To Patagonia

I bought a copy of the Buenos Aires Herald, an English language newspaper, yesterday. I had been out of touch for a while. But I can only recall one item from that issue, the death of John Denver in a private plane crash. I've since been of the opinion that if you don't miss newspapers on a long trip, you won't miss them in daily life either, so I stopped buying them. Life's too short to waste on the ephemeral.

It was time to hit the road again; I was too comfortable in Baires; I was getting soft. My destination, Puerto Madryn in Chubut Province, is about 1300 km south by road, about the same distance as Posadas is north. And it's only halfway down Patagonia. That gives you an idea of the size of Argentina. The trip started in the afternoon and took all night. By the way if you are thinking Madryn doesn't sound Spanish, you're right; it's Welsh. More about the Welsh in Argentina later.

The woman in the seat across the aisle was reading La Chute by Camus, perhaps another traveller? As the bus traversed Buenos Aires Province we passed cattle in paddocks. The afternoon sun glinted off roadside watercourses where waterfowl paddled. In stretches the highway was flanked by rows of trees.

Late in the evening we arrived at Bahia Blanca (White Bay). The name sounds pretty, but I only glimpsed some industrial plants; it's just a major city and port. The service had a break for dinner there. My dinner was forgettable. The cat waiting outside the restaurant door was more interesting. I slept intermittently through the small hours.

By morning when we reached Chubut Province the vegetation was low scrub with the occasional tree. It was dusty, and often windy. The sunshine was sometimes bright enough to make one squint.