Into South America by Motorcycle Corrientes Argentina

Our Journal

Corrientes

At a police check I looked down and saw gas pouring out of my bike. We dismantled everything there under the shade of a tree and found the carberator leaking, not Carli’s fault but the former owner had rigged it by changing around two parts that we had changed back. Matt found a piece of chewed gum on the side of the road and stuck it on, which worked temporarily.

Corrientes is much bigger and seedier than Formosa but has a great historical center. This region is cited as being the poorest of Argentina. Corrientes is the poorest city and it shows. Formosa the fourth poorest but people seem much happier around town. Two of Carli’s girlfriends met us and directed us to a hotel when we got there. They arranged to come back and pick us up that night to go out for dinner.

That night they simply knocked on our door and came in while we finished getting ready. 15 minutes later, I called reception for help with a call to Carli, and he told me there would be an extra charge for having the girls in our room. We walked down explaining they were only here to pick us up for dinner and he insisted on charging us, hotel policy. I guess they have a problem with businessmen picking up prostitutes. We were pretty insulted and felt like the girls had been humiliated. The clerk was insisting on the extra charge so we decided to pack up and leave the hotel right then and there. The clerk called the police and refused to open the garage even though we were leaving him our credit receipt and my bike, which was leaking gas all over. We finally just walked out with our bags and found another hotel down the street, this time leaving the girls downstairs to avoid the confusion. We went to pick up a friend of theirs who was sitting outside, locked out of her apartment. I walked over to a store and bought a beer to share, the clerk opened it with his teeth so I told him to take the first sip. We ate at 1 am, but I was still drained from Formosa and collapsed into bed.

It took a couple of days of rest to recover from Formosa but we were both itching to keep moving. Corrientes has a great river walk but has a rough element that makes it seem unsafe. We put rubber cement on the gas leak until we could find a proper mechanic and drove southeast into the center of Argentina.

The roads are generally excellent in Argentina. At times you can drive for an hour before there is so much as a curve in the road. The event of the day becomes a change in road color or texture, a curve, a flock of birds fly by overhead, a funny town name on a sign. It’s moments like these when I curse the 80’s and all the bad music recorded in my subconscious. How do you stop the mind from conjuring up songs like “We Built This City” and “People are People”?

That morning Matt had said something about not being comfortable driving on the Ides of March, but I assured him we would be safer outside of the city away from any dangers. We drove through more flat, dry farm land. Matt accelerated further ahead, leaning into curves. I approached a long curve and saw a puff of dust up ahead. My eyes traced the road looking around the curb… no Matt. The mind works quick and I had already assumed he had been in an accident where the dust was kicked up. I slowed into the curve and caught sight of Matt stuck in some tall grass and mud. Running out to him I calmed realizing he was only stuck. He had completely missed the turn and driven straight into dirt, grass, and thick mud. We pushed the bike out, parked it and walked tire tracks. He had missed a pole by two feet and done some Paris-Dakar-like maneuvers but kept the bike upright. We stood there talking in the heat, joking, not quite realizing what had just happened. A few minutes later a farm hand pulled up on a moped. He had seen the dust and wanted to make sure everything was alright. He shared a cold soda he had with us, seeing that we didn’t have anything to drink. He stayed for a while and talked and then excused himself back to work. I drove in front the rest of the day using my blinker at every curve in the road.

A little later, we took a wrong turn and ended up in the middle of more isolated farm country at a makeshift gas station. The attendant explained a couple of different routes we could take to get us back on main road, all dirt trails. We stopped for a snack across the street at the only other establishment in town, a kind of local café. We walked in and greeted the old timers who stood in silence before mumbling something back. We asked for food and the woman talked on but we couldn’t understand a word except “sanduiche” and “matahambre” so we ordered that. Not a real talkative bunch, an old man in traditional dress walked out and down the street with his horse. We ate and quickly left down a dirt road into a maze of farm access roads. Everything seemed to be in a 90 degree angle so we felt we more or less continued in the right direction, fun riding after so much asphalt. Unlike pavement where you can dictate the bike’s direction, patches of dirt and gravel reminded me that on this surface the bike slides all over and one can merely suggest where the bike goes.

After an hour or so we came up on a town and stopped at a gas station to ask directions. The girl was so surprised to see us coming from the direction we came, all smiles and questions. I could have stayed and talked to her all day but we continued on until dusk and arrived at Tostado, a truck depot where the motels were all full. We finally found one that also rented by the hour. A dirty, rough looking town where people just sort of mind their own, detached from one another. We ate on the street in the center and turned in early. We noticed there was an air conditioner but no knobs so we asked the owner to turn it on. Next morning we packed up and went to pay. The old man wanted to charge us for every hour of air conditioner use. We tried explaining that you have to inform someone or have a sign or something before you charge them money for something but he just stood there, adamant. We paid it anyway and drove away on bad terms.

Asking directions in Argentina is not easy, even with a map. They can be a bastion of misinformation. Some of our favorites…

1) Argentina has the second highest peak in the world. What about K2? Matt asked. No response.

2) In China everyone knows how to fight Tai Kwon Do because it is their religion.

3) Argentina has the best football team in the world, the Brazilians are just lucky. Here, don’t mention the lack of Argentinean players in the European leagues and the large number of Brazlians making millions over there. Don’t mention Brazil’s number of mundial victories. Just smile, nod your head, and mention something about how great Maradona is (perhaps the greatest soccer player ever, after Pele that is, and recently told media, “I love Chavez. I mean I still like women, but I love this man, he is a revolutionary, like me.”) or talk about how great Boca Junior and River are (and by God, figure out which one they prefer before you take sides). They’ll go on for hours.

4) Argentina has the second best wine in the world after France.

5) It’s over there. Meanwhile you are trying to figure out what they mean by that by the angle of their hand, which isn’t parallel or perpendicular to anything.

We got directed down 50 km of horrid broken asphalt road. It was not an easy road and the bikes took a beating. Once back on main road we accelerated and made great time to a small town Miramar, a weekend destination for Cordova and other cities in the area. It was deserted at the time. We talked to an old couple in front of their house who suggested a room to rent across the street. We found the owner in the center and she got on her moped to ride over and let us in. I went for a run to an eco reserve and was quickly out in farm country. A rancher looked up, surprised, and yelled a hearty hello.

The next morning I saw my back tire had gone flat. We walked to a service station where the clerk loaned us a canister of compressed air, enough air to get it to the station and fill it up. We quickly packed and drove into a bigger town nearby where we found a gas attendant and mechanic who drove us over to a “gomeria”. The woman had studied at A&M Galveston but didn’t stick around too long for conversation (a terrible experience in my home town or afraid we were going to speak English to her?). The tire mechanic was a very large, very hungover man, who mainly worked on giant tractor tires. We saw he owned a large bike so I wasn’t too worried but I had damaged my frame months ago (pure idiocy, I tried to drive off with a U-lock attached) making it difficult to remove the back tire, and almost impossible to put it back on. Tractor drivers showed up needing repairs and a small group assembled around to watch something they don’t see everyday. After an hour it was all done and he wouldn’t accept more than $1.50. We said goodbyes and took off for Cordova.

un abrazo, Chris

p.s. I apologize, the camera has been out of batteries and I got lazy.