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The Expresso Sur to Villazon

The Expresso Sur to Villazon

How I longed to be able to board the train in La Paz and three days later arrive in Buenos Aires. Despite the delays Paul Theroux arrived in Argentina’s capital unscathed. I felt rather like I had undergone some sort of emotional and physical challenge and to add insult to injury I was robbed a second time on my first day in the city.

After a bumpy seven hour bus ride on my way out of Bolivia, on unsealed roads through some of the most desolate landscapes I had seen in my life, I thankfully boarded the Expresso Sur bound for the Argentinean border. Sadly the train was not a sleeper but it boasted reclining seats and blankets. I tucked myself in and fell fast asleep, the clickity clack of the train on the rails rocking me into a deep slumber. I awoke feeling refreshed and headed straight to the dinning car where I was served a good breakfast of coffee and eggs. The landscape had changed, it was greener yet still mountainous. It filled me with hope, the dry riverbeds and barren vistas of south Bolivia had started to depress me, I longed for a paved road, a clean bathroom and a tasty snack. The pretty cacti that speckled the ground had started to look more hydrated and it felt as though this lusher landscape was leading me to better things. This was sadly something of a delusion.

The border was the usual melee of queues and chaos. The gringos were being stamped out of Bolivia ahead of the natives and their wads of paper. The Argentinean side was not as speedy, I spent some while trying to work out why a gringo tourist was wearing rubber gloves and searching luggage, until I realised he was Argentinean, I was filled with a sense of relief… I was no longer going to stand out, I would blend in with the locals for the first time in months. This excitement was sadly somewhat premature, at the bus station in La Quiaca I stood out enough to have my bag swiped from the office of a bus operator. I had placed it on a table for no more than two minutes before it disappeared. The only people in the office had been myself and the bus company employees. Trying to contain my anger I attempted to bribe, beg and cry for the return of my bag but all to no avail: “It must have been the Peruvians, they are thief’s.” was the only answer I could wrestle out of the employees. This was one of several frustrations I was to suffer in Argentina, I think the look of the country had lulled me into a false sense of security, the city streets reminded me of an older Spain or Portugal and the chino wearing men and glossy women looked like they had stepped out of an eighties European fashion magazine. But despite a shiny exterior the inner workings of Argentina seemed to have a lot of catching up to do and according to the papers things were moving back not forwards.

From the border, minus my bag, luckily my passport had been in my pocket, I wearily took an eight-hour bus ride to the pretty town of Salta. Arriving late and with only a morning to spare I strolled around the main plaza, marvelling at its impressive pink cathedral and ate breakfast in a café, all the while feeling like I had been transported magically back to Europe.

I was soon reminded I was in South America when I tried to organise taking the train from Tucuman to Buenos Aries.
“The train is booked until March.”
“March…?” I spluttered back incredulously. “But I’ve only just arrived in Argentina and could not find a way to book the train online.”
“We are sorry the train is very popular in Argentina, but it only runs twice a week.”
Frustrated with both myself and the rail company I tried every trick in the book to get onto the train, I flashed my press pass, talked about The Times, my blog and all to no avail.
I left, resigned to yet another long bus ride. A mere 22 hours to Buenos Aires.
With a heavy heart I boarded the 12.30 Andesmar bus. We stopped to change buses half an hour our of the city and I marvelled at a man in the petrol station, he was eating a huge steak, it must have been the size of a chess board. No salad, no chips, no drink even. Just a huge steak. Well this was Argentina after all.

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