The bus saga started well enough, i caught the bus from Quilmes with lots of time to spare sat for a coffee, then went to the bus bay allocated. I sat and waited the time rolled past the departure time. Me being patient sat for half an hour waiting, after asking at the information desk i was told the bus had changed to a different company and departed from a different spot and i should have known through osmosis. The next bus didnt go till two the next afternoon, so i slept fitfully at the bus station and then wandered the sreets of Buenos Aires on Sunday morning with not a soul about. The rest of the bus story went well,the bus had fold down seats so i was able to sleep all the way to Iguazu.
The hassle and stuffups aside the falls were spectacular, immense, not as tall as i had imagined but they seemed to go on forever. I even took a boat which dissappeared beneath the spray, the noise was deafening and the water freezing, it made you feel awfully small. Back for the bike this week and back to riding, yes.
I reached Quilmes where the bike was parked at a friends house, i had a few hours to kill so it was back to the Quilmes brewery pub for that oh so cheap and cold beer. Their strategy has worked i am now addicted to Quilmes Bock, what will i do if i cant get it in Australia. A hot night with power outages at my friends house so by the time i got to bed i felt no pain from drinking all night. The next morning with Herbert loaded i headed north towards Buenos Aires bad move with a dull head in 36 degree heat surrounded by Buenos Aires traffic. When i finally reached the open road it felt 10 degrees cooler, what a relief, it was stiffling. I made for a Gaucho town called San Antonio de Areco, with not much colonial archetecture left in Argentina this town is well preserved. Low level biuldings with tree lined streets and quiete, exactly what a hangover needed. I decided not to camp although it looked inviting by the river. In the night there was an almighty storm the river broke its banks and the campsite was under a foot of water, i gave myself a pat on the back for a choice well made.
I once again pointed the bike north in the drizzling rain heading for Cordoba, by the time i reached my coffee break i was saturated. Herbert sqiurming around on his scrubbed cheap Brasilian tyres convinced me to find a place to stay. Another biker had the same idea this fellow was a Uruguayan on a 125cc Chinese replica of a Honda, a broken exhaust, bald tyres, oil pouring from the crankcase and string to hold all his gear on. His bike riding gear consisted of jeans, moccasin shoes and a vinyl jacket, so i shut up about how cold and wet it was. I helped wire his exhaust back onto the engine from a roll of wire i found on the side of the road in Patagonia, i knew it would come in handy.
The next day i was approached by the local journalist who then took me on a personal tour of a fort with his family. It was then time to move on, i couldnt believe the farewell like a long time family member and they made have a mate before i left. The countryside slowly became low hills rising from the flat pampa, i was approaching the foot of the central sierras. Beautifully manicured fields in deep green reaching the base of the mountains in stark contrast reds of many hues. Once again the rain spoilt the party, so i reached a small town at the foot of the mountains to once again dry off, i feel sorry for people standing next to me as no manner of airing my wet then dry then wet again jacket can get rid of the smell. I may stop in this town and explore the local area unladen for once, up to the heights without gear what a good idea.
