Che-Sera, Sera...

After two sleeps on the first day, and a lomito (steakburger) and Malbec that night, I was still a little confused about how many days I was staying here for. Perhaps it is the constant getting on and off buses that had started to make me weary, but I was delighted to be informed by someone else that I have only been here for a day, and still have two days to explore further afield.

Having chatted with an English guy Jamie about the sights and sounds of Córdoba – he was quite the veteran of the town with 10 days already under his belt, though God only knows how he did it – I decided to join him on a collectivo (mini-bus) for an hour trip out to Alta Gracia, to visit the house, town and museum that made up Che Guevara’s childhood.

Despite being born in Rosario, and moving to Buenos Aires as a baby, Che and his family eventually settled in this northern town to escape his chronic asthma woes. But before getting there, I first have to overcome some woes of my own, when I realise that the Easter holiday week has left almost all the tickets out of here sold. It is a mini ticket-fiasco with the first three companies shooing me away with no seats, and the next trying to sell me a semi-cama ride (only semi-reclined, and totally squished) for the 12 hours, at a ridiculous price. I politely decline.

Finally though, at the ‘Penguin’ desk, I stumble across the last ticket on early departure for the next day – with a basic cama chair to sit in. I snap it up eagerly and we make our way to the local bus station to go to Che’s house. But it seems ticket issues are the theme for the day, and unlike the other bus station, they seem to just keep printing tickets indefinitely for our destination. Thus the line to get on each passing time-marked bus doesn’t seem to work or get smaller. God only knows how people deal with this daily.

Eventually we travel back past the red brick student apartment blocks of Nuevo Cordóba and out into the flat fields of corn towards Alta Gracia. But again, Lady Luck is not on my side, and when we arrive with the impending rain, a sign sits on the white picket fence saying “Cerrado: Abuelo”. Apparently someone quite significant in the town has died, and everything is shut for business. With not much choice, I clamour at the door of the café/restaurant next door, in the hope that someone will have pity on our grumbling tummies.

Soon the owner appears, and doesn’t need much convincing to feed us, despite the embargo, but I still don’t manage to find out who the important person is that has spoilt our trip. Instead we enter into the shrine that she and her husband – Héctor Celano - have created to commemorate his poetry and musical career, complete with trips to Cuba to meet influential leaders and friends of Che and Fidel Castro. It’s a loose connection, but I decide that it can perhaps be strengthened by a review of “The Motorcycle Diaries” and the more recent “Che” (part one) with Benicio del Toro. I know am clutching, but at least I can see his original grave sight in central Bolivia.