Frogger

We’re charging down the wrong lane of an undivided highway at about 70mph, in hopes of passing the stream of trucks steadily inching their way northward. As we zip past fields of corn and soy and central Argentina’s Sierra mountains, I try not to think about the fact that car accidents are the leading cause of death in this country. I also try not to think about the fact that the oncoming truck in its rightful lane is bearing down upon us with several tons of cargo. Not to worry. We make it back to our lane in plenty of time, and four cars behind us do the same. We continue on for a minute until we reach the next truck, and the cycle begins again.

It’s a perpetual game of dare here on Ruta 9, the main route connecting Argentina’s northern agricultural provinces to the ports of Rosario and Buenos Aires. Despite its importance as a transit corridor, particularly during the harvest season, the road has only two lanes—one ostensibly for each direction. Cars compete with trucks that clog the route both day and night, and it’s a continual traffic battle to go anywhere. Not surprisingly, accidents are common. We pass the burned hull of a truck that caught fire last week and lies abandoned and overturned by the side of the road. We see several dead dogs. Another friend saw a pedestrian get run over (and killed) the other day. The truck ahead of us swerves to pass one of the intrepid cyclists on the route, which reminds me that this morning I read in the paper of another cyclist killed by traffic on this road. Death is all around us, it seems, and not only in the crisp, brown leaves of the crops awaiting harvest.

I’m back in Argentina for a week’s visit to friends in Córdoba. Due to a fare sale on a new regional airline, the total round-trip cost for the 3½-hour flight from Punta Arenas to Santiago and 15-hour busride over the Andes to central Argentina came to $150, which is pretty unbelievable for the amount of distance involved (roughly equivalent of crossing the U.S.). The plane fare to Santiago alone normally runs about $200, and airfare to Córdoba an additional $300+. Plus, I had heard that the bus ride across the Andes was spectacular, winding around abandoned mining towns, rusty railroad tracks, and Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the Americas. With Nelson still finishing up work in Puerto Williams, it seemed like a good time to go.

Arriving in Argentina was like returning to the late days of summer, with longer days of low, gentle sun. The change in vegetation was striking. The vineyards in Mendoza, the region responsible for 70% of Argentina’s wine production, reminded me a lot of California. Everything seemed lush and leafy in contrast to the stark southern Patagonian landscapes I’ve grown accustomed to. I had almost forgotten that trees don’t grow sideways (an effect of the wind down in Punta Arenas).

Here in Córdoba, the rolling mountains overlook miles of soy, corn, wheat, and alfalfa fields. Signs and billboards along the highway advertise SuperSoja (SuperSoy) and Seeds of Quality, leading me to believe that many of the crops are genetically-modified. These days, the agricultural sector in Argentina is booming, with heavy investment from abroad and the presence of transnational companies such as Dow and Monsanto. Crops such as soy command prices in dollars in the international marketplace, which make them particularly valuable to a national economy in steady recovery from the economic crisis of 2001. With each soy truck transporting approximately $5,000 of cargo, highway robbery is not uncommon, and trucks aim to cover most of their miles between 6am and 10pm, when security radar systems track their progress. As an additional protective measure, many of the international companies have armed cars escorting their cargo.

The week passes quickly. It’s always nice to spend time and share meals with old friends. And Argentine food with its homemade pastas, breads, and cheeses is a delight to the vegetarian palate. We spend most of the week driving around the province’s rural interior, passing beautifully-preserved Jesuit missions from the early 1700’s that remind me of the California missions. We also spend a few days in villages that look like they could be straight out of Austria or Germany, with wooden Alpine architecture, artisanal chocolate shops, bakeries specializing in torta selva negra (black forest cake), and gift shops that sell beer steins emblazoned with European crests and shields.

One of the towns was established by Germans in the late 1930’s, and its period of greatest population growth came during the immediate postwar period. It is presumed by many Argentines that towns such as this harbored escaped Nazis at one point, if not for longer. Given their isolation—tucked way up in the mountains at the end of dead-end dirt roads—it’s quite credible. It’s an eerie omission from the tourist brochures, though.

On my busride back to Chile, the porters—who recognize me from last week’s trip—reward me with a bottle of Mendoza wine for being a viajera frecuente, or frequent traveler. It’s an apt reward, although I’m pretty sure they have no idea just how right they are.