Ending a balmy night at an outdoor café; white tablecloths and red wine. We’re finishing our asado and Malbec; but in Mendoza, Argentina, that goes without saying. Enter two middle-aged Argentinean men and one tiny chocolate poodle.
Because we must have our steak and eat it too, our supper was forgotten, plates with lingering halos of meat juices cleared. My husband’s attention had completely shifted to the pup, a trembling mound of curls poking between chair and table legs, a compelling contrast to the robust, spirited men she accompanied. Did I mention we have this often embarrassing but always entertaining goal of meeting a dog each day of our extended travels? It’s sort of an exchange program to make up for leaving our standard poodle at home without her “parents.” But its masters don’t speak English. And the two of us don’t speak Spanish.
Argentineans are friendly. They spend copious amounts of time relaxing; in the afternoon, late at night, in cafes. They enjoy their food, enjoy conversation, and are willing to surrender their silverware and sausages to engage with most anyone, even us. Surrender they did—we trudge through the basics, first greeting the dog, perro. We have one too! Su nombre es Lucy. Don’t we all love dogs? Beyond that, it is quickly determined that my husband’s strengths lie in technology, numbers, and enjoying a good steak. Linguistics? Not so much.
But they are determined to continue the conversation; join our table; buy us espresso.
I’m up for the challenge, tiny yellow dictionary in hand. We talk travels, comings and goings; relational statuses, families and food. Work? Sure. We can talk about that. I work in la colección de mode; “fashion library.” Close enough, they get the picture.
Lots of gestures ensue as they describe to us what industry they are in. Sweeping hand motions. Avión. Airplane. America—sur. The South—Kentucky! De transporte; transport. Caballo. Horse. Horse? Swirling confusion and excitement, dictionary pages flying.
I’ve got it! They are in logistics—transportation. They bring horses from Argentina to compete in the Kentucky Derby. Really? Really.
Cheers, cheers! Another round for everyone!
Just the next day, I’m crumpling in tears at Mendoza’s bus terminal, last night’s victory giving me misguided confidence in conversation. An assumption between AM and PM had mistakenly led us to purchase two tickets to Iguazu Falls—a trip that would confine us to our economy class seats for 36 hours. And that was just one way.
Paranoia keeps me from eating much of anything while on any mode of public transport. Irony aside, how could I possibly find myself near starving in the land of abundant red meat? Language barriers were superficially masked by kindness, generosity, and a comparatively cheap cost of living, but mistakes could be awkward; borderline dangerous.
With no choice left but to dejectedly shove our bus tickets in my purse and huff out of the station, my husband tagged behind, trying to hastily “remedy the situation.” Smart phone in hand, he spoke quickly.
“Guess what they have in Mendoza? A WAL*MART. That’s where we’re going to go. We can take the local bus; it’ll be fun. We’ll buy some snacks, take the 36 hour ride, then find you a nice steak when we get to Iguazu.”
Sucker that I am, he managed to stop my tears with the words “fun,” “snacks,” and “steak.” He took charge and we were soon on a public bus, bumping and jostling our way to the familiar American superstore.
But somehow, so quickly we forgot what poor bus passengers we are. The vehicle soon emptied, no destination in sight. We reached the end of the line, a dusty neighborhood of makeshift houses some distance from the city. It was dusk, and the driver motioned for us to disembark.
Our ignorance burst forward—lost, silly Americans trying to find what? An imported chain store? A small boy popped over our seats. Speaking fluent English, he ushered us off the bus and back in the opposite direction—abandoning the snack mission in favor of getting back to the city before dark. He apologized to the bus driver on our behalf as we thanked him profusely.
Back to where we started: the Mendoza bus station. Then back to the hostel. The next day, we’d be in the middle of Argentina, on a bus, looking out the windows at the cows that could be on my plate, the vines full of grapes that could fill my glass. Couldn’t we just stay in Mendoza? Find the nice men from the restaurant again, their dog? Surely they had hospitable housewives who prepared pots of humble stews, grills filled with meat, hell, a trash can-turned-remedial cooking vessel and a bag of charcoal?
But no. We would go see the waterfall, ride the 36 hour bus; the 72 hour bus. There would be no perros on the bus. He knew that, right?
After an anxious night of sleep, it was decided a taxi would take us to Walmart, pacifying me with some supplies for our journey.
96 hours later, we’d hiked and rafted under the magnificent Iguazu Falls, met a entrepreneurial woman with an artisanal yarn shop, picked fruits from a giant avocado tree, cooked at a hostel with an outdoor kitchen, and eaten two nice steaks, our dirty elbows sinking back into white tablecloths drinking wine cheaper than water.
We were invincible again, language barriers superficially masked by kindness, paranoia subsiding into a protein-induced nap time.
+++
Why a bus, you ask? Why not a train, an airplane? Buses are the travel method of choice in South America and are quite unlike the systems North Americans are accustomed to. The bus runs like a train—inexpensive long trips with infrequent stops, vehicles equipped with restrooms, cabin service, even complimentary beverages, new-release movies, and the business or first class (available for a nominal upgrade fee) seats recline horizontally for a surprisingly comfortable night’s sleep. Trains and airplanes are few and far between, and costly. For reasonable prices and reliable service, try the companies Andesmar, Flechabus, or Via Bariloche.
