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Mmmm… Food

24 October 2010 in Argentina, Bolivia, Ecuador, Peru, Uruguay | No comments

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Continuation of Cuenca Culture post
(Around midday, Sunday 24th October, sitting on the grass under a tree, Parque Carolina, Quito, Ecuador) I know eating is universal, and that some people (like myself) get much more excited by this very fundamental act than others do. Of course, it is not an unusual thing for food to have cultural significance and special associations, for individuals and groups alike: Grannies crunchies, Christmas cake. Ritually eating a specific meal as part of a season or celebration or tasting new dishes as a form of experiencing something can be recreational, an activity in and of itself, not solely the fulfilment of a biological need. If there was anyone who really understood and delighted in this, I thought it would be me. But in South America, food is life and life is food. Read the rest of this entry »

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Salta Stop

14 June 2010 in Argentina | 1 comment

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(15:05, Mon 14 June, 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



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

9 June 2010 in Argentina | 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 | 2 comments

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(12:45, Monday 31st May, 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

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
Alta Gracia
Alta Gracia


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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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