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!

Futbol postscript

Two videos to give you a small sense of being there.

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.

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:

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.

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?"

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?

The Unforgettable Purmamarca

When Jo and I started planning our trip to Argentina and I started making my list of ´must sees´, Quebrada de Humahuaca was first on my list. Whenever I´ve thought of Argentina, I´ve pictured these photogenic, colourful mountains (most likely because these shots are the ones that dominate tourist info on Argentina). Nevertheless, I knew I wanted to go and take my own beautiful shots of what most would call an unforgettable place.

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.

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.

Salta the Beautiful

After a harrowing bus ride here, I knew the pressure was on for Salta to be a great place to visit. And it did not disappoint. First through a glimpse at the town as we pulled in, and second by the constant friendliness and warmth we were met with or witnessed.

In the far north west (literarily across the country from Iguazu) Salta makes up a small town with most of it's activity and sights happening in the main square, accessible by foot from almost anywhere in the city. Here, despite a heavy military presence, you feel completely at ease as you wander through the cobblestone streets, walking by the beautiful purple trees and preserved colonial architecture.

A strong religious sentiment also means at mass time in the evening you will notice bikers zoom by churches while quickly making the sign of the cross. And when Jo stumbled upon a man at his knees in front of Convento de San Bernardo (which can be viewed right outside our terrace) as she exited to take a photo of the building light up against the night, the reactions of passers by told us we were the only ones surprised at this sight.

Salta is also the place where a family hung out of the window of their truck and then pulled right off to a corner and stepped out because they could see us consulting our guide book as they drove past us, and out of simple kindness wanted to usher us in the right direction.

Salta is the place where we were regaled by stories from our lovely Bed and Breakfast host about how he used to serenade his wife outside her window and who when giving us day trip advice took two pesos out of his own wallet so we would have change for the bus.

As Jo and I sat listening to beautiful folk music at La Casona del Molino (An enormous restored Neocolonial mansion with different music in each room) which she had found and insisted we visit for a night cap on our first evening there, I felt this immense sense of awe for this place and then for the people who all seemed to host incredible talents as they rose one by one and joined someone at the front to dance, strum or drum, as everyone sang along, to the latest folk song.

When Jo looked over at me on that first night sitting at La Casona del Molino and said "I think Salta becomes me", I knew it would be hard for both of us to leave beautiful Salta.

A small taste of our Salta view by night

The photos don't even do it justice...

When you're sliding into first and feel something burst...

After 31 hours in buses and sketchy bus terminals we arrived in Salta. We managed to just show up at our top pick B&B and even though we looked like trash bags the kind couple let us stay. In fact, we got a sweet room with a killer balcony/view. In any case after we both took LONG showers, I was feeling human and ready to hit the city. Gabs on the other hand had crawled into bed and was complaining of stomach issues (to put it politely). Having tried to uphold a more veggie diet last time I was in Latin America (this time: bring on the meat!) I had an idea the trouble she was in and for about the 12th time I asked Gabs to buy some immodium. I then set out to exlpore.

After I had a wonderful late morning/early afternoon (more on this later) in Saltac Gabby met me at Plaza 9 de Julio. After eating failed to help her stomach she conceded and we went to a pharmacy. In one of the photos below are two boxes of "medicine" on the left is what I and the pharmacist convinced her to buy; on the right is what Gabby thought would help treat her problems. Later I saw a "drugstore" that was just candy, my phone didn't capture it all, but below you get the idea. It seems *this* was Gabby's kind of pharmacy. For good measure, I've also included a photo of Gabs waiting to talk to the pharmacist with my phrasebook in order to ensure that she conveyed the finer details of her ailement.

Oh Iguazu

Iguazu-the place Jo and I traveled 49 hours (yes you read that right-49 hours to get to and from). I should add those last 31 were in absolutely no way as nice as our first 18. It took everything I had not to literarily kiss the ground as I got off the last bus from our 31 hour trip to Salta, feeling exhausted, dirty, thirsty, famished and still suffering from extreme stomach pain (yes Jo warned me about the veggies and fruit).

So was it worth it? We could easily have passed on this unbelievably hard to reach place. We could have avoided a few sink showers, using the washroom by candlelight and Jo asking me to chloroform her and telling me she is going to have to burn her clothes on the second last leg of our bus trip.

But in the end, I remember the toucans, monkeys, iguanas and the aggressive and a little frightening Argentinian raccoon (ok this last part I could have done without). I remember the incredible world heritage falls that make Niagara look like my bathtub. I remember our jungle boat tour where I was almost lost to Joanna by massive hanging vines. (If I knew then we'd be facing a 31 hour trip I may have opted to hang on to those vines and take my chances in the jungle).

Finally, I remember taking the most extreme boat ride of my life, riding on a small speed boat INTO the falls, the salt water in my eyes and having a hard time breathing from fear of actually crashing into the jagged rocks that I could probably have touched if I extended my arm, all the while being smacked around in our tiny boat from the crashing falls above (only in Argentina).

Then I think...are we crazy?! No place on earth is worth the bus stops with the feral dogs, not sleeping for days and the loud Spanish Bruce Willis movies you can't turn off.

I'm kidding!!! I'm kidding. It was worth it. Afterall, they say the best way to discover a country is driving through it. And eventually, we won't even remember the travel but only the stops in between and one of those was indeed the beautiful Iguazu.

"In the wind we hear their laughter"

[Photo of from the Plaza de Mayo where the Madres de la plaza de mayo march to this day. The Mothers wore, and continue to wear, these white scarves on their heads and they have become emblematic of their work]

A lot of people like to tease me about my love of Bono and U2 and rationally, I get the teasing to an extent: the man is sometimes a bit much, full of contradictions, occassionally overly simplistic in his assessment of problems plauging our world, or what have you. Bono may have his limitations, but he is full of passion for a world that is more just, and he (not always perfectly) works to use his celeberity to draw attention to injustices, to learn more about them and to share what he has learned. He´s not afraid to poke fun at himself either which I always appreciate. In any case, this love of Bono and U2 was fostered in me at a young age by my father blaring (and I do mean BLARING) albums like the Joshua Tree or Rattle & Hum in our minivan. Some of U2´s music served to help feed my own curiosity about, and to refine, my undertanding social justice related issues.

The song "The Mothers of the Disappeared" on the Joshua Tree album stands as a clear example of the dialogical process I had growing up with U2. When the album was released in 1987 I was 6 years old (I hope that at least made some of you feel old as I know it will make some of our readers feel like *I* am old...) When my dad would play this album a song on B side (we´re talking casette tapes here people) "Mothers of the Disappeared" always stuck out to me as it was much more stripped down compared to most of the songs on the album. I also recall that the opening lyrics also confused me:

Midnight, our sons and daughters
Were cut down and taken from us.
Hear their heartbeat
We hear their heartbeat.

"What did this mean? What was this song talking about?" I am sure I asked my parents. They explained to me in terms I *mostly* understood at the time about the "dirty war" that had taken place recently in Argentina. They continued that during this time of state terror that a group of women had come together with a simple request: to know where their daughters, sons, and grandchildren were, if they were okay, if they could be returned to their families. These brave mothers, I was told, due to this somewhat straight forward request were met with a lot hardships, ones which I could not fully comprehend at the time; nor can I today.

In 1977, 14 Mothers came together to begin marching at the Plaza de Mayo in front of the Presidential palace, peacefully demanding to know where their children were. And, so las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo began. They marched every day carrying signs of their missing sons and daughters, silently showing yes, they were people, they had not simply "disappeared." Since the end of the military junta in Argentina, the military has admitted that over 9,000 of those kidnapped were unaccounted for, though the Mothers put this figure at closer to 30,000. Over the years, particuarly proceeding the end of the military junta, the Mothers carried out work in the spirit of their missing children, by doing such things as creating an independent university or establishing bookstores, to continue to push for some of the ideas their own children had upheld and had as a consequence lost their lives. As social movements tend to do over time, the Mothers also ended up splitting into two major groups: the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo Association and the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo front line (for an starter on that see here).

In any case, this early sensitization to the struggles of the Mothers and the state terror that had occurred in Argentina made a huge impression on me that has lasted with me to this day. As such, when I realized that the Mothers, who still march today, and who do so on Thursdays from 3:30 until 4 I asked Gabby to meet right at the Plaza de Mayo as my plane wasn´t even landing until 1:30 on our only Thursday in Buenos Aires. Thankfully I made it to the Plaza de Mayo for 3pm. I had a chance to go to the Mother of the Plaza de Mayo Association´s tent they had on the site and to buy a few souvenirs from the Mothers themselves. I tried in my non-existent Spanish to convey my appreciation of their efforts and their gentle smiles and holding of my hands seemed to indicate that they understood the sentiment I was trying to express.

Shortly thereafter the few mothers, and other family members present, there from Mother of the Plaza de Mayo Association began to march around the plaza de mayo. After they had made one round around what I believe is called the May Pyramid, les Madres de plaza de mayo linea fundaora began to march around the same monument coming from the other direction. Knowing only a little about the splintering of the two groups and the current politics there I was not sure how this was all going to "go down." The two groups approached each other slowly and somberely and then just as they met face to face they broke into smiles and knowing glances, hugs were exchanged and then the two groups merged to continue on.

I was grateful to have seen this and grateful to my good friend and travel companion, Gabby, who knowing how important it was for me to see this, but not sure yet if I had made it was taking mad photos and videos just in case. In any case, this trajectory from hearing a song when I was six in a chryslter minivan to 24 years later seeing some of these same women who inspired U2, in turn inspiring and informing me is the reason Bono will always hold a special place in my heart.

Here is a video of the Mothers of the Disappeared being performed in Santiago Chile during U2´s late 1990s PopMart tour with some of the Mothers themselves joining U2 on stage.




[Gabs´photo of the Mothers at the Plaza de Mayo on the day of our arrival]

Spoiler alert!

Guess where we went today?!?

More to follow....

The necessities of life...

[Due to a brief, but trying separation from my iPhone I am posting a few days late regarding our first full day in Argentina/Buenos Aires]

I'm the type of person that I worry about how much I worry. I'm also cognizant that sometimes this "attribute" is not as endearing as say a good old fashioned neurotic Woody Allen flick. But, if we were for a second to indulge me and pretend it were, I have to admit that sometimes when I visit countries or cities where the seperation between rich and poor is much more stark then in, say, Ottawa, I feel ambivalent about my place as a tourist. As Gabby and I set out after brunch on our first full day in BA, the exchange rate on our bill served as a gentle reminder of this reality for me. With this ambivalence creeping into my mind, Gabby and I walked toward the #130 bus to take us out to the ESMA building; which we didn't get to tour due to a comedy of errors I care not to recount at this point - too soon...

Shortly into our walk, it began raining softly with promises of returning to the earlier torential downpour. Gabby needed to buy an umbrella, so after consulting my phrasebook we were ready to buy a "paraguas." Finally, we happened upon a woman selling umbrellas. What followed was one of the most genuine miscommunications between two kindhearted indiviuals I've ever seen. I asked the woman in Spanish how much the umbrellas were and she told us that the smaller ones were $15 which Gabby decided was a good deal and passed over a 20 peso bill to which the woman returned her a 5 peso bill. Aware that she was in need of change for the bus we were about to take she used her new vocabulary word "monera" and pointed to her bill, adding "bus" and pointing towards the bus stop. The woman checked her jacket pocket pulling out only bills, and told us - in Spanish - that she was sorry she only had bills. Gabby looked at her sadly and then the woman asked us: " necesito?" Gabby - deducing, as I did, that she was asking us if it was necessary and that if we said 'si' she would tell us somewhere else to try - replied earnestly "'si, necesito." The woman gave us a half confused and half understanding look and began digging for change in her pants pocket and asked, again in Spanish, how much we needed and was it *really* " necesito"? Again Gabby, not realizing quite yet what was happening - nor was I - replied "si, necesito." As the woman began to pull out change she started to explain, in Spanish, okay she was going to give change to us, but we did understand that she was part of a "association" of homeless people working together for money, right? Suddenly, my tired eyes and ears caught what she was saying - contextually - and I held out my hands shaking them as if to say "no, no" and then finding my words adding: "no, no necesito, lo siento pero gracias, muchas gracias." My sudden, but strong understanding of the reality of the situation was insantly then appreciated by Gabs who began adding "oh! no, no, no!!! gracias , gracias, gracias."

In a simple miscommunication of maybe 1 minute, I was reminded of the profound potential for generousity in the human spirit. I was humbled by this woman's care for two gringa strangers and was grateful I had realized what was happening before we took the small amount of change she had found in her pockets. I can only hope our chourses of "lo sientos" and "gracias'" translated to her as the huge misunderstanding it truly was. And with that we headed on to find bus change elsewhere...

As a photographic post script here is me and my iPhone reunited at the Puerto Iguazu bus station thanks entirely to the amazing staff of a bus company I am going to write the nicest thank you note to - oh happy day!

For You Dad

My brother just emailed to tell me he is reading our blog, (Now I can prove to Jo we have more than two readers) and that my dad likened it to reading "Les Aventures de TinTin". For the record I am taking this as a serious compliment and a glimpse into our future as comic book stars. Jo we are on our way to the big times. (I call not the pup).

18 Hours (Rated: Speed Sensation)

Jo and I had both been inundated with stories prior to leaving that the long distance bus system in Argentina was incredible. For those of you that are not aware, traffic accidents are also the number one killer in Argentina (this was a direct quote from my travel doctor moments before my yellow fever shot - thanks for worrying me about something you can't fix doc....)

So when it was time to book travel for our 18 hour journey to Iguazu falls we knew two things: casa camper with completely reclining seats was a must and seatbelts should be worn at all times.

Ok the seatbelt part was a personal must. Poor Joanna had to literally sit through me making the calculation of which floor/seat would prove the less fatal in the event of an accident. (In my defense we witnessed a city bus jump off a curb and leave a trail of dust in it's wake that very day).

We eventually did book (on the second floor at the back) and shortly after boarding, wondered incredulously at our pimped out ride. Personal T.V's, wine and soda service, fully reclining beds with cosy comforters and complete hot meals served. This was the way to do the bus.

If it wasn't for the roller-coaster, speed obsessed driver, I would have thought I was in my own bed. I quite literally woke up with a start on several occasions and had to fight the urge to find the driver's cabin to double check it wasn't Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock at the wheel.

Lucky for me, one of those "awake with a start" moments happened right as the sun rose which allowed me to enjoy a quiet beautiful sunrise and appreciate again how lucky Jo and I were to be discovering Argentina and injected a new wave of excitement through me about the experiences that lay ahead.

Watch out Buenos Aires!

Last night after an interesting first day in Buenos Aires (read a day of comedy of errors), we took a nap to prep for a night on the town. Our nap turned into just sleeping. At one point I tried to get us going by poking Gabs until she woke up and then giving her the note pictured below. Despite my efforts, we both gave into good senses opted to try to sleep for the night (not an easy feat in our room which is conveniently wedged between two of the hostel's bars) and to do it right today: hang out all day, siesta at Canadian dinertime, then get up for the all night party. Well, it's almost 10 and I'm waking up time to scratch out the Friday on my note and wake Gabs up to hit the city up properly. Hasta luego!

The Bus to Safety

Travel wise, Jo and I have adopted pretty much the same approach: half planning, half get on the next bus and enjoy the next neighborhood we end up in. The exception to that rule: Boca. We had been warned to visit, enjoy and get the heck out of there before dark. So after a few morning excursions, we made our way to Caminito in Boca.

Caminito is filled with rainbow coloured walls, beautiful artisan crafts and tango dancers at every corner. We shopped, we chatted, I fed the horses and Jo got in a fight with the rowdy neighbors. What!? Those last things really happened! Finally we settled down for some food and wine and enjoyed the live music all the while thinking of the impending need to grab change and figure out which bus would sweep us away to safety when the sun set. Little did we know that the transition in Boca from tourist hot spot to locked down gang neighborhood takes .5 seconds. I left a bustling street, busy restaurant and overall lively place to visit the ladies room only to come back five minutes later to see a white faced Joanna sitting at our table in a completely empty patio and shop keepers putting down their steel gates quicker than I can finish a plate of fries (for anyone that doesn't know that is pretty quick). As soon as I got to our table I was met with a "we've got to get the heck out of here dude."

We counted our change and were truly unsure if we had enough to get back. (In Buenos Aires you tell the bus driver where you are going when you get on and a number pops up on the screen telling you how much your ride is going to cost). On the way to where we could see any buses, we tried to stop for change and this proved so much more difficult than we expected. (BA is also notorious for making it impossible to get "monera" or change.)

At this point we conferred and decided rather than risk walking further into what we had been told by everyone is a virtual gangland, we should put our coins together, get on the next bus that said Avinda de Mayo and pray we wouldn't get kicked off because we didn't have enough money. While waiting to put in our money Jo actually whispered to me. "Once you put it in you don't even get your money back, so if we don't have enough we are doubly screwed."

We boarded, I told the bus driver where we were going and felt the seconds counting down a la Jack Bower as I literally dropped in ten peso cents at a time and prayed it would be enough. When the machine spit out our white little ticket I breathed a sigh of relief and waited for Jo to meet me in the seatless middle of the bus to get jostled all the way home.

Shaving Cream and Vegetarian Restaurants

One of my favorite things to do when I get to a new place is to navigate by public transport to my home base. This is a byproduct of years of not knowing north from south. It is my way of proving to myself I didn't know my way out of a paper bag before only because I wasn't tryyying.

Well today, I got here and more. I made a new strange smelly friend that I thought was going to mug me but actually turned out to be quite lovely and for some strange reason gave me a card for a vegetarian restaurant after accompanying me to the "subt" or subway. And then I met these nice people who seemed so nice and helpful but who I quickly discovered were trying very hard to fleece me.
All this before 10am.

So what did this morning teach me?From my smelly friend: hygiene is overrated. You can be a lovely person even if you don't partake in a routine washing.

And from those two nice looking women and then that man down the street: Shaving cream doesn't fall from the sky. If its all over you, someone put it there, and if someone is pushing you into a corner to aggressively wipe you down, they are more likely trying to help themselves to your cash and not you with your mess. Finally, when the bus driver stops on the street and starts yelling at this good "cleaner" samaritan it's because he is a cleaner. A cleaner of your pockets that is.

By some miracle, I still have my money and I found my hostel. And I still have a good vegetarian restaurant recommendation. Welcome to Buenos Aires!

My most delightful experience at Pearson ... Well ever

Maybe I'm jinxing myself, but getting to my connecting gate just now was a breeze and all Pearson staff were all too happy to help me along. Now I sit waiting to board my flight to Buenos Aires a tea in hand and almost can breath in *and* out of both nostrils (thanks to Renee for the magic nose spray!) This will probably be my least boozey international flight ever as I will not drink a drop of alcohol until I hit Buenos Aires. I suspect my travel companion probably faced a different fate given her SEVEN hour stop over in Panama. My flight here was somewhat uneventful save the three strangers behind me all bonding on travel stories and all concurring that BA was their ultimate dream destination. I turned around to the strangers and exclaimed: I'm heading there *now*!!! I felt like a pretty big deal. I then turned on my in flight tv and watched a travel show about ... Buenos Aires. I'm getting more excited especially as one ascent and descent already under my belt with no burst eardrums. Here's hoping for the same luck on the next 12 hour flight!

To all you overpacking haters...

Sometimes more is more! Or that's what I'm hoping as I walk around my apartment with my backpack that's filled to the brim. The only thing keeping all the items in there - which really aren't *that* numerous considering all the different weather and the amount of days - is a memory of traveling around Costa Rica this past March with a friend who had brought 2 huge suitcases, a duffle bag and I think that was it (though maybe more) to my own reasonably packed backpack. This trip was only 10 days (to be fair she'd been Pananma the week prior), and yet I was constantly was happy she had all she had as I borrowed pashminas, dresses, makeup, etc. from her. Could I have lived without that stuff? Most definetly. But, was I happy to look more pulled together while hitting say, San Jose, up? Yes, absolutely. The thing is yes, we are backpacking, but not in some manner where we'll be hiking with all of our stuff for hours on end. No we'll be at the most running to catch a bus with our bags on. Also we're going to many cities with varying climates as opposed to spending the whole time in say the rainforest which could be easier to pack for. And, so, no I'm not going to take 2 roller suitcases and a duffle bag, but I sure am taking 4 dresses (yes, not 2!) in a fully packed backpack (yes, I'm also bringing an empty duffle bag) and I don't think I'll regret it, or least I hope I won't...

Time to go steam my sinuses again...

What is the longest way to get there?

I notoriously book cheap flights. This is usually followed by a slap on my own back applauding my frugalness, talking about the amazing deal i got for weeks then cursing my frugal (by this point I'm calling it what it is: cheap) ways all the way through my unbelievably long journey.

Argentina is no different. The night before my flight I decided to look into the details when someone asked "Who are you flying? What time is your flight?" and my answer was a blank stare.

Ok really this was my MO for this trip. Last minute vaccines, rush pack job (this always leads to a bag that probably weighs more than you - thankfully I had someone to intervene in my madness "HOW many shoes did you pack? Ok let's go through this thing....) and finally, noticing at the airport as I check in with the airline I've never heard of and get ready to board my helicopter size plane that I have a SEVEN hour layover in panama.

I could only laugh at the announcement for final boarding calls from Air Canada for the direct flight to Argentina that came over the loudspeaker moments after this discovery.

The good news: Panama is not a dry airport and I'm not underage.

"If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans"

So, today is the big day! I lay awake unable to sleep as I'm fighting a sinus infection with everything I could buy at shopper's drug mart - and then some! Thankfully I don't leave until 8pm whereas poor Gabby leaves at 9am. But, on Thursday we'll be in the same city: Buenos Aires! We're aiming to meet at the Plaza de Mayo as one of my "most dos" in Argentina is to see las madres de la plaza de mayo march. Apparently since Cristina Fernández de Kirchner took office as President the Mothers don't march as frequently as they 'no longer have an enemy in the President's office', but they do still march symbolically at 3:30 on Thursdays. Of course, my plane is set to arrive at 1:30 on Thursday leaving me with 2 hours to clear customs, pay my entrance tax, get my luggage etc. and get my butt to the Plaza; here's to hoping! In preparation for this trip I actually watched a really fascinating news feature on children of the disappeared who were adopted out of their families, in some cases essentially kidnapped by those responsible for the likely deaths of their mothers and possibly fathers. Argentina has recently made it mandatory for those who are suspected of being children of the disappeared to submit to DNA testing, which leads to all sorts of complications - you can read about one such example here.

In any case, enough geeking out on this ... for now. I wanted to get to the heart of this posting's title (a Woody Allen quote). I think to say the least, our planned itinerary is ambitious and time will tell if it's overly ambitious - we're taking a play it by (a hopefully uninfected) ear approach. You can see a map of our planned highlights tour of the country (with a bit of Chile) on this map. No matter what, I'm certain that most everything we do manage to accomplish will be an amazing experience, and that there will be loads and loads of giggling along the way!

Here, via the magic of the internet, are a few pictures of the itinerary we hope to take:

Buenos Aires:
Stops to include

Madres de Plaza de Mayo


ESMA Building - former detention centre during Argentina's "Dirty War" and now is a museum of sorts (I gather from news and travel books it's still trying to work itself out)


An amazing bookstore in an old theatre in Buenos Aires, I plan to leave my resume...



Iguazu Falls - where I'm hoping I feel like my yellow fever vaccination was worth it! In all seriousness, my friend Esther informs me that it's like heaven on earth and reportedly when Eleanor Roosevelt visited the falls she said "poor Niagara." My friend Kathrine said that was an apt statement and that it was like Niagara except in nature and not mini-vegas and well, better.



Salta - a main North western city that is supposed to be quite a different feel than other centers such as BA or even Cordoba. It's know for its colonial architecture and it was the southern most point of the Inca empire.


Jujuy - the place Gabby tried to sell me on (well, I guess did) by saying something to the effect of 'it's supposed to be super amazing and the mountains are like different crazy colours and stuff; it's basically the place where all the photos of Argentine mountains come from - dude, it's a UNESCO site!' I was like um, okay Gabs yup "super colourful mountains, sure...." then I googled some pictures and was like oh, it's not just the end of summer cocktails speaking to me ... sorry Gabs for the disbelief!


Mendoza - goals here include renting bikes to take bike tours of wineries and getting too tipsy to return the bike by bicycling and we will instead need to walk the bikes back. Then enjoying views of the Andes whilst drinking and, well, drinking.... mmmm malbecs!


Then a bus through the Andes - the world's longest continental mountain range. Everyone I know who has done this trip explains it as being both one of the most life threatening and, presumably if one survives it, life affirming experiences of their lives. I will ask you to hold your "Alive" jokes until I complete this successfully!



Santiago - I truly hope we make it this far! And, if we don't make it to a football match in BA (I don't think the famed Boca Jnrs are playing while we're there - boo!) then I definitely want to see one here, particularly if gave me the chance to go to the national stadium which was infamously used as a detention camp and torture facility during the coup that began in 1973 Chile.



Vina del mar - supposed to be beautiful and I'd love to see the pacific again this year.



Then scoot our asses back to BA for our flights home!

Let's see how this all works out...

Hasta pronto Buenos Aires, hasta pronto!