The bumpy rd to the Sierras...in more ways than one

It was a reasonably early rise for this little chicken on the day I was set for the Sierras of Cordoba, famous mountain ranges that spring up alongside the province of Cordoba that are home to estancias, little nuggets of tourist towns and as I found out, one estancia hostel part of the chain I worked for in Iguau and Buenos Aires. Bueno. I contacted the owner prior to leaving BA and she said, in Spanish only, that it would be OK to stay for free for a couple of days as staff of HI, but beyond that there was no room. I was to find several things wrong with that statement later on.

I got the bus to La Falda, the town easiest to get to for the hostel but still at least another hour drive on dirt roads to the estancia. The owner, V, was a brisk but formally polite woman that drove me and the French girl also staying there, but only after waiting for the mechanics to fix their check-up of her car, get some gas and buy a new card for the internet. Whatever, it all happens eventually in Argentina.

We jiggled and jaggled along the dirt camino to the hostel, me straining to hear the Spanish conversation taking place ahead against the clanging of stones against the 4-wheel drive, harder still since the owner took no concession at my lack of Spanish knowledge. Still, I held my own, dammit, I held my own. The French girl, C, was really nice and spoke a little English but for the duration of the time at the hostel, we just spoke in Spanish. Which was good practice for me!

Finally, after what seemed like endless turns and twists, and an increasingly stunning landscape of mountain ranges, cacti and the random cow, we got through several gates and eventually landed on one that belonged to the estancia. I saw a few, almost poorly looking horses scrounging around near the feed shed and wondered if they were what I would ride the next day... they were.

The situation in our room did not get any better: the sink taps refused to give out more than an exasperated trickle (cold only), so we had to use the shower head instead; the beds sagged in the middle; we weren`t allowed to mix our food with the hostel`s so nothing could be refrigerated; I forgot my towel - I was given a tea towel ("Is this OK?" Uh yeah, sure); and in the end, the owner did not give me the rooms for free. I was going to ask but soon after she drew up the bill, she packed her bags and jumped in the car. The solo gaucho, D, that worked there told us she was off to her boyfriend`s house until the weekend. OK then...

Things got a little better after she left, when the gaucho breathed a little easier and relaxed into the fact he was now alone on the estancia with 2 young girls and not a helluva lot more. I know it sounds sinister, but he was actually really lovely - bless him - and I much preferred his company than that of the owner. I just got a untrustworthy, cold feeling from her. Maybe if I knew her for more than an hour that would change...

So we walked to the little river near the house, beautifully displaced by large, smooth, grey rocks and disturbed occasionally only by a lone horse grazing on the sandy bank or the Golden Retriever of the house paddling away and trying to catch the water with his mouth. It always escaped him. Such was the serenity of this place. We prayed for a sunny day in the morning.

After our first pasta meal sans the expensive tag of the hostel menu, we shared a bottle of red and headed to bed at a reasonable hour. I therefore rose at a reasonable hour, and the sun had certainly not heard our pleas.