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.

Driving. More Driving.

Friday morning we left the municipal campground in Bella Vista. I fed the dogs one more time and off we drove. 

Argentinians are in perpetual economic crisis abandon their pets when they go camping and the dogs survive but they miss being in a family and it shows. I feed them but luckily for us Rusty wants no competition or we’d be overloaded with strays. And Rusty gets mad at me if I show them any affection. Nothing to be done so on we go to Buenos Aires. 

Layne discovered we were low on Argentine cash so we went to the magic office where you can get pesos from dollars you send to yourself. I’m not sure how it works but you can get dollars from your bank and pick up pesos at the Western Union except at this one we couldn’t  buy they did tell us where we could change dollar bills. We got three hundred thousand pesos for two hundred bucks (1500 to one for the mathematically impaired). It used to be Argentina only printed dollar bills (one thousand pesos in those days) I kid you not. The largest denomination was one dollar. Nowadays you can find 10,000 pesos ($6) and very rarely twenty thousand ($12) so that helps. We got a wad of these: 

ATMs for foreigners are horrendous. You pay ten bucks in fees to withdraw ten dollars worth of pesos which even I understand is a total ripoff. Argentina has a failing economy so if you have a crisp one hundred dollars worth bill Argentines will buy that off you eagerly. That or sending money to yourself by Western Union. This country is a pain some times.

A river of grass, parts of the Chaco: 

Gauchito Gil shrine as usual: 

One thing that has surprised us is the number of police checkpoints, without exaggeration we may drive through a dozen a day. Mostly they wave us through after looking in puzzlement at our front license plate, but not always. 

They sometimes stop us, confirm we’re driving a motorhome and usually ask where are we coming from (Paraguay) and where are we going (Buenos  Aires).  They ask that all over Latin America at checkpoints and I have no idea why that matters. Usually we then get waved through. 

Sometimes they extend the chat asking about Florida and one guy asked if we speak English at home (yes).  Another guy asked about living in the US. I said well there’s a war going on so I like being in peaceful South America. He liked that and waved me through. Once I got breathalyzer. At 4pm I passed with flying colors. 

It’s really no big deal passing through checkpoints. Mostly they seem to be checking trucks and a few locals in their cars and we get a few curious glances. It’s funny because these cops have a reputation among overlanders for being totally corrupt. So far we’ve met nothing but cheerful professionalism  so they are fine by us.

Northern Argentina is poor and looking at the houses tells the story. That and the numbers of street dogs. Plastic tarp houses:

These homes are set on slightly high ground surrounded by marsh. I can’t imagine water levels after a heavy rain, or the number of mosquitoes. 

A solid home with a personal shrine:

A lot of the road surface was pretty good but much of it also offered lumpy patches and potholes  such as to make GANNET2 lurch all the time. 

Rest stop for Rusty: 

This roadside eatery (“comedor”) offers grilled flat bread, fry bread, breaded steak (Milanesa) and worms presumably for bait, home baked bread honey and sauces. Smoke indicates grilled meat the ubiquitous Argentine asado. 

It turns out it’s faster by bike: 

Good pavement; 

Not so good: 

 
I wrote the other day how Argentina’s government has killed its inflation and budget deficit, basically by laying off thousands of government workers and stopping public works. Like this:

The highway turns into a construction zone but with no workers and no machines and after years of no improvement the road that was being upgraded is abandoned.

This was supposed to be a four lane freeway with the old road being two lanes in one direction and the new lanes alongside. The new lanes are there with bridges and signposts but they aren’t properly connected so only local traffic can use them. The government ordered an end to work and that’s that. What a waste. 

For us it’s a one time drive but for locals it must be frustrating  to see the new road abandoned half done.

I try to imagine what Americans might do if they were forced to live like this, current levels of decay multiplied by the way Argentina’s roads have decayed.  The good bits need to be enjoyed.  

We drove Friday until nearly 7pm pulling into the gas station we had chosen just at dark. We were all exhausted and Rusty ate a huge dinner and passed out in his bed. We did the same but took a little longer. 

I hope you enjoy your Sunday and we plan to by resting after this long drive. 

I found a large cold Brahms’s beer at the restaurant and convenience store a gloomy place at the edge of the gas station complex. 

We had hoped to eat out after a long day but e ended up with cold cuts at home listening to Rusty snore. 

I asked Google what YPF stands for as I can never remember. YPF stands for Yacimientos Petrolíferos Fiscales, which translates to "Fiscal Oilfields" in English.

That was our Friday night 300 miles from Buenos Aires. Good night.