The Longest Haul

Feeling decidedly hair greasy, smelly, prone to DVTs, and altogether sick of being on a bus for days, Julie and I boarded the worst yet to Salta. Here is my journal entry for the final leg of our 61 hour trip from El Calafate:

We are traveling with Chevallier via semi cama and so far, it is the most disappointing carrier. I will admit that we are but two hours into our twenty-odd hour journey, but there is a distinct lack of meal trays and worse still, blankets, on board that were gladly present on other buses. Our dinner was dealt as we each boarded; two anaemic sandwiches and four cookies.

Julie is convinced that this is all the food they will provide for the entire journey and is planning to ration her portion to at least supply her with breakfast in the morning. Presently her hunger is as keen as her good intentions however, and at six o'clock, two hours into the journey, we both succumb and have our meagre supper.

Hardly satisfied, Julie continues to grumble and pout like a punished child at a loss of her wrong-doing, certain it is the colour of her hair that has subjected her to such treatment. I manage to capture mutterings of E. coli and frozen and/or numb bums, but that is only where it begins.

There are no lights after dusk, so her book is reluctantly put away. When the lights are eventually restored, her book is far too difficult to extract from beneath her seat, as the gentleman seated in front of her has reclined his backrest to its maximum capability. There is a movie showing on the television, but while it is in English with Spanish subtitles, the volume is barely audible to be bothered with. A young child sits behind us, making annoying child noises and we both fear that if we recline our seats any more, we may crush the smelly thing.

The cabin becomes increasingly cold, so I slip on my fleece with sleepy difficulty and spread my furry bomber jacket across three out of four of our knees. It will have to do, though I am anticipating an all-night battle for the jacket, otherwise, a sleepless night shivering under nought but a three-dollar Chinese Pashmina scarf, if the blankets never arrive tonight.

Having finished her book, she rolls over (the all-night battle begins) and slips her eye mask on, with all the manner of someone being sent to bed without a proper dinner. I fight a laugh and ask her if she even knows the time. "Bedtime" is her predictable and confident reply. Despite the hour being only seven-thirty, an hour during which the baby behind us is still awake, Julie seems to be satisfied that to remain unconscious for the longest period during this bus trip is in order for some maintenance of sanity.

I promise to wake her if, by any small chance, a hot meal is delivered to the bus' hungriest patrons.

Four days, one bus trip, and a lot of baby wipes later, we were in Salta.