November 10, 2015
Leanardo No Di Vinci: Route 29, KM 175 to empleada (big roundabout junction) of 29 and route 74.
I've seen big self-propelled agricultural spraying machines at farms here. I can only think they use them to apply liquid artificial fertilizer. But other than that, the grassland husbandry isn't what would be labelled industrial farming. The pasture isn't overgrazed, just chomped low. And many plots as well as a wide grass verge are left to grow waist high and, there are water channels full of reeds between the verge and stock-fence on both sides of the road. And waterlogged areas. There are also groves of trees dividing fields and often lone trees dotted through fields. It's a rich habitat for all kinds of birds and waterfowl. I've seen too what I think are moles, dart into the long grass. And a roadkill armadillo and small bloodied green and yellow snakes.
About fifty kilometres further, I'm glad to see ahead the horizon reveal, signs for the end of the long stretch: the junction of route 50, and the left turn for Ayacucho. a further seven kilometres along 50, and more through a grid street between low flat roofed houses to the central "Plaza San Martin", laid-out as a tranquil garden of pink and white rose bushes and native in bloom shrubs. The only falt is in the centre, where all plaza paths meet, some kids have red spray-painted graffiti around the base of revolutionary war hero, San Martin: the base, having recently been, it appears, painted white to cover up previous scribbling.
"Young people destroy this place" snaps Leanardo scornfully. "The police watch it, but it doesn't stop them".
Dark skinned with side-parked jet black hair and wearing olive green military uniform, he marches into the plaza to meet me, just as I'm admiring the civil pride shown in the plaza's upkeep, before noticing the graffiti. A smiling man, I quip is his second name Di Vinci, and he laughs. When I say I'm from Ireland, he tells me about a friend of his living in Ireland.
This is after I'd a steak lunch in a grand nineteenth century street-corner hotel bar room; before which, I'd a worrying refusal of the ATM to give me cash. I was starving and only had a few pesos and a couple of men kept pestering me, questioning me about my journey. I give terse single word replies "si. si" and wished they'd go away until I find a bank where I can use my card.
Anyway, having got cash, Leanardo caught me in a better mood having a look at the plaza, before leaving town.
The thing which I'd somehow forgotten about since last here, is how big an area an average Argentine country town covers. A similar size town in Ireland would be compact, whereas here the streets arranged in a grid, can be many kilometres from open country to open country. It is seven kilometres back to the roundabout on the edge of town, where I continue on 29 for ten kilometres to the junction of route 74; just beyond which, I camped in a grove when passing this way five years ago, and today I'm looking forward to an early stop, so I'll camp in the same spot.
However, having got there with a few hours of sunshine to enjoy, I'm flexing a pole putting up the tent, when instantly, there's a clunk, and the curved pole suddenly goes square, pointing up like an apex roof. Luckily I'd broke a pole back in France and so, have a load of spares from that repair.
Then having fixed the tent, I go inside and find through touch, what I think is a stone protuding underneath, but then feel a sharp edge, which has sliced a two centimetre gash in the tent floor and now, the blood is running down my index finger. It happens to be the bottom of a broken beer bottle. I have to bandage the finger with a tissue before there's blood over everything.
Though the broken tent pole didn't rob me of too much time, as I still had plenty of time before dark to sit down to tea and catch up on diary writing.
Today's ride: 84 km (52 miles)
Total: 330 km (205 miles)
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