Amable Bolivianos from Beni

6 August 2010 in Bolivia by Stacey | 1 comment

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(10:45, 1 August, taking refuge in our room, San Ignatio de Moxos, Bolivia) I’m definitely not hung-over because the drink on offer last night was Leche de Tigre (Tiger’s Milk), warm milk with spices and near pure alcohol, so I probably managed about 4 Tablespoons over the 8 odd hours we spent in the improvised bar, dancing with a local pregnant woman and her husband and sister. Nevertheless my brain has the distinct feeling of being removed from reality, like that which comes with the morning after. It may have something to do with the fact that there is a live brass band surrounded by drunk dancing men just outside our door in the courtyard of our hostel. Tireless! They have no doubt been playing all night, one of the older guys is asleep, his head hanging forward and his trumpet fallen to the floor beside him. It’s coming down in buckets and the drunk hostel owner’s wet clothes are evidence of the harzards of having a tiled floor. But the rain hasn’t dampened the energies of the few wasted guys trying to convince anyone walking past to join in by cajoling damply into your ear and feeling you up. Read the rest of this entry »

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Itsy bitsy teeny weeny

6 August 2010 in Bolivia by Stacey | No comments

(15:15, 26 July, Immigration Office, Santa Cruz, Bolivia) I wasn’t the cut-off exactly, but it was the woman just 2 ahead of me who was the last to be served before Immigration closed for lunch. When I was in Sucre I went to the office there to check because my 30-day visa expires on the 28th of July. The Santa Cruz office, being in a big city, is much bigger and quite well organized (in fact I have written this entire blog post on the little slip of paper they gave me listing what I would require for an extension and how to go about getting one step-by-step), but there are obviously far more people available for making queues.

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Noisy but nice

6 August 2010 in Bolivia by Stacey | No comments

(22:35, 23 July, Bed in Room 1 next to the stairs of Hospedaje Paola, Samaipata, Bolivia) I wouldn’t say I was scared, but I still took the precaution of standing on the bed before I lifted my food packet to reveal that it was only the curly plastic that had come loose from the very book I am writing in, and not a mouse which had been my momentary imaginative suspicion. The thing is, there’s a bit of a scratchy rodenty noise in my ceiling which I can hear along with the chatter and cutlery clatter of downstairs, and between the spates of magnified flushings and drippings and gushings from the bathroom directly above me. The plumbing forms 2 diagonal pipe stripes hanging from the ceiling, in the corners of my room towards the barebulb light. I thought of asking for a different room but even upstairs in the shared kitchen every noise seems amplified. Only a little less than in my room, as I waited for the kettle to boil, I could hear the noisy conversation in the restaurant two floors down; the shuffling of chairs, the metal on metal sounds of the preparation of food, footsteps up and down, as though it was all happening right inside my own head. I’ve been reading quite contently with my fancy earphones transmitting silence to mute the commotion, but I took them out for a moment’s break, and I feel like the antisocial cousin locked in my room entertaining myself during a family gathering. The hostel isn’t particularly dirty, the bed’s ok and the staff seem friendly enough. It’s just that there are at least three generations of them and they are all down in the restaurant having a lively dinner while I’m cooped up in my single room, my door only a few stairs away.

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Ear Fear

6 August 2010 in Bolivia by Stacey | No comments

(12:15, 14 July, Cafe Mirrador looking out over Sucre, Bolivia) From here up the hill, Sucre is terracotta and white and spans out into the day in all directions until it meets some flat farm-topped hills with mountains behind them. I was up here some days ago with a friend and a glass of wine. We had to rush down to confirm that we would be trekking, in the very mountains the sun had been setting behind whilst we had been distracted discussing his past and my various possible futures. We left for the hike a day later instead, which meant we had to do the 2-day, skipping the last leg so Ollie, who is of Dutch parentage, would be back in Sucre for the final. Pushing it back a day also allowed me to recruit another couple to accompany myself, Ollie and Andreas, the guy who had initiated the trip.

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Blue, white and airless

6 August 2010 in Bolivia by Stacey | No comments

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(17:52, 2 July, Internet café in Uyuni, Bolivia) I considered sticking around in Tupiza for a while to ride a horse where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid met their maker but, having enquired at tour companies about tour groups with spaces for the Salar de Uyuni since we arrived that afternoon, I decided to write my name down with Rob, a guy I meet on the train, with the first very lovely woman we had spoken to. The fact that I could get to the reasonably sized town of Potosi to watch Argentina play on Saturday may have sweetened the deal. So we met, bags packed, for coffee on Tuesday morning and having introduced ourselves to the driver and cook we embarked on something my tired brain can only call indescribable.

(13:30, 3 July, Koala Cafe, Potosi, Bolivia) Honestly, I don’t know how to explain this tour to you all. We drove for 3 and a half days across the southwest of Bolivia, through some of the most incredible and surreal scenery and always up and up and up. We saw green lakes, red lakes, white lakes, multi-coloured mountains, black volcanoes, deep brown sand dunes, beige deserts. It was like the whole landscape had turned up the colour. The sky was a bluer blue, the grass more intensely golden, the weird plant that grows on the occasional rock was so dynamically green it was almost luminescent. It’s as if the normal world, where things exist at normal altitudes, is blurred and stunted by the extra layer of atmosphere it has to bear. On the antiplano, the sun is that bit nearer, the muffling insulation of air is thin, everything is crisper and sharper. Including the cold. The mornings and evenings were painfully cold! The freezing wind blows uninhibited and penetrates to your bones through the tiniest gap between scarf and hood or cuff and glove, and dare you wash your hands! Even at midday, water waits to be released by the sunshine, frozen in patches of shadow that won’t be moved until the seasons change.

And amongst the thermal pools and sulphuric geysers and the expanses of ice, are flamingos and strange rodents and llama and sheep. And people! An implausibly large number of people, growing their crops and tending their animals. There is something confused inside of me when I see a “village” of five families, a cluster of stone buildings, from which, every day, a team of men walk out to work on the tiny goldmine on their doorstep. Or when I see a woman in long socks and a traditional pleated skirt, knees bare, walking along a frozen riverbed in the frigid hours of the early morning. The tour in its entirety is one of those things that makes you wonder what it’s all for. And there’s nowhere better than sitting in the middle of a salt flat, in a dichotomy of extreme blue and extreme white, to feel like the answer must be simply insolvably simple.

Check out the enormous photoalbum on facebook: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=191761&id=504021698

Amazing, cos its salt it forms these perfect crystals with pink stuff growing between…


Soccer on salt


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Bolivia at Last

3 July 2010 in Bolivia by Stacey | 2 comments

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(16:25 Uruguay time, Monday 28 June, Bus between Villazon at Argentine border and Tupiza) Nearly two months into my trip and finally I’m in Bolivia! I’ve spent the whole day travelling but through the most astounding scenery. The train I am on, supposedly the best form of travel from the border, doesn’t run every day so I had to plan ahead for my trip from Salta – another reason to linger in the city which has been my longest stop by far, about 17 days.

Busing in the Quebrada (mountains) north of Salta is relatively easy and the spectacular route through coloured mountains and yellow plains, thorny with cacti, runs from one quaint montane town to the next, each with its share of tourist to-do’s and see’s and more hostels than necessary at this time of year. Despite the recommendations of most Salteños, I decided to stop in San Salvador de Juyjuy, the capital city of the northern Juyjuy province, just to check it out. Unfortunately I had stayed out clubbing until 6.30am from the night before, which had been normal for Salta, except my bus to Jujuy left at 7am.

I knew I was tired (I have a small bruise on my right eyebrow where I kept falling asleep against the window pane while I tried to watch the view from my first bus) and I had my whole pack with me, so after I walked around, went to a few museums and felt like I had had a taste of the city, I stretched out on a park bench in the sun to have a kip. Obviously, I missed my bus to Pumamarca so I bought the next ticket north, direct to Tilcara, which was supposed to be my stop for the following night. There’s a lot to do there and I could always take a local bus back to Pumamarca if I liked.

But halfway between the two, a little town called Maimara had beautiful vegetables growing along what is literally called ” The Painted Mountain” for its colouration. A Hostelling International sign provoked the idea and given a couple of metres to remember it had been some time since my last spontaneous decision, I sprung up to tell the driver I planned to stay. Having checked in as the only guest at the Flor de Maimara, without doubt one of the loveliest hostels I have stayed in, with the most helpful receptionist, I walked through the “rural sector” on my way to the the local vineyard and indeed the vegetables were lush and large. I slept when I sat down at a table overlooking the fields of grape vines, and I slept when I sat down on the lazyman’s mirrador (the real one looked a bit ambitious in my state) so it seemed if I stopped moving at all, I slept. Personally I blame it on the altitude. After about 12 hours without movement, in my hostel bed, I felt much more acclimatized!

I shared a taxi to Pumamarca with five locals (too many) to see the famous Cerro de Seite Colores (Hill of the Seven Colours), collected my things and thoughts back in Maimara and headed to Tilcara with only enough time to hurriedly hike to the waterfalls and back before the Argentina Mexico match. Considering the victory, the cold and the fact that it was Sunday, it is understandable that none of the museums I had wanted to see were open.

Unlike before, it seems most people are now heading in the same direction as me at the moment, so I caught a bus to the border with most of the other 18-odd guests staying at my hostel. Having waiting some time for the Bolivian border control to get more of the papers they needed to print my visa, I arrived at the train terminal to find the only tickets left were first class (Ejectivo) to Tupiza. Whilst it cost about three times the popular class, I’m secretly thrilled because I’ve had an extremely comfortable trip with lots of legroom, big windows and enough free seats to switch around when the view’s better on the other side. And I would never have paid the extra given a choice. Plus the complimentary ham and cheese roll and coke is almost all I’ve eaten all day. The only question now that I’m finally in Bolivia is which soccer team to support!

I took a bunch of photots out of the bus window, check out the album on facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/stacey.hopebailie#!/album.php?aid=189493&id=504021698

Funeral procession down the streets of Villazon, amongst the buses


Front seat on the bus! Yay for big windows!
Villazon, border town, Bolivia


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Salta Stop

25 June 2010 in Argentina, Uncategorized by Stacey | 1 comment

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(15:05, Mon 14 May, Plaza Belgrano, Salta Argentina) I knew I had to get to a big city for the World Cup so I skipped the Quilmes Ruins and caught the afternoon bus to Salta from Cafayate. No less than 5 exactly the same offers and fliers from hostels awaited me at the bus station and in my indecision I turned down their free taxis to walk to the main plaza and think. Still walking around, with all my kit, I ran into Alon from Cafayate about 2 hours later. He had gone with the first hostel who approached him and whilst he wasn’t that impressed with it, I took his advice about checking in somewhere before walking around the city any longer, to at least put down my backpack – one can always change hostels the following day if need be. I headed for the nearest one, and it turned out to be awesome. There has been a party practically every night just up the road in Balcarce Street (where all clubs and bars are) and Mariana, who works at the hostel organizes free entrance and free drinks and we all go out as a big group. The other guests have all been fantastic people so far and the staff are awesome.

I forgot about the time zone issue and missed the opening concert which was showing early on Thurs here, so I was a bit moapy but by Friday morning I was in good spirits with my SA flag tied around my neck ready to find a pub to watch the game. I rounded up a few people and we set out down Balcarce Street to find, in horror, that they were all closed. We had walked about 10 blocks and the kickoff was drawing nearer so I abandoned the others and ran (yes, ran) down the street to get back to the hostel for the anthems. The few people shouting Sudafrica as I sprinted by in my flag kept me feeling excitedly anxious and the other guests helped by fussing over me as we sat ourselves down in front of the hostel television. Fox Sports showed a split screen with fans in a Gringo bar in Buenos Aires and the fan fest in Johannesburg on the other – not helpful in soothing the pang of regret, but exciting indeed. A clock in the corner of the screen showed 5:15 which we rationalized as being the time in South Africa (5 hour difference, the game was scheduled to begin at 11am here). But when the anthems hadn’t even started by 11:07, the excuses about African timing were sounding unlikely and it suddenly dawned on me that the clock in the corner was showing the minutes into the match! We were watching a channel that was showing people WATCHING the game! So I missed the first few minutes but the match was amazing and aside from our little defense mishap (a little disappointing) I was beaming with pride. It may have been better for me to miss the anthem because I would unboubtedly have been in tears.

Its been really difficult to be here, so far from the vibe at home. Regret lurks heavy in my heart all the time. Especially because, to most tourists’ dismay, the Salteños don’t seem to be interested in any matches that Argentina aren’t playing. Sadder still, even the first Argentinian match on Saturday morning involved none of the big screens in the plaza or pubs overflowing with drunken celebrations that I had expected. Festivities heightened with the win and we joined the 100 odd spectators dancing around the main square at close of play. But even there it was mostly teenage boys dotted conspicuously with gringos. I had met a number of them along my travels and when I went to greet them, many shared in my confusion about the lack of fanfare. No-one had managed to find a cozy pub to watch the games – the Irish pub in Salta does’t even have a tv- so I decided something had to be done. I did a short scout around and found a restaurant/patiserie with a decently sized television and spread the word that, even if no Argentinians would be watching, we would all meet up to watch the England USA match that afternoon.
So although it wasn’t the most enchanting match, at least we had a decent beer-drinking crowd throwing insults at each other about their goalie being “Green with envy”.

I’ve squeezed a few touristy things in between partying, recovering and watching soccer matches, but I’ve been taking the tourist thing pretty easy here. I’ve decided to stay on for a celebration on Thursday in honour of General Guemes who saved the city during the Wars of Independence, which promised to involve bonfires, dancing and 2000 cowboys. So I took this morning off to catch up on my planning and blogging. Tomorrow I tackle some more of the city sights and at some point I’ll head northwards and upwards to aclimatize for the altitiude in Bolivia.

(12:20, Wed 23 June, computer in house of couchsurfer, outskirts of Salta, Argentina) It became something of a joke at the Sol Huasi hostel in Salta centro. Every morning a few people’s bags stood in the reception, because they had checked out and would be leaving Salta that day. The next morning the same bags returned to their post, or something even more common, someone stumbled from their dorm room blinking at the afternoon sun having missed check-out. Again.
It had its perks because the people who were staying at the hostel with me were all such great people and we partied and cooked and chatted and laughed together for more than a week. But not unlike a couple of others, I have now been in Salta for two full weeks. The World Cup has undoubtedly played its role. The three matches take place here at 8.30am, 11am and 3.30pm. By the time you’ve seen them, you have a few hours to spare before supper starts and the drinking begins.
Aside from just enjoying the city and the people and doing some of the things that travellers who are slowing down do, I’ve been to two awesome events that were worth a Salta stop.

Not long after I had arrived in Salta I heard about the Guemes Festival on the 17th June. I hadn’t thought I would still be around but as the day grew closer and my clothes remained comfortably unpacked on the floor at the foot of the bed (It’s tough with bunkbeds, cos top bunks have to share floorspace with their lower neighbour. In exchange I had perfected hoisting myself onto my bed in the wee hours with absolute minimal noise) the temptation to stay for the festivities grew more appealing.

I must still tell you about the Guemes Fest and the awesome event I went to on a WOOFFing farm south of the city with this great couchsurfer I met. I’ll post about it soon.

For now here are a couple of pics from the facebook album:
http://www.facebook.com/stacey.hopebailie#!/album.php?aid=183977&id=504021698

Partying in the Plaza when Argentina won


The street corner closest to our hostel. Possibly the street corner I have walked pas…


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Perro que no camina, no encuentra hueso – Dog who doesn’t walk, doesn’t find a bone

18 June 2010 in Argentina by Stacey | 2 comments

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(8:42, Wed 9 May, Bed in dorm at Hostel Roadrunner, Cafayate, Argentina) The last week or so has been all about thinking space and beautiful scenery. My free tour with the Argentinian couple ended at the mirrador of Villa Union, my third time there and again it was astonishing.  I bused overnight to San Miguel del Tucuman, where I did a guided car tour along the Jungas Circuit – a route through the mountains and cloud forest to the wealthy villages along the way. Apparently there was soccer on so it ended up being just me with this sweet, sweet, perpetually smiling 21 year-old English guide halfway through her degree in tourism, and the chauffeur, her father, who reminded her in Spanish what to tell me now and then. It was like a little family day trip with someone else’s family. From Tucuman, I watched the morning sun peeking at my bus from between and over mountains, which was glorious.

What I hadn’t expected was arriving in Tafi del Valle before the sunshine had emptied into the valley. It was so cold! I’m talking ice here, real frozen water! It took me a few hours before my brain had thawed but when I could eventually make up my mind I had an enchanting walk dawdling in the sunlight and enjoying the visual reward granted only to those willing to mission over rocks and slopes to be as high up as reasonably possible. I met a friend from Tucuman, Celine, and we travelled to Cafayate together, stopping for an indulgent 6 or so hours to put down our packs, use the Internet, eat breakfast, sunbathe, chat politics, have a picnic, peruse the gift shop… Oh and of course learn about the geology and anthropology of the area, at Museo Pachamamma in Amaicha. This enormous complex of stone patios conceived by my new favourite artist, Cruz, looks out over the cacti and near-to-nothing-ness of the tiny Amaicha, and is just designed either for a big party or to be lingered in by a pair of travellers reluctant to pick up their backpacks.

There’s an album on facebook for Tucuman and the Jungas Circuit:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?album.php?aid=183971&id=504021698

And one for Tafi del Valle:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?album.php?aid=183972&id=504021698

And another for Amaicha:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?album.php?aid=183974&id=504021698

We were met by at the bus stop in Cafayate by a guy offering a much cheaper hostel than those we had researched on Celine’s laptop using the museum’s café  wifi and although we learnt that the Internet they promised was broken, the awesome people more than made up for it. We went on the most spectacular hike together to a waterfall in the mountains followed by a free tour and wine tasting as the sun set over autumny vines at one of the local bodegas (vineyards). We’ve spent hours chatting and  joking together in a bit of English, some French and Castellano (the latter sometimes calls for a laugh-along-laugh that’s actually oblivious to its reason – a joke in itself because they love making fun of me for faking my understanding)

Yesterday, however, I spent most of the day speaking Castellano… to myself. It’s a popular thing to bus out into the Quebrada (mountains) north of Cafayate and cycle the 50kms back, stopping to look at all the rock formations. Of course I asked if there was an alternative for the non-cycling inclined like myself. Apparently you take the bus with the cyclists and just walk instead, and when you get tired you flag down a bus heading to Cafayate. So we took the early bus and hopped off at the 50km mark at about 11.30am and whilst some friends set off on their bikes I started walking. Because I was walking I could go off the road and walk through “the nature” as well as seeing the rock formations. And it was beautiful.

Unfortunately, buses back weren’t quite as frequent as it had sounded. After about 6 hours I started getting a little bit tired of my own company. By 6pm when the sun was setting I had already counted to 199 (wasn’t sure about 200) a couple of times to practise my pronounciation and had started making up songs in Spanish about the lack of buses and the exiting sun and arriving cold and singing them to the mountains around me.

(2.30am, Sunday 13 May, writing by torchlight from top bunk above snoring Argentinian) Eventually I accepted I wouldn’t make it round the valley in time to catch the last of the sunshine, so I stopped walking. According to the last sign I’d done a little over 22km. From my rock on the side of the road I could watch the sun over this incredible stripy mountain. I wasn’t really in a hurry and I knew there’d be a bus eventually, but I had plans to meet some friends from Tucuman staying in a different hostel for drinks at 8pm, and I wasn’t really that keen to hang around when it got actually dark for a bus that may come at like 9.30 or something. I had an agreement with God that I’d wait til 7 for the bus before I tried flagging down one of the passing cars, of which a few were still passing every hour, staring confused or bemused by the crazy blonde girl in a cowboy hat sitting on the side of the road as the evening set in.

As 7 o’clock approached so too did a white minibus. But my watch read 6:55 and it was set 5 minutes fast. A test of faith, I thought, I’d let it pass. I had met loads of hitchhikers who had all said it was quite safe, and I had just begun thinking about my tactics and wishing that I’d asked more questions when the minibus pulled up next to me. Through the dust, the same friends I was supposed to meet in just over an hour laughed and waved in the windows. They had seen me walking as they headed out on a tour of the Quebrada earlier that afternoon and had asked the driver if he’d stop and pick me up if they saw me on the way back.

It was a good day with plenty of beautiful thought space and perfectly ended with a ball of dulce de leche ice cream side by side on a double cone with a ball of Torrontes (the regional white wine) sorbet.

The photos from Cafayate are mostly of rocks, but then that was what I was walking to see. Check out the album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=183976&id=504021698



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Wine on the Rocks

4 June 2010 in Argentina by Stacey | 2 comments

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(12:45, Monday, under grape vine in little garden of Hostel Laguna Brava,Villa Union, Argentina) I was struggling to organize a trip from La Rioja to the national parks I wanted to go to, as a solo traveller, for any less than 500 Argentinian pesos = R1000. I would happily have stuck around in La Rioja and waited for a group, it really was so lovely, but Mondays are slow days (even slower than normal) and I had already taken two nights advantage of Andrew’s generous “Southern hospitality” as he called it, so I thought I’d better move on. I wasn’t keen to miss out on seeing the parks altogether, if I was so close, and it sounded like the best way to find a cheaper option was to bus to nearby Villa Union as early as I could and try to organize from there. If I still couldn’t afford to go that day, I had decided I’d hang around in Villa Union for the day and try catch a night bus to Tucuman.

So I tiptoed out of Andrew’s at like 6 this morning and watched the sun rise over some of the most stunning mountain scenery from my bus window. I only reached Villa Union at lunch time, so an afternoon trip wasn’t looking promising. But the tour company had no trouble convincing me to stick around for tomorrow’s much cheaper trip when they told me about the very nice, very reasonable hostel here and that the buses to Tucuman go back through La Rioja anyway – I wouldn’t really have wasted a day. So here I am in the picturesque, mountain-lined, vineyard-ful town of Villa Union, in this wonderful, quaint, little hostel with just four other people – none of whom speak English (sigh, but its definitely better for me, because I have to practise my Castellano). The tour tomorrow sounds incredible and includes a little hike which is why it’s so good to have somewhere to put my bag down and relax for the evening, cook some dinner. I’ll go for a little wander this afternoon which the tour lady recommended for sunset. And you know how I feel about sunsets

(09:10, Friday 4th June, common room of Tucuman Hostel, Tucuman, Argentina) Back in a big city so I’ve got some internet time. The tour to Talampaya was incredible. Unfortunately instead of the friendly, helpful tour lady from the office who spoke perfect English (and French) the guide who took us was a slightly yellow tinged old guy who seemed to be very knowledgable between cigarettes but who wasn’t really interested in speaking English for my benefit. Luckily the Argentinian couple who made up our little three person tour group were what South Americans call “divino”! They spent the whole trail translating to me with actions and charades, despite the fact that they spoke far less English than the guide, and helping me with my Castellano while we chatted earnestly about how beautiful it all was.       Theresa: “Que lindo, no?”      Me: “Si! Muy lindo!”

We had scarcely seen our first red rock construction when Marcello asked what I would be doing the following day. Maybe Valle de la Luna? Or another part of Talampaya? I explained that I would be catching the night bus to Tucuman, because I couldn’t really afford more than one excursion. They insisted that I stay on and go with them on the trip they were planning for the next day. They had a car and were planning to pay a guide anyway, so there’d be no further expense if I joined them and I really needn’t contribute. I know, hey?!

The tour the following afternoon was fantastic! Even Theresa explained to me, in half English, half Spanish, that she had “could feel it much better” because of the “energy of the man” ie. the guide was a vast improvement on the last one. An enthusiastic young local, midway through studying tourism specializing in archeology, who laughed along with us when we tilted our heads, straining to see the imaginary figures in the rock formations of The Valley of Magic. He even scored us a glass of foot-pressed wine in Banda Florida, the nearby village, from one of his bodega neighbours – much more delicious than the cheapo box wine I had taken up to the viewpoint with me the day before.

This is the facebook album for Talampaya and all the little places between:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=183968&id=504021698



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Living a La Rioja

30 May 2010 in Argentina by Stacey | 3 comments

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(lunch time – not sure, have taken watch off, Saturday, sitting on bench just outside of spray of crazy fountain, Plaza de Mayo, La Rioja, Argentina) The next stop on the Gringo Trail after Cordoba is Tucuman, but I met an American guy, Andrew, at Hostel Palenque who offered to have me stay at his place in La Rioja which is on the way. He’s a Fulbright cultural exchange scholar so he’s teaching English at the university here.

There are two amazing national parks, Talampaya and Valle de la Luna, but they’re way out of town so I haven’t decided if I’ll fork out for the organized tour to see them, but there are a couple of museums and interesting places I’m hoping to see while I’m here.

Andrew’s apartment is typical male student vibe, reminds me of Adi’s digs in Cape Town. Small kitchen with potatoes, cereal and orange juice. A living area empty but for a table and chairs and the patch of corner floor I’ve annexed to unpack all my stuff. While it’s a well-known truth that most household showers require an instruction manual or a short security briefing about the two-and-a-half turns to the left prior to their first use, he admits his is very South America. To heat the water you fill something that looks like a toilet cistern mounted up on the wall with a plastic shower head protruding from the base. A wire draped over the top of the mirror connects it to the socket across the room where the heater is plugged in. Give it some time (more than I did – I impatiently compromised on a cold shower) and when you open the little tap on the shower head the water coming out should be warm. Don’t forget to unplug though, or you’ll shock yourself touching the tap.

Considering this, he’s been so so good as to provide me his spare bed and has fed and looked after me far better than I might have asked, and all because “we travellers have to help each other”. I’m so grateful, honestly. Also, luckily, he’s in a great location right near the centre of things for touristy activities. So I’ll do a lil reckie of the town this afternoon and see what I can see.

Took a couple of pics around the town, here’s the facebook album
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=183966&id=504021698


Little kid in Argentina jersey watching fountain, ah
St Nicholas statue from bus window, on the way out of La Rioja, early early in the mo…


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