Thus far, my little hop, skip and jump around the world (well Argentina anyway) has been anything but planned and in this vein I found myself heading for the Portenos (because BsAs is by a port you see) winter playground - the apparently internationally renowned Las Lenas. Famed for being the home of the Marte chairlift, its off piste potential and the conditions (if you are lucky vast quantities of sun and snow - not mutually exclusive when it comes to this corner of the Argentinean highlands) Las Lenas is a resort whose image lives large in the mind of many a winter sports addict. This is the place the Argentinean elite come to get their winter kicks - oh and buy Volvos.
Deciding to head down for a few days tumbling headfirst down the pistes I boarded (sorry) the bus in Mendoza at 5.30am more than a little inebriated and knew nothing further until I awoke 5 or so hours later (I have discovered the key to sleeping on buses!) to find myself and (amazingly) my bag (I don’t remember putting it on the bus - mum, I joke, I do remember) in Las Lenas.
Scrambling in my bag I found the map and instructions provided to me by the quite intolerable Emi (such a comment will no doubt be taken as intended, as a compliment) who rather unfairly judged me based on personality and thus found me entirely distasteful to be around. Fortunately 1 pound a litre gin and a mutual loathing for certain other hostel dwellers provided the requisite bridge for our love - hate relationship to blossom and thus for me to garner the insider knowledge needed to secure accommodation and a snowboard without even breaking a sweat or stretching my Spanish.
And thus to the slopes and time to test whether the basic plans made in various messages, posts and drunken conversations would reap tangible results. To my surprise they did and the youngster named Oliver I had met in Mendoza was close to where he said he would be at around the time he said he would be where he said he would be at the time he said he would be there. I think he hails from that suburb of England called Australia - I say I think as when I asked him he seemed to seek clarification from me on the point (I spy 5 points for hackneyed Aussie inflection joke, a further 5 points for any subsequent criminal descent references).
Further meeting up with Ollie’s two flatmates Tom and Tom and every now and then joined by a group of Argentineans we made quite the merry band on and off the slopes enjoying all that Las Lenas has to offer - which is much.
Incidents of note include:
The lost glove - dropped carelessly from a chairlift the glove was never recovered after whatever the Argentinean version of a darned thief is made off into the distance with it before I could recover the flighty little blighter. Arguing against the quite excessive charge levied for the loss of one glove tested my Spanish to its limits and beyond - its more than possible that RIDICULO is not Spanish but the tone of voice and my facial expression conveyed the anger my linguistic skills could not. Alas, the force of my conviction, ill nature of my glare and stormy intonation of my voice secured the same success enjoyed on the many times my heckles have risen before at home (or abroad) - yes indeed, absolutely none. Oh the young lady understood, she felt my pain, agreed the charge was over the top, an outrage, a travesty for the working (or travelling) man, a pure con but, however, these things are what they are and thus Mr Englishman its time to pay up, its not me its my bosses you see and anyways the pound is strong no?! The last bit of the story is pure exaggeration.
The broken binding - making my way happily down the piste I once again fell (sorry, again) victim to gravity and a lack of skill and found myself sliding downhill headfirst on my back. Slightly surprised to see that one leg appeared to no longer be attached to my board further investigation revealed that the binding had decided to part company with the board quite of its own volition. As I trudged back uphill (the ever so slighter shorter and slightly less morally demeaning journey than stomping downhill) I contemplated that the bad luck of having a broken binding must be tempered by the good luck that the incident had not resulted in a broken leg. Has travelling given me perspective? I doubt it.
The face plant - OK so the incidents of note are taking on a decidedly dubious nature but stories of glorious sunshine and hours spent carving the piste are just dull. After ascending the pure insanity that is the Marte chairlift I found myself atop the mountain with only one way to go - down. Following those far more able than I we carved a path though the powder and I was cruising off piste (two metres to the left of the piste is still off piste) in a complete winter wonderland. Alas, such things rarely last and a moments indecision resulted in a face plant of quite epic proportions from which I emerged frosted from head to foot and with a rather sore leg. Rather pleased to have emerged relatively unscathed I had been wearing my limp as a badge of honour, until about an hour ago that is when I smashed my foot on a drain and thus I am currently the owner of a buckled knee and almost broken toe. A two leg limp is just a pain.
A quick mention to two other characters met in Las Lenas:
Sabrina - a rather lovely young lady who is paid to make the fiesta thump and who endured with good nature some of the lowest grade banter I have ever been victim to witness (and yes, partake in). OK maybe not that bad but not good.
David - my roommate for a couple of nights who I have to thank for making me appear as though I find material possessions an unnecessary burden such was the volume of equipment and clothing he brought with him for a few days snowboarding. A DJ from BsAs (What do you do for a living Glenn? Sorry, no speaka de Inglish) the point at which he brought out the battery powered screwdriver for the purpose of fixing his bindings I knew I was in the presence of greatness.
And so with no more snow in sight in the near future and having stayed an extra night for the workers party it proved time to leave LL (Las Lenas, I know - cool) and I am once again heading to Mendoza - hopefully for the last time - though never say never. I have decided the next entry will introduce some of the characters I have met thus far on my travels as all I have planned in Mendoza is a rather urgent trip to the laundrette - I refuse, I simply refuse to wear a t-shirt more than once - and even I, with my tendency for the verbose, my predilection for the florid, would struggle to extend such an event to more than 2 pages...
Friday, 9 May 2008
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Interlude - characters...
As promised there now follows a few little quotes and snippets of conversations I have had the distinct pleasure to overhear or indeed be involved in and that have given me cause to giggle (never intentionally mind). If you are reading this then more than likely it isn’t you (honestly a good thing)...
Apologies in advance for the language - some people really will insist on the use of the profane and at times display a quite shocking tendency for the obscene. Quotes are verbatim to the best of my memory - I think the need for over emphasis is absent...
Act 1, Scene 1 - Milhouse, Buenos Aires
After briefly chewing the fat (I refer to talking rather than the act of actually chewing fat) with Michael, a be-dreaded production assistant from New Zealand, we found our conversation somewhat interrupted by a Canadian gentleman in cowboy boots (he was wearing other clothes but the boots stick in the memory).
Michael: So, where to next bra?
Glenn: Probably going to head down South to Puerto Madryn, with my friend Sam, to see the wildlife.
Michael: Sounds pretty sweet.
Enter stage left, Canadian guy...
Canadian guy: Just been to the gym, yeah the gym, been working out in the gym, in the gym, got some good weights in the gym, dumbbells up to 40kg, was lifting those in the gym. Only 10 pesos to go the gym.
Michael: Ok.
Glenn (thought): So, what have you been up to?
Act 1, Scene 2
The scene is set in the TV room of Hostel Lao in Mendoza where a few people are idly watching TV and talking over the days activities when a previously quiet member of the cast pipes up...
American guy: F$ck man, someone get me some paper, I need to be creative!
Said gentleman returned after securing the means to vent his creative frustrations though apparently the paper he located was ´sh&t man, its wet and sh&t, what am I supposed to do with this?´.
And what, the audience may ask; did such an urgent need to release one’s creative urges, to give voice to the inner artist result in? Mona Lisa’s sister? Dali’s diabolical double? A line drawing so complex as to give Escher a headache? Oh no, no, no - the result, the end product, the culmination of a moment that could wait no longer that had to burst free in such a public way was...an origami swan, or was it a sailor’s hat, or was it just a piece of screwed up paper? Who knows, who cares. Berk.
Another little conversation worthy of note from Mr Creative and his friend went something as follows (I will save you the preamble):
Mr Creative: F$ck no man, autumn and fall are completely different. Autumn is like South Carolina bullsh$t - the leaves are changing colour - that kind of isn’t it beautiful sh$t - fall means death, the end of life, destruction, rain. I f$cking hate Autumn, I f$cking love fall.
American friend: What you got to understand about this guy is - he’s a cynical f$ck.
Glenn (thought): No, what you have to understand is that he is an idiot.
Act 1, Scene 3
Terry (more to follow) and I are sitting down to dinner in the hostel and the conversation has mainly revolved around where we have been, would like to go etc...
Enter stage left - Eric, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Swedish gentleman who has been travelling the world on and off for the last 5 or so years, speaks 4 languages fluently and I have no doubt is rather successful in the old age battle of man’s wants versus women’s willingness:
Terry: I would love to see the glaciers, I think I might go. Argentina is such a varied country. Where would you like to go Eric?
Eric: I’m a f$cking sex tourist man, I don’t give a f$ck about the country.
Such clarity of purpose, such honesty has to be admired.
Act 1, Scene 4
Terry, oh Terry. My travelling companion for all of three days but oh how it seemed so much longer. Gregarious in the extreme Terry could and would talk to anyone about anything, anytime, anyplace. Perhaps not a negative trait but with a blog intentionally titled Solitary Contentment I knew after about 5 minutes on the bus together that I had perhaps made an error in judgement (the rather obvious message of listening to music, staring out of the window and not reacting to any conversation failed to deter dear Terry who blathered on regardless). All was not bad though and Terry provided me with some truly golden moments on our tour of the National Parks before I made my escape by catching the bus at 3.30am (I had planned 2pm the following afternoon) leaving Terry and his electronic snoring machine (best not to ask) behind...
In the hostel:
Terry: So, where are you from?
The young lady: Israel.
Terry: Ok, so what is your name?
The young lady: Taliah.
Terry: Wow that is beautiful!
The young lady: It means - how do you say in English? The water on the grass in the morning...
Glenn: Dew.
The following conversation should be read with the understanding that Terry spoke not a word of Spanish; so little in fact that it fell to me to take on the role of translator...
Lady at the hostel: 80 pesos para la tour.
Glenn: 80 pesos.
Terry: The man at the bus station said he could do the tour for 70.
Lady at the hostel: Lo sciento, yo hablo solo un poca Ingles.
Glenn: She doesn’t speak much English.
Terry: Oh, Ok. THE MAN AT THE BUS STATION SAID HE COULD DO THE TOUR FOR 70 PESOS. WHY ARE YOU MORE EXPENSIVE?
In the national parks:
To set the scene the park guide speaks not a word of English, Terry speaks not a word of Spanish leaving me and the two other people doing the tour somewhere in the middle - me further towards the non speaking end admittedly. As the guide explains the significance of where we are our German co-tourist very helpfully explains what is being said and that is that we are in a landscape that is over 250 million years old, where the oldest known dinosaur bones have been found and what remains a crucial site in furthering our understanding of this planet we call home (deja vu?). The fact that the park we are in is called the Valley of the Moons refers to the other worldly landscape and also its emblematic spherical rocks. All clear? Time for Terry...
Terry: So, who comes here? I am guessing not the Americans but is this where people come to practice being on the moon.
A bit later...
Terry: Can you ask the guide if I can go for a p$ss behind the bushes?
More to follow as people continue to entertain.
Exeunt, perused in the bare...x
Apologies in advance for the language - some people really will insist on the use of the profane and at times display a quite shocking tendency for the obscene. Quotes are verbatim to the best of my memory - I think the need for over emphasis is absent...
Act 1, Scene 1 - Milhouse, Buenos Aires
After briefly chewing the fat (I refer to talking rather than the act of actually chewing fat) with Michael, a be-dreaded production assistant from New Zealand, we found our conversation somewhat interrupted by a Canadian gentleman in cowboy boots (he was wearing other clothes but the boots stick in the memory).
Michael: So, where to next bra?
Glenn: Probably going to head down South to Puerto Madryn, with my friend Sam, to see the wildlife.
Michael: Sounds pretty sweet.
Enter stage left, Canadian guy...
Canadian guy: Just been to the gym, yeah the gym, been working out in the gym, in the gym, got some good weights in the gym, dumbbells up to 40kg, was lifting those in the gym. Only 10 pesos to go the gym.
Michael: Ok.
Glenn (thought): So, what have you been up to?
Act 1, Scene 2
The scene is set in the TV room of Hostel Lao in Mendoza where a few people are idly watching TV and talking over the days activities when a previously quiet member of the cast pipes up...
American guy: F$ck man, someone get me some paper, I need to be creative!
Said gentleman returned after securing the means to vent his creative frustrations though apparently the paper he located was ´sh&t man, its wet and sh&t, what am I supposed to do with this?´.
And what, the audience may ask; did such an urgent need to release one’s creative urges, to give voice to the inner artist result in? Mona Lisa’s sister? Dali’s diabolical double? A line drawing so complex as to give Escher a headache? Oh no, no, no - the result, the end product, the culmination of a moment that could wait no longer that had to burst free in such a public way was...an origami swan, or was it a sailor’s hat, or was it just a piece of screwed up paper? Who knows, who cares. Berk.
Another little conversation worthy of note from Mr Creative and his friend went something as follows (I will save you the preamble):
Mr Creative: F$ck no man, autumn and fall are completely different. Autumn is like South Carolina bullsh$t - the leaves are changing colour - that kind of isn’t it beautiful sh$t - fall means death, the end of life, destruction, rain. I f$cking hate Autumn, I f$cking love fall.
American friend: What you got to understand about this guy is - he’s a cynical f$ck.
Glenn (thought): No, what you have to understand is that he is an idiot.
Act 1, Scene 3
Terry (more to follow) and I are sitting down to dinner in the hostel and the conversation has mainly revolved around where we have been, would like to go etc...
Enter stage left - Eric, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Swedish gentleman who has been travelling the world on and off for the last 5 or so years, speaks 4 languages fluently and I have no doubt is rather successful in the old age battle of man’s wants versus women’s willingness:
Terry: I would love to see the glaciers, I think I might go. Argentina is such a varied country. Where would you like to go Eric?
Eric: I’m a f$cking sex tourist man, I don’t give a f$ck about the country.
Such clarity of purpose, such honesty has to be admired.
Act 1, Scene 4
Terry, oh Terry. My travelling companion for all of three days but oh how it seemed so much longer. Gregarious in the extreme Terry could and would talk to anyone about anything, anytime, anyplace. Perhaps not a negative trait but with a blog intentionally titled Solitary Contentment I knew after about 5 minutes on the bus together that I had perhaps made an error in judgement (the rather obvious message of listening to music, staring out of the window and not reacting to any conversation failed to deter dear Terry who blathered on regardless). All was not bad though and Terry provided me with some truly golden moments on our tour of the National Parks before I made my escape by catching the bus at 3.30am (I had planned 2pm the following afternoon) leaving Terry and his electronic snoring machine (best not to ask) behind...
In the hostel:
Terry: So, where are you from?
The young lady: Israel.
Terry: Ok, so what is your name?
The young lady: Taliah.
Terry: Wow that is beautiful!
The young lady: It means - how do you say in English? The water on the grass in the morning...
Glenn: Dew.
The following conversation should be read with the understanding that Terry spoke not a word of Spanish; so little in fact that it fell to me to take on the role of translator...
Lady at the hostel: 80 pesos para la tour.
Glenn: 80 pesos.
Terry: The man at the bus station said he could do the tour for 70.
Lady at the hostel: Lo sciento, yo hablo solo un poca Ingles.
Glenn: She doesn’t speak much English.
Terry: Oh, Ok. THE MAN AT THE BUS STATION SAID HE COULD DO THE TOUR FOR 70 PESOS. WHY ARE YOU MORE EXPENSIVE?
In the national parks:
To set the scene the park guide speaks not a word of English, Terry speaks not a word of Spanish leaving me and the two other people doing the tour somewhere in the middle - me further towards the non speaking end admittedly. As the guide explains the significance of where we are our German co-tourist very helpfully explains what is being said and that is that we are in a landscape that is over 250 million years old, where the oldest known dinosaur bones have been found and what remains a crucial site in furthering our understanding of this planet we call home (deja vu?). The fact that the park we are in is called the Valley of the Moons refers to the other worldly landscape and also its emblematic spherical rocks. All clear? Time for Terry...
Terry: So, who comes here? I am guessing not the Americans but is this where people come to practice being on the moon.
A bit later...
Terry: Can you ask the guide if I can go for a p$ss behind the bushes?
More to follow as people continue to entertain.
Exeunt, perused in the bare...x
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Mendoza (again), Argentina (as before)
Once again I find my fingers dancing across the keyboard in an unrehearsed melee: part intention, part inspiration - the worst of my digit’s drunken stumbles hidden (I hope) by the electronic rubber that is the delete key.
If letters are soldiers and words their battalions my blog is the frontline in the war I wage against my own reticence towards communication...
No doubt failing to inform;
Perhaps it entertains;
For me it nevers fail to divert.
Lyrically lolloping the words wander across my mind and saunter slowly onto the page. In and out and out and in, meaning everything, meaning something, meaning nothing.
And thus to Mendoza - the second time around...
Returning to the city after my little sojourn to look at rocks (, rocks and more rocks) and then party (alas, hardly) with the youngsters in Cordoba I decided Mendoza seemed a just lovely base for my first attempts at some mastery (read basic ability to comprehend and be comprehended) in Spanish. Splitting my time between a Hostel and a week with a Mendocinian family my two weeks here have passed without great incident or event of particular note but I shall not let such things prevent the blog from winding its inexorable course...
Spanish lessons have once again proved my dislike for being taught. Whilst I enjoy the learning of the new I grow frustrated easily at both my own lack of understanding and the inability of another to explain to me in terms that I deem adequate. I feel relations with the teacher deteriorated rather rapidly and no amount of provision of fruit or attempts at humour (are they ever anything more?) could overcome the seething disdain with which she simmered, greeting as she did my every fumbling attempt at speaking with a barely contained rage. I perhaps exaggerate but if I said Spanish lessons were OK where would be the fun in that? However it must be noted that after two weeks of lessons I am now able to conversate fluently read the daily newspaper without trouble and follow the news on TV understanding every word. When it comes to Spanish though things are not so easy.
I would love to say that staying with the family really helped and that each night we sat down for dinner and chatted merrily about the affairs of the day. However whilst prone to exaggeration and some artistic license (there was one part of one street in BsAs without dog poop) I try to refrain from absolute untruths. Worth every penny for the ability to catch up on the sleep I have missed over the last month - people seem to have to get up at different times in dorms - the family or I seemed never to be in the house at the same time. Viewing me as a slight oddity my main conversation was with the father Hector, a fourth generation Italian who speaks not a word of English but explained (with vigorous hand actions - as I said he speaks no English AND is of Italian descent) the reasons behind the farmers strike which has been ongoing for over 100 days. Not sure of his allegiance to either the country or the city I kept my nods neutral and my face blank (the latter not difficult). In summation, for those that are interested, the farmer’s strike is, I think, something to do with something selling for more than it used to and thus the taxes being raised, as I said, I think. The main manifestation of the strike to a wanderer such as I is the proliferation of roadblocks on the main arterial trade routes across Argentina. Indeed the Cordoba - Mendoza leg of my journey was almost postponed for just this reason - in not holding me up the farmers have garnered my full support (I may find out what I am supporting at some point but no rush) however the mention on the news last eve of the potential for `no bife` (no translation necessary surely?) would put a significantly different slant on things and may rapidly alter my allegiances.
So apart from chewing the fat with Senor Hector what else have I been up to?
Nursing a severe addiction to empanadas (think miniature Cornish Pasties) for one. In this arena special mention must go to ¿Que Como? a restaurant barely five minutes walk from the hostel and serving 6 of the little pastry beauties and a fizzy drink for less than the price of a first class stamp (should said stamp cost a couple of quid). Yes the T-Bone Steak (read Bife de Chorizo in these parts) at Don Mario’s was the size of a small child’s head (cooked to perfection and carved slice by slice akin to the finest farmhouse loaf) and yes 5 pounds for all you can eat (including meat of unknown origin) at Tinajas is good value but something about the convivial host, barely there decor and a complete absence of other diners means ¿Que Como? is a winner every time. The provision of soap and hand towels in the bathroom (never a certainty) are but icing on a very cheap cake.
You still with me? OK, time to wrap up - only four pages to go...
After two, almost three, given my first visit, weeks in Mendoza I feel it is time to move on. Cabin fever, itchy feet, call it what you will but not many towns can sate the insatiable (obviously) hunger, satisfy the voracious appetite nor quench the unquenchable (again, obviously) thirst for the new that travelling instils in one. And therefore my camera, Moleskine and I will take ourselves to pastures new before `ere long has passed. Alas, it must be noted in addition to the rather romantic notion of travelling in only what you stand up in and those tools necessary to document the journey I also have a rather full bag of clothes and `products` which I have no doubt Beau Brummel would have found quite adequate for at least a weekend. I am travelling but I am no brute. Indeed I have with me assorted paraphernalia which means I am adequately and equally prepared for the beach or the glacier, the city or the sierra, from artic to temperate, from equatorial to just plain hot I have the requisite outfit and accessories to hand.
Probably just you and me now mum so I’ll sign off here. Bye for now. More soon as I once again pick up the travelling pace.
On another point the old adage goes that a picture paints a thousand words and whilst this may be true it does not necessarily follow that a thousand words paint a picture (in the case of this little ditty more than likely not). Photos to be posted elsewhere.
If letters are soldiers and words their battalions my blog is the frontline in the war I wage against my own reticence towards communication...
No doubt failing to inform;
Perhaps it entertains;
For me it nevers fail to divert.
Lyrically lolloping the words wander across my mind and saunter slowly onto the page. In and out and out and in, meaning everything, meaning something, meaning nothing.
And thus to Mendoza - the second time around...
Returning to the city after my little sojourn to look at rocks (, rocks and more rocks) and then party (alas, hardly) with the youngsters in Cordoba I decided Mendoza seemed a just lovely base for my first attempts at some mastery (read basic ability to comprehend and be comprehended) in Spanish. Splitting my time between a Hostel and a week with a Mendocinian family my two weeks here have passed without great incident or event of particular note but I shall not let such things prevent the blog from winding its inexorable course...
Spanish lessons have once again proved my dislike for being taught. Whilst I enjoy the learning of the new I grow frustrated easily at both my own lack of understanding and the inability of another to explain to me in terms that I deem adequate. I feel relations with the teacher deteriorated rather rapidly and no amount of provision of fruit or attempts at humour (are they ever anything more?) could overcome the seething disdain with which she simmered, greeting as she did my every fumbling attempt at speaking with a barely contained rage. I perhaps exaggerate but if I said Spanish lessons were OK where would be the fun in that? However it must be noted that after two weeks of lessons I am now able to conversate fluently read the daily newspaper without trouble and follow the news on TV understanding every word. When it comes to Spanish though things are not so easy.
I would love to say that staying with the family really helped and that each night we sat down for dinner and chatted merrily about the affairs of the day. However whilst prone to exaggeration and some artistic license (there was one part of one street in BsAs without dog poop) I try to refrain from absolute untruths. Worth every penny for the ability to catch up on the sleep I have missed over the last month - people seem to have to get up at different times in dorms - the family or I seemed never to be in the house at the same time. Viewing me as a slight oddity my main conversation was with the father Hector, a fourth generation Italian who speaks not a word of English but explained (with vigorous hand actions - as I said he speaks no English AND is of Italian descent) the reasons behind the farmers strike which has been ongoing for over 100 days. Not sure of his allegiance to either the country or the city I kept my nods neutral and my face blank (the latter not difficult). In summation, for those that are interested, the farmer’s strike is, I think, something to do with something selling for more than it used to and thus the taxes being raised, as I said, I think. The main manifestation of the strike to a wanderer such as I is the proliferation of roadblocks on the main arterial trade routes across Argentina. Indeed the Cordoba - Mendoza leg of my journey was almost postponed for just this reason - in not holding me up the farmers have garnered my full support (I may find out what I am supporting at some point but no rush) however the mention on the news last eve of the potential for `no bife` (no translation necessary surely?) would put a significantly different slant on things and may rapidly alter my allegiances.
So apart from chewing the fat with Senor Hector what else have I been up to?
Nursing a severe addiction to empanadas (think miniature Cornish Pasties) for one. In this arena special mention must go to ¿Que Como? a restaurant barely five minutes walk from the hostel and serving 6 of the little pastry beauties and a fizzy drink for less than the price of a first class stamp (should said stamp cost a couple of quid). Yes the T-Bone Steak (read Bife de Chorizo in these parts) at Don Mario’s was the size of a small child’s head (cooked to perfection and carved slice by slice akin to the finest farmhouse loaf) and yes 5 pounds for all you can eat (including meat of unknown origin) at Tinajas is good value but something about the convivial host, barely there decor and a complete absence of other diners means ¿Que Como? is a winner every time. The provision of soap and hand towels in the bathroom (never a certainty) are but icing on a very cheap cake.
You still with me? OK, time to wrap up - only four pages to go...
After two, almost three, given my first visit, weeks in Mendoza I feel it is time to move on. Cabin fever, itchy feet, call it what you will but not many towns can sate the insatiable (obviously) hunger, satisfy the voracious appetite nor quench the unquenchable (again, obviously) thirst for the new that travelling instils in one. And therefore my camera, Moleskine and I will take ourselves to pastures new before `ere long has passed. Alas, it must be noted in addition to the rather romantic notion of travelling in only what you stand up in and those tools necessary to document the journey I also have a rather full bag of clothes and `products` which I have no doubt Beau Brummel would have found quite adequate for at least a weekend. I am travelling but I am no brute. Indeed I have with me assorted paraphernalia which means I am adequately and equally prepared for the beach or the glacier, the city or the sierra, from artic to temperate, from equatorial to just plain hot I have the requisite outfit and accessories to hand.
Probably just you and me now mum so I’ll sign off here. Bye for now. More soon as I once again pick up the travelling pace.
On another point the old adage goes that a picture paints a thousand words and whilst this may be true it does not necessarily follow that a thousand words paint a picture (in the case of this little ditty more than likely not). Photos to be posted elsewhere.
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
Cordoba, Argentina
Cordoba is Argentina’s second city and (to some) it’s cultural and very much geographical heart. Famed for its universities (it has between 7 and 9 - the guidebooks seem unable to agree just how many), schools and colleges the city is a remarkably young one - I refer to the population, apparently some of the buildings are really very old. Indeed the proliferation of youngsters lining every street corner meant the camera made only rare ventures out for fear of accusations I would not be keen on defending in a language which was not my own!
Limiting myself to a couple of days wandering the streets my time in Cordoba was marred slightly by a bout of man flu and thus tales of adventures in mind, body and spirit will not be featuring in the blog today!
Less attractive than Mendoza and lacking the sheer intensity of Buenos Aires Cordoba is pleasant enough but did not create any moments of particular note. Tales of a population with a female to male ratios of 7:3 were, alas, seemingly untrue! After visiting a couple of art galleries and joining a group of locals for a night on the proverbial tiles I was not disappointed to be climbing aboard a bus heading back to Mendoza. Fortunately the Argentinean farmer’s decision to block a number of important cross country routes did not cause me to repeat the 23 hour round Journey (Cordoba - Cordoba) endured by a fellow traveller...
And thus I find myself back in Mendoza where I intend to spend a couple of weeks learning a little of the language and living with a local family. Where I head next is very much to be decided but you will of course be the first to know...
Limiting myself to a couple of days wandering the streets my time in Cordoba was marred slightly by a bout of man flu and thus tales of adventures in mind, body and spirit will not be featuring in the blog today!
Less attractive than Mendoza and lacking the sheer intensity of Buenos Aires Cordoba is pleasant enough but did not create any moments of particular note. Tales of a population with a female to male ratios of 7:3 were, alas, seemingly untrue! After visiting a couple of art galleries and joining a group of locals for a night on the proverbial tiles I was not disappointed to be climbing aboard a bus heading back to Mendoza. Fortunately the Argentinean farmer’s decision to block a number of important cross country routes did not cause me to repeat the 23 hour round Journey (Cordoba - Cordoba) endured by a fellow traveller...
And thus I find myself back in Mendoza where I intend to spend a couple of weeks learning a little of the language and living with a local family. Where I head next is very much to be decided but you will of course be the first to know...
Monday, 5 May 2008
Valle de Fertil, Argentina
Another day, another town.
After wrenching myself away from the numerous delights of Mendoza I travelled due north to a little town called Valle de Fertil in order to visit the two National Parks (Ischigualasto and Talampaya should anyone be interested) which lay nearby.
Unremarkable in almost all respects the town itself had a certain charm borne of its innocence and isolation. Redolent of 1950´s America the town produced vivid images of a time gone by as children rode casually down the barely there roads unimpeded by traffic or threatened by unwanted attention and the men and women folk gathered outside the corner shop to discuss the issues of the day with no rush, anxiety or complaint.
Of particular note was the local junior disco where the teenagers of the town - too old to play on the swings but too young to drink in the bar with dad - lived out a scene from many a childhood. In a small room with the chairs pushed to the sides and music emanating from within the girls and boys faced each other from opposite ends as though preparing for battle. Desperately waiting for someone to break the deadlock and move onto the dance floor each group stood fast desperately trying to appear indifferent to those their eyes fell upon while their hearts, though they knew not why, felt anything but.
Alas, I think I have drifted slightly off track. And thus to the national parks - in summation: rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. Some big, some small, some round, some not round, some old, some older. Feeling akin to a tourist as never before my three companions for the day and I were shepherded in and out of numerous buses, told when and where to take photos, where to stand and more frequently where not to stand and then charged handsomely for the displeasure!
Not a bad day, just not a great one. Vamos a bailar methinks.
After wrenching myself away from the numerous delights of Mendoza I travelled due north to a little town called Valle de Fertil in order to visit the two National Parks (Ischigualasto and Talampaya should anyone be interested) which lay nearby.
Unremarkable in almost all respects the town itself had a certain charm borne of its innocence and isolation. Redolent of 1950´s America the town produced vivid images of a time gone by as children rode casually down the barely there roads unimpeded by traffic or threatened by unwanted attention and the men and women folk gathered outside the corner shop to discuss the issues of the day with no rush, anxiety or complaint.
Of particular note was the local junior disco where the teenagers of the town - too old to play on the swings but too young to drink in the bar with dad - lived out a scene from many a childhood. In a small room with the chairs pushed to the sides and music emanating from within the girls and boys faced each other from opposite ends as though preparing for battle. Desperately waiting for someone to break the deadlock and move onto the dance floor each group stood fast desperately trying to appear indifferent to those their eyes fell upon while their hearts, though they knew not why, felt anything but.
Alas, I think I have drifted slightly off track. And thus to the national parks - in summation: rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. Some big, some small, some round, some not round, some old, some older. Feeling akin to a tourist as never before my three companions for the day and I were shepherded in and out of numerous buses, told when and where to take photos, where to stand and more frequently where not to stand and then charged handsomely for the displeasure!
Not a bad day, just not a great one. Vamos a bailar methinks.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Mendoza, Argentina
Hello all, after a little help from my imaginary travelling companions I will be handling today’s blog my very self...
And thus to Mendoza, a town (I think they think it’s a city but I am not so sure) which has quite stolen my heart and provided a really rather lovely place to spend a few days before heading ever onwards. Nationally and increasingly internationally famous as a destination par excellence for both wine and adventure tourism (though perhaps not together) the town is friendly, sophisticated and bustling without perhaps the relentless pace of life which characterised my time in Buenos Aires.
Of the town's two famous tourist attributes the adventure part I have not yet indulged in but the wine element proved impossible and really quite unnecessary to resist. Lying at the foot of the Andes the dry climate, mountain air and fertile lands have that indefinable quality the French simply call - terroir - that which separates the good wines from the bad and the great from the good. Several varieties of grape are grown by the numerous bodegas which line the valley - notably Malbec (the Argentinean flagship grape on the world stage), Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah. For a small fee one is able to rent a bike (the enterprising Senorita Erica deserves a special mention for renting the worse bikes - two bikes and two punctures - but gaining the most business by soliciting tourists on the bus before the first vine is even in sight) and ride between the various vineyards sampling their wines as you go. With the sun shining from on high and the countryside calling to mind the winding lanes of rural France (I would imagine, I have never been) a day spent in such fashion was pleasant indeed. The danger of becoming a little too inebriated after visiting three or four wineries at which you simply had to have three or four glasses of wine was negated by the clarity of fear induced by the lorries and buses which hurtled past the increasingly wobbly cyclists at quite obscene speeds!
Mendoza is one town where the oft quoted observation that Argentina is the most European of the South American countries is truly, er, true. Resting my weary bones and slightly dull head in the park on Saturday the vista was of an Italian fresco with trees, shrubs, lakes and monuments placed just so. A summer’s day spent idly in a London park was also brought to mind as the posh parents paraded their progeny hoping for an admiring glance from those they passed and a generation of thirty something’s pounded the pavement in a bewildering array of fitness regimes intended to halt the relentless onset of age and girth.
Mendoza has also seen the re-emergence of a side of my character not witnessed since I hopped the Greek islands with Messrs Cook and Myers. Yes indeed, Shirley Valentine is back! In the 5 days I have been here the anatomically impressive Paula and I have been on two dates including a trip to a backstreet jazz cafe - nice - all requisite jazz going attributes were in evidence - roll neck jumpers, hideous goatees and heads nodding in appreciation yet apparent disregard of the tempo of the music. Anyways where was I? Ah yes, the lovely Paula. Her ability to speak English makes my frustratingly limited Spanish seem almost fluent by comparison (she speaks not a word - of English that is - she is no mute and rambles along quite happily in Spanish) but talk is cheap and conversation a burden. After the occasional romantic desolation of my days in London Paula has provided a welcome reminder of why we to choose to complicate this life in the pursuit of companionship. Fear not mother I think this is more holiday than romance but a little local knowledge of where to go and when is ever a good thing.
One other incident worthy of mention is the opportunity which Mendoza provided with to take a little dig at the national hero; you know the one, that little guy who used to be alright at football. Whilst playing a game of cards in the hostel one evening the question was asked as to what the word for cheat was in Spanish. I simply replied: Maradonna.
And finally a special blog mention must go to Eileen (to my regret, I made the obvious joke) my travelling companion from Puerto Madryn to El Calafate and then ALL the way up to Mendoza where we parted ways. Performing the role of translator and still speaking to me after 48 hours of travelling on buses where the seats didn’t go fully flat it was a pleasure spending time together.
Unsure where my next blog will come from I have a day of deciding where, in this quite wonderful country, to go next (life, at times, is a relentless chore) and thus I will head to the square to sit in the sun and contemplate my next move and muse on the travellers lot - which thus far has been a very good one.
Ciao, luego...x
And thus to Mendoza, a town (I think they think it’s a city but I am not so sure) which has quite stolen my heart and provided a really rather lovely place to spend a few days before heading ever onwards. Nationally and increasingly internationally famous as a destination par excellence for both wine and adventure tourism (though perhaps not together) the town is friendly, sophisticated and bustling without perhaps the relentless pace of life which characterised my time in Buenos Aires.
Of the town's two famous tourist attributes the adventure part I have not yet indulged in but the wine element proved impossible and really quite unnecessary to resist. Lying at the foot of the Andes the dry climate, mountain air and fertile lands have that indefinable quality the French simply call - terroir - that which separates the good wines from the bad and the great from the good. Several varieties of grape are grown by the numerous bodegas which line the valley - notably Malbec (the Argentinean flagship grape on the world stage), Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah. For a small fee one is able to rent a bike (the enterprising Senorita Erica deserves a special mention for renting the worse bikes - two bikes and two punctures - but gaining the most business by soliciting tourists on the bus before the first vine is even in sight) and ride between the various vineyards sampling their wines as you go. With the sun shining from on high and the countryside calling to mind the winding lanes of rural France (I would imagine, I have never been) a day spent in such fashion was pleasant indeed. The danger of becoming a little too inebriated after visiting three or four wineries at which you simply had to have three or four glasses of wine was negated by the clarity of fear induced by the lorries and buses which hurtled past the increasingly wobbly cyclists at quite obscene speeds!
Mendoza is one town where the oft quoted observation that Argentina is the most European of the South American countries is truly, er, true. Resting my weary bones and slightly dull head in the park on Saturday the vista was of an Italian fresco with trees, shrubs, lakes and monuments placed just so. A summer’s day spent idly in a London park was also brought to mind as the posh parents paraded their progeny hoping for an admiring glance from those they passed and a generation of thirty something’s pounded the pavement in a bewildering array of fitness regimes intended to halt the relentless onset of age and girth.
Mendoza has also seen the re-emergence of a side of my character not witnessed since I hopped the Greek islands with Messrs Cook and Myers. Yes indeed, Shirley Valentine is back! In the 5 days I have been here the anatomically impressive Paula and I have been on two dates including a trip to a backstreet jazz cafe - nice - all requisite jazz going attributes were in evidence - roll neck jumpers, hideous goatees and heads nodding in appreciation yet apparent disregard of the tempo of the music. Anyways where was I? Ah yes, the lovely Paula. Her ability to speak English makes my frustratingly limited Spanish seem almost fluent by comparison (she speaks not a word - of English that is - she is no mute and rambles along quite happily in Spanish) but talk is cheap and conversation a burden. After the occasional romantic desolation of my days in London Paula has provided a welcome reminder of why we to choose to complicate this life in the pursuit of companionship. Fear not mother I think this is more holiday than romance but a little local knowledge of where to go and when is ever a good thing.
One other incident worthy of mention is the opportunity which Mendoza provided with to take a little dig at the national hero; you know the one, that little guy who used to be alright at football. Whilst playing a game of cards in the hostel one evening the question was asked as to what the word for cheat was in Spanish. I simply replied: Maradonna.
And finally a special blog mention must go to Eileen (to my regret, I made the obvious joke) my travelling companion from Puerto Madryn to El Calafate and then ALL the way up to Mendoza where we parted ways. Performing the role of translator and still speaking to me after 48 hours of travelling on buses where the seats didn’t go fully flat it was a pleasure spending time together.
Unsure where my next blog will come from I have a day of deciding where, in this quite wonderful country, to go next (life, at times, is a relentless chore) and thus I will head to the square to sit in the sun and contemplate my next move and muse on the travellers lot - which thus far has been a very good one.
Ciao, luego...x
Saturday, 3 May 2008
El Calafate, Argentina
Charles, 43, explorer. Year of our lord 1881.
After a day of travelling during which I rested not a moment I can confirm the vastness of this land to be beyond the realms of my comprehension. Rutted cart tracks masquerading as passable roads stretch to the horizon with seemingly no end, their hypnotic regularity broken only by the entrance gates to the vast Estancias which the people of this land cultivate for the means of sustenance and occasional trade.
My epic journey south finds me in the Southern Argentinean outpost of El Calafate, which henceforth I shall call New Eastbourne in dedication to my beloved homeland and from where I enclose my latest dispatch as promised.
Sat by a waning open fire my very bones are warmed by the effortless heat emanating from its embers after a day of adventure and indeed cold unimaginable to many. I should note with some gratitude that the welcome I received from Frederico and Marina my hosts in this charming if remote guesthouse was yet warmer still and a welcome relief from the harshness of this land.
New Eastbourne is the sole human outpost in a land untouched by daylight or caressed by the sun’s affectionate gaze. As I feared such conditions have bred a man dark of skin, quick of eye and brutal in habit. Manners and morals are as foreign to this land as I. Alas, I have neither the time nor inclination to educate these people or make plain the error of their simple, bucolic ways. It is my only hope that others may follow so that civilisation can be wrought from the clutches of native traditions and the barrier to progress they provide.
However, all is not lost and I find solace in the pursuit of religion I have seen practiced here. Though not the god of Christian or Catholic religions nor recognisable as any other deity of significant note their god took human form in the memory of those still living. Referred to simply as El Diego, the image of Diego Armando Maradonna adorns every wall and fills every heart. Considered to have performed acts of miracle implausible by any other he is said to have touched these lands with the hand of god and recalls to mind a character known as Pele whom the Amazonians worship in a similar manner. A martyr to some Maradonna's greatest acts were followed by an attempt to banish the world of all evil through the consumption of the devil’s every earthly manifestation.
Alas, as is my wont. I digress, and thus to my adventures...
Setting off before dawn I joined a merry band of adventurous spirits from Spain, Germany, France and various other lesser nations I shall not bother wasting ink or quill noting here. Heading for the legendary rivers of ice frozen in time and body we travelled overland before reaching the threatening waters of Lago Argentina which we navigated with the aid of a skilled and fearless local crew. At journeys end we found ourselves treading the frozen waterways of an age gone past. Attired in plus fours and woollen socks, sturdy boots, tweed jacket and carrying a pipe should conditions become overly harsh I knew I had prepared well to face the rigours of the day to come. Trekking through caves of pure azure, across crevasses of depth beyond reason and over peaks so sharp it startled the soul our progress was inhibited as much by the landscape as by the awe which each step and corner induced in all.
Ably guided by Carlos, a man hewn from the very rock of the vast mountain ranges of this jagged land, our every footfall was serenaded by a cacophony of sounds of which words can provide no adequate description as the glacier ruptured and split, aching and groaning with the pain of a man lay dormant too long. Such things call to mind the immensity of nature and inevitably lead to the contemplation of one’s own insignificance but I did not let such thoughts disturb the unrelenting concentration required to survive the traversing of such dangerous landscapes.
Furthermore our trek brought us face to face with the fabled Condor, master and guardian of these lands, surveying his kingdom with the majesty of unassailable royalty the bird witnessed our progress with a supreme indifference. Truly his presence did make the heart beat faster.
At the end of a day of quite stirring experiences and wondrous sights it was a pleasure indeed to take a dram of Scotland’s finest chilled by ice taken from beneath our very feet. Whiskey, ever the travellers companion allowed us to toast our bravery in suitable fashion. United in the possession of fearless spirits and daring souls the unique band of which I was now a part felt confident our footsteps would likely never be trod again.
And thus as time presses onwards so must I and before long I head for Mendoza, a town 2 days travel north from where I currently reside. Said to be more advanced than the indigenous population I have encountered thus far the people of Mendoza are reputed to have adopted some of the customs and cultures of the French. I am trusting such statements refer to the practice of Bacchus’ own alchemy of fermenting grapes into gastronomic gold rather than the adoption of a socialist work ethic or an inability to perform on the field of battle.
As an aside it would appear Argentina differs from Britannia where travel in a northerly direction beyond the boundaries of London leads to a regression in culture and refinement exposing one to a people of quite despicable habits and the basest, most animalistic behaviour.
Alas, as the wick of the solitary candle by which I write my musings burns low I fear it is time to say goodbye. My bed calls me to her comforting embrace and I have no will nor desire to resist.
Until I reach you again give my love to dearest Blighty, I do miss her so.
Yours,
Charles.
After a day of travelling during which I rested not a moment I can confirm the vastness of this land to be beyond the realms of my comprehension. Rutted cart tracks masquerading as passable roads stretch to the horizon with seemingly no end, their hypnotic regularity broken only by the entrance gates to the vast Estancias which the people of this land cultivate for the means of sustenance and occasional trade.
My epic journey south finds me in the Southern Argentinean outpost of El Calafate, which henceforth I shall call New Eastbourne in dedication to my beloved homeland and from where I enclose my latest dispatch as promised.
Sat by a waning open fire my very bones are warmed by the effortless heat emanating from its embers after a day of adventure and indeed cold unimaginable to many. I should note with some gratitude that the welcome I received from Frederico and Marina my hosts in this charming if remote guesthouse was yet warmer still and a welcome relief from the harshness of this land.
New Eastbourne is the sole human outpost in a land untouched by daylight or caressed by the sun’s affectionate gaze. As I feared such conditions have bred a man dark of skin, quick of eye and brutal in habit. Manners and morals are as foreign to this land as I. Alas, I have neither the time nor inclination to educate these people or make plain the error of their simple, bucolic ways. It is my only hope that others may follow so that civilisation can be wrought from the clutches of native traditions and the barrier to progress they provide.
However, all is not lost and I find solace in the pursuit of religion I have seen practiced here. Though not the god of Christian or Catholic religions nor recognisable as any other deity of significant note their god took human form in the memory of those still living. Referred to simply as El Diego, the image of Diego Armando Maradonna adorns every wall and fills every heart. Considered to have performed acts of miracle implausible by any other he is said to have touched these lands with the hand of god and recalls to mind a character known as Pele whom the Amazonians worship in a similar manner. A martyr to some Maradonna's greatest acts were followed by an attempt to banish the world of all evil through the consumption of the devil’s every earthly manifestation.
Alas, as is my wont. I digress, and thus to my adventures...
Setting off before dawn I joined a merry band of adventurous spirits from Spain, Germany, France and various other lesser nations I shall not bother wasting ink or quill noting here. Heading for the legendary rivers of ice frozen in time and body we travelled overland before reaching the threatening waters of Lago Argentina which we navigated with the aid of a skilled and fearless local crew. At journeys end we found ourselves treading the frozen waterways of an age gone past. Attired in plus fours and woollen socks, sturdy boots, tweed jacket and carrying a pipe should conditions become overly harsh I knew I had prepared well to face the rigours of the day to come. Trekking through caves of pure azure, across crevasses of depth beyond reason and over peaks so sharp it startled the soul our progress was inhibited as much by the landscape as by the awe which each step and corner induced in all.
Ably guided by Carlos, a man hewn from the very rock of the vast mountain ranges of this jagged land, our every footfall was serenaded by a cacophony of sounds of which words can provide no adequate description as the glacier ruptured and split, aching and groaning with the pain of a man lay dormant too long. Such things call to mind the immensity of nature and inevitably lead to the contemplation of one’s own insignificance but I did not let such thoughts disturb the unrelenting concentration required to survive the traversing of such dangerous landscapes.
Furthermore our trek brought us face to face with the fabled Condor, master and guardian of these lands, surveying his kingdom with the majesty of unassailable royalty the bird witnessed our progress with a supreme indifference. Truly his presence did make the heart beat faster.
At the end of a day of quite stirring experiences and wondrous sights it was a pleasure indeed to take a dram of Scotland’s finest chilled by ice taken from beneath our very feet. Whiskey, ever the travellers companion allowed us to toast our bravery in suitable fashion. United in the possession of fearless spirits and daring souls the unique band of which I was now a part felt confident our footsteps would likely never be trod again.
And thus as time presses onwards so must I and before long I head for Mendoza, a town 2 days travel north from where I currently reside. Said to be more advanced than the indigenous population I have encountered thus far the people of Mendoza are reputed to have adopted some of the customs and cultures of the French. I am trusting such statements refer to the practice of Bacchus’ own alchemy of fermenting grapes into gastronomic gold rather than the adoption of a socialist work ethic or an inability to perform on the field of battle.
As an aside it would appear Argentina differs from Britannia where travel in a northerly direction beyond the boundaries of London leads to a regression in culture and refinement exposing one to a people of quite despicable habits and the basest, most animalistic behaviour.
Alas, as the wick of the solitary candle by which I write my musings burns low I fear it is time to say goodbye. My bed calls me to her comforting embrace and I have no will nor desire to resist.
Until I reach you again give my love to dearest Blighty, I do miss her so.
Yours,
Charles.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Puerto Madryn, Argentina
Sam, 7.
I am in Puerto Madryn and today I went on a tour of the Island nearby it isn´t really an Island as you can drive there but it seemed like an Island so that it is what I will call it on the Island I saw lots of wildlife including sealions elephant seals which aren´t really elephants and also whales the whales were swimming and messing about in the sea really near where I was standing which was amazing I wanted to jump in the water and swim with them but the water looked cold so I didn´t the whales seemed like fun as they spat water everywhere and kept flashing their tails above the water this made everyone very excited and I took lots of pictures I had a cheese and ham roll for lunch which I made myself after asking the nice lady for the ingredients in Spanish I worked out the money myself but the money I tried to use wasn´t made by the president of Argentina and was made my someone else I think using crayons and pens so the lady gave it back to me I will try to use it again as wasting pocket money makes me feel sad on my journey round the Island I met someone from Switzerland which is not sure if it is in Europe someone from Korea and someone from England which is the same country I come from they all seemed nice the man who took us round was also very nice and spoke English and Spanish he kept making jokes which I didn´t understand he said that all Elephant Seals do on land is sleep and breed and that was a good life sleeping gives me bad dreams and breeding sounds yucky so I think he is wrong he also said that a guanaco which is like an antelope boy lives with five girls which is expensive my mummy says my daddy never gives her enough money so I think he must be wrong again it is late now so I am off to bed I want to look through the photos I took today I hope they are good as if they are not I may cry but I think tears are proof of the soul so maybe that is Ok.
Love mummy and daddy...x
I am in Puerto Madryn and today I went on a tour of the Island nearby it isn´t really an Island as you can drive there but it seemed like an Island so that it is what I will call it on the Island I saw lots of wildlife including sealions elephant seals which aren´t really elephants and also whales the whales were swimming and messing about in the sea really near where I was standing which was amazing I wanted to jump in the water and swim with them but the water looked cold so I didn´t the whales seemed like fun as they spat water everywhere and kept flashing their tails above the water this made everyone very excited and I took lots of pictures I had a cheese and ham roll for lunch which I made myself after asking the nice lady for the ingredients in Spanish I worked out the money myself but the money I tried to use wasn´t made by the president of Argentina and was made my someone else I think using crayons and pens so the lady gave it back to me I will try to use it again as wasting pocket money makes me feel sad on my journey round the Island I met someone from Switzerland which is not sure if it is in Europe someone from Korea and someone from England which is the same country I come from they all seemed nice the man who took us round was also very nice and spoke English and Spanish he kept making jokes which I didn´t understand he said that all Elephant Seals do on land is sleep and breed and that was a good life sleeping gives me bad dreams and breeding sounds yucky so I think he is wrong he also said that a guanaco which is like an antelope boy lives with five girls which is expensive my mummy says my daddy never gives her enough money so I think he must be wrong again it is late now so I am off to bed I want to look through the photos I took today I hope they are good as if they are not I may cry but I think tears are proof of the soul so maybe that is Ok.
Love mummy and daddy...x
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Hello all and welcome to the first of a more than likely infrequent ´blog´of my travels around the world...
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin...
One week in and its time to leave Buenos Aires before my wallet, liver and soul collapse from relentless excess. A city of numerous sights and sounds and sounds and sounds - did I mention the noise?! Who can fail to love a city where singing ´Glory glory Man United´ (for the sake of parity I must declare I am unsure as to what singing ´Blue Moon´ would have resulted in) gains you VIP access in the club, every step along the way is filled with trepidation for fear of treading in the ´poopas dogas´ and each and every night is an excuse to test one´s stamina and ability to consume a menagerie of substances of which Pablo Escobar would have been proud (for the sake of mummy I must declare I have refrained from anything other than cerveza).
The Georgians never knew excess on the scale the ´portenos´ consider routine - washing down half a cow of raw beef (1 week, two trips to Desnivel - thank you Priya, Libby and Lonely Planet ) with several Quilmes, a dance until dawn and the attentions of a couple of Brazilians is but ´mode de jour´ in these parts. From the back street reggae club to the underground drum and bass night Buenos Aires has turned me from a meek and quiet soul into a drunkard of quite staggering proportions.
Alas, it isn´t all about partying and when not initiating conversations with the ever reliable triumvirate of ´So, where are you from? Have you been travelling for long? Where are you going next?´ I have ticked a few ´turistcos´ boxes but such things are no doubt documented more than adequately in numerous guide books and thus I will not waste pesos reiterating them here. Suffice to say the beach isn´t worth bothering with but a cemetery with street signs and two storey mausoleums is quite unique if a little odd as a tourist attraction. I can´t help but feel guilty that when paying my respects at the grave of Eva Peron I thought of Madonna (it would appear Guy Ritchies directorial career is not the only thing she ruined) - however humming The Smiths - Cemetery Gates - (Joe, sing with me - Keats and Yates are on your side, while Wilde is on mine...!) provided consolation enough.
And thus today the real travels begin with an 18 hour coach ride down into Patagonia - the air miles and lounge access are useless to me now - and my next update should hopefully be sent from the apparently quite lovely environs of Puerto Madryn. Time to say goodbye to the pure insanity of Milhouse (thank you Priya, Cookie) where drinking and sleeping seem the only activities practiced with any vigour and where just breathing gives you the lungs of a 40 a dayer...
Anyways, I´ll sign off and say goodbye to those who have kept up with me this far. I fear the above is no more a travel journal than the Daily Mail is a balanced and informative newspaper but such is life. My electronic scribblings are a welcome diversion to me but may prove a chore to others.
Until the next time...hasta ocho dias mi amigo...x
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