When I first sat down with Herbert to drink mate, I asked him about the history of his finca. He responded sharply. Did I really want to know? Did I really understand Spanish? If so, he would take the time to explain slowly. If not, we could drink mate and I could be on my way the next morning.

I decided to stay an extra day even though I didn’t need the rest. I had rested in Belen for a day with the inhospitality of suspicious owners. They did not like me. I did not feel welcomed.

With Herbert, there was an underlying uneasiness, mistrust, and anger, but it did not sublimate into pettiness. I didn’t get the sense he wanted to rob, fool, trick, or otherwise harm me. In Belen and in Santa Maria I was on constant edge about my being ripped off or fooled or robbed. I had reason to worry. Many Indians had never connected to outsiders because outsiders had never tried to connect to the Indians on their own terms. Families do not want to share the intimacy of their daily routines, only to be pitied or misunderstood and then left the next day. So in suspicion and malice a poison forms and this venom covers words and action.

There was a distance yet not a venom with Herbert. Ana was reserved as any woman might be around a strange man and with three children. Herbert gave me the details of his life. He was born in Cordoba and was an Indian. He did not have a formal education past 12. His mother had a family home in Cordoba and his father the finca in San Blas. He worked many jobs until the age of 17 and then served two years in the military at the time of the conflict in the Islas Malvinas. He began to cut hair. He would travel around Argentina and when broke he would go door to door and cut hair to earn money. He showed great talent, and in Cordoba the stars and the artists and the rich came to salon. He had enough money to go to Europe and lived in Germany for a year and Spain for a year and he cut hair to make a living. He returned to Cordoba. His success and money continued and he lived a life of wine, women, and song in a large city but was left unsatisfied with the emptiness of its materialism. Materialism drives the matrix, but its fuel--the souls, the families, the lives of men and women--are left in ashes no matter how rich and satisfying the theme song, the sticky sweet sauce which deafens and suffocates the sensibilities of the heart and clear mind and natural soul. In the city men could do nothing with their hands. They could not build homes or fish or raise chickens and ducks and they could not teach their children to walk on stilts, swim, play marbles, and make useful things with their hands. They had become soft and dependent on money and the comforts and premade fabrications of the city.

And so Herbert returned to his father’s finca, leaving behind the money and fast life of Cordoba. One day when he was at the market in San Blas he encountered a beautiful woman sixteen years his junior. There was an immediate connection. She was the woman he had been yearning for—a good heart, a good temperament, a woman who had not been corrupted by the city and could care for a family. At first her father was furious at the prospect of their being together and wanted to kill Herbert. Eventually the relationship with Ana’s father cooled and Herbert and Ana were together. They would move to the finca together with their first born Marcos, and Herbert would build a home, a lake, a soccer field, and workshop, a nature center, chicken coop, and an outdoor barber shop. He created a foundation for the Indian youth to teach them the old ways: the construction of artisanal crafts, fishing, sports, herbs and edible plants. Signs about the finca read: “abre to mente,” open your mind. He continued to cut hair but this time it wasn’t for stars or the rich of Cordoba. Now the locals would drop by unannounced for a hair cut, some on horse, some by truck, some by moto. Some youth would come to his finca to learn of the old ways but there was a limit to what was possible. When I arrived he was frustrated with the failure of the government to deliver on its promises to help to develop the foundation. The government apparently had money but the officials never seemed to do anything for the foundation. After five years his bitterness was apparent. And the foreigners continued to come and go on bicycle and motorcycle to camp at his finca but none stayed more than a night and none were genuinely interested in his family or his history or the village or the foundation.

Ana brought us fried masa for a snack with our mate in the late afternoon. We drank the mate with large heaping tablespoons and soon a client came and Marcos sat with me and I explained my journey to the eight year old and showed him my maps. Both of us defended the plate of fried masa from cinco, the 6-month-old dog who would risk his life and certainly a beating to steal food from humans. I brought the fried dough and mate to Herbert and Daniel, a client, and we drank and ate in the shade. Daniel was the local dentist, a native of the city who studied dentistry in Cordoba. He lived close to town with his wife and two daughters and had a finca 12 kilometers outside town which on several occasions he hinted would be a good purchase.

Later in the evening we played marbles with Marcos and walked upstream and drank water from the river. We returned to a dinner of pizza with duck eggs, olives, and tomatoes served with an ensalata of fresh tomatoes and onions. I slept well yet and was awoken at 5:30 the next morning by a large confederation of chickens, ducks, and dogs.  I read in my tent until the late morning and then set off to buy potatoes and apples for the family and yoghurt treats for Marcos and Mateo. I accompanied Marcos and Herbert to a river to swim. Later in the day Daniel and his two daughters would arrive to fish. I would again guard the table from cinco but lose the battle this time as I attempted to entertain Mateo, who insisted on playing soccer. Later in the evening all of us would take to the soccer field to pass frisbees, walk on stilts, play soccer, throw boomerangs, and battle Ana and Herbert in ping pong. At the end of the night we ate leftover milanesa and pizza. In the morning as I departed Herbert gave me the telephone number of a local government official. He asked me to call the man and explain to him the importance of the foundation and how it was an oasis for the indigenous youth of San Blas. I believe I must improve my Spanish in order to speak to the official, but when my abilities prove worthy I will call the official.

It was flat and sunny and hot but there was a headwind and I struggled. Urs, Gustuavo, and I stopped for pastries and fruit and ate inside a partially constructed home for the shade. We continued and Gustavo rode far ahead, a strong rider. A police checkpoint inspected licenses as we cycled by. It was a holiday and very few businesses were open along the road to Mendoza. 18km from Mendoza we stopped at a tienda for cold beer, sliced mortadella. The proprietor was Mexican and he and Gustavo spoke of Mexico and the proprietor prepared the tomatoes and onions we had purchased earlier on the table in short order. Familiar Mexican music played and Gustavo sang, feeling at home. The man had left Mexico 10 years earlier due to the violence in his town. The beer was cold and refreshing but my legs still ached heavily.

We rode into Mendoza and for a large city it is subdued and beautiful and tranquil. We found an inexpensive hostel and cooked a risotto which we shared with two other travelers. We drank wine late into the night.

In the previous night we rode from Albardon where we had camped for 2 nights in a Finca. The finca hosted about 7 “WOOFers,” individuals who engage in voluntary slavery to escape from office work. In return for food and shelter, they work the farm. Then they return back to western cities. The finca was very modern with comfortable quarters for the woofers, a swimming pool, a greenhouse, animal barns, gardens, and vinyards. On the second night at the finca, 150 guests arrived and camped at the finca, part of an organization to protest the contamination from the mining of Barrick Gold.

We rode 120 km that day in the sun and desert on flat roads and could not find shade trees for our campsite. We decided to push on to the next town and possibly locate a town square. Gustavo and Urs rode ahead and as I passed a small oasis tienda at a small desert finca I saw the two of them sitting and drinking beer with a family. We drank three liters of beer with the family and they gave us bread with fried pork cracklings—pan con chicharon. A man of about 30 gave us a tour of the finca—across the street he was building a home made with local brick and a concrete foundation. The finca itself had pigs, ducks, and chickens. A huge mountain of old bread from a nearby panadaria fed the animals. We were invited to camp in the family’s yard for the night and sat and drank mate with the family of 8. Mate is drunk in a small cup with much sugar. A person drinks the entire cup of mate and then returns the cup to the mate preparer, who then passes the mate to the next imbiber. The younger men then invited us to drink tea with sugar in the second building behind the tienda and we watched Mad Max and The Simpsons. At around 10 I got in my tent and could not move and skipped dinner. In the morning I awoke at 6 with the chickens and photographed a beautiful sunrise and the Argentinean flag in front of the finca.

After I spent two nights with Herbert and his family I rode towards Chilecito. I spent a night in Chilecito in a hostel filled with road workers. The city was pleasant and in the morning I waited in line with many others to withdraw currency from a bank machine. I ate breakfast with the owner of the hostel and she spoke about her life in Cordoba earlier and the more tranquil life she now had in Chilecito. I was sad to leave her hospitality, but I had to ride Cuesta de Miranda, a hot, gravel climb of red, green, and tan rocks. The ascent required 5 hours of effort and the descent one hour. The road workers from the hostel cheered me at the summit. I landed in Villa Union and waited 30 minutes for the market to open and bought provisions. I needed to spend some time on the computer, so I rented a room for the night. On my way to the room, I encountered Urs and Gustavo, cyclists from Switzerland and Mexico, Urs riding from Alaska and Gustavo from Peru. I wished them well and ate dinner with a man from Cordoba who cooked me a chicken milanesa with salad and local wine. In the morning I rode towards Guandacol and at a gasoline station I encountered Urs and Gustavo once again as I ate a milanesa. We rode together to a fine spot in the desert and camped for the night. The next day we rode together until outside a town near San Juan and spent two days camping and cooking asado and pizza and realaxing. We rode a long day in the morning, 60km outside Mendoza, and spent the night with a family who had a tienda and finca in an oasis in the desert. We then rode to Medoza where we encountered a cheap and friendly hostel, where we cooked risotto on Monday night with other travelers and asado the next night with French cyclists.