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.