Much to the chagrin of my Argentine friends, I decided I wanted to trek across the country by train. Probably influenced by the romanticism of steaming across the pampas, imagining gauchesque scenes and the times when the British built the railroads to plunder the River Plate provinces' riches, and partly because of Theroux's "The Old Patagonian Express," I was unmovable in my desire to undertake the trip.
The railway system in Argentina is much depleted since even the writing of Theroux's book back in the seventies. And at that stage it was a shadow of its former self, a triumvirate of metal veins spidering across the fertile farmlands and grand mountain ranges of the country, reaching far into Chile and Bolivia and beyond. The existence of three separate lines with varying systems may be part of the reason for the railway's demise. The construction of decent roads to carry cargo and the decline of investment in the rail infrastructure after privatization accounts for the rest. All said, there are very few long-distance passenger trains surviving in the country, and the one from Buenos Aires to Tucuman is the longest of these, at more than 1000 km.
That said, the track and service are a shade run-down. Only two trains run each week in either direction, a good many of these getting delayed for upwards of eight or nine hours, thanks to a variety of hazards on the tracks. When Patrick and I travelled from Tucuman to Buenos Aires, our 24 hour voyage turned into a 32-hour entrapment thanks to a spillage of maize on the tracks, earning us a place in the following morning's Gazette, the Tucuman newspaper. Other hazards include animals on the track in the Pampean hinterlands, and (unlikely sounding, but true) passengers getting struck by rocks thrown by hooligans along the track. The passageway windows in the train bear the results of this activity, as many are cracked and pock-marked, despite a metal caging on the outside.
Delays and bandits aside, the train is an interesting study in social strata, since it is divided into four classes. Since it was quite affordable for the foreign budget and the only reasonable choice for an overnight trek, we opted for the camarote, where one gets a double cabin with fold-out beds and (presumedly) waiter service. However, after our waiter never showed up to take our order for lunch, we jaunted down to the dining car to be informed that he was carted off the train sick and that we would have to come and get our own food. Nevertheless, the food was quite decent, all prepared in a small kitchen on board by a staff of erstwhile backpackers who performed veritable acrobatics to get the plates served up while in motion. Between that and the antics of other passengers, the outings to the dining car were interesting. In any event, it was a welcome excuse to leave the cabin, and the food was a major improvement on the ham and cheese sandwiches that are the standard fare of the overnight bus sojourns.
However, once the second day rolled around and the delays were in full swing, with us being stuck on the track somewhere between Santa Fe and Buenos Aires, the food situation rapidly depleted, meaning that there was none to be had. Our breakfast and lunch supply on that second day consisted in a small boxed fruit juice and 5 chocolina biscuits each. The stale mate from the previous day was unfortunately lavado and there was nothing else to be had. (The cockroaches we found scuttling out of the foldaway sink were thankfully not yet an option worth considering.)
When one is on an old mode of transport such as this, one cannot help but feel as in a travel book. Of course I was highly influenced in this case by the fact I was reading one as well, but the situation really does lend itself to overimagination -- speeding through rural towns and fields, the outlying settlements featuring dirt roads lined with children waving to the train...and some throwing stones, as already mentioned. Then there is the host of characters, ranging from the gangly jaunting waiters to the gaunt receptionist to the portly train nurse, and the variety of passengers in the various classes. While boarding in Tucuman, we made the acquaintance of a lady wearing an Irish jersey who said she was Irish-Argentine from S. Antonio de Areco. (Coincidentally that is a town that owes its founding primarily to the advent of the railroad, built by the British to bring farm produce into Buenos Aires once refrigeration began...and then highly settled by Irish immigrants). Then there was the old man with the mate thermos in the dining car, the skinny solo European backpacker with her constant cigarette, seated in the corner of the car, the obese family in first class who brought along half a supermarket for the trip. The card playing, the book reading, the counting of fleeting telephone poles and country roads all seemed the stuff of travel books.
And then of course, the eight hour delay, which I'm sure brought a smile to all the people who said I was nuts to take the train. After all, to the progressive mind, the train is not progress, the train is old. But progress is not always evolution, as a wise guide pointed out. And even despite the hassles of the train delays, I couldn't help but relish in the antiquity of the trip. Then, pulling into the giant belly of Retiro station, exhausted after the trip, I received my welcome back to the city portena when I related to the taxi driver that we had just spent 32 hours on a train: indignant silence. But I have to wonder if he didn't marvel just a little at the impressiveness of that feat.
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