customs officer inspected my documents and discovered that my bike had overstayed its permitted period by eight days. I ride back to the GRAN Hotel Espana. Drag my gear up into my old room. Call my cousins in Uruguay that I will be a couple of days late for dinner. Today is a national holiday. Tomorrow I apply for the extension. The lady in charge of the Department is Maria de Angeles. Hopefully she will be angelic.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
DAKAR MOTO IS A BIKER'S HAVEN
bikers' havenBUENOS AIRES:
I haven't slept too well. Today I must ride the bike back from Dakar Moto to the city centre. The autopista scares me. I can deal with the traffic ahead. I am scared of a truck or a car smashing into my rear. Rain threatens which doesn't help. I imagine slippery road surfaces and being unable to see clearly through fogged spectacles.
I take the metro and suburban train out to Florida. Eight of us eat a great assado in the workshop at Dakar Moto.The meat is cooked by Javier. Preparing the salad is more time consuming - women's work, no applause.
Is that nit picking?
Yes, I know...Get on with the story.
An Argentine rose grower drives us to the pizza parlor to watch the England-France rugby match. The rose grower helps run his family's nursery in Ecuador. He hopes that he remains a biker but carries a thick scent of inevitable marriage, four wheels, four kids, an expanding paunch and executive desk . That's the way it goes and he knows it.
The match is a breath-taker right to the final whistle.
Lots of hugs and I saddle up and head for the city.
The clouds have cleared. I ride in evening sunshine. Drivers on the motorway imagine that they are competing in a Selectric race.
They weave, overtake on the inside, flash lights, not as a warning, but to express ill temper.
I survive.
Little by little, my confidence returns. No implication here that I am comfortable in the saddle, merely nervous rather than scared witless.
The motorway becomes a fourteen lane avenue. The Gran Hotel Espana is one block off to the left. I park on the sidewalk, take the elevator up to my floor, lie on my bed and call Sandra and Javier. They are part of my Pantheon of Argentine saints, Argentinians who came to my aid when I was badly down and helped resurrect both me and the Baby Honda.
I am deeply grateful...Yes, and a little jealous of Sandra's new gleaming-black Honda 250 trail bike.
Though not really.
I am not a true biker.
The Baby Honda does me very well.
Only forty thousand kilometres separates us from our destination.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
SAINT SIMON
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11
I have enjoyed a celebratory lunch of tripe a la Madrilleno and a big glass of excellent red wine (US$3.80). The celebration? I have sorted all the photographs of last year's journey and sent those that are relevant to my publisher. I have completed the final editing on a piece for Elli Cobb at Lonely Planet for an antholgy to be published in August and I have emailed my column to 50 Connect. I expect to see a halo when looking in the mirror. I am sure the halo exists, maybe a little dimmed. Global Warming is a worry to the Creator. He is conserving Power.
I have enjoyed a celebratory lunch of tripe a la Madrilleno and a big glass of excellent red wine (US$3.80). The celebration? I have sorted all the photographs of last year's journey and sent those that are relevant to my publisher. I have completed the final editing on a piece for Elli Cobb at Lonely Planet for an antholgy to be published in August and I have emailed my column to 50 Connect. I expect to see a halo when looking in the mirror. I am sure the halo exists, maybe a little dimmed. Global Warming is a worry to the Creator. He is conserving Power.
DON'T AVOID BAD NEWS
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11
I have been avoiding newspapers. Local politics is too depressing. Had I read the newspapers I would have known that this is a holiday weekend. I dropped by the Bouquebus ticket office yesterday for ferry passage tomorrow to Colonia in Uruguay. Sunday at 10 a.m. is the first available space! Frankly I am glad. I can ride to the City centre from Dakar Moto on Saturday evening: traffic should be minimal. Sunday, truck traffic will be nonexistent. Good! I don't like trucks, particularly the Argentine variety.
I have been avoiding newspapers. Local politics is too depressing. Had I read the newspapers I would have known that this is a holiday weekend. I dropped by the Bouquebus ticket office yesterday for ferry passage tomorrow to Colonia in Uruguay. Sunday at 10 a.m. is the first available space! Frankly I am glad. I can ride to the City centre from Dakar Moto on Saturday evening: traffic should be minimal. Sunday, truck traffic will be nonexistent. Good! I don't like trucks, particularly the Argentine variety.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
TENTATIVE
BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 10
Dakar Motos is in the suburbs. Lunch hour in the rain is a good time for my first ride since the smash. I am nervous as I ride the baby Honda slowly down almost deserted suburban streets. I fear being ambushed. The commissioning editor at Lonely Planet emailed me this morning with some minor suggestions to a piece. The editing is a respectable excuse for delaying my departure. And my book publishers want thirty photographs - a further excuse. My cousins suggest that I stop at their estancia in Uruguay. They go for the weekend. The road is paved bar the last ten kilometres and little used. Maybe my confidence will return after a good run.
Dakar Motos is in the suburbs. Lunch hour in the rain is a good time for my first ride since the smash. I am nervous as I ride the baby Honda slowly down almost deserted suburban streets. I fear being ambushed. The commissioning editor at Lonely Planet emailed me this morning with some minor suggestions to a piece. The editing is a respectable excuse for delaying my departure. And my book publishers want thirty photographs - a further excuse. My cousins suggest that I stop at their estancia in Uruguay. They go for the weekend. The road is paved bar the last ten kilometres and little used. Maybe my confidence will return after a good run.
DIVIDED CITY
BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 10
Bar a miracle, the present President's wife will be Argentina's next President. A weekend opinion poll reports the two greatest concerns of the voters are economic instability and corruption. The same poll reports that only 2.7% of voters will vote for the President's wife because they believe her to be honest. Meanwhile newspapers report that the equivalent of sixteen-hundred-million US dollars has been spent by the President without Parliamentary permission or oversight. Much of the funds are reputed (by the newspapers) to have been channeled through the Minister closest to the President, a Senor de Vido. I, a foreigner, have no reason to believe the reports are other than scurilous. People make jokes about Un nacion devido. Here are two photographs to accompany the pun.
Bar a miracle, the present President's wife will be Argentina's next President. A weekend opinion poll reports the two greatest concerns of the voters are economic instability and corruption. The same poll reports that only 2.7% of voters will vote for the President's wife because they believe her to be honest. Meanwhile newspapers report that the equivalent of sixteen-hundred-million US dollars has been spent by the President without Parliamentary permission or oversight. Much of the funds are reputed (by the newspapers) to have been channeled through the Minister closest to the President, a Senor de Vido. I, a foreigner, have no reason to believe the reports are other than scurilous. People make jokes about Un nacion devido. Here are two photographs to accompany the pun.
READYING MYSELF FOR DEPARTURE
dinner & Carmensita being considerate of an old man in his cups
BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 10
Javier at Dakar Motos reports that the baby Honda is finally ready. Am I?
My cousins, Carmen and Brian, give a small family dinner for me. I am deeply touched that Tony came. He is not well and the three flights of stairs up to the open-plan living room demanded great determination. My cousins have a young daughter studying film. My youngest son, Jed, studies film. He also speaks Spanish, though of the Cuban variety. I would love for them to meet and keep this sense of family alive for a further generation.
Javier at Dakar Motos reports that the baby Honda is finally ready. Am I?
My cousins, Carmen and Brian, give a small family dinner for me. I am deeply touched that Tony came. He is not well and the three flights of stairs up to the open-plan living room demanded great determination. My cousins have a young daughter studying film. My youngest son, Jed, studies film. He also speaks Spanish, though of the Cuban variety. I would love for them to meet and keep this sense of family alive for a further generation.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
FAMILY
BUENOS AIRES: SEPTEMBER 26 to OCTOBER 7
As a novelist, I hide my beliefs and emotions within an undergrowth of invented detail. My characters suffer. I remain invulnerable. Reporting is more complicated. I have to raise my own head above the parapet. I have been in Buenos Aires a fortnight. I have been occupied mainly with meeting family. Writing of family is both difficult and embarrassing. What do I include? What do I exclude?
Tony Deane was my introduction to these Argentine relatives. I am the younger by a few years (very few).
An outsider might take a quick glance at Tony and recognise a bluff Brit of the old school, rancher, polo player, a Conservative, something of a Blimp.
The same outsider might presume that I, an Old Lefty, must step carefully in Tony's presence.
Ah, well...
On my last visit, Tony gave me a book of naval history, Neslon's Favourite. The book relates the life of the 64 gun Agamemnon and is published by Chatham House in England. Many of the illustrations come from the British Maritime Museum in Greenwich. It is a fascinating and beautifully written account, meticulously researched. The writer shows a remarkable understanding of both officers and sailors. Tony is the author. The book betrays much of who he really is: his openness of mind, his warmth and sincerity, his commitment to his work and his determination and courage in carrying a tough task through to its conclusion.
I suspect that Tony will be embarrassed by this description. It is no more than he deserves. I read his book late into the night and have sent it home for my wife, Bernadette, to enjoy. In my dotage, I will take it down from the shelf and stroke the cover as book lovers do. I will think myself privileged to have known the author. I will think how very fortunate he was to discover a wife in his later years who cares so well and deeply for him.
Enough!
Dangerous stuff, this raising my head above the parapet...
As a novelist, I hide my beliefs and emotions within an undergrowth of invented detail. My characters suffer. I remain invulnerable. Reporting is more complicated. I have to raise my own head above the parapet. I have been in Buenos Aires a fortnight. I have been occupied mainly with meeting family. Writing of family is both difficult and embarrassing. What do I include? What do I exclude?
Tony Deane was my introduction to these Argentine relatives. I am the younger by a few years (very few).
An outsider might take a quick glance at Tony and recognise a bluff Brit of the old school, rancher, polo player, a Conservative, something of a Blimp.
The same outsider might presume that I, an Old Lefty, must step carefully in Tony's presence.
Ah, well...
On my last visit, Tony gave me a book of naval history, Neslon's Favourite. The book relates the life of the 64 gun Agamemnon and is published by Chatham House in England. Many of the illustrations come from the British Maritime Museum in Greenwich. It is a fascinating and beautifully written account, meticulously researched. The writer shows a remarkable understanding of both officers and sailors. Tony is the author. The book betrays much of who he really is: his openness of mind, his warmth and sincerity, his commitment to his work and his determination and courage in carrying a tough task through to its conclusion.
I suspect that Tony will be embarrassed by this description. It is no more than he deserves. I read his book late into the night and have sent it home for my wife, Bernadette, to enjoy. In my dotage, I will take it down from the shelf and stroke the cover as book lovers do. I will think myself privileged to have known the author. I will think how very fortunate he was to discover a wife in his later years who cares so well and deeply for him.
Enough!
Dangerous stuff, this raising my head above the parapet...
FAMILY
BUENOS AIRES: SEPTEMBER 25 to OCTOBER 7
I have written previously that my very distant Argentine cousin, Tony Deane, used to visit England regularly to play polo and buy pedigree Hereford cattle. He sold a polo pony to my elder brother (another Antony) some thirty years ago. Tony's younger brother, Brian and his wife, Carmen, have shown me extraordinary hospitality over the past days here in Buenos Aires. At their home I have met many of the younger generation. They are a very varied bunch in what they do. One is an immensely successful banker. Another is in Government service and entrusted with the integrity of the coming elections.
Why, I ask: Government salaries are small by any standard; he is a highly qualified lawyer?
He replies that his countrymen deserve better. A better future demands that people of integrity serve the country.
Integrity is a dangerous quality.
He is a brave and honourable young man.
He is also very fortunate. He has the support of a charming and intelligent wife.
I have written previously that my very distant Argentine cousin, Tony Deane, used to visit England regularly to play polo and buy pedigree Hereford cattle. He sold a polo pony to my elder brother (another Antony) some thirty years ago. Tony's younger brother, Brian and his wife, Carmen, have shown me extraordinary hospitality over the past days here in Buenos Aires. At their home I have met many of the younger generation. They are a very varied bunch in what they do. One is an immensely successful banker. Another is in Government service and entrusted with the integrity of the coming elections.
Why, I ask: Government salaries are small by any standard; he is a highly qualified lawyer?
He replies that his countrymen deserve better. A better future demands that people of integrity serve the country.
Integrity is a dangerous quality.
He is a brave and honourable young man.
He is also very fortunate. He has the support of a charming and intelligent wife.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
DAKAR MOTOS ASSADO
are they having a relationship?
SATURDAY: SEPTEMBER 30
Javier and Sandra have an assado for bikers on Saturdays. I take the Metro and the train out to Florida. An East German is the only other foreigner. He is a computer engineer (mamoth computers), works as a consultant for a couple of years, then does a runner for a year, wandering Latin America on a big bike. Back home his friends think him crazy: all that money he could be earning and hoarding in the bank. Ming would understand; he is about to do another runner. So would the Polish software expert I met last year in Porto Bello, Panama. The Pole was director of a software company in Boston, Mas. He gave lunch to a client in a restaurant over looking a marina and spotted a FOR SALE sign on a small sailboat. He walked down to the marina after lunch, bought the sailboat and never went back to the office.
What do these men have in common?
High earning capacity and discovery that money isn't a sufficient goal. Nor is it a satisfactory foundation for society. There has to be more. The East German talks of social morality. Why is shooting people a greater crime than being responsibile for people starving?
I listen and nod my agreement, drink red wine and eat meat...
Javier and Sandra have an assado for bikers on Saturdays. I take the Metro and the train out to Florida. An East German is the only other foreigner. He is a computer engineer (mamoth computers), works as a consultant for a couple of years, then does a runner for a year, wandering Latin America on a big bike. Back home his friends think him crazy: all that money he could be earning and hoarding in the bank. Ming would understand; he is about to do another runner. So would the Polish software expert I met last year in Porto Bello, Panama. The Pole was director of a software company in Boston, Mas. He gave lunch to a client in a restaurant over looking a marina and spotted a FOR SALE sign on a small sailboat. He walked down to the marina after lunch, bought the sailboat and never went back to the office.
What do these men have in common?
High earning capacity and discovery that money isn't a sufficient goal. Nor is it a satisfactory foundation for society. There has to be more. The East German talks of social morality. Why is shooting people a greater crime than being responsibile for people starving?
I listen and nod my agreement, drink red wine and eat meat...
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
COUSINS
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27
My cousin was a banker. One of his sons is a banker. Thursdays are a family get together at my cousin's home. I am proud of myself. I have climbed two flights of white marble stairs at their town house and a circular staircase to a large open plan living room that opens to a roof garden. Twelve of us sit at a square table, three to a side: my cousin and his wife, their two sons and their wives, their daughter and a blond English girl for whom statuesque or trouble are equally accurate descriptions. Various members of my family back home would never ask me to such a dinner. They think of me as inhabiting the extreme left wing of the left and worry that my politics will give offense. I have never been against people being rich. I am against people being poor.
My cousin was a banker. One of his sons is a banker. Thursdays are a family get together at my cousin's home. I am proud of myself. I have climbed two flights of white marble stairs at their town house and a circular staircase to a large open plan living room that opens to a roof garden. Twelve of us sit at a square table, three to a side: my cousin and his wife, their two sons and their wives, their daughter and a blond English girl for whom statuesque or trouble are equally accurate descriptions. Various members of my family back home would never ask me to such a dinner. They think of me as inhabiting the extreme left wing of the left and worry that my politics will give offense. I have never been against people being rich. I am against people being poor.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
CRASH
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27
I was riding on ice on a dead straight gentle climb. Visibility was perfect. A driver coming from behind would have seen me from a mile back. I would have been a dot in the road, then a man on a bike and finally a man on a bike travelling at a few kilometres an hour, a biker scrabbling for purchase on the ice with his feet and clearly with minimal control. The driver that hit me didn't slow. He sounded his klaxon to warn me to get off the road. I was trying to get off the road when he hit me. I can remember the sound. I think that I heard first the plastic above the rear wheel shattering. I remember my shoulder hitting the ice and the black fender above me and knowing that the wheels of the truck were a few feet back from my skull. I knew that, I was fully aware of it. I expected to go under the wheels. I didn't. I was sliding on the ice. I wanted the driver to slow. I kept thinking why doesn't he brake? Why doesn't he slow? We slid and slid. The klaxon was holding me. The klaxon mounts had snapped. The two electrical cables to the klaxon held. I remember the cables. The driver and the driver's mate dragged me and the bike out from under the truck fender and helped me to my feet. The klaxon was dangling by the cables. It must have been trapped behind my knees.
The driver held me in his arms. He called me hermano and was crying. The Chilean cops came. I told them that the accident was my fault, that the driver wasn't to blame in any way. They accepted what I said. They wanted to get me to the first aid post. They didn't take a statement from the driver. I am glad they didn't. I shouldn't have been riding on ice.
I have made jokes about the accident up till now - how it is to be hit by three trucks - orthopaedic trucks because my back hasn't hurt once since and I had been in continual pain for the four months prior to the accident.
It wasn't a joke. I should be dead. That I am alive is almost inexplicable. Two electrical cables probably made the difference between life and death, between being crushed and being alive. I would have felt the wheels hit the back of my head. There would have been a few seconds of sliding with the tyre against my head before I was crushed. I was fully conscious. I would have felt it all happen quite slowly and known all the time exactly what was happening until the tyres finally crushed my head. I needed to write this down. I have been feeling increasingly shaky. I suppose that I am suffering delayed shock...And being alone now, no longer amongst the guys at the Hotel Argentino, I don't have to maintain an act. You know? The tough upper lip Brit? I got hit by three trucks, Ha Ha Ha...
I was riding on ice on a dead straight gentle climb. Visibility was perfect. A driver coming from behind would have seen me from a mile back. I would have been a dot in the road, then a man on a bike and finally a man on a bike travelling at a few kilometres an hour, a biker scrabbling for purchase on the ice with his feet and clearly with minimal control. The driver that hit me didn't slow. He sounded his klaxon to warn me to get off the road. I was trying to get off the road when he hit me. I can remember the sound. I think that I heard first the plastic above the rear wheel shattering. I remember my shoulder hitting the ice and the black fender above me and knowing that the wheels of the truck were a few feet back from my skull. I knew that, I was fully aware of it. I expected to go under the wheels. I didn't. I was sliding on the ice. I wanted the driver to slow. I kept thinking why doesn't he brake? Why doesn't he slow? We slid and slid. The klaxon was holding me. The klaxon mounts had snapped. The two electrical cables to the klaxon held. I remember the cables. The driver and the driver's mate dragged me and the bike out from under the truck fender and helped me to my feet. The klaxon was dangling by the cables. It must have been trapped behind my knees.
The driver held me in his arms. He called me hermano and was crying. The Chilean cops came. I told them that the accident was my fault, that the driver wasn't to blame in any way. They accepted what I said. They wanted to get me to the first aid post. They didn't take a statement from the driver. I am glad they didn't. I shouldn't have been riding on ice.
I have made jokes about the accident up till now - how it is to be hit by three trucks - orthopaedic trucks because my back hasn't hurt once since and I had been in continual pain for the four months prior to the accident.
It wasn't a joke. I should be dead. That I am alive is almost inexplicable. Two electrical cables probably made the difference between life and death, between being crushed and being alive. I would have felt the wheels hit the back of my head. There would have been a few seconds of sliding with the tyre against my head before I was crushed. I was fully conscious. I would have felt it all happen quite slowly and known all the time exactly what was happening until the tyres finally crushed my head. I needed to write this down. I have been feeling increasingly shaky. I suppose that I am suffering delayed shock...And being alone now, no longer amongst the guys at the Hotel Argentino, I don't have to maintain an act. You know? The tough upper lip Brit? I got hit by three trucks, Ha Ha Ha...
RELATIVES AND AFTERSHOCK
BUENOS AIRES: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27
I have a tribe of cousins here in Buenos Aires. They are cousins at three or four generations distance. Thirty years ago one of them was over in England playing polo and sold my brother a pony at the end of the season. That was the only contact until I called on my way south to Ushuaia and was invited to lunch by the seller of the polo pony and his wife. A brother and his wife were present. They have been sending me emails since the accident, worrying and fussing, wanting me to come stay while I heal, be checked over by the doctors they use. This phlegmatic Brit is embarrassed at writing of how much this family connection and support has helped me over the past weeks. I get weepy. I am weepy. I have suffered a shock. Pepe is up here from Tierra del Fuego and visiting patients. We were in a cab earlier on the way to an art exhibition. He made me face what really happened on the road. I guess he felt it was time - or he was bored by my romanticised account. Now that I have faced what happened I feel sick in the stomach. I want to throw up. My hands shake. As I write, I feel weepy.
I have a tribe of cousins here in Buenos Aires. They are cousins at three or four generations distance. Thirty years ago one of them was over in England playing polo and sold my brother a pony at the end of the season. That was the only contact until I called on my way south to Ushuaia and was invited to lunch by the seller of the polo pony and his wife. A brother and his wife were present. They have been sending me emails since the accident, worrying and fussing, wanting me to come stay while I heal, be checked over by the doctors they use. This phlegmatic Brit is embarrassed at writing of how much this family connection and support has helped me over the past weeks. I get weepy. I am weepy. I have suffered a shock. Pepe is up here from Tierra del Fuego and visiting patients. We were in a cab earlier on the way to an art exhibition. He made me face what really happened on the road. I guess he felt it was time - or he was bored by my romanticised account. Now that I have faced what happened I feel sick in the stomach. I want to throw up. My hands shake. As I write, I feel weepy.
DAKAR MOTOS
BUENOS AIRES: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Javier and Sandra of Dakar Motos have a bunk room for visiting bikers and a garden where bikers can pitch a tent. A Scotsman and his girlfriend on a Beemer are staying as is an East German Computer engineer. Mostly I feel a fraud when I chat with fellow bikers. Real bikers don't ride baby Hondas. Being hit by three trucks is a passport to the inner circle. I talk with an Argentine. Javier joins our conversation. Javier enjoys speaking English which irritates the Argentine biker. The biker has strong views. Everything has gone to hell since the return to democracy. Kids lack discipline. They don't work. They don't study. They drink, they fuck, they take dope. Parents are as bad, lazy, always expecting a handout. I recognise the biker. I drove Don's Hummer behind his twin last year in Dallas. Fun to put them in a small room. Would they kill each other before they discovered they shared such similar beliefs?
Javier and Sandra of Dakar Motos have a bunk room for visiting bikers and a garden where bikers can pitch a tent. A Scotsman and his girlfriend on a Beemer are staying as is an East German Computer engineer. Mostly I feel a fraud when I chat with fellow bikers. Real bikers don't ride baby Hondas. Being hit by three trucks is a passport to the inner circle. I talk with an Argentine. Javier joins our conversation. Javier enjoys speaking English which irritates the Argentine biker. The biker has strong views. Everything has gone to hell since the return to democracy. Kids lack discipline. They don't work. They don't study. They drink, they fuck, they take dope. Parents are as bad, lazy, always expecting a handout. I recognise the biker. I drove Don's Hummer behind his twin last year in Dallas. Fun to put them in a small room. Would they kill each other before they discovered they shared such similar beliefs?
BABY HONDA
BUENOS AIRES: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
The metro runs direct from Avenida del Mayo to the bus and rail stations at Retiro. A Belgrano train to Florida gets me close to Dakar Motos. The journey is easy. Uncomfortable is seeing the hovels teetering on every available piece of wasteland. Poverty is the flip side of Buenos Aires.
Javier at Dakar Motos speaks English. He is a tall man, red hair, a biker from his boots to the top of his head. The baby Honda sits on a mechanic's pedestal. It has no back wheel, no rear suspension. It looks small. It is small. Even in one piece it would be dwarfed by the BMWs, Africa Twins and whatever. Ming's Monster looks small. Ming has given it to a friend. The friend will pick it up next week. Javier says the baby Honda should be ready for next Wednesday.
The metro runs direct from Avenida del Mayo to the bus and rail stations at Retiro. A Belgrano train to Florida gets me close to Dakar Motos. The journey is easy. Uncomfortable is seeing the hovels teetering on every available piece of wasteland. Poverty is the flip side of Buenos Aires.
Javier at Dakar Motos speaks English. He is a tall man, red hair, a biker from his boots to the top of his head. The baby Honda sits on a mechanic's pedestal. It has no back wheel, no rear suspension. It looks small. It is small. Even in one piece it would be dwarfed by the BMWs, Africa Twins and whatever. Ming's Monster looks small. Ming has given it to a friend. The friend will pick it up next week. Javier says the baby Honda should be ready for next Wednesday.
COSTS?
BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25
Buenos Aires is a light, clean and beautiful city with many parks. For much of the architecture, imagine Paris late 19th century. What are the costs?
Room with large double bed and a good bathroom half a block off the Avenida del Mayo which is as central as you can get: $19
Big container of fresh fruit salad from the greengrocer on the same bloc: $1.15
Take a left and walk a block and a half to the Chinese: The best ever hot and sour soup: $2.20
I keep a bottle of wine at the Chinese and drink a glass when I ever eat there - often late in the evening to watch a movie on cable TV. $6 will buy a good steak and fries in a brasserie. A cab to most places is $2 or less. Metro is $0.25 a ride. Urban train fare five stops to Dakar Motors to check on the bike is $0.50. I saw the third Bourne movie at a clean movie house: $1.20
Buenos Aires is a light, clean and beautiful city with many parks. For much of the architecture, imagine Paris late 19th century. What are the costs?
Room with large double bed and a good bathroom half a block off the Avenida del Mayo which is as central as you can get: $19
Big container of fresh fruit salad from the greengrocer on the same bloc: $1.15
Take a left and walk a block and a half to the Chinese: The best ever hot and sour soup: $2.20
I keep a bottle of wine at the Chinese and drink a glass when I ever eat there - often late in the evening to watch a movie on cable TV. $6 will buy a good steak and fries in a brasserie. A cab to most places is $2 or less. Metro is $0.25 a ride. Urban train fare five stops to Dakar Motors to check on the bike is $0.50. I saw the third Bourne movie at a clean movie house: $1.20
GRAN HOTEL ESPANA
BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 24
The Gran Hotel Espana is my home away from home. The Gran is a misnomer. The hotel is small. I have a quite room and bath at the rear on the third floor. Were cynicism an Olympic support, the manager would be a shoo-in for the Gold medal. I sit in the tiny lobby and chat with the afternoon receptionist, Gustavo. He telephoned Rio Grande as soon as he read of the accident. Such small acts of kindness and concern are heartening on a long journey - knowing that you have the support of friends.
The Gran Hotel Espana is my home away from home. The Gran is a misnomer. The hotel is small. I have a quite room and bath at the rear on the third floor. Were cynicism an Olympic support, the manager would be a shoo-in for the Gold medal. I sit in the tiny lobby and chat with the afternoon receptionist, Gustavo. He telephoned Rio Grande as soon as he read of the accident. Such small acts of kindness and concern are heartening on a long journey - knowing that you have the support of friends.
SLAUGHTERING INDIANS
ON THE BUS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
Eight hours to Buenos Aires, look out of the window and the land is flat. We saw a hill four hours ago. We won't see another. I have read the newspaper. I don't have a book. For sport, I list other similarities shared by Argentina and the USA.
Both countries slaughtered their indigenous population around the same time and mythologised the killers.
Cowboy and gaucho are equally romanticised.
Both gaucho and cowboy duelled and murdered each other, gauchos with knives, cowboys with revolvers.
Both Chacara and Country and Western music celebrate loneliness and the broken heart.
I discussed similarities with an Argentine sociologist in Rio Grande. He wrote his doctoral theses in Arizona. He claimed one essential difference: North Americans are optimists. They believe in a better future.
Argentines are fatalists. They have no belief in a better future.
Eight hours to Buenos Aires, look out of the window and the land is flat. We saw a hill four hours ago. We won't see another. I have read the newspaper. I don't have a book. For sport, I list other similarities shared by Argentina and the USA.
The bulk of the population are descendants of comparatively recent immigration (beginning in the late 1890s).
The bulk of immigrants were poorly educated and driven from their birth countries by war, poverty and persecution.
Both countries slaughtered their indigenous population around the same time and mythologised the killers.
Cowboy and gaucho are equally romanticised.
Both gaucho and cowboy duelled and murdered each other, gauchos with knives, cowboys with revolvers.
Both Chacara and Country and Western music celebrate loneliness and the broken heart.
I discussed similarities with an Argentine sociologist in Rio Grande. He wrote his doctoral theses in Arizona. He claimed one essential difference: North Americans are optimists. They believe in a better future.
Argentines are fatalists. They have no belief in a better future.
ARGENTINE/USA
ON THE BUS: SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
We are on an airfield one thousand miles long by five hundred miles wide. Farmers have ploughed bits of the airfield, planted crops and a few trees. Travelling by train from NY to Dallas was the same - totally flat. Look out of the window and you wonder what quirk sited a town where it is rather than ten or twenty miles south, east, north or west. The wastage of land is similar. We Europeans treasure every square metre. A business fails, someone rebuilds on the same site. Not so in small town Argentina or in small town USA. Abandoned buildings abound. Land is cheap. Easier to build new on a green site. So the urban sprawl spreads.
We are on an airfield one thousand miles long by five hundred miles wide. Farmers have ploughed bits of the airfield, planted crops and a few trees. Travelling by train from NY to Dallas was the same - totally flat. Look out of the window and you wonder what quirk sited a town where it is rather than ten or twenty miles south, east, north or west. The wastage of land is similar. We Europeans treasure every square metre. A business fails, someone rebuilds on the same site. Not so in small town Argentina or in small town USA. Abandoned buildings abound. Land is cheap. Easier to build new on a green site. So the urban sprawl spreads.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
MAPUCHE ARE INDEFATIGABLE
NEGUEN: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
I have a three hour wait at the bus terminal for the AndesMar connection to Buenos Aires. I discover that the AndesMar bus takes an indirect route. The direct route taken by other companies is six hours shorter. Damn! However I will see more of the country and I can't change my ticket. The connection is down at the bus terminal's smart Internet cafe. I eat ravioli in the slow-service fast-food restaurant. Service is slow because the male staff are watching football on TV. I chatted with a young Chilean woman on the bus. She is studying Tourism and Hotel management in Buenos Aires. She was home for Chile's national holiday. Her mum gave her a new laptop. Argentine Customs wouldn't let her through without a certificate from Chilean Customs. She was in tears when the bus pulled out. Now I see her pushing a luggage trolley. She spots me and we hug. She tells me she hitched lifts on a couple of trucks and a car - more evidence of the indefatigability of the indigenous Mapuche. The Inca failed to conquer them. The Spaniards failed. Now the Argentine Customs have failed. We sit together. She tells me to prop my foot up on her luggage. The swelling ebbs from the ankle.
I have a three hour wait at the bus terminal for the AndesMar connection to Buenos Aires. I discover that the AndesMar bus takes an indirect route. The direct route taken by other companies is six hours shorter. Damn! However I will see more of the country and I can't change my ticket. The connection is down at the bus terminal's smart Internet cafe. I eat ravioli in the slow-service fast-food restaurant. Service is slow because the male staff are watching football on TV. I chatted with a young Chilean woman on the bus. She is studying Tourism and Hotel management in Buenos Aires. She was home for Chile's national holiday. Her mum gave her a new laptop. Argentine Customs wouldn't let her through without a certificate from Chilean Customs. She was in tears when the bus pulled out. Now I see her pushing a luggage trolley. She spots me and we hug. She tells me she hitched lifts on a couple of trucks and a car - more evidence of the indefatigability of the indigenous Mapuche. The Inca failed to conquer them. The Spaniards failed. Now the Argentine Customs have failed. We sit together. She tells me to prop my foot up on her luggage. The swelling ebbs from the ankle.
A DESERT IS A DESERT IS A DESERT
BUS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
We have left the mountains behind. The land slopes towards the vast coastal plane. Soil is ochre and brittle. Scrub is dry and brittle. Sparse grass grows in coarse tufts. We pass a Hereford steer. Five minutes later we pass a second. Two horses scavenge for fodder. A few sheep pretend that they don't know each other. So this is a ranch...for a Texan. An Argentine landowner would refer to his estancia. Two steers eight sheep and a couple of horses in ten miles? I'll stick with desert.
We have left the mountains behind. The land slopes towards the vast coastal plane. Soil is ochre and brittle. Scrub is dry and brittle. Sparse grass grows in coarse tufts. We pass a Hereford steer. Five minutes later we pass a second. Two horses scavenge for fodder. A few sheep pretend that they don't know each other. So this is a ranch...for a Texan. An Argentine landowner would refer to his estancia. Two steers eight sheep and a couple of horses in ten miles? I'll stick with desert.
PLEASE KILL MY KID
BUS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
I reach Buenos Aires tomorrow evening, a long bus journey, time to muse. We pass a pickup. A small boy - at most five years old - kneels on the front seat and smiles. This is a mountain road with potholes and patches of wet snow. The city is as bad. Are Moms and Dads ignorant or stupid? Not the type of question that a tourist can ask...
I reach Buenos Aires tomorrow evening, a long bus journey, time to muse. We pass a pickup. A small boy - at most five years old - kneels on the front seat and smiles. This is a mountain road with potholes and patches of wet snow. The city is as bad. Are Moms and Dads ignorant or stupid? Not the type of question that a tourist can ask...
Monday, September 24, 2007
SATIATED DESIRE
ON A BUS: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
I am crossing South America with AnderMar - US$80 from Temuco to Buenos Aires via Neguyen for a fully reclining seat in First class. Mile upon mile of eucalyptus bring me close to tears. Trees are planted in what were rich pasture land and on hillsides already scarred by soil erosion. We climb into the Andes and finally escape the rain. Eucalyptus gives way to plantations of spruce, more food for paper mills. We travel through a long tunnel and emerge on the fringe of the snow line. The bus stops briefly at a charming mountain village, Lonquiney. This is tourism country, horses in paddocks. I spot black face sheep. Snowploughs have left piles of snow along the road edge. The bus slushes through fresh snow. We cross a plain below mountain peaks. A thin scattering of monkey puzzles trees stand in the snow. Ahead lies the Chilean border post. My crutches earn me sympathy and a place at the head of the queue. I chat with a young Chilean woman studying Hotel Management and Tourism at a college in Buenos Aires. Back in the bus and we drive through a sparse forest...A forest of monkey puzzle trees!
We reach the Argentine frontier. I am joined by an Argentine Customs officer as I photograph trees. We laugh together as I relate my disappointed search for the ancient Araucaria in its natural habitat only to find it here travelling by mainline bus. Such is travel, full of surprises...
I am crossing South America with AnderMar - US$80 from Temuco to Buenos Aires via Neguyen for a fully reclining seat in First class. Mile upon mile of eucalyptus bring me close to tears. Trees are planted in what were rich pasture land and on hillsides already scarred by soil erosion. We climb into the Andes and finally escape the rain. Eucalyptus gives way to plantations of spruce, more food for paper mills. We travel through a long tunnel and emerge on the fringe of the snow line. The bus stops briefly at a charming mountain village, Lonquiney. This is tourism country, horses in paddocks. I spot black face sheep. Snowploughs have left piles of snow along the road edge. The bus slushes through fresh snow. We cross a plain below mountain peaks. A thin scattering of monkey puzzles trees stand in the snow. Ahead lies the Chilean border post. My crutches earn me sympathy and a place at the head of the queue. I chat with a young Chilean woman studying Hotel Management and Tourism at a college in Buenos Aires. Back in the bus and we drive through a sparse forest...A forest of monkey puzzle trees!
We reach the Argentine frontier. I am joined by an Argentine Customs officer as I photograph trees. We laugh together as I relate my disappointed search for the ancient Araucaria in its natural habitat only to find it here travelling by mainline bus. Such is travel, full of surprises...
MONKEY PUZZLE TREES
TEMUCO: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
Temuco is a big industrial city. It is magnificently ugly. It could win prizes for ugliness. Even the central square is ugly. I have consulted two guidebooks. Both recommend that travellers don't stop. I am here to stay a night in Chile's oldest hotel, the Continental. Established in 1888, my guidebooks report that nothing has changed. I telephoned yesterday for a reservation. No one answered. I sent a fax. I give my destination to the cab driver at the bus terminal. The cab driver is nonplussed. He radios base. The Continental has been closed for a year. The driver takes me a modern hotel in the city centre with a US$30 room rate. An elderly woman with a kind face runs reception. I suggest a pensioner's discount and she drops the price to US$12. Next stop, the Tourist Bureau. I want to see 1000 year-old monkey puzzle trees (Araucaria) in their natural habitat. The National Parks are unsuitable for an hoppity old man on crutches. Defeated, I book myself a seat on the morning bus for Buenos Aires.
One bright jewel in a rainy day: a charming bandstand.
The best I can do for dinner is vacuna soup.
Temuco is a big industrial city. It is magnificently ugly. It could win prizes for ugliness. Even the central square is ugly. I have consulted two guidebooks. Both recommend that travellers don't stop. I am here to stay a night in Chile's oldest hotel, the Continental. Established in 1888, my guidebooks report that nothing has changed. I telephoned yesterday for a reservation. No one answered. I sent a fax. I give my destination to the cab driver at the bus terminal. The cab driver is nonplussed. He radios base. The Continental has been closed for a year. The driver takes me a modern hotel in the city centre with a US$30 room rate. An elderly woman with a kind face runs reception. I suggest a pensioner's discount and she drops the price to US$12. Next stop, the Tourist Bureau. I want to see 1000 year-old monkey puzzle trees (Araucaria) in their natural habitat. The National Parks are unsuitable for an hoppity old man on crutches. Defeated, I book myself a seat on the morning bus for Buenos Aires.
One bright jewel in a rainy day: a charming bandstand.
The best I can do for dinner is vacuna soup.
CRIMINAL EUCALYPTUS
ON A BUS: FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
Today I travel by big bus to Tembuco. We ride through mile after mile of eucalyptus plantation, food for paper mills that pollute the rivers. Has no one warned landowners or Chile's Ministry of Agriculture that eucalyptus sucks all the goodness out of the earth and transforms rich land into an infertile desert?
Today I travel by big bus to Tembuco. We ride through mile after mile of eucalyptus plantation, food for paper mills that pollute the rivers. Has no one warned landowners or Chile's Ministry of Agriculture that eucalyptus sucks all the goodness out of the earth and transforms rich land into an infertile desert?
CHILEAN BREAD
VALDIVIA: THURSDAY: SEPTEMBER 20
Rain drizzles from a grey sky. I walk (hop) along the waterfront to the fish market. Heaps of monster clams and mussels cover concrete slabs. Cormorants and gulls hop on the parapet and lunge the instant a stall holder is distracted. Yesterday I travelled though mile after mile of eucalyptus plantations. Boatmen tell me that the rivers are polluted by pulp factories.
Two oarsmen skull by in racing shells.
Drizzle turns to rain.
I am cold. My ankle aches. Valdivia is depressing. Or I am depressed by Valdivia.
I might cheer up were the sun out and joyful, optimistic students milling in the streets and crowding cafes. I eat grilled fish for supper and drink an excellent local beer blessed with the Real Ale insignia. Back at the hostel I chat with a bright and funny young American woman from San Francisco teaching English at a Chilean school. Her mother is Mexican. She is familiar with Mexico and Central America. Chile depresses her. The food depresses her. Particularly the bread. Her companion is Chinese teaching Chinese at the same school. The Chinese loathes Chilean food, especially the bread. She complains that bread isn't part of her home diet, yet Chinese bread is infinitely preferable to Chile's variety.
I am travelling onward in the morning.
Rain drizzles from a grey sky. I walk (hop) along the waterfront to the fish market. Heaps of monster clams and mussels cover concrete slabs. Cormorants and gulls hop on the parapet and lunge the instant a stall holder is distracted. Yesterday I travelled though mile after mile of eucalyptus plantations. Boatmen tell me that the rivers are polluted by pulp factories.
Two oarsmen skull by in racing shells.
Drizzle turns to rain.
I am cold. My ankle aches. Valdivia is depressing. Or I am depressed by Valdivia.
I might cheer up were the sun out and joyful, optimistic students milling in the streets and crowding cafes. I eat grilled fish for supper and drink an excellent local beer blessed with the Real Ale insignia. Back at the hostel I chat with a bright and funny young American woman from San Francisco teaching English at a Chilean school. Her mother is Mexican. She is familiar with Mexico and Central America. Chile depresses her. The food depresses her. Particularly the bread. Her companion is Chinese teaching Chinese at the same school. The Chinese loathes Chilean food, especially the bread. She complains that bread isn't part of her home diet, yet Chinese bread is infinitely preferable to Chile's variety.
I am travelling onward in the morning.
PINOCHET: A GOOD CHAP
VALDIVIA: THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
Valdivia is an ugly city in a beautiful location on the delta of two rivers. The orginal city was flattened in 1960 by the stronget earthquake ever recorded. What remains of the old is a fine University and a reputation for sea food. I am here for the food. I arrived yesterday on Chile's national day. All restaurants were closed. However there is a fake Chinese at the city centre shopping mall. I ate shrimp with bean sprouts and rice. Edible. Today I lunch beside the fishmarket at La Perla del Sur. Paila de Marisco is Chile's national dish, shellfish stew: king crab claw, massive mussles, two type of clams, a big limpet, abalone, conga eel, squid.
Good? Yes.
Great? No.
I discuss the deceased General Pinochet with a pleasant woman. She tells me that foreigners don't understand: Pinochet saved Chile from a Communist Dictatorship. Allende surrounded himself with foreigners, Russians, Cubans, East Germans, even Communists from Europe.
I discuss General Pinochet with a young man. I wonder that people's opinions of the good General weren't changed at discovering that he had robbed the country and salted away millions of dollars in foreign banks.
I am told that some have changed their opinions. His true suporters either ignore the evidence or believe the evidence is fraudulent.
Chucking your tortured victims from helicopters into the sea doesn't leave much evidence.
I am shamed that Pinochet remains a Good Chap for some of my fellow Brits, ...
Valdivia is an ugly city in a beautiful location on the delta of two rivers. The orginal city was flattened in 1960 by the stronget earthquake ever recorded. What remains of the old is a fine University and a reputation for sea food. I am here for the food. I arrived yesterday on Chile's national day. All restaurants were closed. However there is a fake Chinese at the city centre shopping mall. I ate shrimp with bean sprouts and rice. Edible. Today I lunch beside the fishmarket at La Perla del Sur. Paila de Marisco is Chile's national dish, shellfish stew: king crab claw, massive mussles, two type of clams, a big limpet, abalone, conga eel, squid.
Good? Yes.
Great? No.
I discuss the deceased General Pinochet with a pleasant woman. She tells me that foreigners don't understand: Pinochet saved Chile from a Communist Dictatorship. Allende surrounded himself with foreigners, Russians, Cubans, East Germans, even Communists from Europe.
I discuss General Pinochet with a young man. I wonder that people's opinions of the good General weren't changed at discovering that he had robbed the country and salted away millions of dollars in foreign banks.
I am told that some have changed their opinions. His true suporters either ignore the evidence or believe the evidence is fraudulent.
Chucking your tortured victims from helicopters into the sea doesn't leave much evidence.
I am shamed that Pinochet remains a Good Chap for some of my fellow Brits, ...
YOUTH HOSTELS
VALDIVIA: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Riding a bike, I have the freedom to circle the centre for a hotel. On crutches I consulted guidebooks. Airesbuenos International Hostel is recommended. I telephone for a reservation. My room is on the ground floor. US$30 is the most costly of my nights in Chile. No bedside lamp, the only light comes from an overhead energy-saving bulb draped in one of those round Japanese paper shades made in China. The light is too dim for reading anything other than big print. I have to get out of bed to turn the light on or off. The lounge area is a training ground for expeditions to the Antarctic. Breakfast is powdered coffee, no milk, and that factory-made sliced white bread that remains soggy even when toasted. YUK! My fault. Hostels are invariably a ripoff for anything other than a dorm bed. And all the guests are foreigners. Why travel...?
Riding a bike, I have the freedom to circle the centre for a hotel. On crutches I consulted guidebooks. Airesbuenos International Hostel is recommended. I telephone for a reservation. My room is on the ground floor. US$30 is the most costly of my nights in Chile. No bedside lamp, the only light comes from an overhead energy-saving bulb draped in one of those round Japanese paper shades made in China. The light is too dim for reading anything other than big print. I have to get out of bed to turn the light on or off. The lounge area is a training ground for expeditions to the Antarctic. Breakfast is powdered coffee, no milk, and that factory-made sliced white bread that remains soggy even when toasted. YUK! My fault. Hostels are invariably a ripoff for anything other than a dorm bed. And all the guests are foreigners. Why travel...?
JAILED
ON A BUS: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 19
Travelling by bus is being in jail: you can't get out. I shouldn't complain: the views from the windows change (and I get a pensioner's discount on the fare). I am travelling by small bus that stops on the roadside to drop and collect passengers. Such country buses give an illusion of freedom. I could get off. I don't through my own choice or indolence or nervousness at finding myself abandoned. We travel through a rich dairy country of green paddocks and woodland. Rain falls steadily. A black and white saddleback sow snouts up a patch of mud beside a small wood hovel.
Travelling by bus is being in jail: you can't get out. I shouldn't complain: the views from the windows change (and I get a pensioner's discount on the fare). I am travelling by small bus that stops on the roadside to drop and collect passengers. Such country buses give an illusion of freedom. I could get off. I don't through my own choice or indolence or nervousness at finding myself abandoned. We travel through a rich dairy country of green paddocks and woodland. Rain falls steadily. A black and white saddleback sow snouts up a patch of mud beside a small wood hovel.
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