Bus journey from Salta. Let’s not go too closely into that. The one consolation was that there was another small (female) person at the back of the bus making as much noise as our small (male) person was making at the front of it. Pity the poor passengers in the middle who thought they might catch a wink or two of sleep.
Arrived in Cordoba. Our Argentinean-qualitycontrol pushchair had been dying since England, and now it gave up the ghost completely in the bus station, so we couldn’t fold it up to put it into a taxi with all our stuff. So we had to take two taxis between us.
I arrived at the Right place, complete with baby and most of luggage. Thought I’d wait outside for Martin to arrive with the rest of the luggage. Martin took his taxi to the Wrong place, rang the door bell, was told he was in the Wrong place, so he rang the Right place, where they thought I hadn’t arrived because I was still waiting outside for Martin to arrive. So I’m now technically missing, even though I’m actually in the Right place. Chaos reigns. People in the Right place eventually realised I was waiting outside, and a few minutes later Martin turns up too. We’ve arrived.
Reunite ourselves with our car, and decide to take it for a test, and buy a replacement pushchair; see above. There is an interesting pile of books been left on the back-seat. At some stage we need to mount a piece of research to find out whose they are and whether they want them back. We decide to leave this till later. Driving in Cordoba is always an interesting experience, especially after four months in England, and probably heightened further by not having any sleep; see above. Successfully negotiated the usual hazards… horses, motorcycles on the wrong side of the road, the odd dead dog, we manage to purchase a pushchair. Prices have gone up, this one had better last or that kid’s going to find himself sold into slavery.
Afternoon, Martin goes to the prison to catch up with his friend. I take Joni for a walk. Mobile phones not allowed in prison, but I persuade Martin to take the house number written on a piece of paper. I receive a phone call. Martin is on his way to hospital accompanied by three police-men. Nothing to do with the prison, he was on his way home and he slipped on the pavement. Good job he didn’t try and cross the road; who knows what he’d have done. I take the car and our friends to meet him at the hospital. We arrive before he does. After a few minutes Martin arrives in wheelchair accompanied by policeman. Hand him over to hospital. They strip him, poke him and x-ray him. X-ray clear; probably knee ligaments. Rest, ice, hopping around on crutches. He’s a terrible patient, but at least he hasn’t broken his neck this time. Things could get better.
On the positive side, we’re being jolly well looked after by the friends we are staying with, just had a great asado (BBQ) for lunch. And our favourite internet cafe has gone Wifi, so I am typing this on my own laptop, with a coffee on the side. And we’re hoping to get to San Francisco on Wednesday.