|Goodbye Chile. Hello Argentina. We drove over the Andes|
The border crossing from Chile to Argentina probably could have been easier without an old white guy and a young Colombiana. They were very suspicious and they should have been – No one should be having this much fun. But we do it all without the aid of drugs and they just couldn’t believe that. They walked a dog over everything, let the air out of my tires for the pooch to sniff, ran a video camera throughout my chassis with a selfie stick and then watched the video for anything suspicious. Then they did the whole thing all over again with a different dog just in case the first one was having an off day. And then they waved us through.
Argentina is essentially Spain: Its white people mispronouncing Spanish while smoking endlessly. I want all Spanish to be uniform and sound just like the Mexicans in Tijuana. I cannot abide the Motherland Spanish lisp, or the Medellin double “L” as a “J”, or that horrendous Honduran mush mouth or the Chilean auctioneer speed, and now I have to contend with the double “L”, the “Y” and ”J” as an “SH”? What the hell Argentinians? Why is the default setting an “SH”? I will refer to you as Shargentinians until you reform your wicked ways! (This was later shortened to “Shargies” and I call them Shargies to their face and explain it is a term of endearment and they don’t stub their cigarettes out in my eyes so I guess we’re good)
Mendoza – A Soft Landing
We had to let the air out of my tires (no drug dog this time) and remove a lightbulb from the ceiling of the parking garage in order for me to fit my war machine inside. I offered to thank my new host and helpful parking lot attendant by buying him beer. He doesn’t drink beer. Of course, this is Mendoza, how about wine? No again. It was Fernet or nothing. What the hell is Fernet? Look it up. It’s the national drink of Shargieville. They drink it with Coke and they can’t live without it.
I prefer Malbec, and boy did I get it. We rented bikes and road from bodega to bodega and sampled it all. When we needed a pause we would stop at an olive producing ranch and eat their briny goodness slathered on hearty bread with olive oil drizzle before imbibing the next bottle. Decadence dipped in fresh air.
Alicia – A Softer Landing
I met Rulo and Serena in Bocas Del Toro, Panama on this same trip a couple years ago. They were quietly drinking their Fernet when I approached them; “I have rum, and cards, and we shall be friends.” Their English skills were not strong enough to rebuke me and as prophesized, we became friends.
They invited me to visit them, should I live long enough to make it to Argentina. I envisioned them living in the hip part of Buenos Aires (she had dreadlocks) and I often thought about seeing them again. They did not live in the hip part of Buenos Aires. It was so much better than that. They lived in the smallest of rural farming towns in the middle of the Pampas between Cordoba and Rosario.
Aleja and I were treated like visiting royalty. No capital city could have ever rolled out the carpet like Alicia. We met everyone in town and were greeted with smiles and kisses and asados and Fernet every night. “It is you who has the big camper at Rulo’s house, si? Come, eat with us, drink with us, we shall be friends”.
My Cholesterol Went Higher Than The Dow
Argentinian dinners are lush but they don’t start until 11pm. And they do meat really well, but salads, not so much. They just don't have a lot of practice. Eating a salad is like changing your bedsheets, they know they are supposed to do it once a week but sometimes it doesn't happen.
|Pretty sure that's a broccoli tattoo. |
The closest he will ever come to vegetables
I invested heavily in wine and lomo (Filet Mignon. Taken directly from my diary: “Now we are eating chili con carne that I made last night. And by carne I mean filet mignon cut into tiny tiny cubes. Why so much filet mignon? Cuz it's $5 per pound!! Why would anyone eat anything else? These philistines eat ribs. Ha! Ribs! It's all bone and gristle. Peasant food. Filet mignon man. Filet mignon for every recipe!). My liver looks like a sucking war wound from the wine and Fernet but god was it worth it. I bought a custom knife and fork which I brought to every parilla I was invited to, and I was invited to many. My cholesterol went higher than the Dow. I decided to lean into it and doubled my dosage of Lipitor.
Diego and Ana
We got their number from a friend. “Hi, could we show up, park the camper in your front yard, leave it for a month, ask for a ride to the airport, then when we return to Argentina, leave it for another month while we rent an apartment in the city and all the while ask you to look after it while we are gone? Really? That’s great. See you tomorrow for dinner!”
By now you might be getting a feel for how wonderful Shargies are. It’s even better than you can imagine. We ended up making a habit of dropping in on Diego and Ana. Each time we returned the reception was one of hugs and kisses and overwhelming friendship. Shargies are the epitome of old world European friendship values (that may or may not exist in Europe anymore) transported to the new world, soaked in Fernet and Malbec and slow cooked over an asado of quebracho. It was the same as our Alicia story – open arms and the run of the place. Shargies are just that naturally inclusive. You should actively seek them out. You won’t regret it.
Latin Dance Sociopath
They say that a sociopath can’t empathize with their fellow humans and merely looks around the room, judges the mood and mimics. It’s all fake. So is my Tango, Salsa, Bachata, etc. I don’t feel it and I’m bad at faking it, but I will occasionally go through the motions. We took Tango lessons (more accurately- we took Milonga lessons. If interested you can look up the differences: Tango vs Milonga vs Vals)
|Tango: One part dancing, One part manhandling, Two parts counting|
100 years ago Argentina was the tenth richest country per capita. Today they are the only country (maybe Greece as well) that has achieved developed nation status only to devolve back to 3rd world. Books have been written about Argentina’s distinctive economy.
I made a bad investment. I bought Argentinian Pesos in advance of our trip to Patagonia. The exchange rate was 20 Pesos to $1 US. Upon my return to Buenos Aires 4 months later, I was getting 27 to $1 US. At the time of this writing (Dec 2019) the peso is now 60 to $1 US. With inflation like that - How do you save? How do you invest? How do you retire? It changes the spirit of a nation. It makes you myopic and you live for the week, and the plans for next month get abandoned. Buy the good wine, get the best cut of steak, tomorrow the peso is worth less. It breeds a nihilistic rudderless attitude, but it sure is fun if you’re invested elsewhere and want to party.
Long Boring Miles
The drive south to Patagonia gave me wrinkles. Route 3 (we drove it from Buenos Aires all the way to Ushuaia = 2000 miles) is a skinny death shoulder road with gale force winds that kept my brow furrowed constantly. The only thing to look at is road kill. We didn’t count ribs, hairballs or grease spots, only fresh kills and we were above 17 every day. I can’t recommend Route 3.
|Rheas - A lot like small ostriches|
Diary: “9 hours in the captain’s chair. Whole lot of nothing. Fighting headwinds and killing bugs and burning way too much diesel. My neck and back are killing me. My butt is numb. My eyes are about to bleed. 5 hours is the max anyone should ever have to do on these roads, in this size rig, in this kind of weather.”
|Guanacos - in the familia Camelid|
A Physics Question
When I’m driving at 50 mph and the rain droplets on my windshield are flowing horizontally to the passenger side (They aren’t moving up like they normally do) that means the wind is blowing more than 50 miles an hour right? That’s a lot of wind for old Elsie to take on the side as big as she is
Rio Grande Hellhole
The worst Tierra Del Fuego has to offer. It’s row after row of project housing. It looks like Akalla in Stockholm if Sweden was broke, and depressing, and devoid of hope. Forget that – Rio Grande dreams it could be spoken of in the same sentence as Akalla. Rio Grande aspires to be the ghetto of Akalla.
Diary: ”It's closing in on 08:00. We parked last night on the seafront of some horrible little frozen oil town. You wanna know why Tierra del Fuego is pristine and wild? No one wants to live here. We are fighting 35 knot winds. . I’m glad I'm not in a boat. It blows so hard and this rig has so much windage we rock like 8 Samoan rugby players are trying to tip her. At least no one can tell when we’re fooling around. Welcome to Patagonia.”
|Lifestyle pic # 682|
Technically it is everywhere south of the Colorado River (not that Colorado River). If you’ve never been, then you probably have this vision of a land of extremes. And it is. It’s some of the most strikingly beautiful and dramatic landscapes I have ever seen and some of the most mundane and vacuous vistas as well. And the weather… oh the weather.
|See the fox?|
USHUAIA. WE DID IT!!!
I drove From San Diego to Ushuaia. I’m proud of that. I drove through Mexico, every country in Central America, and through the entire length of South America. I pulled into Ushuaia on the exact 3 year anniversary of this trip. 3 years on the Pan-American Highway. What a wonderful feeling of accomplishment. We bragged and celebrated for a week and then we began the northbound leg. For 3 years I only drove south with the name of Ushuaia on my lips. Then, we turned north. What a strange feeling.
|3 years on the road (with a little time at sea)|
Taking Ownership Of A Country
Something happens when you adopt a nation. I feel this way about Sweden, Mexico, Colombia and now Argentina. If anyone says anything negative about it, I find myself standing up for it. I’m an Anglophile, have been for a long time, but I’ll never refer to those islands with any name other than the Malvinas ever again. I cheer for Argentina. It was her people and her majestic countryside that won my heart. It’s a little bit of magic when a country finds real estate in your soul. Argentina!
Your man on point,