The white Patagonian sun bears down on me through the glass. Picking at my empanada, I lift my gaze again to where the truck drivers are refueling outside. Sparse nothingness extends out from the gas station for the hundreds of kilometers I can see, and then some. My heart sinks.
My Spanish is nowhere near good enough for this.
No one around me knows my intentions and I plan on keeping it that way until necessary.
How did I think I could score a ride here?
I breathe out and close my eyes. The hypnotic desert light dances behind my eyelids…
People materialize to my left. Without exchanging a word, they seem to know I’m stranded. I gape at them. At a word from their leader, they organize themselves under me and sweep me onto their shoulders. A faint murmur swells in volume and becomes a full-blown chant that is taken up by the people outside as we push through the doors and out onto the lot.
“¡Grin-go, grin-go, grin-go!”
A young boy stares in awe at me and his mother beams, hands resting proudly on his shoulders. I think she is mouthing her number at me.
What wonderful people are the Argentinians!
We are headed for a truck that – unbeknownst to me – has been fueled for the express purpose of bearing me away to Santiago, Chile. As I’m hoisted into the cab, burly arms reach down from on high and pull me into my seat. I stare in disbelief at my chauffeur. The man before me can only be described as a mixture of Italian Chuck Norris and Jesus Christ himself. He grins at me through locks of hair that fall to his shoulders. His eyes seem to hold within them chiselled fragments of the sky.
Verily, here is a man who knows these byways and highways
“Ready amigo?” He gives me a wink.
As we pull out, bystanders wave their goodbyes and continue to cheer. A friendly gasoline fight has broken out among some of the people at the pumps. I lean back contentedly but Chuck-Jesus is asking something of me.
Won’t he let me just enjoy the moment?
“Huh?”
“¿Sí has terminado?” Are you done?
I snap back to reality with the gas station clerk standing over me. Without waiting for an answer, she sweeps the remains of my food into a rubbish bag. I get the feeling she’d do the same to me if I’d fitted.
“Estámos cerrando” We’re closing
Embarrassed, I mutter my thanks and shoulder my way out the doors. The little entry jingle echoes into nothing as I scan the station for a ride.
Hey-ho, let’s go!
There’s a truckie over to the right. Sitting in the cab, he seems to be taking a break from the monster 2-day drive to Buenos Aires. I rehearse my lines for the umpteenth time, step boldly in his direction, and do a u-turn almost immediately.
Hey-ho, oh no!
Panicking now, I catch a glimpse of an elderly couple filling up at the main pump. As I shuffle over, a voice in my head reminds me that while Argentine men are famously sensitive deep down, they tend to come across a little haughty. I gulp my fear down and try to sound cheerful.
“¡Buen día señores!”
The old man grunts, hangs up the hose and gets into the driver’s seat.
There’s that hard exterior I was told all about! I think with delirious glee. I’ll have him yet!
His face drops when I approach the open window but I’m committed. Staring at the fluffy dice on the rear view mirror, I explain to them my predicament.
It sounds like Draco Malfoy trying Parseltongue at a party.
The old man’s expression grows grimmer and grimmer with every word, but his wife, after waiting for me to finish spluttering, asks with a smile:
“¿De donde eres, niño? Where are you from sweetie?
“Yo soy de Nueva Zelanda”
She ooohs softly, sinking back into her seat, eyes berating her husband. I think I see a momentary crack open in the old man’s armor when he hears where I’m from but he holds his deathly silence.
“He’s from New Zealand!” the woman admonishes him, as if that settled the matter. I inwardly praise God for not being British.
“Listo” he grunts. Alright then.
I surprise my own lips by producing a fluent stream of Spanish, detailing his wonderful personality and value set.
We start the drive out awkwardly but I know the battle is won when I am offered Yerba mate (read: [mah-tay]). The hot beverage of choice for all Argentinians and many South Americans besides is a pillar of social life. A friend in Buenos Aires had told me in full confidence that if I was offered some in a group, then I was one of the family. His word of warning sounded in my head:
All you have to do is look like you enjoy it.
As the beautiful hand-crafted goblet is passed back, I remember too that the only Mate Ive tried to date had been significantly sweetened for my gringo taste buds. I take a steadying breath and the old man’s blue eyes lock onto mine in the rear-view.
Who’s watching the road!
I take a sip.
Almost instantly, I scorch my tongue and the bitterness threatens to overwhelm me. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes as I move to pass it back. Had I failed?
“Màs” More
It was the old man who spoke, his expression unreadable.
I take another sip, more prepared now, and swallow the tea down with a convincing sigh.
“Que rico, señores. Gracías.” Delicious
A smile large enough to swallow all the miles from here to Chile erupts across the old man’s features and I have never, to this day, seen such a turnaround in someone’s personality.
“¡ESSSSO MI HIJO!!!” That’s it, my boy! he cried, looking from his wife to me in a state of wide-eyed ecstasy.
The car ride was awkward not a moment longer.
Street Art in Trelew 
As Jorge drove and the Mate flowed , he took it upon himself to lecture me in all matters of Church and State, sometimes turning around so far in his seat as to cause genuine alarm in Magda, his wife, and she would scramble helplessly for the wheel.
Argentina´s story was one that had started well in the primary industries Jorge said, but they had been left flat-footed as the U.S. and others secured their advantage in the service and information economies. This had trapped Argentinians in their manufacturing role, tying the nation to financial stasis and the whims of a sometimes corrupt political class. He spoke too of the contested ‘British-owned’ Falkland Islands and contempt for Margaret Thatcher. But most importantly of all (to my mind at least) he taught me how to swear like a proper Argentine chabón.
“Hijo de mil puta!” Son of a thousand whores!
“La concha de la lora” C*@t of a parrot!
“Culo roto” You broken sphincter you!
We were even gifted an opportunity to put theory into practice as rush hour traffic sped out to meet us on the outskirts of my destination city. Trying and failing to control his laughter, Jorge sung out a terrible melody of curses upon the gaping drivers, and I wondered if it were God or the Devil who had guided me to his car that morning.
It was a marvel to behold how happy it all made him.
Each time he crossed a line with a grosero though, his wife would slap his arm sharply. Jorge would then appeal to me for approval with a wink and a look that said “I don’t know what came over me!“. Whenever this happened, even Magda smiled in spite of herself, fingering rosary beads in silent prayer for our souls.
Far too soon, I stood by my backpack on the side of the road, having hugged and kissed each of my drivers half a dozen times. But Jorge, as always, had the final say. Like some dark Moses parting the sea of traffic before him, he found time to call out a parting shot as their old Torino disappeared into the throng:
“Say hello to your mother for me!“
jared lanigan 