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Published: April 24th 2008
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We breezed into the province of Misiones in our little jam packed car, travelling up the western fringe of this outcrop of Argentina, with the River Parana forming the national boundary. From our lodgings in Paso de La Patria, we strolled beside the river, watching the sun set over Paraguay. That evening we ate our customary steak and chips dinner to the background of a news report on the 26th anniversary of the Falklands war. It was a national holiday - for those who weren´t already on strike - and possibly not the best day to be English in Argentina.
This province has a rich heritage of Jesuit missions - hence its name - and we visited the impressive ruins at San Ignacio. A huge complex, where the indigenous Guarani people were housed, educated and encouraged to develop their considerable art and craft skills in a blend of their traditional style and the religious teachings of the Jesuits. It was a clever, sensitive and very successful means of evangelising the indigenous population but, like the Romans leaving Britain, when the Jesuits left, all reverted and the stone cities were swallowed up by the forest.
Misiones also has an abundance
of impressive waterfalls, the most famous being the mighty falls on the River Iguazu. Not one waterfall, but many; from the thundering Devil´s Throat to a panoramic escarpment with numerous cascading curtains of water.
After two days of walking the trails of Iguazu Park and being wowed by the cascades, it was time to take to the bikes again and head south through Misiones to the lesser known, but reputedly spectacular, falls at Mocona. We are in a different world in this part of Argentina: a subtropical climate - hot and humid. The land is cloaked in forest stretching for miles across the province and to Brazil in the east. The earth is a rich orange-red in bold contrast with the dark lush vegetation and, as we cycle along, a kaleidoscope of butterflies bob along around us - bright orange, purple, black and red - every colour imaginable; they seem to be strangely attracted to sweaty cyclists. A coral snake (look it up), quick in every sense of the word, skitters past our wheels and we glimpse monkeys feeding in the trees, and toucans.
Outside of the protected forest it is noticeable that the land has been cleared
or the woodland thinned to make way for smallholdings where corn, peanuts, oranges and bananas grow. Tiny wooden shacks dot the roadside, each painted in a Barbie-meets-My-Little-Pony mix of pastel pinks, greens and blues. Horses and ox-drawn carts join us on the road, and are used to transport materials to and from the fields, and the kids to and from school. The road in this area is a folded roller coaster which, combined with the heat makes for an energy-sapping ride so, when we arrive in the sizeable town of San Vicente, we are ready for a rest. Our hotel is still in the early days of construction, indeed I am introduced to the builders as I go to our room. However, it is a fine place with the added bonus of an excellent grill restaurant attached.
That afternoon we make a bad decision; we go to visit a local waterfall and beauty spot. Down a 2 km earth road we go. Disappointingly, the waterall is a mere trickle due to the paucity of rainfall recently. Even more disappointingly, we are then subject to an impressive thunderstorm. This does little to improve the waterfall, but very effectively turns our
little dirt road to sticky mud. It is impossible to even push the bikes, the wheels are so clogged with mud. A few yards at a time, we haul the mud-bound machines up the road, cursing our bad decision. As I pass a house, two young lads run out and, with sticks and bare hands, try to free my bike from its prison of glutinous mud. They quickly become encased themselves and in alarm, and fearful of their mother appearing, I try to usher them back inside, but they are insistant. It is typical of the of the people hereabouts. Eventually we make it back to the hotel and the newly introduced builders show us to a hosepipe for a massive clean up operation.
That night torrential rainstorms begin and the electricity comes and goes all night. By morning the outlook is grim and we decide to wait out the storm. For two full days we are marooned in San Vicente, surviving on a diet of Premiership football, golf and grilled steak. Eventually, we emerging into a bright cloudless day. A cool wind buffets us as we continue our journey towards El Soberbio; it is glorious - just like
a fresh, blowy April day in England.
Once in El Soberbio we set about the task of organising a 4WD and motor boat trip to see the waterfalls at Mocona. Though only 20m high at most, these falls in the River Paraguay are a 3 km long wall of cascading water, aligned down the centre of the river, facing Brazil on one bank with Argentina behind. There is one fatal flaw; the very rains that had imprisoned us in San Vicente had swelled the lower river to such an extent that the falls had all but vanished. What a blow; we had cycled 2000 km to see the only waterfall that disappears when it rains! After consoling ourselves with a luggage-free ride through the lovely countryside in the approach to the falls, we abandoned El Soberbio for the neighbouring province of Corrientes where the Estero del Ibera wetlands lie. This vast, wildlife-rich marshland rivals the Pantanal of Brazil. Let´s hope it hasn´t vanished before we get there.
The ladies in the Tourist Information office in San Javier were excited at our arrival and, being particularly thrilled by the account of our journey, asked if we had an inspirational
message for them. "Blessed are the cheesemakers" sprang to mind, but I resisted and, after much pencil chewing and tongue-sticking-out, came up with some suitable prose which bore more than a passing resemblence to a Nike advert. Photos were taken to add to the record.
As we rollercoasted our way through Corrientes the landscape became progressively more open; smallholdings were replaced by pine timber forests and mate plantations. Occasionally we passed tobacco-drying sheds and lorries carrying tottering piles of tobacco leaf passed by, wafting the aroma of fresh tobacco over us. When we arrived in Apostoles, the Mate capital of Argentina, the air was tinged with the lovely gentle scent of Mate leaf. We had one final stop off in the border town of Santo Tome, where we prepared for the final leg to Carlos Pellegrini at the heart of the Ibera wetlands. Along the route we had been gathering information about the condition of the earth road that would lead us there and were now anticipating, with little relish, 120 km of isolated dirt road, some of it in atrocious condition with that same propencity to turn to a mud bath should it rain.
But that must
wait for the next installment. Do the dodgy duo get there in double quick time, or get stranded in the journey from hell? Does their marriage survive a canoeing trip on Ibera lagoon, or does the rear gunner get dumped in the drink and left to the caimans?
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Dave
non-member comment
Where are they?
Only said to my one remaining trusted and loyal TA this morning that we hadn't had a blog from Richard and Di for a while and, quick as a flash, here it is. Looks like Andy's worst fear is materialising Di, your hair has grown and you're going to have to cut short your adventures so you can get back to Keith Hall's Ladies Hairdresser, pretty sharpish. Keep going. Love to you both. Dave