Not So Happy Jam, er, Jan

Setting off for Buenos Aires, I decided to treat myself to the most expensive overnight bus ticket – complete with all meals, wine and champagne – but unfortunately my cosy voyage south in the “Cama Executivo” got off to a rather bumpy start. Having arrived half an hour before the bus was due to leave, I was told twice by the ticket guy to wait for the next one, and that I was too early. In the meantime, my actual bus had been and gone, and I had to spend the next half an hour fighting to get onto another one without paying again. Grrr.

Once on, we travelled along quickly, only being stopped by the Gendarmerie (police) who check all our passports and sniff around in some of our bags. Luckily the bus was almost empty, with only six passengers, so the process is relatively painless – a little exchange of names, and a quick twist and turn to make sure our documents aren‘t forged, and back on our way. But it’s a jumpy ride, despite our fully reclined bed-seats, and the alcohol service isn’t too forthcoming. Apparently I have drunk the full stock of two white wines, and with no water either, I am left getting thirstier by the minute with Sprite.

Having expected more of an airline experience, I started getting hungry pretty soon too, and prayed that dinner wouldn’t be at the usual time of 9 or 10pm. It does arrive at a semi-reasonable time – fresh from a truck-stop on the way – in the form of some roast beef, salad and rice. No surprises there Argentina.

The next day, I wake up early, with the light streaming hotly through the mustard concertina blinds and I am greeted by a view that looks a lot like home: almost complete flatness, covered in wheat crops and cows. Of course there is a lot more green here, and more intermittent trees, so I think it is probably safer to say half-Australian, half-South African.

Breakfast soon arrives, with the most anorexic-looking croissants I have ever seen. Having already read the tales about Argentina priding themselves on their European mix, I had to wonder if someone was having a joke. The jam container was almost the same size, and I was completely perplexed by the appearance of a knife. I am sure the French, with their obsessive protectionism over their food, would have a fit if they ever saw them.