The Search for Maccy D´s

Six long weeks passed in a country without McDonalds. How the Bolivian people survive is beyond all understanding. All Mikael and I knew was that we needed to get out, and quickly. Three days we headed south through the southern salt deserts of Bolivia towards the haven of Chile. As the richest country in South America, we were sure such success could only have been achieved through a steady diet of Big Mac´s and fries. We couldn´t have been more disappointed.

After 3 scorching days and 2 freezing nights, our jeep passed the solitary house in the middle of nowhere that indicates the entrance to Chile. An hour or so later and we arrive into the sweltering holiday town of San Pedro de Atecama. As our stomachs ached and our mouthes watered, motivated by thoughts of a quarter pounder with cheese, our spirits were drowned by the finding of only over-priced restaurants and money-grabbing tourist agencies. As the most expensive country in South America, it really was expensive. Once again, we had to get out.

With prices equalling if not exceeding those in Europe, even a coach out was miles out of our budget. We bought pasta and vegetables to control the hunger and camped under the stars in order to save as much money as we could. The following day we´re back on the border, but this time the Argentinian side. All we can see is a dusty road disappearing into the horizon, but at times we´re sure we can see those two golden arches, just out of reach. Maybe it was a mirage, but it gave us hope.

Our plan was to hitchhike. Two charming lads like us; who wouldn´t want to pick us up. Well, turns out that on a saturday afternoon (we had a little bit of a lie-in), there isn´t actually that many people doing anything, let alone taking the six hour drive over the wasteland dividing Chile from Argentina. A few do come and we take turns to sweet-talk them into giving us a lift, in their comfortable spacious 4-by-4´s, but to no avail. After six hours trying, by now more focused on our card game than the cars passing, border controller Juan was the one who eventually came through for us. We had become quite well-known at the border and Juan, the big bossman in charge, turned out to be the king of sweet-talk, sorting us out a ride in a lorry headed for Uruguay.

The driver was Manuel. He was a nice enough guy, but totally and utterly impossible to understand. We would beg him to speak slower, but my very limited experience of Chilean people suggests that this only encourages them to speak faster.

All in all, driving with Manuel turned out to be fun. The scenery was beautiful and he happily provided a running commentary of what we were seeing. Mostly we just nodded and smiled; having absolutely no idea what words he was muttering. But in less than 24 hours we had successfully arrived into the Argentinian province of Salta and had been dropped off in the tiny village of Fraile Pintado. This was almost perfect. Only three hours from the aptly named capital of the Salta province; "Salta," in an area where buses run regularly. Only one obstacle stood in our way: we had exactly zero Argentian cash, the people in the village had barely even heard of cash machines, and the buses turned out to be rudely unwilling to take a rain-cheque. We both knew there was absolutely no way we were spending another half day thumbing down cars, so we provided an offer no-one in the village could refuse. We sold our dollars at a rate of one dollar per Argentine peso; the equivalent of selling your soul for a doughnut... and unfair but necessary sacrifice.

The final stretch, approaching the city of Salta, and we´re both feeling the strain. Not a normal hunger but the kind that can only be quenched by a round of hashbrowns and an EggMcMuffin, was piercing through our veins. After arrival we are almost brought to tears when a taxi-driver has never heard of McDonalds. But we compose ourselves; we know better, we´ve been on the McDonalds website, we have an address! We have faith. We´re now in no doubt; there really is a god. As the taxi turns the final corner, never have a pair of grown men been more excited. As we stand before the golden gates of Salta McDonalds the tears finally begin to flow, but this time with joy. After six days and five nights and over a month of Mc-food deprivation we´ve finally reached our goal.

Moral of the story kids: You never really know what you have until it´s not there any more. Eat McDonalds while you can!