November 9, 2015
Que Linda: near Ranchos to Km175 (approximatedly) Route 29.
"Irlanda! Que linda! Que linda pais Irlanda!" bellows a jovial woman outside a supermercado, in a similar fashion one would on hearing they'd won the lottery. I suppress an amused smirk.
In curiosity seeing a stranger, me, packing my shopping into a pannier, she'd asked where I come from, and when I answer Ireland, asserts with a rise of abdomen making her half a foot taller "Ireland! What a lovely country" She went on to tell me her son runs an Irish pub in Buenos Aires. And then as though helpless to say anything else, repeats "Que linda! Que linda Irlanda!" A younger woman with her, perhaps a daughter, takes her phone and asks to take my photo standing by my bike.
The first of many friendly and helpful locals I come across today.
There is a renewed feel to waking this morning in where I'd camped in a wooded grove. Springtime on the pampas with a concerto of tweetering small birds and an owl hooting not far off.
The town, Belgrano, thirty-five kilometres on upon dead straight road through expanse of green pasture, isn't more than a village, but is spread over a large area, the main street and intersecting grid of streets are many kilometres long with each house upon a small plot of land supporting a few livestock. There are lots of small supermercados, including Spanish chain "Dia", where I encounter the "Que linda woman". But what I needed most is cash. There is one small bank where the ATM is non-functioning. A youth wearing a pork-pie hat and with most of his upper teeth missing, sees my distress at not being able to take cash out and come after me out the door, where he precedes to give me directions to a second bank. His ascent, whether the missing teeth or no, is quaint and is hard to follow his meaning.
The morning had begun sunny, then in Belgrano it grew increasing dull and overcast. Once back on the road, passing round a great big roundabout where route 41 comes in on the right and continues on left, my road, 29 leaves the roundabout straight on, passing a sign "Ayacucho 167 km. Mar de Plata 326 km": such distances: so far to the next place with nothing in-between. Now noon and the grey sky growing dark with a bank of midnight blue and diagonal shafts of rain ahead on bleak table flat expanse.
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I ride on hoping somehow to escape the rain, with the expectation that I should reach Ayacucho, the very next town, the width of Ireland away, by midday tomorrow. That big bank of midnight blue is now overhead with its curtain of rain just to my left. I had thought of riding pass it, but it's covering a huge area of sky; and soon is dripping rain. In no time it is raining steadily.
The traffic consists of a vehicle every few minutes, mainly trucks which pull over and pass me on the opposite side of the road, otherwise they'd cover me with spray, the road now awash with rainwater. Each car and truck gives me a friendly hoot of the horn.
I am lucky to reach an old concrete bus-shelter, so I can lunch on bread spread with "Dulce de Leche", a thick toffee spread ubiquitous in these parts. The only failing is the shelter is open on both sides and raw cold wind soon has me shivering. Then riding on is even rawer until movement has warmed me somewhat.
It rains and rains. And at some point I hear a loud diesel engine chugging behind me. I wonder why it isn't passing, then it, a big red Ford pickup truck drives up alongside me upon the grass verse, so the driver, a middle-aged native american wearing a big black beret, is on my side.
"Amigo! Adonde vas?" he asks through the open window where I'm going. Then offers to put the bike in the back and give me a lift. I kindly thank him, but say I'd rather ride. He offers a second time, thinking perhaps I'd foolishly set off riding on this very long road without amenities. I thank him all the same, but no thanks I'd rather ride. Before driving on, he hands me out a half empty bottle of lemon flavour soft drink, in case I'm thirsty.
Not long after, a Renault Espace passes, slows, then begins reversing back to me. When I'm alongside, a blond woman leans out the passenger side window and asks
"Todo bien? Necessito algo? Comidas o aqua? I reply, I'm find and have enough food and water.
The rain eases around five, leaving clearing blue sky in its wake and a fine Spring evening.
Observations: grass here if not grazed or cut, grows waist high, and I'm relatively tall. It is all permanent pastureland, with an occasional yellow stripe of freshly cut silage. I haven't seen brown cultivated land, or verdant green cereal crop. It is what one would expect on the Argentine pampa: pure cattle farming.
I managed to get tea today, which I find revives me this evening so I can write, rather than want to lay down and sleep. My camp spot a small grove flanking a grass drive in off the road to a gate opening upon pasture.
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Today's ride: 149 km (93 miles)
Total: 246 km (153 miles)
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