THE 'LAGOS DEL SUR' (LAKES OF THE SOUTH) EXPRESS

THE 'LAGOS DEL SUR' (LAKES OF THE SOUTH) EXPRESS

Patagonia was also the way home. I had cancelled several train reservations in order to spend more time with Borges, but now I stopped procrastinating and made firm plans to head south. I had a few days in hand before I could leave Buenos Aires but, excluded from the Argentine intimacy of the long Easter holiday, I roamed the city on my own. It now depressed me. Some of the gloom the natives had temporarily dispelled entered my own soul and dampened it. It was partly the effect of La Boca, the Italian district near the harbour; there were boys swimming in the oily, evil-smelling harbour, and I saw more fakery than charm in the Sicilian-style houses and restaurants; some of the squalor was affectation, the rest was real dirt. I went to the Chacarita Cemetery - everyone seemed to be doing that. I found Peron's tomb and saw women kissing his bronze creepy face and twining carnations around the handle on the mausoleum door ('Fanatics!' said a man standing nearby. 'It is like football,' whispered his wife). One night, driving towards a suburb with Rolando, we were overtaken by a policeman on a motorcycle, who waved us to the roadside. Rolando did the talking. The policeman said that we had gone through a red light. Rolando insisted the light had been green. At last, the policeman agreed: the light had been green. 'But it is your word against mine,' said the policeman, in a voice coyly extortionate. 'Do you want to be here all night, or do you want to settle this now?' Rolando gave him about seven dollars' worth of pesos. The policeman saluted and wished us a happy Easter. 'I'm leaving,' I told Rolando. 'You don't like Buenos Aires?' 'No, I like it,' I said. 'But I want to leave before I have to change my mind.' It took an hour for the Lakes of the South Express to disentangle itself from the city. We had left at five, on a sunny afternoon, but when we began speeding across the pampas, a cool immense pasture, it was growing dark. Then the afterglow of sunset was gone, and in the half-dark the grass was grey, the trees black; some cattle were as reposeful as boulders and in one field five white cows were as luminous as laundry. This was the General Roca Railway. It had recently been bombed, but such a line was easy to bomb. It ran through the provinces of La Pampa and Rio Negro, through empty grassland and desert and across the Great Plateau of Patagonia. It took very little skill to blow up trains in these scarcely inhabited places. Anyone could be a terrorist here. But the sleeping car attendant said that I would have nothing to worry about. For some reason, the terrorists preferred freight trains - perhaps there was more damage to be done on freight trains; but this was entirely a passenger train. 'Relax,' he said. 'Enjoy yourself. Let us do the worrying. It is our job to worry.' The sleeping car was an unusual shape. It was old, and wooden, and the wood panelling of the interior was dark polished mahogany. It was very long, and in the middle there was a lobby, a sort of sitting room, with upholstered chairs and card tables. There were doors here, too; this was where the passengers - most of them elderly - congregated and talked about how cold it was in Patagonia. I had been given a First-Class ticket. I kept to my compartment, wrote about Buenos Aires and Borges and regretted that I had not asked him in my Boswell role, 'Why is a fox's tail bushy, Sir?' At dinner that first evening - wine, two salads, the statutory steak -a fellow in an army uniform was seated at my table. It was purely for the waiter's convenience - there were only six of us eating in the dining car, but we were gathered together to save the waiter running the length of the car to serve us. The soldier was young. I asked him where he was going. 'Comodoro Rivadavia,' he said. 'It is an ugly place.' 'So you're going to Patagonia, too:' 'I don't have any choice,' he said, tugging at his uniform. 'I'm in the service.' 'You have to do it?' 'Everyone does- for a year.' 'It could be worse,' I said. 'You don't have a war.'

'Not a war, but a problem - with Chile, over the Beagle Channel. It had to be this year! This is an ugly year to be in the service. I might have to fight.' 'I see. You don't want to fight the Chileans?' 'I don't want to fight anyone. I want to be in Buenos Aires. What did you think of it? Beautiful, eh? Pretty girls, eh?' 'What sort of an army does Chile have?' 'No good - not very big. But the Chilean navy is huge. They've got ships, boats, cannons, everything. I'm not worried about the army -it's the navy that scares me. Where are you going?' 'Esquel,' I said. He snorted.'Why there?' The train goes there.' 'The train goes to Bariloche, too. That's where you should go. Mountains, lakes, snow, pretty houses. It's like Switzerland or Austria.' 'I've been to Switzerland and Austria.' 'The snow is fantastic.' 'I came to South America to get away from snow. It was ten feet deep where I come from.' 'What I'm saying is that Esquel is only a little bit pretty, but Bariloche is fantastic.' 'Maybe I'll take your advice and go to Bariloche after Esquel.' 'Forget Esquel. Forget Patagonia. They're ugly. I'm telling you, Buenos Aires is the place to be.' So even here, within striking distance of the little town I had circled on my map in Boston, they were trying to discourage me.

Hearing frog-croaks that night, I peered out of the window and saw fireflies. I slept badly - the wine gave me insomnia (was this the reason the Argentines always diluted it by mixing it with water?) - but, wakeful, I was comforted by a great orange disc of moon. Towards dawn I began to drowse; I slept through Bahia Bianca, a city I had wanted to see, and did not wake until we started to cross the Rio Colorado. Some people take this to be the frontier of Patagonia, and indeed there was nothing to be seen after we reached the far bank. Nothingness, I had been told, was the prevailing feature of Patagonia. But grassland intervened, and with it, cattle grazing under an empty sky. For the next few hours, this was all: grass, cattle, sky. And it was chilly. The towns were small, no more than clusters of flat-roofed farm buildings which quickly diminished to specks as the train moved on. Just after eleven that morning we came to the town of Carmen de Patagones, on the north bank of the Rio Negro. At the other end of the bridge was Viedma. This river I took to be the true dividing line between the fertile part of Argentina and the dusty Patagonian plateau. Hudson begins his book on Patagonia with a description of this river valley, and the inaccuracy of its name was consistent with all the misnamed landscape features I had seen since Mexico. 'The river was certainly miscalled Cusar-leofu, or Black River, by the aborigines,' says Hudson, 'unless the epithet referred only to its swiftness and dangerous character; for it is not black at all in appearance . . . The water, which flows from the Andes across a continent of stone and gravel, is wonderfully pure, in colour a clear sea-green.' We remained on the north bank, at a station on the bluff. A lady in a shed was selling stacks of bright red apples, five at a time. She looked like the sort of brisk enterprising woman you see on a fall day in a country town in Vermont -her hair in a bun, rosy cheeks, a brown sweater and heavy skirt. I bought some apples and asked if they were Patagonian. Yes, she said, they were grown right here. And then, 'Isn't it a beautiful day!' It was sunny, with a stiff breeze riffling the Lombardy poplars. We were delayed for about an hour, but I didn't mind. In fact, the longer we were delayed the better, since I was scheduled to get off the train at Jacobacci at the inconvenient hour of one-thirty in the morning. The connecting train to Esquel was not leaving until six a.m., so it hardly mattered what time I got to Jacobacci. With 'the aid of a bright sun', said Charles Darwin, who had come to Carmen on theBeagle, the view was 'almost picturesque'. But he had found the town squalid. 'These Spanish colonies do not, like our British ones, carry within themselves the elements of growth.'

We crossed the river; it was only a few hundred yards wide, but the experience, even after so many repetitions in South America, was startling to me: on the far bank we entered a different land. The soil was sand and gravel, there was no shade, the land was brown. Over in Carmen de Patagones there were cattle grazing and poplars grew and the grass was green. But there was no grass beyond Viedma. There was scrub and dust, and at once a pair of dust-devils rose up and staggered towards the horizon.

I was in the dining car, eating my lunch. A plastics salesman, on his way to the Welsh settlement at Trelew, chucked his hand disgustedly at the window and said, There is just more and more and more of this, all the way to Jacobacci.' You might at first mistake it for a fertile place. At the horizon there is a stripe of rich unbroken green, with the bumps of bushes showing. In the middle distance it is greeny yellow, paling to a bumpier zone with patches of brown. Up close, in the foreground, you see the deception: these sparse, small-leaved thorn bushes create the illusion of green, and it is these dry brittle things that cover the plain. The thorn bushes are rooted in dust, and the other bushes are lichen-coloured and nearly fungoid in appearance. There are not even weeds on the ground, only these bushes, and they might well be dead. The birds are too high to identify. There are no insects at all. There is no smell. And this was only the beginning of Patagonia. We were as yet still travelling along the coast, around the Gulf of San Matías. One would hardly have known the sea to be so near, although in the middle of the afternoon what first appeared to be a lake came into view, grew fuller and bluer and proved to be the Atlantic Ocean. The land continuedscrubby, the old salt water tides had made the soil more desolate by poisoning it. We passed villages; they were named as towns on the map, but in reality no name would do. What were they? Six flat weatherbeaten buildings, of which three were latrines; four widely spaced trees, a lame dog, a few chickens, and the wind blowing so hard a pair of ladies' bloomers were flapping horizontal from a clothesline. And sometimes, in the middle of the desert, there were solitary houses, made out of mud blocks or dusty bricks. These were a riddle; they had the starkness of cartoons. The picket fence of branches and sticks- what were they enclosing? what were they shutting out? - was no aid to fathoming the purpose of such huts. We came to San Antonio Oeste, a small town on the blue waters of the Gulf of San Matias, with the look of an oasis. About forty people got off the train here, since they could catch buses at the local depot to the towns farther down the coast of Patagonia, Comodoro and Puerto Madryn. Seeing that we were stalled, I got off and hiked up and down in the wind. The waiter leaned out of the window of the dining car. 'Where are you going?' 'Esquel.' 'No!' 'Via Jacobacci.' 'No! That train is only this big!' He measured a small distance with his fingers. In the United States and Mexico I had avoided telling people where I was going: I had not thought their credulity could take it. Then, in South America, I had mentioned Patagonia: the news was received politely. But here, the closer I got to Esquel, the more distant it was made to seem, and now it could have been farther away than ever. I got the message: no one ended a journey in such a place; Esquel was where journeys began. But I had known all along that I had no intention of writing about being in a place - that took the skill of a miniaturist. I was more interested in the going and the getting there, in the poetry of departures. And I had got here by boarding a subway train filled with Boston commuters, who had left me and the train and had gone to work. I had stayed on and now I was in San Antonio Oeste in the Pata-gonian province of Rio Negro. The travel had been a satisfaction; being in this station was a bore. We continued south-west, making for the province of Chubut. The landscape was no longer green, even in that illusory way. It was halftones of brown and grey and the low ugly thorn bushes were sparser, with fewer leaves. There were small suffer plants beneath them, as hard and fan-like as coral. The soil was not pulverized enough to make mud-blocks. At great intervals there were houses, but these were made I was in the dining car, eating my lunch. A plastics salesman, on his way to the Welsh settlement at Trelew, chucked his hand disgustedly at the window and said, There is just more and more and more of this, all the way to Jacobacci.' You might at first mistake it for a fertile place. At the horizon there is a stripe of rich unbroken green, with the bumps of bushes showing. In the middle distance it is greeny yellow, paling to a bumpier zone with patches of brown. Up close, in the foreground, you see the deception: these sparse, small-leaved thorn bushes create the illusion of green, and it is these dry brittle things that cover the plain. The thorn bushes are rooted in dust, and the other bushes are lichen-coloured and nearly fungoid in appearance. There are not even weeds on the ground, only these bushes, and they might well be dead. The birds are too high to identify. There are no insects at all. There is no smell. And this was only the beginning of Patagonia. We were as yet still travelling along the coast, around the Gulf of San Matías. One would hardly have known the sea to be so near, although in the middle of the afternoon what first appeared to be a lake came into view, grew fuller and bluer and proved to be the Atlantic Ocean. The land continuedscrubby, the old salt water tides had made the soil more desolate by poisoning it. We passed villages; they were named as towns on the map, but in reality no name would do. What were they? Six flat weatherbeaten buildings, of which three were latrines; four widely spaced trees, a lame dog, a few chickens, and the wind blowing so hard a pair of ladies' bloomers were flapping horizontal from a clothesline. And sometimes, in the middle of the desert, there were solitary houses, made out of mud blocks or dusty bricks. These were a riddle; they had the starkness of cartoons. The picket fence of branches and sticks- what were they enclosing? what were they shutting out? - was no aid to fathoming the purpose of such huts. We came to San Antonio Oeste, a small town on the blue waters of the Gulf of San Matias, with the look of an oasis. About forty people got off the train here, since they could catch buses at the local depot to the towns farther down the coast of Patagonia, Comodoro and Puerto Madryn. Seeing that we were stalled, I got off and hiked up and down in the wind. The waiter leaned out of the window of the dining car. 'Where are you going?' 'Esquel.' 'No!' 'Via Jacobacci.' 'No! That train is only this big!' He measured a small distance with his fingers. In the United States and Mexico I had avoided telling people where I was going: I had not thought their credulity could take it. Then, in South America, I had mentioned Patagonia: the news was received politely. But here, the closer I got to Esquel, the more distant it was made to seem, and now it could have been farther away than ever. I got the message: no one ended a journey in such a place; Esquel was where journeys began. But I had known all along that I had no intention of writing about being in a place - that took the skill of a miniaturist. I was more interested in the going and the getting there, in the poetry of departures. And I had got here by boarding a subway train filled with Boston commuters, who had left me and the train and had gone to work. I had stayed on and now I was in San Antonio Oeste in the Pata-gonian province of Rio Negro. The travel had been a satisfaction; being in this station was a bore. We continued south-west, making for the province of Chubut. The landscape was no longer green, even in that illusory way. It was halftones of brown and grey and the low ugly thorn bushes were sparser, with fewer leaves. There were small suffer plants beneath them, as hard and fan-like as coral. The soil was not pulverized enough to make mud-blocks. At great intervals there were houses, but these were made

I had been getting out of the train at each stop, simply so that I could draw a breath. But as the day wore on it grew chillier, and now it was almost cold. The passengers remarked on the cold; they were used to the heavy air of Buenos Aires. They remained wrapped up in the dusty lobby, some with handkerchiefs over their mouths, making small-talk. 'How is the weather in Bariloche?' 'Rainy - very rainy.' 'Oh, sir, you are not telling the truth ! You are being very cruel !' 'All right, the weather is lovely.' 'I know it is. Bariloche is so pretty. And we'll be there Tuesday morning!' They had cameras. I almost laughed out loud at the thought of anyone bringing a camera here with the intention of taking snapshots of the sights. The very idea! You see an unusual feature of the landscape and you realize it is a mud puddle, given ribs by a breeze. The sun near seven was bright and low, and for a few minutes the foul stunted thorn bushes were beautifully lit and cast long shadows across the desert. There were scoops and eruptions far off, and the landscape became familiar. It was the brown eroded landscape you see in the illustrations on the back pages of a school Bible. 'Palestine,' says the caption, or 'The Holy Land', and you look: dust, withered bushes, blue sky, kitty litter. At dinner that night I was joined by a young couple who had recently been to Brazil. They hailed from Buenos Aires, and I guessed they were on their honeymoon. It was sunset, the sky bright blue, bright yellow, the landscape black; and we had just arrived at the windblown station of Ministero Ramos Mexia. It was not on the map. The woman was talking: they ate hearty breakfasts in Brazil; there were a lot of black people there; everything was expensive. And outside the window, on the platform of Ministero, boys were selling walnuts and grapes. Then the sun was gone. It was immediately cold and very dark, and the people near the train walked to the overbright lights which were hung on the station posts. They moved out of the darkness and settled near the light like moths. Our dusty dining car seemed luxurious in comparison with this remote station. The young couple - a moment before they had been talking about the poverty in Brazil - became self-conscious. Outside, a boy sang, 'Grapes! Grapes! Grapes!' He hoisted his basket to the window. 'They are so poor here,' said the lady. The waiter had just served us with steaks, but none of us had begun to eat. 'They are forgotten,' said her husband.

The people on the station platform were laughing and pointing. For a moment, I thought we might be cheated out of our guilt - the people in Ministero seemed fairly jolly. The train moved on, and then we attacked our steaks. When this couple left and went back to their compartment, the conductor asked if he could sit down. 'By all means,' I said, and poured him a glass of wine. 'I have been meaning to ask you,' he said. 'Where did you get your free pass?'

I said, 'From a certain general.' He did not pursue the subject. 'Argentina's expensive, eh? Guess how much I earn.'