Our first encounter with San $ de Bariloche was in the bus terminal. We were reconstructing our cycles; wheels and pedals reattached, handlebars realigned, when we are approached by a tout for one of the accommodations. He tells me he works for one of an hospedaje, I explain that we’re camping, he says that it’s going to rain, I say we have a good tent, he says that it’s only $300, I say no, and think: ‘Jesus!’. Further north that would buy us three nights in a good hotel. Could this be the value added premium that we can expect, that we had been warned about, a combination of tourist town and long distance, Bariloche and Patagonia. A three times markup, that could send us on our way quicker than we might have intended. It’s a pity as we’ve been forced through to many towns and cities where we’ve been prepared to dally, so we’re determined to give this one a go. The first night’s camping was cheaper than the hospidaje quote, one toilet, one shower and basin shared by a community who dare to travel without the aid, the crutch of the motor car. The walk in hikers, the backpack in fishers, the cycle in bikers. We move further out from town for the subsequent two days, it’s a slight relief on the pocket, but are shoe horned into a sloping site. We defend our pitch by the judicious placement of bikes and guy lines. All to little avail.

The guide book recommends a ‘circuito chico’, that may offer an, at times , arduous, introduction to the Argentine Lake District. Our inability to second guess a tourist office’s drawing, and our inability to pay attention, means we have a small adventure exploring Cathedral ski centre and the small sand tracks between the various lakes. It’s a classic, serendipitous route, the moment we leave the guided itinerary we are on our own, in a world of wild roses, astrolmerias and tall flowering thistles. Sudden views of bottle green lakes, far below, sliding down boulder and sand strewn tracks unencumbered by luggage or ascending pick-ups.

Lunching on mayonnaise and peach sandwiches, beside a southern beech enfolded lake. Maybe SC de Bariloche has something going for it. Then just as suddenly as we escaped the crowds, we’re back in town.

In the spirit of fairness to the town we go for some retail therapy: search out a bank that might have some cash in it. Three attempts so far have been abortive, there’s a shortage; no surprise there, I know that the notes are disappearing an increasing rate out of our pockets. To search out an ice cream shop, to continue the field work and to sit in the plazza and people watch. We sit under the most frequently reproduced bronze casting, that is after the busts of San Martin, Sarmiento, Guimes and the other super heroes of Argentine history, under a she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus. It stands just across from the Cathedral, a neat juxtapositioning of religious iconography. A professional photographer has positioned himself on the plaza with his two St. Bernard dogs, traditional wooden barrels under their chins, sitting appealingly, waiting to be the vital props in a photo opportunity. Trade is slow. Everybody is on the move, transient, passing through..

Therein lies this town’s summer time position. It’s not the place, the destination, but more the stepping of point, a hub to move out from.

Our tentative thoughts when buying our bus tickets, had been to head south, down the Chilean Carretera Austral, down to the true south. The view from the bus and the sight of so much water has caused a re-evaluation: we’ll head north and explore some more of this lake district. Terra del Fuego and the far south will have to wait for another day, another journey to add to a growing, expanding list

We eventually get our mapping skills together and head off on the, ’arduous ‘little circuit‘, ’may require some bus assistance’, leaving early to avoid the traffic, take it at a leisurely pace and are back at the beginning just as the other neighbouring campers are rousing themselves. Twenty five k of no panniers and bottles of water seems to have an effect. Another classic route that only confirms our new intensions to head north, stay in the sierras and the volcanoes for a little longer.

Yet it’s hard to see a place for what it would like to be seen as, when your hand is spraying pesos, broadcasting dollars, like seedcorn. When every stakeholder needs to make his yearly income in a very short summer season, then take a breather and repeat the procedure when the winter season starts. It’s only later when we pass through another winter wonder land ski resort clad in it’s summer mantle, that you realise what San Carlos de Bariloche has. It’s a winter resort that has successfully added on a summer programme. The park grass is clipped and the Av. San Martin completed, the pavements are level and the piles of bricks are tidied away. It’s not in a perpetual of reconstruction and renovation, it has to work hard after the snow has melted.

Part two of our adventure starts in Retiro bus station. A near full bus going to Bariloche, twenty-two hours away. The Navigator has gone native. We explained that we had two cycles when making the booking, they suggest that they may need to be bagged. We’ve purchased plastic sheets and fancy coloured duct tape; purple, to match The Navigator’s bike, fashioned covers, and so are prepared for the fray. There’s the usual teeth-sucking from the bus crew. So The Navigator breaks down her bike right at the loading point, right outside the bus, right in the way. It’s the local way, it’s the native way, it’s the only way. We assert our place in the queue. It’s every woman for herself, there’s no place for the reticent, no standing on ceremony. Sharp elbows and a brass neck, stubbornness and tenaciousness a necessity. The bikes go on last; it means they’re on to top of the pile, it will be interesting to see if they remain that way to journey’s end.

At 22 hours some part of our trip has to be in the dark. We’ve opted to go lux, purchased a ‘cama’ recumbent seat, one grade down from a fully horizontal, executive bed, so avoiding the potential sufferfest of nether numbness. The company’s web site extolled the virtues of this class; the comfort and leg room, the champagne reception, the three meals served with a choice of alcoholic beverages, The space, the blanket, the pillow were all there, so to were the three plastic baled, Styrofoam tray meals. The alcoholic beverages transpired into a plastic cup of Cola, a small coffee and a shot of Sprite. I guess we got the Alcoholics Anonymous ticket. Oh, and there were the two non-alcoholic boiled sweets. Our dark time section was the run out from BsAs, part of which we had seen in daylight two weeks earlier on the trip from San Juan. Good planning or plain luck, it’s hard to say. It does mean we will be crossing the southern desert in the early morning.

That early morning transpires to be a blanket, monochromatic ashen grey sky, a low scrub desert, viewed through a rain streaked, tinted, double glazed window. The first rain of any consequence we’ve witnessed since Embarcacion, oodles of weeks ago. I don’t keep a diary, as a consequence we lose and acquire days at will. A calendar might be useful, but that requires a degree of diligence and discipline, skills that diminish on a journey. The Kindles have already thrown a wobbly by misquoting a date; maybe they picked up a signal from over the date line. In places there’s been confusion of clock times, given the various time zones around the ‘three frontier’ region. So they’re not an infallible source of information. Frankly, it’s not an issue, we don’t have to be anywhere or any place in particular.

From one dislocation in time to another dislocation in ideas. Jungles wet, deserts dry; simple geographical fact. Wet in the desert, it has to happen otherwise there would be no vegetation, yet the rain and the blanket sky only accentuate, concentrate the overriding feature of this landscape. It’s utter flatness. From our elevated vantage on the upper deck, the horizon shows not one single variation, not one single dent, bump or pimple. Not one single tree, house or spire, conspires to break the edge. The only variance of view are the scurrying rain drops, braiding and entwining across the windowpane; nothing changes for mile upon mile. The condensation dries quicker than the view changes. It’s still
FLA ________________________________________T.

Then suddenly the bus comes to a junction, we change direction, change topography, change climatology. Coincidence maybe, but as we drop down into a valley, the road starts to roll and the rain stops, The blanket detaches from the horizon, rumpling, to allow a vague hope of light to filter in to the changed landscape. Down to a river that is flushing red, bleeding a sediment akin to a the colour of a Glasgow west-end tenement. A rio that could only be named Colorado.

We’re on the prowl, raking through an Aladdin’s cave a household goods store that name’s itself ‘Bazar Plastico‘. The merchandise stacked to the ceiling, the shelves crammed full, the aisles size medium knickers wide. We know that we need to replace our beakers, the old ones are condemned, the cracks a petri dish of penicillin bacilli, and anyway, one of them leaks. However the problem with these types of emporia is that they offer up a whole new range of ideas, things you never knew you needed. A plastic box to keep the oats in? There’s a choice of too many colours and sizes. A plasticated tablecloth, could double as a extra ground sheet for the tent, a selection that ranges from fancy to ritzy, classy to glossy but all in flowery motifs. Buy by the metre straight from the roll. Need a replacement screw stopper for your thermos flask? This one comes with a light to aid you in filling your yerba mate by night. Umpteen choices for chopping and skinning, peeling and mashing, fruit and vegetables, meat and dear knows what. Peeling?- Yes… a tattie peeler, the perfect present to add to the loo rolls, for sending the ‘gap year’ travellers on their way. Sewing kits and egg baskets, china plates and butter scoops, wine glasses and chalk crayons, if it’s small, plastic and stackable you’ll find it in here.

I love the eclectic nature of these types of shops. Across the road we stumble on another that falls into this range: the papeleria. A shop that sells all things paper and paper related items. Crepe paper and cartridge paper, paper napkins and paper plates, photocopying paper by the ream. Parcel tape and duct tape, braids and ribbons, ball-points and fountain nibs, inks and paints, string in every colour, strength and length. However we’re on the hunt for writing paper. I need to perform an archaic, antiquated act: hand write, in ink on paper, a letter, enclose it in an envelope, then attach an adhesive stamp. Occasionally I need to reaffirm my iconoclastic, luddite credibility. I can have a jotter in spiral back, cloth back or hard back, ruled, squared or plain, any colour any size, but no, they don’t have any Basildon Bond.. An envelope for the same? Yes, we have plastic, padded and cardboard, but sorry, no paper ordinary. It’s an interesting commentary on just how far society has progressed along the communications expressway. One can only wonder what the great letter writers and essayists of the 18^th century Enlightenment would have made of the speed with which the pen and paper has been abandoned.. Lost to posterity are any hard copies that might be of use to future biographers, historians or anthropologists. If you doubt this, consider the fact that the Domesday Book of 1096 still exists, whilst it’s equivalent of 1996 is 80% unreadable, or lost in the ether. Therein lies this strange dichotomy; all this paper yet no one writes letters. This shop is not unique, far from it; we’ve found them everywhere, even in the smallest of towns, places that struggled to serve up provisions for an evening meal. You might wonder how they survive, but any we’ve passed, all appear to be thriving, always with customers coming and going.

So now we are armed with two plastic cups, a tattie peeler and three new retail experiences. Later, we were to return for the tablecloth so as to satisfy the bus company’s baggage requirements. An interesting interlude for a morning. A whole morning.

They mill the oats for our breakfast, the granola biscuits that resuscitate at ‘onces‘, they bake the sesame crackers for lunch and the occasional warm weather treats of multi-flavoured ice creams later in the day. Not only do they construct the contents, they also manufacture the packaging and your change.

The messages, your shopping, are priced right down to centavos (0.165p), fuel is priced down to one tenth of a centavo – you do the conversion math, I can’t see the point. It only perpetuates that wondrous misconception beloved of the global petrochemical industry: that they’re giving you a special deal. Rumour has it that the smallest coin is a five centavo piece, but as the local bus services take coinage only, there’s a distinct dearth of coins, and that expands the problem to a two peso paper note chasm. That sink hole can be filled with an apple-change: the healthy option . Or more usually by a selection of fruit flavoured Arcor-caramelas-change: the company store option. On a number of occasions the proffered change is stored in the cash drawer, which leads me to a novel thought; what would be the reaction if I offered to pay for a small item in candy sweets?

Once again we’re held in a clinically, environmentally, climatically controlled space, only this time it’s a high speed catamaran ferry. We’re in lock down, severed from the outside by a sealed storm proof door and a prohibition on fresh air, reduced to viewing one receding capital through grubby, salt encrusted double glazing.