Blood in the Fertile Valley
La vida es bella but sanguine (5km)
Part of Chapter 6 Bipedal Therapy
Post #39, special edition incoming for #40
I can’t cycle today; I’m not ready to restart. Time does heal, but sometimes it heals quicker when mixed with space.
Embrace the rest, sink into small town rhythm and learn to reset. Italian style.
First act at the opera
I look down at the scrap of paper with a name scrawled in slanted letters.
“I’m looking for Liliana Gomez.”
It’s the fourth time I’ve asked locals at this far end of town.
“Yes, that’s me. What do you need?”
I sit at her workshop as she leans over a sewing machine. We talk quietly about life and the seasons and the beauty of long journeys.
She slowly traces the pre-agreed lines, running blue fabric over the needle plate. She puts an end to the goose feathers that have been fluttering around my tent in the night.
An Einstein bobble head gazes on in mathematical reverie and a 3D picture of a hawk stretches out it’s talons, eager to rip my canvas once more.
Liliana is quiet, calm and firmly opposed to receiving payment for her fine work. She hands me back my sleeping bag with a kind smile.
“I just hope you can do the same for someone else at some point.”
El contexto histórico
We’re in Villa San Agustín, a dusty, slumbrous town of 4,000 inhabitants on the edge of the Fertile Valley, some 250km from the region’s capital, San Juan. There are desert plains to one side and 73 named mountains to the other, the tallest stretching over 3,000m. For once, these are not the Andes, just some titchy second cousins.
It’s sorrentinos for lunch, one of several common dishes that illustrate the country’s culinary links with Italy. Rome is 7,000 miles from Argentina, but its influence here is plain for anyone to see. From the second half of the 19th Century, Italians surged across the Atlantic in search of economic opportunity or in flight from devastating European wars.1
Over 2 million souls made the viaje between 1870 and 1960 and their impact was so profund that today some 55% of Argentinians can claim Italian heritage (that’s 25 of 45 million people).2 For comparison, in a 2021 census, 33% of Australians claimed to have some form of English heritage.3 I can’t say this is an essential fact, but I like it, so I hope you like it.
There is evidence of Italia in the culture and traditions of the people, the cadence of the language, and, of course, the ubiquitous pasta, pizza and ice cream.
The latter is Jake’s cryptonite, just check out that beaming face.
El más bello
Whilst alfresco dining we’re joined by a fella who’s dashing looks and carefree smile will lead him to colonise the name of our WhatsApp group.
Stupid Baby Olaf (christened by Nicole) was the silky, velvet-soft ambassador of San Agustín, yawning into greeting duties with all the ease of a well-loved uncle.
Tell me those aren’t the finest jowls you’ve ever seen.
I. Dare. You.
Once we’d distanced ourselves from the polished pooch (and convinced Nicole that dogknapping is still technically abduction), we set out in search of a safe place to camp.
In Chile, we ‘stealth-camped’4 to keep costs down. In Argentina, we pay £1.80 for showers, electricity, and a campsite that is both gated and guarded. Tonight we decide to put our stealthiness on hold and cough up a few thousand pesos.
The maestro
The occasional car purrs past on an otherwise lethargic street. There is an out of season air to the vacant cafe tables and shuttered storefronts. We were lucky to gain entry to this darkened restaurant. The owner at first seemed reluctant to welcome customers in from the afternoon heat.
After a moment’s consideration, he gestured towards a table, took our order, and went out to buy the ingredients. But not before closing the door behind him and warning us not to let anyone else in,
With a winking smile, “Only friends eat here today.”
Cute.
It’s cannellonis this afternoon, rolled into long thin pancakes, stuffed with cheese, tomato and mushrooms, and dashed with herbs, spices and a tongue-tingling relish.
After the appetising food had been served, he told tales of a son who’d gone to Italy a decade ago and never returned. Soon, Dad’s opportunity would come. A flight to Europe had been booked. At last he’d meet his son’s young family and rebuild that distant relationship he treasured so much.
The hand crafted food, cold beer and warming story made a sleepy afternoon feel positively Mediterranean. Bike trip postponed for today.
A fitting finale
The night however, got a bit too Tarantino for my liking.
At camp dinner over mushy pasta, the familiar wine bottles pre-purchased, a problem arose. No corkscrew.
With shops now closed I try the butchers across the road. He’s all too glad to help despite his lack of appropriate tools. He shoves a knife deep into the cork and begins to twist. It won’t budge. A friend drops by to watch, he grips and grapples to no avail.
The pig carcass trails from the ceiling, present but not helping.
“No hay problema, I can go and find someone else”, I said.
*Holds up a hand* “Esta bien, we’re going to get it out soon.”
To the friend:
“Go to the house with the white door 4 down on the left and see if they have one.”
He turns back to the bottle, determined to vanquish the plucky cork. Still pushing and probing, muscles straining. A line of sweat shines his upper lip. The knife looks slightly awkward…
POP!
An explosive release. Blood and wine spurt across the counter. He drops the knife and grabs his fingers. A chunk of skin parts ways with his hand.
¡Ándate a la mierda!5
“¡A suu! Estás bien?”
Unconvincingly, “Sí, bien, bien, tranquilo.”
A grimace. He runs cold water with his good hand and holds the other beneath it.
“The least I can do is offer you some wine mate?”
“No, no, it’s no problem. Enjoy it tonight.”
The friend returns to a grisly scene, spots the varying shades of red across the surface and laughs at his mate.
“¿Pero que hiciste boludo?”6
I take the blood stained bottle back to our campsite, where I realise I’d left the second, unopened vino on our picnic bench.
That’s a shame. There will be no return to the butcher’s tonight. This town has seen enough bloodshed.
The story so far
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 |
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Shellshock
Part of Chapter 6 Bipedal Therapy Chucuma to Villa San Augustín (GPX 57km) if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. Charles Bukowski
What is the connection between Italy and Argentina? (Puerto La Boca) https://www.puertolaboca.com/blog/connection-between-italy-and-argentina
Historias de inmigrantes italianos en Argentina (Argentina Investiga) https://argentinainvestiga.edu.ar/noticia.php?titulo=historias_de_inmigrantes_italianos_en_argentina&id=1432#.U2cKkYHa70s
The art of camping without being detected by the land owner
“Oh fuck off!”
“What did you do you idiot?”
Memories of the Banshees of Inisherin… agh those fingers xx