Then it’s time for another break. There’s a live cross to the Dakar desert rally on the TV which is mounted high on the wall. Javier says it has a special remote. He puts a stool under it then calls his son over who stands on the stool and turns it on while Javier points at it with the long defunct remote. It’s their little in-joke.
Inspired by the efforts of the motorcyclists competing in the Dakar, it’s back to work. Javier adjusts the valves, puts in the new oil filter and re-fills the engine oil. All done, but it’s taken all day. Shirl goes out and gets some beer and we sit around waiting for the cool change. There’s no doubt Javier and Sandra are wonderful people and so welcoming of overland travellers. We fill out their visitors’ book and pay the bill. Javier is a cash man and explains that after the last financial crash no one in Argentina trusts the banks any more. Apparently they have a crash every seven to 10 years and they are due for another one.
Shirley: The bike has been the centre of attention for the past two days and now it’s time for us again. We lunch in the square at Recoleta at an outdoor restaurant under the shade trees. We wander through the cemetery looking for Eva Peron’s final resting place. Eva is interred with her family and not her husband, Juan. We turn a corner and know we’re in the right place. There’s an orderly queue of people waiting to take photographs. There are fresh flowers and her name plate obviously receives regular polishing.
The cemetery is like a city within a city. Narrow streets and lanes lined with impressive mausoleums topped with statuary of angels. As well as a working cemetery it’s one of Buenos Aires most popular tourist attractions. We could spend all day here, but we don’t.
We head to the Al Ateneo bookshop. Once a very glamorous theatre it’s now a very stylish bookshop. The stage is a café and the books are on the first and second floor balconies. The private boxes at the side of the stage have been converted into reading areas. The basement is the children’s bookshop. They have a huge English language section but, being on the bike, books are one of the things we have to go without. If only I could buy a book or two, but I can hear Brian saying ‘Too big, too heavy’.
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When the locals want to get away from the heat they head to Tigre on the Parana Delta. We learn this when we arrive for what we expect to be a quiet trip on the water. The river traffic is just as bad as the road traffic. It’s mayhem with row boats, speed boats, jet skis, half cabin cruisers, and taxi boats with about 200 people on board all vying for a piece of the river. They scoot past our tour boat with centimetres to spare. There doesn’t appear to be any speed limit and the wash is creating waves about a metre high.
There are some very impressive homes here and some have lifts to take their boats out of the water, probably to avoid the constant pounding from the man-made washing machine action of the river.
We can’t leave Buenos Aires without visiting a tango show and having a lesson in the dance of love. I certainly have two left feet and no sense of rhythm so it’s going to be an interesting night. Our teachers, Hugo and Andrea are style personified — tall, thin and brilliant dancers.
They break down the tango into three stages. It seems so hard at first but then I get it — twists, turns and massive fun. I even get a high five from Hugo after dancing one section with him as my partner. We’re okay. Who would have thought. Brian’s miles better than the Columbian man who danced all over my feet.
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We’ve had a week off the bike. It’s now serviced and fitted with new tyres. We’re refreshed and ready to move on.
Next stop — Uruguay.
Uruguay: a wonderful find
13 – 23 January 2012
Brian: Before we can cross the massive River Plate for Uruguay we need to make another major redistribution of weight on the bike. It’s too top heavy and that’s not good. To lessen the weight on the top box I shift the liners and waterproofs into the bag on the top. We’ve got too much stuff despite posting half a kilo home a few days ago.
We’re booked on the 9.30 am ferry from Buenos Aires to Colonia del Sacramento in Uruguay. It’s a three-hour cruise across the River Plate and a most unusual border crossing. We’re stamped out of Argentina and into Uruguay at the dock. On the ferry they stamp the carnet for the motorcycle.
Shirl lines up with the other pedestrians, not allowed to ride onto the ferry with me. In the car hold there aren’t any tie downs, but everyone assures me the crossing will be smooth.
They’re right. The three hours pass very peacefully. We’re one of the first off but have to wait until everyone else is off before the officials come over and fill out our paperwork. Like so many borders — there are no problems, we just need a little patience.
Shirley: After a week in Buenos Aires, a city of almost three million people, Uruguay is a very pleasant change. Our hosteria, El Galope, is set in lush green pastures about 50 kilometres from Colonia. There’s a real sense of being in a home rather than a hotel here. The farm dogs, cats and horses are friendly and make me miss our animals at home, Jasper and Emily. This is a place to chill out. There are hammocks hanging in the trees and comfy old couches line the wide veranda. The only alarm clock here is the chirping of the birds.
Our hosts, Monika and Miguel, prepare tasty feasts in the farmhouse kitchen. We add the delicious locally produced merlot and goat’s cheese. After dinner Miguel gives us a tour of the stars.
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Brian: It’s an effort to drag myself away from the hammock but we really should ride into Colonia and check out the town. Colonia was established in the 17th century by the Portuguese, who used it as a base to smuggle goods into Buenos Aires. There was a major slave trade in the ‘good’ old days and the stone podium is still in the main square. It puts a chill up my spine to think of the depravity that was once commonplace not that long ago.
The narrow cobble-stoned streets of the historic centre, tucked behind the remains of the ancient fortress wall, are lined with tiny cottages and it’s easy to while away an hour or two just meandering. There’s a story around every corner. Even the streets have a tale to tell. Some were built during the Spanish occupation and others during the Portuguese occupation. You can pick the Portuguese settlement, because their roads all slope to the middle for one central drain. In the Spanish area the roads slope outwards to drains on either side.
And the main church in town has been blown up several times, mainly because it was used as a gunpowder store during the sieges. Nature also played a part and it was struck by lightning.
Lightning and gunpowder is not a mixture you want to be around.
Done with walking, it’s hard to beat lunch at a parilla (meat) restaurant overlooking the old port that’s now a marina for the leisure yachts.
A three-kilometre ride along the beach road takes us to the old bull ring. The Spanish built this as a ‘gift’ to the town back in 1910. It was used only eight times before Uruguayans decreed that bull fighting was barbaric. Good on them! Flicking through the local television channels in Buenos Aires we found coverage of local bullfights. We had to turn it off. The Uruguayans are right — it is barbaric.
It’s so hot I break all of our rules and put my jacket in the pannier. Shirl reads me the riot act but I ignore her. Next thing I feel a sharp pain on the inside of my right elbow. Whatever has stung me has left the stinger in my arm, probably because it hit me at speed. It hurts like hell and swells up into a large blister. The redness spreads below my elbow and up into my bicep. It’s my own stupid fault, as Shirl keeps reminding me.
Back at El Galope, Monika puts on another massive spread, this time a traditional asado cooked over the open fire inside the kitchen. Rather than moving the coals away from the meat the grill is on a metal cable and can be raised and lowered to maintain the perfect cooking temperature. Owaine, the Aussie who cooked our asado in Ushuaia, is right — it’s an art form. The meat just melts in the mouth. The good conversation with fellow travellers is aided by the tasty merlot.
Shirley:
I’ve been using my Vegemite sparingly over the past couple of months. I won’t get another tube until we get to Texas in May. I take my precious tube to breakfast and get an enormous shock. Monika likes Vegemite and would love some on her toast. Bloody hell! To recover from the shock, we head to the beach for the day and laze about on the white sands and dip in to the cooling waters of the River Plate.
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We ignore the GPS, which wants to take us on the highway on the ride from El Galope to Montevideo, and follow Miguel’s directions to a guesthouse in the suburbs of the capital. We stick to the Rambla, the coast road, riding through wonderful riverside towns and beachside resorts.
Mercedes’ guesthouse is an enormous old colonial mansion set in a lovely, cool garden. At breakfast a young couple, Ashwin and Abeeda, are checking their emails. The young man looks up and says ‘Hello to Brian and Shirley’. He’s just received an email from Tim and Becky, a young couple we met at El Galope. They’d met a few days ago here.
We head into the city and find motorcycle parking on the footpath in the Plaza de Independence, under the watchful eye of a statue of Artigas, the father of Uruguayan nationhood. Montevideo is a city with soul. The magnificent old buildings are a wonderful backdrop to the leafy squares that offer a cool refuge from the blazing sun. Artisans sell their wares in these little squares and I buy a couple of little trinkets. Brian doesn’t understand that a couple of pairs of earrings, a wristband or two and a T shirt will fit in — somewhere.
We dine at one of the myriad restaurants in the Puerto Mercado — an ancient market that’s now a food hall under a tin roof with elaborate supports.
On the way home we stop for an icecream and a swim at the beach. The sun, the water, the buildings, the food and the people all make Uruguay a spectacular country that should be on every South American tour.
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It’s time to move on from Mercedes fine guesthouse and head up the Atlantic coast. We ride to Punta del Este, Uruguay’s premier beach resort. The highrise apartment buildings and hotels tower over the beach. It reeks of money and has a real sterile feel, not what we’re looking for.
Riding along the beachfront a bus driver keeps blowing the horn at us. I feel the luggage behind me to see if something’s falling off the bike. Everything seems fine but this guy is persistent. Finally he pulls alongside and gives us the thumbs up. It’s just another gesture of friendship.
Brian: Punta del Diablo, further up the coast, is more our speed. The developers haven’t ruined this town. The sand is pristine and the water clean. There are small hotels and wooden cabins along the dirt streets. Fishermen sell their catch from shacks on the beach. You can get some of that fish cooked to perfection at the little restaurants on the wooden pathway that runs along the shoreline.
Our hotel, El Diablo Tranquilo Playa Suites is right on the sand. There’s no pathway here. The bar and restaurant are cooled by the sea breeze. We can hear the surf crashing on the shore from our room. This is a special place. Time just drifts by and nothing happens in a rush.
We wander along the water’s edge, hand in hand, enjoying the feel of the salt on our skin after a swim in the Atlantic. It just doesn’t get much better than this.
We have to drag ourselves away from the beach and head inland to Tacuarembó, possibly the birthplace of Carlos Gardel, the singer and composer who gave the world some great tango music. The Uruguayans say he was born here. The Argentineans say he was born there. Both countries claim him as their own. The argument goes on.
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The road takes us right up to the border with Brazil before we head inland riding along some wonderful secondary roads through rolling hills and green pastures. It is hot, bloody hot — about 37°C, but that doesn’t stop us from enjoying a Uruguay special at a roadside food stall. The chivito is a thin steak served in a roll with fresh salad and it’s delicious.
We need a cold drink and pull up at a little café that sells tyres. It seems an odd combination but the drinks are cold so we don’t complain. The locals are intrigued by the bike and I tell them about it and what it can do in my very poor Spanish. The one thing they love is our Ché sticker on the pannier. The workers still love him in this part of the world.
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When the sun goes down and the temperature drops a little, the locals come out to stroll along the streets and sit in the local square. The ice cream seller is doing a roaring trade. Sitting in the square enjoying an ice cream just reinforces how we feel about Uruguay. It’s a beautiful country and the people couldn’t be friendlier. The guidebook tells us it is one of the safest countries in South America. We love it.
Heading to the border it starts to rain. It’s cool. It’s fantastic. The ride is a delight through small rural communities along narrow roads. Before we leave Uruguay and head back into Argentina we try another local delicacy — a choripan, a chorizo sausage served on bread with lettuce, tomato and cheese. Another culinary delight.
It’s a pity we can’t stay longer, but it’s now late January and we have just over three months to get to Texas. And that’s a long way up the road.
Back to Argentina and Iguazu Falls
23 – 29 January 2012
Shirley: We’re heading further north to the Iguazu Falls that sit between Argentina and Brazil, a couple of days ride away. We don’t have visas for Brazil so we go back into Argentina and at Salto turn north along the Brazilian border.
The heat’s getting difficult to deal with. The temperature gauge on the bike says it’s 37.5°C before we hit the middle of the day. Some cloud cover only drops the temperature to 35°C.
I’m getting crazy with the heat. My jacket’s open to catch a little breeze, but I feel like ripping my helmet off to get some more air. It’s a scary feeling. Of course, getting my helmet off wouldn’t help anyway, the air that blasts us is hot, hot, hot. Imagine putting a hairdryer on high heat and holding it in front of your face. That’s what it’s like riding in this heat.
We stop at a service station with a parilla restaurant for lunch. I order a large bottle of mineral water and the man kindly brings us a bucket of ice too. We obviously look hot and bothered.
Cooling down, we check out the photos around the restaurant.They’re pictures of a soldier with newspaper stories about the Falklands War. We presume the soldier is the owner’s son. Signs on the wall say Malvinas son Argentina — the Malvinas are Argentina. The young man is obviously a war hero from the 1980s UK/Argentina war over the Falkland Islands, known here as Malvinas.
I’m pretty sure there’s a time difference between Uruguay and Argentina so I ask the time in my very best Spanish.
The answer comes in exceptionally good English. The man chats with us about our trip and when we leave he tells us to ‘Go with God’. We feel refreshed after cool drinks and heartened by this man’s kindness to two very hot and weary travellers.
Just when we think it couldn’t get worse, the rains come and the road is like riding on glass. We finally get to our overnight stop at Posadas, and it’s certainly nothing to write home about. A hotel with a parking garage, a restaurant that sells exceptionally cold beer served in an ice bucket, that’s all we need.
Brian: Next day it’s hot again and there’s a queue at the petrol station. Of course there is. We’re back in Argentina.
Fuelled up and heading out of town to Iguazu, we stop at the lights and the driver of the car next to us asks if it’s okay to take a photo of the bike. Sure. Next thing four camera phones appear at the windows. We feel quite the celebrities.
Riding along, the clouds begin to look ominous, from light grey, to dark and then black. With very little warning the clouds burst. It’s to be expected, I guess, as we’re very close to the Tropic of Capricorn. The rain’s bucketing down and we’re getting soaked. Riding is uncomfortable and dangerous. I can’t see much of the traffic so it stands to reason that the traffic can’t see us.
I pull off the highway into the town of Eldorado. Our little bit of gold i
s a closed restaurant with a large, covered outdoor eating area. I ride up onto the footpath and under the awning and we just wait it out.
The streets are awash. The gutters aren’t coping and people are wading through knee-deep water. Eventually the rain eases off and we put on our wets over our wet clothes and hit the road.
Puerto Iguazu is the gateway to the Iguazu Falls, one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. Our hostel has everything we need — off street parking for the bike, a pool for us and air-conditioning in the room for a good night’s sleep after our full day on the road. Perfect.
Shirley: I’m not keen on the idea of riding through Paraguay. We’ve been told it’s lawless and a risk for travellers like us. Others have told us there’s nothing to see there. Brian says it’s the quickest way to get from here to Salta in northern Argentina and then back into Chile to visit San Pedro de Atacama to see the geyser fields. He’s right, of course, and if we want to get out to Galapagos in Ecuador, time is of the essence.
To get into Paraguay we need a visa from the consulate. They don’t issue Australians with visas at the border. There’s an office of the Paraguayan government in Puerto Iguazu but they don’t issue the visas here either. To get the Paraguayan visa we need to cross the border to Foz in Brazil. To get to Brazil we need a visa. Like Paraguay, Brazil doesn’t issue visas to Australians at the border. It’s another Catch 22 moment. The good news is that the Brazilian consulate here will issue the visa. It takes 24 hours so we head there first thing.
It’s not a difficult process but it’s not straightforward either. We need to fill in the application form online and we need a bank statement. The consul staff have organised for the staff at the Bamboo Hostel next door to let travellers use their computer to access their bank and then print up a statement. They also assist with filling out the application form — all for just 30 pesos (about $5.50).
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