I was in Buenos Aires last winter getting ready to set out across The Pampas for Santiago.  I spent two days in the city assembling my gear and asking around for the best route through the city and onto Route 7.  I got many shaking heads and worried looks when I showed people my planned route and then I found someone who spoke English well enough to understand.  He said, "You can't go that way. Cycling through those neighborhoods isn't safe.  Where do you think you are? This isn't Montana!"  I was so anxious to get on with this trip that the last thing I wanted to do now was change my route so when he offered to drive me ten miles north of the city and get me started on a safer route I declined and set out along my way.

The neighborhoods were a little rundown and as I cycled along I looked neither left nor right for fear of making eye contact with some trouble, all the while muttering to myself, "Please God, no flat tires." over and over again.  About twenty minutes along the way a small delivery truck zoomed by entirely too close to my shoulder and swerved to a hard stop about a hundred feet ahead of me.  The driver jumped out and, keeping his eyes on me, walked back to the rear of his truck.  His passenger got out and disappeared around the front.  Still keeping his eyes on me, the driver opened the rear doors of his truck and glanced over his shoulder at me again as he reached into the truck for something.  By now I was about twenty feet away, knees knocking, wishing I could swing wide around him but knowing there was heavy traffic coming up behind me.  He grabbed something from inside his truck, stepped back and swung his arm around toward me.  He had sdomething in his hand.  It was a quart carton of cold fruit juice.  He handed it to me as I went by and gave me a big smile and thumbs up.

That was my closest encounter with trouble during a month of cycling across Argentina and into Chile.