Just back from a rally with 50,000 of the capital’s citizens at Plaza de Mayo, observing the national day of remembrance. Many marchers, dancers, speakers, music, drum corps, and haunting eyes staring from faded fotos…those of the men and women who disappeared 30+ years ago. Evita is still safely in her mausoleum in the Recoleta cemetery. Dancers are still tangoing at Plaza Dorrega. And meat is still what’s for lunch and dinner in nearly every restaurant in this city of 3 million. With a national average of about 180 pounds of meat to be consumed per capita, everyone must do their bit.
As with our last foray into South America, this one ends in unplanned fashion, in Argentina. And as with our last trip in this area, the tone of our trip has changed dramatically, from being defiantly on back roads, picking our way bit by bit, to highway pavement with all the ease that implies. No longer is this trip about the getting there, the roads and experience of being in transit. To me, Argentina is a heaven made of pavement and large, legible signs. Now I tick off the day in 100km increments and it’s all about the destination, the achievement of an end point.
And indeed, after weeks of hard-nosed driving, we’re getting out of the car now and engaging in fresh activities. Like horseback riding. One late afternoon in the Atacama desert, I cantered a narrow twisting trail bounded by pink canyon walls. We emerged on a low mesa from where we could scan over the green oasis of San Pedro de Atacama to the volcano-lined horizon flushed violet in the twilight. With the wind riffling my horse’s mane and the sun starting to set, I felt like Florence of Arabia…minus the flowing robes. My long Atacama rides resulted in some decidedly stiff shoulders, which were soothed by what I am happy to report was one of the best massages I’ve gotten, outside of Boulder. This particular therapist had trained with “los abuelos” from the Peruvian and Bolivian highlands. She spoke in a low voice, had that look of ancient wisdom about her and knew all sorts of neat tricks,. To help my shoulders she took out an item called a moxa (mock-sha) stick. This is a stogie in a pale blue wrapper containing crumbled artemisia moxa, which is a wormwood plant. Eons ago, this sort of stick was lit and the glowing embers put in contact with the skin, which sounds rather painful and counterproductive to me. Since we’re now in the 21st century, the therapist held the burning tip a few centimeters away from my skin and told me to tell her (or scream) when it felt too hot. WEll, the only spots where it seemed to burn were those that were like knots. Elsewhere it felt just pleasantly warm. I was much relaxed after this experience, though do want to note that a glass of port would have gone great with the pleasant moxa smoke. And no, no one inhaled.
Our streak of lucky coincidences continues. Since luck, chance, serendipity do so much to make our trips something special, I have to tell you a little story. While in Atacama, we planned a trajectory for our last weeks of travel, based on advice from one of the hotel staff who knew Argentina well. “Don’t go back to places you’ve already seen,” he said. “Go to new areas of the country, like the Estero de Ibera, where you can fish and do freshwater scuba diving.” Sounded sensible, perhaps even exciting. I spent hours on my laptop making a slew of reservations. And ensuring that we’d have a couple of days in Rosario, the city to which Bernard’s great-grandparents emigrated from France in the 1880s. It’s been on Bernard’s mind forever to see if he could find the actual place where his ancestors lived, and also to visit the village where his grandmother was born, a place called Exaltacion de la Cruz which no one we’d talked to had ever heard of, and which did not appear in my otherwise detailed road atlas.
When it came time for us to leave Atacama, though, we both felt rather faint of heart, tired of having to find our way to and around a new place every day. “Let’s go somewhere we’re familiar with,” I said to Bernard. “Purmamarca is just over the hills with pavement all the way. Plus we know a great hotel to stay in. Let’s go back there.” So we did, returning to the village where we spent semana santa two years ago. It was exciting and bittersweet to recognize the scenery of the Quebrada as we drove down the fluted, multi-colored canyon to town. We made sage comments like “Boy, the river’s really dry this year,” as if we were old-timers coming home. Sadly, the saying “You can’t go home again,” is true and we found Purmamarca without the clamor of semana santa to be nothing but a sunburnt pueblo. Except that is, for Jackie, an acquaintance who still lives in the town and joined us for dinner. “Don’t go to the Ibera Estuary,” she said. IT’s full of mosquitos and the water’s muddy from the rainy season. You won’t be able to dive at all.”
With my flea bites finally disappearing the thought of snapping mosquito jaws filled me with dread. Next morning as we were driving south from Purmamarca, we made up a new itinerary, deciding instead to go to Cordoba, which is horse country. En route we spent a night at an empty, decrepit hot springs hotel, with a swimming pool that was so hot I broke into a sweat just floating around on my back, and the sort of dark marble hallways where it seemed Jack Nicholson would pop out of a cleaning closet at any moment. With our arrival in Cordoba due for the next day, and no reservations yet, I had to call a handful of estancias before finding one with a room available.
We arrived at our new digs near Cordoba the next afternoon, and discovered that a group of polo pros were gathering there for a week of high-goal polo matches. And as it happened, one of Argentina’s top players was among the group. How swanky! The estancia itself was gorgeous, with velvety polo pitches, polo mares grazing outside the sitting room, mounds of pampas grass waving in the breeze and purple morning glory vines climbing on anything that stood still. It was heavenly. Plus, staying there gave me a chance to indulge a couple of fantasies I didn’t know I had.
First, I was given a chance to milk a cow. I’ve always wondered about cow milking, which strikes me as the ultimate pioneer activity. Now that the opportunity was finally here, I fervently hoped for a 3-legged stool, a cat curling itself around the cow’s legs purring for a squirt of warm milk in her direction. And, oh yes, a pert dairymaid outfit. Some blond braids wouldn’t have hurt the picture either. None of this was to be. I squatted on the ground, which my knees didn’t take kindly to, and no cat was available to catch the dribbles that went everywhere but into the pitcher I was supposed to fill. The obliging Holstein had a trough full of cracked corn to distract her from my ineptitude. And I had a sympathetic gaucho at my side who took over after I’d done my bit, filling that pitcher with a few expert strokes. And then I got to drink it. Bernard just shook his head when I offered him a sip of the foamy white beverage. Perhaps because it bore a faint resemblance to chicha?
The other thing I did at the estancia was try polo. Or rather, walk a highly trained polo pony back and forth on a tightly-mowed sward of grass, swinging a mallet at a 3-inch white ball and, mostly, missing. Keep in mind that the ball wasn’t moving, and a crawling baby would cover ground faster than my horse. And still I couldn’t quite coordinate my swing to hit that ball. How humbling. And how exhausting for my wrist, which laid limply on an ice pack for a good hour after that first foray. The second day I returned, bowed but not broken, determined to think less about the swing, more about how much fun it is to try polo in Argentina, and just let come what may. And I did much better, progressing to consistent thwacks with the foreswing and reasonable contact plus some heartening ball movement on the backswing. I never hit my horse in the head and my teacher only hit me once with the ball. The resulting large bruise on my ankle is a fitting souvenir of a great time.
In the evenings, we chatted with all the polo dudes, progressing through the standard openers of “Where are you from?” and “What do you do?” Turns out the big pro, who was awfully nice as well as being a winner of Argentina’s top competition, was from Rosario! Go figure!! Not only that, but when he heard we intended to stop there he called his aunt and uncle and asked them to host us. What could be better than a personalized tour of Rosario? Thus several days later, we spent a splendid afternoon en famille in Rosario, eating at a riverside fish restaurant, visiting different Rosario neighborhoods, learning all about Rosario’s past. But still we couldn’t make any connection with Bernard’s forbears. Finally we adjourned for tea at our hosts’ lovely home, where their son, who also is a polo pro (I guess it’s what one does if born in Argentina), joined us. He invited us to visit the polo club he manages not far from Buenos Aires proper and asked what else we planned to do while there. Describing Bernard’s family search and the mystery town of Exaltacion de la Cruz brought a smile to his face. “I can take you there,” he said. “It’s right next door to where I live.”
Good coincidence huh?! So off we go tomorrow, to visit Exaltacion de la Cruz, not a highlight in the Argentina tourist guides, but definitely an unexpected bonus at the end of our trip.
We’re now done with our driving and Brunhilde has completed a stunning 8000km horizontally and a resounding 74,000 meters of ascent on this trip. She’s tired, often refusing to start, which is probably the result of some salt in an inopportune spot, the result of our brief drive on the Salar de Uyuni. The shipping formalities in BA look to be every bit as civilized as this charming city warrants. And one of our friends from last year’s India drive should be arriving in BA tomorrow, in time for us to spend a couple of days here together.
Since this is my last email, I’ve taken the opportunity to think back over the incredible array of images I’ve stored in my mind over the past 2 months. Here are just a few, which for no particular reason remain especially vivid to met:
• Rasta donkeys in Peruvian villages, their dreadlocks dripping in the rain.
• Inca Kola, every Peruvian’s favorite soda: Day-glo yellow, with an inimitable taste of bubble gum.
• Guinea pigs scampering on a hotel lawn, like a horde of earless, tailless Peter Rabbits.
• Eating a sample of totoro, the reed used by inhabitants of Islas Uros to build their floating islets on Lk Titicaca. This reed is all-purpose, used for tools, bedding, hut walls, everything needed when life is circumscribed to a 50 sq yd platform. It tasted like crunchless jicama, or more appropriately, sodden homebuilding material.
• Bolivia’s southern altiplano, with its chocolate volcanos surrounded by cinnamon hills, sprinkled with silver and bronze boulders, topped with a shimmer of vanilla powder.
• Blazing sun beating down on a slender vicuna, lone monument to survival in the voracious desert.
• Peru’s towering crags, launching their complex folds skyward in an endless green origami of the gods.
I could go on. But your eyes must be tired and I need to turn mine to the soccer game between Argentina’s two best teams. Home soon….. Love and thanks for reading!!
-Dina
