I wanted to go to Tigre, a river delta just outside Buenos Aires. It was the chance to take a boat trip and I do love a boat trip. Who doesn’t?
The first surprise was the hour long train ride to Tigre. As we queued up for tickets I caught sight of the fares posted on the booth window. 2.70 pesos. That can’t be right I said to Alice. That’s 50p for a return. But it was the correct amount – finally something in Argentina that isn’t just good value but incredibly cheap.
The train – more like a goods wagon with few seats and lots of standing space - had signs all over it saying that walking salesmen were forbidden. Ha. We endured a constant stream of them wandering through the carriages with a whole range of crap to sell – Sim cards, eyeshadow kits, biscuits, diaries, combs – yodelling out their sales pitch. Headache making.
Tigre is a network of small inlets and rivers in the huge Rio Parana. The tourist thing to do is to take a boat ride round some of them. But it’s not as easy as it sounds. The obvious mode of transport was a fleet of large white catamarans which lurked on one side of the river. On the other bank, however, I could see lots of little wooden cruisers and I was determined that that was how we’d travel. The girl in the tourist office had explained that if we wanted to take a smaller vessel we’d have to know where we were going – but how? Anyway we headed towards the dock – it was Easter and crowded with young Argentines, loaded down with camping paraphernalia, taking a few days out. I asked again – it seemed that each of the estuaries on the river had a different name and that all these people knew exactly which one to ask for. But we were rescued in the end by a patient man in a booth who sold us cheap tickets for a long cruise to some of the furthest waterways, with a stop-over at a place where we could swim and have something to eat. We watched, for a while, the boatmen piling backpacks, boxes tied with string, crates of booze, bottles of water and fizzy drinks onto the roofs of the little boats and then we took our seats.
I still didn’t really know what we were doing. But all became clear as we drifted out of Tigre town which, disappointingly, looks a bit like Henley or Richmond. The river banks parted as it opened up in front of us and we headed towards the first splinter, the first little inlet. On either side were a series of houses on stilts, each set in a plot among the long grass and the trees. Some were magnificent summer homes with grand verandas and long sloping lawns and their own piers. Others were no more than wrecked wooden shacks. Some were Bohemian, others more stately. Hazy blue plumes of smoke rose from outdoor grills as families prepared to enjoy the long weekend with barbecues and visitors and cool drinks.
I was completely mesmerized. Sitting in our lovely boat with the sun high in the sky and the river gliding by and the bizarre collection of houses and the woodland groves – it was strange and wonderful.
Every 20 minutes or so one of the young boat boys would make his way to the back, taking with him some passengers. The little boat would spin into reverse and slide skilfully alongside a pier. Then the passengers would hop out – some were obviously guests at a private house – their hosts stood waiting as we headed closer. But others were hotels or hostel or campsites.
Aha. So this is how it works, I finally realized. You tell the boatman where you’re staying, on which estuary and he drops you off. All too simple but how, before you went there, would you know where to go? It was still a mystery really. When we spotted a particularly attractive place, Alice and I wondered how we’d ever be able to make it back there – while some had huge signs others were unnamed. So, the rickety yellow house in the woods with a campsite and a nice garden, about an hour from Tigre. That’s where we want to go. No chance. Those boat boys were good but not that good.
Anyway we floated on and on. Finally we arrived at our stop – there was a woman fishing from the pier, a small beach and tents in the garden. The ‘hotel’ was eccentric to say the least. Chickens ran in the yard, the interior walls were covered in lumpy white stucco, the tiny lady who served us our drinks appeared to be part of an odd family who owned the place. Naturally I was desperate to stay. If you do, though, there’s no way out until the boat comes. It could make for a very long night.
As we left, on one side of the little pier the sun set in great golden streaks in a huge sky over the river and on the other the full moon rose in a navy blue night.
It was simply magnificent.
The first surprise was the hour long train ride to Tigre. As we queued up for tickets I caught sight of the fares posted on the booth window. 2.70 pesos. That can’t be right I said to Alice. That’s 50p for a return. But it was the correct amount – finally something in Argentina that isn’t just good value but incredibly cheap.
The train – more like a goods wagon with few seats and lots of standing space - had signs all over it saying that walking salesmen were forbidden. Ha. We endured a constant stream of them wandering through the carriages with a whole range of crap to sell – Sim cards, eyeshadow kits, biscuits, diaries, combs – yodelling out their sales pitch. Headache making.
Tigre is a network of small inlets and rivers in the huge Rio Parana. The tourist thing to do is to take a boat ride round some of them. But it’s not as easy as it sounds. The obvious mode of transport was a fleet of large white catamarans which lurked on one side of the river. On the other bank, however, I could see lots of little wooden cruisers and I was determined that that was how we’d travel. The girl in the tourist office had explained that if we wanted to take a smaller vessel we’d have to know where we were going – but how? Anyway we headed towards the dock – it was Easter and crowded with young Argentines, loaded down with camping paraphernalia, taking a few days out. I asked again – it seemed that each of the estuaries on the river had a different name and that all these people knew exactly which one to ask for. But we were rescued in the end by a patient man in a booth who sold us cheap tickets for a long cruise to some of the furthest waterways, with a stop-over at a place where we could swim and have something to eat. We watched, for a while, the boatmen piling backpacks, boxes tied with string, crates of booze, bottles of water and fizzy drinks onto the roofs of the little boats and then we took our seats.
I still didn’t really know what we were doing. But all became clear as we drifted out of Tigre town which, disappointingly, looks a bit like Henley or Richmond. The river banks parted as it opened up in front of us and we headed towards the first splinter, the first little inlet. On either side were a series of houses on stilts, each set in a plot among the long grass and the trees. Some were magnificent summer homes with grand verandas and long sloping lawns and their own piers. Others were no more than wrecked wooden shacks. Some were Bohemian, others more stately. Hazy blue plumes of smoke rose from outdoor grills as families prepared to enjoy the long weekend with barbecues and visitors and cool drinks.
I was completely mesmerized. Sitting in our lovely boat with the sun high in the sky and the river gliding by and the bizarre collection of houses and the woodland groves – it was strange and wonderful.
Every 20 minutes or so one of the young boat boys would make his way to the back, taking with him some passengers. The little boat would spin into reverse and slide skilfully alongside a pier. Then the passengers would hop out – some were obviously guests at a private house – their hosts stood waiting as we headed closer. But others were hotels or hostel or campsites.
Aha. So this is how it works, I finally realized. You tell the boatman where you’re staying, on which estuary and he drops you off. All too simple but how, before you went there, would you know where to go? It was still a mystery really. When we spotted a particularly attractive place, Alice and I wondered how we’d ever be able to make it back there – while some had huge signs others were unnamed. So, the rickety yellow house in the woods with a campsite and a nice garden, about an hour from Tigre. That’s where we want to go. No chance. Those boat boys were good but not that good.
Anyway we floated on and on. Finally we arrived at our stop – there was a woman fishing from the pier, a small beach and tents in the garden. The ‘hotel’ was eccentric to say the least. Chickens ran in the yard, the interior walls were covered in lumpy white stucco, the tiny lady who served us our drinks appeared to be part of an odd family who owned the place. Naturally I was desperate to stay. If you do, though, there’s no way out until the boat comes. It could make for a very long night.
As we left, on one side of the little pier the sun set in great golden streaks in a huge sky over the river and on the other the full moon rose in a navy blue night.
It was simply magnificent.
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