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Published: September 30th 2010
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Ah, the romance of train travel. Many had warned me to take the faster 13-hour, luxurious bus ride replete with wine and meals, from Buenos Aires to its terminus in Posadas. But no, I needed to stretch my little pot of gold, so that it would last three years.
At 11 pm, the impressively named, but quite ancient Gran Capitan, packed to the gills, chugged off on its supposed 24-hour journey to Posadas. I was seated next to a broken window that admitted a stream of freezing night air and amidst a gaggle of adolescent brothers off on a holiday.
After our introductions, the boys settled in for a festive night of joking around and playing footsie with me in our cold, tight quarters. The respiratory affliction that had been creeping up on me in the cold capital, raged forth. This fiasco was not worth the $25 I saved.
However, the next day, the brothers and half the others disembarked, and I pounced on a couple of seats by a heater. From then on, the journey was splendid even if it did take 36 rather long hours. Food wasn't really sold, but for a peso, 25 cents, we
were able to fill our thermoses with steaming hot water--primarily for the Argentinians and their ever-present mate.
Young and old carry a large plastic flask of hot water, a bag of yerba mate, an herb from the holly family with lots of healthy properties, a mate gourd and metal straw. There is quite a ritual involved in the preparation and sharing of mate among a group of friends. At first, I found the drink bitter, but over time I quite came to like it and the friendliness of sharing. However, since everyone drinks from the same straw, I doubt that the tradition will catch on in germ-obsessed America.
The train's hot water allowed me to start healing with Gypsy Cold Care tea from a health food store in Santa Barbara. I put on my fabulous new toy, a second-hand Ipod, and let the world lazily unfurl out the cracked and smudged window.
The countryside was sparsely populated, with rolling hills, a few munching cows and horses and estuaries with flocks of egrets and water fowl. The few small communities were extremely poor with red dirt roads, houses patched out of boards and tin, and sometimes surrounded by
mounds of garbage. In some of these towns, we had to close the metal shades because ruffians would hurl rocks at the windows. Perhaps they were frustrated that they, too, couldn’t just chug away from their lives of rural poverty.
I later learned that although education is free everywhere, girls in these rural communities often stop attending as they approach puberty. With no school buses, children walk to school. Since girls are liable to be raped by older boys, their families pull them from school (punish the victim).
Also, in the countryside, couples, influenced by Catholicism and evangelism, eschew contraceptives and have huge families, perpetuating the cycle of poverty. Such a sad contrast to the small, educated families of the cities.
Sub-tropical Posadas, the pleasant, but rather nondescript capital of Misiones province, was much warmer than Buenos Aires, and a fine place to dry up my cold. After a couple of days in bed, I sauntered around the jungle-like plazas and walked along the Parana River’s promenade with its view of the attractive bridge to Paraguay.
While visiting the church on the main plaza, I was joined by group of 9-year-olds on a field trip from
the countryside. They stared in amazement at the simply-painted apse, the pipe organ, and me. They gathered around me, amazed to meet an American and peppered me with questions--was I rich, did I know any movie stars, did I want to visit their pueblito? All very sweet and touching.
Equally touching was my meeting and chats with the owners of Posada’s hostel, El Vuelo de Pez (The Flight of the Fish). Lucas and Martine are a couple of altruistic anthropology students who have done much good in their young lives. Here, they saved a 150-year old schoolhouse from demolition and are converting it into a sweet, funky hostel.
They use their profits from the hostel to support their volunteer work with the indigenous Guarani people. They work with hydrologists and the Guarani to put in simple, rain-capturing, gravity-fed irrigation systems that can be maintained by the farmers. This seems the most ideal form of aid--low tech and aimed at fostering independence. The farmers used to have sufficient water, but climate change has resulted in an ever-shorter rainy season. In my travels, I’m sure to see more signs of how our over-consumption and unsustainable habits effect the poor of
the world.
Lucas and Martine praised the current president, Cristina Fernadez de Kirchner and her husband, the previous president Nestor Kirchner (the Clintons of the south) for being the first to look into the concerns of the many indigenous groups in Argentina, helping them reclaim their traditions and find meaningful work. They said that for the first time, they’ve also provided a social net for the poor--quite admirable.
I was headed to San Ignacio after being told that almost no one stays overnight; they just pass through to visit one of the Jesuit missions for which the province, Misiones, was named. A town little visited--just what I needed after these big cities.
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