A Country Gone Mad

It was like I’d laid a turd on the dining room table. An oppressive silence fell over the little cafe in the small town of Chos Malal, where I was having my supper. I swallowed the half chewed bite of my hamburger and put the rest down on the plate. The light-hearted mood of a moment earlier, had definitely turned ugly. For a few tense moments I wasn’t sure if the other patrons were going to turn on me.

I had meant to make a simple sociological statement – that soccer wasn’t a big deal in Canada, that it was a minor sport, played mostly by children. It had the same effect as if I had made some unpleasant inferences about their mothers. Such are the perils of talking about important subjects in a language for which you have no great facility. Or maybe it wasn’t a question of nuance – I was simply an apostate amongst the true believers. Lionel Messi was the Second Coming and the Argentinian team as a whole was the greatest assemblage of men since the Twelve Apostles. End of story.

I ate a couple of more bites of my burger and left with a mumbled apology.

Argentina was at a fever pitch over the World Cup when we arrived in Bariloche. When they won their semi-final, a day later, it became a sort of rapturous madness. The whole country was decorated in blue and white. The Argentine flag was everywhere – on cars, trucks and buses, hung from balconies, even adorning the ubiquitous roadside shrines. Men, women and children, even dogs proudly wore the blue and white striped jersey, with His number 10 on the back.

I left Bariloche a couple of days before Liz. It would take me 3 days to ride to Mendoza – 5 or 6 hours a day in the saddle, which with stops turns into about 8 hours – that’s a comfortable, relxed pace for me. Liz would make the trip by plane and we would rendezvous in Mendoza on Championship Sunday.

My route took me through a mostly arid landscape – desert plains, Andean foothills and river canyons. There is a surprising amount of water flowing across these dry lands, flowing all the way from the Andes to the Atlantic, more than a thousand kilometers away. The river valleys are green, supporting scattered farming communities and giving a source of water for the herds of sheep, goats and cattle that graze on the open range. And that makes for some exciting moments when you come around a corner, leaning hard, and find a Gaucho and/or his herd in the middle of the road.

Ruta 40 itself is bit of mixed bag – 4 lane thruway around the larger urban centers; 2 lanes with varying qualities of pavement, sprinkled with large potholes in parts; and some long (50+ km) sections of gravel. But I knew this ahead of time.

What I didn’t expect was to need snow tires! The dark cloud ahead of me on my second day told me I was in for some nasty weather. As I got closer the temperature dropped from 33°C to 14°C. Then the road turned white – a slushy mixture of ice pellets and small hail. Fortunately the bulk of the storm crossed in front of me, so I didn’t get pummeled too much.

The varying conditions kept me focused and made the riding more interesting. I like a challenge, even when it’s a bit uncomfortable – it sharpens the wits and hones your skills. I find comfortable and predictable boring after a while. Which I guess is why I am where I am, doing what I’m doing.

And all the way north the magnificent Andes loomed over my left shoulder – jagged snow capped peaks, perfect conical volcanoes, ancient ocean sediments bent, folded and thrust up into the sky.

I arrived in Mendoza mid-morning on Sunday. I knew the city would shut down once The Game began. Lucas, our AirBnB host in Mendoza, had arranged for me to store my motorcycle at his parents home, while Liz and I traveled in our rental car over the holidays. His parents greeted me warmly when I arrived at the house, like a long lost cousin. A game of soccer tennis (who knew there was such a thing?) was underway in the backyard and the asado was being prepared. They asked if I would stay for lunch and watch the game with them. The idea of me sitting in a hotel, alone on such a day was unthinkable. How could I refuse??

I joined the family and their friends in the living room. The table groaned under the load sausage, ribs and steak from the asado. It was the quintessential Argentinian experience – the food, the excitement, a once in a lifetime experience. The joyous highs when Argentina scored – exultant. The lows when France rallied – heartbreaking misery. And the final victory – ecstatic!!

And I had learned to keep my mouth shut about my opinion of soccer’s place in the sports hierarchy.

Claudio, Lucas’ father drove me to the hotel after the game and I got to watch an entire city pour into the streets in celebration. It reminded me of when Canada won hockey gold at the Vancouver Olympics, and instantly a ball hockey game erupted on every side street in Toronto.

Liz’s experience on her Aerolineas Argentinas flight from Bariloche to Mendoza was different, but no less exuberant. Her departure was scheduled for noon, the same time the game started here. I’m surprised the plane actually took off, and that there were pilots or anyone else onboard, given that the rest of the country pretty much came to a standstill. Liz told me the pilot played “Muchachos, Ahora Nos Volvimos” – Argentinas unofficial soccer anthem , over the PA just before take off, and then gave an abbreviated play by play during the flight, with information relayed from the air traffic controllers. There was mass singing and flight attendants dancing in the aisles. I’m just glad Argentina won and the pilot was emotionally stable.

Fortunately we had thought ahead and booked a car and driver to pick Liz up at the airport. As we thought, there wasn’t a taxi to be found. We rendezvoused at our little hotel. The staff was drunk and emotionally exhausted, but gracious and welcoming. I think a good portion of Mendoza was in the same state.

It was a good day to be in Argentina – one which we are unlikely to forget.

Here’s the link to the rest of the photos from this leg of our trip.