Fernet or Cerveza ?

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Even though I had expected the Argentines to be amiable and good-natured, I was still taken aback by the genuine warmth of these super-friendly people who offered help when I looked lost, waved to me as I cycled past and dealt with my clumsily-constructed Spanish with patience and good-humour.

The occasional truck-drivers and motorcyclists with whom I was sharing the roads waved and sounded their horns as they sped past, and I was comforted by the camaraderie between us on the long empty stretches between settlements. The only hostile reaction I received was from unfriendly, irritating dogs as I passed a remote farmhouse or through a samll village.

Often, they would stand still as I rode past, presumably so dumbfounded by the sight of me that it wasn´t until I was some yards beyond them that would embark on a loud, threatening chase. Carrying 25 kgs of luggage, the acceleration required to escape this aggrivating din, encroaching on me at over 20 mph, was usually beyond me and the animal would quickly make up the ground and dart in front of me, forcing me to swerve off the road. In most cases, however, that was the end of it. Seemingly content with catching me, making me stop and pissing me off, they would suddenly quieten down and, their job done, saunter back home. This pointless, tiresome charade was often repeated and, although it had so far not resulted in my being injured, these were not friendly creatures and I always carried some small stones in my pocket, just in case.

By this time, I had become used to pedalling through hot days of startling colour and fabulous landscape. Now, moody skies glared over me and the days were gloomy and grey.
The warm days had helped to push my awareness of the physical nature of the trip to the back of my mind, but now, the change of conditions seemed to increase the heavy burden of my overloaded panniers on my poor, tired legs.
The previous week´s striking views had been replaced by a hazy monotony of patchy, bare countryside, and it was almost a relief when the day´s ride was over. It was at times like this that I began to question myself. It´s cold, windy, uphill, and it hurts - why am I doing this ? Why not take the bus, like everyone else ?
But I always knew why I was doing it. The daily physical exertion was a kind of personal pilgrimage that took me to places I loved. This was simple, uncluttered escapsim. Even though it was painful.

This was not the tourist trail, and the towns I passed through seemed to be seldom visited and their inhabitants bemused to see me when I arrived in the late afternoon, looking for a place to stay the night.
Having cycled through a wearying, windy Sunday from the town of Chilecito to the long San Blas ribbon settlement, 120 km North, I was struggling to find anyone interested, or sober enough, to help me find a campsite, hostel or hotel - anywhere, I wasn´t fussy.

I had forgotten that Sunday afternoons are a traditional time for the Argentine Asado. More than the simple "barbecure" that the English translation of the word suggests it to be, this can often be an all-day family event that usually centres around an afternoon of sitting outside in the sun, eating a variety of those famous Argentinian grilled meats and drinking good wine. As I cycled past, I could see that many homes had a family in the yard, sitting around a table on white plastic chairs, evidently enjoying their afternoon.

Eventually, I came across a middle-aged man, who, despite being dressed in a bright purple tracksuit and seeming as if he had enjoyed a few asados too many, looked reliable enough. In fact, he turned out to be an off-duty policeman, and so I was happy to take his word that, although all the local hosteleries were closed, there was an open hotel 16 km further on. The area was too populated for me to make a wild-camp, my usual back-up when all other accommodation options were closed, and although it was getting late and I didn´t really fancy the extra distance, it seemed to be my only choice.

When I arrived, the place the policeman had suggested turned out to be a combined service station, restaurant and hotel, and it seemed I was the only guest staying there. Due to past experience, this wasn´t something I was entirely comfortable with, but I was slightly reassured when I was shown the hotel´s guest book, which contained the details of several other Western cyclists.

Although the hotel´s rooms were empty, the bar was busy, with two large tables, pulled up close to the log fire at the back of the freezing room, surrounded by local men anticipating the imminent kick-off of the Eliminatorias (South American World Cup qualifier) between Argentina and Ecuador. Sitting at my own table, I sat through the match, a scrappy, unexciting affair until the last minute when Argentina finally found an equaliser.

With the entertainment over, everyone´s attention switched to me, the strange-looking odd-man-out in the corner, and they invited me over to join them. I was now centre-stage, a prospect I am usually uncomfortable with, and I was bombarded with the usual questions.

"Why are you cycling all this way ?".
"Are you really doing it by yourself ?".
"Are you from Australia ?".

But then, a different question from a man of about my age who had been steadily working his way through a pile of cocoa leaves on the table in front of him.

"Do you like Fernet ?"

This was a new word to me.

"What is it ?"

He summoned the bar-tender, a boy of about eighteen who had earlier organised my room, and who seemed to do all the work while his father chatted to the locals.
He handed me a glass containing a small measure of black liquid, and my new friend indicated that I should try it.
Fernet could be described as a bitter, difficult drink, and as I drank, my face indicated my disgust. This proved to be highly amusing to everyone else in the room, and my friend received approving nods all round.
It was then explained to me that this herbal drink, originally from Italy, was created as a digestive aid, and is only drinkable when taken with a generous measure of coke.

I was handed another glass, and although this time the drink had been correctly mixed, it was still a challenge to take it all down. Not wanting to offend my host, who, after all, was paying, I lied and indicated a vague satisfaction when I was asked how I found it second time around.
Of course, this just meant that the drinks kept coming, and after the third, fourth and then fifth, it was actually becoming quite palatable.
Each time I drank, my friend, who appeared to be becoming increasingly vacant-eyed from the drink and the cocoa leaves, watched me intently, and with a slightly disturbing intensity, asked me the same question, again and again.

"Do you like Fernet, of Argentina, or do you like Cerveza (beer) ?"

Each time, I would try to give my reply.
I enjoyed the challenge of the Argentinan drink. It´s unusual mix of many different strange, secret ingredients were a welcome change from the bland, undramatic beer that I was used to drinking.
At the same time, the beer´s easy taste was comforting and familiar - it was what I was used to.
Sadly, my Spanish proved inadequate when trying to convey this, and the same question kept coming, with tedious monotony:

"But which do you like best ? Fernet, of Argentina, or this Cerveza, from America ?"

His speech was becoming slurred, and, if I was having trouble understanding his Spanish before, it was now impossible.
Drink followed drink, and after some time, he insisted on buying me one pizza, then another.

I suddenly realised that the others, who had been sitting at the table with us earlier, had, one-by-one, disappeared, leaving me alone with this guy, who was evidently the local nutter.
Now he was babbling, and he was becoming increasingly aggravated when I was unable to respond to his slurred pronouncements.
Suddenly he grasped my hand, in what I thought was a sign of friendship, but then he put his arm around my neck and took me in a tight, painful stranglehold. When he eventually let go, he slumped into his chair and resumed his volley of impenetrable Spanish.
Behind him, looking at me from behind the glass top of the kitchen door, I noticed the bar-tender waving at me, frantically giving me the internationally recognised sign for "This guy is crazy", and waving at me to leave.
He was then joined by another lady, who I had seen earlier and had presumed to be the cook. Appearing to be wider than she was tall, she was only just able to peer through the glass. It didn´t matter, her eyes said it all.
Before he could lunge at me again, I made my escape, dashing into the kitchen.

"That guy´s crazy", the bar-tender said.
"Si, loco", she agreed.
"But you were happy to keep feeding us drinks all night, though ?", I replied.
Suddenly, his English failed him.

The next day´s ride to the town of Belen was long and slow, and I was glad when I finally found a hotel and a place to buy some groceries.
That night, I stayed in my room, content to watch an English television drama, accompanied by several Cervezas.

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