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.

A Word of Warning About Fake Notes

So my second night in Buenos Aires didn’t go much better than the first, despite a great take-away dinner from a local café. Returning home pretty famished from all the walking, I found the cutest restaurant around the corner, serving up to 20 guests at a time from an upstairs kitchen, with a pulley-system delivering the tasty fare below.

I looked past the massive hunks of beef, and settled on a leaner ¼ chicken and salad, and waited with the locals for it to arrive (although I could have just asked them to send it home for no extra cost). Having eaten up heartily, I soon headed out for a drink and another mini-bite with a Serbian guy Milan, and Christian, and we wind up at a cool place that has a plethora of promo girls stopping by to hand out free Jagermeister and cigarettes. Not bad.

Feeling like it was going to be a good night, we grab a taxi to Crowbar and get a much better club which is unfortunately playing some pretty shoddy music that quickly wears thin. Still wanting to have a proper dance, we decided to push on to another club Bahrain but it is here that the night really gets unstuck.

Handing over a 100 peso note for entry, a swift response comes back with one word “Falso!”. Looking quite astounded, Christian says that it is impossible, that the money came from a bank’s ATM, but she is adamant, and quickly marks it with a big fat “F”. Not having encountered this before, I reach into my wallet to compare it with my own, and recover even more problems.

Lurking beneath a couple of 20s is a mini collection of forged currency – another 100 and a 50 peso note. In short, the rest of my weekend is looking back at me through deep-purple eyes that are five minutes away from being torn up.

Roaming in Recoleta

I attempt to sleep off the late night, but with six other girls getting ready for the day, I decide that I am probably better walking it off in the city of the dead – Recoleta Cemetary. It is here that Evita and her husband, and former Argentinian president, Juan Domingo Perón have been laid to rest amongst the city’s most affluent families, lawyers, architects, doctors, engineers and military men – right beside a Village Cinema complex and McDonald’s.

Making my way there, I pass by a few men on the way who look like they should be on the other side of the 10m-high red-brick wall, not sleeping on the French-inspired boulevards that are full of pure-breds and their faeces. Statues nosily poke out over the top of the imposing barrier, as if they are still trying to keep an eye on the city they have left, as I trudge around to the entrance.

Once through the imposing Greek gates, I wander through the many blocks of mausoleums and am surrounded by tombs in various aging states, in a range of sizes, colours, and decorations. Jazz music blares through from the nearby markets and a rotten foosty smell follows me down almost every path. And for once Lonely Planet is right when they say to just follow the crowds to Evita – number 57 on the map. The Peron wrought iron tomb door is stuffed with fake flowers and a vintage image of Eva, and surrounded by a line a people wanting their photo with her already decayed remains. A little strange, I think, wanting to be so close to someone so dead.

Outside again, I stroll through the market stalls, passing tarot card readers, statue-performers and lots of photographs of tango poses. Cheese and meats are also on display, as are jewellery and brightly decorated leather satchels. On my way down to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, I stumble across the Cultural Centre, but the only interest inside seems to be the Ticketek office – selling tickets to a dragon show for kids.

I finally decide it is time to eat something, and grab a “pane relleno” from the nearest Mum-and-daughter-manned picnic basket. I really have no idea what it is, with a teatowel concealing its appearance, but reading the list of ingredients, I decided it should be safe. Surprisingly still hot, it is a bit like a pizza pocket - a dome-like mound of bread, filled with bocconcini, tomato and ham. Yum!

Feeling revitalised, I walk down the Paseo de los Artisanias, past a band set up in the park, pounding out their Spanish rock tunes, and over the pedestrian bridge to what I thought was the museum (a large imposing building is usually the key). But I soon realise that this impressive building is actually the Law School of the University of Buenos Aires, and the museum is actually the red building in front.

Not quite the building I expected, with its plain salmon façade, it doesn’t even have a foyer. And as I work through the various rooms, it continues to prove itself an interesting design, with lots of little rooms and small hallway galleries full of an interesting collection of local and international art.

By far the stand-out is the black and white photographic exhibition by Albelardo Morell. His cleverly focussed double exposures pit the contemporary against the historical as we wanders through the collection of the Museo Gardner. His money series also highlights his ability to play with subjects, changing perspectives to make them transcend time and space. Pure genius.

Buenos, Buenos Aires

After a shower and some email catch-up I head to the bank, to hopefully score more than the 300 pesos (AUD$ 125) allowance I have been already set by their fine institutions. But two ATMs and a phone call to Westpac in Australia confirm that there are no ways around this. To make matters worse, I am already in debt to a friend whose account has no fees at all, facing a AUD$ 20 international online transfer charge.

I trudge home, raising my spirits a little with a fresh ham, cheese and tomato pastry from a bakery across the road from my hostel, and consider that perhaps Western Union or Paypal will work with me. But I have no luck there either, and will have to just bite the bullet and take the horrendous charges with each transaction – which will have to occur every two days if I am going to eat at all.

In true “stuff it all” Australian fashion, I end up going out for an expensive meal (ie. more than AUD $20) that night with some new friends, before heading to a kinky bordello bar Mundo Bizarro that shows vintage Betty Page bondage tapes. Afterwards, we head to a club Roxy that, despite the high cover charge, is filled with way too many just-over-18s. Needless to say, this doesn’t really amuse me, and after losing the rest of the group, I head back in a taxi with Norwegian Christian.

However, arriving back at the hostel, we run into some of the others, and decided that another drink, with some better company, is much needed before retiring. We stumble across a local bar, the only whiteys there, and are instantly entertained by the many guitars at each table that are playing tango tunes. Impromptu couples get up to dance, and, with all age groups being accounted for, this is definitely the Argentina I came here for.

Not So Happy Jam, er, Jan

Setting off for Buenos Aires, I decided to treat myself to the most expensive overnight bus ticket – complete with all meals, wine and champagne – but unfortunately my cosy voyage south in the “Cama Executivo” got off to a rather bumpy start. Having arrived half an hour before the bus was due to leave, I was told twice by the ticket guy to wait for the next one, and that I was too early. In the meantime, my actual bus had been and gone, and I had to spend the next half an hour fighting to get onto another one without paying again. Grrr.

Once on, we travelled along quickly, only being stopped by the Gendarmerie (police) who check all our passports and sniff around in some of our bags. Luckily the bus was almost empty, with only six passengers, so the process is relatively painless – a little exchange of names, and a quick twist and turn to make sure our documents aren‘t forged, and back on our way. But it’s a jumpy ride, despite our fully reclined bed-seats, and the alcohol service isn’t too forthcoming. Apparently I have drunk the full stock of two white wines, and with no water either, I am left getting thirstier by the minute with Sprite.

Having expected more of an airline experience, I started getting hungry pretty soon too, and prayed that dinner wouldn’t be at the usual time of 9 or 10pm. It does arrive at a semi-reasonable time – fresh from a truck-stop on the way – in the form of some roast beef, salad and rice. No surprises there Argentina.

The next day, I wake up early, with the light streaming hotly through the mustard concertina blinds and I am greeted by a view that looks a lot like home: almost complete flatness, covered in wheat crops and cows. Of course there is a lot more green here, and more intermittent trees, so I think it is probably safer to say half-Australian, half-South African.

Breakfast soon arrives, with the most anorexic-looking croissants I have ever seen. Having already read the tales about Argentina priding themselves on their European mix, I had to wonder if someone was having a joke. The jam container was almost the same size, and I was completely perplexed by the appearance of a knife. I am sure the French, with their obsessive protectionism over their food, would have a fit if they ever saw them.

Brazilian Bits & Pieces

So I thought it might be fitting here, to include some of the random things I experienced in Brazil, that didn’t make it into any of my posts there.

1. In Rio, banks don’t allow you to draw out more than R100 (~AUD$65??) after 10pm. Finally some protection for over-drinking? No, this rule has come about after the many ATM attacks that are carried out, Not such a great thing when, like almost all the backpackers I met, you arrive at night with no local currency and are desperate for a beer or a bite.
2. There are no laws in Brazil, well none at least that people respect, against selling whatever you want on the streets. So be prepared to carry lots of small cash to purchase anything from phone batteries, to boiled corn, to, you guessed it, beer.
3. In one of Rio’s most infamous nightspots – Lapa - police cars sit with their flashing lights on, in between caipirinha stalls and drummers, with ladies-of-the-night on their bonnets. Needless to say, I do have my own portrait taken on the front, but you will have to wait until I find a country with the same phone technology as Australia, to upload it.
4. The constant shicka/shacka of ice being mixed with sugar for capirinhas is pretty unique to Brazil, and I dare say, will probably stay with me for life.
5. Unfortunately the corn sold on the streets comes out exactly the same way it goes in. I am still not sure if that is a good or a bad thing.
6. Coming from a dry climate like Australia, your skin will become soft from all the humidity, but in its place, from the rest of the tropical lifestyle, heartburn will appear.
7. Brazilians don’t seem to get the concept of speakers on mobile phones - they hold the mouthpiece up to their mouths when they are talking, then quickly putting it back to their ear to listen. One-way conversation anyone?
8. It seems even the birds in Brazil like to just relax and take it easy – you will most often see them just “hanging out” high in the sky.
9. Again, coming from Australia, you will be amazed at all the lush greenery that follows you everywhere in Brazil, but probably equally disgusted when that same wetness that plumps the leaves and your skin, also plunges you deep into fetid dungeons at alarming frequency.
10. Don’t follow the Lonely Planet when they tell you the location of Petropolis and Teresopolis – they are NOT in the south-east, as their own map clearly shows you.
11. Probably the most quoted saying in while in Brail was the phrase stamped on the Brazilian flag - “Progress and Order”. It is patriotically and proudly displayed on all sorts of paraphernalia at almost every corner, but when every other encounter in the city clearly tells a different story – it’s ambitious, if not an outright lie.
12. You are not allowed to put toilet paper down the toilet, as the many signs will tell you. (Repeat point 9) This is because their sewerage system isn’t the best, which can cause some really expensive problems if you encounter point 5 or a bout of gastro. If said situation does occur and you do try to cover it with the prohibited paper, get ready for an embarrassing admission when it overflows, and a fine to get it fixed.
13. Electricity, despite their Mother-of-all hydro-electric dam, only runs at 110volts. Which means that most male and female electric hair-removal devices won’t work. Be prepared.
14. The quirkiest thing about Brazilian supermarkets, if you can get over their lack of anything-other-than-rotting-vegetables selection is the rice and beans aisle. One guess what they eat most here?

Argentina All the Way!

(Ok, I lied, and split it in two…)

The next day we set off over the border again, this time legally and very glad to finally wave Brazil and its hefty transportation costs goodbye. And I have to admit, that as soon as I stepped out the door, I could feel a difference. It is perhaps a little hard to explain, but I certainly wasn’t the only one experiencing it, with Martin echoing my thoughts almost immediately. Perhaps it just seems a little more like home, a little more well-set up, a little less hazy, or should that be lazy?

Again we take the bus straight out to the Falls, after dropping our bags in at the hostel, and spying the pool out the back. Unlike the Brazilian side, included in our Argentinian pass is a train to the main walking point, another around to the “Devil’s Throat”, and a ferry across to the island in the middle. Not bad, I think.

We get off at the Lower Trail and are greeted by some of the most beautiful butterflies I have ever seen, and a group of native rodents (the name of which I am still searching for, but consider then something between a possum and a quokka) that try to steal whatever edible things they can from us. We push past and move up and down over the steep maze of paths to several different vantage points. Unlike the Brazilian trail, an almost straight journey to the end, Argentina has been blessed with various hidden vantage points from which to experience the Falls (on this side, and in this language, called the Iguazu Falls). It is so much better than Brazil!

Of course I take way too many pictures, suddenly captivated by the idea of landscape painting, and how it must have been many years ago when terrain such as this was not uncommon. It makes me feel a little sad too, when I realise that this is such a privileged experience, to be so close to an original environment, one which we have all lost in our daily lives, as ‘progress’ and technology has claimed so much.

Only constricted by time, and the fact that the last train is leaving for the “Devil’s Throat”, we climb aboard the train and walk our way over to the waterfall’s edge. And climbing out onto the “Devil’s Throat”, having traversed the relatively peaceful river, we are showered by the spray of the waterfall edge, our voices lost over the crashing water below. Now, I am not one to typically be awe-struck by nature, but the impact of it all was, in a word, magnificent.