(Argentina)...I have just spent three wonderful weeks in Argentina, meeting some of the most gracious people I have encountered while travelling. I will no doubt write several posts on this trip, so I will not here pencil down a day-by-day account, but rather snippets of what I remember. The hottest place I visited was Paso de a Patría, which stands on the banks of the Río Paraná, opposite the mysterious nation of Paraguay, in the provinces of Corrientes. It was from here that the Triple Alliance, comprising the forces of the countries of Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay, sent out their gunboats and troops to defeat bankrupt Paraguay, who for some strange reason thought it could defeat little Uruguay when that country decided to align itself with two other counties that make up at least four-fifths of the land mass of the whole continent. The beach here is small and unimposing, hardly the place from which to launch a major assault.
 The town specialises in a type of fish called pejerrey, as well as the huge dorado, but September is in the wrong time of year in which to consume these fish fresh, so I had to make do eating them in premade empanadas, small fried savories that seem to be the lunchtime staple of much of Argentina. The city of Corrientes, the province's capital, is a beautiful town, also on the banks of the same river but farther into Argentina. Graham Greene (http://members.tripod.com/~greeneland/) set his novel The Honorary Consul here, one of the reasons I wanted to stop off on the way to the Argentine northwest here rather than in the nearby city of Resistencia in the neighbouring provinve of Chaco. The noun Chaco also refers to a type of arid plain that extends into most of western Paraguay and is apparently home to insular Germanic people and farmer Mennonites.
The novel centers around a character called Eduardo, who is Paraguayan on his mother's side, English on his father's. He has sympathies with Paraguayan rebels trying to overthrow the Paraguayan dictactor Alberto Stroessner, who in the text is holidaying in Argentina, playing golf, but who in real life had just died a few weeks before my travels, in exile in Brazil. The rebels hatch a plan to kidnap the American ambassador to Argentina, thinking that Stroessner would not want a diplomatic crisis involving both his own people and his main foreign backer, but they mistakenly kidnap the British Honourary Consul instead, who has a posting with almost no power or influence attached to it.
Roaming the bright streets of Corrientes, I could imagine the story come to live. Very few people were out on the streets on this Sunday morning. The photograph above of a political candidate looking weary and peeling off the wall appealed to me in the contact of my musings. I must read the biography of Graham Greene, although I seem to remember there being some criticism of later parts of this multi-volume work, as some said that most of those later works seem to be about the biographer, not the biographee.
In the evening, I took a bus — these buses, sleek affairs with seats that recline almost to beds, are the main way Argentines get around, certainly as plane travel is expensive and requires nearly always having to make a connection in Buenos Aires; bands of luggage porters work each bus terminal, and one must tip them a peso or two to insure your bags make it to the same place you do; El Veloz del Norte was the best of the bus companies in the humble opinion — to Salta, that is, from sea level in Corrientes to 2,300 metres above.
It became dark as soon as we passed Resistencia, but I do remember waking up as we stopped in a Chaco town called Pampa del Infierno, or, translated into English, Grasslands of Hell. Make you want to stop for a couple of weeks to soak in the atmosphere. My first search for information about this no-dount wonderful stop-off revealed the someone was searching for news about an uncle called Harald Gastel, who was born in Munich, Germany, in 1906, according to the post, but who was last heard of in Pampa del Infierno. His journey from one to the other must make a story every bit as entertaining as the fiction of Greene.

(Mexico)...I was in the Cabo San Lucas area of Baja California, Mexico, last week. I was staying at a property called the Pueblo Bonito Pacifica Holistic Resort & Spa, which specializes in health and — that new, hideous word — wellness, which is just as well, for I think anyone under the influence of anything would not be able to pronounce its name correctly, or at all, to taxi drivers. It is beautiful spot and well away from the Los Cabos development.
Indeed, to all sides is wilderness, either the beach and Pacific Ocean, quite rough hereabouts, or scrub land of cacti, dunes and desert plants. Popping over the top of the dunes I found myself alone in a haven of wildlife. I doubt if few guests left the delights of the hotel’s gardens, pools, meditation labyrinth, fire pits and cool public spaces (and why should they), but anyone enjoying nature will be pleasantly surprised. I saw three types of woodpecker — Gila, Ladder-backed and Gilded flicker — California gnatcatcher, California quail, Verdin, Grey thrasher (a Bajan endemic), Western scrub-jay, a stunning Vermilion flycatcher and White-winged dove. I also saw several hares, many lizards and even a coyote lopping over into the bush.
Early every morning I went for a walk along the dusty roads that I imagine eventually led to the lighthouse that I could see on the hill. Trucks crammed with workers were the only things to share my path, It was fun to drop down into dry stream beds, with a look at the heavens first to make sure it was not going to rain, and on occasion, a house would come into view. One was owned by Californians — if a car registration was a clue — with a stable and someone getting ready to mop down the stallions after first having a cigarette.
On the Wednesday, the hotel (http://www.pueblobonitopacifica.com) group I was with supposedly was to go on a boat trip to see a colony of sea lions and El Arco, the tourist spot’s famous natural stone arch, but with a tropical storm brewing somewhere off to sea (it did not hit land while I was there, but as I write the far more serious Hurricane John is off the coast of Acapulco and threatening to bear down on Baja) the excursion was cancelled. I did see the arch, albeit extremely distantly, as I headed to the airport on my long way home. So, no sea lions and no arch.
We were asked what we might like to do with our spare afternoon, and I mentioned the possibility of visiting Todos Santos, a small town up the Pacific coast. Most others elected shopping, but after a few minutes I was handed a set of keys and started driving up the narrow highway, slowing down at a clearly signed Curva Peligroso to pass an accident and a waving policeman. Very quickly any urbanisation is left behind, and the desert starts again.
Todos Santos is about 75 kilometres to the north. I parked by the church and wandered around. There are some pleasant art galleries and shops, as well as the Hotel California, reputedly the inspiration for an Eagles song that I have never liked. Things are dusty here, too, and it does not take long to feel you are in Mexico, a feeling that is rarely experienced in Cabos San Lucas (I did walk over the hill from the Pacifica to enter the local’s area of Cabos, but there is little there, other than lazy dogs lying in roads, cars swerving around them, minute stores calling themselves supermercados and houses in various states of being).
Back in Todos Santos (http://www.todossantosinn.com), I visited the majestic, eight-room Inn at Todos Santos and walked around its tranquil courtyards. I also bought some postcards, and it was then that I saw one of a beautiful beach. I asked where it was and was given directions, which on my second attempt I found. On a dusty road leading to La Chacorra, I drove slowly around large stones and through a tunnel of bamboo that brushed the car above and to both sides. I had to double back, thus driving through the bamboo again (which I liked), before taking a left turn that ended at two small lodgings.
 From there I walked along a sandy path between two fences and uncovered a scene rather like the moment in the film Y Tu Mama También, when the three travellers wake up in the morning to find their perfect beach. I have no idea what the branches in the above photograph would be used for, possibly to thatch a house or to build one. The beach was not as perfect as the one in the film, but not too far behind. To the left was a small lake that almost reached the sea but did not brooch the last small dune. As I walked towards a flock of Brown pelicans, I saw a solitary rowing boat beach itself.