Getting There is Half the Fun

On the night train to Mumbai

(Written in Mumbai – February 4th)

You’ll probably have heard a lot of stereotypes about India.  Most of them are probably true:  the depth of poverty can be truly shocking; there is an astounding number of people around, everywhere you go; sellers can be very pushy in trying to part you from your tourist dollars; and there are animals of many different descriptions wandering the streets everywhere.

But nowhere are the stereotypes more true than in transport.  From the crazy traffic and the blaring horns, to the rickety auto-rickshaws spewing clouds of black diesel smoke, to the haphazardly scheduled night trains, it’s an adventure and a half just moving around the country.  Some wise person (who, exactly, I can never remember) once said that “It’s the journey, not the destination”; this is absolutely true here.  (Well, it’s the destination, too. But the journey is worth experiencing in its own right.)

Traffic is legendary.  An Indian guy told me that there are three things you need to drive in India:  a good horn; good brakes; and, most importantly, good luck.  I’m quite literally speechless sometimes as I watch the traffic flow; it seems like a choreographed dance as everyone manages to get through intersections miraculously without getting hurt or hitting a stray cow or two.  Horns create a constant aural backdrop as you walk the streets of a city, and after a while you don’t even notice them anymore. (Until, as in Pushkar, they suddenly weren’t there any more.  Then it seemed far too quiet.)

What you’ll probably notice first in this mass of traffic are the taxis.  I rode in one of these immediately upon arrival, as I prepaid for a taxi to my hotel in Delhi from the airport.  I think the road from the airport was intended to be three lanes, but there were four lines of vehicles squeezed into the space, none of them willing to give an inch and horns blaring furiously with the least provocation.  Amazingly, no one hit anyone else (not for lack of trying); even the cows managed to meander across the highway unscathed.

A better way of getting around, maybe, is the metro, in the bigger cities.  I didn’t take Delhi’s (not having arrived with any spare time to go sightseeing, sleep being a more pressing need), but it sounded quite sensibly designed, if a little crowded and manic; there are special “ladies’ carriages” now for women only, as it used to be a fairly common occurrence for women to be groped or harassed or otherwise molested when riding the trains.  It’s cheap, too, something like 10 rupees a ride (20-25 cents).

The train is another must-have experience in India; I have ridden two so far, from Delhi to Agra and from Ranakpur to Mumbai.  Delhi to Agra was quite a swishy train (the first-class “Shatabdi Express”), with big plush comfy seats and breakfast provided, and it’s a short journey (just a couple of hours) so relatively painless despite having started at 6:30 a.m.   It was even (nearly) on time, which I gather is quite a feat in India given the number of announcements at Delhi station about trains running 5, 6, even 15 hours late.  Getting on this or other modes of transport, I have to remember NOT to act like a polite Canadian; if I wait patiently in line for my turn to board, I’ll never get on.   

The Ranakpur-to-Mumbai train was more fun, though, if not quite as swish.  It’s a 15-hour night train journey, leaving at 6:15 pm from Mt Abu station and arriving (in theory) at 9:00 the next morning.  We didn’t go “sleeper” class (which, despite the name, is the lowest class of travel on night trains where people are crammed in like cattle), we were one or two classes up in “3AC”:  the “AC” standing for, unsurprisingly, air-conditioning (sleeper class doesn’t have that), and the “3” denoting that bunks are in tiers of 3, like the cheapest couchette compartments on European trains.  Bunks are in groups of 6 lying perpendicular to the train in open compartments; curtains that can be drawn across the opening (rather than doors) and the middle bunk folds away so that everyone can sit on the lowest bunk until it’s time for sleep.  The opposite side of the narrow aisle has two bunks running parallel to the train, with individual curtains.  There is no food, but a “chai-walla” (tea seller) makes the rounds to quench your thirst if desired.

Some of my group (not to stereotype, but ...*cough* Americans *cough*) complained bitterly about the train ride, demanding to know why they weren’t given the option to just pay a little more and fly instead.  I think they missed the spirit of the thing; travelling by train is definitely one of those quintessential Indian experiences that shouldn’t be missed.  And it was fun; we played cards for a few hours till bedtime, and even got the random Indian men from the next bunks over joining in our game.  I slept like a baby on my bottom bunk; there is nothing so soothing as being rocked to sleep by a train.

The buses are, perhaps, not quite so much fun.  I travelled from Agra to Jaipur on a pretty plush coach (with a lot of tourists on board), but from Jaipur to Pushkar (about 4 hours) was decidedly a local bus, with no air conditioning, unpadded seats and no suspension.  No toilets, either, so I realized downing most of my bottle of water in the first hour was a mistake; I ran desperately to the stinking squat toilets when we finally stopped for a rest break.

The Pushkar-to-Udaipur bus (about 6 hours) was more comfortable (the seats had padding), but crammed with people and still had no toilets.  Seats were quite wide, with two on one side of the aisle and one on the other, but the ceiling overhead was very low; this was to allow room for bunks above, into which as many as five people squeezed themselves.  By the end of the trip, the aisle was full as well, and we couldn’t quite work out whether to keep the windows open (allowing some air into the sweltering non-air-conditioned interior) or closed (keeping the dust and dirt and flies out, and allowing us to breathe).  

Motorcycle is another interesting option here; they’re at least as common as cars and drivers whizz in between vehicles with devil-may-care disregard for traffic rules or their own personal safety.  Helmets aren’t that common, either.  One of our group (an Italian guy who’s perhaps a little nuts) opted to rent a Royal Enfield motorcycle one day in Jaipur and follow our taxi around as we went sight-seeing; traffic in Jaipur is insane and he got hopelessly lost after the first roundabout (but, fortunately, was savvy enough to pay a rickshaw driver to lead him after that).  It’s a seriously cool bike and I think I’d love to have one at home, but drive in India?  No bloody way, baby.

Auto-rickshaws are entertaining, too; the ones in Delhi aren’t too bad as they run on clean natural gas (with “CNG” stickers prominently displayed), but elsewhere they run on dirty, smelly diesel that creates a noxious cloud around the vehicles.  (They’re open to the air, too, so it’s not like you can avoid the fumes.)   In some places, in theory, they run on meters with set fares for certain distances, but in reality, you have to haggle for the price (particularly if you’re obviously a white tourist and therefore automatically deemed to have money).  We piled as many as six people — plus all their backpacks — into on rickshaw, putting it at serious risk of tipping as it went around corners; rickshaws have three wheels (two in the back, one in the front) and aren’t the most stable creations ever.  

Local city buses are another interesting choice; I rode one in Jaipur to get back to the hotel.  At first, I felt very self-conscious, as I was the only white face on the bus and the object of intense staring from every other person on board; but then I decided to take it as part of my rock-star Indian lifestyle and accept it as the price of being a celebrity (however fleetingly).  City buses are ridiculously cheap (not even 10 rupees a ride, usually) but usually look like they’re about to disintegrate, and signs are in Hindi in a different alphabet so you have to take someone’s word for it that you’re getting on the right bus.  (I did, fortunately.)

Camels were a treat, as well, as we rode these huge, lumbering beasts out into the countryside from Pushkar for a dinner around a bonfire, with local women dancing for us, local men cooking and serving the food, and much Indian rum being consumed.  (Staying on the camel on the way back was a bit more of a challenge.)  I’m not sure I like camels, exactly; mine was a bit cranky and bad-tempered and kept trying to bite the camel in front of him.  But they’re a very practical way of getting around as they can go anywhere and are completely unfazed by noise, smoke and incessant honking of horns.

Bicycling in Udaipur was a bit more challenging, as I had to steer myself through traffic rather than just letting the camel figure it out, but also less painful (riding a camel left my butt sore for three days afterwards).   Our group leader Binu led those of us who felt up to the challenge around the city and out to the countryside, where we cycled around some of the man-made lakes surrounding the city (Rajasthan is desert and has no natural water) and up to a lookout point.  I happily discovered that I’m fitter than I’d realized, as I made it up hills fairly effortlessly and sailed past the rest of the group (all of whom, by the way, were at least 10 years younger than me).  

But I think my favourite way of getting around is just walking the streets.  This is sometimes frustrating, as aggressive shopowners surround you or grab your arms in an effort to drag you to their shops — if you so much as slow down on the street in Jaipur or Agra, especially, you’re a sitting duck.  Occasionally your life will flash before your eyes as you attempt to cross a street or negotiate a roundabout; if you stop or hesitate or change direction, you will narrowly escape being hit as a rickshaw driver or cabbie slams on his brakes, horn blaring.  But once you get the hang of it, it’s fine; keep going, no matter what, and traffic will flow magically around you like the parting of the Red Sea.  Ignore the incessant voices trying to sell you something, and they’ll eventually lose interest and move on to other prey (just be warned, in Jaipur it can take a block or two to shake them — you have to be persistent, and ignore them completely.

Later on, in Kerala, I’ll also get to travel by boat and canoe, and even by elephant if I choose.  I’ll keep you posted, but I think that walking is going to remain my favourite.  There’s no better way to see a city.

Bus Travel, Argentine Style

This country has bus travel down to a science. Unlike Guatemala or Honduras or Nicaragua, there is not a chicken bus in sight. I just got off the bus from Buenos Aires to Iguazu, and I don’t think I could have improved upon one thing to make it a better ride. I opted to travel “super cama” this time (also variously called “tutto letto” or “cama suite”), which is the most expensive option – but my 18-hour bus ride still only cost me about $80 Canadian. And I got to ride up top, which amuses me immensely for some reason.

What made it so good, you say? Let’s start with the seat – it folded down completely and utterly flat, and a leg/footrest anchored on the wall in front could be levered up to create an actual bed. It was at least as wide as a business class plane seat. Dividers between rows meant you had complete privacy, as did curtains that could be drawn between side-by-side seats. I had a row of 2 to myself, so I had acres of room.

Each seat had an individual LCD screen attached to the divider in front, with an individual set of headphones, so you could choose to watch/listen to the movie or not, as you choose. Soft fuzzy blankets were at least as big as those you’d put on a twin bed, and pillows were firm and comfortable. Windows all had curtains that could be drawn at night to shut out any glare from streetlights or passing traffic .

Food was very good, and (unusually for Argentina) came with an adequate amount of vegetables. (They’re big on the meat and starches here, but often skimp on the green stuff. My sister Shelley would be horrified by the lack of broccoli – even grocery stores often don’t have it.) Dessert was sinfully rich but not so large that I felt like a glutton. Your choice of beverages was provided, including wine if you wanted it; naturally I opted for the Argentine malbec. Champagne or whiskey was served after dinner; actually, they’d probably give you both if you wanted.

A charming and handsome young attendant served us at our seats, and he even thoughtfully switched on the English subtitles of the movies just for me. I should always live my life with handsome young men to dance attendance on me; any ideas as to how I could arrange this?

Quite delightful, all in all. If you come to Argentina for no other reason, come just to take an overnight bus ride somewhere, and go for the top class. You won’t be sorry. 

There are other choices, of course, if you don’t want to pay the extra $8-10 that this class costs. It’s a little complicated to figure out, as bus companies seem to call the same class by different names, but there are basically these choices:

• Común: cheapest class, no frills. Seat doesn’t recline, usually no food provided.
• Común con aire: as above, plus air-conditioning. The usual option for short trips (in this country, “short” means anything less than overnight, it seems).
• Semi-cama: meets certain specifications about distance between seats and angle at which seats recline. May be “con” or “sin” servicio; that is, there will be food available, but it won’t necessarily be served at your seat (you may have to help yourself from a minibar). May also be called “Dorado” (gold).
• Cama: meets certain specifications about distance between seats and angle of recline (more stringent than for semi-cama, so your seat will go back farther and it’ll be easier to sleep). 3 seats per row instead of 4 as the seats are wider. Food and beverages are usually (but not always) served at your seat but do not necessarily include wine. There is a range of comfort in this class from “cama economico” to “cama ejecutivo” (the latter term may also be used to refer to the next, top class of travel).
• Super cama: the most comfortable (and most expensive) way to travel. Seats recline completely flat, and other amenities available as described above. May also be called “cama ejecutivo” or “cama suite” or “tutto letto” (the last referring to the seat that folds down flat).

I haven`t tried them all yet (still have to take a ‘semi-cama` somewhere) but even the basic service has been pretty good – at least as comfortable as travelling Greyhound, anyway.

I have a feeling, though, that I might be in for a rude shock when I cross the Bolivian border; I might be back to chicken buses again. So I`d better enjoy travelling the Argentine way while I can.

Not Nearly Stylish Enough for the Porteños

They dress well, these people of Buenos Aires. Just walking down the street I saw more pairs of designer footwear than the shoe department at Holt's. Perhaps it's not just the architecture that gives Buenos Aires its nickname of "Paris of South America"; las Porteñas (female residents of BA) could give Parisiennes a run for their haute-couture money.

If I go out here one night, I have a feelling I'll be the scruffiest person in the crowd. Pity, really, when I have all the style I could desire (in footwear at least) packed up in my closet back home. But it would've been difficult travelling with a pair of Jimmy Choos, so perhaps I`ll just arrange to go out with other backpackers who are even more scruffy than me. It`s all about who you compare yourself too.

I got to BA today about 1:30 in the afternoon, after an 18-hour bus ride from Puerto Madryn. Bus travel is another thing Argentinos do in style, and comfort: if you`re North American and reading this, forget about anything you think you know about bus travel based on your experiences there. This is a whole different ball game.

I wasn`t as comfortable the few times I`ve flown business class as I was on the bus last night. Huge, plush, comfy seat; dinner, breafast and lunch served at my seat; flat screen TV on which to watch movies (and an attendant who kindly put on the English subtitles for me); ever-changing landscape to gaze at through my window on the top deck of the bus. This beats flying any day.

And there`s no way I`d ever get behind the wheel of a car here, because Argentine drivers are a little bit -- no, make that a LOT -- nuts. Crossing streets in Buenos Aires is a little intimidating, with 8 lanes of traffic waiting for the light to change -- at which point drivers will gun their engines and leap forward, heedless of any pedestrians who haven`t quite made it to the other side. Fortunately, that hasn`t been me (I walk fast), but I`ve seen a few people leaping frantically for the curb.

But I think I might like it here, crazy drivers or not. I was a little apprehensive coming here, having heard a few horror stories about people being mugged in broad daylight, but those reports appear to have been greatly exaggerated. I went for a walk around in the afternoon after checking to my hostel, and I didn`t feel any less safe than any other big city I`ve been too, and considerably safer than I did in a few (Guatemala City, or Tegucigalpa, say).

It`s a big of a shock to the system, though, to be back in a city this size; there are about 13 million people in Buenos Aires, and the biggest place I`ve been before that was Bariloche, at about 100,000 residents. From somewhere not even as big as my little hometown of Barrie ... to a metropolitan centre the size of London. I can do this -- I`ve spent most of my adult life in big cities -- but I`ll need a bit of time to acclimatize.

I did manage to get myself from the bus station to the hostel on the subway, though -- for the grand price of 1.10 pesos (about 30 cents) you can get anywhere in the city on the subte (short for subterraneo). It was so easy that I couldn't figure out why I was the only backpacker on there -- why take a cab when this is so simple and cheap?

I don`t think I`m going to stay more than a couple of days this stop, as I`ll have to pass back through here on my way back from Montevideo in Uruguay and Iguazu Falls in northern Argentina (unless I feel like going through Paraguay, which I don`t). So I might head up to Iguazu on Sunday night or Monday, then spend more time in BA after I`ve chilled out at the falls for a few days. We`ll see -- that`s what I love about having all this time, I get to make things up as I go along and don`t have to have it all planned out ahead of time!

I`m meeting up with a friend from Toronto tomorrow, who`s in Argentina on vacation and happens to be in BA at the same time as me. So we`re probably going to Tigre for the day, a riverfront suburb of BA that`s quite affluent and is suppoed to be very beautiful. Nearly two months after I leave home to wander at will through South America, with no set plan or agenda, and I end up in the same city at the same time as someone who lives just the other side of downtown Toronto in Parkdale - small world, isn`t it?

All right, practical stuff is waiting to be done -- making dinner, washing clothes and other exciting things -- so I must dash. Anyone who invents travel clothes that do not need to be washed will make an absolute fortune -- I love travelling light (especially since I am carrying it all around on my back), but I get tired of laundry.

Maybe I`ll just change my standards of cleanliness instead ... until someone invents those self-cleaning clothes.

Tea and Wildlife in Welsh Patagonia

I’m having a lazy day in Puerto Madryn today, catching up on uploading pictures and, of course, writing here. I’m off on a night bus to Bueno Aires at 7 pm; this time I’m travelling “cama ejecutivo” so am looking forward to it. I hear it’s very good, and at any rate it’s got to be an improvement on North American buses! Have you ever travelled by night bus in Canada or the U.S.? I did, once, from Toronto to New York (12 hours and $100); I don’t recommend the experience.

I spent the past couple of days exploring the area. Tuesday, I headed off to Peninsula Valdés, which is a protected wildlife area. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry flew around the area as the postal manager from 1929 to 1931, and there’s an island off the Peninsula that inspired his description of a “snake swallowing an elephant” in The Little Prince. (I’ll have to re-read it – it’s been a while since Grade 10 French class!). Interesting note: did you know that The Little Prince was one of the books banned under Argentina’s former dictatorship?

The Peninsula is chock full of interesting wildlife. I was too early for whale season – that starts in about June – but some of the Magellanic penguins were still hanging around. I didn’t get to wander among them as I did in Antarctica, but they’re still pretty funny to watch. These penguins carve out burrows for their nests in the side of the hill, working away industriously with those little webbed feet. Sea lions and elephant seals were also hanging around; any time I’ve seen these creatures, they’re pretty much just lying on the beach snoozing, so I don’t think it’s a terribly difficult life.

Well, other than the ever-present risk of being dinner for an orca, anyway. I also saw a few of those lean, mean killing machines cruising around near the beach, one swimming close to shore as if to check out the seal and sea lion snacks on offer, and the others further out to go after any animals that might get past the first one. We didn’t get to see any orca hunting, though, as they seemed content to just watch; I felt a little bloodthirsty wishing for a sea lion pup to be captured, but it would have been an awesome display. I’d have felt bad for the cute little pup, though.

One sea lion pup almost got snagged as he followed his mother into the water; Mom made it out again safely and looked around for the pup, who was no longer right behind her. You could almost see the panic on her face as she looked around the beach; she plunged back into the water, heedless of the lurking orca menace nearby. Mom and baby both made it out safely on the second attempt, and wisely shuttled much further away from the water.

Land animals were out in force, too. I didn`t see any pumas, but I think I saw everything else that lives around there, including some sheep being chivvied along by a border collie and his authentic gaucho handler on the horse behind. Guanocos, alpaca-like creatures with reddish-brown fur, liked to hang out by the side of the highway, only moving when the van came too near and leaping effortlessly over the high fence to get away. Speedy little maras (also called the Patagonia cavy or Patagonian hare) also lurked by the roadside, taking off at high speed when we approached; they`re odd little creatures about the size of a beagle that look like a cross between a kangaroo, a deer and a rabbit, that leap like `roos on their spindly little deer-like legs. I can`t show you what they look like though, as they moved too fast for me to snap a picture; you`ll just have to google them yourself.

Our very friendly guide Hugo also introduced us – two Australians, two Brits and a lone Canadian – to the Argentinian mate (pronounced `MAH-tay`) ritual. Argentinos are addicted to this bitter herb, which is brewed something like tea into a hot drink. There`s a special mate cup from which you drink it (they`d think you were loco if you used a regular mug), and it`s usually shared.
They drink this in preference to coffee, as it`s a mild stimulant like caffeine; I think I understand now why there is usually only instant coffee on offer everywhere I`ve stayed! I`ve just been looking for the wrong drink, that`s all. Mate`s pretty good, actually, so I might see if I can find it back in T.O. – take a look at the pic to see my first taste of the stuff.

The next day brought me to Gaiman and a drink to which I`m more accustomed: proper British tea. Gaiman was settled in the late 1800`s by Welsh immigrants, who left Britain after some abortive independence movements and rising unemployment in Wales. They looked around the world for somewhere with a lot of free land, where the English couldn`t be found; consequently, they settled on Patagonia and 153 intrepid souls came over in the first boat in 1865. You can still see the site on Puerto Madryn beach where they built their first crude shelters after landing.

Puerto Madryn has lost most of its Welsh character, but Gaiman is much smaller and is clinging fiercely to its heritage. Welsh is still taught in schools in Gaiman and the rest of the lower Chubut valley, and street names often has a distinctly non-Spanish flair (`Avenida Lewis Jones`, for example!). And teahouses flourish all around; I met a couple of Vancouverites on the bus ride there and we went for an authentic Welsh tea at one of these establishments. All-you-can-eat scones, apple tarts, custard, jam, fruit cake, and a dozen other kinds of baking meant we all walked out of there groaning because we were so full; likewise, the pot of tea was never emptied as the attentive lady of the house kept it filled. I didn`t bother to have dinner that night.

There`s also a wee museum in Gaiman that displays some of the artefacts belonging to the first settlers and gives you a history of the area. The sweet little old lady in charge could have stepped right out of an illustration for a traditional British grandmother; she spoke in slow, careful Spanish to me until she realized I spoke English, then switched to that language (with a hint of a Welsh accent).

I also paid a visit to the garden-cum-art-park El Desafio (Spanish for challenge or defiance), an ever-growing installation by an eccentric local artist who creates sculptures, walkways, arches and other decorations for his property out of garbage.  For 10 pesos, he lets you wander around at will, and will occasionally come harangue you about the meaning of his art (I think – he spoke in very rapid Spanish so I missed a lot of it!). It`s a fascinating little place and quite thought-provoking even if you can`t translate all of the Spanish. And I think it`s a much better use of plastic water bottles to turn them into flowers, or Chinese lanterns, or the Taj Mahal, than to pile them up in a landfill!

The only thing I didn`t like about Gaiman was the fact that it hailed, briefly. Yes, HAIL ... you know, that hard icy stuff that falls from the sky. It isn`t winter here, yet, so if that`s any indication of what`s to come, I think I`m glad I`m leaving the area! Buenos Aires should be warm, and I might even be able to stop wearing my fleece and hiking boots – T-shirt and Tevas, here I come!

Yet Another Reason Why Cats are Better than Dogs

I already have a lot of reasons, but here’s another one. Cats won’t follow you down the street in a pack, growling and snarling and snapping at you. If a cat really wants to hurt you, it will stalk past you haughtily, nose in the air, and ignore you completely; this, it is sure, will devastate you.

There are a lot of dogs running around freely in South America, and they’re usually large (German Shepherd-sized). But walking back to the hostel from the Ecocentro in Puerto Madryn today was the first time I’d encountered them in a pack, rather than just one or two, and with them not feeling particularly friendly. I don’t speak “dog” terribly well, but even I could translate those noises!

I ducked into a snooty hotel on the way to get away from them, and it took some tricky manoeuvring to keep the dogs from following me; the hotel had automatic sliding doors which one of the dogs appeared to figure out how to work. But once I’d managed it, the very nice lady at the reception desk commiserated with me and escorted me out a side exit, well away from the frustrated pack of canines.

People will generally come through for you, I find, when you really need them. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably still be sitting in that hotel lobby, waiting for the pack glaring balefully at me through the glass to disperse.

But aside from that little adventure on the way back downtown, the Ecocentro was very cool. It uses a variety of art, sculpture, film and conventional displays to hammer home its point about the vital importance of the oceans and the necessity to protect the marine life within it. One display says, mincing no words, that we “must not let the destiny of the sea ... be its destruction.”

Another display is a figure of a life-size whale, constructed from rubbish discarded in the ocean and washed up on the nearby beach: tires, plastic water bottles, even old sneakers. An installation in a darkened room simulates the depths of the ocean and plays haunting whale sounds all around you. On the wall of one gallery, there’s a Pablo Neruda poem, in letters half a foot high proclaiming the “Ode a un albatros viajero” (``Ode to a Wandering Albatross”).

Most of the displays had English translations, but the Neruda poem didn’t. So I sat there for a while, dictionary at hand, trying to puzzle my way through it. I got the gist, I think, but poetry loses something when you take it word by word and interrupt the rhythm of the language.

There was a room sided entirely of glass right at the top of the tower attached to the Ecocentro building. Squashy white couches faced out to the sea, and the low table in the middle was scattered with books on photography, wildlife, natural history and environmental issues. I got immersed in a book by Rachel Carson that I hadn’t read, and came back to reality with a start about an hour and a half later.

Fortunately, i was not on a schedule today, so lingering over a book was entirely fine. I got to Puerto Madryn at 7 a.m this morning, having left Bariloche at 6 p.m. the night before. I sat at the front on top of the double-decker bus, which was always my favourite seat on London night buses and will now be my requested seat on all Argentine long-haul coaches. Seats were comfortably large and plush, with plenty of room – two seats on the lefthand side of the aisle, and one on the right. I was on the right, so I had lots of room to spread out.

This bus was “cama economico”, which I’ve decided means that you get a comfortable, almost fully-reclining bed (that’s the “cama” part) but the food is terrible (that’s the “economical” part). There are other classes of Argentine buses, and the most deluxe – coche-cama or cama ejecutivo –will get you good food as well as a completely flat bed once your seat’s put down. I may get the opportunity to travel this way to Buenos Aires (my likely next stop).

As it was, I was presented with a plastic-wrapped Styrofoam tray of two tiny sickly-sweet muffins and a chocolate cookie, together with a lukewarm Styrofoam cup of tea. About quarter to 11 (nearly five hours after getting on the bus), the attendant brought around dinner, which included plain boiled chicken and spaghetti with just a hint of sauce. Some reasonably tasty quesadilla-type things were included too, though, so it wasn’t all bad. Dessert was bright red jello, so no more need be said about that.

A very loud movie went on immediately after dinner was served, and I tried to follow for a while to practise my Spanish (there were English subtitles, but the screen was at an awkward angle for me to read). To the best of my knowledge, the movie was about a guy named Javier, who was being chased by other guys with guns, for some reason that I don’t fully understand but I think had something to do with drugs. There were a couple of female characters, one who seemed to be the boss of the guys with guns and who liked to parade around on screen wearing very little. The other girl looked frightened a lot and eventually got rescued by Javier and (I think) went on to live happily ever after with him.

(Or something like that. Hey, it was an action movie, they’re all basically variations on the same theme, aren’t they?)

The landscape between Bariloche and Puerto Madryn was awesome; not in the Valley girl, like, totally awesome sense of the word, but awe-inspiring. It grew dark a couple of hours outside Bariloche, but until then it was mountains brooding under clouds and rain; after it got dark, the mountains would loom suddenly out of the blackness when struck by the highbeam headlights of the bus. As we got nearer Puerto Madryn, the landscape flattened out into broad open pampas, empty of any sign of habitation except for one tiny town about 4 a.m.

No lights in any direction, and no sign of moon or stars under the cloud cover above, so the blackness was absolute -- just the headlights of the bus pointing down the two-lane highway as the driver barrelled along. Highways in Argentina don’t have reflectors as North American roads too, so it was very difficult to tell, in the pitch black, where the centre – or even sometimes the edges – of the highway really were. Our driver seemed to be just pointing the bus down the middle and hoping for the best; fortunately traffic was very light and we rarely met any other vehicles.

At any rate, I made it to Puerto Madryn in once piece, and reasonably well-rested if a little bit hungry. Today I wandered the town, and tomorrow I’m off to the nearby Peninsula Valdés. There I will get to see sea lions and elephant seals, fur seals and (if I’m really lucky) orcas ... and perhaps even another penguin or two. A different species this time, but I’m sure just as amusing as the ones I’ve already encountered.

So lots of animal life tomorrow ... and as long as the canine variety stays well away from me, we`ll get along just fine.