Buenos Aires, my adopted home in Argentina, is a city densely packed with boutiques, cafes, gourmet restaurants and galleries. The city’s 12 million residents jam the streets. There are live performances every night, from theatre, to opera to big-ticket rock concerts. Traffic is heavy and chaotic–and noisy. Commuter trains burst at the seams.

I recently hopped on one of those crowded trains northbound to explore another side of Buenos Aires. I wanted to escape to the quiet countryside that exists a short distance from the vibrant core.

Today I’m relaxing on an island in the Tigre Delta. The only traffic is on the river, or strolling along its banks. The scent of quebracho fires permeates the air from a thousand backyard barbecues that smolder amid the network of islands dotted with weekend cabins.

The Tigre Delta is a 14,000-square-kilometer area at the mouth of the Parana river. It’s about 20 miles north of the city of Buenos Aires. A short ride on a local commuter train.

The region was mostly populated with farms until midway through the last century. A short walk from the train station, the “Puerto de Frutas,” is a legacy of this period. It’s the port where islanders would deliver produce for transport to the city. In 1986, it was inaugurated as a market for local farmers and artisans. Today it is overflowing with tourists and vacationers.

We stop to buy some perfect black figs, and a big bag of locally grown pecans, and then stroll over to the pier to find a water taxi.

A short boat-ride into the islands and the scenery is completely transformed. Out here, there are no walls or gates surrounding the properties, and bars on the windows are rare. It’s a dramatic contrast to the closed architecture and hidden courtyards of the nearby city.

Many of the wooden cottages balance on stilts above the high water line.

Precarious wooden walkways arch over tributaries that snake between the islands. There are manicured lawns with fruit trees and fat-blossomed blue hydrangeas.

The taxi driver seems to know everyone on the river. He knows the cottage we’re headed to by name. He hands each of us up onto the dock, and we arrange for him to pick us up later in the evening. When I move to pay him, he waves it away. Says we can catch him on the ride back.

Now I’m standing on the lower level of the dock, knee-deep in cool river water. My pants are rolled up over my knees, but the bottoms are waterlogged from the wake of passing commuter ferries. My daughter is hanging off my arm, jumping over the incoming wake. She waves furiously at a passing barge, signaling it in to shore.

The boat’s tattered, striped awning flaps in the breeze as it swings towards us. Up on the dock, the approaching barge gathers an enthusiastic crowd. As the captain pulls in and grabs hold of the pier, his companion flips open the lid to her onboard freezer.

She digs out a kilo of Dulce de Leche ice cream for us and passes it up to waiting hands. The kids quickly desert me on the dock in pursuit of the ice cream tub. As the captain shouts amiably to a passing group of rowers in sleek wooden skulls, I’m handed a paper bag of waffle cones and the boat pushes off.

Here, as in the city of Buenos Aires, a service culture is prevalent. In the city, my dry-cleaner drops by on his way home to hand-deliver my clothes, and a stock boy from the local grocery will drop in to collect my returnable bottles when he delivers me a few liters of beer.

In the islands, if I hanker for a beer, I have only to wait and flag down a passing provisions barge.

Now, sitting here on the riverbank, polishing off my waffle cone, it’s hard to imagine that there’s a crowded city of 12 million people just a short train-ride away. It’s one of my favorite things about our chosen home. I have access to the cultural delights of the city, and in under an hour I can be a million miles away.

Luisa Woods
For International Living