Badlanders MCC Website

The Road to Rio Grande

As the time wore on and I finished packing, I looked out of the cabin to see a beautiful rising sun. I had to move, but I’d promised to drop an email home before I left, and wasn’t sure that I would get to the Panaderia cafe. I packed the bike and as I was leaving, in drove this 4x4 police car. I thought “this didn’t look good”. Any way the rather large and jolly policeman got out and smiled whilst walking into the house. I assumed that he must be the owner. As I manoeuvred my bike and trailer out, he came out the house and came over to the cabin to help. I asked (in sign language) if he wanted the key. “si” he said. I gave him the key. I also gave him the rice and oil and dreaded him looking at the shower basin, which I hadn’t been able to clean properly after cleaning the tent and trailer bag! He did just that, looked into the bathroom- a bathroom, with a bidet no less! However, he didn’t bat an eyelid and then shouted to his wife, I assume, who was also dressed in a police officer’s outfit, asking her to get the camera. He then proceeded to take a picture of me. I hoped that he was a better investigator than he was a photographer, as I could see that the lense cover was closed. However, pleased that he had pressed a button, and without having any idea as to how to check he had got the picture, he waved me goodbye.

I disembarked, stabilised the bike and trailer, which is no easy task-let me tell you, and knocked on a door. A head popped out of a window and this little guy with a bloodstained apron stuck his head out. He said something that I didn’t understand. However, I proceeded to introduce myself. “Oiga Perdona”, My Ilamo Ken, me viaje con bicecletta al Colombia –Nefecito habitacion para una noche. Puede usted ayudarme por favour?” I received a blank stare. He closed the window and walked away. I pondered whether my attempt at speaking Spanish was just as unintelligible as it sounds like to me most of the time. I even wondered if he might be of a different nationality.  He suddenly appeared in front of me with his meat cleaver- nice welcome, I thought. He was an interesting little man. About a headsize smaller than me....and you know how short I am! Hablar inglese? I asked. “ No” he said. It appeared as if he was pondering over my dilemma. So I repeated, in short- Habiticione- “no” he said. “Campino”, I said. “No” he said. This was going to be tough; I could tell! He beckoned me around in to the house, sorry, el casa. Sat in the middle was a huge aga and on the counter I saw the largest slab of meat I had ever seen outside an abbatoir. He went over to a window and picked up a phone. Obviously he didn’t get a response. He peered out of the window, presumably looking for the boss. I remained hopeful. He was at least doing something! He eventually got through to somebody and started talking. I picked up the words “ persona, bicicletta, al Colombia, permisso habiticione”. I interjected. “Manana, al Rio Grande”. He added “Manana al Rio grande”. He said “si, si, si”. He put the phone down. “Valle” he said.  He then said “Te”?. With a look of desperation, I said “Si Signor. Muchas Gracias”. He proceeded to pour hot water in an old tin mug and he gave me a plate of bread rolls and jam. I didn’t want to abuse the hospitality, and took two rolls, but about four sugars in the tea. I know, what you are thinking; I must be ill! I’ve never taken sugar in my tea in my life, or perhaps for just a short while in my teens! I knew my muscles were screaming out for energy and as far as I was concerned, this was my one and only way of providing that energy. As I devoured the rolls and slurped the tea, he continued to cut through the beef with his cleaver. Then he would put salt on it and bash it to smithereens. Futbol was on the telly. I thought, perhaps I should spark up some conversation. “Boca juniors”, I asserted. “No”, he said, loudly and defiantly. I thought presumably he is no fan of Boca jnrs. So instead I said. “Rivadavia?”. He said “no” even louder and more defiantly. “Valle” (ok) I said. What worried me is that he was looking at me whilst still slicing the meat with the cleaver and  doing so with complete precision. I thought, if I say another word, given his stern expression, he could easily split my head in two with the cleaver from the ten yards between us, without looking. Time to keep quiet, I thought. Suddenly he blurted out Francia y Quatari. “Valle”, I said, and sat quietly. After a minute or two, he pointed out of the window. “la Casa” he said. “Valle” I said . He made an ushering motion as if to say, “now go”. I left, picked up the bike and struggled across the field to the only wooden house with a light on and ............the sound of many barking dogs! Me casa par de noche!  More about this in the next update! Look at the pictures for a preview!

Over and out for now