The Buggeration Factor

There are stories that stick in one’s head years after their authors and their circumstances are mostly forgotten. Denis Thatcher, the husband of Margaret Thatcher the British prime minister, was known for being outspoken and not mincing his words in all sorts of undiplomatic ways. His obituary records a particularly notable occasion. 

The Independent newspaper reported this version of the story:
When, in Goa the electricity failed as he was trying to shave himself in a chalet, Denis emerged into the open, soap-suds still adorning his face, and
surprised fellow Commonwealth leaders in adjoining chalets by bellowing out: "The buggeration factor is high and growing in this part of the
world..."

The more likely version I heard many years ago had him dressing for dinner and adjusting his bow tie when the lights went out. He proceeded to the balcony of his villa (in the Aguada Hermitage) and boomed out in his stentorian voice for all to hear, "This place is just too high on the buggeration factor." 

I mention the irritation of the late Mr Thatcher because the buggeration factor in our lives has been getting a bit too high lately. Let me list the causes: the coolant leak is back, we have yet to start on the new battery installation and Layne has to have a skin cancer removed which will be painful and consume more of our travel time. We are making arrangements to return to Paraguay for the coolant leak, we have yet to get to Uruguay for the battery replacement and the squamous cell on Layne’s arm will likely be removed in the British Hospital here in Buenos Aires. Coordinating that lot would drive me mad but Layne has it in hand she says.

On top of all that Layne flies to Saõ (pronounced San) Paulo on Sunday to meet friends from Florida who want to do a wild jaguar tour in Brazil’s southern jungle called the Pantanal. Rusty and I will have ten glorious days and nights alone together. Be still my beating heart.

In the long run it will all get sorted out but the next few weeks will test my patience as we were planning to go south after Layne got back from the Pantanal. Luckily we have time and can spend as long as it takes to complete the tasks. So far our pensions keep getting paid so money is not a worry. Besides sitting still is cheaper than driving and we have several well equipped campgrounds in the area that charge less than fifteen bucks a night.

Here are a few pictures of the last 200 miles to the city. The finger painted red marks roughly show the places mentioned above. 

Argentine road quality continued to live down to its reputation: 

Endless miles of construction abandoned in mid job.  

The idea that the Falklands should be Argentine keeps popping up. Not sure why they would want to join this clown car of an economy. 

It would be a stretch to suggest that eight years ago this week were a happy time but my motorcycle accident gave Rusty an excuse to sit on me. 

That memory I like.