Braving Bolivia

Having scoffed down a street-side “milanesa” (supposed to be a breaded filet, but it was more like a hamburger) I got on the bus to Sucre and instantly realised that we had been conned into a cama price, despite only having just enough room for my legs (heaven help my travelling partner Alistair who is over six foot).

The bus driver was still outside spruiking our departure, trying to fill the last remaining seats – one of which happens to be next to me. Of course I prayed that he had no luck, but this is Bolivia, and my little white-girl Australian wishes don’t mean anything at all here. (And so starts the worst bus ride in the world).

Never mind the Death Road, this was Death itself. Once we got driving, fluoro lights blinded us throughout the night, and the driver made sure that even the passing cars could hear his horrible Bolivian music. Not only just the seats, but the aisles were crowded with people and their parcels – which had been stuffed into whatever space they could find above and below. The familiar horse blanket smell of my tour returned in full force, and I clamoured to spray enough perfume on my clothes to overpower it.

Our first stop was after only a few hours for a “baño” (toilet) break, but we ended up staying much longer than the usual 15 minutes, with the drivers sitting down to eat dinner and chat with their other driver friends. Needless to say I didn’t sleep at all between Uyuni and Potosi and when we arrived at the highest city in the world – 4060m above sea – it was not only my heart that was agitated. Here we were told to get off with everyone else, who were staying in town to make the passage down the infamous silver mines, despite paying for an onward ticket to Sucre. Of course I questioned the driver further, as to the location of our next bus, and he mumbled something about it being around the corner. But was 130am, pitch black and my lungs could hardly breathe from the altitude and the diesel fumes that were being pumped out of our bus. I was in no mood for being fobbed off.

So I stood my ground and asked him again firmly, proving that my Spanish was not as bad as he thought it was, to which I was told to get back on the bus. Still not sure what was happening, Alistair and I were taken around the corner, where the bus stopped again. It is here that I asked the only other person with us, a young Bolivian guy, where he was going and what was happening. He politely told me he lives in Sucre and that a bus will come along eventually, but that it might take a few hours. I then probed further and asked how much he had paid to get there, to which he gave me a figure more than half ours.

I am livid at this stage, having been lied to about the price and the timing of our journey, and instantly thump on the driver’s door to demand some answers. I still don’t get any, but when bus passes a half an hour later, we are pushed through to the front, probably given someone else’s seats.

Aboard, we are greeted with an even more potent stench than before – matured over several hours no doubt – but fortunately no lights or music. I slowly drift in and out of consciousness, each time praying for the two hours to pass quickly, but it is almost 5am before we reach the terminal in Sucre, and my hopes of getting an early connection to Santa Cruz are immediately dashed when I find the terminal all closed-up except for the many waiting passengers. And I am further crushed when I see that no buses will leave until the afternoon.

So stumbling up the hill and around the corner with Alistair, I go to the closest hostel, and check in for a hot shower and a few hours sleep. Waking up a short while later, I go to buy my bus ticket out and join Alistair for a walk into town. But there’s really not much to see here – in a town of only 200,000 – bar a few closed museums and churches. And with Sunday siesta in full swing, sampling some chocolate is all that I have to fill in my time.

It is then that I call my friend in Santa Cruz to explain I won’t be arriving for her party that night, to which she tells me about the cheap flights here. And it is with this glimmer of light, that I jump online to book a ticket. But this doesn’t work, with only international flights appearing, so I head to the office in town to purchase one there. But they are closed too, any given Sunday, and I am told that I must go out to the airport itself - which I do with much urgency.

Once there, I am told there is one available in an hour or so, if I don’t mind going via La Paz rather than direct, and that they will reserve my ticket while I collect my bag and passport. So I haul my arse into a taxi, paying the high tariff just to get out of here, but when I return it seems things aren’t so easy after all. The group of French in front of me are politely informed that there are no phone lines out of the airport at the moment, and that the credit card machine won’t work. Of course nothing changes in the time it takes them to scrape together enough cash – there being no ATMs here either – and I am left with only one option. Suddenly it seems there is another seat on the direct plane, and I am told to take another expensive taxi to the their office in a downtown supermarket to pay there.

I quickly do this, but it is the same story there - there is no line out, and I must pay in cash. But time and money has gotten the better of me, having already missed the bus I tentatively booked, and being a low cash position for the next week, I cannot afford to pay in Bolivanos. And so I must return to the airport again, just to collect my bags and tell them that I can’t fly.

Once there, I try to arrange a payment in Santa Cruz, but it won’t work, and it seems I am stuck here until tomorrow, when hopefully, I will find a machine that works. Completely crestfallen, and not wanting to get back on the dreaded Death Bus, I walk back out the front of the airport where a sign stares back at me: “Sonrisa – estas in Sucre!”…Smile – you are in Sucre!

I think not.

(The next day I did of course get on a flight...but no, I wasn't game enough to eat the pork-laced empanada on board)

Salty Sonrisa**

It is an early awakening, to catch the sunrise over the salt flats, which at 530am are freezing but mercifully close to our hotel. We drive to the centre of it all and continue to brave the cold until we can no longer push the buttons on our cameras, taking shots of its immense whiteness. At about 40m thick at its deepest, and taking in about 12,000sqkm, the Salar de Uyuni is truly impressive (and I shall be voting for it in the upcoming new 7 Wonders of the World competition).

Formed many years ago – about 40,000 – when prehistoric Lake Minchin dried up, leaving two smaller lakes, and two salt deserts, it provides the best blank canvas for taking distorted perspective shots. But before we can start on those, we huddle around one of the salt-brick tables that have been erected beside the Isla Pescado – a cactus-laden oasis in the middle of it all – and attempt to warm our insides with cake, yoghurt and coffee.

It takes a while for the sun to rise sufficiently for us to take our photos, but eventually we are able to stay out long enough to fool around with the perspective, taking shots of ourselves standing on Pringles packets and each other. And, after sitting more hours than I would like to count in a car for the last few days, we are happy to almost smell Uyuni on the other side. Bolivia, here I come!

**(“sonrisa” = smile)

Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

After going to bed at 830pm I had half expected to wake up early, but when I hear Sean coming back in from the bathroom, and ask him the time, 130am doesn’t really sound so good. Not particularly when my heart was pounding through my chest at an alarming speed. I decided that it was probably best to get up and get some fresh in air in the hope that some more oxygen might calm it down. But all that greets me on the other side is darkness and the cold.

In fits and starts, I spend the night alternating my broken sleep with walks outside, paracetamol and water, and music on my iPod. Finally, after three scary awakenings, it is morning and breakfast is being served. It is not much – just some stale bread, jam, coffee, tea and a flask of lukewarm water – but it is enough to get us all going for the day.

But obviously our driver Jesus has other ideas, and seems very content to be locked up in the warmth of the family’s kitchen, forgetting almost completely about us. We wait patiently for him, trying not to shiver in the cold, realising that this is actually his family. Our car is then loaded up with him, our stuff, empty bottles, his cousin and everything but the kitchen sink, and we finally head off - the last to leave from our ‘resting’ place.

Our first stop is Arbol de Piedra - strange rock formations formed in the sand by volcanic eruptions. I ask Jesus when we will get to the hotel at the Salt Flats and he says six o’clock, but I can’t understand why when it is only 150km away. But when smoke starts appearing in the front passenger seat and we all have to get out while Jesus and his cousin fiddle under the 4WD, it starts to make sense. Luckily two other tour groups are behind us, on the same route, and they stop to keep us company.

I instantly recognise the English couple from my hostel and I chat to them about the quality of their experience so far (they did the smart thing and checked the tourist office’s comments book before booking). But it is much the same story - no sleep, no real guidance from their tour person, and plain pasta and soup for dinner. I guess it is all a pretty hit and miss experience.

It’s an even rockier ride to the next Laguna Onda, where more bashing of the vehicles’ underneath goes on. Desert mechanics seems to only have two fixes: either that, or pouring water on it, and it is not long before Jesus has stopped again to blow up the tyre by hand. Oh brother!

The next few lagoons, Laguna Heidonda and Laguna Chiarcota, pass by much like the others, our fatigue for them has already arrived, so that when we get to Laguna Cañapa we are all glad to have lunch as a distraction. Getting back on our trail, and car trouble plagues us again, this time the brakes don’t seem to be working and when our tyre gets stuck going uphill, we end up sliding backwards into a rock edge. From his seat in the back, Sean says we were lucky it didn’t roll.

Thankfully though, it’s nothing serious, but it is not too long before the back wheel needs to be changed completely, and the ‘road less travelled’ tactics of our 19 year old driver start to wear thin. It becomes a running joke with the other groups we bump into, with each meeting requiring a list of our new problems.

Frankly I have no idea how Jesus keeps track of where we are going ‘cos we just seem to drift through endless amounts of barren landscape. But our final stop in San Juan de Rosario arrives before we make the last 2 hours to our ‘hotel’ at the salt flats. In the dying light of the day, we pass by the cactus-laden hills and some sad-looking quinoa crops and I can’t help but wonder why farmers here haven’t realised that rocky soil doesn’t grow much. (Except wine of course!)

Finally the Hotel de Sal arrives with its warm insides and hot showers (although the solar-powered lights don’t go on until 7pm, and then get turned off at 9pm, with no warning). We settle down for a dinner of soup, and, well, Spam. Calling it that is perhaps even being too kind. It was totally inedible and tasted rather like cat food, so, after sharing a bottle of wine, and playing a few games of Uno, it is another early night for us - with another early rise ahead to see the sunrise over the flats.

Four Wheel Driving With Jesus

Having left sunny Santiago behind, I strangely enough relished the idea of being on a bus for 24 hours, travelling the San Pedro de Atacama. Located in the northern-eastern part of Chile, it is the gateway town into Bolivia’s natural wonders. That is, a tiny (less than 5000 people) adobe town full of tour companies and souvenir shops. I did of course partake in both, and booked myself on a three-day 4WD trip to Uyuni.

It is the first of many early starts when I arrive at the office the next morning at 7am. Our group, consisting of two Spanish girls Mar and Kristina, and English boy Alistair, and an Irish man Sean, haul our bags on top of the van and pile inside to gather heat. But it is a bit of a false start when we are made to wait outside the chilly border crossing office for over half an hour. Sean is quick to point out that this is nothing compared to his last two and a half hour wait, and the five hours he spent the time before, but I still think it should have been on the itinerary.

Quintin, our first driver, then continues down the road on a silent climb to a 4300m height. The drone from the engine is so loud that even my iPod can’t out blast it. I watch as tufts of grasses stick up like tee-pees from the red brown dirt, and touches of snow cover the tops of the two mountains beside us, daring the blue sky to melt it. We then stop at the Bolivian side of the border, strangely quite a distance into their country, to get our stamps. Their puny flag flies above the office, barely holding its own against the fierce wind.

But luckily for us, tea, coffee and breakfast is served straight away, warming us up from the bastardly breeze cutting through us. It is here that we also say goodbye to our spacious van, and cram ourselves into a rather aging Land Cruiser to head towards the entrance of the national park. We make a pit-stop here for the toilet and to get our carbon-copy entry papers, which despite your passport stamps and various logbook entries, you still have to keep with you as proof of a legal visit.

It is not too long before our first stop - Laguna Blanca – arrives. Mostly covered over in ice, which beams the sun back into our eyes, it is a pretty impressive sight in the middle of nowhere. It seems Nature never gets it wrong with her colours, mixing white with blue, brown and green in perfect harmony. Laguna Verde follows, but is not as green as its name might suggest because there is no wind. Apparently, so Jesus (pronunced “He-sus”) our second driver tells us, its presence brings up the colour - although I am yet to confirm that scientifically.

It is here, at just over 4000m, I start feeling a little dizzy, and so ask to have some of the coca leaves that are being smooshed into Jesus’ cheeks. Tasting a little like bitter green tea, they are meant to help with the effects of altitude sickness, which, for a person like me who is allergic to the medicinal drugs, is the only way around my drowsiness. But another relief comes soon, in the form of hot springs, which are so sweet compared to the bitter cold.

Next up are the stinky geysers, spewing out their steam from grey and orange pools that happen to match my jumper. Lying along a nearby fault line, they are formed when water contained in underground reservoirs is heated up by volcanic activity – in this case, from the Volcano Ollague – causing it to boil and steam out of the earth. Our final stop for the day is at the Laguna Colorado – a ‘red’ lagoon that is coloured by the algae it contains, which the many flamingos feed on. It is here that we also get up close to the llama-like animals “vicuñas” that are protected in the park due to their scarcity.

We then make our way to our homestay/hostel, which is located a few hundred metres from the waters eddge and I try to go to the toilet. But it seems there are some renovations are going on – that is, lots of cement and dirt on the floor, but from what I can see, there is nothing new happening. Still fighting the intolerable cold, we sit down to eat our lunch of boiled vegetables, tomato, cucumber and eggs. I really have no idea where this combination comes from, but it quickly disappeared into our cold stomachs, lining them for our afternoon nap.

But what we don’t realise, until we take our stuff to our room, is that the only heat our bedroom has ever seen, is perhaps a few drops of sweat when it was first haphazardly built. I scratch at the plaster, knowing for sure that it is still wet. After a few sighs, we all end up snoozing off minor headaches. After all, there’s nothing left today but dinner.

Viña Del Mar

The next morning arrives a little too early for me, the night being full of the drunken hippies making ridiculous amounts of noise and mess. But with my bus going back to Sanitago later in the afternoon, I force myself to take one last trip up the lifts to see the ‘Gallery in the Sky’ – an open-air display of art. But call me stupid, or call me blind, because I once again find myself stumbling around, finding nothing.

The streets in town still aren’t really busy, despite being a Monday, but lots of students are moving around, hopefully doing something. Wanting to make the most of the coastline, I decided to take the train to Viña Del Mar, but it seems you need a card to travel, and they are a little too expensive for just one trip. So I jump on a minibus and let the warm sun melt the chill in the air as I make my way there.

I watch as a young boy hangs from the front door of our ride, shouting out our destination and trying to get more passengers for his driver. He can’t be more than 15 years old, and I wonder if this will be the start of a career, or just a way of avoiding school. We zoom along at break-neck pace and in no time at all, I am thrown me out at the main square where I walk up to the Palacio Vergara.

I think that it must be seniors’ day though, because the grounds have been filled with bus-loads of them who are moving about slowly. The main building is of course closed, being the first day of the week, but there is a strangely modern amphitheatre behind, that fills in some more time.

Known for its plants and greenery, Viña is dotted with plant pots and trees, but it is also home to a fair share of tin-shaking beggars who line the river crossing (well, that’s what it looks like on the map, but actually there is no water below, just a crude dusty carpark). Horse and carts follow me up the 12 blocks to the main stretch of beach and as I turn onto the waterfront, I instantly think of Port Melbourne and St Kilda.

High-rise apartment blocks wait silently for the summer again, with a handful of markets stalls and a wooden boardwalk winding a path along the back of the sand. I soon stop to grab some lunch, realising that there is not much else to see here, and think that a nice salad and some reading might calm my tired nerves. But the first place I visit, despite its extensive menu, only has ham and cheese toasties, cakes, and ice cream on offer, so I am forced to move further up after only one drink.

Aptly named “Enjoy Viña Del Mar”, the next restaurant is probably the only place that you will do such, this time of the year. Its slick stainless steel and white décor makes it stand out from its position on a tiny inlet, and I order what turns out to be the biggest latte I have ever had. I gladly let it run down my throat as I read my book in the sun and consider that some places are probably only best when enjoyed in warmth.

Up and Down To Neruda’s Merry-Go-Round

Obviously, with all the gifts that were given to us at the winery, breakfast was a rather late affair, and my plan to get to Valparaíso had to wait until after lunch. Just a short two-hour ride on the bus, Chile’s colourful coastal city – known to locals just as Valpo – was a bit of unknown entity to me (short of the lychee liqueur by the same name that I used to pour in a cocktail bar). What I was thinking was: sun, sand, and sweet drinks.

And I guess I was right on two accounts – well, one and a half. When I arrived at the bus terminal, the morning sun had lifted the hill-grown chill from the air, and people were busy going about their Sunday market trading. But as I scooted up the steady incline to my hostel, it would seem that I would have to wait until Viña del Mar to get some beach, with the waterfront here being taken up by a steady flow of ships and boats into the large seagull-infested harbour.

I dropped my bags in a garishly painted room, grabbed an empanada at the corner shop, and headed down the hill. And so started the not-so-sweet part. Filled with an even bigger number of stray dogs than Bariloche, the many laneways, alleys and quaint streets are also home to an unpleasant stench of the animal kind. Not quite the accompaniment I had hoped to go with my fresh-baked pastry.

Also lining the unfortunate streets were a disproportionate number of alternative-lifestyle types – so explains the many hippie-like individuals I spied in my brief tour of the hostel – who seem to have all just made it out to see the middle of the day. I took no notice though, despite feeling like I am constantly being watched, and head to the city’s clock tower to take its adjoining Ascensor (“lift”) Concepción up .

Now this is where it gets confusing. Not only because Lonely Planet has misnamed one of these integral transportation devices, but because this apparent solution to the city’s vertical challenges is not as simple as a quick up and down. Just to make it interesting, Valpo is set around a series of hills that rise and fall with alarming randomness throughout its suburbs – don’t bother coming here if you have bad knees. Thus, when wanting to reach a particular street in town, the ordinary map is not really very helpful, and a more geographical one is non-existent.

I make it up to the top, to see an excellent view of the harbour, and find some interesting jewellery and art in the mini-markets above. I then decide to take in some more of the multi-coloured houses and complementary graffiti and stroll around so many ups and downs, that soon I am walking around completely lost. I am just glad that it is Sunday and there are not too many people or cars about.

I eventually make it back to the ascensor - which doesn’t appear to run to a timetable, rather, it moves when the controller at the top rings a bell to say that it is on the way – and pay again at the bottom. I follow the Lonely Planet guide and walk along to the next one, to see the Palacio Barburizza – home to the Museum of Bellas Artes. But when I get there, I not only realise that it is the wrong lift, but am told that the museum is no longer open, and was closed years ago when it stopped making money (well, what did they expect when it was free to get in?) Just to be sure, I take the right lift – El Peral, which just happens to be cheaper because it is run by the local council – and quickly make my way past the young boys trying to lure me into their path to steal my stuff. (They are very cunning here, wearing all the bling - ipods, cameras and the like - to make them look like tourists or richer than they are).

But the locals are rights, and it is indeed closed. I take a final spin down past the Monumento a los Héroes de Iquique masouleum, dedicated to Chilean navymen who died in the War of the Pacific, before I realise the time and know that I must hurry if I am going to get to see Pablo Neruda’s old house before it closes. Of course the taxi driver tries to screw me again, but I am getting good and somehow manage to force him to put on the meter before he launches into a recital of his favourite Neruda poem.

Luckily when I get to La Sebastiana (named after its builder Sebastian, who Neruda said was like a poet when fashioning it) it is still open, and I squeeze in as the last person. And what a way to finish the day! I am instantly attracted to the impressive design and interior, built around the view of the harbour, and fashioned to Neruda’s love for play, From his collection of paintings, furniture and trinkets to his “cloud” chair that overlooks the view, he was meticulously in collecting pieces to fill his life and house with joy. And how could one go past the circular room with its carousel horse?

My personal favourite though, is the quirky bar – stuffed full of trinkets that each have their own story – and I quickly sneak in a photo, despite the prohibition on taking them. I am pretty sure Pablo wouldn’t mind.

Graves, Shells and Bulls

After ending my day of museums with a special night-time tour of the horrendously bad collection at National Museum of Bellas Artes, I was ready to pack the whole thing in. But out of respect to Salvador Allende, and the history that had not yet made history, I decided to catch the train out to see his tomb, and try and redeem the situation.

Buried in the ‘general’ cemetery, as opposed to the more exclusive Catholic one across the road, I was told Allende’s resting place would be easy to find. And it was. Unlike Recoleta, in Buenos Aires, this place was full of genuine mourners – there to pay their weekend respects. Again, I was the only tourist interested enough to make it past the lines and lines of names, dates and lives past, set out in sterile blocks.

Located straight off O’Higgins Street, the Allende family tomb has been added to the collection of deceased Presidents of the Chile, right next to a tribute to Jesus Christ. And it is definitely one of the most modern ones here, sticking out of the ground with its marble plinths like a sore thumb. I can’t help but think: so it is in life and in death.

Realising then that my phone too has gone dead (bad pun, I know), I hurried back to the hostel, to meet up with Kylie and Nicole who are set to accompany me to Chile’s largest wine producer – Concha Y Toro. (Ok, so I guess I am all about second chances, and ending on a good note. Hence why I chose to submit myself to more South American wine, despite previous shadey encounters. Oh, and there is nothing better than sitting in the sun and indulging).

Surprisingly close to the city centre, it seems you can take the metro train all the way there, and within an hour, we were touring the beautiful gardens of the estate. Set up by the Concha y Toro (Shell and Bull) family in 1883, the vineyard was established on the original site of their summer home, and includes more than 23 hectares of park alone. Now privately-owned by a group of investors, it is also the largest international exporter in Latin America – with very good reason.

Clearly out to impress their guests, our guide treats us to a taste of their 2005 “Amelia” Chardonnay, which has spent 8 months in French oak before completing its fermentation in oak too. Definitely no ‘Musuem’ red here. Our second glass, taken in the underground cellar, comes from the Casillero de Diablo range – of which its Cabernet Sauvignon has been named fourth best in the world – and has also spent eight months gestating in American oak. Do I need to say anymore?

Top this off with the individual plate of cheese we all receive, with another glass accompanying it, and the free “regalo” (gift) glass we get at the end, and we are definitely satisfied. Argentina could certainly learn a few things from their neighbours.

Questions and Answers

My first day in Santiago was much like the weather – a little overcast, but a warm-ish 20 degrees. Following a hearty breakfast of eggs, toast, fruit and coffee, individually prepared by the cook/cleaner, I hopped straight on the metro and made my way into town. I walked past the many street vendors with their woollen cardigans, squawking plastic parrots and knitted scarves, past the demonstrations of useless kitchen products (think Demtel), and ended up at the Palacio de la Moneda.

The Presidential Palace of the Chile, it is probably best known as the site of Salvador Allende’s last speech as leader of the struggling country, before troops stormed its doors, and he committed suicide. But like the days, and indeed the many years that followed Allende’s demise, its doors are closed to unofficial visitors and I instead disappear below, into the cultural centre located underneath.

A relatively new place, that has not yet made it into the Lonely Planet guide, its modern edgy design greatly contrasts the streets above. Housing several different spaces over its three levels, the centre contains galleries, art-shops, an arthouse cinema, a bookstore, cafes and restaurants – all of which are full with lunching businessmen and women. A few local tourists float around with me through the traditional Mapuche display, and the collection of religious relics below, but I am basically the only real foreigner here. (And so it continues through my most of my visit).

Taking in the Chilean Museum of Pre-Colombian art – which gave a comprehensive tour through the years and cultures of Latin America – I then made a pit-stop at El Rapido for a fish and cheese empanada. Having grown so fond of these readily available bites, I consider myself to be somewhat of a mini-expert now, sampling them across three countries. And these would definitely make my top five for their crunch, spice and yes, you guessed it, oozing cheese. I just can’t get enough!

From here, I made my way past the glum Cathedral, and slightly more lively Plaza de Armas, to the National Historical Museum to see if what they had to say about Salvador Allende, and the oppression that followed his ousting by Pinochet’s military coup. I passed patiently through the many ceramics, pieces of jewellery, clothing, portraits and weaponary on offer, many of which I have seen in other such museums, and excitedly arrived at the most modern additions. But what awaited me at the end, was not the detailed account I had hoped for, rather, the sad half-pair of glasses Allende once wore, and newspaper clippings reporting his futile death. No mention whatsoever of the next 27 years of oppression, and the affect it has had on South America’s leading economic nation.

Instead it was left to Pablo Neruda, Chile’s most famous writer and staunch socialist, and a quote of his from Book of Questions: “Porque anduvimos tanto tiempo creciendo para separrarnos?” (roughly translated: Was it because we walked so long together that time separated us?) to provide some sort of answer.

Argentinean Also/Ands...

So again, like Brasil, there were quite a few observations that just couldn’t be missed, but didn’t find their place in my postings…

1. Argentineans have some sort of strange system/obsession for collecting glass bottles. Basically, if you want to buy a beer, you have to swap a bottle or pay a deposit until you bring it back. Even on the bus, our waiter sternly reminded us to give them back to him. My only thought can be that they just reuse them all, because glass recycling is hardly a lucrative industry.
2. Argentineans are not as disinterested to serve you as the Brazilians, but they definitely think they are somehow better than you, and will take any opportunity to remind you of that. On one occasion this meant the taxi driver – who I had just caught out trying to take us the longest way possible – insulted us by saying that he was the whitest person in the taxi and refused to take our money. Fine with all of us but my ‘darker’ skinned Ecuadorian friend.
3. There is a real dog/poo problem here, which no one seems the least bit interested in cleaning up. Particularly in Buenos Aires, you will have to walk with your eyes down, but also in Bariloche, where you will have to look out for them chasing cars.
4. Again, like Brazil, Argentineans are mostly pretty friendly, willing to help you when you are lost, but they still have no idea about giving you the right directions and won’t admit that they just don’t know.
5. A lot of people in Argentina speak really good English – especially in BA – but saying that, in other more provincial places, like Mendoza, they can get quite rude when they don’t understand your accent in Spanish.
6. Argentinians and Uruguyians love to talk about locations in terms of blocks or “cuadras” – it sounds so American, but it is just how most of their cities/towns are planned out, so I guess it makes sense.
7. If you are staying in BA, you will have to get used to doing the chicken-run (so called by my Argentinean Spanish teacher in Perth) across the mostly six-laned highways. It’s either that, or join the poo on the tarmac.
8. Despite all the traffic, car manufacturing in Argentina has a pretty splotchy past, with almost no production throughout the 80s and 90s. And it shows – ever wondered where all the old Fiats, Renaults and Citroens have gone? Argentina! Out of every three, at least one or two cars should be at the tip.
9. Further to this, their windscreens are in the worst condition ever, if you happen to chance upon a new model that is. Even on buses, most of them look like they have been used as stunt cars.
10. They have the worst diets here. Apart from the meat-cheese-bread-meat routine, on buses you will often be given three different types of sweet biscuit as a snack, and most dinner tables will dose children as young as toddlers with soft drink. A random article I read in “Women’s Health” here said that more than 70% of people don’t have more than 2 serves of fruit and veg a day. And it shows. Although there are not a lot of overly obese people, most people carry their fair share of love handles and rolls. Not so great when the average height is for men and women, is not much more than 5ft 3” and 5ft 8” respectively.
11. And finally, although I can’t really complain about this, ice-cream is everywhere – especially in dulce de leche (I can’t believe this stuff hasn’t made it out of the country yet – check the link beside).

Biking in Bariloche

The trip to Bariloche was pretty eventless – the buses still full from the end of Holy Week, people clamouring to swap seats to be with their friends. Bad 80s music blared us out of Mendoza and our waiter (aka the second bus driver) got on the microphone to mumble us through some instructions about dinner, breakfast, lunch, the toilet and bus stops. But sitting in the last seat at the back, my much improved Spanish failed to help me figure it all out. Fortunately I had some rice cakes and avocado just in case.

But as we drove through the night, and into the morning, I woke up to find a completely different landscape – one that looks a little bit like home, and a lot like Dampier. Low-lying sparse vegetation covered red rock-faces, with deep blue lakes (ok, so there aren’t any of those in Dampier, but there is a deep blue ocean) threading themselves in between. I scrambled for my camera several times, trying to capture the rocks as they transformed into higher mountain peaks lined with bright yellow, orange and red autumn leaves, but the smudges on the window got the best of me, and my inspiration.

But as we leave the bus station, and head into town, it is pretty clear that I won’t have to go too far to find some more scenery. The crowning jewel of the Lake District, Bariloche is a remarkably quaint town, full of more chocolate shops and Swiss-style chalets than tourists, and I was glad to have arrived with two Swedish girls to enjoy the sights on bike and horse.

The next morning we woke up – after our hearty-included-in-our-room-rate dinner (a backpacker first for this trip) – early to take the bus out to the Cerro Campanario. And at 25 pesos, it is certainly not the cheapest chairlift ride, but it is definitely worth it (particularly when we see the poor couple clamouring up the dirt path below us). Apart from having the most amazing view in the world, there is also chocolate and dulce de leche cake, fresh cream and hot chocolate at the cafe at the top. What more could three girls want?

But heading down to collect our bikes from a nearby rental place, my flip-flop-wearing, cardigan-wearing, stuffed-full-of-cheese-and-wine body was not quite prepared for the biking that would follow. Worse still when one of our group is a regular cycler and I came to the sad realisation that my university-trained butt was going to be hurting. We slowly, but surely went up and down the slopes, passing through chilly lake crossings, grey stone bridges, and amazing panoramas all the way to the cemetery.

Yes, a bit of a strange place for it to be, but I guess it makes sense to the many avid climbers, skiers and lovers of the mountains that are buried there – including two Olympic athletes. We next stopped at the jetty on Lago Escondido to have an apple by the water and catch some breathe before taking the treacherous path to another lake at Villa Tacul. And it is here that bad memories of my bike-tram smash a few years ago return to haunt me, and I start to get a little shaky with all the downhill adrenalin.

Luckily I survive it all, and we get back on our wheels for the last stretch, passing through a cute tea shop to sample their amazing rose hip stuff, and splurging on their hand cream too. But with the last 7 kilometres a series of killer inclines, oily hands is probably is not the best cycling accessory. Particularly when the slope seems deceptively slight – until you hear the cars groaning beside you.

And perhaps that’s the reason behind all the chocolate. As soon as we are off our bikes, we immediately head straight into town for some milky goodness – this time Abuelo Goye, one of the oldest companies in town - and feel the sugar return to our aching bodies, in preparation for another day.

Hi-Ho Hikers

The next morning is a frightfully early start, after we ended our night with more wine in town. Amanda and I had stupidly booked ourselves for some hiking – Mendoza-style - and it was apparently essential that we wait for at least an hour before moving from the hostel, precious sleep-time wasted. Our mission for the day was the Cerro de la Virgen, although the name meant nothing to us until we saw it rise up before us in the car to Cachueta.

Maxiaventura’s HQ, a kirky cabin erected out of pine wood and string, holding only a chair and computer inside, looked like it belonged to a boys’ clubhouse or scout troop - not a safe, secure adventure tours company. And it certainly paled against the nearby hotel, touting the virtues of its hot springs, and other tour establishments we had passed along the way. Make sure you check the ropes, was all I kept thinking to myself.

Thankfully Amanda had reminded me to replace my near-permanent flip-flops with a pair of sneakers, because the hike to the top was nothing short of challenging, and a sombre reminder why smoking is never good – no matter how much wine you consume. A few slides down the gravel, which our guide Daniel happily reminded us equalled one round each at the bar, and we made it to the abseiling spot, where we could finally rest easy, hanging parallel to a 20m drop. Nice.

A much needed break then arrived, with lunch at the bottom of the second drop, which was the epitome of basic. Some fruit, a loaf of bread, cheese and ham - so Argentinian. At least I wasn’t the 18 year old from Buenos Aires who was instructed to make our sandwiches while Daniel went to set up the ropes for our rock-climb.

It was about here, that Amanda and I started to flake, and were not fazed at all when we were told that the rock-face was too busy to climb now, and that we would head to rafting instead. We were already dreaming of our next round of liqueurs and how nice it would be in the water with them in hand.

Making our way to the mouth of the rapids, a popular camping and picnicking spot for locals, we of course fell asleep, happy to have a rest from all the activity. But one dip of our feet into the icy water and we soon woke up and lost all aspirations about going swimming. It was positively freezing! To make matters worse, our cowboy hosts were intent on not only soaking the competitor companies’ rafts, but also filling our own with icy water by making us perform tricks and chants. What’s that about tourists being monkeys?

Fortunately though, you are never to far from a bar in South America, and the little store next door to HQ was also home to some strong Andes ‘red’ beer. It's warming stout was the most soothing remedy to our overworked bodies.

Mr Hugo Has Entered the Building

Following the advice of some fellow travellers, Nicole, Amanda and I took the bus out to meet Mr Hugo, who is as well-known for his bike rentals, and is he for his post-tour parties. Located in Coquimbito, about 20 minutes out of Mendoza, his house, and the place of our rental pick-up is in the heart of the Malbec strip. And as we get off the bus, Mr Hugo appears immediately, like an Elvis-mirage, yelling “I am HERE! It is me, Mr Hugo!” like we have been waiting for him all our lives.

A quick pat of the various animals around and we are kitted up with our bikes and sent on our way with a bottle of water and a basic map. (It seems no helmet is necessary in these parts). But when we are given a rough guide to where we should head – up and down the same street it seems – we know they have seriously underestimated the abilities and determination of three Australian girls, each travelling solo.

As soon as we head off the main road Urquiza onto Montecasseros, the smell of fermenting grapes hits us and we hurry to catch a tour of the museum at the Rutini vineyard. Set up in 1979, it houses over 5000 objects from the hand-harvesting days, including animal skins, claypots, and tools. Unfortunately though, as good as the tour guide is in consistently translating her speech into English, the ‘Museum’ red we taste at the end is not quite at the same standard as their reknown ‘Felipe’ reserve drop, which comes in at 79 pesos (AUD$ 35) a glass, and we leave still thirsting.

And so starts our magical mystery tour on the bikes. Taking off for the furthest point we are aiming for, we head out onto the freeway, using the gravel shoulder road as a bumpy alternative to playing chicken with the speeding cars. A few kilometres later and it seems we are not much closer to finding Don Bosco’s, despite having stopped at the church of the same name, to check out its beautiful interior.

Realising that we are getting nowhere fast, we head back along Route 70, watching the strange numbering system change and reverse itself at least twice. Finally, hidden behind an obscure bush, we see the Don Bosco sign, saying 100 metres ahead. Of course it is not 100, but 300 metres ahead, and closed. But we are only too happy at this stage to admit defeat and have some cheese and crackers on its front. (It is Good Friday after all, so technically, no one in a Catholic-way should be drinking anything today).

Finally, back on the suggested trail, we arrive at the Familia de Tommaso bodega (vineyard), and realise that our chances of an immediate table are pretty slight, so we settle down for some tasting instead. Our first is the particularly vinegary offering of a one year old who has missed the imported oak. The next is a big improvement, having had 6 months in oak, and finally, the “Malbec Roble”, with its one year toasting in the barrel, slides down our throats like caramel.

Our host boasts that it has won many silver medals, but when we question where – “internacional” – we then wonder who else is making the stuff and is in competition (apparently only California – France uses it solely for its Bordeaux blend). Sadly too, the Torrontes, which I had such high hopes for, disappoints, disappearing inside me like water. But the sunken barrels, light breeze, and low tables outside improve our weariness, as does a bottle of their not-so-fine, but drinkable table (Malbec) red.

Our next stop - Viña El Cerno - is only a passing visit, after I spy a strange stash of other people wine out the back, stacked in glass flagons, and none of us is particularly impressed by the four glasses we alternate between. Perhaps we are just spoilt Australians, trained a little too well in our wine discernment, but nothing seems to be hitting the walls the way it should.

I finally earmark Trapiche to be our saving grace, having had a few too many of their bottles on our first night here, and considering it a pretty amiable liquid. But in our way stands a policeman, who it seems is intent on making us go home. What starts as a friendly warning that the winery is already closed and the road we are on is not safe, soon sours when I respectfully take on his advice, and attempt to continue forth. Not taking too kindly to my disobedience, he proceeds to reverse his car, spin it around and cut me off at full speed. Dangerous alright. (Trapiche is actually closed, but that is not the point).

Feeling the day almost over – it was after 6pm at this point – we chance upon a liqueur place that is only too happy to stay open and continue serving cocktails and chocolates to passing tourists. Taking a seat in the garden, I order an amazing concoction of grapefruit liqueur, lemonade and grenadine that eased the pain of failed attempts, and settles as sweetly as the setting sun.

Two blocks back to Hugo’s, and we are seated with free-flowing plonk, empanadas and heated conversation with some Americans, and it is here that I realise why his place is such an oasis, after a hard day’s work at tasting.

There's No Home Like A Vegetarian Restaurant

Feeling a little anxious to lift the anti again, after a pretty flatline stay in Córdoba, I was only too happy to get on the bus to Mendoza and get right to the heart of Argentina’s grape-growing region. But it seems my agitation would have to wait at least six more hours, when I am seated next to a very nice but very inquisitive old man. Wanting to know everything from my mother’s profession, to my little sister’s name, I struggled to find patience with his constant chatter. And when his speed for speaking clashed with my foreign accent, the conversation became truly painful, with most things being repeated at least twice, if not thrice.

And to make matters worse, despite my ‘cama’ status, there was no food, no drink, no pillow or blanket. No comment.

It was then a scary little knock at the dingy door of the only place that could house me for the three nights I am here – Mendoza Lodging. I only mention the name, because it is best avoided, particularly when you are looking for a clean place, with friendly people, a washing service that does just that (as opposed to the other washing-dying-in-one service that doesn’t usually mention the latter) and something more than stale bread for breakfast.

But not to be totally down on the situation, where there is a will, there is almost always an Australian, or in this case, two. So when I met up with Nicole and Amanda, my luck changed somewhat. Nicole and I took a walk around in the unusual sights of Mendoza’s Museum of Modern Art, mistakenly taking a leaking roof and a tastefully painted air-conditioning vent for additions to the rest of the conceptual art display, which, apart from that, was full of more rotting fruit installations and things that looked like they had taken the least part of a cigarette break to put together.

We headed from here back down the busy pedestrian strip, away from the Plaza Independencia and towards Mendoza’s markets. But it seems everyone who was not already away on holiday, was staying at home to eat for Easter, and they were almost all closed. Feeling the growing sun on our backs, we decided to find the tourist office to plan our wine tour the next day, and stumbled across a flier for a vegetarian restaurant a few blocks away. Having spent the last hour or so bitching about how little of the red, green, yellow and orange stuff they eat here, we basically ran the whole way there.

And what awaited us was the most delicious spread of broccoli, beans, peppers, carrots and salad we could fit in. And with a dessert included, that we didn't even get to, it was a total steal for 24 pesos (AUD$10). Thank you “Green Apple”.

Che-Sera, Sera...

After two sleeps on the first day, and a lomito (steakburger) and Malbec that night, I was still a little confused about how many days I was staying here for. Perhaps it is the constant getting on and off buses that had started to make me weary, but I was delighted to be informed by someone else that I have only been here for a day, and still have two days to explore further afield.

Having chatted with an English guy Jamie about the sights and sounds of Córdoba – he was quite the veteran of the town with 10 days already under his belt, though God only knows how he did it – I decided to join him on a collectivo (mini-bus) for an hour trip out to Alta Gracia, to visit the house, town and museum that made up Che Guevara’s childhood.

Despite being born in Rosario, and moving to Buenos Aires as a baby, Che and his family eventually settled in this northern town to escape his chronic asthma woes. But before getting there, I first have to overcome some woes of my own, when I realise that the Easter holiday week has left almost all the tickets out of here sold. It is a mini ticket-fiasco with the first three companies shooing me away with no seats, and the next trying to sell me a semi-cama ride (only semi-reclined, and totally squished) for the 12 hours, at a ridiculous price. I politely decline.

Finally though, at the ‘Penguin’ desk, I stumble across the last ticket on early departure for the next day – with a basic cama chair to sit in. I snap it up eagerly and we make our way to the local bus station to go to Che’s house. But it seems ticket issues are the theme for the day, and unlike the other bus station, they seem to just keep printing tickets indefinitely for our destination. Thus the line to get on each passing time-marked bus doesn’t seem to work or get smaller. God only knows how people deal with this daily.

Eventually we travel back past the red brick student apartment blocks of Nuevo Cordóba and out into the flat fields of corn towards Alta Gracia. But again, Lady Luck is not on my side, and when we arrive with the impending rain, a sign sits on the white picket fence saying “Cerrado: Abuelo”. Apparently someone quite significant in the town has died, and everything is shut for business. With not much choice, I clamour at the door of the café/restaurant next door, in the hope that someone will have pity on our grumbling tummies.

Soon the owner appears, and doesn’t need much convincing to feed us, despite the embargo, but I still don’t manage to find out who the important person is that has spoilt our trip. Instead we enter into the shrine that she and her husband – Héctor Celano - have created to commemorate his poetry and musical career, complete with trips to Cuba to meet influential leaders and friends of Che and Fidel Castro. It’s a loose connection, but I decide that it can perhaps be strengthened by a review of “The Motorcycle Diaries” and the more recent “Che” (part one) with Benicio del Toro. I know am clutching, but at least I can see his original grave sight in central Bolivia.

Much Ado About Monday

Having ridden out the weekend with a few bottles of Malbec in San Telmo, and thus lightening the load from the Basement Jaxx concert the night before, I decided that an overnight bus to Córdoba would take care of my tiredness and let me sleep it off. But when we make uncharacteristically good time travelling, and I arrive two hours earlier than expected – at 6am – I am not exactly well-rested.

Needless to say, I make my way straight to the hostel, which was fortunately not full, and could check me in straight away. I don’t even bother to wake for breakfast, instead waking a little after lunch to stroll through the city towards Plaza San Martin. The streets are full of students – no big surprise when Argentina’s second largest city contains no less than seven universities.

Luckily the sun was out again, having hidden itself for much of the last week, and I lazily decided to trust the guidebook and head for a tart at El Viejo Esquina (‘the old corner’) – which is just that. An aged café/bar filled with thick dark wood sleepers that make up the bar and outer perimeter where people are perched on stools eating home-cooked goods. Vintage music, faithfully played throughout the rest of the country, sees me humming along to the Beach Boys “Kokomo” and then Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares To You”. Random.

And when my tart arrives, I am well rewarded with a pastry bigger than my hand, smothered with mashed pumpkin, herbs and the sweetest cheese I have ever tasted. It is pure divinity, the perfect set-up for the sights I am about to see, or so I thought. Named the Cultural Capital of Latin America in 2006, I must admit that I had high hopes for this educational hub, which were sadly let down when I came to my first stop and realised that being a Monday, no museums were open.

But I was pleased to see some scaffolding up, and buildings being looked after and restored every so often. There were lots of bookstores open too, obviously to service the student crowd, and people on the prowl – presumably on holiday because of the Holy Week holidays leading up to Easter. I was also easily impressed by the clear blue signposting they had up, marking out each of the city’s historical and cultural places. A first for South America. At least I knew where I would go tomorrow.

So instead, I allowed myself to indulge in some retail therapy, and was immediately fascinated by the set-up of each of their shops. With the first half of each being devoted to displays of clothes and shoes on offer, the back half is left to merely stack the goods high on all the remaining wall space. Basically, there is no real browsing, no touching of what you might like - if you want to look at something up close, you have to ask for help.

I slowly head home and finish off my tour at the Paseo de Buen Pastor, the renewed site of the Córdoba’s former women’s asylum of the same name. A bit of a strange place to reinvigorate the city’s gastronomy, but all the while, I make myself cozy inside one of the cultural centre’s restaurants with a half litre of choppe (tap beer), and a plate of salted peanuts. Life could be much worse on a Monday.

Boca-day

Having considered myself lucky to be in BA at the same time as BAFICI, I was keen to experience as much as I could of the two week event, and so had pre-booked tickets for four films in the next few days. Setting off early to the Hoyts cinema in the Abasto Shopping Centre, I went to watch my second film, a Danish one, “The Blessing", and its tale of a first-time mother’s struggle to overcome post-natal depression.

Emerging about as moody as the overhead grey, I decided perhaps it was time that I took the bus out to Boca, to see its famed rainbow of buildings, and visit the glory ground of Diego Maradona. Again though, it was another frustrating experience on the bus, scrambling to get my correct fair. Unfortunately it seems Argentina has a real fear and loathing for giving out small (coin) change, and most shopping and monetary adventures will end with a face wince and plea for something smaller, should your purchase require said coin.

But in a place where no one gives you change, the irony exists when you are somehow expected to have it to pay for public transport. Indeed all the buses in BA are fitted with coin-operated machines that have awkward tariffs of (Argentinean) $1.10, $1.20 and $1.25. And so, as I scrambled to fill the slot with the required amount, I suddenly realised I was 5 centavos short (less than 2 cents Australia), and had nothing else to offer but notes. One look from the driver confirmed that this was not an option, but luckily he took pity on me, and adjusted the price to suit my budget.

Unfortunately though, he was not amused a second time when I dropped one of the precious flea-sized 5 centavos, and shot me a look of disgust after we both watched it roll out the door.

And it seemed the sombre mood was everywhere, with a public holiday commemorating the death of the first democratically elected Argentinean president – although I still can’t figure out who this is. Some of the shops on the main strip in the centre were open, but with the massive Argentinean flag flying at half-mast out behind the Casa Rosada, and blue ribbons adorning the chests of some men on my bus, most people had chosen to stay indoors.

What looked like quite a direct route on the map of course turned into a street-cruising saga that could rival any of the popular telenovelas (trashy Latin American soaps), and with most of the streets running the length of the city, I am sure we zig-zagged past by my street at least twice.

Finally we arrived, and the Boca Bridge groaned a hello from the stagnant stench of La Matanza River (The Slaughter River, but better known by the less-fitting name “El Riachuelo” - The Little River). Cars rattled back and forth along its orange iron-frame middle, and it was not long before I got stopped by the police, who are keen to warn me about having my camera out to take photos.

Sadly the waterfront walkway isn’t much to look at, and could be pretty if only President Memem’s Secretary of Environment, María Julia Alsogaray, wasn’t being charged with embezzling the most of the $250 million set aside in 1993 to clean it up. Instead it is a sludgy mess of sunken ship hulls and toxic waste from nearby tanneries that keeps car tyres poking out at random intervals.

Eager to get away from the rotten mess, I walk down to the Caminito – pedestrian street – where Boca’s famous multi-coloured buildings appear stuffed with every shape and form of tourist trappings. Music and amateur performers line the streets as bright washing hangs strategically from most windows.

Struggling to find much of interest, I head down to bright yellow and blue shell of La Bombonera – Boca Junior’s home stadium – and walk along its starred walk of fame that decorates the grey pavement. And it appears nothing has escaped the patriotic paintbrush – even the forklifts are striped.

I make my way into the “Boquense” Museum (it seems they have a whole dictionary of Boca-related terms), passing through the supporter shop that carries everything from baby clothes to underpants and sombreros. A large monument to Maradona, bathed in yellow light, stands at the entrance, and fortunately for him, it is a more flattering pre-cocaine addiction depiction.

Along the first wall are the stars of supporters’ names, and a roll call of all players who have represented Boca since 1905. In the main area, is progression of jerseys that the club has worn. Interestingly their first kit was actually light blue, the second pink, the third black and white striped, and it was not until 1913 that they finally settled on their current colours (reportedly after losing a match against a team with the same stripes, and having to change, Boca decided to take their choice from the next boat that sailed into the port - which just happened to be Swedish). Also there are dedications to their teams' many idols, trophies they have won, including the South American cup from 2006, and a filmic wall of the club’s lifespan, extravagantly produced over about 50 tv screens and dvd players.

I finally pass through the museum doors, past some “Boca Arte” on display and out onto the field. But it is a lot smaller patch of green than I had expected. Perhaps it is my instant comparison to Australian rules, but the boxes, seats and bleachers, which appear in descending order of importance and maintenance, all seem to hover rather stupidly over the grass, diminishing its size even further. Its no wonder too, when I try to get tickets for the game on Sunday, that I find out the power the fans hold when pre-game fighting between the two sides forces the match to be closed off to spectators.

I Am Not Crying, But I Am Sure You Would Be Yelling at Madonna, Evita

Strolling through the Botanical Gardens near the end of my hostel’s street, I bump into my Australian roommate Jacquie and we decide to head off together to the Evita Museum. And finally it seems Latin America has got their conservation of historical sources right, although I am not so convinced by the repetitive tango music that accompanies everything, including her burial procession.

Located in the Hogar de Transito No. 2 – one of Evita’s housing projects for abused women – the museum contains a vast collection of film archives, clothes, and sources materials from her start as a radio actress, to her role alongside her husband in government. We walk through and see first-hand both the animosity and the outpouring she invoked throughout her life, with live footage showing several of her famous speeches, her work in fighting for the rights of workers, women, families, children and the elderly to be recognised in Argentina’s constitution, and the mutilation her bodied suffered at the hands of the military, after her death from cancer, aged 33.

And so it seems, neither of us knew the extent to which she and her husband Juan Domingo Perón had influenced Argentinean society, with Eva personally creating schools, medical and social research institutions, homes for the abused and underprivileged and even sporting championships for children in her role as Minister of both Health and Labour, and through her own Fundación Eva Peron.

Leaving us with much to ponder over, we were glad to stumble across the best lunch, and the most modern bathroom I have experienced yet in South America. A pumpkin and blue cheese tart was quickly washed down with a glass of chilled chardonnay, sparkling water and coffee – all for less than AUD$14. We felt very rewarded for our few hours of heavy reading and contemplation.

We then took a stroll through the Japanese Garden, with its strange connection to the city (the jury is still out on that one), making our way towards MALBA (Museum of Latin American Art) to buy tickets for BAFICI – the Buenos Aires Festival Internacional de Cine Independiente – which was running until the end of the week. We decided that a coffee was needed before heading inside –a close runner for the most expensive one I have ever had at AUD$5 – to experience the three floors of art and design.

First up were some 1900-1960 offerings from Mexico, sponsored by the country’s national bank, and including major names like Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo (although her solitary still life of fruit and corn didn’t really satiate my hunger). Following that was a collection of black and white photographs from Manuel Álvarez Bravo - gelatin silver prints from the 30s and 40s which were also a little hit and miss for my modern eyes.

The final two floors took in Argentinean styles from the 60s onwards, with my newfound favourite, Antonio Berni appearing as many times as the gallery staff, who kept telling me off for taking photographs. (The truth was, that I kept being told “abajo” – below – so I would take my camera out on the next floor, only to later find out that they were meaning just the entry foyer). Luckily the bookshop underground was not so out of bounds, and I was allowed to snap away at its cozy design.

Finally making it home just before dark, Jacquie and were still inspired by the day’s events, to stay home and rent “Evita” from a nearby video store – but what a mistake that was! Nothing like what we had been told at her museum, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s musical, adapted for film and directed by Alan Parker, painted Argentina’s favourite in such a horrible light, I really wondered how it had made it in the country. (Saying that, the government did actually realease its own film biography – “Eva Perón” – to correct the blinding distortions…which includes her singing alongside Che Guevara and sleeping her way to the top). As if smashing her corpse’s nose and covering her embalmed feet in tar was not enough.

Holy Halva

Having done my best to do justice to a AUD$4 bottle of vodka, I thought I was pretty prepared to take on the bank in the morning, and attempt to swap over my fake notes. A receptionist at the hostel made it sound easy enough when she said I could just change them over the counter. But when I entered inside the Banco Nacional de Argentina, I realised that it might prove a little more challenging.

More like one of WA’s Licensing Centres, where you are issued with a ticket according to your query, there were over 100 people waiting there before me on and around neat rows of chairs, each studying the screens as numbers flicked on and off. Quickly explaining my need, I was given my small square of heat-sensitive paper and made my way to join the masses. And I should have known from the woman beside me, who had come prepared with her crossword book, that it was going to be a long wait. (Plus, with the line at “N998”, my “N47” wasn’t looking too promising).

Sitting down patiently, I counted the 25 tellers and wondered, slightly bemused, that for a country that has no money, why they might have to do so much banking. It was then that I spied the benefits program display beside me in its shiny rectangular glass cabinet – complete with a drill, handmixer, dvd player, selection of wine, and cordless kettle. Perhaps there was a reason to waste half your day crammed into the bank’s foyer.

It was not long though before the constant ding-dong prompt started to get on my nerves, making me feel like I am at a bingo hall or at a live lottery draw. My feelings are further heightened when I realise that most people are hedging their ‘bets’ by choosing multiple enquiry slips. If only I had of played the stupid tourist card. Finally, an hour later, I am summoned for, but my patience goes unrewarded when a flat “no” is spat back at me. Awesome.

And further still, it seems I have the same luck with the bus to Tierra Santa (the world’s only religious theme park) waiting at the wrong bus stop, then getting on the wrong version of the bus I am supposed to catch. (Confused? Well apparently a single bus number is not enough here, and there are often several alternate routes or sub-numbers added, or in my case, four different ways of getting to a destination).

Eventually on the right one, we travel down past the Hipodromo, past the now-dodgy looking club I visited last time I was in town – so underground the sewer rats don’t even go there – and follow the river down around the domestic airport. It is here that we hit the strip of bbq joints that service the truck drivers making deliveries to waiting planes, and I long to indulge my vodka-drenched stomach.

Luckily it seems someone above was listening, because a call comes almost instantly from the driver to get off, right in front of the most magnificent parilla (bbq grill) I have ever experienced. I am already in heaven with its smoky flavours and I haven’t even reached the Holy Land. But as I chomp down on my chimichurri-soaked (add link) “bondiola” (steak roll) I hear the high-vaulted sounds of angels on high – well, across the road at least.

Stepping through the gates, I am immediately confronted with robed attendants manning a confusing maze of passages, buildings and religious landmarks. Apart from the strange tributes to some of the great peacemakers and humanitarians of our time (namely: Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King, Pope John Paul II, Ghandi) the amusement (is that sacreligious?) park has been designed to take in the major highlights of Jesus’ life and some of the most important biblical events and stories. And everything it seems has been painted with the same reverential brush – even the air con.

Over the drone of nearby landing planes, I walk through a mechanised depiction of the Creation of Earth, Jesus’ birth, his Last Supper, and my personal favourite, his Ascension into heaven – performed before us, in all his 10m imposing papier-mâché glory, out of a 15m high custom-built mount, to the rousing sounds of Enya. Inside is also a beautiful photographic collection of Jerusalem’s people and places and some interesting fake relics. Fortunately though, Bethlehem’s toilets aren’t so historical, neither are their cafes, selling ‘typical’ food – lots of halva, Lebanese bread and Pepsi.

My only regret is that I was not there on Saturday or Sunday when the town gets into full swing with biblical musicals pounded out every hour.

Taking the Buenos out of Aires

Having kissed the sand goodbye in Uruguay, it seemed I would also have to farewell the sun too, when rain and traffic delayed my bus’ arrival in BA by three hours. Not wanting to wait any longer, I forwent the cheaper underground option and took a taxi to the hostel. Familiar sights flashed in front of me: dog-walkers struggling with a dozen canines at a time, crowds of people moving back and forth across gargantuan boulevards, and streets littered with “kioskos” all the way to Palermo.

Conscious that my previous stopover was carried out mostly in the midnight hours, I took a warm (it’s never usually hot here) shower, handed in my washing, and set off to the Micro-Centro (city centre) to absorb some history. Squished into the “Subte” (subway), who’s six or so lines are not always working, but are always jammed full of commuters, flower sellers and performers, I made my way to the main Cathedral.

As seems to always be the way in Latin America, mass is on, but unlike in Brazil, tourists are prevented from getting too close to the altar – fair enough I acknowledge reverently. Sadly though, it seems the sanctity of its walls isn’t held up so high, and each of them are covered in peeling paint and exposed plaster. Fortunately though, the intricate flooring below, made up of tiles half the size of postage stamps, makes up for the detail that is lost above.

Smaller chapels line the central atrium, and on either side well knowns (St John the Baptist, St Theresa of Avila) rub shoulders with local favourites (St John Nepomucene, St Louis Gonzaga). But for such a grand building, there are relatively few pews, most of which are full, despite the hour (11am) and the location. But of most interest to visiting eyes is the masouleum of General José de San Martin – the Argentinean leader who was responsible for liberating Chile, and creating the pathway for Peru’s and Lima’s liberation, from Spanish reign.

Wrapped in a rather tired Argentinean flag, he is guarded by two soldiers in full military regalia – something like the red-coated English, although don’t mention the comparison to an Argentine** - under a grand high-vaulted ceiling. He is joined by his comrade in war, General Juan de las Heras, and the obligatory unknown soldier. Some things (in war and peace) are obviously universal.

After paying my various respects, I move out onto the Plaza de Mayo and am greeted by people and pigeons moving about in equal idleness. The standout Casa Rosada sits primly at the other end of the square, with its bovine red (one explanation for its pink outside is that it was originally covered in cow’s blood to stop the effects of humidity, but another, more politically-minded reason says that it was the mixing of two opposing – red and white – political factions colours) façade. I don’t know why, but I can’t help humming “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” as I think of Evita’s final speech made on the balcony above.

Unfortunately the museum is “not functioning” at the moment, and as I follow the view from its doorway, which looks out onto the HQ of the Economic Minister, I attempt to put it down to some really bad feng shui. In fact, as I wander around the front of the building and see the national bank of Argentina smiling back at me (and having recently read Dan Brown’s “Angels and Demons”) I start to wonder if there are perhaps some secret tunnels here syphoning off the country’s money.

Taking these thoughts with me, I head back to the roots of BA, to the Manzana de las Luces – the supposed historical block of Enlightenment to see if I can gain a few answers. But as I step inside the oldest church in the city, Iglesia San Ignacio, and sit on pew almost covered in its dust of its original paint the plaster, I am pretty worried about who has obviously snuffed the light.

I blindly hope my final pitstop, one favoured by the country’s most esteemed writers, intellectuals and artists will prove more telling. But again, Café Tortoni, with its dirty ceilings, dated wallpaper, mix of pictures, paintings, trinkets, and busts of people who frequented it in earlier days, is nothing more than a sad relic from a much too distant past. And the black and white clad waiters, who busy themselves around me, can do little but remind me of Manuel and his home at Faulty Towers.

**It seems Argentineans all have VERY long memories when it comes to England, Maggie Thatcher, and the Falkland Islands - don't EVER mention the war.

The Devil Lives in Heaven

Punta del Diablo - What more do I have to say?

(see you in a few days!!)

It's More Fun In Punta!

(So says the vintage license plate I picked up from Montevideo, which I took as a good omen)

With the capital only slightly holding my attention, I am keen to get back to the water pronto. I have already be warned by travellers and locals alike that it is well and truly low season and not to expect too much, but with the steady/hectic pace that I have been moving at, the overhead sun and nearby beach will definitely be enough to entertain me for a few days. (And with my Lonely Planet guide left behind on the hostel counter in Montevideo, the compulsion to see or do anything else has been momentarily erased from my head).

In only a few hours we start to enter into the Punta zone where high rises, Tuscan tiles and blue-striped window shades dominate my view. Strangely enough, there are also lots of eucalyptus, pine and acacia trees around, planted many eons ago by Uruguayan sailor Antonio Dionisio Lussich who attempted to create a botanical garden that ended up running wild, and so I start to feel like I haven’t even escaped the Curtin University carpark.

Known most for its flamboyant summer resort visitors – who boost the usual 10,000 population to over 1 million – the main strip in Punta is very much like Surfer’s Paradise: all concrete and no jungle. (Although, to be fair to the Gold Coast, there is definitely less bling here than in Surfer’s, and the buildings are a lot plainer too.) And I start to feel a little deflated at the prospect of a few days here. Perhaps I should have just stayed at home? Coupled with this, is the looming presence of the Conrad casino, who has Gloria Estefan playing next week, which the church opposite seems to share my disgust for.

Stepping off the bus, with the sun beating down on me, the hostel I had already booked in Manantialles, 20 minutes out of town, suddenly doesn’t sound so appealing. So instead, I trudge myself, with many short breaks, to a closer Hostelling International address to see if I can do a swap. But unlike previous occasions, the girl there is not happy to accept the credit for my booking and tells me that the one I have already is so “bonita” (pretty). I am so hot; I am so fuming.

I power-walk back past the many closed boutiques (one cheeky one just says “back in December”) cafés and restaurants to the bus terminal, and from here on in, my opinion is progressively altered. Heading further along the coast, further away from Montevideo, I take in the local architecture with manicured rolling lawns that hide mini-mansions nestled between large-windowed apartments. It seems there is still lots of land for sale, with many construction teams working away now that everyone has left, and of course, the reminder are littered with rental signs.

We finally cruise over the Punta de la Risa (the Laughing Bridge – so named because of the tummy-jump it causes you when going over at more than 40km/hr…but when I find out that the engineer never actually got his degree before unleashing his ‘skills’ on the public, I wonder if that story is only half the truth) and move down towards La Barra. It is here, on the other side, that panorama windows show off exotic designer furniture and the roads have a large number of furniture specialists and architects.

Thankfully though, it is also the more rustic end of town, with much more colour and personality than the staid stone structures on the peninsula. And when I arrive at the hostel, with its curved stair and beautiful aqua pool, I know I am going to get the break I need.

Cowboys and Carne

As we drive in on the bus from Colonia, we pass by shanty towns whose sheets of rusted roofing are being held on by the weight of large rocks. But on the other side of town, facing it, the ultra-modern curved shape of the lookout tower shines of glass and technology (the only one of its kind, I soon realise).

Arriving at the hostel, and I bump into (a repeated exercise when travelling throughout a region of many options) some girls I know from Buenos Aires who are heading out to the main bar and pub strip near our hostel. I do a quick bag-drop and face wash and head with them to what turns out to be just a small collection of Irish pubs, Beatles music and outdoor deck chairs. Unusually crowded for a Wednesday night, we soon realise that the evening is being hosted by an enthusiastic presidential candidate, Marcos Carámbula.

A little perplexed by all the fuss, we are told by someone nearby that he is the Socialist favourite who is appealing to the youth market in the upcoming presidential election in October. And I guess, with an office that overlooks this small entertainment hub, he is probably in the right place.

Despite the catch-up chats, it is a pretty early night for us all, which we are told is pretty normal in Uruguay’s capital – unless it is the weekend. The next day I make some new friends over cornflakes and tag along with their group to check out the Mercado del Puerto and its famed barbeques. Walking into the open plan marketplace we are instantly impressed by the huge chunks of meat and sausage that are already cooking away on angled wire racks, tempted to take lunch early, before breakfast has even disappeared from our bellies. But we decide to put some distance between the two, and instead head to the Carnaval (I am still unsure what spelling to use for this, it really seems to depend largely on where you are) Museum where we are told that Montevideo holds the longest celebration (40 days) in South America. (Although the costumes and floats have nothing on the Rio).

We then attempt to check out some more local culture, strolling around to the Casa Garibaldi and Casa Rivera, but it seems the workers of the city’s museums aren’t getting paid enough, and are temporarily on strike. No one can tell us for how long it will last, so instead we end up perusing some random antiques that are scattered through a nearby pedestrian walkway, picking our way through jewellery, old license plates and prints.

Finally though, we admit defeat and head back for the beef, and what a monstrosity it is!! Despite ordering the half portion of the “pulpa”, the piece that arrives in front of me must be at least 600g, fully cooked. Needless to say I can’t fit it all in, no matter how much I love its accompanying garlic and parsley oil and the over-sized baked potato, particularly when panqueque de manana (caramelised apple pancake, flambéed in rum) is the dessert special of the day.

We eventually roll out of the market and realise that we probably need to work off some of our indulgence, and so we make one last stop at the Gaucho and Money Museum, which is fortunately still open. Here we come across an amazing mate collection (check the link alongside for an explanation), along with some impressively ornate spurs, stirrups and saddles of Uruguay’s famed cowboys. God only knows how the horses felt.

Colonia-l Crossing

Finally I can breathe again, having jumped on a ferry across the Río de la Plata (Spanish for silver, but on this fine morning, it seems the rust has set in and brown is all we can hope for) to Colonia, Uruguay. I welcome the chance to slow down from the hectic pace of BA, and relax in the history of the old town. It seems no matter where you go in South America you are never too far from a cobbled street or two.

After a mini fiasco getting out of BA, the main problem being a roto (“broken”) boat, I end up with another stray boy under my wing – London policeman Fran(cis). We arrive just after lunchtime, a pleasant 50 minute trip across, and I decide that a beer and a sleep is about all I can manage for the afternoon. The impossible cheap 1L bottle of Stella goes down nicely and when I finally awake a few hours later, the sun is starting to set and my dinner belly is switched on.

I manage to get in a few pictures of the wobbly streets before the light colours everything dusky pink and renders my tripod-less camera null, and we end up at “El Drugstore” for a hearty pan of paella and a Sangria (are we in Spain or what?). We chew the fat for a while over the impossibly large dish before I let Clint Eastwood’s latest film send me to bed.

The next morning I realise that there is a whole other part to this town, beyond the uneven stones, and that I am going to have to get my act into gear if I want to make it all before my afternoon bus to Montevideo. I walk back through the Old Town – this time with all museums and places of interest open - past all the vintage cars are permanently parked in the streets, under the shade of the leafy greens, and finally make it on a bus to the abandoned bull ring.

With no traffic lights in sight, transport here is a mixture of golf buggies, motorised bikes, scooters, fiat 500s and the occasional tour bus, and despite most of the surrounding streets full of pousadas and hostels – did someone say tourism? – the vibe is so relaxed. Quaint street benches, with their geometric tiled seats, wait patiently by the side of the road. The shops have an eclectic charm – part old-world, part-boudoir – with cow hides climbing out of every corner. The only thing that perplexes me is a disproportionate amount of older men on holidays with their young bejewelled partners. Perhaps it is the lure of secrecy that a place like this, where half its streets don’t register on the map, offers?

Sleepy Sunday

Setting off on one of the city’s brightly coloured buses, I soon realise that BA breeds a different kind of bus driver from Rio. More concerned with an ongoing conversation with a passenger standing right beside him than concentrating on the road ahead, he is all wild arms and gestures. Perhaps that is why he has six rear vision mirrors, covering every angle or maybe every lane.

So it seems that Perth and BA at least have one thing in common - almost everything is shut today because it is Sunday – all except the markets. Heading towards the old end of town, San Telmo, I intend to check out the famed antique and collectors one, and although it feels a little seedy as I venture off the bus, I persevere down to the main square.

Closed to cars for pedestrian trade, the cobbled street Defensa is full of over-priced but gorgeous armchairs, chandeliers and designer furniture. But the main activity is happening at the end – where stalls have been set up to sell all sorts of vintage trinkets, phones, jewellery, newspapers, even soft drink bottles. It is by far the best antique pick-up place I have been to.

I stroll down towards it, but can’t help pausing to listen to the animated sounds of eight-piece group “Hormigas Negras”, whose cds I buy a little too easily. A little overwhelmed by all the goods on sale, and all too aware that my bag is much more than its 16kg humble beginnings, I sit down to watch people and an impending tango show. People begin to gather around in anticipation, watching on as a suitably angst-ridden girl sullenly stares back in her scarlet skirt and bustier.

Her partner calmly tries to make technology a part of their routine, but it takes a long time to settle his ipod into song. The music cuts in and out, and when it stops completely, a homeless guy takes over singing and launching into a solo dance. Thankfully the situation is quickly recovered by an older couple keen to show they still have the moves. Sadly their moves last a little too long, and I leave before the lady in red makes her debut.

I walk back to the bus via the Historical Museum, which is being renovated for century celebrations of Argentinean independence, and witness a little of the internal struggle that has shaped its more recent past. But it is all a little heavy and has too many holes to make sense on this sleepy Sunday.