On a crisp Monday, January 29, 2024, I found myself rooted in the tranquil town of Malargue, nestled within Argentina's vast landscapes. My Renault Kangoo van had been my steadfast companion for over 25,000 kilometres, but on this day, it was the town and its people who captured my heart, embodying the warmth and quiet resilience that define Argentina.
The day began with an unassuming yet telling encounter at a YPF gas station washroom. The tiled floors and well-used sinks might have suggested the usual utilitarian space, but the atmosphere was surprisingly serene. As I fumbled my way through my morning routine, perhaps a bit clumsily, the locals' responses were nothing short of gracious. There was an unspoken understanding, a shared recognition that I was a traveller far from home, and they offered their patience and kindness as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In that simple clean washroom, I felt the first stirrings of Malargue's unique charm — a place where even the mundane is touched by gentle humanity.
Lunchtime found me at a small café, where I was greeted by a young waiter with a disarming smile. The menu, laden with local specialities, could have been overwhelming, but his easy manner and thoughtful explanations dissolved any confusion. Here was a glimpse into the Argentine spirit—unhurried, considerate and warm. As I savoured each bite, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of comfort, not just from the food and Mendoza red wine but from the genuine hospitality that made me feel less like a stranger and more like a welcomed guest.
Over the meal, a waiter named Rafael shared a piece of his life with me. His tale was woven with pride as he spoke of his San Rafael origins, the story of Malbec grapes, and how the French brought them to Mendoza, recognising the volcanic soil's potential. The conversation flowed naturally, each word a thread that connected us. In that moment, the vastness of Argentina seemed to shrink, reduced to a shared table where stories, like the wine, were poured generously and without reservation.
Later in the day, I chanced upon a Chilean family of five, their laughter echoing through the streets, followed by a group of female journalists who were engrossed in animated conversation. The diversity of voices, opinions and experiences was intoxicating. These moments of connection, brief yet meaningful, enriched my journey, adding new colours to the already vibrant medley of my travels.
Supermarket Snapshots: The Subtle Dignity of Everyday Life:
A quick visit to the corner supermarket offered another window into the life of Malargue's residents. Families moved with a quiet frugality, their interactions with the staff respectful and warm, despite the economic challenges that loomed over their lives. It was witness to the Argentine way — dignity preserved even in the face of adversity, a stoic acceptance that spoke volumes about the resilience of these people.
What struck me most, however, was the profound understatement with which the Argentineans carry themselves. Despite their nation's three Jules Rimet Trophy victories, there was no brashness, no overt celebration. Even the sensitive subject of the Malvinas was approached with a reserved dignity, free from the xenophobic bravado that might be expected elsewhere. It was a powerful lesson in humility, one that lingered with me long after I left the town.
As the day wore on, the influence of Roman Catholicism on Argentinean life became more apparent. The reverence for the church, Jesus and Mother Mary mirrored the deep-rooted faith I had encountered in Italy. In Malargue, this faith provided not just spiritual guidance but also a sense of community and security, something I felt keenly as I navigated my way through the town's streets.
As I looked up at the brilliant azzuro-blue skies, it was impossible not to feel the deep affinity between Argentina and Italy. The skies here, vast and endless, mirrored those over Tuscany — a shared Mediterranean blue that spoke of a historical connection between these lands. It wasn’t just the architecture or the occasional strains of Italian in the streets; it was the very soul of the place, where the warmth of the people and the richness of the culture echoed that of Italy. In Argentina, I found not just a land far from home, but a kindred spirit — a reflection of the place where my journey began.
The following day, Tuesday, January 30, brought with it a tinge of sadness as I prepared to leave Malargue. This place, with its friendly dogs, the familiar YPF staff and its welcoming streets, had begun to feel like home. But the road called, and so I set off towards San Rafael, the Kangoo van humming along the pristine surface of Ruta 40, with the Andes standing tall to my left and the sprawling plains of Los Llanos to my right.
The mesmerising vastness of Ruta 40: The drive was serene, the kind of peace that only comes from being surrounded by endless horizons. Talking Heads provided the soundtrack, their beats blending with the whisper of the wind as I passed El Chacay and agricultural fields that clung to the Andes' foothills. The landscape was nothing short of magical, vast and unspoiled, a true representation of Argentina's boundless beauty.
Temptation at the Andes' Foot: At one point, a lone gravel path tempted me with its promise of adventure, leading straight to the base of the Andes. The snow-capped Aconcagua, the highest peak outside of Asia, loomed in the distance, beckoning me to explore further. But with fuel in mind, I opted for the safer route, letting the Kangoo glide along the smooth tarmac of Ruta 144, even as my thoughts drifted back to another time and place — Malaysia in 1969, during the Segamat floods.
As the kilometres ticked by, I passed tiny oilfields and a lone gaucho, his truck parked by the roadside, dogs resting in the back. The sight of him, framed against the endless horizon, evoked a sense of freedom, the kind that comes only from the open road. Neil Young’s “Harvest” played in my mind, transporting me back to those days in Lancaster, where dreams were both made and unmade.
As I approached San Rafael, the landscape began to change. The arid plains gave way to lush vineyards and verdant fields, a stark contrast that only deepened my appreciation for Argentina's diversity. A ramshackle parrilla on the outskirts of town provided a memorable meal — a feast of asado, expertly grilled by a booming-voiced gaucho. The meat, succulent and rich with flavour, rivalled any high-end dining experience, yet cost only a song. As I parked the van at yet another YPF, I savoured the asado, washing it down with the last of the wine from Malargue, and marvelled at the simple yet profound joy of the meal.
The day ended with an encounter at a YPF café, where a lone Chinese man caught my eye. Hoping for a conversation, I approached him, only to be met with a curt dismissal — a solitary flick of the head that spoke volumes. The moment took me back to my youth in Malaya, reminding me of my father's words about the inscrutable nature of the Chinese. It was a sharp contrast to the warmth I had encountered throughout Argentina, a reminder that not all connections are meant to be made.
As I settled into the Kangoo for the night, the road ahead still uncertain, I felt a deep sense of contentment. Tomorrow would bring new adventures, perhaps a journey northwest towards Mendoza, but for now, I was at peace. The vastness of Argentina, its people, its landscapes, and its stories, had woven themselves into the fabric of my journey, leaving me richer for the experience.
This piece, coloured with the hues of Argentina’s land and its people, captures the essence of my journey. As I write from Tuscany, reflecting on these distant yet vivid memories, I’m reminded of the deep connections and the enduring beauty of the road — wherever it may lead.
Philip George is a former badminton player and author of the book 'Racket Boy'. He lives in Tuscany, Italy.
