Hunted-down in Mendoza: short travel article for The Telegraph Magazine Just Back From....

“We’ll have to split up” my boyfriend whispers, his face close to mine “or we’ll never lose them”.  It’s early evening in Mendoza, the sun is setting and long shadows create growing pools of darkness across Park General San Martin. We are hidden behind a tree, the trunk of which is just about wide enough to obscure the two of us.  The rough bark digs uncomfortably into my back as he leans against me and extends his head just a fraction to see if they are still there.  They are.  It’s been two hours, we’re tired and thirsty and now the gang have been joined by a third. Running back and forward, first noses to the ground and then up high into the air, like some shaggy-living-radar they are getting closer with every sweep.  God, I think, do I smell that much?  We are being hunted down by a growing pack of dogs and for such a little crime – feeding one of them the tail end of my hotdog supper.  It wasn’t even that good but now we were paying the price.  These are impressive dogs, the dogs of Mendoza.  Skinny, long legged, quick and bright - at road junctions they stop and sit patiently until the lights change and then cross with the crowd.  And because they are good natured too, it’s oh- so-hard not to weaken and buy them a snack.  They seem to have worked out that cultivating this blend of easy going charm and staying power improves the probability of a payoff, and they are right.  Later, as we skip into a bar that we never intended to visit we take a seat and peruse the wine list.  The one remaining dog sits in the doorway and peruses us.  After a few minutes it lies down, clearly in for the long haul.  I sigh and as I do so slip the bag of complimentary breadsticks into my pocket.  It rustles ever so slightly.  The dog hears this, its eyebrows flicker and it wags its tail and does what can only be described as a doggy smile.  It really does.  And we know that we are beat.  

Luckily by day three we work out the nemesis of the dogs of Mendoza and it comes in the ready shape of a bobby on the beat. A copper on a bicycle drives these dogs to distraction. Their hackles rise, they howl and bark, they run behind them snapping at any bit they can reach: shoe; trouser leg; bicycle wheel.  And it gives you just long enough to run, as quickly as you can, in the opposite direction.  And for a moment, it feels sad to lose your little four-legged acolyte which has followed you so loyally and unquestioningly.  It’s easy to get attached to their friendliness and canine charisma but you can be sure of one thing, in Mendoza, you’ve already been targeted by the next one.