I expected a fold out map, available at most filling stations, or through Argentina's equivalent of the American Automobile Association; aptly named, the Argentine Automobile Club, (Automóvil Club Argentino).

A map; you know, one of those paper things that provide an indication of where one is based on a picture (facsimile) of reality reduced to a composit of reality. Map: a. A representation, usually on a plane surface, of a region of the earth or heavens. b. Something that suggests such a representation, as in clarity of representation.

A bit of background will explain my naivety: I remember radios when they were four feet tall. They had three knobs. One in the middle, one on right, one on the left.  The one in the middle was for changing the station, the one on the left was the volume control, the right knob was supposed to be a speaker adjustment control of some sort, but it never seemed to do much. Now, I can clearly recall that I was not allowed to touch this complicated device; its operation was clearly beyond the ability of a child, only an adult could operate such an advanced piece of technical apparatus.

Years later I watched while a seven year old talked with another seven year old on the other side of the planet on Skype.  They were playing a video game together. 

My understanding of technology was much colored by my early experience with the first radios. Anything with more than three control knobs challenges my intellect. . . . and my concept of a roadmap is a diagram on folded paper, that one keeps in the glove box of ones car. They used to give them away at Texaco stations back in the Paleocene.

Here's what happened: When I went out to the car, there on the dash board of the car was a device that looked like something out of a Star Trek film. What's that, I asked?

The GPS, she said.

What's a GeePiss, I asked.

G-P-S, she said slowly, as if to a child; a global positioning system.

Wow, we're going to reposition the planet, I said facetiously.  Where's the map?

We won't need a map, the GPS will tell us where to turn, which highway is best, where cafes are located, where we can get gasoline, everything.

Where's the map, I asked.

Looking at me as if I were a dinosaur, she smiled tightly.  If we need a map, we'll stop and get one, Give the GPS a try.

The device on the dashboard spoke in español; la cuba dejada, da vuelta a la derecha, hay 40 pies resturant a continuación, parada, va, . . . bla bla bla. 

My español being impoverished, I got a large percentage of what it said. But not all.

Not all.

We headed out of town, into the great desert that makes up that part of Argentina.  I stopped at the first shrine to Deolinda Correa, and left a bottle of water.  It never hurts to be on the safe side.

Difunta Correa they call her, the Deceased Correa. According to popular legend, Deolinda Correa's husband was forcibly recruited during the Argentine civil wars. Becoming sick, he had been abandoned by the Montoneras [partisans]. In an attempt to reach her sick husband, Deolinda took her small child and followed the tracks of the Montoneras through the desert of San Juan Province. When her water ran out, she died. Her body was found days later by gauchos that were driving cattle through the area. To their astonishment, the gauchos found the baby still alive, feeding from the deceased woman's "miraculously" ever-full breast. The men buried the body of Deolinda Correa in present-day town of Vallecito, [valley of mention] and took the baby with them.

In order to get to Córdoba we were going to drive through San Juan Province where Deolinda Correa had died. I should have taken all this as a definite sign of what was to come. Was Difunta Correa telling me something?  Or was I listening to a GPS device designed by an Argentine based on his vision of the highway system of Argentina? In español.

Things went well for the first few hours, I even found some Cuban cigars in Villa Dolores, where we had an excellent lunch. The GPS 'knew' of several restaurants, but I did notice that its understanding of a town was not complete, nor was it up-to-date.  Well, that's as it should be, I thought, one cannot go through every town in Argentina on a daily basis and update a system that didn't have a plurality of users. I suspected that some day, when enough 'users' of the Argentine GPS system used the device that it would be more thorough and up-to-date. I wouldn't have been so forgiving if I knew what was to come.

Some hours later we entered a mountainous region near Alta Gracia, complete with a forest of trees and mountain breezes. It was as lovely a place as I've ever seen in Argentina, and sparsely populated.

Why did you turn left back there, my companion suddenly asked me.

What was I supposed to do, isn't this the main road?

The GPS said to turn right.

It did?

Yes.

Okay, I'll turn right at one of these side roads and back track. So, I turned right. On a forest road.

It would be easy, I'd take the first cross road to the right, turn right, and return to the road I had missed.

Some minutes passed without a sign of a side road, I was on the verge of turning back when a side road finally appeared. The GPS said something.  Did it say to turn left, or did I imagine it? 

Yes, it said to turn left. 

I thought you told me that it said we were supposed to turn right? 

Well, it knows the way, I suspect that if you turn left you'll reach the road.

So I turned left.

We were now in dense forest on a dirt road.

We traveled for for some miles, and then the GPS spoke again.  What'd it say, I asked, unwilling to trust my español any further.

It says that there is a road coming up and you are supposed to turn right.  The forest was by this time dense, the road increasingly narrow. After crossing a bridge built for only a single vehicle, we came to a smaller road, that had the appearance of a goat track. 

Perhaps we should turn back, I suggested.

It says to turn right, this is the way to Córdoba. 

A goat track?

It will lead to the main road, she said. I seemed to note a lack of confidence in her voice. It was getting dark, and visibility was decreasing.  Reluctantly I turned right.

As the road diminished in size, the light diminished in luminosity. The road became more like a creek bed than a road, and less visible as the light decreased.  The GPS spoke again. This time I heard it clearly, turn left it said.

Okay, there was another path that branched off to the left, the elevation was increasing, the sky was turning a moonless black. I turned left.

And so it went. I followed the GPS faithfully up into the mountains until we reached a dead-end, a pad-locked gate prevented further progress.  The road was now a creek bed, almost as narrow as the car, with a precipice on one side. We had to turn the car around where no car could turn, and retrace our path to the last cross road we'd seen. We were now at least 20 miles from where we'd left the main highway. It took us a half hour of inching forward and backwards to turn the car around. We then headed back down the narrow road.

We turned on the first cross-road we came to, opposite to the direction recommended by the GPS. It was now so dark that I could see nothing except what was in the direct headlights of the car.  We continued straight for some time.  It was featureless. Forest. Oddly, there were occasional cabins, but no occupants, no lights, except an occasional security light. What is this, I asked.

These are summer cabins for the people who live in Córdoba. They come here on vacation.

How do you know that, I asked her.

Silence.

We just passed a store, she said suddenly.

A store? How do you know that?  What's a store doing in the wilderness? Who do they sell things to?  How do you know it was a store?

We just passed a store, she said.

I stopped the car.  How do you know you saw a store, I asked again.

I saw the lights off to the side.

Okay, I turned around, and backtracked.  There was a store.  A one room construction, off to the side of the road, with one dim bulb lighting the interior. A man sat behind the counter, another, who I suppose was a customer stood by the counter.  They must have been chatting, but had ceased when we stopped the car. They must have been fascinated to see two complete strangers enter the store.  I was fascinated that such a store could exist in the middle of what I took to be absolute desolation.

After an exchange in español between my companion and the two men, some of which I could follow, we were informed that we were a few miles from a road that led to Córdoba.

Can what occurred be explained? 

I imagine that what happened can be understood, after a fashion.  The GPS wasn't lying. A goat, or a man on horseback could have eventually reached Córdoba by following the GPS. There was no road, but there was a way. Those that had programmed the Argentine GPS, had programmed the main roads, not the side streets, country roads, (or goat paths) of which there are many thousands (millions?) in Argentina.

It was 'good enough'. 

It was good enough. Accurate for an extraterrestrial , or someone seeking a general indication from outer space. From outer space where the GPS satellite sits, one goat path is as good as another. If you're on a horse you can reach Córdoba using that GPS. Maybe.

We reached Córdoba that evening. A lovely city. Occupied by Argentines.

In all the accounts of Deolinda Correa, they never mention if her child was a boy or a girl, nor how the child's life unfolded. I guess it was enough to have a mother who was a saint.

Gracias Deolinda Correa, for leading me to Córdoba. . . . and to an airline that wasn't Argentine. I for one, accept your sainthood.