The weather señor had spoken: he'd predicted the change and he'd given us our hosing of rain, our blast of wind, and our school house camping. In a two day period, temperatures have fallen from an afternoon high of 42°C to a new high that comes in at a sub 20°C, from a humidity and an armour of salt encrusted constraints, to multiple layers that starts with a base of woollen undies. Night times have moved from sleeping in the scud and a sticky sweaty pool, to a wrap around of duvet and heavy wet morning dews. It seems to be a newsworthy item as the prophetically named 'Chronic TV', has despatched a roving cameraman to wander the capital's pavments, recording people wearing coats, scarves and gloves. The school run is in full flow, with four to a moto or two to a cycle, and all will have their hands thrust deep into pockets, circus skills that have amused and entertained us on many occasions.
Just as suddenly we are back to being the sole denizens of the mid-week municipal campgrounds and gas station rest areas. It's part seasonal, part calendar, part geography. We've headed away from the touristic sierras, away from the Germanically themed towns of gothic script and wooden stieners, transplanted into school time and on to the flat of the Pampa. A place where corn and soya, beef and politics play a greater role than divesting the travellers of their pesos. Which for ourselves translates as a return to reasonable accommodation charges and the encouraging responses of the passing grain trucks. A return to an honesty of real working towns and the advent of mists and mellow fruitfulness, or at least the itchy dust from combines and the dull drone of grain dryers.
