May 2010

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Living a La Rioja

29 May 2010 in Argentina | 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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Doing the Day to Day

27 May 2010 in Argentina | 1 comment

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(11:00, 27 May, lobby of Hostel Palenque, Cordoba, Argentina) Things have really been slowing down. I caught a direct bus to Cordoba in northeast Argentina from Paysandu, Uruguay, arriving early Saturday morning – my first actually successful overnight bus, haha. After all my initial excitement about the Argentinian Bicentenary celebrations, I had completely lost track of the date so when I went to a cybercafe on arrival in the city to check where I could stay, I had a moment of panic that everything seemed to be full. A long weekend had run up to the 25th of May and people had come from near and far to the bustling University city of Cordoba.
(side note: I may have misrepresented Paysandu – it is in fact Uruguay’s second largest urban centre, so if I gave you the impression it’s a small town, that’s because it felt like one)

A very nice receptionist, Pablo, at one of the full hostels I arrived at to make my appeal for a bed of any sort phoned around and found me a dorm room in a great hostel – very chilled, run by a young couple, full of relaxed hippies from all over (lots from France) with a kinda family atmosphere and a spoilt but beautiful resident labrador. It’s been easy to get comfortable here and I’ve been doing a lot less “stuff” per day than I had been. It’s an interesting city to just get lost in, literally, I’ve done it a bunch of times, plus there’s been quite a festive holiday vibe since I arrived so…
I have been to some historical sites and churches (I was the only one signed up to go around the Jesuit University one evening so I got a personal tour in English given by one of the university students – I asked loads of questions) and to some amazing galleries of antique and modern art, where I stood for inordinately long periods of time in front of some pieces, like a charcoal drawing that looked like duck-billed humans fondling one another, and tried to absorb some “culture” – Cordoba has been called the cultural capital of South America.
But I’ve been taking it slow, getting started a bit later after a leisurely (free) breakfast. Staying up around a dinner table, or a guitar playing traveller singing songs in pseudo-English, as oppose to going clubbing. Even going to bed early with this light read an Australian guy passed on to me in Colonia.

Besides a military parade and a flag-raising ceremony complete with fireworks and live rock bands, which I definitely consider extraordinary activities, I’ve done quite a lost of just ordinary living. I’ve bought groceries, done a whole load of washing (by hand, if you please), spent some time walking around learning Spanish and practising it in my head, some time reading. Doing the day to day.

Yesterday I was back in full-blown tourist mode, maxing out my hours, map in hand, but it was quite ironic – most of the things I saw were about how other people have just ordinarily lived – done their day to day. I caught a bus to Alta Gracia, a beautiful country town developed over an old Jesuit estate. I learnt how the native Indians lived in underground homes cultivating their own veggies, how the Jesuits kept their daily financial records of the cattle and horses which were being raised to support the University in Cordoba, how the African supervisors and labourers (essentially slaves, but with a pretty schweet lifestyle) made boots out of the skin from a horse leg. I saw the kneeler that was used for daily prayers by the daughter of the Viceroy who owned the estate when the Jesuits were expelled from Argentina for spreading liberal ideas. I saw the plates and napkins used by Manuel de Falla’s sister (he was a famous Spanish composer) to serve his breakfast every morning, the clever box that disguises a whisky bottle and glasses as a pile of books, used by one of the town’s famous artists, and even the bathroom young Che Guevara used to brush his teeth and style his amazing hair when his family moved to their country house in Alta Gracia to help him with his asthma.

I will stop just living and move on from Cordoba probably tomorrow night, by which time I should have decided where to go next. Right now I must do something touristy for the day, its already afternoon and I’m still my pyjamas!

There’s a facebook album for Cordoba with some pics from the town and festivities:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=183965&id=504021698

And there’s another one with some views of what I saw in Alta Gracia:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=174992&id=504021698

Alta Gracia golf club, where Che practised his golf as a young’un
Me and baby Che at the Che Guevara Museum in Alta Gracia
Alta Gracia
Jesuit Estancia, Alta Gracia


Alta Gracia
Jesuit Estancia, Alta Gracia
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Alta Gracia


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Art and Artigas

21 May 2010 in Uruguay | 4 comments

(09:25, Friday! It’s Friday the 21st! When did that happen?! That’s 3 weeks! Sitting on rain jacket on wet bench, Plaza Constitution, Paysandú, Uruguay) You may have noticed, but my journey has involved a lot of Plazas, Constitutions, Independencias, 18 de Julio and 25 de Mayos. There’s also a lot of Artigas here in Uruguay and right now I have Gomez pointing dramatically at the ground in front of me, sword in hand, with a very sweet little bird on his military cap and what appears to be a big birds’ nest on his right shoulder pad.

I’ve been seeing so many things which obviously have historical or other significance on top of the aesthetic value I attribute to them. Unfortunately museums rarely have English information and my Argentinian and Uruguyan history is patchy at best. And I certainly wouldn’t dare ask for any more information from one of the many many people whose patience I have tested over the last few weeks (all of whom have been great) as I fumble over the  jumble of Spanish and English in my head, the occasional Afrikaans or even Zulu word popping up in earnest…

(20:04, Fri 21 May, Paysandú Bus Terminal, Uru) I have 2 hrs to kill and even I think what I was writing this morning was boring. I’ll summarize: Basically, I checked out in Montevideo and went to the bus station to catch whatever I could in the direction of Argentina. I ended up alone in the huge dorm at the riverside sport-club in relatively wealthy Mercedes, close to the border. I met a young South African lady who informed me that the border crossing I had planned had been closed for years and it was not unusual for people to find that out only when they arrived in the one-horse town I had been heading for. So I bought a ticket for the earliest trip to the next border town northwards, Paysandú, which would give me most of the day there to organize a ticket onwards to Argentina. So I’ve spent an unplanned  day each in the small Uruguayan towns of Mercedes and Paysandú and both have been incredible. Honestly, my heart has been so touched at how nice everyone has been, I feel tears climbing from my chest when I think about it.

It’s become routine to head to the tourist office in a new town and get the standard map and a run-down of the highlights. At the unlikely looking tourist information in Mercedes was the most incredible charming woman. She sat me down and did her best to explain the significance of each dot on the map – I was normally satisfied with a few circles indicating the best stuff for a gringo tourist to see. She not only offered me the internet in their office to check my mail, she especially organized a car for the afternoon so she could take me to this phenomenal paleontological museum in a castle up the river. She had the curator show us around the collection personally, including a room full of things not on display, and give me a guided tour of the historical venue complete with a view of the river from the watchtower on the roof. We chatted about the tourist industry and their restoration plans as we drove back to the town centre. Then she had the town cathedral opened and all the lights turned on just for me to see – it had been closed when I went that afternoon.

One of her recommendations had been an exhibition of European and Latin American art. When I arrived, again the whole place was unlocked and the lights turned on just for me and the actual art restorer walked me from painting to painting detailing the history, techniques and even the iconography of each. It was without doubt the most indepth conversation I’ve ever had about art and it was in a mash of English, Spanish and gesticulations. He also showed me  the hundreds of pieces lying waiting to be restored in his workroom, or simply stuck away because there’s no space.

This morning I stopped writing because I was bored of my own winge that I don’t know the histories behind most of things I’ve been seeing. I whipped out my map after ignorantly contemplating Gomez’ statue for a while, and a random guy approached me. He said he could see I was a tourist, would I like to know the story behind the statue I’d been staring at? I admit, “Don’t talk to strangers” kept me cautious especially when he offered to accompany me until his appointment at 1pm. But he translated the whole Museo Historico for me and made sure we had a guide at this fantastic cemetery/museum which I would never have organized alone.The guide was so passionate about the place and the three of us had this incredible discussion about the symbolism in the graves and the set up of the cemetery – it was great!

So although my stint in Uruguay has been quite short, the people have all been so patient and nice to little gringa me with my inability to speak Spanish. Mom, I told the women from tourist info that you would be so glad that she had been nice to me and she sent her greetings. I know, so nice hey?!

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Piriapolis, haha

17 May 2010 in Uruguay | 5 comments

(17:50, Tues 17 May, standing on a concrete block randomly on unused roof of Che Lagarto Hostel, over-looking Plaza Independencia, Montevideo, Uruguay) Cool! Some soldiers are marching across the square down below… They’re doing a big regimented taking down of these three big flags… Sucks to have to fold them in steps like that – taking ages. There are these random bouts of shouting and bus hooting, not sure if its related. Anyway, the sun has set and I’m getting pretty chilly up here in the wind. Will go downstairs to write my story.

(09:25, 21 May) Just to follow up on the hooting and shouts. The soccer team from Montevideo won the national soccer league so people went bos here. They were going crazy and even attacked the statue of Artigas in Plaza Independencia that my hostel overlooked. We went to have a look before it got cleaned up, they had painted insults and stuff all over it. Football hooliganism is literally a paying career here. A story for another time perhaps.

(18:15, 17 May, Bar of Che Lagarto, Montevideo) Better. So I smiled a lot yesterday. The museums in Montevideo are all closed on a Monday and after making up my mind that I wouldn’t go far along the coast to one of the big resort towns because its so cold, I decided to rather head to Piriapolis for a short trip. It’s a little beach town with a zoological reserve on a hill nearby, I had read about some cool things to keep me busy for a day. Plus there was an HI (Hostelling International) hostel there with great rates because I’m a member. Learning from my mistakes, I took down the address and caught an evening bus so I could cook and eat supper in Montevideo but still arrive with a good few hours to find the hostel and sleep before morning. I left my big pack at Red Hostel and packed a very well-strategized minimalist day pack and got directed and then redirected to the bus terminal.

Prepared with my address, I quickly found Hostel Piriapolis and rang the bell. I had read about it in my guidebook and on a bunch of websites. I had been too late to book online for that night, but it was supposedly a very big hostel and I knew it would be quiet enough to have spare beds.
But this was very quiet. I checked my watch: 20h45 – most South Americans were just finishing off dinner. The lights weren’t on at reception. I kbnocked on the door, looked through the glass, shouted the best “Hola!” I could muster… Nothing. I laughed as I walked around to the side. A wooden door with a light above it yielded a little boy but we had trouble communicating, even after he went back inside a few times to get feedback. Eventually his mom came to the door and explained that the hostel was closed. Since September! She suggested I try the main drag along the beachfront where there were loads of hotels. No hostels.

So, haha, I’m learning. I walked down a way next to the beach and then back up smiling at myself. Strolling the beaches of Uruguay in the starlight – homeless. I was so glad I had only had a daypack, but in all my consideration and wisdom I had left my great big guidebook behind. It certainly didn’t have a map, even of a piece of Piriapolis, but it had listed the prices of recommended hotels. An occasseional party-goer zoomed by on his motorcycle with a cat call now and then; all fairly benign. I wasn’t keen to fork out for one of the many hotels and pondered on sleeping in my towel and sarong at the camp site I had passed near the teminal. If my mom found out she’d kill me. After deciding I’d be unlikely to find a café open near midnight on a Sunday. I turned back for the only hotel which had people sitting at reception. At least it was 2-star unlike all the 3-stars and boutique hotels along the street.

I think the guy at reception guessed my desperation when I excitedly handed him a 200peso note, equivalent to USD10. “Ochiciente,” he repeated, stifling a smile. Ah, 800, not 180. “Do you take Visa?”

All I could do as I fell across my double bed, my minimalist bag unpacked over the extra single bed behind me, was laugh. I had a tv. I didn’t turn it on cos I couldn’t understand the Spanish sign on the door and it sounded suspiciously like they would charge me extra. I had a private bathroom. I had only really brought soap, a facecloth and suncream in my compact toiletry kit though. So I had a good long shower in the morning making good use of the four complimentary towels, but I couldn’t wash my hair or do a pedicure. I warmed my feet in the beeday but not before I sprayed myself in the face.

All in all it was very funny and a really great experience. A door opened onto a teeny balcony looking over the beach but there was a shutter over the top half I couldn’t get open. So I lay horizontally over my bed and drifted between sleep and watching the early morning sunlight over the sea. A chairlift, a trek up a big hill, two treks down hills, statues of San Miguel and Our Lady of the Pescadores (Fishermen, I think), a giant cross, some crazy cool zoo animals, an adrenhilin boosting encounter with an angry dog, a few short bus-trips and some absolutely incredible views later: I would recommend Piriaplois and the Cerro Pan de Azúcar to anyone.

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I’ve learnt from my Montevideo mistakes

17 May 2010 in Uruguay | No comments

(12:10, Monday, sitting on the dock of the bay – well on a concrete pier over-looking the harbour, Piriapolis, Uruguay) Whilst it may upset some of you (if anyone is still reading my long rants) I intend to tell you the truth about at least some of the things that’ve been happening recently, because I can assure you – they won’t happen again!

I arrived in Montevideo in the early hours on Saturday morning. None of the hostels listed in my guidebook sounded nice enough, or cheap enough, so I had taken some names of better looking ones off the internet. Mistake no. 1: I hadn’t taken down their addresses. I know most of them were in Pocitos, supposedly the nicest, newest, safest area of the city so I decided I’d head there and walk around til I found one. It was almost morning so if I could leave my bags somewhere and chill around or find a 24-hour coffee shop, it needn’t be the hostel I’d check into. So I hopped onto a bus to Pocitos and the friendly ticket guy, realizing I was not only new to Montevideo but also to Spanish-speaking Latin America, consulted with the bus driver to give me directions. He checked out my list of possible hostels with a frown and finally pointed to Pocitos Hostel. He dropped me off and directed me a few blocks up the road… to Pocitos HOTEL. I figured I was in the right suburb, so I kept going. There were many things that looked or sounded like a hostel: real estate agents with colourful walls and big windows, “dormitorios” – places selling furniture. I also noticed an overwhelming abundance of optometrists, but no hostels.

I have a map of a piece of the city in my enormous guidebook, which I snuck a look at outside well-lit buildings with security guards. Trouble is, it is not the piece of the city I was in. But the streets felt safe and the occasional bar or party was still jamming on into the morning so I continued to walk. I stopped to ask a scantily clad blonde lady at a bus stop where Plaza Independencia was. She turned out to be a scantily clad blonde man, but he pointed me in the right direction with a girlish giggle and a warning that it was a very long way. After quite some time a road sign caught my eye which matched up with one of the names I had practically memorised from looking at my map so many times. I took it, hoping I was heading in the right direction. Eventually I found myself on the map, then on the main road, and then uncharacteristically thrilled to see the golden arches of McDonalds. It’s the first time I’ve eaten somewhere I could go at home but I did order a traditional South American breakfast: coffee with medialunas (little croissants). Relieved to take off my pack I had a good long convo with my guidebook, as oppose to our frequent short consultations in stolen patches of light. I hadn’t really felt unsafe in the streets, despite my Joburger instincts, but at least here the only people looking at me were teenagers chowing down after a night out. The Red Hostel was a block away and I had heard it mentioned by an old cycling tourist in Colonia. So I heaved all my kit back on and missioned over. I woke the receptionist up but he was very nice and laughed politely when I explained that I wouldn’t be checking in because I had missed the night and had already had breakfast. We chatted until the morning guy came in, who was also very nice and let me check in for the upcoming night very very early and allocated me a bed, which I received gratefully. The hostel cost more than I normally spend but as you will soon read – expense is relative to one’s need for a bed.

P.S. I would like to retract my previous statement that all Uruguayan men are good-looking (the first few I met were definitely above average) but til now they have all been very nice, and friendly without ulterior motive.

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Colonial Colonia, Muchos Caliente and Maté to Share

13 May 2010 in Uruguay | No comments

(20:30, 13 May, Hostel Colonial, Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay) I know it’s only my second country, but Uruguayan men are definitely my favourite so far. They’re laid back, friendly, incredibly good-looking and they don’t try to convince you into anything more than good, friendly conversation. Although “No” really does mean “No” in Spanish, Argentinian men only seem to understand when you’re shouting it into the faces.
I wish I had got the name of the traveller from Uruguay that I met in Buenos Aires who convinced me that missing the country altogether would be a huge mistake. But although I’m unlikely to see him, I’m excited to hit Montevideo for the weekend.

Tonight I’m taking it easy in the sleepy town of Colonia. I caught the ferry here from Buenos Aires, arriving in the early early hours of this morning.
I had spent some time looking at the map and deciding how I would get to my hostel. But sitting in the fancy arrivals’ lounge…

(13:40, Thurs 14 May, bench under pink-flowered tree, Plaza Major, Barrio Historico, Colonia) Fell asleep, sorry…Sitting in the fancy arrival’s lounge at the ferry station in Colonia, with all my kit I decided against walking there in the dark and braved the stares of the security guards and the cleaning crew who worked around me and slept against my pack on a bench in the station.

When the sun finally rose, I discarded my hobo impersonation and walked outside only to find that Colonia is so small, my hostel was a few hundred metres away. They let me check in as soon as I arrived so I had few hours sleep before I went sight-seeing. I had specifically chosen Hostel Colonial because they had free bicycles available. What they say about riding a bike is true but I still ended up giving it back after 20 minutes or so. I had decided that the loose seat was bearable and had hopped on again after visiting the first site – the old City Gate. I was just getting my balance in the first few metres when the next thing on the itinerary, went by. Most of the attractions are in the Historical Neighbourhood of Colonia and the place is so small they are generally a couple of steps from one another. From where I am sitting I am basically looking at 8 of the 15-odd things to be seen. It’s a lovely little historical town that was a smuggler’s port to Buenos Aires in its day and is now an attraction for local and international tourists, with decent information and beautifully kept and restored quaint cobbled streets with 18th century blue and white tiled name signs on the stone walls of old Portuguese and Spanish styled homes. I’ve changed some money to Uruguayan pesos so today I’m going to all these gorgeous little museums full of the most incredible things. From the fossilized skeleton of this crazy enormous sloth-like animal called a Lestodon discovered in the area, to beautiful antique porcelain maté cups.

Maté is this great thing, a really authentically South American pastime. So it was so amazing to see these very European cups, displayed amongst the Portuguese vases and Spanish bullfighting costumes, were used by the wealthy to do something so distinctly un-European. Like we go for coffee socially or meet for tea, South Americans have maté. At any time of day you will see them with a little gourd of herbs with a metal spoon/straw, which they top up with hot water from a flask or kettle. The thing I like so much about it is that when you meet for maté you don’t each have your own; one maté is made and topped with water as it’s passed around. I tried to explain the warm fuzzy feeling this communal ritual idea gave me to the Argentinian who was telling me how it works, and he suggested that whilst it was a lovely sentiment, it wasn’t something most people thought about when having maté and perhaps I was reading into it a bit much.

(14:30, 14 May, Plaza Major, Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay) I can just hear Edith Piaf drifting from a nearby café. I’m surrounded by this stunning flock of squawking green and yellow birds – they look a bit like cockatoos – who are hopping around in the branches above me, showering me in big pink flowers. I have one or two more museums to see and then I think I’ll head up to the beaches a little way away to enjoy the sunny afternoon. My bus to Montevideo leaves just before midnight so I’ll hit the city for the weekend. While it’s only 1.5 million people, nothing like Buenos Aires, the lovely little Colonia del Sacramento has been a wonderful change of pace.

Heading back to the urban, there are a couple of lessons I learnt in Buenos Aires. Whilst the subway system’s routes are labelled A, B, C etc and the stations are marked on the street with a round coloured sign of the letter, heading for a round blue E sign won’t help you, no matter how many times you do it. E stands for estacionamiento, and since you are looking for the subway, a car park is unlikely to be useful to you.

Also an abbreviation: when filling your water bottle at a basin, avoid the tap marked C. The one you are looking for has an F for frego, or cold. C, I think is for caliente and you will undoubtedly melt your bottle because the geysers here are all set way too high.
Speaking of which, the clouds are edging in and I’m keen to maximize the warmth in Colonia.

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Futbol

11 May 2010 in Argentina | No comments

(19:50, Monday 11 May, lobby of Tango Backpackers, Palermo, Buenos Aires) I get a surge of pride when people ask where I am from, because they are usually particularly impressed and excited to hear it is Johannesburg, South Africa. There is an almost ritualistic conversation in hostels and amongst travellers which begins with where you are from, and moves on to where you have been and where you’re going. Sometimes you will swop names but thankfully no-one seems to pay much attention so its common enough to have to ask again, even days later when, having shared a few conversations, you’ve decided that the person is worth knowing. (Sounds harsh, but it seems to be the accepted norm)

I love this exchange because, not only am I from South Africa, and more than happy to tell everyone that it’s the best place in the whole world if they follow by asking whether or not I like living there, but I can keep beaming as I explain that I still have almost 12 months (sounds cooler than ‘one year’) to travel in Latin America.

The smile fades when the new acquaintence puts two and two together: “So you’re missing the World Cup?!”
Sigh… My heart drops at the reminder.

I won’t go through the next few minutes here, when I try to convince both them and myself that it’s not a big deal and that I’m very excited for everyone back home.

But on the stands amidst the shouting fans and hyper-involved spectators at a Boca Juniors soccer game in their home stadium, that spindly reasoning lost a lot of its already limited muscle. The visiting side’s spectators sat in a separate section above us, facing the “La Doce” – where the most vocal and energetic fans stand with the drums and the band shouting songs of encouragement or insult down to the field.

Despite their standing singing through the whole match (and about 45 minutes afterwards) their team struggled to change the scoreboard from 1 to 2 no matter how close they came. There is a rule that the home side has to wait for the visitors to leave, which seems strangely well accepted. Possibly because as the winning team’s supporters walked down their separate entrance behind us, the Boca fans had a chance to hurl obscenities at them in Spanish.

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Punctual Fashionista

8 May 2010 in Argentina | 3 comments

Haha, now that I´m typing out what I had written, I see that the date was actually the 8th May and it wasn´t even Sunday, it was Saturday:

(18:35, Sunday – not sure what the date is, edge of round hall in Palais Glace waiting for fashion show to begin, Recoleta, Buenos Aires)

Finally I´m on time for something! I´ve been all over the city this week going to various attractions, but aside from this I keep arriving at places at the wrong time, even when I go by the book. The day the museum doesn´t open, the time the gallery closes its doors, and more than once in the last few days, I´ve arrived like 20 minutes after the English tour began.

So there´s usually not much happening in these amazing exhibitions and venues and I walk them slowly and alone, taking it all in.

(20:00, end of fashion show) I love doing it, but it is nice to be amongst a crowd every now and then. This was a real treat, the kind of random thing I´d hear about via the grape vine in Johannesburg, and would make an effort to go see. The Palais Glaces (Exhibition Centre) is hosting an exhibition of installation art about various women in South American history, part of the government´s Bicentenary activities. There was a big colourful wooden box with peep holes through which one could watch a revolving miniature stage and living room back-to-back. There was a painting of a native Argentinian woman with a spear, standing over a pit of dirt and desert plants, with an upward facing television buried in it showing images of the desert and every 5 minutes or so a vulture or a pair of boots. (I know, I watched for quite a long time because I kept expecting it to change).

Turns out the boots belonged to the subject of the piece and were displayed along one wall with all sorts of other clothing and accessories which had belonged to the women of significance featured in the exhibition.

I think clothing has quite an importance here and it really seems to be regarded as a significant expression of personality. In this case for instance it was used to represent the role of each woman as well as their kind of femininity in itself. You may think I´m reading into this more than I should (Brendan) just because I´m excited that I got to see a real live fashion show, but it´s everywhere.

It seems quite sensible to devote a substantial part of a church museum to the priest´s dress, especially when each piece has a special meaning, not to mention that each is beautiful and ancient and intricately made in golds and silks. But even the Museo Eva Peron showed and explained the outfits she wore at each event and stage of her life. Some locals took us to this insane party on Saturday night, and all I wanted to do was sit and stare at all the indie styles pushing past me in the enormous crowded venue. In Argetina, it seems it’s all about the attire.

So in my fashionista hiking boots, I followed a stream of people upstairs, to find, with much excitement, a fashion show of designs inspired by the various ages in Argentine history going on. I couldn’t help thinking that at a fashion show in Cape Town, the models would be more professional, basically better at walking, but it was most impressive. Especially by modern standards which, as far as my limited FTV experience has taught me, attribute value based on the amount of flesh visible – how short the dresses, how transparent and clingy the fabric, how blatant it is that the model isn’t wearing any underwear.

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The sounds, the language, the smell

4 May 2010 in Argentina | 7 comments

(6pm, 4 May, lobby of Tango Backpackers, Palermo, Buenos Aires) A friend asked the other day if I´ve gotten used to the sounds, the language, the smell. As you may know, some cities smell. Cape Town for instance, while undoubtedly beautiful, smells. Of fish and industry. But there are things that will make any city smell, like stepping in dog poo. It´s not that Buenos Aires smells, its that the streets of Buenos Aires have crazy crazy amounts of dog poo that is easily stepped in. It seems everyone owns a dog and walks it along the sidewalk to do its business, the evidence appearing in concentrations between one every 10 metres, to one a metre. So yes, despite my diligence, I have experienced the smell of Buenos Aires at least once.

The language. In theory I can speak basic Spanish, ´introductory level´. In practise, when someone speaks to me I freak out and struggle to even tell them in Spanish that I don´t speak much Spanish. I even said Dankie to the receptionist at the Art Museum today. And thus the soundtrack to my walks in the streets is still Michel Thomas, language instructor to the stars.

(12.15pm, 5 May, lobby of Tango Backpackers, Palermo, Buenos Aires) I moved to a different hostel yesterday. Not because I didn´t like the one I was in. En contrario, I seriously recommend it and will definitely stay there when I come back to the city to fly home. The dorm I was in had its own en suite bathroom, and there were extra showers and toilets just outside our door. The cleaning staff never stopped – they even made the beds – and all for 36 pesos a night (about R64). Plus the people were really awesome. We had a big jam on my last night for the barman´s birthday.

The new place actually works out cheaper because I get my fifth night free and its also a great spot so far. Much bigger and a lot more English speakers – even an American guy who was born in South Africa. I went out with him and his mates last night, my first official night on the town. Verdict: clubbing in Buenos Aires is much like clubbing anywhere in South Africa. Loud, fun, some good songs, some bad, smoky… I didn´t really feel very glam in my hiking shoes, but what can you do.

The reason for the change of hostel was to move to a different area of the city. I am now in the barrio of Palermo (barrio being a neighbourhood, like a big suburb) and it is truly beautiful. San Telmo and the Microcentro, where I have spent most of my time so far, was a beautiful area of old buildings,

(14:34, 10 May, lobby of Tango Backpackers, Palermo, Buenos Aires) Sorry, had to do something so stopped mid-sentence the last time. Will finish this post soon.

(20:50, Mon 11 May, lobby of Tango Backpackers, Palermo, Buenos Aires) I’ve been putting off finishing this post because I know I’m gonna struggle to explain what Palermo is like. Green spaces at every corner and so many incredible sculptures and monuments that eventually it overcomes you and you start to forget that they are so extraordinary. Palermo has the Rose Garden (another world!), the Zoo, the Eva Peron Museum, but it also has the nightlife. The streets are dotted with bars and restaurants and people taxi from all over the city to join in the party. Basically its amazing and whilst I was sad to leave Tango City in San Telmo, I’m so glad I moved to a new side of town.

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1 out of 50-odd, a Saturday well-spent

2 May 2010 in Argentina | 5 comments

 

(9.50am, 2 May, on bed next to letters, Hostel-Inn Tango City, Buenos Aires, Argentina) A tiny piece of me is a bit bleak that I faded last night. Before 1am I was a bit dozy and I didn’t feel like joining in the partying in the common room, despite the bum-shaking music. No-one was really dancing anyway, just talking above the music and tapping their feet. But whether I approve of my behaviour or not, I was in bed, joined only by the dorm’s 58-year-old Mexican, missing one of about 50 Saturday nights I’ll have in Latin America.

I can’t help but wonder if it would have ended the same if the very interesting olive-skinned man who I had spent some of my day with had not said, with his slightly tipsy dark eyes centimentres from my face because of the loud music, that he was madly in love with his girlfriend back home. Haha. In all honesty, I think I would have left no matter what he said. I was sincerely very happy for him because I had something else to do, so I smiled a lot, agreed that he should definitely marry her, and walked up the 4 flights of stairs to my dorm room (my calves have already grown, I swear, haha).

I had a pile of very important letters to read and finally a chance to cry with no-one watching. So whilst quiet, last night was very special, and I said really said goodbye in my heart to some of the people I love the most.

Yesterday was a crazy cool day altogether, even minus going with the crowd to wherever they were heading in the wee hours. May 01, or Workers’ Day, seems to be a really big deal here. I counted myself especially lucky when, after sipping a very tiny R22 coffee at a zooty restaurant in the Buenos Aires equivalent of New Town on a harbour, we found ourselves amidst one of the loudest and most colourful protests in the city. I had learnt a few hours before on my cultural and historical tour of the city that there had been 300 protests over the last year in Buenos Aires, mostly moving between the congress and the Casa Rosada (Pink House) – the president’s place of work; Argentinians like to demonstrate so I was fortunate to witness one of the largest in their calendar.

When I say it was a colourful protest, what I really mean is red. Thousands of people wearing red and toting red flags and banners either marching around the Plaza d’Mayo, a monument to the guy who kick started independence for Argentina, Chile and Bolivia in 1810, or standing around banging drums or listening to the speeches blasting from speakers around the square.

A couple of South American countries will be celebrating their 200th year centenaries this year – a new set of fiesta dates to include in my planning! Chatting to James the New Zealander last night, I was slowly convinced to stop ignoring how chilly Chile (I had to use it) and the south of the continent would be when I was initially planning to arrive, and to change my route. Apparently its already freezing and if I go to the glacial areas in mid-winter, which had been my clearly misguided plan, I was not only likely to freeze my bum off but I would probably find the hostels and even the roads closed. So I’ll be following the Gringo (tourist) Trail west instead of going south and I’ll try fit the Lake District, Patagonia and the southern tip into the end of my journey, when I return to Argentina next year to fly home.

(10.47am, 2 May, communal computer in common room, Hostel-Inn Tango City, Argentina) Just wanted to let you know: that delicious chocolate/caramel stuff I had with my breakfast the other day is considered Argentina’s best culinary export, and the only food that is truly and completely Argentinian. It’s called dulce de leche, literally sweet from milk, and they eat it on bread, inside little croissant type things and just by the spoon sometimes.

I’m going to sort out the ENORMOUS blister on my heel and get ready to walk to mass in the very very beautiful Metropolitan Cathedral.

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