Sunday, November 6, 2011
Reporting live form Iguazu
We had trouble uploading this in Argentina from our phones. This killed our taking more video dispatches and also brings you this belated video.
Argentine Street Graffiti
I know it's been almost exactly two weeks since we've been back, but I have a few things to post. One is some street graffiti photos I snapped along our trip. Being me,I gravitated toward the political stencils, but I got a few others as well. Enjoy. The Waldo and the Empire one were personal favourites.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
17 Days: Over 5500 Kilometers
We said it would be the trip of a lifetime...
From Buenos Aires to Iguazu Falls, then on to Salta and Purmamarca. A quick stopover in Cordoba then Altagracia. Finally on to Mendoza and then back to Buenos Aires.
Over the course of two and a half weeks we traveled over 5500 kilometers by bus (almost the length of Canada), spent 6 nights sleeping on the road, met special (Grampy) and creepy (Ken, BA Creepster duo, Feral dogs) people, drank copious amounts of wine and made memories that will last forever.
I've known Jo for six years and since we bonded that fateful summer in Ottawa I knew I would have a friend for life. And our collection of stories just continues to grow. Te Amos Joanna!
Below is a photo of the ground we covered and soon to be added (when I can get to a real computer) is a clip before our Iguazu falls daredevil stint which shows only a small dose of the goofiness that was the norm during our trip.
Oh! And I'm still vegan. Take that Argentina!
From Buenos Aires to Iguazu Falls, then on to Salta and Purmamarca. A quick stopover in Cordoba then Altagracia. Finally on to Mendoza and then back to Buenos Aires.
Over the course of two and a half weeks we traveled over 5500 kilometers by bus (almost the length of Canada), spent 6 nights sleeping on the road, met special (Grampy) and creepy (Ken, BA Creepster duo, Feral dogs) people, drank copious amounts of wine and made memories that will last forever.
I've known Jo for six years and since we bonded that fateful summer in Ottawa I knew I would have a friend for life. And our collection of stories just continues to grow. Te Amos Joanna!
Below is a photo of the ground we covered and soon to be added (when I can get to a real computer) is a clip before our Iguazu falls daredevil stint which shows only a small dose of the goofiness that was the norm during our trip.
Oh! And I'm still vegan. Take that Argentina!
Friday, October 21, 2011
MALBA - Museuo De Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires
A short post using MALBA's wifi to report that inbetween a veggie lunch with Gabby at 4 and a veggie dinner planned for 11 (we're getting the hang of Argentina!) I'm sitting outside MALBA at their cafe enjoying coffee and dessert. It was here I saw, for the first time in my life, an original Frida Kahlo! Stealth photo of this below as well as the yummy food I'm about to eat.
Also the Cafe is playing Achtung Baby .... Mmmmm.
Also the Cafe is playing Achtung Baby .... Mmmmm.
GOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!
Seeing a football match in South America was an absolute must for me when we were planning this trip. Unfortunately, it seemed as if the gods were conspiring against me. The whole time Gabby and I were to be in Argentina there was not one home game for either the Boca Juniors or the River Plate (two local BA teams that have a huge rivalary, it would have been amazing to see them play *each other*, by all accounts those matches are simply insane). In any case, as Gabby and I sat in our "favourite" Argentine location - the bus station’s internet cubicles, I found a company - Tangol - that helped people acquire football match tickets and provided a guide as well as a trip to and from the match. There was *one* match the whole time were in BA; as Gabs´ sister Isabelle would say - "lucky me." The match was between a local team called the Vélez Sarsfield and a Chilean team called the Universad Católica. The two teams had met once before and Vélez had won 2-0. If the global score was in favour of the home team then they would proceed to the next round.
The trip to the stadium was a long and wandering one, picking up people all around the city. Gabby and I also had barely checked in and got showered before turning around and busing then running to the meeting point to catch the bus. 2 hours in traffic around the city we arrived at the Vélez stadium. We made our way in and our seats were located on the side, with a perfect view overlooking the opposing team’s goal as well as the "hooligan" or uber fan section, or the barra brava. Gabby and I were sitting between the guide and our new Scottish friend who both were giving us tips on football matches as well as fans. We were informed that unlike in the UK where football super fans tend to make noise in ebbs and flows, the barra brava would sing and beat drums constantly throughout the entire 90 minute match, and that they did. Our guide informed us they were singing songs in Spanish such as "come on Vélez, we will follow you anywhere." Gabby and I were both amused and intrigued by the number of riot police present around the stadium, including the referees’ police escorts on and off the pitch. As these things go in areas with more intense matches, the Chilean fans had their own section of the stadium. Though we all remarked that the handful of fans that had made the trek were nearly outnumbered by the amount of banners that they had brought. The riot police in their section were also probably at a ratio of 2-3 fans to every police officer. One last point on the riot police, I particularly enjoyed when the opposing team would restart the play from the sidelines that two police officers would come together to place their shields around the player as he passed the ball to one of his teammates.
Shortly into the game, Gabby and I ventured out to get food and, so we thought, beer. Turns out we were fools as who the heck in their right mind would serve alcohol at a football match; come on gringas! I settled on a palm sized burger and coke and vegan Gabby had to make her feast on a bag of nuts. As we made our way back into the stadium our new Scottish friend informed us we had missed the opposing team scoring the first goal. "Opps! Perhaps we’re good luck charms and need to stay in our seats," I speculated to Gabby. While the game was not sold out and it wasn’t as intense of a crowd had it been a Boca Jnrs. v. River Plate I did have a great time taking in the "hooligans" to our left as well as those season ticket holders around us who seemingly read all the pointers in the 2011 Time Out Guide for BA:
So, maybe not all of that happened, but pretty darn close I am sure. I particularly enjoyed the fans around us who were middle-aged women who seemingly knew every player and were amongst the most active in yelling at the refs. As well as a group of older men behind us who I came to believe were former barra brava. All in all, I was all smiles for our more subdued, but certainly entertaining game. Oh, yes, and our home team did eventually score, giving me the chance to yell: GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL at Gabby, which I am sure she appreciated. There were no more goals the rest of the match, and so globally our team was set to progress to the next round. The match was without the overly commercialized nature of our sports games, say hockey, and ended almost as quickly as it started. To the point where Gabby exclaimed, "whoa, wait, it’s over now? But it is tied...." We hustled out of the stadium with our group only to have to wait 15-20 minutes as the police escorted the Chilean fans out first. Then we arrived home to change and go for dinner at more respectable BA hour - 10:30.
The trip to the stadium was a long and wandering one, picking up people all around the city. Gabby and I also had barely checked in and got showered before turning around and busing then running to the meeting point to catch the bus. 2 hours in traffic around the city we arrived at the Vélez stadium. We made our way in and our seats were located on the side, with a perfect view overlooking the opposing team’s goal as well as the "hooligan" or uber fan section, or the barra brava. Gabby and I were sitting between the guide and our new Scottish friend who both were giving us tips on football matches as well as fans. We were informed that unlike in the UK where football super fans tend to make noise in ebbs and flows, the barra brava would sing and beat drums constantly throughout the entire 90 minute match, and that they did. Our guide informed us they were singing songs in Spanish such as "come on Vélez, we will follow you anywhere." Gabby and I were both amused and intrigued by the number of riot police present around the stadium, including the referees’ police escorts on and off the pitch. As these things go in areas with more intense matches, the Chilean fans had their own section of the stadium. Though we all remarked that the handful of fans that had made the trek were nearly outnumbered by the amount of banners that they had brought. The riot police in their section were also probably at a ratio of 2-3 fans to every police officer. One last point on the riot police, I particularly enjoyed when the opposing team would restart the play from the sidelines that two police officers would come together to place their shields around the player as he passed the ball to one of his teammates.
Shortly into the game, Gabby and I ventured out to get food and, so we thought, beer. Turns out we were fools as who the heck in their right mind would serve alcohol at a football match; come on gringas! I settled on a palm sized burger and coke and vegan Gabby had to make her feast on a bag of nuts. As we made our way back into the stadium our new Scottish friend informed us we had missed the opposing team scoring the first goal. "Opps! Perhaps we’re good luck charms and need to stay in our seats," I speculated to Gabby. While the game was not sold out and it wasn’t as intense of a crowd had it been a Boca Jnrs. v. River Plate I did have a great time taking in the "hooligans" to our left as well as those season ticket holders around us who seemingly read all the pointers in the 2011 Time Out Guide for BA:
A) Wake up to the sound of non-stop football punditry on the radio, shower in team-branded soap and then pop on your retro 1972 top. B) Pick up a copy of the daily sporting paper Olé and head to a preordained bar for a Quilmes beer while deconstructing the team line'up. C) Get to the stadium early to soak up the pre-match atmosphere. This usually involves chanting derogatory songs at any unsuspecting person wearing the wrong shirt, buying a choripan (sausage sandwich) - possibly the most dangerous custom - and buying a fluffy, naff hat. D) After the barra barava have slipped past the police into the stadium, make your way through various friskings and walk up into the stand to the truly overwhelming sight of 30,000 or so bouncing and signing fans. E) Boo as the referee walks onto the pitch (it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t made a decision yet), and scream the worst word you know in Spanish as the opposition appear. And as your team walk out, throw the pile of ripped newspaper you were just handed into the air for a spectacular ticker-tape effect. F) Spend the next 90 minutes shouting yourself hoarse, enjoying what is usually a thrilling game and gaping at the unique spectacle that is the fans of Argentinean football.
So, maybe not all of that happened, but pretty darn close I am sure. I particularly enjoyed the fans around us who were middle-aged women who seemingly knew every player and were amongst the most active in yelling at the refs. As well as a group of older men behind us who I came to believe were former barra brava. All in all, I was all smiles for our more subdued, but certainly entertaining game. Oh, yes, and our home team did eventually score, giving me the chance to yell: GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL at Gabby, which I am sure she appreciated. There were no more goals the rest of the match, and so globally our team was set to progress to the next round. The match was without the overly commercialized nature of our sports games, say hockey, and ended almost as quickly as it started. To the point where Gabby exclaimed, "whoa, wait, it’s over now? But it is tied...." We hustled out of the stadium with our group only to have to wait 15-20 minutes as the police escorted the Chilean fans out first. Then we arrived home to change and go for dinner at more respectable BA hour - 10:30.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Wine, Bikes and Police Escorts
People come to Mendoza from all over the country and all over the world to make the trek up Aconcagua Mountain and to enjoy the great wineries. While Jo and I passed on the mountain hike this time, we were not about to miss the wine. Yesterday, Jo and I cycled the popular route between wineries stopping for tastings and tours, oh....and getting police escorts.
Jo and I started the day off with a tour and tasting at Argentina's modern Trapiche winery where we were able to learn about their production and history, walk through the beautifully restored and preserved original buildings and finally indulge our palettes. Jo and I both knew we would be limited to a couple purchases for the entire tour because of duty limits as well as the limited room in our bicycle baskets. But the fermented Malbec at Trapiche became the first purchase for both of us. We emerged from our first stop proud at having snagged this delicious port like wine unavailable in Canada, and me, extra proud with plans of impressing a certain special port loving person back home with my purchase.
After this first stop we decided it would be wise to find somewhere where we could pick up snacks to soak up the wine, and we stopped at a remote place called the beer garden which we found after riding off the main road. The beer garden was essentially a small collection of outdoor tables, umbrellas and a colorful tarp, a "back to nature" vibe and Bob Marley blaring from the sound system. Here we filled up on delicious vegan pizza and continued the tour. (My diet staple in Argentina has been tomato and olive pizza. I credit Jo for this invention to help my grumbling stomach at one of our many bus stops).
It was after navigating back to the main road from this stop that we picked up our escort for the first time. As we had decided to rent bikes ourselves and follow the basic map provided by the rental place, we knew we were bound to take a couple wrong turns. The missing street signs and construction blocked intersections which cyclists were expected to just ride over didn't necessarily help with our navigation. (There was some serious off-roading in some parts).
But then in came a policeman on a motorcycle, coming to the rescue of two lost girls. He accompanied us back to the main road and waved goodbye. Jo and I both though this was a little weird but in the end welcomed the help and brushed it off as simply another strange experience in Argentina.
So when we spotted our friend the second time we just waved, followed him while he drove slow enough for us to keep pace on our bikes and waved with a steady stream of "Gracias, Gracias" as he left us at out next location.
Now the third time we met up with this glasses wearing, motorcycle riding, police officer, I half expected him to pull out a photo followed by the line "have you seen this man?". Instead, he merely helped us to our final destination. A family run winery that produces only 40,000 reds annually and 25,000 whites, and the place where we splurged on our final purchase: "Grandmother's special recipe" which tastes a bit like a liqueur when you first sip it and then surprises you with an overwhelming taste of walnuts.
At this special little place Jo and I powered through a quick meal and a bottle of their sparkling cider before we cycled the 10k back to drop off our bikes, hopped on our bus that would take us back into the city and narrowly avoided missing our overnight bus to Buenos Aires.
As we sat down to get comfortable for our sixth and FINAL overnighter Jo said to me "no matter how much time we have, we've always got to push it eh?"
Jo and I started the day off with a tour and tasting at Argentina's modern Trapiche winery where we were able to learn about their production and history, walk through the beautifully restored and preserved original buildings and finally indulge our palettes. Jo and I both knew we would be limited to a couple purchases for the entire tour because of duty limits as well as the limited room in our bicycle baskets. But the fermented Malbec at Trapiche became the first purchase for both of us. We emerged from our first stop proud at having snagged this delicious port like wine unavailable in Canada, and me, extra proud with plans of impressing a certain special port loving person back home with my purchase.
After this first stop we decided it would be wise to find somewhere where we could pick up snacks to soak up the wine, and we stopped at a remote place called the beer garden which we found after riding off the main road. The beer garden was essentially a small collection of outdoor tables, umbrellas and a colorful tarp, a "back to nature" vibe and Bob Marley blaring from the sound system. Here we filled up on delicious vegan pizza and continued the tour. (My diet staple in Argentina has been tomato and olive pizza. I credit Jo for this invention to help my grumbling stomach at one of our many bus stops).
It was after navigating back to the main road from this stop that we picked up our escort for the first time. As we had decided to rent bikes ourselves and follow the basic map provided by the rental place, we knew we were bound to take a couple wrong turns. The missing street signs and construction blocked intersections which cyclists were expected to just ride over didn't necessarily help with our navigation. (There was some serious off-roading in some parts).
But then in came a policeman on a motorcycle, coming to the rescue of two lost girls. He accompanied us back to the main road and waved goodbye. Jo and I both though this was a little weird but in the end welcomed the help and brushed it off as simply another strange experience in Argentina.
So when we spotted our friend the second time we just waved, followed him while he drove slow enough for us to keep pace on our bikes and waved with a steady stream of "Gracias, Gracias" as he left us at out next location.
Now the third time we met up with this glasses wearing, motorcycle riding, police officer, I half expected him to pull out a photo followed by the line "have you seen this man?". Instead, he merely helped us to our final destination. A family run winery that produces only 40,000 reds annually and 25,000 whites, and the place where we splurged on our final purchase: "Grandmother's special recipe" which tastes a bit like a liqueur when you first sip it and then surprises you with an overwhelming taste of walnuts.
At this special little place Jo and I powered through a quick meal and a bottle of their sparkling cider before we cycled the 10k back to drop off our bikes, hopped on our bus that would take us back into the city and narrowly avoided missing our overnight bus to Buenos Aires.
As we sat down to get comfortable for our sixth and FINAL overnighter Jo said to me "no matter how much time we have, we've always got to push it eh?"
The forgettable Cordoba
Upon making plans to leave Salta, Gabby and I decided to turn a stopover in Cordoba into a full day and then to take the night bus to Mendoza. The idea being we could visit a former clandestine detention centre as well as Alta Gracia, a neighbouring community where Ernesto Guevara and his family spent time due to Che's asthama.
One of a few homes that the Guevara family rented was turned into a museum 10 years ago. As depicted pictorally at the museum, Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez attended the opening. As far as I could tell from my guidebook and the interwebs, this was possibly the only museum or really any acknowledgement of Che in Argentina (save, of course, the "enlightened" tourists we've seen around the country in Che tshirts).
As soon as we arrived in the Cordoba bus station, our fifth by that point, we headed straight to the fabled showers mentioned in Gabby's guidebook. After likely overstsaying our welcome in said showers, we headed out of town about an hour to Alta Gracia. When I sat down beside a young man and opened up my lonely planet he turned to me and asked in Spanish (with a slight eye roll) if I was looking for Che's house. Unlike the time our host in Salta (who I'd taken to calling, affectionatly, Grampy) asked us why we would want to go to Alta Gracia and I'd said 'no, it's embarrassing' (before relenting), no, this time I just grinned and replied "si." he proceeded to give me directions of which I understood only the first part: you're on the right bus. After he finished his long set of directions I think my doe eyed expression rightly indicated to him that I'd not understood. He then told me, so I thought and was later confirmed, that he lived near the house and would help us find it. When we arrived he signalled for us to get off and then showed us the way through my and Gabby's new language here: miming.
After a few unsure turns through a beautiful suburban neighbourhood - yes, Che was, as the museum stated time and again, from an aristrocratic background - we were met with a simple sign saying "le casa de che" complete with an arrow. Two minutes later we arrived and paid. Two minutes later or so, I was standing beside, I believe, a replica motorcycle to the one young Ernesto and Alberto had taken around a large part of South America. As I forced Gabby to take photos of me, I reached to pretend to have my hand around the handle of the motorcycle, only to set off an alarm. Gabby and I were both scared and she said "I thought you promised not to do something to get kicked out until the end!" Alas, we were fine, nothing happened and I heard the alarm set off by several others. In fact, as Gabby would insist I mention, I myself set it off once more whilst taking photos of pages from Che's "motorcycle diaries."
The museum itself was fairly well put together for a smaller space. The rest of our tour entailed some learning as well as me convincing Gabby to take a picture of me in the old bathroom ("Che most likely shit here, you know" I informed Gabby), and ended in the backyard. In the backyard, we were met with beautiful sun and lawn chairs. Gabby excitedly informed me we also had the opportunity to buy beer and drink it in Che's yard.
In the backyard I'd asked Gabby if she'd learned anything cool to which she replied "not anything you don't already know." This response was in reference to our drive through the mountains where she'd asked me about Che's biographical details and about 30 mins later she had them - all. That conversation had, however, got me excited to see Che's house as he's a man I'd not thought of much lately, but always carried a sort of, if you will, ambivalent admiration for (I know, I know he often did things I can't defend, e.g. shooting - or having someone shoot - desserters; or thinking, so naively, he could simply export what happened in Cuba to other countries like the Congo or Bolivia as if it were a recipe and context had no relevance).
In any case, when the woman working opened the shop where we could buy beer, Gabby slowly talked me down from buying everything else as well. I did pick up a few things including a cigar which I smoked in Che's backyard whilst drinking beer in the sun and embarrassing Gabby by making her take photos of this.
We eventually left Alta Gracia to head back to Cordoba, where vegetarian restaurants and a former detention centre, now museum, awaited us - except they were all closed; all. of. them. Everything was closed. We walked around with our 'hanger' growing, settled on a crappy tourist restaurant as it was open and then walked around. We still had hours to kill so we thought maybe a movie, as we approached the cinema, we saw there was also cosmic bowling. And so four rounds of bowling later, we were rushing to the bus station. Maybe I should have listened to my Salta 'Grampy' when he said "what are you going to do in Cordoba?" with a scrunched up face. No, Cordoba was not my favourite. Though did I mention the bus station has showers?
One of a few homes that the Guevara family rented was turned into a museum 10 years ago. As depicted pictorally at the museum, Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez attended the opening. As far as I could tell from my guidebook and the interwebs, this was possibly the only museum or really any acknowledgement of Che in Argentina (save, of course, the "enlightened" tourists we've seen around the country in Che tshirts).
As soon as we arrived in the Cordoba bus station, our fifth by that point, we headed straight to the fabled showers mentioned in Gabby's guidebook. After likely overstsaying our welcome in said showers, we headed out of town about an hour to Alta Gracia. When I sat down beside a young man and opened up my lonely planet he turned to me and asked in Spanish (with a slight eye roll) if I was looking for Che's house. Unlike the time our host in Salta (who I'd taken to calling, affectionatly, Grampy) asked us why we would want to go to Alta Gracia and I'd said 'no, it's embarrassing' (before relenting), no, this time I just grinned and replied "si." he proceeded to give me directions of which I understood only the first part: you're on the right bus. After he finished his long set of directions I think my doe eyed expression rightly indicated to him that I'd not understood. He then told me, so I thought and was later confirmed, that he lived near the house and would help us find it. When we arrived he signalled for us to get off and then showed us the way through my and Gabby's new language here: miming.
After a few unsure turns through a beautiful suburban neighbourhood - yes, Che was, as the museum stated time and again, from an aristrocratic background - we were met with a simple sign saying "le casa de che" complete with an arrow. Two minutes later we arrived and paid. Two minutes later or so, I was standing beside, I believe, a replica motorcycle to the one young Ernesto and Alberto had taken around a large part of South America. As I forced Gabby to take photos of me, I reached to pretend to have my hand around the handle of the motorcycle, only to set off an alarm. Gabby and I were both scared and she said "I thought you promised not to do something to get kicked out until the end!" Alas, we were fine, nothing happened and I heard the alarm set off by several others. In fact, as Gabby would insist I mention, I myself set it off once more whilst taking photos of pages from Che's "motorcycle diaries."
The museum itself was fairly well put together for a smaller space. The rest of our tour entailed some learning as well as me convincing Gabby to take a picture of me in the old bathroom ("Che most likely shit here, you know" I informed Gabby), and ended in the backyard. In the backyard, we were met with beautiful sun and lawn chairs. Gabby excitedly informed me we also had the opportunity to buy beer and drink it in Che's yard.
In the backyard I'd asked Gabby if she'd learned anything cool to which she replied "not anything you don't already know." This response was in reference to our drive through the mountains where she'd asked me about Che's biographical details and about 30 mins later she had them - all. That conversation had, however, got me excited to see Che's house as he's a man I'd not thought of much lately, but always carried a sort of, if you will, ambivalent admiration for (I know, I know he often did things I can't defend, e.g. shooting - or having someone shoot - desserters; or thinking, so naively, he could simply export what happened in Cuba to other countries like the Congo or Bolivia as if it were a recipe and context had no relevance).
In any case, when the woman working opened the shop where we could buy beer, Gabby slowly talked me down from buying everything else as well. I did pick up a few things including a cigar which I smoked in Che's backyard whilst drinking beer in the sun and embarrassing Gabby by making her take photos of this.
We eventually left Alta Gracia to head back to Cordoba, where vegetarian restaurants and a former detention centre, now museum, awaited us - except they were all closed; all. of. them. Everything was closed. We walked around with our 'hanger' growing, settled on a crappy tourist restaurant as it was open and then walked around. We still had hours to kill so we thought maybe a movie, as we approached the cinema, we saw there was also cosmic bowling. And so four rounds of bowling later, we were rushing to the bus station. Maybe I should have listened to my Salta 'Grampy' when he said "what are you going to do in Cordoba?" with a scrunched up face. No, Cordoba was not my favourite. Though did I mention the bus station has showers?
Monday, October 17, 2011
The Unforgettable Purmamarca
Once in Salta however, it seemed this simple day trip was becoming not so simple after all. Tours were full, timing was tight and it was looking like I may not be able to see the the Quebrada. So like any good tourist when faced with a challenge, we adapted. In other words our original "you would have to be crazy to drive in Argentina" changed quickly to. "Um, can you drive standard?". This is the test of friendship. Joanna, knowing my heart would break if I didn´t reach at the very least Purmamarca (which is at the foot of these multi-coloured mountains), that I couldn´t drive standard, and that she would probably have to rescue me from abduction after an unsuccessful hitchhike trip, offered to use her knowledge of standard vehicles and drive us.
I should mention traffic in Argentina is a little bit like ´frogger´so after a high stress exit from the city we were on our way. We drove through terrifying, but beautiful gorges through the mountains with monstrous trees covered in foliage. It felt like we had driven from a city directly into the jungle and I almost wondered if our car were to skid off the narrow road into the deep gorge if we would be saved by the tangle of vines that hung from the trees almost like spiderwebs. Thankfully I didn´t find out.
Once the highway leveled out and led us around, rather than through, the mountains we started to spot more wildlife and at one point were able to get out and almost pet the cows that hung out by our car.
And finally, we reached our destination, located at 2192 meters above sea level, and worth all the travel in the world. The beautiful small village of Purmamarca and the beautiful "Cerro de los Siete Colores" (Seven Colors Hill ). As we drove up, I hoped I would always remember the beauty that my photos just couldn´t capture.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Salta, Salta, mi Salta
Salta, Salta, Mi Salta...
En route from Puerto Iguazu (in the Northeast, near Brazil) to Salta (in the northwest, near Bolivia) on our second semi-cama bus of three (definetly not the style we'd grown acustomed to), I woke up to a start my iPod was playing Britney Spears' "womanizer." 'What the hell? How the heck did this get on here? Was I drunk? Am I drunk now?' I thought. Just as I was starting to deal with these pressing questions I heard a tiny voice saying "ugh, Jo.....
Know how we thought we got to Salta at 7 tonight?" The voice was not crappy music induced schizophrenia, as you may have guessed it was Gabs. She continued, "yeah it's actually 7 am tomorrow." I replied, in a panic, "um you mean the fact that we've been clinging to for the past day and half isn't true and we still have 12 more hours of bus ride?" "Yup," Gabby replied deadpan. 'What can you do?' we agreed. What you can do is hunker down watch the iRobot playing, hope the annoying australians making the same trip as you eventually shut up or pass out and, well, thank God that you only have these first world problems. And so that was what we did.
As Gabby alluded to earlier, any sense of ressentment I'd been harbouring toward Salta dissapeared instantly when I saw the city from above the mountains. I was in love. The more I travel the more I find certain places and times just "fit"'for whatever reason. There was the beach in Jaco, the moment I emerged into a street market full of lush plants from the metro in Paris by Notre Dame, or 'the' coffee shop in Inuvik. It's just a feeling of being at ease and a moment of pure bliss. This is how I felt once we arrived in Salta and this continued on for the day.
After I left Gabs to nap I set out to take the cable cars up Cerro San Bernardo. I walked through the beautiful San Martin Parque. The sun was shinning, people were laughing, the trees were blooming in wonderful colours - especially the purple ones. I was even getting the hang of Argentine street crossing/jay walking which is a bit like frogger except more insane and seemingly even more pronounced in Salta where stop signs or traffic lights are rare.
After my requiste two empandas with salsa and a fanta for good measure, I made my way to the teleférico (cable cars) with a new friend I'd made along the way. The teleférico was housed in a gorgeous building with stained glass windows that reminded me a bit of a Charlie and the chocolate factory feel (though that may have been because I'd just passed so many cotton candy vendors along the way). The views were spectacular, city all around to the west and to the east mountains. When I got to the top it felt even more magical there were beautiful gardens, local artisans selling items, a fantastic set of man made water falls, sooooo much sun and views, oh the views! As I gazed around in wonder, this phrase from nowhere kept coming into my head "Salta, salta, mi Salta"; I thought it both a bit strange and yet true. I finally peeled myself away to go meet Gabby at Plaza 9 de Julio, the main city square.
As Gabby mentioned, at my instenince (lest she receive * another* note calling her out for being lame) we went to check out Peña (folklore) music which Salta, in Argentina, is famous for. I'd chosen la Casona del Molino an old mansion with several rooms where musicians sit at tables with you and perform rather than one room with one stage.
We arrived close to 11:30 pm and as it goes in Argentina, things were just getting started and locals were just ordering dinner. So, when in Rome... We sat almost directly beside two performers in our room. A younger man and older man, one probably bass and one probably alto. They sang wonderfully together and though we understood none of the words I felt at times a sad happiness to their songs. Something a tad bit dark, but honest; raw. I was in heaven complete with my own jug of sangaria. As a sidenote, an older woman also taught Gabs a life lesson about what happens if a "grumpy face" is your "default face." See if you can find this "Waldo" in my photo from the night.
This morning over breakfast our host, Jorge, approved of my choice of venue as his personal favourite for Peña. He then helped us plan our next few days, shared so many stories about Salta and his life. I was so happy to have stayed here and learned from this kind man. He shared with us about his own personal troubles that stemmed from Argentina's economic collapse in 2001, how he had been affected and how he recovered with a new life of sorts. When we were telling him how badly I'd wanted to tour the ESMA building he said "oh you wouldn't find that interesting would you?" "oh, yes, very much so," we replied. He got very quiet and told us he'd gone to school in Buenos Aires, military college, he paused as if deciding to tell us more and then trailed off to pick up another fascinating conversation.
This man has helped Gabby and I so much and has truly provided us with a home. He and Salta have met us with open arms and they will be arms that will be difficult to peel away from as we move North before heading south to Mendoza. This time as we travel we will do so with a *planned* stopover in Cordoba so that I can realize two goals: seeing Che's adoloscent home in Alta Gracia (now a museum) and the museo de la memoria (a former detention centre) in Cordoba. We also, read Gabby, decided no matter the cost/logistics we were only traveling first class cama bus. In 5-6 short days she's gone from bargin hunting for bus fares (overnighters to save on hotels) to a baller. I love it.
En route from Puerto Iguazu (in the Northeast, near Brazil) to Salta (in the northwest, near Bolivia) on our second semi-cama bus of three (definetly not the style we'd grown acustomed to), I woke up to a start my iPod was playing Britney Spears' "womanizer." 'What the hell? How the heck did this get on here? Was I drunk? Am I drunk now?' I thought. Just as I was starting to deal with these pressing questions I heard a tiny voice saying "ugh, Jo.....
Know how we thought we got to Salta at 7 tonight?" The voice was not crappy music induced schizophrenia, as you may have guessed it was Gabs. She continued, "yeah it's actually 7 am tomorrow." I replied, in a panic, "um you mean the fact that we've been clinging to for the past day and half isn't true and we still have 12 more hours of bus ride?" "Yup," Gabby replied deadpan. 'What can you do?' we agreed. What you can do is hunker down watch the iRobot playing, hope the annoying australians making the same trip as you eventually shut up or pass out and, well, thank God that you only have these first world problems. And so that was what we did.
As Gabby alluded to earlier, any sense of ressentment I'd been harbouring toward Salta dissapeared instantly when I saw the city from above the mountains. I was in love. The more I travel the more I find certain places and times just "fit"'for whatever reason. There was the beach in Jaco, the moment I emerged into a street market full of lush plants from the metro in Paris by Notre Dame, or 'the' coffee shop in Inuvik. It's just a feeling of being at ease and a moment of pure bliss. This is how I felt once we arrived in Salta and this continued on for the day.
After I left Gabs to nap I set out to take the cable cars up Cerro San Bernardo. I walked through the beautiful San Martin Parque. The sun was shinning, people were laughing, the trees were blooming in wonderful colours - especially the purple ones. I was even getting the hang of Argentine street crossing/jay walking which is a bit like frogger except more insane and seemingly even more pronounced in Salta where stop signs or traffic lights are rare.
After my requiste two empandas with salsa and a fanta for good measure, I made my way to the teleférico (cable cars) with a new friend I'd made along the way. The teleférico was housed in a gorgeous building with stained glass windows that reminded me a bit of a Charlie and the chocolate factory feel (though that may have been because I'd just passed so many cotton candy vendors along the way). The views were spectacular, city all around to the west and to the east mountains. When I got to the top it felt even more magical there were beautiful gardens, local artisans selling items, a fantastic set of man made water falls, sooooo much sun and views, oh the views! As I gazed around in wonder, this phrase from nowhere kept coming into my head "Salta, salta, mi Salta"; I thought it both a bit strange and yet true. I finally peeled myself away to go meet Gabby at Plaza 9 de Julio, the main city square.
As Gabby mentioned, at my instenince (lest she receive * another* note calling her out for being lame) we went to check out Peña (folklore) music which Salta, in Argentina, is famous for. I'd chosen la Casona del Molino an old mansion with several rooms where musicians sit at tables with you and perform rather than one room with one stage.
We arrived close to 11:30 pm and as it goes in Argentina, things were just getting started and locals were just ordering dinner. So, when in Rome... We sat almost directly beside two performers in our room. A younger man and older man, one probably bass and one probably alto. They sang wonderfully together and though we understood none of the words I felt at times a sad happiness to their songs. Something a tad bit dark, but honest; raw. I was in heaven complete with my own jug of sangaria. As a sidenote, an older woman also taught Gabs a life lesson about what happens if a "grumpy face" is your "default face." See if you can find this "Waldo" in my photo from the night.
This morning over breakfast our host, Jorge, approved of my choice of venue as his personal favourite for Peña. He then helped us plan our next few days, shared so many stories about Salta and his life. I was so happy to have stayed here and learned from this kind man. He shared with us about his own personal troubles that stemmed from Argentina's economic collapse in 2001, how he had been affected and how he recovered with a new life of sorts. When we were telling him how badly I'd wanted to tour the ESMA building he said "oh you wouldn't find that interesting would you?" "oh, yes, very much so," we replied. He got very quiet and told us he'd gone to school in Buenos Aires, military college, he paused as if deciding to tell us more and then trailed off to pick up another fascinating conversation.
This man has helped Gabby and I so much and has truly provided us with a home. He and Salta have met us with open arms and they will be arms that will be difficult to peel away from as we move North before heading south to Mendoza. This time as we travel we will do so with a *planned* stopover in Cordoba so that I can realize two goals: seeing Che's adoloscent home in Alta Gracia (now a museum) and the museo de la memoria (a former detention centre) in Cordoba. We also, read Gabby, decided no matter the cost/logistics we were only traveling first class cama bus. In 5-6 short days she's gone from bargin hunting for bus fares (overnighters to save on hotels) to a baller. I love it.
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