Back Roads

Day 14-16: Corrientes Province, Argentina. Bang! Clatter! Vroom!, Bang! Clatter! Vroom! One of the consistent themes since our arrival in South America has been the sound track. Whether we have visited a bar, a shopping centre or a funeral parlour, there always seemed to be music playing and never quietly. And so it seemed quite apt, as we drove along the remote unsealed dirt track, that our journey should be given a percussive backing formed from a combination of the bus's failing suspension, my shattered spinal vertebrae and a diesel engine with far too many miles on the clock!

The experiences at Iguaçu had been unforgettable for Karen and me but, as with any major attraction, it can be hard to find peace and solitude with so many people trying to share the same experience as we were. And so, taking the learnings from our previous expedition, we knew exactly what to do: Find a couple of obscure towns in the middle of nowhere, well off the tourist trail and head straight for them: Let's see the real country.

Entering Argentina had already proved to be an interesting experience: A little rawer, a little poorer and a little more chaotic than it's northern neighbour. Catching the bus from Foz do Iguaçu to the Brazilian side of the border, the departure proceedings were as efficient as we had come to expect from our Brazilian hosts. On leaving the administration of Brazil though, things started to become a little bit more 'Latin'. Requiring a vehicle to transport us the 2 miles across 'no-mans' land to the Argentine border we suddenly found that the bus service had dried up and adopted the feeling of mañana: Not something we had had to contend with with Brazil's excellent transport system. And when we did finally make it to immigration; the patient, orderly queues that we were used to in Brazil turned into a free-for-all more reminiscent of the rugby field than a government building. Loaded with full backpack, Karen took the strategic high ground wedged in the entrance. Not to be outdone though, a couple of local crones who must have been 70 if they were a day, toothless and 5ft in high heels managed to wrestle Karen to the ground with a barrage of Spanish expletives that probably didn't include “Welcome to Argentina”. This was more like it. Fabulous entertainment!

Travelling through the remote expanses of North East Argentina we couldn't help feeling that that we'd been transported directly on the set of some high budget spaghetti western. My throat was parched from the red dust cloud that our ancient service bus was kicking up as it clattered across the dirt roads. High above us, vultures circled on the strong morning thermals; tracking the bus's progress as if they knew something that I did not. The vast savannah stretched as far as our eyes could see, only occasionally broken by low level trees, shaped over time by the strong prevailing winds. Here and there the bright sunshine glinted on the spinning sails of the creaking wind pumps that provided drinking water for the immense herds of beef cattle that roamed freely across these isolated plains, and occasionally flocks of hungry rhea (South American ostriches) would come in to sight to complete this unforgettable scene.

And then of course there were the cowboys. But Argentina's gauchos aren’t here to entertain the tourists. In this part of South America, this is their way of life. Men and boys live hard lives here, travelling for days across these huge rural estancias to tend their valuable herds. On our journey eastwards as we travelled from Corrientes to Mercedes, we watched in admiration as these skilled horsemen thundered across the plains in a cloud of dust, spurs on boots and lasso in hand.

From time to time we would break our journey in small, uninspiring backwaters where old timers would occupy the park benches drinking maté from a silver bombilla, dressed in full western regalia: 10 gallon hat, that little leather thing around their necks, chaps and snakeskin boots. Take Mercedes: A crumbling, one-eyed town where our hotel reflected the rest of the towns infrastructure: If the shower worked then the toilet wouldn't flush. If the toilet flushed then the lights wouldn't work. If the lights worked then the sockets would fail... you get the kind of thing!! Here nothing much happened before 10, the townsfolk broke for siesta at about midday only to return at around 5 to work for a couple more hours work before shutting shop from the day's exertion!

The Spanish is coming on though. From a shaky start back in Puerto Iguazú where conversations took on a decidedly Fawlty Towers feel – I would say something in Spanish and a whole raft of Argentinians would stand around looking at me blankly and responding ¿Qué? we've been making some progress. Forced by necessity, as nobody in this very untouristy area speaks any English, we are on the whole making ourselves understood and getting pretty much what we ask for (thanks to Vicky for her patience during those painful Spanish lessons!). I have mistakenly asked a couple of people whether they have an anus when I meant to ask them their age but so far the Argentinians are taking it all quite light heartedly. Nobody's punched me. Yet!