The Argentine Bussing Experience
About an hour before catching the bus south to Bariloche, I took a walk into Parque Sarmiento in Cordoba, and had the pleasure of talking to a few people. A patient groundskeeper, whose intermittent work meant he encouraged company, waved at me to take a break from my walk, which was perfect timing as the backpack's weight was starting to strain. Under the shade of a tree we talked about where we were from, what we were doing in life. After about ten minutes, he had to run off to do some work, but insisted I stay, and gave me a newspaper, pointing to an article.
Naturally, the article was in Spanish, but it seems easier to read than to speak, and I managed to understand it well. It declared that there was an accident between two buses between Buenos Aires and Cordoba that killed 15 people. On the same route that I took just two days before. There was the picture of a bus, with its front end and back end ripped to shreds. The journalist in me remarked at the reporting differences. The newspaper gave the names of half of the deceased, only not giving the rest because they could not be identified yet. In gruesome detail, it recounted what happened when the two buses collided and the physical characteristics of those still unknown. In the picture, one could just barely discern the letters "c.o.o.p." along the side of the black, white, and orange bus.
My Spanish might not have been perfect, but I remember looking up any word I didn't know. I learned the words for "crash" and "pothole" and "tragedy." I was reminded of DeLillo and his novel, White Noise. As if to cheer me up a bit, the groundskeepers two dogs came by, a medium-sized black one looking for a pet. Another one, more brown, sat in a crouch in front of me, with a thumb-sized rock in front of him. I understood what he wanted, and tossed the rock about twenty meters away, to which the dog bolted off after it. We played fetch for about ten minutes. As this carried on, I wondered if these dogs spoke the same dog language as dogs in the Northern Hemisphere.
Shortly after the groundskeeper returned, I had to say farewell to catch my bus to Bariloche. I decided not to ask for the newspaper. When I arrived at the terminal, I was told that only two bus companies serviced to my destination. One was called TAC and the other TUS. I went to the TAC office and asked for when the next bus was and I was fortunate that it was leaving just that moment. It was too late to get a formal ticket so I followed the driver up to the gate. There in front of us was the bus, with several passengers waiting to embark. Black, white, and orange, with letters: "c.o.o.p. TAC" written across the side. Since I was one of several people who were getting tickets at the last minute, they placed us all in the upper level at the front, right in front of the window. As you could imagine, I was remembering what happened to the front end of the TAC bus in the picture I'd seen just an hour ago.
For those of you who've bussed in Argentina before, do you remember this experience? Did you ever sit in the front seat to see just how close other passing buses came? They would flicker their headlights on and off, sometimes in several series, to say when the other bus was creeping into their lane (this occured with no less than 75% of the buses we passed). Like a game of chicken, this morbid headlight morse code carried on until both buses seemed doomed to collide. At the last minute, they would find a compromise amongst the pavement. As they passed, the force of their turbulence would rock the bus side to side as both continued on at triple digit kilometers an hour. I remarked to the person next to me, that we had the best seats to view the ongoing insanity.
And so sparked my longest conversation yet in Spanish. Probably in hopes to distract myself from the oncoming traffic, we talked for hours, about our work, our families, what we thought about the bus dinner (comparable to airplane food), about Argentina and the world economic situation... We got to know each other better, and eventually I managed to explain some of the good and bad that had happened to me in the last year. He was a very kind person, a worker of a petroleum farm that would take buses like these and have 10-30 day work shifts. Despite the insanity that played out through the window before us, I was happy to have chosen to go by bus, if for no other reason that to be next to another hapless person trapped in a steel shell careening towards an inevitable inferno. I suppose there are better ways to foster conversation, but this one was quite effective. We talked for hours, and my Spanish skills feel twice as capable now because of it.
It took a while, but eventually this bus tango of death became common, and therefore numbed me enough to sleep. By the time I woke up, my fears had subsided, but I was alone. Mi amigo had left for his stop at Neuquen without waking me. I never got his name.
Entering el Parque
But I was not alone for long. Nature's finest was about to greet me. Except perhaps Iceland, which I have yet to visit, there is no better place that suits the music of Sigur Ros than the incredible landscape of Parque Nacional Nahuel Huapi. The vistas are vast, with fauna rare, probably because they're hiding from the jotas (hawks). Amongst the greyish blue of mountain and sky are brilliantly yellow brush, especially in the relatively well watered areas near Rio Limay. I'm sure that much time passed while I enjoyed the scenery, but time seemed to fly. Before long we passed a crest and suddenly there was Lago Nahuel Luapi, the lake I had read so much about. The lake that brought me to South America. It was absolutely gorgeous. As we descended the hill, I was excited to explore, even after a 22-hour bus ride - which I think is testament to the comfort of riding buses in Argentina. So much better than Greyhound.
It's a familiar grey-skied day here in Bariloche, at last at the destination of lake monster research. Every now and then the rain will come down in bursts. The kernel of me that is a Seattleite said "home at last" as I checked into the cabin-style hostel here. Pretty glad now that I still have those touques (French-Canadian for winter hats, for those who asked). It's a bit colder than Buenos Aires or Cordoba, but not unbearable. I love those days when the dewpoint is just right so that it's not that cold and yet you have the magical bonus that everyone shoots water vapor clouds when they talk.
Indeed, one lady, with a few vapor clouds and a universal smirk which I did not translate at the time, sent me on a fruitless hunt up a residential hillside in search of my intended hostel. Fortunately, I was in good spirits, and enjoyed the impromptu hike for what it was. Returning downhill, I caught un collectivo and returned to the city center for option number two, which has been a nice cozy place for a first day's stay.
Now itīs time for exploring...