The Argentina I Never Found
Date: April 30, 2002

Hello from Corrientes, Argentina.

I hope this email finds you well.

For months other travelers have tempted me with the stories about the steaks in Argentina. The massive cuts of meat are concealed under mounds of french fries and onions. I anticipated my last four weeks of riding to Buenos Aires to be filled with all the luxuries of home. With the peso trading 3 to 1 for the dollar all the things I desired would be a wonderful bargain. What I found was a Third World country. Since crossing the border from Bolivia I have been mired in the mud, endured drenching rains and coped with a collapsed banking system. I have also been treated as a honored guest. With their economy collapsing around them and their future uncertain the acts of kindness that I have received from the Argentine people have blossomed into some of my fondest Latin American memories. The Argentine people have adopted me as one of their own.

My 3 day ride form Tarija, Bolivia to the border town of Bermejo followed the only road south. Stunning Badlands transformed into tropical rain Forrest along the banks of the Bermejo River. I listened to a speech by the president of Bolivia in the small town of Padcayo. He was announcing the construction of a new paved highway linking Tarija and Argentina. During his speech I was surrounded by local boys who peppered me with questions about my bicycle. They informed me that their president is corrupt.

My border crossing into Argentina was a simple satisfying affair. There were many instances in the past where I never thought that I would get this far. Now I was entering what may be the final country of my Latin American journey. The rain forest soon gave way to banana plantations and and sugar cane fields of the lowlands. It was camping in one of these sugar cane fields that I chose to follow the road less traveled.

The Chaco is a region that encompasses Southwestern Bolivia, Western Paraguay and Northeastern Argentina. It is an area of dirt roads, thorn trees, wildlife and gauchos. ( COWBOYS ) The region is poor, rural and sparsely populated. I chose the highway that runs east in an effort to avoid traffic. The first few days in Argentina proved peaceful. The flat road felt effortless after the mountains of Bolivia. The days were warm and the nights were refreshing.. Exotic birds flew between the trees. Guachos herded their cattle and roadrunners and emmus darted for cover as I approached. Then the pavement ended and the the rain began.

The roads in the Chaco are special. When rain arrives they are transformed into a quagmire consisting of 2 types of mud. The first variety resembles grease. The second kind of mud is similar to glue. It is specially formulated to stick to bike tires and shoes. I soon found myself 5kms from the nearest town desperately attempting to carry a bike that would not roll through a grease pit. It was at this exact moment that a smiling Scott waved to me from the front seat of a passing truck. I threw my bike down in disgust while I lamented the decision to ride a dirt road.

Scott's ride soon stopped due to a second disabled truck that blocked the " highway ". I was soon introduced to Ramiro ( the driver ) , Yolanda ( his wife ) and Diebe ( his son ). They offered me a ride to Juarez. Yolanda helped me clean my bike and Diebe loaded it on to the back of their truck. For the next 11 hours we repeated this ritual. We drove for a few kilometers until the truck became mired in the mud. We would all climb out and take turns shoveling. Then with Ramiro behind the wheel we would push until the truck was free. We arrived at Ramiro's house at 1am. Over an early morning meal of bread, meat and cheese I learned that the detour to Ramiro's house was necessary. The more direct route to Juarez was impassable. He hoped after some sleep we could use an alternate route later that same day.

Due to a combination of foul weather, bad roads and the collapse of the Argentine banking system I stayed with Ramiro's family for 2 days. I was introduced to his neighbors, friends and the remainder of his children Franko, Paublo, Matias and Patricia. I was shown hospitality by masters at their craft. I was welcomed daily for a breakfast of tea and bread, Yolanda's huge home cooked lunches and an evening serving of mate that was followed by a late dinner. After each meal the conversation would ligure for hours. Over wine Ramiro would joke how pathetic I looked when he saw me with my bicycle stuck in the mud. He also said the local snakes and pumas prefered white gringo meat over the darker native version. He told me I was like one of his sons and that I was welcomed to stay as long as I desired.

In every respect by American standards Romiro and Yolanda are a self-made couple. They both grew up in poverty in Bolivia. Ramiro is a self-taught mechanic. Through hard work he managed to buy 4 trucks. He now transports mostly staple foods that he resells out of the store his family operates in the front of their house in Potrillo. They both are very proud of the lifestyle that they have created. They are also both critical of what they feel is a lack of ambition in the local population. They feel most of their neighbors desire only top drink mate, eat and sleep. They own a second home in the larger town of Juarez but prefer to raise their children in the more intimate town of Portillo. They fear what they believe is the more prevalent abuse of alcohol and other drugs in Juarez.

I was a local celebrity for 2 days in Portillo. Ramiro's children's friends would accompany them home to meet me. When I sat in front of the store a curious crowd would soon gather. I was also invited to Frank's high school class. For 2 hours Scott and I were questioned about ourselves, our trip, politics, terrorism, life in America and America's opinion of Argentina. The classroom was filled and other students listened as they leaned through the windows.

These are the fondest memories of my time in Potrillo. Paublo trying in vain to teach me how to cast his fishing rod. Ramiro chewing all the coca leaves and catching all the fish. The succulant dinner of fresh fried fish that followed my fishing expedition. Yolanda serving me first at every meal. I felt like the guest of honor. The candlelit dinning room table surrounded by friends and family who all were studying there English lesson. ( even Ramiro ) Paublo's elementary school class sprinting across the playground to wave goodbye to my departing bus. Ramiro thanking me for spending time with his children. I felt that I inspired a family to search beyond the borders of their small town.

I have mastered the art of making friends in Argentina. I simply walk into any public place and look foreign. I am quickly adopted by a local. I met Pea, the driver of a beer truck, 3 time in one day. The first two times he offered me a ride to his hometown but I refused. The third time we met alongside the road he informed me that I was riding with him as he loaded my possessions into the back of his truck. How could I refuse ?? In his hometown of Iberreta he arranged for me to camp by the gas station and returned later that night to introduce me to his family.

The following day I seeked shelter from the rain. I huddled under the roof of a local market in the town of Fontana. I entered to buy food and soon found myself in a conversation with the seżora that owns the store. She offered me a chair while I waited for the rain to end. Her daughters soon appeared with large bottle of Coke to help me pˆss the time as the heavy thunderstorm continued. The next gift was a dated,hand-stenciled wooden mate mug to commemorate the day. This was quickly followed by a serving of mate, a thermos to carry my hot water and an invitation to a home cooked lunch. These people are just awesome.

The rage in Argentina in yerba mate. It is a type of tea that is consumed through a filtered straw. It is prepared by pouring ground tea leave into a mug. Then sugar in poured on top followed by either hot or cold water. The mugs are everywhere. Most of the locals also carry a thermos of hot water so they can enjoy mate at any time of the day.

I arrived in Corrientes yesterday and the search for those steaks that hang over the edge of the plate continues.

I miss you all,

Dennis