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Published: April 28th 2008
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It´s a Wrap
L-R: Sergio, Camerman, Knackered cyclist cum TV star, Civil dignatory, Interviewer, Civil dignatory It´s the crack of dawn and we are off. First of all 20 km on the somewhat hairy Route 14, main trunk road through Argentina, until we reach the turn off for the Ibera wetlands. The road is firm-packed, dry, earth, and fast. We fly along. Or we would if somebody didn´t stop every ten yards to take a photograph of the birds and butterflies that dart about the roadside, vying for attention. Birds of startlingly bright plummage - shiny black birds with golden yellow wings, acid yellow, scarlet crested - who knows what they are - but Richard snaps them all.
40 km along we are standing at a dusty junction, pleased with our progress, but aware that shortly the road deteriorates into what is referred to here as "feo" - ugly. With perfect timing, along comes a pick-up truck. Ah-ah. A quick chat, and do we want a lift? You bet. Out of courtesy I relay the question to Richard. "Well, I wasn´t thinking of a lift", he says. Too late, I am already hoiking my bike onto the tail gate. And so, chatting to our knights in armour, who turn out to be guides from the Ibera
Park, we fly along for 80 bumpy, dusty, shifting, sliding, sandy kilometers. Greatly relieved, we are soon deposited in our comfortable lodgings and organising outings for the next few days.
That night we take to the lagoon for a motor boat ride, nosing amongst the grasses at the water´s edge. Caiman gaze unblinking, and the huge, guinea pig-like capybara graze and gloop through the mud. We glide silently alongside numerous waterbirds - kingfishers, waders and geese. We walk on the islands of the lagoon; they look like solid earth, deep with vegetation, even trees, but in reality are floating sponges with the disconcerting habit of wobbling when you jump up and down. Returning across the lake in the dark, we are hushed and mesmerised by a glorious sunset and a milky, silver full moon the size of a dinner plate. Fireflies twinkle above the reeds at the water´s edge.
Early next morning we loan a canoe (or is it a kayak?) and explore the lagoon on our own. We paddle our way along a channel between reeds and tall lakeside trees. Caiman slink past and the waterbirds go about their business; a kingfisher obligingly catching a morsel in
front of us. As the morning wears on, a breeze whips up on the lagoon, making paddling difficult and highlighting the deficiencies of technique in Team Peart. There is a lot of interference from the Rear Gunner, which The Captain diplomatically ignores, before we eventually return to terra firma. We resolve never to get a tandem.
Carlos Pellegrini is a sleepy, relaxed little place, and we are so comfortable there that we stretch our visit to four days. Other visitors come and go and we relax with them and go for walks in the forest, where we see Howler Monkeys. Finally, however, it is time to leave and fearfull of the dirt road ahead of us to Mercedes and of the severe pounding that bike and rider might take, we decide to take the 3.30 am service bus for the 125 km journey. Obligingly, the driver comes around to collect us first in order to get the bikes on board ahead of the other passengers.
As we cycle to our hostel in Mercedes, we are shocked to realise that someone has stolen the cycle computers and their mountings from both bikes during our stay in Carlos Pellegrini. Bugger.
Richard won´t know his actual speed, maximum speed, average speed, distance travelled, total journey time or accumulative total; I won´t know if it´s nearly lunch time. The disappointment at the loss of the computers is minimal compared to our disappointment at this behaviour in the tiny, friendly community. I ring Hugo, the owner of our posada in Carlos Pellegrini, to inform him of the event, sure that he would be equally horrified that even such a small misdemeanour had occured. Within a short time, a colleague of his from Mercedes called to see us to find out the facts and Hugo, confident that even a tiny crime could not be concealed in their small community, set about unearthing the culprit. Within half an hour, the computers were recovered from two sticky fingered eight-year olds, and put on the evening bus to Mercedes. Faith restored.
Our time in Argentina is coming to a close. We plan on going to Monte Caseros to cross the river to Bella Union in Uruguay and we anticipate an uneventful two-day trip, but Argentina surprises us yet again. We have just eaten our lunch in the army town of Curuzu Coatia and are about to
do "The Tour" to find out what is on offer here, when a chap comes along on his bicycle and asks us if we would do an interview for cable TV. Why not? He is a veteran of the Falklands War and is surprised, but then pleased, to find out that we are English. He goes to great lengths to find us accomodation at no cost, warning us away from our initial plan to camp at the pleasant, but insecure, municipal campground. We tour the town, following behind him, and have our photographs taken at the Falklands Memorial, as we pass in the search for the keyholder of the refuge that he has in mind for us. Eventually all the involved parties come together: the keyholder; the person who can enable the electricity; the director for culture; several other dignatories and, alarmingly, a camera crew. I´ve cycled 90 kms, not had a shower yet, and am not looking my usual stylish self. Where are the make-up artist, the hairdresser and the wardrobe mistress? An interview is duly recorded. Disappointingly, there is no mention of Maradona´s Hand of God, nor of Bobby Charlton, just chat about us, our trip and experiences,
and the bikes.
Our home that night is a flood refuge, and we take our pick of several dozen beds on which to put our sleeping bags, before using the spick and span bathroom, cooking dinner on our stove and retiring. My sleep is haunted by flash-backs of excrutiating grammar and painful pronunciation. I console myself with the thought that, by the time the article is transmitted on Monday, we should be well into Uruguay and out of reach of the audience. Later on I am kept awake by the sound of rain thrashing on the roof and by the almost constant glare of lightning and rumble of thunder.
The sky has brightened in the morning when Sergio returns, complete with all the paraphenalia to make mate. We have detailed and very technical instruction on the preparation procedure and share a mate before meeting his friends nearby and little daughter, being furnished with a bag of sticky buns, and waved on our way.
A rather damp ride takes us to the frontier town of Monte Caseros, where we discover that the launches across to Uruguay are not available over the weekend. We are obliged to wait, but
fortunately discover a rather fine restaurant and resort to working our way through the meat menu, purely in the interests of researching the different cuts, you understand.
In character with the warmth and generosity that we have experienced throughout Argentina, as we make our way to the tiny launch that will take us across the River Uruguay, a chap presents us with a bag of the local speciality - fresh-from-the-oven savoury "scones". And so, after eight weeks in Argentina and 3,500 kms, it´s Uruguay, here we come...
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Nora and Dad
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Another beauty
Amazing stuff, and fantastic photos, We are entranced by it all, no doubt the blog is only part of the story,and you will need a year when you get home to tell the story in full. Do you think you`ll remember it all?We certainly are looking forward to hearing it.lol, Nora and Dad