Travel Reference
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community. Father Superior O'Connor made me welcome, my horses were cared for, and the
Brethren showed me the greatest hospitality. We all sat down together at the supper-table but,
to my dismay, I found I was the only one eating. It was a fast day, but nevertheless the good
monks made me an excellent dinner, after which I was conducted to a comfortable guest-
chamber, where I slept the sleep of the just until 6 a.m., disturbed only by the chanting of the
Brethren whilecelebrating Matinsinthesmall hours.WhenIleftafterbreakfast Iwasgivena
cordial send-off by the entire community. I shall always have a soft spot in my heart for these
kindly brothers.
Whenever the day's journey ended in a village I would pass the night in the local hotel (?)
if such a thing existed, and if there was no other place for the horses would put them in the
corral of the
comisaria
(police station). On one occasion while I was looking after the anim-
als at one of these places two tramps were brought in. I have seen tramps and hobos in many
countries, but for real class commend me to the
linghera
or Argentine variety. The majority
have long hair and beards, and their torn and ragged
bombachas
(baggy trousers), from fre-
quent patching, would resemble Joseph's coat were it not for the fact that all trace of colour
is usually concealed by age and dirt. These two gentlemen had been brought to the
comisaria
,
not because they had committed any crime, but just in case of accidents, that they might be
safeforthenight.TouseanIrishism,theywerenotdrunkbuthaddrinktaken,andneverhave
I heard protest expressed in such flowery language as that used by those elderly wayfarers.
'Why should the finer feelings of poor but highly desirable citizens be trodden on by the tyr-
ant police? It was gross injustice to strangers and they would certainly put the matter in the
hands of their solicitors…' The
comisario
and his assistant listened patiently for some time,
apparently with the greatest respect and admiration, but at length, growing tired of it, they
conducted their guests to the
calabozo
and turned the key on them. The torrent of righteous
indignation continued for some time, and then they drowned their sorrows in song until sleep
finally overcame them.
At last we arrived at Rosario. Heavy storms forced me to postpone our departure for some
days, and the newspapers began to hint delicately that I was getting 'cold feet': as a matter of
factIhadplentyoftimeandtosparetoreachBoliviainthedryseason,andtherewasnosense
in getting unnecessary wettings; there would be plenty of unavoidable ones later.
After some time the weather cleared and we were able to resume our journey. From Rosario
I took a north-westerly course towards the Bolivian border and for over two hundred miles
travelled through fertile cattle and corn country. It was dull, to put it mildly. I can imagine
nothingmoreuninterestingthancontinuousjourneyingalongthesestraightroads,borderedby
