HEAVEN OR HALLUCINATION?

LOS TAJAMARES: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
I have flu. I feel like Hell. Carmen stops the car on the dirt road. I look out over a blue paddock and through trees to a pristine lake and wonder whether I am in Heaven or hallucinating. I will get out of the car and ask the sheep.

FRANCE IS A DUMP

France township

Brian at the station

FRANCE: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
The closest railway station to the estancias of Los Tajamares and Las Canadas is at the township of France. France is not very big. Don't tell the French.

FLU IN PARADISE

ESTANCIA LOS TAJAMARES: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18
I have the flu. My bedroom windows open onto a shaded terrace and the lawn. Carmen has planted citrus trees by the fence. From my bed, I watch tiny hummingbirds dip their beaks in the blossoms. A bird with a yellow breast finds a worm in the lawn. A small white bird sits on a fence post. Vast open paddocks stretch beyond the fence to the distant horizon. Carmen chides me for not taking care of myself. Brian pampers me with Vitamin C. Silvia heats water. I sit at the kitchen table with a towel over my head and inhale the steam. Flu doesn't feel so bad in Paradise.

ROYAL FAMILY

LAS CANADAS: THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18

If South America's meat packing has a Royal family, Brian and his wife, Carmen, are it. Carmen's great-grandfather founded Fray Bentos. Brian's grandfather shipped the first frozen beef out of Argentina in the 1880s.
Carmen's sister, Cecilia, inherited the family homestead here in Uruguay near Paso de los Toros. Cecilia has preserved the house as a chunk of Uruguay's history and runs it as a tourist operation. Family portraits number a President and Uruguay's great poet laureate, Juan Zorrilla de San Martin. Furniture is polished wood, comfortable leather chairs and sofas, proper old-fashioned bathtubs. I even discovered a model A Ford in an outhouse.
Cecilia provides sufficient horses to mount a cavalry regiment, swimming in a crystal clear pond, traditional country meals cooked in a wood oven and on a wood stove or outdoors on the parilla. Be a gaucho for a week, learn to spin the estancia's wool, whitewash a wall or paint a few pictures. 70 Euros per diem is cheap for the privilege of sharing in Uruguay's history.
Go elsewhere should you desire air conditioning, TV and fast food.

COUNT THE COWS, NOT THE ACRES

ESTANCIA TAJAMARES: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
Six of us eat wood oven pizzas with cheese topping, tomato topping, or cheese and tomato topping. Rafael is part gaucho and part caretaker/gardener. Sylvia cares for the house and is a brilliant cook. She came to cooking over the past six months. She is a natural. She complains that she has to taste dishes to get them right and has gained fifteen kilos. Rafael and Sylvia are a couple. Trinidad is the estancia gaucho. Mid forties, he is a shy man of few words. I wonder that one man on horseback can cope with 1,400 acres of pasture. The size of the estancia is unimportant. What counts is the number of cows.

TOAD ON THE OPEN ROAD

URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
360 Ks to the estancia. This is a medium rich ranch country of gently rolling hills dotted with clumps of trees. The cows are mostly Hereford. The roads are mostly straight. Some stretches the tar is beginning to peal. Truck drivers are courteous. Gauchos raise a hand in greeting. The few cars aren't racers. The sun shines - perfect biker weather. My confidence seeps back. I edge the speed up to 90 KPH. The final ten kilometres are dirt. In Ushuaia, I changed the city tyres for nobblies. The Honda holds rock steady. A sign flags the track to the estancia. The sun is beginning to dip below a row of tall eucalyptus. The house is low and ochre and protected from the sun by roofed terraces on three sides. Two Alsatians and a dappled gun dog greet me. A man in a beret and work trousers gathered at the ankle (uniform of the gaucho) reports that my cousins are out walking. I dump my bags in an open-plan living space. Hip-high cupboards and a rack for wineglasses divides a big kitchen from the dinning area. Sofas and armchairs are gathered in front of an open fire where a couple of logs smoulder.
Outside there are views for fifty miles, beds of roses and lavender, shrubs, a small swimming pool. A roofed area the pool-end of the house is open at both ends to channel the breeze. The outer wall supports a wood oven and grill wide enough to cook assado for fifty people. The gaucho has been readying coals for the evening meal. The dogs start up a racket. Brian and Carmen come strolling down the track. I feel great.

FEAR IS AN INFIRMITY

URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
Two busses follow me out of Colonia. Intent on watching them, I nearly cross an intersection with lights at red. A straight road shaded by palm trees runs over gentle hills. Double yellow lines mark the centre of the road. I slow and ease onto the hard shoulder. The busses hang back untill we have crossed the next crest. A driver waves as he slides by. I could learn to love Uruguay.

WHY AM I SO STUPID?

URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
No high-rises in Colonia. The heart is Hispanic Colonial, nothing grand - small houses and cobbled streets. A fast ferry has docked ahead of us. Cars queue in three lines. A Uruguayan Customs officer asks for my Immigration fiche. He tares off the original, hands me the copy and waves me through. I suspect that I should have said, "Wait a minute. Don't I need my passport stamped or register the temporary import of the Honda?"
What will happen when I try to leave Uruguay?
Weren't my difficulties in leaving Argentina sufficient?

GEOGRAPHIC CONFUSION AND CRUELTY

URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17
The ferry is comfortable. I sit beside a splendid lady in her eighties. She is visiting a friend in Montevideo. The friend is frail and in her early nineties. My companion celebrated a replacement hip last year by touring much of Europe. She was four years old when her father and mother emigrated to Argentina. In her father's youth the family village was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It became Italian after World War 1, Yugoslav after World War 2. Now it is Slovenia and she travels abroad on an EU passport.
The daughter of her eldest son had an emergency operation last week.
My companion telephoned her granddaughter this morning.
Her son answered the telephone.
Her granddaughter was resting.
"I'll wait," she said.
Her son put down the telephone.
He hasn't spoken to his mother in nine years.
She doesn't know why.
There was no fight, no argument. He simply ceased talking to her.
Why are we so cruel?

WEEP FOR ME, ARGENTINA

TO URUGUAY: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17

The ferry company, Buquebus, runs fast boats and slow boats across the River Plate to Uruguay. I choose the slow boat to Colonia. The fare for myself and the Baby Honda is US$48. The passage takes three hours. The fast boat crosses in an hour and costs twice as much. New and gleaming apartment buildings dominate the Buenos Aires water front. Most developers and apartment owners are foreign. Few Argentines can afford the prices. Of those that can, few would risk their savings within Argentina. Mortgages? In Pesos? Don't be silly. The President has announced a ceiling on bank rates. The ceiling is 10% below the true rate of inflation. Banks aren't lending. Argentines hold their breath and close their ears and close their eyes and wait for the next crash.

Weep for me, Argentina.

I prefer to weep for Argentines.

THE ANGEL MARIA

BUENOS AIRES: TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16
The section head at the Customs Office is Maria de Angeles. Is it impolite or sexist to remark that she is woman of good looks? Note that I dare not write beautiful. Helpful is permissible as is considerate and sympathetic. She checks my bike papers, searches records for the statement I wrote for the Customs in Rio Grande, places in front of me a dossier that I must sign in three different directions, allows me to kiss her hand (twice) and wishes me well on my travels. I am free to leave Argentina.

TWO-LEGGED HEREFORDS

BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 15
I will be back in England in March. I have a date to talk with the Over 50s Club at the Baptist Church in Hereford. I often boast to Argentines that I live in the Province from which come their cows. I add that our Hereford beef is better than their Hereford beef. And I stop sometimes at the roadside and chat with a young fellow, ask if he knows whether his great great grandfather came from Hereford or Ledbury. The young won't give an old man much time for fear of what their friends will say. However, sometimes I believe that I see a slight grin.
Perhaps some of the Over 50s Club will read this diary and keep me company on my travels. Two-legged Herfords must have more to say than the four-legged variety.

DUMB OLD TOAD

BUENOS AIRES: MONDAY, OCTOBER 15
OK, so I should have looked. I didn't. My entry stamp for Argentina gave me ninety days. I presumed the temporary import permit for the bike would be identical. Not so. Thirty days. I was up at dawn, showered, packed, loaded the bike and said my farewells to the staff at my home from home here in Buenos Aires. the GRAN Hotel Espana. I rode confidently down to the ferry port. I cleared immigration and waited to board the ferry astride my massive steed. A Customs officer inspected my documents and discovered that my bike had overstayed its permitted period by eight days. I ride back to the GRAN Hotel Espana. Drag my gear up into my old room. Call my cousins in Uruguay that I will be a couple of days late for dinner. Today is a national holiday. Tomorrow I apply for the extension. The lady in charge of the Department is Maria de Angeles. Hopefully she will be angelic.