It seemed like a good idea at the time. 
 
There may have been a rumbling or two of concern from The Wife, but on the face of it my plan was flawless. A month’s honeymoon-holiday in Argentina, then back to Cape Town on a Thursday, pack our flat on a Friday, move house Saturday. It was perfect; schedules were ready, timetables compiled, accommodation booked. Nothing left to chance. What could go wrong?

After a few days in Buenos Aires we decided we'd had enough of diesel-choked pavements and rude porteños. It was time to leave the 'Paris of the South' for the Deep South; Ushuaia, the most southerly town in the world. Bags packed, taxi hailed, sign language perfected… we were on our way to Aeroparque Jorge Newbery airport.

How nice, we thought as we wandered into Departures; they let people camp at the airport here. Perhaps waylaid travellers with nowhere to sleep? Those cardboard placards written in Spanish must be thank you cards, or perhaps a poster reading ‘Please wake me when FT413 to Lima departs’. The people in tents didn't look too happy, ungrateful sods, but perhaps it’s because David Nalbandian was losing the tennis.
 
Ushuaia, tick, and we were heading back up north.

A few days at the magnificent Perito Moreno glacier outside El Calafate and we'd forgotten all about those grumpy men in tents.
  
More poor fools at Calafate airport! Queues out the door, more shouting people with posters and, inside the terminal, a thousand backpackers strewn on the floor as if some gap-year tsunami had washed through just moments before.

But Señorita Luck had followed us to the airport. One look at our Business Class tickets – a rare moment of upgrade serendipity – and the security guard ushered us away from the poor, huddled masses. No plastic chairs and yesterday's coffee for us. Rather another Quilmes lager in the liberty of the business class lounge icebergs floated by on Lago Argentino at the end of the runway.

Cruising at 35 000-feet, yet another jamon y queso in hand (you can't cross the road in Argentina without being offered a ham and cheese sandwich) and all was going according to plan. A few days in the alpine holiday town of San Carlos de Bariloche and we'd soon be winging our way back to Cape Town and a shed-load of boxes. 
 
Bariloche, as it's less tongue-twistingly known, is one of the delights of Argentina. Dark, deep lakes flow in and around densely wooded shores offering days of watery wandering. Chocolate shops lie in wait on every other corner of this postcard-perfect town, ready to ambush unsuspecting weight-watchers.

A short drive away, the Cerro Catedral offers Argentina's best skiing and, in early summer, it's just the spot to admire the view, start a snowball fight and lose a few toes to frostbite. 
 
Bariloche is also backpacker-central for this stretch of the Andes. A place to hire a car, wash some clothes, book tickets and… find an English newspaper.

"Aerolineas Argentinas grounded," screamed one headline. "Striking workers down tools," jeered another.

“Best-laid plans fall to pieces" was the one running through my head as the poster-waving campers fell into place.

Ah yes, the Argentines love a good strike as much as the French. We had no idea what they were striking about, but with just one day to get back to Buenos Aires for our flight home we knew we were in trouble. If we didn’t make the plane to Cape Town we’d be stuck in BA for three days. 7000 kilometres away boxes were waiting to be packed. Not even a ham and cheese sandwich could cheer us up.

But there’s a strange camaraderie amongst backpackers. A Swedish traveller said she’d heard from somebody who’d heard from somebody that there would be one plane out of town that night. One plane and one plane only. A rescue flight sent to evacuate tourists stranded by striking pilots. The irony was almost amusing. Almost.

Passport and tickets in hand we bolted down Avenida San Martin to the airline office. Only this time we were cast down with the masses. A queue of people begging to get on the last flight out. Number 83 in the queue. Qué desastre!

To cut a long story short, there was an interminable wait. There was elbowing. There were angry words muttered in a dozen different languages. There were tears, I won’t say whose, and there was begging and pleading. There was also, however, two boarding passes for the 7pm flight out.

If my white tongue could ululate we would have made the Andes ring with the songs of the Transkei. I may have hugged the desk clerk, I can’t be sure. I promised never again to rank the meat-feast asado beneath the braai on the hierarchy of macho fireside rituals.

One long night at the grandly-titled and poorly-equipped Grand Hotel España and we were on our way home. Buenos Aires behind us, boxes ahead. There I am… stuck with another ham and cheese sandwich.

Published in The Weekender, 29/30 August 2009

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