The Old Patagonian Express, in
southern Argentina -- almost at the end of the world
-- was the last train Theroux took. Months before,
he had set out from Boston one wintry morning,
boarding Amtrak’s Lake Shore Limited for the first
leg of his trip zigzagging through the Americas.
Ahead lay more trains, over a score -- The Lone
Star, The Aztec Eagle, The Balboa Bullet, El
Pariamericano, La Estrella del Norte, and even the
Buenos Aires subway, El Subterraneo. Ahead lay
Mexico, Guatemala, Colombia, Ecuador, the Andean
high plains of Peru, the Argentine pampas. Ahead,
above all, were people -- extraordinary, eccentric,
boorish, exotic. There were the “Zonians” in Panama
and the horrendous soccer fans in El Salvador. There
was the bogus priest in Cali, the American woman in
Veracruz looking for her lover, and the monologuing
Mr. Thornberry in Costa Rica. And -- very
different-- there were the confidences of the
near-legendary writer Borges in Buenos Aires.
The journey from Boston to Patagonia was one of
startling contrasts --in culture, climate,
landscape, in altitude and attitude. Some of the
trains were splendid; most were deplorable. Scenic
magnificence vied with squalor and corruption, and
the hilarious alternated with the horrifying. |
