Three days and three nights, three accommodations that have been different. Night one found us struggling to find a wild spot that wasn’t ankle deep in floodwater, or surrounded by multiple strands of high tensile wire.  We’d spotted a possible option in the corner of the JD tractor dealership yard, and the combine’s cab could have slept two, but we opted to try further into town.  We needed to spring some pesos out of the local ATM anyway.  Unfortunately, the hole in the wall closed instantly it read the words ‘Barclays Bank’.  Which leaves us in the all too familiar position, of possibly having the means to buy a bed for the night, and then trying to find one.  

We’ve passed right through town and had not spotted any indicators. Time to start narrowing down the target, time to take directions.  All agree that there is a place, that it’s yellow and that it’s on the right. The debating point is just how many blocks away, and between which panaderia and farmacia?  It doesn’t take long in a South American country to realise that every town, irrespective of wealth, will have at least  two of one, and three of the other.  By a process of elimination we find a structure lost in the middle of a building site,  that’s the white side of yellow, and looks more like a converted shop. The Navigator’s Español must be progressing, as it transpires that all the rooms are singles, but we can use the ’cocina’, the events kitchen, that a couple of beds will be moved in, that we can shower in one of the minuscule singles, and that the issue is no problem. Sounds confused, but she seems to have understood  the instructions correctly.  I suspect this is a new venture, and that the three señoras are fresh to the hospitality game and are keen to maximise any opportunity.
Contrast and compare our first night with the second. The ground might not be any drier, the fences are just as tight but there are more trees to hide behind.  We’ve pitched on an old road  before, pulling up the tar to get the pegs in, but never on an old railway – literally between the rails. With a gauge of  four foot eight and half, the tent poles sit outside, whilst we are wedged tight inside.

I’m not sure if the Navigator had intended the ’double entendre’ when she said that she needed to ’anoint her tender behind’, or had the thought been triggered by the old kids’ joke: why couldn’t the steam engine sit down?  I, on the other hand, speculate on the tonnage of Herefords that have been moved along these lines, on their way to the meat plants in Fray Bentos or Bovril, to be pied, corned, or canned for Europe.  

The third night is a scenario that we’ve encountered several times before, yet it still fascinates me. How often a serendipitous event happens at or around the eighty km mark. Our guardian angel was in a strop; maybe we hadn’t offered enough thanks for her benevolence.  Two days of a headwind should have been rewarded with a tail wind when our road changed direction. Of course the wind moved with the road. Why break a habit? We might as well be down in Patagonia. It is one way to get travel fit. The odometer is clicking on towards the end of the day and it’s time to start sussing out a possible tent spot. When up in front I can see a sign for a bridge; it’s likely to be just another cane choked ditch with a muddy stream running through; the previous ones have all fitted this description.  The nearside banking fits this script, however the far side is a vision of Eden, or at least our idea of nirvana. Clipped grass, concrete tables and chairs and a sign to the ‘duchas’.  Maybe we’ll get a shower tonight? It looks like our watching benefactor has enjoyed the gentle testing tease of headwinds and rewarded us with tonight’s site.  Never tempt fate. We remember to offer thanks.


Three nights accommodation, all different.  It’s the joy of unplanned travel. You don’t know what’s coming, even moments before it comes around the corner at catches you totally unaware.

Seven years ago we spent three months living in a house on the coast, ostensibly and ultimately fruitlessly, to learn Spanish. Then we came back in the spring again, two years ago. Over those two visits we built a picture of an agrarian economy moving at a slow pace, like Scotland with sun, circa 1971. The grain lorries lumbered along in a cloud of noise and particulates, barely able to climb out of second gear, flash-tooting as they crawled past going uphill. The towns were thronged with cars held together with rust and baler wire and you could easily spot, (dependent upon your age), the first car that you, your father or grandpa owned. The grain silos were peeling, crumbling ecclesiastical edifices, the cutter bars on the cabless combines were no more than two good paces. Nobody wore helmets, nobody had to pay income tax.

The exchange rate deteriorated, inflation move ahead, but not much else seemed to change over those seven years. But now…The lorries move quieter and quicker, yet still manage the maté wave, even if the wolf-whistle horns are out of fashion. The grain elevators still resemble  Italianate cathedrals, only they are now surrounded by a massed congregation of silver shimmering silos. The farm tackle has homogenised to JD green, the combines have bloated, their cabs could sleep two, their cutter bars elongated and the seeder rigs require an escort to move along the road. The old cars have been compacted, scraped and  shipped to China, yet I still manage to spot  the first vehicle I remember my father driving; his, a red soft-top, this a sun bleached and aged to soft grey, hard topped Hillman. Yet I still hope to spy my own first, having come close with an Austin A40; mine being the brakeless, rusting diminutive, an A35. The motos are still here, only they’ve added a few horses to the engine, and a fresh paint job to the bodywork.  They’re still partially exhaustless, but I suspect that  might be more a question of choice, of modified baffles, than one of age.  The babies and puppies still ride side saddle, everybody can ride, drink maté and answer their mobiles, but the girls are in colour coordinated pink helmets and bags, the guys in full faces worn rebelliously on the back of the head. Yet it takes governments to make changes.  This one has, by introducing income tax, but there is one change that will never happen – it’s written in Laws of Nature: The drivers still wave, the pedestrians still want to know if you’re ‘Ally manny’ and the dogs still bark.  All day.  All night.  

MATÉ   (mat  ae) n.  (mass noun)  1. (also Yerba Maté)  a bitter infusion of leaves, high in caffeine. Dietary suppressant.  (INFO.)  Ilex paraguaiensis.  Family: Aquifoliaceae.  ORIGIN: Quecha: mati.    (USAGE)  A national social custom particular to Uruguay, requiring a specific paraphernalia of equipment, the surgical attachment of a thermos flask to elbow, and a constant supply of hot water. Skill in usage whilst controlling a moto and answering a mobile ‘phone is considered a badge of national identity.

It’s been a holiday weekend in Argentina, a European celebration of Columbus’ exploits in 1492, hence the four days of rain, which have culminated in a full blown wind and rain, thunder and lightning performance.  All the omens look set for a damp start to the trip. The porridge bowls are near flooded even before the water for the coffee has boiled, we’re huddled in our foul weather skins like drookit rats around the moated concrete table. Yet in the short distance back into town, the sky rents and the temperature starts to climb, we’re shedding layers. For a countryside that is so flat, it’s difficult to see the changes in weather approaching; it’s one of the few things that change and move fast around here.
       
Last night we collected the first of the ‘you know that you’re in ….’ confirmations, this morning we carry on with the list…..the moto commute, the primary bound children in their lab coat and bow tie uniform, the horse drawn ‘fletes’ trap waiting to deliver a load of bagged cement, the Tannoy speakered cart blasting out blandishments for today’s specials at the local farmacia, the cow grazing the central reservation, the all pervading smell of soap powder from the supermercado. It’s like a banner that says ‘welcome back‘.

Leave town and you’re instantly in the ‘campo’, out in agriculture, out in the reason why we crossed the Rio del Plata and are using , in part, Uruguay as a way-station to get north. Quiet roads. Wide roads.  Cyclist roads. For many Porteños, residents in the capital over the water, Uruguay is the 49th barrio, appreciated for it’s quiet, laid back, easy ambience, where not much changes. It’s two years since we passed this way, yet our pro-forma of the familiar and the trivial will require updating.  We’re seeing changes. Changes are happening.

When having successfully negotiated the scrum that is the baggage retrieval at the ferry dock, you descend into the night-time street, only to collect your first dog.  Are then passed by seven exhaustless motos, of which two have no lights, one has a mutiple occupancy of four persons, another has a brace of Yorkshire terriers.  Further confirmation comes, as if required, with tethered horse outside the pub and the row of maté drinkers.

These are some of the physicals, then there’s the imponderables. Our ‘lancha’ arrived late, despite the captain’s attempt at catch up; he only slowed down to drop his wake when he passed a ‘Prefectura Naval’ – read police launch. So it’s late when we cycle unbooked, unannounced into a deserted camp ground.  Empty because, for any self respecting Uruguayan this is the dead of winter.  We find a guard, and of course there isn’t a problem. There never is.

Gullibilicus’ Fourth only works if it’s a new acquaintance that’s being met for the first time, and the airport management haven’t anticipated the issue. Ezeiza provides us with both. First off, we’ve been here before, and second the authorities have provided an exclusion zone where you’re screened from the taxi touts,  the baggage hustlers and the mellée of waiting extended families, the meet and greeters. A place to find onward ground transport from approved providers, where the tariff is fixed, displayed and you pay before you climb aboard. Spendicus’ First applies, however Parsimonius scoticus will just have to grin and bear it as there’s not a great deal of alternative in the evening and after two days of sleepless travel.

At the block, the same faces are at the concierge’s desk, the same tea bags are in the same jar, the bikes are hanging just as we left them, even the boiler starts first time. The German panaderia is still around the corner, the Bazaar Plastico is still at the bottom of the street. Fresh chipas for breakfast, new boxes for the dry goods.

It’s these familiarities, these same old acquaintances that displace any semblance of culture shock. We know the rules, we’ve got our breathing space, and a place to regroup. The camp stove is overhauled, the tent zippers replaced. The Lambeg drum is dismantled to reveal it’s smuggled contents. Tyres fitted, wheels mounted, gears replaced, then cursed the manufacturer who has altered the spec., bike maintenance completed, now for a road test. Climb the garage ramp: the steepest ascent this side of the Andes, turn left onto the ripio-like cobbles and a spin north to Tigre and the Delta. No jumping gears, no grinding brakes, no squealing hubs. All is as it should be. The ride is just right.  This is my bike. It’s been a year and a half, yet it feels like meeting an old friend. We simply pick up where we left off. A short break in a longer journey.

Experticus’ Law: “The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men Gang aft Agley”

There are just a few laws and theorems that pertain to the initial  moments on a journey. The most pertinent of which are:

Spendicus’ First law of Travel: Your first and last two days of travel will be the most expensive.

Muchas Extremicus’ Second Law, a corollary of the first, states  that the airport, station or port that you arrive at or depart from, will be at the furthest extent from your first or last nights accommodation.

Optimisticus’ Third Theorem suggests that if you have an excessive lay-over on a multi flight itinerary, your baggage will be first off the carrousel. If you have but moments for a transfer, the lottery belt will break down.

Gullibilicus’ Fourth Law postulates that a traveller is at his or her most vulnerable to exploitation in the first moments upon arrival at a new destination.    

Has the airport  left your boxed bikes on the forecourt, to be rendered down to papier-maché, so they can deliver them four days later? Are they anxious to persuade you to return home to an already rented out house? Do they have issues with your dirty shoes?  The common denominator to many of these hiatuses is not difficult to extrapolate: a certain national carrier and a particular airport that serves the south-east of England. So from experience comes enlightenment. Fly with the Franco-Dutch. Over-engineer the packaging. 

Our worn out cycling comestibles, the gears, wheels and tyres are up for renewal, and their replacements are packaged in what looks like a big bass drum. Parading along Edinburgh’s Princes Street, I feel like a refugee from a Drumcree march. Parading suggests organisation, rectitude and order, when the reality is a dodgem shuffle between tour bus touts and Asian tourists with cameras. Just how many pictures does one need of the Garden’s pigeons? 
Fact, not theory: bicycle panniers are the most unwieldy of packages when not attached to a bicycle.

As to why we’re partaking of public transport, that can be blamed on a collusion between  Parsimonius Scoticus and Puritanicus Albas. The latter has argued that, as a trip relies on self propulsion and independence, then it should start at your own front door; but as our bikes are stored in an Argentine garage, we can’t cycle to the airport, so the next best option is the X6 and the Airlink. The former’s contribution was to suggest that we fly the first leg the previous day, on the grounds that a bus in the middle of the day would be cheaper than a taxi in the middle of the night. Anyway they’ve got recliner seats airside at Schiphol, it’s only a 13 hour lay-over, and who can sleep soundly when you know that you’ve got to rise at 2.30?

It’s only at check-in that we encounter the first challenge to Parsimonius’ Law: they only hold in-transit baggage for 12 hours, would we please recover and recheck-in our kit. Unfortunately there’s no comfy recliner ground side, there’s no Rijksmuseum to peruse, but more crucially, there’s no tax-free coffee and waffles. Parsimonius decides that he had better downgrade his law to theorem status, with the excuse that ‘it was a good idea at the time’

It’s at check-in time that our quasi-Lambeg drum looks less out of place, as it appears to have moved off of the street and into the concert hall, it’s been joined by an orchestra of cellos and double basses. Which makes for an interesting baggage reclaim hall at Ezeiza, and it certainly interests the customs fraternity when it passes through their x-ray machine. Argentina have imposed an imported goods limit of USD300 per family, and a tax levy for excesses that would make the French premier blush. We had spent some time revaluing our replacements, and wishing that we had actually spent what we are claiming. But this is Argentina, and they didn’t even ask for the document. The ‘good cop’ even suggested that we looked like ‘cycle travellers’, which was odd as we had yet to acquire our burnt noses and earlobes.

Through officialdom, now for Gullibilcus’ Fourth Law.

Urbanisations breed suburbs like a tapeworm spawns proglottids, a canker that self-replicates unhindered. Or, at least that’s my jaundiced view, borne from a sleep-deprived brain and a taxi transfer between the airport and our adopted flat. Barrelling along multi-lane highways gravid with evening traffic, lane-louping and undertaking, sweeping flyovers and plunging underpasses.  A roller coaster. The rictus grin of a bus’ grille leering in the rear window, the front window of a converging car that appears to disappear under the windowsill, as we both debate the ownership of a single lane. Yet this is BA, so both vehicles happily coexist as we spiral around a slipway. Only it leaves me pondering: we’ve got to get back out of here, hopefully on a bike.

BsAs, like many cities is a conglomeration of barrios or villages that seem indistinguishable under the homogenising street lamps; that are veined by streets and connected by an arterial tangle of roads; that can, in this place’s instance, engorge into the Avenida 9 de Julio: possibly the world’s widest street, at least until China collects that accolade as well.  In effect, only one route leads from the capital  to the country’s north-eastern provinces, a direction that we would like to head off in. The paucity of roads is due to the immense barrier of the Rio Paraña’s delta, a tangle of canals that’s a days ride in width, and that hollers: mosquito.  Previously we’ve re-entered the city this way, and even from the bus at sunrise, you could see how narrow, how congested, how fast, how unappealing a city escape this might be.  There’s little point in starting a trip on a downer.  Salvation is available.

There are a few options for escape. Tar, iron or water. The former involves dismantling your trusty steed, bagging and surrendering it into a bus’ luggage hold.  The next relies on the service being available, not always a guaranteed commodity.  Which leaves the river.  Now any city that has a ferry connection, in my estimation, sets itself at the head of the queue.  Auckland, Wellington, Seattle have all been accessed by water, so could New York, but we can’t quite justify Cunard’s tariff.  Last time we used a service that deposited  us in Coloñia, from where we cycled north, camping one night in Carmelo. From our tent site we watched a catamaran ‘lancha’ arrive.  It had the eminence of a rich man’s toy, but there were too many plebs standing at the rear rail.  It transpired that this was the Cacciola service from Tigre.  On that occasion we speculated on the possibility of cycle carriage, and maybe on another occasion we might try this escape route. That occasion has arrived, and yes, they do take bikes.

A ten mile cycle along quiet cobbled streets, from flat to port. Collect two tickets and a surrender of cycles and panniers to the boat’s crew.  A three hour speed boat race through the Delta’s canals and a roar up the Rio Uruguay, to arrive in a warm, dark and sleepy Uruguayan town.

From jaundiced prejudice to yellow sodium lights, another new escape from an other metropolis.

Note from The Navigator: that one photo just took 10 minutes to upload.  We’ll try again later to get more to you.

Those of you following this blog, or subscribing by e-mail will have received a strange (and rather dull) post last night.  Suffice to say that I was trying to replace the Flickr link on the blog, at the same time as trying to get a series of photos to Sustrans.  The National Cycle Network Route 76, Round the Forth, through East Lothian (which passes our front door) has been permanently signposted over the last couple of weeks, and we’d been asked to check out this section.  The Sustrans server wasn’t happy to receive the pictures as attachments, so my solution was to stick them up on Flickr so that those that needed to could see them.  Things went downhill from there.

By way of consolation, I thought I would share this little video that I found on TED Talks (worth investigation if you haven’t found it yet).  It has nothing at all to do with our normal content, but quite a lot to do with the way we try to live.  Now if I was really smart, this would be ’embedded’ or something, but that piece of wizardry doesn’t seem to want to work, so you’ll just have to click on this link.

I guarantee that you won’t be able to use a paper towel again without thinking about Joe Smith.

We have finally had a few days of sunshine, so our Wisteria has reluctantly produced some flowers for us.  There’s loads more to come, but it’s keeping the powder dry for a while longer.  And if you really want to see the pictures of our sign-checking run, it’s up on Flickr, and the link at the top of the blog will take you there.