Ooop Norf…

Spring had sprung. BA was buzzing. The house was going to be ready in a week. The work start date was fast approaching. It was time for a final trip before the daily grind began once more…

I therefore headed north to Tucumán province to visit the diminutive yet undeniably swoonsome Octavio. The bus journey took a good three hours longer than publicised, and the air con broke down for last two of those, but hey… it’s only £150 return. Am sure I remember buses being half the price two years ago. That’s inflation for you I guess… bet it’s not the last time I complain about that.

Oranges and, well, lemons...

Sat next to lady called Pili. She may have been a fresh-faced 60 or she may have been 45 and had spent the last 10 years hopping. She was in seven states of excitement, done up to the nines and wearing some very high heels, which in my opinion is nothing short of insane on a 16 hour trip. Anyway, was obliged to boggle my way through her whole life story, whether I wanted to hear it or not. When I plugged myself into the iPod on she tapped my arm until I removed the earphones. Bloody hell that woman could talk. To cut a long story blessedly short however, she was heading back to San Miguel de Tucumán, from whence she’d moved to BA with her parents when she was 15, to spend a week with her first – and greatest – love. Time had passed, partners had come and gone, children had flown the nest… a chance meeting a few months back led to the invitation. Have never seen one person do their teeth so many times. He was waiting for her at the terminal, flowers in hand. A thick thatch of white hair above a thin, darkly tanned face deeply etched with wrinkles. Was pretty impressed. Don’t think am even talking to any of the boys I kissed when I was 15.

Octavio was waiting for me, minus flowers but plus face-splitting grin. “How very robust you’re looking these days Sassy”, he said. Your average Argie male has no inner monologue. Grit my teeth and resisted the temptation to slap him so far into next week that it would likely take a team of surgeons just to get Wednesday out of his arse.

San Miguel de Tucumán is fairly big, moderately dirty and very, very hot. Spring there easily goes into the high 30s. During summer the thermometer apparently climbs well over 40, and humidity hits almost 100%. Am not sure how exactly long you’d have to drive in any direction to get to the sea but you wouldn’t get much change out of two days. Like all Argentine cities it’s laid out on a grid system and there isn’t much architectural difference between the low off-white buildings, so you had better hope you’re facing in the right direction when you begin a journey.

And they call it puppy love...

Octavio lives with his two mad doggies, Bombucha and Latina, in a big old one-storey house whose rooms surround a mosaic-tiled courtyard from which white stairs lead up to a terrace and a passage takes you through a wrought iron gate back out to a scrubby garden. But who cares about the lawn when there’s tropical fruit? It doesn’t matter how much I travel: there’s something unbearably exotic and exciting about a place where oranges, lemons and mangoes grow in your garden.

On my first night there was storm. Not a wussy English storm. Here it’s all about stifling heat and  the rain bouncing six inches off the ground. The thunder overhead ranted and roared and set off car alarms in the street. The dogs cowered in the corner. Was possessed by almost overpowering urge to hide under the bed.

African dance girls

That weekend I, together with approximately 300 happy hippy types, attended an African dance and percussion show in the park. Octavio was dancing with one of the groups. They were surprisingly good. Enjoyed myself taking photos with my (still new) toy and managed to only forget what I’d done with the crutch once. One does look a bit of a plonker when people realise one is running around screaming that one can’t find one’s walking stick.

 

Spent most of the week just hanging out, catching up, translating stuff for the agency back in BA. On my last day we borrowed Octavio’s parents’ car and took a trip into the hills. Gorgeous countryside once you’re out of the city. Was confused by all the greenery until remembered that summer here is tropical, i.e. it rains a lot. The further you drive the more the general mode of transport is a horse and a big comfortable gaucho saddle. Some of the beasts were scrawny and uncared for and made me want to cry. Some were shining and muscular and spirited and made me drool with covetousnous. The hill people, with their flat, bronzed, slanting faces and ragged clothes, appeared to be entirely indigenous. This is pretty unusual in Argentina because the Spaniards spent a couple of centuries systematically exterminating or (best case) ruthlessly driving out most of the original local chaps. Am guessing that a lot of these guys or their families came down into the country from Bolivia and Peru, but without some research on the subject I hesitate to sound authoritative.

Tucumán countryside

Well, it had to happen. Mr Random and Miss Head-in-the-Clouds took a wrong turn and continued down it for much longer than strictly necessary. The tarmac became gravel became earth and was peppered with massive pot holes. Began to seriously to worry about the wheels and suspension. If we got stuck this far out who the hell was going to lend us a horse to get to a telephone?! Thank goodness it was a sturdy VW and saw us through. Mind you, am only assuming it hasn’t fallen to bits since.

Eventually we stopped and called over to a Gaucho, baggy trousers and wide flat hat and all. He was doing something with a powerful and beautiful stallion whose sleek chestnut coat sang in the late afternoon sunshine. Our choices were another 30km of track or an ignominious return, metaphorical tails between our legs. We chose tails. Sometimes you gotta know when you’re beat. Anyway, there was a little store that sold miraculously cold beer along the way. So that was alright.

All's well that ends well

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