The journey from Patagonia to the Ibera Wetlands was precisely what you’d envisage: long, arduous, and entirely awesome. From a backpacking point of view, what more can you ask for? Efficiency and ease? Nothing of the sorts.
Watching human beings exist is a sublime and enduring pass-time. Alas, now and then, a silver lining of the more dazzling and surprising variety emerges from long waits in uninspiring airports and rather mucky bus stations. In this instance, it’s an incongruous ice cream parlour where a single scoop equates to nearly a kilogram of the good stuff.
Despite the obvious nutritional value of this find, by the time we get to Ituzaingó we are cream crackered. Haggard messes indeed. No time to rue; here’s Ana — our host for the next couple of days.
Ana. What do we know about Ana? She’s a pharmacist by trade, but has set up a tourism business with a couple of friends. They show people around the Ibera National Park, complete with wildlife insights, horse-back riding, and kayaking. Guests stay in her family ranch — in the northwestern section of the park — an extraordinary, rustic expanse with ample cobwebs, traditional tidbits and creaking woodwork. She’s maybe mid 40s. Well put together, but very evidently a woman of the outdoors. Absolute legend really, as was her ranch-hand — Aurelio. More on him in a bit. Here's a snap of the two of them working wonders on the big fuego.
Before having a chance to take a deep breath or wash our faces, we’re in the Jeep and off around the National Park. It’s absolutely roasting outside. The kind of heat and humidity that we’d perhaps been silly enough to forget about on the mostly temperate, sometimes shnippy shores of Patagonia. The kind of heat and humidity that should really be outlawed. But who’s representing Mother Earth in that legal hearing? Silly suggestion.
Ana tells us Capybara are “the world’s biggest rodents, apart from políticans”. Plenty to be said for that comment’s pertinence on a global scale, let alone the clusterfuck that is Argentinian politics. Rather soon after this negativity, rather like something from a dream, three rather giant red macaws swoop round the trees and into our vicinity. I’ve never seen birds so startlingly bright and beautiful.
Mind you, the Crested Caracara comes close for its aesthetics. Proper doozy of a bird to look at. I’m packing a camera phone entirely inadequate for capturing wildlife so I haven’t got a good photo of it but thankfully Google exists. Here's one look. Stunning.
It’s a stifling and fascinating National Park, as far as they go. Patches of dense, damp vegetation sit above the marshlands and the mud, which bubble and flicker with creatures from above and below the surface. Ya know, buzzing dragonflies jostling with the tadpoles and resilient little fish.
Have I really gotten this far without mentioning Mate? Pronounced mah-tay, this herby, highly-caffeinated drink is Argentina's softcore opiate. Everyone's got their own gourds and metal straws n all. It’s basically a big bunch of leaves and stalks and stuff from the yerba mate plant, infused and drunk all day every day and probably also all night. You can’t buy it in cafes, but if you’re meeting up with friends you’re sure as hell taking Mate with you.
I tried it a few times. It’s pretty good. Strikingly moreish.
On the ranch we drank Mate two ways. 1. Cold, with heaps of lemon and other tart, tropical fruits. 2. The classique, topped up with steaming hot water for each nourishing, bitter sip. It’s fitting to cover it in this entry, actually, because Mate’s rather remarkable popularity has its roots with the Guaraní people, an indigenous group that spans from southern Paraguay to the Misiones province in Argentina (which we’re just south of at this point), as well as into Brazil and Bolivia.
As we edge closer to the trifecta frontier, where this nation meets Paraguay and Brazil, the Guaraní language remains relatively commonplace. It’s Aurelio’s mother tongue, actually, so here’s how communication largely plays out:
We speak to Ana in broken Spanish or rudimentary English; she responds in Spanish far-too-fast or in decent, endearing English; Aurelio understands none of the latter but kindly chips in with Guaraní translations now and again. Just to stir the pot. Just to raise an eyebrow.
The two of them become like family and we’re only with them for two days. Pair of monumental legends.
Anywho. We ride the ranch horses through torrential rain and deep stretches of the wetland. Water gurgles and sloshes up to the steeds’ midriffs, way above our shoes. There's the sweetest little foal with us, bounding and sniffing and learning the route. You can just about make her out in the snap above.
We head to a nearby lake and kayak among the reeds, watching the sun fall towards the puffy clouds at the horizon line.
We name the young ranch cat Lily.
And, of course, we gather round the asado, continuing our linguistic song and dance until we’ve all got a pretty good gauge of one another’s lives.
So it goes. What a bloody wholesome time. What an advert for travel.
Aurelio sings us some songs in his native language. When he’s done, he goes nowhere near the salad, opting instead for plates stacked full of meat. Grease and fat and hearty carnivorousness. Meanwhile, Ana talks us through classic delicacies and the likes. Which brings me to another big discovery on this ranch: Chipá. Absolute scenes. This stuff becomes a staple of the back end of our trip, and I’m convinced there’s more magic to its construction than the documented milk, cheese, egg, and flour of yuca (or cassava). We’re going to try and make it at home. Where the hell does one get cassava flour off the M32?
Saying goodbye to the two of them was actually rather sad. Alas, we move, by bus, past hockey pitches and mudflat football en route to the true frontier — Puerto Iguazú. It seems both Posadas and Ituzaingó have weird river beaches, where murky choppy water meets rickety bars and colourful features designed to attract visitors. Not for us.
The lashing conditions continue and we roll into the border town in drenched, looming darkness. Later in the evening we find a spot to perch for a bite. The power goes out, prompting a collective groan from a nearby bar showing the football. We’re more worried about the apartment’s aircon being down forever. The air is thick and hot like chestwax honey. This town’s quite touristy, which is to be expected given it’s a base for a “new natural wonder of the world”.
I’ve completely lost track of all that by the way. ‘Wonders of the World’. I thought there were only seven initially, but it seems they’re constantly churning out new categories and lists. Soon, Slough Trading Estate will be in with a shot.
Not to discredit any of the genuinely wonderful things we’ve seen that have appeared on such a list at one time or another. They are more often than not entirely wonderful.
At the Falls, most of the time I’m just imagining each water molecule in the relative tranquility of upstream turning to its neighbour and saying ‘you heard the rumours about what’s coming yea?’
Because what’s coming is mental.
The scale and sheer power of nature on display around those walkways is extraordinary.
The heavy rains render the rushing river rather raucous. RRRRRRR. So the famed Devil’s Throat walkway is closed, but we spend half a day just ambling, stopping, and staring at these relentless, gushing cascades.
A lot of people visit the Brazilian side of the Falls too. We don’t. We’re not a lot of people. We’re just two people running out of time. I’d imagine it is just as breathtaking though. There’s your travel guide.
Can you Adam ‘n Eve it — we’re finally leaving Argentina.
This is seminal to be honest, but my sentimentality is held at bay by this big, bulky guy on the border crossing bus. Can’t focus on anything else. He’s wearing a lycra under armour top, super short snazzy swimmers, and long socks that each sport the word ‘fuck’. His trainers are Head branded. Does he know that he’s walking around a self-proclaimed Fuckhead? Does he know this? Is he owning it?
WE'RE IN BRASIL
Crossing the border was so easy. So so easy. Troublingly easy.
Like, high time for some smuggling kinda easy.
Within an hour of reaching Foz de Iguazu we’re already acutely aware that the Portuguese language is nothing like Spanish. It’s harsher, less lyrical; like the meeting of Latin roots and Slavic sh sounds.
We jump at the opportunity to eat rice and beans with fillets of fish as we wait wait wait for some more transportation. In hindsight I do wonder what kind of polymaths we’d be now if we’d spent every hour of waiting learning something new.
On our redeye 18-wheeler to the south coast, a rotund woman swaps seats 6 times and every 6 seconds coughs about 6 straight, phlegmy, hacking coughs. The bus smells like piss and it’s weirdly damp.
Florianopolis is quite cool though. This ‘island’ is the capital of Santa Catarina province on the south coast. We stay amid the laid back charm of Lagoa da Conceição, complete with its cafes, buffet eateries and coastal proximity. The whole shabang consists of green tropical masses, strips of homes and resorts, and the occasional bridge. Rinse, repeat, until you’re at the meeting of sand and sea and there’s froth at your feet etc.
It has 40 or so beaches, this area. We visit three. All things considered, the weather is a bit rogue and we’ve got a lovely loft to relax in, so we don’t burn ourselves out after a very busy few weeks.
Praia Mole is stunning and sunny at first. Vendors go about their business as we bask, taking breaks from basking to go swimming in the semi-raucous water, before the surfers but far enough to catch some waves with our bodies.
Praia Joaquina is windy and gloomy the next day. We read and walk and watch kite surfers. This fuels a conversation about extreme sports and how one even goes about starting and is it too late and are we vanilla and now what?
Righto. The buffets. They’re rife in this nation. You pay per kilo, and that’s dangerous because you’re never quite sure what total you’re totting up before plopping your plate on the scales. Brazil is markedly more expensive than Argentina, and than most of the countries we’ve visited, but we’re entering our final stretch and we can afford ourselves some luxuries. Some outstanding sushi here, some spectacular seafood there.
Another day we take a boat ride up the coast and sneak peeks at the lakeside mansions. Drizzle commences and stops and commences and stops. Visceral descriptive work, I’m sure you’ll agree. The little port up the way — Costa da Lagoa, perhaps? — is rife with restaurants, people splashing about in the water, and a sweet, short inland walk. Proper tropical vibes again, it’s like we’ve gone back five months and travelled the length of a continent. There is some sadness creeping into these observations, some reluctant recognition of time doing its merciless thing.
One evening we sip caipirinhas and go all in on fresh, juicy shrimp pastels. All the while a small band are turning out mighty fine samba and bossa nova, led by a semi-elderly, semi-Santa vocalist. A solid first stop in the biggest nation on the continent. We’re barely scratching the surface at this stage. We didn’t want to put ourselves through it. One could travel for 6 months solely in Brazil and not make a dent. What a spectacle.
Onwards, then. Overnight with a crumpled spine for the final time. These buses have been a haven and a horror. They’ve been fantastic and ferocious. They’ve been a microcosm of our trip, but it’s admittedly quite pleasant to not need them anymore. For now.
We’re headed to São Paulo.
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