Above the Clouds in Northern Argentina

It`s hard to find anything wrong with scenery out the bus window that includes towering mountains, giant cacti, isolated farmhouses that look like life there hasn't changed in 100 years, and postcard-pretty colonial villages.  Throw in a crazily twisting mountain road that takes you up, up, up -- till you're looking down on those fluffy white clouds -- and it's pretty much perfect.

Up, up, up to 3,348 metres, to be precise.  That's how high you get on the trip from Salta to Cachi, a little town in the Calchaqui valley; the clouds were at about 2,000 metres.  It's only about a 150-kilometre trip, but most of it's through the mountains so takes a little longer than the same distance might, say, speeding down the 401.

The only sour note to the day was the fact that the temperature was actually below zero when I left at 7:30 in the morning, before the sun rose.  Fortunately it warmed up nicely by the afternoon so I didn't entirely freeze; I don't have the wardrobe for winter temperatures!  (I may have to break down and buy a jacket one day soon -- the fleece alone isn't quite cutting it.  I was going to rent in Cuzco for the hike to Machu Picchu, but I'm not sure I'll last that long.)

I realized part way through the day that this is my last full day in Argentina for this trip -- I'll be back at some point, but no idea when that might be.  I'm off to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile tomorrow, and from there will head north into Peru after a few days checking out the area; I think I'm giving up on the idea of the Bolivia salt flats as it's going to be just too complicated and time-consuming to get into Peru after that (since I refuse to go to La Paz).  Another trip ...

It's kind of sad, actually, to be leaving.  I really like Argentina, and the time I've spent here has only scratched the surface of what the country has to offer -- from rainforests and jungle, to windswept pampas, to vibrant urban life, to the long and lonely Ruta 40 that runs the length of the country, to fjords and beaches and raging rivers, to glaciers and mountains that nearly reach the sky, to prehistoric cave art and pre-Inca ruins and remnants of Spanish colonial life.  It's an interesting mix and I could easily spend the rest of the year here, getting to know all of its corners and byways.

But I'm thinking of this year more as an overview -- although I've travelled a lot, there's still so much of the world left to explore that I'll be spending the rest of my days doing just that!  (When work allows, anyway -- at some point I'm going to have to start earning a living again.)  I plan to be 75 and still travelling with a backpack; any other crotchety old women in the year 2044 are welcome to join me! 

It's impossible to see everything this year, as I keep trying to remind myself, but I can get a taste of some new places.  And for the ones I like -- such as Argentina -- I'll just have to figure out how and when to come back.

Anyway, I had a good last day in Argentina.  I was very sad to leave Cafayate, but I think I found what I needed from that little indulgence and am ready to go again.  Martha -- the owner of Hotel Killa, a.k.a. heaven on earth -- is charming and was very enthusiastic about helping me plan my next destination, and was convinced that I should go stay at a lovely hotel/spa in San Lorenzo near Salta.  I checked out the website, and it did look lovely -- but I will quickly go broke if I keep travelling that way!  So I chose a slightly different option for my final stint in Argentina, with a hostel in Salta for a couple of nights and a day trip to Cachi today.

Cachi is an adorably pretty little colonial town, with one main square and a handful of streets radiating from it.  The drive there is the real attraction, though -- you wind your way up through the mountains from Salta, and over to the valley where Cachi is nestled.  At one point on the trip, the gravel road ascends more than 1300 metres in less than 20 kilometres, doubling back on itself at least 200 times in a crazy circuitous route around the peaks.  There's not much of a guardrail, usually, and the bus driver didn't always slow down, much ... so it makes for an interesting ride when the road looks like this:

The crazy curve of the Cuesta del Obispo

Then you get to the top of the Cuesta del Obispo (the "Bishop's Way"), as the sinuous route is called, and the road changes:  straight as an arrow across the plateau, along the old Inca road for about 11 kilometres.  From there, it winds gently down into the valley and passes through even smaller towns than Cachi on the way.  Life looks very basic in these towns (aside from the giant satellite dishes on some tumbledown shacks), and it's probably not an easy place to live; but does that matter as much if you get to wake up to views of the Andes in your backyard?  It's gotta help, anyway.

Ah, well ...must head off to bed soon, as my bus leaves at the ungodly hour of 6:45 a.m. tomorrow.  I'm more of a morning person now than I was at work, but that's pushing it.  *SIGH*

It's Not Paranoia if They Really Are After You

I was thinking about this yesterday -- well, not "paranoia" exactly, but where exactly the line is drawn between good sense in trusting your instincts, and being overly cautious, seeing potential danger where none might exist.  I pretty much go with my gut; if something feels "off" or makes me uncomfortable, I don't do it or I get the hell out of wherever it is.  I like to think that, after 20 years of looking after myself and navigating big-city life, that my instincts are pretty reliable.

I'm fine with things that make other women I know nervous -- walking around downtown Toronto late at night, for example -- because I have enough experience to tell me that it'll be fine.  Hey, I used to live at the corner of Jarvis and Gerrard, right near the "hooker Harvey's", when I first moved to Toronto, and walked home many a night by myself with no incidents.  (Except for one night I was mistaken for a hooker myself and almost arrested, but it was the fault of my Hallowe'en costume and some unfortunate coincidences.  But that's another story.)   I can travel other strange cities with ease and without worrying; I remember going to Washington with my Jeansmarines women for the marathon and realizing just how much more seasoned a traveller I was than many of them.  Some of them were overwhelmed just by the task of getting on the Metro and I had to shepherd them through it.

I`m conscious when I'm travelling that a women alone is more vulnerable -- I hate it, but it's a reality any female backpacker has to live with -- so there are things I choose not to do by myself.  Sometimes this means passing up things that I want to do, and I wonder if I play it too safe sometimes -- am I missing out on experiences that could have been rewarding, am I worrying for no reason?  I was thinking about this yesterday, after I came back from my hike. 

I went southwest of Cafayate heading for the Rio Colorado, and from there I was going to carry on up the river to a waterfall about an hour and half upstream.  While I was still about two kilometres from the river, though, a man appeared out of a side trail and started walking along with me, on the other side of the road.  At first, it was fine -- he seemed nice enough, we chatted amiably and I enjoyed the chance to practice my Spanish.  I held up my end of the conversation pretty well, although once in a while what I had to say was dictated more by what words I know than what I actually wanted to say!

By the time we got to the river, though, it started to feel ... off.  I don't mean threatening, exactly, just that something didn't quite feel right.  His questions were getting much more personal -- how many boyfriends did I have in Canada?  Did I have any boyfriends in Argentina?  Where was I staying?  Was I staying alone?  Did I know anybody here?  Why didn`t my friends come hiking with me?

He urged me to carry on with him on the path to the waterfall.  "It's a short walk, just up ahead -- it will only take 10 minutes -- and it's very beautiful, you will love it," he insisted. 

I took a look at the narrow, overgrown path leading off into the woods.  I looked around and realized there was no one else for miles around.  I remembered that my guidebook had said it was at least an hour and a half to walk to the waterfall ... not ten minutes.

So I "suddenly" noticed how late it was getting and exclaimed that I had to get back to town to meet my husband.  (Fake husbands or boyfriends are very useful things to bring travelling.)  I was already going to be late and he would be worried if I was any later.  With a hasty good-bye, I started back down the road towards Cafayate, and I never did get to see the waterfall.

He didn't follow me.  So if he was really just a nice guy who only wanted to help out a tourist or who was only looking for conversation with an interesting foreigner, then I'm sorry for thinking ill of him.   (But, really, I couldn't stand up my imaginary husband, could I?)  However, if he wasn't actually a nice guy ... then it could've gone very, very wrong had I not turned around and walked away.

But that's the thing about trusting your instincts.  You won't ever know what would have happened if you hadn't listened to them, if you'd made a different choice.  You can't tell whether anything bad would've happened, or not, so you can't judge whether you're being sensible or overly paranoid.  But I figure that, if I do something contrary to what my instincts tell me, then I'm going to be uncomfortable and worried the whole time anyway -- so even if it turns out to have been perfectly safe, I won't really have enjoyed it.

I have a pretty good idea, now, of what's a good idea for me and what isn't, but I'm sure everyone's comfort level or sense of security is different.  Where do you draw that line?

Where the Viento Zonda Blows

Cafayate, Argentina is one of my new favourite cities. Well, towns ... it`s perhaps about six blocks square so it doesn`t quite rank as a city. There is one main square, and one main street, and a scattering of parillas, cafes and hotels to take care of the tourists who come in droves to drink some fine torrontes wine and explore the weird and wonderful countryside around the town.  How grapes can grow in what is essentially a desert (complete with cacti and tumbleweed), I still haven`t figured out.   Today, on Sunday, the entire population of the town appears to have congregated in the square, and I could hear the church bells ringing all morning

The viento zonda has quieted today. It`s a warm, dry wind that travels down off the Andes -- northern Argentina`s equivalent to Alberta`s chinook -- and it blew fiercely for the past two days. It made for hot, dusty travel as I went south on Friday to just over the border in Tucumán province and the ruins of Quilmes, and yesterday as I went north through the Quebrada de las Conchas in the Valle Calchaquies. But it’s astonishing countryside around Cafayate, and well worth the heat and the dust; I do have some clothes that will never quite be clean again, though. The red dirt here is like the Australian Outback’s that way: once it’s there, the colour is there to stay.

This afternoon I am lazing on my balcony after a late start to the morning and a wander around the town. I am much happier, right now, than I have been for quite a while; time and space and permission to stop and recharge for a few days seems to have been just what I needed. The hotel is lovely, and the owner very charming; she seemed to realize immediately that I knew some Spanish but am not yet fluent, so she speaks to me in clearly enunciated and slowed-down Spanish that I can (mostly) grasp. She does speak perfect English as well, but she seems to have guessed that I like the chance to practice! And she doesn`t react to my attempts at Spanish as some people do, when they coo condescendingly “Oh, isn’t she cute trying to speak our language”.

Quilmes ruins, near Cafayate

Friday I decided on a whim to go to the Quilmes ruins about 60 km south of town along Ruta 40 (the same Ruta 40 that starts thousands of miles away in El Calafate, one of my first stops on this trip). It’s a bumpy, rutted road through wide-open country, ringed by mountains and dotted by towering cardón cacti 4 or 5 times my height. I travelled with a French couple that I’d been chatting to in the square, neither of whom spoke much English; fortunately some French knowledge does exist, buried in the recesses of my brain, and I could dig it out well enough to get by!

It got interesting when we got to Quilmes, though. Quilmes is Argentina’s oldest surviving ruin, dating back to about 1200 A.D., and it made it mostly unscathed through the Inca invasion and conquest.. It eventually fell to the Spanish in the 17th century, and the population was forcibly relocated to Buenos Aires (which still has a suburb named Quilmes, although few descendants remain). It’s a huge open ruin built up the side of a mountain; how far up you lived reflected your family’s social status, with the chief living at the top.

You can wander around on your own, and there are also guides on site to give you a history of the site. This is where it got interesting: our guide didn’t speak any English, but spoke deliberately slowly and carefully so we could grasp most of what he was saying. So if I understood him, I did my best to translate into French for the other two, and if they understood more, they`d translate for me (also into French). Or they`d ask me questions in French, for me to translate into Spanish and ask the guide. My brain physically hurt by the end of the afternoon, as I attempted to keep three languages straight in my head! And I was quite muddled for the rest of the day, throwing in French accidentally when I was trying to say something in Spanish. Fortunately, it`s often quite similar, so I can still usually make myself understood.

The French couple understood me well enough but were quite confused by my accent, though, till they learned I was from Canada; then they decided it was a `Canadian` French accent they were hearing. I didn`t tell them that my French accent is pretty muddled, too; after high school French taught by an Acadian and an Argentine (whose unique Spanish accent may have carried over into her French), I don`t actually know what kind of accent I have! Except that I don`t apparently sound TOO much like an Anglo, which makes me happy.

And in English, my accent confuses people sometimes too – I travelled north to the Quebrada in the company of some Brits yesterday, and they were all convinced (till I told them otherwise) that I was Irish. (Not sure if that`s the Phelpston or the Newfy side coming out ... ) Maybe next time I`ll just go along with it, and make up a whole new history for myself. Part of the fun of travel is that you get to re-invent yourself, after all!

The Quebrada (gorge, in Spanish) is a stretch of mountains and rock formations, that stretches for about 80 km north of Cafayate. The rocks don`t look like they`ve just eroded gradually over time; they look tortured and twisted by a giant unseen hand into fantastic and other-worldly shapes. And they are all the colours of the rainbow, just about, from the various minerals present that have oxidized – red and green and blue and yellow, layered on top of each other and shining brilliantly in the afternoon sun.

Garganta del Diablo

The most spectacular formation is probably the Garganta del Diablo, or Devil`s Throat; walking into this canyon did feel like walking into the maw of the earth, with it poised to swallow us whole. Those of us in adequate footwear (I am so glad I brought hiking boots after all!) scrambled over rocks and up sheer rock walls nearly to the end, walls of stone looming ominously around us.

The rest of the group waited near the entrance; what they were thinking in the outfits they chose that day, I`m really not sure. There was an English girl dressed as if she was off to a club, with cute little impractical slip-on shoes; one German girl in a denim skirt, purple shiny tights and a thick wool sweater and socks (on a very hot day); and a second German girl who was wearing what looked like pajama bottoms with flip-flops. Not exactly the best choices for hiking or climbing up rocks ...

We made it back to Cafayate as the sun set, and it got significantly colder after dark. But, as I have a fantastically large tub for my own exclusive use, it was easy to warm up again in a hot bath, as I sipped a glass of torrontes. I might stay another couple of days here -- I was supposed to leave tomorrow – as I`m enjoying this too much to rush away too soon. I`ll make some other budget trade-offs (maybe I`ll skip the $120 US Tren de las Nubes in Salta), and it`ll all be fine. And I`ll have a glass of torrontes tonight for you, too (but only one, since I`m going hiking tomorrow). Salud!

I Think I've Died and Gone to Heaven

Who knew that heaven would look just like the Hotel Killa in Cafayate, Argentina?  I just learned that when I arrived.  Oh, my, I think this may be exactly what I needed to get out of my funk and back into the travel groove again.

This won't be long since, well, I'm in heaven and I have better things to do.  Like have a glass of torrontes.  Or have a long, hot bath, something I haven't been able to do in almost three months.  Or maybe both of those things together.  At this rate, I'm probably not actually going to remember to have dinner tonight because I'll be too busy luxuriating in my big bed and my very own room, with my very own bathroom and bathtub and my very own safe to lock up all my valuables (so I don't have to walk around with everything strapped to me as I usually do).  And I can sleep naked tonight if I want. 

Any minute now I'm going to start singing.  "All I want is a room somewhere ..."  ... Eliza had the right idea.  Sometimes it's all about having your own space.

View from my balcony

Here's my quickie shot off my balcony -- note that there is even a pool!  If it's as warm tomorrow as it was today, it could even be swimming weather; today could've been a perfect late May summer day in Toronto.  It didn't feel at all like autumn.

You might think this is not much, for heaven.  Maybe you take all of those things for granted and think that heaven should offer something much grander.  Well, this hotel is nicer than my apartment (and probably your house too), and you've got to remember the perspective I'm coming from:  I usually sleep in a dorm with at least 5 other people (some of them 20-something boys, which is why I don't sleep naked), cook in a communal kitchen when I can get a turn at the stove and hang out in a common room with 20 of my new closest friends that I just met that morning.  The idea of an entire little world just for me is luxury, indeed.  I found the local vinoteca already, so I am prepared to spend as long as I choose in my room with ample supplies of wine to hand.

Actually, I think maybe all I needed was my own room for a little bit (but Hotel Killa is providing me with a lot more than that!).  I can be sociable and I like a good party, but I have a high need for solitude and "alone" time ... one of the characteristics of an introvert, I suppose.  It's hard to find this necessary solitude when you're staying in hostels most of the time -- while it's great to have all those other people around to talk to and have a beer with, or hook up for a day trip the next day, sometimes you just want them all to GO AWAY.  At least you do if you're an introvert, and particularly if you're one with hermit-like tendencies on occasion (like me, dear reader).

The town of Cafayate is very cute, too, and the bus ride from Salta was spectacular.  I spent an hour or so walking around town this evening, which means I probably saw the whole town since it's also very small.  But it's delightful, and it's a candidate to be added to my "where I could live" list (I'll keep you posted if it makes the cut, upon closer inspection).  I think I could happily spend a week here, although if I do, I'll have to move back to hostel living for some of that time or else I'll really be denting my budget.  A night here at Hotel Killa is about the same at a week at a hostel in Argentina -- not expensive by North American standards, considering the quality of what they're offering, but too much for a long-term stay if you hope to stretch your travel funds for a year!

Ahhhh ... I think that bath might be calling my name.  Along with that glass of torrontes.  I'll catch you later.

P.S.  And while I'm at it, here's an FYI, since it's a particular pet peeve of mine -- "introvert" DOES NOT equal quiet or shy.  It simply refers to where you get your energy from -- introverts recharge by being alone and spending time "in their heads" -- being "inward-directed" -- while extroverts feed on being around other people, being "outward-directed".  There are fewer true introverts around, so the majority extravert population tends to think we're a bit weird -- but please, please, PLEASE don't ever ask your introvert friend "Why are you so quiet?".   I used to get that a lot as a kid (I was extremely shy and quiet -- by comparison now I'm a regular social butterfly), and it always made me feel like a weird freak of nature; like being "quiet" was a character defect or abnormality.  (I would never say to a talkative person, "So how come you never shut up?" so please extend us introverts the reciprocal courtesy!).

La Linda, at last

I just arrived in Salta, Argentina ... nicknamed `La Linda` (`the fair` or `the beautiful one`) because it apparently is very lovely, with magnificent colonial architecture and a beautiful setting in the sierras.  I can`t really vouch for that yet, since I`ve spent the day mostly lounging around; what I did see on my walk from the bus station to the hostel this morning did look very pretty, though.

This has long been intended (well, for a month or so anyway) to be my most northerly stop in Argentina.  I hadn't quite realized just how bloody big Argentina is, or just how long it would take me to meander my way here!  But I arrived this morning, at last, off a very plush and comfortable bus ride -- complete with complementary malbec -- from Cordoba, Argentina.

Now that I'm here, I'm stopping for a bit, here and in Cafayate.  You may have read my previous rants and gathered that I'm probably overdue for this; sleeping in the same bed for more than a night or two will feel like a royal treat.  I might even splurge and stay at an actual hotel (i.e. have my own room, with no bunkbeds or roommates) in Cafayate ... Sarah or Steve, if you're reading this, where did you stay when you were there?  (And would you recommend it?)

I'll have a couple of days of enforced idleness, even if I felt like running around madly (which I don't); Monday and Tuesday are national holidays in Argentina, as May 25th is the 200th anniversary of the revolution that gained them their independence from Spain.  As a result, many things are shut, aside from the restaurants and cafes; I couldn`t play tourist even if I wanted to.  So my plan for tomorrow involves nothing more ambitious than parking myself on the hostel`s patio, with a glass of torrontes and a good book (I found an Anne Tyler and a John Irving in the last hostel`s book exchange, both of which I am very excited to read). 

And I`ll do some thinking about plans beyond Salta.  This is where I`m starting to tie myself in knots as I try to figure out options, so I`m probably going to ignore the whole issue tomorrow and get lost in a fictional world.  The problems of Anne Tyler`s characters are usually quite absorbing, so I doubt I`ll be thinking too much about my own dilemmas.

My original plan was to head from Salta to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile, and from there organize a trip through the salt flats of Salar de Uyuni into Bolivia (at least a 4-day excursion).  But I`m conscious that it`s the end of May, almost, and I still haven`t made it to Cuzco -- my four `must see`s` in South America on this trip when I started out were Easter Island, Mendoza/wine country, Machu Picchu and the Galapagos Islands.  Everything else I saw, I thought, would be gravy but I wouldn`t be too upset to miss other stuff.  Well, I`ve got two of those things still to do -- and I`m still determined not to miss them! -- so part of me just wants to get to Cuzco, and then to Quito, so I can organize those trips.  I decided to cancel my Inca Trail booking, so I could do one of the alternative treks instead; now, I`m quite glad of that, as I`d otherwise have to be in Cuzco and starting the hike next week!  (And I have one very sore heel that would seriously undermine my hiking ability right now.)

I`ve also realized that travelling through Bolivia would take a lot of time and effort, as their bus system is nothing like Argentina`s.  Flights from Bolivia to destinations out of the country are either non-existent or expensive, so my Plan B of simply flying onward from Uyuni to Cuzco doesn`t look possible either.  Then I thought maybe I`d just skip the salt flats, and fly directly from Salta to Cuzco; well, there are flights, but they`re about $900.  That`s just a wee bit steep for my budget, particularly after I already took an expensive (but worth it) detour to Easter Island.  And I don`t really want to skip ALL of Bolivia, just the scary bits (La Paz).

I went online and found a travel agency in Salta that does a Salta-Salar de Uyuni-San Pedro trip in about 5 days, which is much faster than I`d ever be able to do it on my own.  Plus, I like the idea of having travel companions for a few days!  From San Pedro, I could carry on over the border into Peru and be in Cuzco before too long, so it just might work.  I`ve emailed the company in question, but probably won`t hear back till at least Wednesday (everything being shut, as I mentioned).

So I don`t know, really, what I`m going to do.  I think I`m just going to put the question out of my mind for a few days and just relax:  read, write, go for walks, review my Spanish course books (I have become too used to just using basic Spanish and switching to English if I get stuck; I`d like to refresh my memory).  Maybe after a few days to recharge, all will become clear.  Or at least maybe I`ll just be able to pick a plan and go with it, instead of ruminating endlessly and driving myself completely mad.

Oy vey.  This travel stuff is not a walk in the park, but I`m going to have such a sense of accomplishment by the time I get home.  (This is important for us Type A, overachieving, first-born children so that`s a really good thing.)  And I`ve learned some stuff along the way; no, I haven`t figured out the big question of `so what do I want to do with my life when I get back home?`, but I do realize now, at least, that I like having a home base (so I won`t became a total nomad) and I like having a purpose/goal other than `what do I feel like doing today?`(That`s good in the short term ... but as a lifestyle, it wouldn`t work for me.)  And I really, really like to write, as I`ve learned from writing this blog; it`s gratifying to know that people out there are reading it (I love it when you comment!) but I`d do it anyway, because it makes me happy.  Maybe I`ll even dust off my mystery novel again over the next few days and get writing some fiction, too.

Anyway, I think I`ve probably done enough rambling for the moment.  I`m also hungry, so I`m going to go cook my dinner -- I`m excited about that, I found lots of vegetables and spices at the market and am going to make my favourite arrabiata sauce.  With perhaps another glass of torrontes to wash it down ... bottoms up!

It`s Not All Fun and Games, Kids

Do you ever have bad days?  Days when every single little thing seems to go wrong?  And you walk down the sidewalk behind people moving with seemingly delibrate slowness and aimlessness, and you just keep muttering under your breath, "Would you get the F%$?!&% out of my way and pick a direction already?"  And the universe appears to be conspiring with everybody else in it just to PISS YOU OFF?  Oh, please, you know you have, I'm not the only neurotic one around here.

I've had a couple of days like this recently.  Easter Island was a lovely little break from reality and I did manage to chill out quite nicely; when I got back to the mainland, though, I came crashing back to the grind that can be long-term travel.

I left you last on Easter Island; I spent three full days on the island, and flew back after my fourth night there; I crashed in Santiago for a night (since my flight landed about 8 pm) and then caught a bus the next afternoon for Cordoba. My inner island peace had evaporated by the time I got there, as my promised "directo" bus wasn't direct at all (I had to switch in Mendoza about 10:00 at night), the food was terrible, the movie played very loudly until about 2 a.m. and I didn't get a blanket or pillow.

Oh, and this was after some panic-inducing moments at the border crossing -- the immigration officer insisted that I needed an entry card with a stamp from when I arrived in Chile, in order to exit the country. I didn't have any such thing; thinking furiously back, I thought I probably had received one but wasn't sure, and after searching all through my pockets, money belt, and neck pouch I didn't turn up anything resembling an official piece of paper from Chile.  And I figured that if I had actually received an entry card like I was supposed to, it had probably fallen out of my passport unnoticed, either when I checked in at the airport going to or returning from Easter Island, or when I handed over my passport to buy a bus ticket (required in Chile and Argentina).

At any rate, I didn't have the all-important entry card ... but I couldn't begin to explain in Spanish what might have happened to it.  My Spanish has gotten pretty good for basic transactions, and I can even manage conversations once in a while (although nothing deep and philosophical), but it's nowhere near good enough to argue my case with an immigration officer hell-bent on keeping me at the border until I can magick up the piece of paper he wants from me. 

In the end, I played the often-useful "dumb tourist" card and insisted stubbornly that I'd never received one when I crossed into Chile, and didn't know I needed one (so obviously, I implied, I couldn't have realized the border guard's mistake at that time and didn't know I should ask for one).   This was simple enough to communicate in my halting Spanish, so I just kept repeating it.  Finally, the immigration guy just shrugged and rolled his eyes, stamping my passport with a resounding THUD and shoving it back through the grill at me.  I think I caught him near the end of his shift (I saw him putting on his jacket and heading out as our bus was finally pulling out), so I guess he had better things to do than keep me in Chile.

So I got back into Argentina in the end, with another piece of paper that I'll be sure to hang out to this time.  Could've been worse, I suppose, but it still made me cranky.  Then I got to the terminal in Mendoza, and realized the original ticket guy in Santiago had flat-out LIED to me when he said the bus went straight from Santiago to Cordoba; I didn't just get to sleep all the way to Cordoba, I had to haul myself and my backpack off that first bus in Mendoza and wait around more than an hour for another one. 
 
Which arrived half an hour late, which meant I got dinner late and was ravenous and very bitchy; I'm not a nice person when I'm hungry (just ask anyone in my office who's ever interrupted me before I had breakfast at my desk, or worse still, before I had my coffee).  Dinner arrived about 11:30 at night, and it was ham and cheese in 3 different forms for dinner (none of them good), so I got crankier still.  The movie started playing about midnight, very loudly, and the bus was freezing cold and they didn't give out blankets, so I dozed fitfully when I managed to sleep at all. 
 
Somewhere in the middle of the night, the bus broke down and the driver and attendant made a tremendous racket as they did whatever it is that people do under the hood of a vehicle; it started up again, finally, and we got on our way again.  The heating appeared to be working again, too, and I was soon roasting uncomfortably (note to self:  always dress in layers for any form of travel).
 
Tired and monumentally out of sorts by then, I arrived in Cordoba finally about an hour after the scheduled time.  Trudged to the hostel, which was a much longer walk than it looked on the map and up two steep flights of narrow stairs.  Threw my bag in my room and headed back out the door again, bound for the sleepy little hamlet of Jesus Maria and its Jesuit estancia which was the whole reason I'd bothered to stop in Cordoba.  Got to Jesus Maria easily enough, in about an hour on a little local minibus, and then wandered around growling to myself when I got lost and couldn't figure out where the estancia was, anyway,  (The obvious step of, oh, ASKING someone didn't cross my mind in my foul humour.) 
 

I got found, eventually, and it was actually pretty cool; the Jesuits arrived in this part of Argentina in the early 1600's and (among other things) founded the University of Cordoba in 1622.  They ran the operation in Jesus Maria as a wine-making centre, in order to pay the operating costs of their university; their original operating capital had been hijacked by pirates on its way over from Europe so those resourceful priests turned their hands to the making and selling of alcohol instead.  Did a roaring trade, too, by all accounts, with their fancifully-named first wine "Lagrimilla del Oro" (little tear of gold). 

(What is it with Catholic priests and the wine business?  Dom Perignon -- the original guy the champagne is named after -- was a monk and used to pre-sell his entire inventory before it was ready, knowing that about a third of the bottles were likely to explode from the built-up pressure before they ever left his hands; he'd keep all the money anyway and blame the buyers for handling the bottles too roughly.)
 
Their profitable little endeavour -- and their side efforts to Christianize the locals and "teach the natives how to live like civilized men" (direct quote from a placard at the museum) -- didn't last all that long, historically speaking.  They were turfed out in 1767, having fallen out of favour with the powers that be; among other things, they were accused of pride, greed, ignoring the dictates of the pope and of "pelagianism" (that last one I'll have to look up -- I have a vague memory from high school religion, something about the doctrine of original sin).
 
I got back on the bus to Cordoba, a little more cheerful after a good historical wallow and a wander around the countryside.  But I quickly got back to cranky again, after my bus didn't go back to the same terminal it departed from, but took a long, roundabout tour of the entire city of Cordoba before going to the long-distance bus station on the far side of town.  Two and a half hours after leaving Jesus Maria ( almost three times as long as it took me to get there) I was back in Cordoba, not quite where I wanted to be, but thought I could salvage the situation by buying my onward bus ticket for Salta for tomorrow while I was there.  
 
But I tried a couple of counters and neither company had seats left for tomorrow.  So I grumbled again, threw up my hands and stalked back to the hostel, figuring I'd just worry about it tomorrow.  At least, I thought, I'll get a good dinner tonight without having to go buy food and cook; the hostel was planning to have an asado, a traditional Argentine barbecue.
 
Well, I got back to the hostel and the asado was cancelled.   So I have eaten the remains of my crackers and fruit, and am still hungry and grumpy but can't be bothered to go out and find anything else.  Add to that how much I'm stressing out about Bolivia, and I'm a thoroughly unhappy traveller tonight -- I do not, do NOT want to go to La Paz (it scares the hell out of me from the stories I've heard), but I can't figure out how to get around it by bus, and flying over doesn't seem to be an option unless I backtrack to Argentina or Chile.  And I don't want to skip Bolivia altogether, because I want to see the Salar de Uyuni (salt flats), so I have to figure this out somehow, or just bite the bullet and pass through La Paz as quickly as humanly possible and hope like hell the stories are exaggerated.

You see, boys and girls, that travel is not always glamourous and exciting; sometimes it just annoys you, frustrates you and leaves you bad-tempered and sulking.  I'm doing my best not to inflict my bad mood on anyone here -- it hardly seems fair to bitch at them when I've only just met them all -- so I've decided to rant at you, dear reader, instead.  You can always get up and walk away from the screen if you don't want to put up with me.
 
I promise to be in a better mood next time.  A few days of doing nothing in Salta or Cafayate might just do the trick ... as long as I can get a bus, that is.   If I get stuck in Cordoba, I'm not promising anything.

A Visit to the Stone Guardian

I don't know how familiar you are with the geography of Argentina.  I wasn't, at all, till I came here; it still blows me away occasionally how BIG this country is.  It's the 8th largest in the world, after ... let's see ... Russia, Canada, United States, China, Brazil, Australia, and India, in something like that order.  It's nearly 4,000 km from north to south, and 1,500 km from east to west, and I'll have traversed it in both directions by the time I'm done.

And a chain of huge mountains run nearly all the way up the length of the country, forming a sort of spine for South America.  The Andes carry on northward into Bolivia and beyond, but they hit their peak right near Mendoza.  Away to the west, there's a mountain called Aconcagua ("Stone Guardian" in the local indigenous language) that reaches the lofty height of 6,962 metres.  That's taller than any other mountain outside of the Himalayas.

I took a day trip yesterday to go visit the Stone Guardian, with a few other stops along the way.  As you leave Mendoza, heading west toward Chile, it isn't long before the landscape changes from flat desert to foothills to mountains to ... towering peaks the likes of which I've never seen.  The Rockies have nothing on these.   Aconcagua is the highest, and there were a few foolhardy souls heading out on the long hiking trail that would take them to the base of the giant itself, from there to start a long and arduous climb to the top.  Because of the altitude, you can't hike continuously day after day, as you have to stop to acclimatize;  it takes at least 2 weeks to reach the summit.

THAT idea didn't even cross my mind for a second, as I was very happy just to look at it from a distance.  It's still impressive and the landscape was quite literally breath-taking; the viewpoint for Aconcagua is at about 3,000 metres and it's noticeably harder to breathe and hike.  Quite what it would be like at nearly 7,000 metres, I don't even want to imagine!

It was mostly Chileans on the bus with me, aside from a couple of American college students, and they appeared to be equally fascinated by the fact the the little lakes near the viewpoint were frozen over, and that there was snow on the ground, as they were by Aconcagua itself.  They would happily have spent hours, I think, just skipping rocks across the ice of a pond, chuckling to each other at this novelty.  (For a Canadian who grew up with real winters, this was much less fascinating.  But I had fun showing them how to make a snowman.)

Aconcagua was obviously the highlight of the day, but there are a few other oddities around the area that amused me.  We stopped for breakfast (which, for an Argentino, means sweet pastries with dulce de leche) at a little town called Upsallata, proud possessor of the Tibet Bar -- it's furnished with castoffs and souvenirs from the set of "Seven Years in Tibet", which was filmed near here.  Brad Pitt lived in the local schoolhouse during the shoot.

A bit further out from Mendoza, past Upsallata, there`s a late 18th century stone bridge over an icy glacier stream called the Puente de Picheuta.  It was built originally by the governor of the day for the use of travellers on the trade route over the Andes, but it gained its claim to fame from its use by the massed forces of General San Martin in 1806 as he marched against the Spanish.  This year, Argentina celebrates the successful conclusion of that revolution, as it`s the 200th anniversary of their official independence in 1810.

Puente del Inca

Further on still, nearly at Aconcagua, there`s an intriguing stone formation called the Puente del Inca.  Legend has it that the natural bridge was created when the Incan sun god was ailing and needed to access the healing hot springs on the other side of the water.  Loyal Incas formed a human bridge and when the Sun rose again, fully restored, they were frozen in place, there to remain for all eternity to assist others in need of the springs.

The more prosaic explanation is that the mineral-rich water has gradually eroded the stone over time.  But I think I like the legend better.  Either way, it`s an interesting place -- at one point, it was the site of a posh hotel and spa, where guests could go down to the bath house over the hot springs to soak away their ailments.  An avalanche destroyed the hotel, but the bath house remains, slowly being covered up by mineral deposits as the water continues to flow. 

Well, tomorrow I head back out that direction, but carry on right over the pass into Chile.  I`m off to Santiago for at least a couple of days, and -- I think -- arranging for a side trip to Easter Island while I`m in the neighbourhood (or at least as "in the neighbourhood" as I`m ever going to get!).  This is not a cheap undertaking, but this is kind of a once-in-a-lifetime year for once-in-a-lifetime trips just like this.  So I might just take the plunge and go.  I`ll keep you posted.

Red, Red Wine ... and a Couple of Good Whites, Too

Now I'm going to be singing that song all night.  But it seemed like the only possible title for this particular post, since I'm now in Argentine wine country in Mendoza.

I last left you in Buenos Aires, dear reader (aside from a little detour in the last post) and from there I caught a 'semi-cama' bus to Mendoza.  14 hours and NO BLANKET later, I was here; this was my first experience in this particular class of bus and, while significantly cheaper than 'cama', you definitely get what you pay for.  Had I realized when the bus stopped at a cafe-cum-gas-station about 11 p.m. that it was my only chance to buy some dinner, I might've enjoyed it more; as it was, I survived on fruit I'd brought with me.  I misunderstood the attendant's rapid-fire Argentine accent and thought he said we were stopping only for 'seis' minutes (e.g. 6) so I took a quick walk to stretch my legs and got back on, but it was more like half an hour.  So I would've had time to buy a tasty jamon-y-queso empanada, or something.

But it didn't kill me to live on bananas and apples for a night; probably good for my health and my waistline, actually.  I'm already fastening my belt at least 4 inches tighter than when I started out, so a few more food-less bus rides and I'll be doing even better!

But I digress.  I got to Mendoza just fine, and checked into a hostel in a lovely old converted mansion right off the main square, the Plaza Independencia.  After eating (the bus didn't provide me with breakfast either), I headed out to wander the town.  Among the better discoveries was a little wine tasting bar right down the street called the Vines of Mendoza, so I headed back there in the evening to taste a 'flight' of 5 Malbecs.  Scrumptious!   (As you can tell from the smile on my face ...)  I was very tempted by the "Los Iconos" tasting, with 5 of Argentina's best wines, but was deterred by the 600-peso price tag.  (That's about $125 ... I probably wouldn't think twice in my working life, but on the road it's about 10 nights of accommodation, or two long-distance buses!  Or a good chunk towards an Easter Island jaunt.)

The next day (yesterday) I went touring vineyards in the nearby regions of Maipu and Lujan de Cuyo; I decided against the self-guided biking tour because I'm with my sister on this one ... alcohol and cycling is a bad combination!  So I hopped a bus and someone else drove me around; slightly more expensive than biking but still reasonable.  There are very high-end tours to be had, where you can pick your own specific winery stops, or you can hire a car and driver to take you wherever you want to go; alas, these things do not fit well in a long-term backpacking budget. 

But I was equally happy on my bus, full of Argentinos and Chilenos on holiday, and one other backpacker (a sweet young American college boy named Brian who had never actually drunk wine before).  The others on the bus -- mostly married couples -- kept thinking he and I were also a couple, so we gave up trying to explain otherwise and I just smiled when they referred to my "novio" (a.k.a. boyfriend).  Considering he was, at most, 22 or 23, I thought I was doing all right for myself.

The wines were delightful, and I tried some equally tasty olive oils at another stop.  I'd expected to enjoy the wine-tasting part, so that wasn't really a surprise; what did surprise me was the area we drove through.  I'd been expecting, I suppose, something like the bucolic peace of Bordeaux or Burgundy, steeped in tradition and history, or the lush green of Niagara or the Okanagan.  But Maipu and Lujan de Cuyo are suburban, if anything -- we didn't really hit open countryside at all.  The wineries are mostly very small, boutique or family affairs, so there are few grand estates with long sweeping drives and majestic chateaux.

Still, you can't really go wrong spending a day drinking wine, especially when it's fine Argentine malbec and torrentes (the latter is one of the good whites I tried).  Incidentally, did you know that "malbec" comes from the French for "bad mouth"; French wine growers tried and discarded this grape in a huff as unworthy of their attention.  From the dry mountainous region of Mendoza, Argentina, however, it`s taking over the world; those old French viticulturalists might be rolling over in their graves.

You can find other red wines here, too, and I tried a few of those as well.  I`m not sure what it is about the climate or soil or ambience of this part of the world, but Mendoza appears to turn all kinds of red wines on their heads and turn them into something else entirely.  Take pinot noir, for example:  I`m used to this wine as a lighter, easy-to-drink quaff (which it usually is in Niagara), but here in Argentina, I had a pinot noir that was spicy and peppery and `big` like I`d expect from a shiraz or a cab sauv. (What would Sideways make of this?)   I had to double-check the label to be sure what I was really drinking.  Similarly, the Argentine version of a cabernet sauvignon I tried was much softer and mellower than anything I`ve had from other parts of the world.

I had trouble remembering, though, as I drank some fine wines, that I am no longer a hardworking finance professional with ample disposable income and was tempted to buy a few expensive bottles to ship home.  But then the wine fog cleared, and I remembered that I`ve transformed into a backpacker-on-a-budget who would prefer to spend her available cash going to Easter Island, say, than on expensive wine; the wine will still be there and they`ll still ship it to me when I have a paycheque again, but I won`t be as tantalizingly close to the Isla de Pascua (as I must remember to call it here) as I am right now.  It`s just a question of priorities.

This is my biggest argument with anyone who`s told me I`m `lucky` to be able to afford to travel.  They don`t get that anyone can do this, if they`re willing to make the trade-offs required.  There`s no `luck` involved, people ... I worked really, really damn hard for the money that I saved up, and I`m willing to live very cheaply and forego a lot of luxuries to make it stretch to the things I really want to do.  So if you`re sitting there saying, `Well, that`s good for you, but I could never manage it even though I`d love to`, then quit your whining ... and quit your job, throw some stuff in a backpack and c`mon down and join me!

Step Aside, New York ... THIS is the City that Never Sleeps!

Buenos Aires.  BA.  Paris of the South.  Call it what you will, this city of 13 million people is a complex and overwhelming place.  After four days back in urban territory, I'm right back to being as wound up and impatient type-A as I ever was in Toronto.  I need to get out of here before I completely lose my hard-won peace of mind!

That doesn't mean I haven't enjoyed it, though, because I have.  It's just a little much to take in large doses, after time spent wandering around the largely empty land of Patagonia.

I got back on Saturday, May 1st, early in the morning, dropped my bags at the hostel (the same one I'd stayed at before -- can't beat the location!) and headed back out the door, determined to spend a day seeing the sight of Palermo, one of the trendiest neighbourhoods of BA.  Well, I'd forgotten what May 1st means in Latin America -- it's the "Dia del Trabajo" (Labour Day) and nearly everything is shut.  Including grocery stores, which meant no cooking myself dinner that night unless I wanted to eat only plain rice.

But it's a pretty, green, leafy neighbourhood with huge parks, so I wandered a while and breathed in the relatively fresh air.   And I had a deliciously yummy burger in the park, so ticked off one of the 3 things you must do in BA (well, sort of - the 3 things are eat steak, tango and watch football.  I'm counting a burger as #1, since I'm not a big fan of red meat except in this form.).  To my surprise, the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires (more easily referred to as MALBA) was open, so I went in and had a look around; it's kind of BA's answer to MOMA in New York, and has an impressive collection of mostly modern art by Latin American artists.

I got to #2 and #3 on the Buenos Aires "must do" list, too; #2 with a trek to San Telmo on Sunday to browse the famous Sunday market and have lunch at El Balcon, where I also saw a music-and-tango show.  Donation tango shows were also on offer in the plaza; these are "free" outdoor performances to recorded or live music, with a hat passed around the crowd afterward to make a contribution.  Delightful day -- San Telmo is just south of the center, and is a lovely old neighbourhood of cobblestoned streets and pastel colonial buildings.

#3 -- football -- came Sunday night.  You may have already read my previous blog post about this; if not, go back and have a read!  It's an experience quite unlike any other soccer game to see one in Argentina; the fans are legendary for their passion.

So I've done the "must do's" of Buenos Aires (if you'll allow me to count the burger) and am heading onwards with a sense of mission accomplished.  Having earned a little break, I took yesterday to go to Colonia, Uruguay on the very convenient (but slow) ferry from BA's Puerto Madero neighbourhood (akin to London's Docklands).  So nice to have a little breathing room, a break from the urban insanity of BA -- Colonia del Sacramento is a UNESCO World Heritage site for its historic centre that dates back to the late 17th century.  At various times, it's been Spanish and Portuguese and back again, as the two colonial powers in this part of the world struggled for dominance over its key strategic location.  Nowadays, though, it's a sleepy and peaceful little place; I ambled around the town for a while, and then found a spot to just sit and drink in the atmosphere, listening to a Uruguayan guitarist with a warm baritone voice serenade us.

For today, my last in BA (I leave at 8 pm tonight), I headed back to Palermo for the Museo Evita and the Museo Xul Solar. The first isn't so much a museum as it is a shrine to Saint Eva Peron; I left with the impression that she was sort of the Princess Di of her day, beloved by the nation and famous for her stylish wardrobe. A good chunk of the latter is preserved in the museum; she had very good taste in shoes, I'll give her that.

Xul Solar was an Argentine artist from the early part of the 20th century -- among other things, Argentine painter, sculptor, writer, inventor of imaginary languages, and student of astrology and the Kabbalah -- and the museum in his name houses a collection of his work. It's quirky and colourful and quite appealing -- I don't know quite what "style" you'd call it, but think Paul Klee, or Kandinsky.

And now I must start packing up and head back out to Retiro bus station, to try to find my bus to Mendoza in the bewildering array of 75 platforms.  Wine country, here I come ... I promise to have a glass or two of Malbec for you when I'm in a vineyard somewhere.

Bend It Like Beckham; or "Goooooooaaaaaallllllll!!!!!!!!"

You think you've watched soccer before. You might've actually gone to a game or two, to see Toronto's relatively new FC or some other team. But if you haven't seen soccer (make that "football") South American-style, you've had an entirely different experience.

Argentina's soccer fans -- and that category includes pretty much every male Argentino from the age of 6 upwards, and a fair number of las Argentinas, too -- are in a class of their own. They are completely, utterly, certifiably NUTS in their passion for this game. For a wide-eyed inncocent (a.k.a. tourist) attending a game, it's just as entertaining to watch the fans as it is to watch the field.

(The other really entertaining thing was the number of very beautiful men who play soccer.  But that`s neither here nor there for the purposes of this story.)

I went to a game yesterday in Avellaneda, a southern suburb of Buenos Aires, to watch Independiente host their bitter rivals Boca Juniors for the third-to-last game in the Argentina’s Primera Division. This is the top level of Argentina’s football league, widely regarded as one of the strongest in the world. It was a do-or-die game for Independiente; five points behind the first-place team Estudiantes, they had only two games remaining after this one to make up the difference. With a win counting for 3 points, a tie for 1, and a loss zero, they stood virtually no chance of coming out on top if they lost this game.

I opted to go with a tour rather than try to arrange it myself; you pay well over the odds for your game ticket this way, but once I got there I was very glad I had. It was in a far-flung suburb that would have been a very expensive taxi ride away, and I don’t think I’d have even been able to find my seat on my own, much less track down a taxi once the game was over to get back to civilization. Seating seemed a little random; our tickets all had row and seat numbers, but our guide waved his hand vaguely at a couple of rows of seats and said, “We’re somewhere around here ... I think.”

With neither rows nor seats labelled, it was difficult to tell, so there was a bit of shuffling around before the game started as football fans came to claim some of the seats we were originally in.

Riot police separating the Boca fans

It was quickly clear once we’d sat down that we were cheering for Independiente that evening; to do otherwise would’ve quickly gotten us thrown out of the stadium (at best) or lynched (at worst). We were surrounded by a sea of red (Independiente’s colour – they are also nicknamed “El Rojo”) and Boca’s fans in blue and yellow (see right) were congregated in one end of the stadium behind fences, surrounded by police in riot gear. Fans set off fireworks in the stands, and threw so much stuff onto the field that men with leaf blowers came out to clear off the pitch.

Obviously this wasn’t going to be your average North American soccer game.

There was a preliminary game with some of the young players from both sides; fans cheered for their teams but didn’t seem too worked up. But once the main action started, I saw the true colours of the Argentine soccer fans: they started jumping up and down in unison, chanting and singing their team’s fight songs, waving flags and T-shirts and anything else in their team’s colours, and tossing plastic stadium seats in the direction of the opposing team’s fans. And they didn’t stop, once, throughout the game; they got as good a workout as anyone on the field.

The stadium, an aging concrete structure visibly in need of repair, juddered and quaked with the force of their enthusiasm. We, the tourist contingent, looked at each other a little askance; just how solid was this building, and how much shaking could it take until it collapsed under the weight of all those feet pounding the concrete?  (Needless to say, since I am writing here, it didn’t choose that night to crumble. But I don’t think it’s beyond the bounds of possibility!)

It didn’t take a lot of Spanish, either, to guess what was being yelled at the referees for bad calls, or at the opposing team if they scored a goal. (“Hijo de una puta” came up a lot.) Every fan took it very, very personally if things didn’t go well for their team; a man in front of me was sobbing so hard into his hands that his shoulders heaved, after the referee missed a particularly blatant penalty by an opposing player.

In the end, Independiente lost, 3-1. The sea of red collapsed, overwrought, and was silent for the first time all night as they watched their team file off the field. Boca’s fans, on the other hand, were jubilant, and the sound of those thousands of voices raised in song probably carried back to the centre of Buenos Aires.

Riot police, fully kitted out with helmets and shields, took up positions on the field at the end of the game, and gates were kept closed in most sections (keeping the Independiente fans inside) until after all the Boca fans had departed. From the mood of that game, I think that was wise; while it would make for a good story afterwards, I have no desire to ever end up in the middle of a football riot!

Whew. It’s quite the spectacle to watch, almost primal in its intensity. I don’t know how the fans keep that up, game after game. I’m exhausted just writing about it.   So I'll take a little break and fill you in on the rest of the past few days later.

Adventures in Visa-land, and Some Pretty Spectacular Falls

It’s 30C in the sunshine as I type this, on a perfect hot and humid day in the tropics of northeast Argentina. I’m still in Puerto Iguazú, but am catching a bus at 3:00 today back to Buenos Aires. I’ll spend another couple of days there, and probably take a side trip to Uruguay, before heading on to Mendoza and wine country.

I spent the last couple of days checking out the reason everyone comes to Iguazú: we all come to see the falls. There is a national park on both the Argentine and Brazilian sides of the falls, and they offer you different perspectives; from the Brazilian side, you get a panoramic overview of the falls, and in Argentina, you get up close and personal. So it’s a good balance when you visit both sides.

And I did visit both sides, despite the fact that I had to get a visa for Brazil. Canadians, Americans, Australians and a few other nationalities need visas to enter the country (for some reason, New Zealanders don’t), and pay handsomely for the privilege; I was thankful at least NOT to be American, as they’re charged double what the rest of us are. Europeans, by and large, pay nothing, so I’m on the lookout for a Euro passport-holder (gender and age not important) willing to marry me solely as a business arrangement so I can get the associated travel perks. Let me know if you know anyone.

They don’t make it particularly easy on you to get your Brazilian visa, but it is possible to do it in a morning here instead of waiting the 3-4 days it would take in Buenos Aires. I got up bright and early and headed to a photo place at 8 a.m. to get pictures (I look like a convict, but at the time didn’t care), then over to the Brazilian consulate. The officious man at the counter sent me packing to go get a form I needed to fill out, which I did once I found an internet place that would let me print it out (and after waiting in line for all the Aussies ahead of me who were doing the exact same thing). The internet guy even lent me a glue stick so I could stick my picture in the appropriate square.

Back at the consulate, my officious little friend then informed me that I had to have exact change to pay the fee. (He couldn’t have told me this the first time around?) I came up with 272.75 pesos – the fee is 273 – and scrounged around frantically in my bag for the missing 25 centavos. I tried to convince the consulate guy to take 274 pesos instead, and just keep the change, but he refused. Fortunately one of the Aussie girls gave me the missing 25-centavo coin and I handed over money and paperwork.

“Come back at 1 pm,” consulate guy told us all. It was about 10:30 by now. So we all went off in our separate directions and congregated back in the consulate office again a few hours later. Consulate guy tried to give me the wrong passport (an Aussie one), insisting it was me when he looked at the picture; I pulled the right one out of the pile (the lone Canadian passport in the bunch) and took it away with the precious visa inside. I discovered upon looking at it that my picture showed up on the visa, too; if I`d known that when I got the pictures taken, I might`ve been more concerned about it looking like a mug shot.

Then it was onwards to Brazil. I changed 100 Argentine pesos for 45 Brazilian rials (a bad exchange rate, but there was only one place in town to do it), and caught a bus to the border. The bus driver waited as I got the necessary Argentine exit stamps, but he left me behind at the Brazilian entry post, after giving me a ticket to get on the next bus without having to pay again. 2 minutes later, I was officially stamped into Brazil, and waited another half an hour for the next bus.

It duly arrived, and took me into the town of Foz de Iguaçu, where I had to switch to another bus (and pay another 2.2 rials) to get to the national park and the falls. Eventually, we pulled up at the gates of the national park, and 2 hours after leaving the bus station on the Argentine side, I was there.

Prices to enter the park had almost doubled from my Lonely Planet guide information; it’s been pretty good on Argentine prices (costs have gone up a bit but nothing too dramatic) but inflation is apparently running more rampant in Brazil. (Or they’ve just decided that there’s more money to be gouged out of tourists and hiked up prices accordingly.) Cost of an entrance ticket varies depending on where you’re from: for complete foreigners (e.g. me), it’s 37 rials (about $20), less if you’re from South America, even less if you’re from Brazil, and the least if you’re a retired person living in this particular province (they pay only 5 rials).

Another bus takes you into the park, with stops at various activities like rafting (cost of which is in addition to your entrance ticket, so I declined – plus I didn’t have time). There’s a path of about 1 km that you can walk along the Brazilian side of the falls, giving you some stunning panoramas of waterfall after waterfall after waterfall: Iguazu is not one cataract, but many, and collectively they cover a vast area and range in size dramatically. The sound of roaring water is deafening, and by the end of the trail you’re standing right next to the largest waterfall of all: the Garganta del Diablo, or Devil’s Throat. I stood in the mist and spray of this enormous rush of water and marvelled at the sheer force.

About 5:00, I realized I’d better start heading back, as the last bus across the border to Argentina was at 7 p.m. I made it back to town in time for a 6:45 bus, and went back to the border; once again I was left behind at the Brazilian side and told to catch the next bus. I waited ... and waited ... and waited ... and after an hour I was pretty sure that the bus that carried on without me was the last one of the night. Just as I was about to give up and go beg a customs guard for a ride to the Argentine side of the border, a bus pulled up; it was a different company than the one that dropped me off, but I was willing to pay the 5 pesos again for the peace of mind of knowing I wouldn’t have to sleep at the border crossing that night!

So it was quite late, and I was a little stressed, by the time I got back to the hostel. My American roommate cracked open 1-litre bottles of Quilmes (Argentine beer) and we ended up chatting all night to an eclectic mix of people; at one point, there were about 12 countries represented around the table. Wine and beer flowed freely, and a very intense Israeli guy, fresh out of the army, produced a joint at some point. (Yes, I inhaled. Oh, hush to anyone who has a problem with this, I’m not going to turn into a crack-smoking junkie and I wouldn’t smoke pot in, say, Thailand, where they’d throw me in jail for a really long time. Argentina’s pretty relaxed about such things.)

Walking under the falls at Iguazu (Argentine side)

Getting to the Argentine side of the falls was much easier, and I spent all of yesterday there. There are many more trails than the Brazilian side: there’s a pretty 2-hour hiking trail through the rainforest that takes you to a little waterfall and swimming hole, monkeys chattering at you all the while; there is an ‘Upper Circuit’ of the falls, with walkways that take you right over top, watching the rushing water beneath your feet; and there’s a ‘Lower Circuit’ that takes you in, around, up to and under the falls. I got drenched on the last trail (see right), but it was worth it for the close-up view.

Today, I’m sitting in the sun as I upload pictures, send some emails, and of course write this for you, dear reader. I am back on the bus at 3 pm today, another “super cama” ride back to Buenos Aires. It’s not going to be nearly so warm there, so I’m going to soak up the tropical sunshine while I can (suitably slathered in expensive Argentine sunscreen) ... on that note, I need to shut down my computer, go find a book and a sunny patch of grass. Ah, it’s a rough life.

Bus Travel, Argentine Style

This country has bus travel down to a science. Unlike Guatemala or Honduras or Nicaragua, there is not a chicken bus in sight. I just got off the bus from Buenos Aires to Iguazu, and I don’t think I could have improved upon one thing to make it a better ride. I opted to travel “super cama” this time (also variously called “tutto letto” or “cama suite”), which is the most expensive option – but my 18-hour bus ride still only cost me about $80 Canadian. And I got to ride up top, which amuses me immensely for some reason.

What made it so good, you say? Let’s start with the seat – it folded down completely and utterly flat, and a leg/footrest anchored on the wall in front could be levered up to create an actual bed. It was at least as wide as a business class plane seat. Dividers between rows meant you had complete privacy, as did curtains that could be drawn between side-by-side seats. I had a row of 2 to myself, so I had acres of room.

Each seat had an individual LCD screen attached to the divider in front, with an individual set of headphones, so you could choose to watch/listen to the movie or not, as you choose. Soft fuzzy blankets were at least as big as those you’d put on a twin bed, and pillows were firm and comfortable. Windows all had curtains that could be drawn at night to shut out any glare from streetlights or passing traffic .

Food was very good, and (unusually for Argentina) came with an adequate amount of vegetables. (They’re big on the meat and starches here, but often skimp on the green stuff. My sister Shelley would be horrified by the lack of broccoli – even grocery stores often don’t have it.) Dessert was sinfully rich but not so large that I felt like a glutton. Your choice of beverages was provided, including wine if you wanted it; naturally I opted for the Argentine malbec. Champagne or whiskey was served after dinner; actually, they’d probably give you both if you wanted.

A charming and handsome young attendant served us at our seats, and he even thoughtfully switched on the English subtitles of the movies just for me. I should always live my life with handsome young men to dance attendance on me; any ideas as to how I could arrange this?

Quite delightful, all in all. If you come to Argentina for no other reason, come just to take an overnight bus ride somewhere, and go for the top class. You won’t be sorry. 

There are other choices, of course, if you don’t want to pay the extra $8-10 that this class costs. It’s a little complicated to figure out, as bus companies seem to call the same class by different names, but there are basically these choices:

• Común: cheapest class, no frills. Seat doesn’t recline, usually no food provided.
• Común con aire: as above, plus air-conditioning. The usual option for short trips (in this country, “short” means anything less than overnight, it seems).
• Semi-cama: meets certain specifications about distance between seats and angle at which seats recline. May be “con” or “sin” servicio; that is, there will be food available, but it won’t necessarily be served at your seat (you may have to help yourself from a minibar). May also be called “Dorado” (gold).
• Cama: meets certain specifications about distance between seats and angle of recline (more stringent than for semi-cama, so your seat will go back farther and it’ll be easier to sleep). 3 seats per row instead of 4 as the seats are wider. Food and beverages are usually (but not always) served at your seat but do not necessarily include wine. There is a range of comfort in this class from “cama economico” to “cama ejecutivo” (the latter term may also be used to refer to the next, top class of travel).
• Super cama: the most comfortable (and most expensive) way to travel. Seats recline completely flat, and other amenities available as described above. May also be called “cama ejecutivo” or “cama suite” or “tutto letto” (the last referring to the seat that folds down flat).

I haven`t tried them all yet (still have to take a ‘semi-cama` somewhere) but even the basic service has been pretty good – at least as comfortable as travelling Greyhound, anyway.

I have a feeling, though, that I might be in for a rude shock when I cross the Bolivian border; I might be back to chicken buses again. So I`d better enjoy travelling the Argentine way while I can.

Don't Cry for Me, Argentina

You knew it was inevitable. I had to start singing Evita at some point, being in Argentina. I’ve been walking around humming since yesterday. Occasionally I actually break into song before I realize it, but people look at me strangely when I do.

But there’s a particular reason why I’m singing it now – I spent yesterday wandering around the Buenos Aires neighbourhood of Recoleta, where the rich and famous live, love, laugh and are buried. María Eva Duarte de Perón is one of those; she is, of course, more commonly known (to North Americans at least) as Evita. She died very young in 1952 (aged only 33) and is still beloved by Argentinos – her grave is easy to find, as it’s the one covered in flowers and surrounded by people with cameras.

The cementary in Recoleta is fascinating, even apart from the famous Evita; it’s like a miniature city with pathways, a plaza and mausoleums that look like churches or temples or scaled-down mansions. Apparently even after death, Buenos Aires’ elite want to reside in style. Some of the mausoleums had ‘basements’, so perhaps that’s where the black sheep of the family are relegated. The resident cats in the graveyard have little reverence for the famous dead and lounge around in the sunshine, or stroll around making friends with the tourists.

Recoleta neighbourhood, Buenos Aires

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around Recoleta, and I understand better now why the “Paris of the South” image of Buenos Aires exists. Some of the buildings did look like they belonged on the other side of the Atlantic – take a look here:

There’s an intriguing fountain in the neighbourhood, donated by an Argentine artist to the city of Buenos Aires. It’s a massive steel flower called “Floralis Genérica”, and its enormous petals open in the morning and close at night as if it were really alive. And there´s a lovely art museum filled with the likes of Picasso, Rodin, Monet, Rothko, Henry Moore and a lot of apparently famous South American artists of whom I´ve never heard (my art history education was very Euro-centric, it seems). 

But perhaps my favourite part of the neighbourhood was the bookstore El Ateneo, housed in a converted movie theatre – one of those grand old theatres with elaborate decorations and balconies, and filled to the rafters with enough literature to keep a bookworm happy for years (well, a Spanish-speaking bookworm, anyway).

The day before, I’d met up with a friend from Toronto and headed to the little town of Tigre by train. Sharon is now retired (and it obviously agrees with her!) but she and I worked together when I first started my job at Education; she had the equivalent job for the Ministry of Training, Colleges and Universities that I had for Education.

Tigre is just over an hour outside Buenos Aires, and it’s an interesting blend of grand Venetian canals, Muskoka cottage country and Louisiana bayou. In its heyday in the 1930’s, it was the playground for Buenos Aires’ beautiful people, and you can still see elements of its faded glory in the magnificent former social club (now converted to an art museum). We took a boat ride around the canals for an hour or so, and there are innumerable little side canals and streams leading away from the main waterways; I’d love to go back some day and spend some time kayaking to explore all those lost little channels.

It was refreshing to spend some time with someone from home; while you can meet lots of interesting people on the road, you do tend to have the same conversation over and over: “So where are you from? How long are you travelling for? Where did you come from/where are you going next?” It can get lonely, at times, with fleeting and superficial friendships for only a day or two while you’re both in the same town. So it was a very nice change to talk to someone I already knew! I was very happy too to see that she’s doing well – and, of course, very jealous that she (unlike me) doesn’t have to go back to work eventually, but I’m trying my best to forget that at some point I’ll have to start earning a living again.

Well, I’m off to Iguazú Falls tonight on another night bus, and have the day to wander around BA so I think I’ll sign off and get back out there. By noon tomorrow, I’ll be in the tropics! I’ll come back to BA again after Iguazú, as there’s no other really logical way to get to Montevideo or over to Mendoza other than to come back through BA anyway. So I’ll spend a bit longer next time and learn a little more about the city – but I like what I’ve seen so far.

Not Nearly Stylish Enough for the Porteños

They dress well, these people of Buenos Aires. Just walking down the street I saw more pairs of designer footwear than the shoe department at Holt's. Perhaps it's not just the architecture that gives Buenos Aires its nickname of "Paris of South America"; las Porteñas (female residents of BA) could give Parisiennes a run for their haute-couture money.

If I go out here one night, I have a feelling I'll be the scruffiest person in the crowd. Pity, really, when I have all the style I could desire (in footwear at least) packed up in my closet back home. But it would've been difficult travelling with a pair of Jimmy Choos, so perhaps I`ll just arrange to go out with other backpackers who are even more scruffy than me. It`s all about who you compare yourself too.

I got to BA today about 1:30 in the afternoon, after an 18-hour bus ride from Puerto Madryn. Bus travel is another thing Argentinos do in style, and comfort: if you`re North American and reading this, forget about anything you think you know about bus travel based on your experiences there. This is a whole different ball game.

I wasn`t as comfortable the few times I`ve flown business class as I was on the bus last night. Huge, plush, comfy seat; dinner, breafast and lunch served at my seat; flat screen TV on which to watch movies (and an attendant who kindly put on the English subtitles for me); ever-changing landscape to gaze at through my window on the top deck of the bus. This beats flying any day.

And there`s no way I`d ever get behind the wheel of a car here, because Argentine drivers are a little bit -- no, make that a LOT -- nuts. Crossing streets in Buenos Aires is a little intimidating, with 8 lanes of traffic waiting for the light to change -- at which point drivers will gun their engines and leap forward, heedless of any pedestrians who haven`t quite made it to the other side. Fortunately, that hasn`t been me (I walk fast), but I`ve seen a few people leaping frantically for the curb.

But I think I might like it here, crazy drivers or not. I was a little apprehensive coming here, having heard a few horror stories about people being mugged in broad daylight, but those reports appear to have been greatly exaggerated. I went for a walk around in the afternoon after checking to my hostel, and I didn`t feel any less safe than any other big city I`ve been too, and considerably safer than I did in a few (Guatemala City, or Tegucigalpa, say).

It`s a big of a shock to the system, though, to be back in a city this size; there are about 13 million people in Buenos Aires, and the biggest place I`ve been before that was Bariloche, at about 100,000 residents. From somewhere not even as big as my little hometown of Barrie ... to a metropolitan centre the size of London. I can do this -- I`ve spent most of my adult life in big cities -- but I`ll need a bit of time to acclimatize.

I did manage to get myself from the bus station to the hostel on the subway, though -- for the grand price of 1.10 pesos (about 30 cents) you can get anywhere in the city on the subte (short for subterraneo). It was so easy that I couldn't figure out why I was the only backpacker on there -- why take a cab when this is so simple and cheap?

I don`t think I`m going to stay more than a couple of days this stop, as I`ll have to pass back through here on my way back from Montevideo in Uruguay and Iguazu Falls in northern Argentina (unless I feel like going through Paraguay, which I don`t). So I might head up to Iguazu on Sunday night or Monday, then spend more time in BA after I`ve chilled out at the falls for a few days. We`ll see -- that`s what I love about having all this time, I get to make things up as I go along and don`t have to have it all planned out ahead of time!

I`m meeting up with a friend from Toronto tomorrow, who`s in Argentina on vacation and happens to be in BA at the same time as me. So we`re probably going to Tigre for the day, a riverfront suburb of BA that`s quite affluent and is suppoed to be very beautiful. Nearly two months after I leave home to wander at will through South America, with no set plan or agenda, and I end up in the same city at the same time as someone who lives just the other side of downtown Toronto in Parkdale - small world, isn`t it?

All right, practical stuff is waiting to be done -- making dinner, washing clothes and other exciting things -- so I must dash. Anyone who invents travel clothes that do not need to be washed will make an absolute fortune -- I love travelling light (especially since I am carrying it all around on my back), but I get tired of laundry.

Maybe I`ll just change my standards of cleanliness instead ... until someone invents those self-cleaning clothes.

Tea and Wildlife in Welsh Patagonia

I’m having a lazy day in Puerto Madryn today, catching up on uploading pictures and, of course, writing here. I’m off on a night bus to Bueno Aires at 7 pm; this time I’m travelling “cama ejecutivo” so am looking forward to it. I hear it’s very good, and at any rate it’s got to be an improvement on North American buses! Have you ever travelled by night bus in Canada or the U.S.? I did, once, from Toronto to New York (12 hours and $100); I don’t recommend the experience.

I spent the past couple of days exploring the area. Tuesday, I headed off to Peninsula Valdés, which is a protected wildlife area. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry flew around the area as the postal manager from 1929 to 1931, and there’s an island off the Peninsula that inspired his description of a “snake swallowing an elephant” in The Little Prince. (I’ll have to re-read it – it’s been a while since Grade 10 French class!). Interesting note: did you know that The Little Prince was one of the books banned under Argentina’s former dictatorship?

The Peninsula is chock full of interesting wildlife. I was too early for whale season – that starts in about June – but some of the Magellanic penguins were still hanging around. I didn’t get to wander among them as I did in Antarctica, but they’re still pretty funny to watch. These penguins carve out burrows for their nests in the side of the hill, working away industriously with those little webbed feet. Sea lions and elephant seals were also hanging around; any time I’ve seen these creatures, they’re pretty much just lying on the beach snoozing, so I don’t think it’s a terribly difficult life.

Well, other than the ever-present risk of being dinner for an orca, anyway. I also saw a few of those lean, mean killing machines cruising around near the beach, one swimming close to shore as if to check out the seal and sea lion snacks on offer, and the others further out to go after any animals that might get past the first one. We didn’t get to see any orca hunting, though, as they seemed content to just watch; I felt a little bloodthirsty wishing for a sea lion pup to be captured, but it would have been an awesome display. I’d have felt bad for the cute little pup, though.

One sea lion pup almost got snagged as he followed his mother into the water; Mom made it out again safely and looked around for the pup, who was no longer right behind her. You could almost see the panic on her face as she looked around the beach; she plunged back into the water, heedless of the lurking orca menace nearby. Mom and baby both made it out safely on the second attempt, and wisely shuttled much further away from the water.

Land animals were out in force, too. I didn`t see any pumas, but I think I saw everything else that lives around there, including some sheep being chivvied along by a border collie and his authentic gaucho handler on the horse behind. Guanocos, alpaca-like creatures with reddish-brown fur, liked to hang out by the side of the highway, only moving when the van came too near and leaping effortlessly over the high fence to get away. Speedy little maras (also called the Patagonia cavy or Patagonian hare) also lurked by the roadside, taking off at high speed when we approached; they`re odd little creatures about the size of a beagle that look like a cross between a kangaroo, a deer and a rabbit, that leap like `roos on their spindly little deer-like legs. I can`t show you what they look like though, as they moved too fast for me to snap a picture; you`ll just have to google them yourself.

Our very friendly guide Hugo also introduced us – two Australians, two Brits and a lone Canadian – to the Argentinian mate (pronounced `MAH-tay`) ritual. Argentinos are addicted to this bitter herb, which is brewed something like tea into a hot drink. There`s a special mate cup from which you drink it (they`d think you were loco if you used a regular mug), and it`s usually shared.
They drink this in preference to coffee, as it`s a mild stimulant like caffeine; I think I understand now why there is usually only instant coffee on offer everywhere I`ve stayed! I`ve just been looking for the wrong drink, that`s all. Mate`s pretty good, actually, so I might see if I can find it back in T.O. – take a look at the pic to see my first taste of the stuff.

The next day brought me to Gaiman and a drink to which I`m more accustomed: proper British tea. Gaiman was settled in the late 1800`s by Welsh immigrants, who left Britain after some abortive independence movements and rising unemployment in Wales. They looked around the world for somewhere with a lot of free land, where the English couldn`t be found; consequently, they settled on Patagonia and 153 intrepid souls came over in the first boat in 1865. You can still see the site on Puerto Madryn beach where they built their first crude shelters after landing.

Puerto Madryn has lost most of its Welsh character, but Gaiman is much smaller and is clinging fiercely to its heritage. Welsh is still taught in schools in Gaiman and the rest of the lower Chubut valley, and street names often has a distinctly non-Spanish flair (`Avenida Lewis Jones`, for example!). And teahouses flourish all around; I met a couple of Vancouverites on the bus ride there and we went for an authentic Welsh tea at one of these establishments. All-you-can-eat scones, apple tarts, custard, jam, fruit cake, and a dozen other kinds of baking meant we all walked out of there groaning because we were so full; likewise, the pot of tea was never emptied as the attentive lady of the house kept it filled. I didn`t bother to have dinner that night.

There`s also a wee museum in Gaiman that displays some of the artefacts belonging to the first settlers and gives you a history of the area. The sweet little old lady in charge could have stepped right out of an illustration for a traditional British grandmother; she spoke in slow, careful Spanish to me until she realized I spoke English, then switched to that language (with a hint of a Welsh accent).

I also paid a visit to the garden-cum-art-park El Desafio (Spanish for challenge or defiance), an ever-growing installation by an eccentric local artist who creates sculptures, walkways, arches and other decorations for his property out of garbage.  For 10 pesos, he lets you wander around at will, and will occasionally come harangue you about the meaning of his art (I think – he spoke in very rapid Spanish so I missed a lot of it!). It`s a fascinating little place and quite thought-provoking even if you can`t translate all of the Spanish. And I think it`s a much better use of plastic water bottles to turn them into flowers, or Chinese lanterns, or the Taj Mahal, than to pile them up in a landfill!

The only thing I didn`t like about Gaiman was the fact that it hailed, briefly. Yes, HAIL ... you know, that hard icy stuff that falls from the sky. It isn`t winter here, yet, so if that`s any indication of what`s to come, I think I`m glad I`m leaving the area! Buenos Aires should be warm, and I might even be able to stop wearing my fleece and hiking boots – T-shirt and Tevas, here I come!