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Colonial beginnings…

28 Jan

Salta to Buenos Aires is 20 hours on a bus.  Usually dreaded, this time we enthusiastically bound up the stairs and sink into our leather seats (faux no doubt, but comfy so who cares), flipping the switch to swing out flat. Roaring along in the setting afternoon sun, I note the typically freezing air conditioner seems to be non-existent. About an hour after take-off we pull into a bus mechanic. Hmm, signs aren’t good, but we soon smile again when, after a bit of a tinker, we chug away. Dinner is lasagne, too bad for me, but I eagerly await the drinks tray arrival as my pre-trip planning told me el vino tinto is available. As he shows me the expanse of coke and lemonade, I turn back to Fidel’s autobiography (see birthday presents referenced in Mendoza post), cursing the fake promises made to lure tourists. Then, in a blink and you’ll miss it moment, I spot the bus attendant carrying a suspiciously un-fizzy dark liquid to a fellow passenger.

‘Tu tienes vino tinto..?’, I tentatively say.

‘Si, si’.

Success. Sniffed out faster than the banana dog at Perth airport.

And of course, Oliver Twist makes an appearance… ‘please sir, can I ‘ave sum more?’.

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