The Train to Córdoba

This is a rewritten entry from February 3rd, 2009.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I decided to take the train to Córdoba. At about $15 for Primera class the price was right so I bought a ticket for next Monday’s departure from Estación Retiro, Buenos Aires' largest train station. My uncle was skeptical. He said he’d rather fly. But I’d been watching the trains go by for the past couple of weeks from up high in his Recoleta apartment. From his place looking out towards the Rio de la Plata you could see a fascinating progression of linear bands of land use. Directly below were the eleven narrow lanes of Avenida del Libertador and a large underused park full of sculptures. Next were a string of busy soccer fields and the wide rail corridor. Beyond the rusting locomotives lay a large informal settlement occupying the leftover strip between the train tracks and an elevated highway. Finally in the distance lay the majestic buildings and tall cranes of the port of Buenos Aires.

The train was full on that Monday evening. We left right on time heading north past the stacked dwellings of the villa miseria beside the tracks, moving through the well-off neighbourhoods of Palermo and Belgrano and then through progressively more disorganized suburbs. Traveling by train gives you a 'backyard' type view into how people live. With buildings and houses butting right up to the edge of the tracks, and windows open due to the summer heat, you get glimpses of kitchens, workshops and patios full of people seemingly oblivious to the passing trains. Some views stay with me - a fat kid with a grubby shirt leaning against the wall of a patio filled with old tires, several pairs of feet resting up on a table visible by the flickering light of a television, or three teens on motorbikes patiently waiting under a streetlamp for the train to pass.

As the evening faded into darkness the sights that had so captivated me diminished and smells took over my senses. First the pungent odour of a river in the city, then the salty smell of empanadas coming from the train's passing food vendor. Soon the smoke of garbage being burned near the tracks mixed with the moist smell of rain on hot dry earth. By the time the storm hit we had left behind the lights and smells of B.A. and were moving alongside what seemed like dark fields and empty dirt roads. Now all I could focus on was the sound of the thunder that almost drowned out the loud clanking of train cars over old track. The lightning was surreal over the pampas. The rain poured down and in.

I woke with the early morning light and felt somewhat refreshed apart from wet feet and a rash from the sweaty vinyl seats. I soon found out why I had slept - the train had been stopped most of the night. Looking outside, I saw we were moving slowly and there was water everywhere. Some people were frustrated, others looked uninterested – as though this happens all the time (maybe it does). The many kids around me were starting to get restless. There was a steady stream of thermos laden passengers along the aisle headed towards the dining car to get hot water for their mate tea.

As the flooding receded we picked up speed heading past soggy fields and into the outskirts of Rosario. From the elevated vantage point of the train you could see into the precarious settlements that had encroached right to the edge of the tracks. Nobody was around and some patios and rooms were under more than a foot of water. Outside the city the ditches had turned into streams and in the city underpasses looked like flooded pools.

The train was stopped at Estación Norte in Rosario for what must have been hours. I caught glimpses of the headlines from passing newspaper vendors; ‘Trágica Tormenta’ and ‘Quatro muertos en Rosario’. In the cabin, rumours were quickly spreading. Somebody said the train was leaving soon. Others said the conductor had told them we might get to Córdoba by tomorrow. Another disagreed, adding that the tracks had been washed out. Eventually we inched our way out of the station in reverse. I felt disoriented by the movement of the train while facing backwards. Combined with the contradictory rumours and the seemingly infinite landscape of the pampas, I was convinced we were heading back towards Buenos Aires.

The day grew hot and humid. The monotony of endless fields and cattle provided little visual stimulation. Not until hours later, when the train stopped in the town of Villa Maria, was I sure that we were heading in the right direction. Just before Cordoba I noticed that I was the only person in the car with the window shutters open. The old man across the aisle whispered that I close it. As I slammed down the metal grill I saw the kids hurling rocks. At 4 in the afternoon we arrived at Cordoba's Estación Mitre. The trip had taken double the time it was scheduled, yet I had experienced sights, smells and sounds that I never would have on the bus.

There is something different about train travel in how we experience and understand the environments we pass through. The inherent rigidity of track infrastructure creates predictable experiences in which no choices of route, speed or stops are available. Yet a total dependence on single-use infrastructure forces passengers to react to unforeseen problems created by unreliable equipment, freight train schedules or surprise weather systems. There is a feeling of helplessness in the passenger who has little control over the details or outcome of his or her trip.

The views from the elevated position of a train car show how buildings, both large and designed or small and informal, react differently towards a rail corridor compared to a street or highway. Some big uses build next to tracks to connect with industrial freight transport where as others construct towering blank walls to keep out sound. Aware of the inability of customers to stop, businesses turn their backs onto the tracks, using those spaces for storage, dumping refuse or allowing the encroachment of other unintended uses. Small-scale uses take advantage of undesirable land near tracks to build informal homes or encroach into rights-of-way that are not fully occupied by tracks to create extra bedrooms or outdoor living spaces.

Train travel also permits an alternate view of the different zones of rural and urban landscapes. A more or less constant speed of travel with few stops or disruptions allows one to comprehend the relative scale of different land uses. It enables a visual understanding of the spatial relationships between the small highly valued downtown cores, the expansive semi-urban peripheries of most North and South American cities, and the vast hinterland of countries like Argentina or Canada.

Archive: Impact

November 20, 2008 - March 10, 2009

Plastic water bottles purchased: 52

Number of bicycles rented: 6

Distance traveled by airplane: 25371 km

Distance traveled by train: 700 km

Santiago

My return to Canada was wonderful but short-lived. I spent a month working in Toronto and I had passed just 10 beautiful days in Vancouver and then found myself back on a Chile-bound airplane. That morning, as I ate my soggy eggs in a plastic container and looked out over the infinite sea of clouds blanketing the pacific I thought about what it means to personally spew 2 1/2 tons of carbon on 'earth day'.

I am back due to the passing away of my grandfather. All the family is here together and the good memories of his life have balanced the sad moments. Landing in Santiago this time was different. Such strong memories of my trip and of him came rushing back. Memories that seem like they had faded so quickly as I slid back into my Canadian routine and lifestyle. But I will never forget the smells that greet you in Santiago as you step out of the airport. Its like a smokey sweet blend of smog, warm dry air and the stale Mapocho river. When I got to the 13th floor of the apartment building I realized I had not remembered how bad the smog gets here in the fall. Literally: where did the cordillera go?

There is no computer or internet in this apartment so yesterday I tried to find a wireless connection I could link to on my laptop. After about 25 networks asking for passwords (lots of tall apartment buildings in this area of the city) I found one that works in a 1m cubed zone close to the window by my grandmother's desk. After standing near the window holding the computer on my knee for a while I figured out that I can use it on the desk then just hold the thing above my head near the window every time I press 'send' or switch pages. It makes me laugh to think what the neighbours in the next building think I'm up to.

I went to the supermarket a couple days ago to stock up on food with Alicia. Apart from almost freaking out trying to enter a multi lane roundabout where endless streams of cars were flying by, everything was fine until we got to the juice isle. An action that has brought a smile to my face so many times before became so hard to do. As I slowly placed the box of Watt's apricot nectar in the cart it really hit me. The man who created all this is no longer here, and even though the company was sold years ago seeing that carton always brings back those stories he told me so many times of how it all started.

Altiplano Boliviano

Estas fotos son de un viaje de 4 dias en el sur oeste de bolivia en febrero.

100 % llama wool baby!

Cordillera Sud Lipez

Llamas y volcán

Aguas calientes en un salar

Geysers Sol de Mañana (~4900m)

Flamingos en la laguna Colorada

Arbol de Piedra en el desierto de Siloli

Laguna Honda

Salinity inspector (at a 'salt hotel')

Salar de Uyuni

mate y coca (larger than life)

Tabacal

Due to a relative that works there Andrea and I got a deluxe guided tour of TABACAL, a large scale sugar cane plantation and refinery in the province of Salta in Northern Argentina, right on the border with Bolivia. The refinery was started in 1920 and was recently bought by a large USA based company with agricultural interests all over the world.

Sugar cane in February has not reached full height. It was not very sweet when I broke a cane and licked the juices. Harvest season is from May to November.

It was only possible to grasp the immensity of 25000 hectares of sugar cane from the air. The company pilot (as he text messaged on his phone) casually toured us around the enormous property that completely surrounds the company workers town of Yriogen and the city of Oran.

The sugar refinery and alcohol distillation plant on the left. On the right is the houses for the managers and upper positions of the company.

Since we visited out of harvest season, the refinery is not working and much of it is under repairs or maintenance. The sugar cane is now almost entirely harvested by mechanical combines. The company is now eliminating the once common practice of burning the dry leaves of the cane before harvest to reduce weight (this matters when you process a quarter million tons of cane). This photo shows where the cane is unloaded by the trucks. It is then splintered and goes by conveyor belts to the refinery.

These are the crushers (machine is missing more rollers under repairs). The sugar cane juice is extrated and piped away. The leftover fiber is burned to make electricity for the factory, town and city.

The juice is heated in these tanks to evaporate the water. Chemicals are added to stabilize, preserve and purify. A huge tangle of pipes, tanks and machines end up at the crystalization tanks where the sugar is dried with hot air.

Sugar is packed by hand and by machine into different size packages. Many jobs in the factoy remain hand labour because of the pressure the labour unions put to keep jobs.

Loading trucks means beginning to disassemble the `building` of sugar from the top.

Town of Tabacal has its own church and all the buildings are matching architecture from the 30`s.

Valles Calchaquies

In the back of a pickup truck - there are no buses between Angastaco and Molinos. Andi's forced smile is due to the very windy road.

Quebrada de las Conchas, Cafayate

Cachi

Las Pailas with Nevado de Cachi

Trains

I wasn't sure what to expect when I decided to take the train to Cordoba. At about $15 for a '1st Class' ticket the price was right so on a Monday evening I headed to Estación Retiro, Buenos Aires' largest train station. The train was full and we left right on time heading north past the train yards full of rusting locomotives, the shanty town beside the tracks, and then the well off suburbs of north Buenos Aires. Traveling by train you get a 'backyard' type view into how people live. With windows and doors open, you get glimpses of kitchens, back patios, workshops and tiny parks all alive with people ignoring the passing train. Some views stay with me - a fat kid with a grubby shirt leaning on the wall of a patio filled with tires, several pairs of feet resting on a table visible by the flicker of a tv, three teens on motorbikes patiently waiting for the train to pass. An hour later the visual sights began to fade into darkness of the night and smells took over my senses. First the pungent smell of a river in the city, then the sweet smell of empanadas coming from the train's food vendor. Not long after the smoke of garbage burning by the tracks mixed with the moist smell of rain on hot earth. Then the storm came. Now all I could focus on was the thunder almost drowned out by the loud clanking of the train on old tracks. The lightning was surreal over the pampas. The rain poured down and in.

Apart from the rough rash from the sweat plus vinyl seats combination and wet feet I felt somewhat refreshed the next morning. I soon found out why - the train had been stopped most of the night. I looked outside. We were moving slowly and there was water everywhere. Some people were frustrated, others looked uninterested - like if this happens all the time (maybe it does). The many kids around me were starting to get restless. There was a steady stream of thermos laden passengers (heading for the dining car to get hot water for their mate) passing back and forth. The flooding receded, we picked up speed passing through Rosario and Villa Maria. Just before Cordoba I suddenly noticed that I was the only person with my window open in my car. The old man across the aisle whispered that I close it. As I slammed down the metal grill I saw the kids hurling rocks. At 4PM we arrived in Cordoba's Estación Mitre, 20 hours after leaving Buenos Aires. The trip took exactly double the time the bus takes, but was worth the experience for so many reasons.