Uyuni salt flat tour
From Uyuni, I booked a 3 day/2 night tour that would end in the salt flats.
The environments you see on that tour definitely seem otherworldly to Europeans and Americans, as we really don't have much like it at home. Reading Mae's description will give you an idea of what I mean. (At this point I should add that her diligent blogging has been inspiration to my, although it has not sufficed to make me equally diligent.) I've also put together all my photos from the tour in an album on my flickr page, so you can see what I saw - minus the boredom and whatever I saw after my camera battery gave out.
Also along on the trip were 4 Israeli girls (the Israeli percentage of travellers in Uyuni has to be at least 90%), as well as two American guys, which gave us the opportunity to talk about the NCAAs, starting that weekend. Weird as it sounds, that was really enjoyable for me, although it probably won't have the staying power that the environment had.
One thing that has really stuck with me - both from the train ride to Uyuni and the salt flat tour - is my continued wondering what the people on the side of the road/track must feel like and think. Most of Bolivia's residents live in what is known as the altiplano. Much of Bolivia is in fact altiplano, although my guidebook indicates that most of it is not. Either way, it's areas above 3500 meters. Not too much grows at the altitude and climate. For the most part, particularly in the part of the altiplano we saw, that meant that quinoa and potatos grow, and llamas can be herded. And that is about all.
So these people who live in the altiplano, who often need to attend boarding school in order to go to secondary school (the state provides these, although I'm sure some fees are involved), really have little expectation of ever leaving the country and travelling the world. But at the same time, trains and SUVs full of tourists from all over the world pass by several times a day. What must these people think of the tourists they see, many of whom are broke or in debt, but cary a digital camera and mp3-player with them? I really can't say what that must feel like to those who are in a very real sense standing by the roadside of globalization, but can't catch a ride. I imagine it's worst alongthe train tracks though, because at least cars sometimes stop and the foreigners interact with the locals (to the degree possible) whereas the train is just a big metal box with hands holding digital cameras out the windows passing.
As for the salt flat tour itself, it was definitly a highlight of the trip, and anyone who misses out on the opportunity to see the environments on that tour is a fool.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Nothing quite like it
When I awoke in Uyuni the following day, I had already missed all opportunities to leave for the salt flat tour for the day, so all I had left to do was schedule departure for next day (easily done through the hostel) and explore the town. It turns out Uyuni has pretty much nothing to offer. There's one small museum, where among the few items they have is a remarkably well preserved mummy. Well, I'm not going to lie to you....nothing brightens your morning quite like staring at one of these:
Oh, and they love displaying mummies in the high Andes regions - I've seen plenty in my time there.
When I awoke in Uyuni the following day, I had already missed all opportunities to leave for the salt flat tour for the day, so all I had left to do was schedule departure for next day (easily done through the hostel) and explore the town. It turns out Uyuni has pretty much nothing to offer. There's one small museum, where among the few items they have is a remarkably well preserved mummy. Well, I'm not going to lie to you....nothing brightens your morning quite like staring at one of these:
Oh, and they love displaying mummies in the high Andes regions - I've seen plenty in my time there.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
I have a future
I got into graduate school today! Yay! I'll be doing a M.Sc. in Development Economics at Trinity, Dublin. If anyone else will be on the emerald isle next year, holla!
I'm really excited about this, as those of you with whom I've spoken about this know, I actually didn't expect to be admitted anywhere, let alone such a good program. This ends weeks of anxiety regarding the issue. Now I just have to prove worthy of the honor and avoid flunking out.... just kidding (ljctkoj?) - I plan on taking this one a lot more seriously than the time at GW, and actually will do well. It also means that my schedule posted on the blog will stand as is, at least all the big legs.
p.s.: I know this post stinks, but it's the best I can do.
I got into graduate school today! Yay! I'll be doing a M.Sc. in Development Economics at Trinity, Dublin. If anyone else will be on the emerald isle next year, holla!
I'm really excited about this, as those of you with whom I've spoken about this know, I actually didn't expect to be admitted anywhere, let alone such a good program. This ends weeks of anxiety regarding the issue. Now I just have to prove worthy of the honor and avoid flunking out.... just kidding (ljctkoj?) - I plan on taking this one a lot more seriously than the time at GW, and actually will do well. It also means that my schedule posted on the blog will stand as is, at least all the big legs.
p.s.: I know this post stinks, but it's the best I can do.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
The Bolivian frontier
From Salta, I planned on travelling through to Uyuni in Bolivia in one swift go. As it turned out, Bolivian travel is rarely swift, and the single go included a number of frustratingly long pauses. However, I was lucky to meet two other people from the same hostel in Salta who planned on making more or less the same trip (they would be getting off the train a little earlier). Between the three of us, we had a nice little travel group, something we noticed as we boredly stared at the tiny TV screen at the hostel, as our bus didn't leave until 12.30 am. For those of you that are confused, that's 00:30 or half past midnight.
There were also other reasons for not wanting to travel alone: while Chile is definitely safe, and I feel comfortable in Argentina because I more or less fit in both physically and linguistically, I was a lot less sure about Bolivia: it's straight 3rd world, plagued by what Lonely Planet calls the "triple crown" of underdevelopment (illiteracy, low life expectancy and something else I've now forgotten - probably extreme poverty, of which I saw plenty), a country where everyone is indigeno and Spanish is more of an afterthought than lingua franca - and my Quetchua is mighty rusty. At least that's what I'd heard about the country.
At the very least, I'd quelched (is that even a word?) any remaining fears I had about not having the little piece of paper that foreigners need to leave the country without paying a big fine. I told you about how I didn't receive that document here. In Buenos Aires, I'd gotten the phone number of the German consular section and gotten in touch with them about my problem - on about the 15th try. (The upside to having the phone number in my passport for so long had been that it got me out of a bribe attempt by Argentine cops, who visibly fretted upon opening my passport and seeing the name, address and phone number on a paper therein. But that's another story all together.) When I finally did reach the consulate - I'd had to call the emergency number in order to actually get someone on the phone - I was told that if Germans are given any papers at entry, they are just statistical questionnaires, and only Americans are forced to suffer the pain of holding onto the special entry paperwork.... haha!
So the three of us set off from the hostel in Salta, A German, a Czech, and an Israeli.
The first thing you notice when you take a bus to the Bolivian border is that it's probably the worst bus in Argentina. Otherwise, the Argentine bus system is amazing, but the buses up to the border are pieces of crap. Moreover, there were more Bolivians and Israelis in the bus than anything else, something that holds for Bolivia in general. Also, the normal order of the buses begins breaking down: tons of campesinas had huge bags and blankets full of god knows what being loaded into the bus, and most of them had one or two dirty, snot-nosed kids tagging along, too - and they were of the opinion that they shouldn't have to pay for the kids. The conductor saw this differently, and soon there was a massive argument about who exactly needs tickets immediately in front of me at the bus door. The conductor pointed out that the lady can't bring two kids on for free and expect all the other foreigners to pay, then looked at me for confirmation, which is something I felt obligated to agree with. Anyway, the bus driver let me on, then continued his fight with the woman, but not before she pushed one of the kids in the door behind me and when the bus driver pulled it back out, claimed it was my child.....riiiiiiiiight.
We arrived in the Argentine border town of La Quiaca at the beautiful hour of 5 am, an hour early and two hours before the border would open. Chilling at a wonderful 3400 meters above sea level, it was really cold there, so we grabbed our packs and headed into the station in hopes of finding something warmer. All we found was a station full of Bolivians huddled under blankets and a vile smell. Tom (the Israeli guy) and I also found that some kind of weird, hot motor-oil smelling fluid was on our packs, something I'd noticed when I pulled my jacket out in the cold and dark, but not realizing the extent. Like I said earlier: not the best bus. I was fortunate in that although I got the mystery fluid all over my bag, that where it stayed - on the outside. Tom was not so lucky, and as he pulled the pieces of clothing out of his bag, horror was written all over his face.
Before we knew it - or had fully assessed the damage to Tom's property, it was time to head towards the border, so we strapped on our packs and got going. This decision was aided by our being freezing cold, so we wanted to move. It actually was pretty cool walking through the dark city as dawn came over the horizon, and it got light really quickly, so after some pictures at the border, we were able to cross in to Villazón, the Bolivian border town.
Once you cross the border, you know right away that you are in a different country - and this country's a lot poorer. Everything's really dirty, people are trying to sell you anything that can be made from llamas at the border, and buses are ratcheted up about 4 feet in order to make it across the Bolivian "roads." And despite being a border town and transport hub, Villazón doesn't have a single ATM open to foreign cards.
We ended up camped out at the train station for a couple hours, during which time Tom fully inspected the damage to his bag - hilarious damage, I may add. Each pair of pants had a dark crotch stain, while every shirts was embellished with dark areas around the armpits. Eventually, however, our train departed, and the fun had to end. I will add, however, that the one good thing about Villazón was my first exposure to Bolivian food: for a whopping 6 Bolivianos (the name of the people and the currency...), which totals some $.75 American, I had a 2 course meal that was quite tasty. In the train (which moves at about 20 miles per hour - 9 hours to Uyuni, a grand distance of 160 km) they had a) toilets and b) TVs/movies. While either one of those may seem normal to you, believe me, in Bolivia they aren't.
The first movie they showed was "Blood Diamond" starring the always arresting Leo DiCapprio. I'd hoped that my first viewing of the film wouldn't be on small screen 35 feet away with incomprehensible audio, but despite this I was able to enjoy the film. The second movie was some Bolivian production, and I use that term loosely: they apparently don't have audio editing equipment in the country, and much of the movie consisted of people conversing in the middle of the altiplano, in other words in the middle of nowhere and all I could hear was the wind in the microphone. This was topped only by the scenes in "Buenos Aires," which were actually a Bolivian pig stall. At that point I wished they didn't have TVs in the train.
We finally arrived in Uyuni at shortly before 1 in the morning. One of the things about Bolivian public transportation that makes it so special is that all departure and arrival hours are at the most horrid times imaginable. In this case, I than had to find a hostel , and after following some Israelis for a while in an unsuccessful attempt to find a hostel with heating, I went to the HI. It was slightly warmer there than outside, and that did the trick for me.
From Salta, I planned on travelling through to Uyuni in Bolivia in one swift go. As it turned out, Bolivian travel is rarely swift, and the single go included a number of frustratingly long pauses. However, I was lucky to meet two other people from the same hostel in Salta who planned on making more or less the same trip (they would be getting off the train a little earlier). Between the three of us, we had a nice little travel group, something we noticed as we boredly stared at the tiny TV screen at the hostel, as our bus didn't leave until 12.30 am. For those of you that are confused, that's 00:30 or half past midnight.
There were also other reasons for not wanting to travel alone: while Chile is definitely safe, and I feel comfortable in Argentina because I more or less fit in both physically and linguistically, I was a lot less sure about Bolivia: it's straight 3rd world, plagued by what Lonely Planet calls the "triple crown" of underdevelopment (illiteracy, low life expectancy and something else I've now forgotten - probably extreme poverty, of which I saw plenty), a country where everyone is indigeno and Spanish is more of an afterthought than lingua franca - and my Quetchua is mighty rusty. At least that's what I'd heard about the country.
At the very least, I'd quelched (is that even a word?) any remaining fears I had about not having the little piece of paper that foreigners need to leave the country without paying a big fine. I told you about how I didn't receive that document here. In Buenos Aires, I'd gotten the phone number of the German consular section and gotten in touch with them about my problem - on about the 15th try. (The upside to having the phone number in my passport for so long had been that it got me out of a bribe attempt by Argentine cops, who visibly fretted upon opening my passport and seeing the name, address and phone number on a paper therein. But that's another story all together.) When I finally did reach the consulate - I'd had to call the emergency number in order to actually get someone on the phone - I was told that if Germans are given any papers at entry, they are just statistical questionnaires, and only Americans are forced to suffer the pain of holding onto the special entry paperwork.... haha!
So the three of us set off from the hostel in Salta, A German, a Czech, and an Israeli.
The first thing you notice when you take a bus to the Bolivian border is that it's probably the worst bus in Argentina. Otherwise, the Argentine bus system is amazing, but the buses up to the border are pieces of crap. Moreover, there were more Bolivians and Israelis in the bus than anything else, something that holds for Bolivia in general. Also, the normal order of the buses begins breaking down: tons of campesinas had huge bags and blankets full of god knows what being loaded into the bus, and most of them had one or two dirty, snot-nosed kids tagging along, too - and they were of the opinion that they shouldn't have to pay for the kids. The conductor saw this differently, and soon there was a massive argument about who exactly needs tickets immediately in front of me at the bus door. The conductor pointed out that the lady can't bring two kids on for free and expect all the other foreigners to pay, then looked at me for confirmation, which is something I felt obligated to agree with. Anyway, the bus driver let me on, then continued his fight with the woman, but not before she pushed one of the kids in the door behind me and when the bus driver pulled it back out, claimed it was my child.....riiiiiiiiight.
We arrived in the Argentine border town of La Quiaca at the beautiful hour of 5 am, an hour early and two hours before the border would open. Chilling at a wonderful 3400 meters above sea level, it was really cold there, so we grabbed our packs and headed into the station in hopes of finding something warmer. All we found was a station full of Bolivians huddled under blankets and a vile smell. Tom (the Israeli guy) and I also found that some kind of weird, hot motor-oil smelling fluid was on our packs, something I'd noticed when I pulled my jacket out in the cold and dark, but not realizing the extent. Like I said earlier: not the best bus. I was fortunate in that although I got the mystery fluid all over my bag, that where it stayed - on the outside. Tom was not so lucky, and as he pulled the pieces of clothing out of his bag, horror was written all over his face.
Before we knew it - or had fully assessed the damage to Tom's property, it was time to head towards the border, so we strapped on our packs and got going. This decision was aided by our being freezing cold, so we wanted to move. It actually was pretty cool walking through the dark city as dawn came over the horizon, and it got light really quickly, so after some pictures at the border, we were able to cross in to Villazón, the Bolivian border town.
Once you cross the border, you know right away that you are in a different country - and this country's a lot poorer. Everything's really dirty, people are trying to sell you anything that can be made from llamas at the border, and buses are ratcheted up about 4 feet in order to make it across the Bolivian "roads." And despite being a border town and transport hub, Villazón doesn't have a single ATM open to foreign cards.
We ended up camped out at the train station for a couple hours, during which time Tom fully inspected the damage to his bag - hilarious damage, I may add. Each pair of pants had a dark crotch stain, while every shirts was embellished with dark areas around the armpits. Eventually, however, our train departed, and the fun had to end. I will add, however, that the one good thing about Villazón was my first exposure to Bolivian food: for a whopping 6 Bolivianos (the name of the people and the currency...), which totals some $.75 American, I had a 2 course meal that was quite tasty. In the train (which moves at about 20 miles per hour - 9 hours to Uyuni, a grand distance of 160 km) they had a) toilets and b) TVs/movies. While either one of those may seem normal to you, believe me, in Bolivia they aren't.
The first movie they showed was "Blood Diamond" starring the always arresting Leo DiCapprio. I'd hoped that my first viewing of the film wouldn't be on small screen 35 feet away with incomprehensible audio, but despite this I was able to enjoy the film. The second movie was some Bolivian production, and I use that term loosely: they apparently don't have audio editing equipment in the country, and much of the movie consisted of people conversing in the middle of the altiplano, in other words in the middle of nowhere and all I could hear was the wind in the microphone. This was topped only by the scenes in "Buenos Aires," which were actually a Bolivian pig stall. At that point I wished they didn't have TVs in the train.
We finally arrived in Uyuni at shortly before 1 in the morning. One of the things about Bolivian public transportation that makes it so special is that all departure and arrival hours are at the most horrid times imaginable. In this case, I than had to find a hostel , and after following some Israelis for a while in an unsuccessful attempt to find a hostel with heating, I went to the HI. It was slightly warmer there than outside, and that did the trick for me.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
the MAAM - or how national identity can evolve
While I was in Salta , I also visited a number of museums, including a very new - and quite well done - one by the name Museo de Archaelogia de Alta Montaña, the MAAM (Museum of Archaeology of High Mountain Areas.... the English acronym of MAHMA just isn't that sexy, is it? Does that reflect the fact that Argentine ladies are generally more sexy than English one? I don't know, but feel free to weigh in on this subject in the comments section). This museum is so new it isn't in most guidebooks, although it should be. On the one hand, it has a number of excellent exhibition items, but almost more interestingly, it illustrates how Argentina's attitude viz-á-viz its own history is changing, particularly regarding the original indigenous inhabitants of the southern cone.
The reason the museum was created was for an Incan ice-mummy that originates in the Salta region. The Incas had this crazy thing where they made human sacrifices, though not on the scale of, say, the Aztecs, although their way of doing it was pretty loco. First the kids - and I mean children, usually between 6 and 12 - would be selected from different regions of the huge empire and be blessed by the Inca (emperor) during the Inti Rami (sun festival) in June in Cuzco. From there, the children, priests, and entourage would walk in a straight line to the sacrificial sight - straight across rivers, through valleys and over mountain tops, and whoever has seen the landscape here knows that isn't easy today with mountaineering equipment. (In the meantime, Jeremy Piven would be handling the logistics.) These sacrificial sites were of course significant in their own right - they lay atop the highest peaks in the Andes, usually above 6000 meters over sea level. The peaks were both home to gods, and also these high peaks were revered as deities themselves by the Incas. Although northern Argentina was among the furthest places from Cuzco still in the Incan empire, a disproportionate amount of these sacrifices took place in what is now Argentina, because some of the highest mountains in the Andes are there, including Aconcagua, which is the highest peak in the Americas although no sacrifices have been found there.
The little girl that is housed in the MAAM was first unearthed in the 1930s, but then sold to a collector in Buenos Aires, where she was soon forgotten and badly abused. Eventually, it was purchased at a yard sale in the mid nineties for an astounding U$S 25 - that's right, the same price as two movie tickets and a medium popcorn, and a far better investment considering that the buyer received an invaluable archaeological artifact that to locals is a semi-goddess. The museum was created to house her remains and explore the Inca influence in what today is Argentina.
The museum emphasizes the continuity of the belief system that led to the girl's being sacrificed, which among peasant indigenos in the area are still maintained. In fact, videos that form part of the display have interviews with campesinos who talk about how the girl's spirit appealed again and again to local people to return her body home during her decades in exile. According to these locals, those visions and dreams have discontinued since the body's return to Salta, although she did appear to one woman to thank her and affirm her spirit is back at rest. The exhibits also emphasize t he girl as a person, on not simply an object to be stared at, and so the room in which she is displayed is treated like a tomb: visitors are asked to remove hats and keep their voices low. Moreover, she isn't lit all the time, but visitors push a button that lights her up for several seconds.
Speaking of that lighting button, it's actually quite funny: There is a thick panel of glass, and behind it darkness. Since most museum exhibits aren't right up against the display screen, most visitors lean down and really close to the glass before pushing the button - only to find themselves 3 inches from the girl's half-decayed face, with her mouth and eyes torn wide open, screaming. I think it's about as cos e to a horror flick as any museum will take you. I certainly jumped at that, then decided to hang around the room and see what others' reactions would be. I wasn't disappointed, as most visitors not only jumped back from the glass, but most the girls would scream, also. I know the museum organizers wanted to give the girl dignity by keeping her obscured, but the result seems rather counterproductive.
I think the approach of the museum, particularly acknowledging the girl's continued importance to local peoples, is a tremendous step forwards for Argentina. This after all is the country that a) managed to kill almost all black descendants of slaves in a war with Paraguay and where many people say that if they're black, they simply can't be Argentine because there are no black Argentines, b) waged a war of extinction against indigenous peoples, know as the Conquista del Desierto, that today would probably be condemned as genocide, and c) not only has Catholicism as a state religion, but continues to ban all forms of abortion (and where many feel embarrassed to buy condoms!) and pays the country's bishops out of state coffers.
In essence, government money is supporting something that implicitly (or even explicitly) acknowledges - and even emphasizes - the country's polyethnic and polyreligious past and present. This goes along with the generational gap I've observed in how Argentines perceive themselves, with youngsters feeling more connected to the rest of South America than to Europe, and decrying anti-Bolivianism as outright racism, hypocrisy in a country that itself has indigenos and needs to embrace its Latino identity. Sure, much of this is the result of Argentines coming to terms with their new found economic position in the world (way farther down, and no longer on par with countries from Southern Europe or akin to the USA, and now being outperformed by Brazil and, even more so, Chile) that in many ways have made it more South American, but the affects are as much cultural as anything else.
While I was in Salta , I also visited a number of museums, including a very new - and quite well done - one by the name Museo de Archaelogia de Alta Montaña, the MAAM (Museum of Archaeology of High Mountain Areas.... the English acronym of MAHMA just isn't that sexy, is it? Does that reflect the fact that Argentine ladies are generally more sexy than English one? I don't know, but feel free to weigh in on this subject in the comments section). This museum is so new it isn't in most guidebooks, although it should be. On the one hand, it has a number of excellent exhibition items, but almost more interestingly, it illustrates how Argentina's attitude viz-á-viz its own history is changing, particularly regarding the original indigenous inhabitants of the southern cone.
The reason the museum was created was for an Incan ice-mummy that originates in the Salta region. The Incas had this crazy thing where they made human sacrifices, though not on the scale of, say, the Aztecs, although their way of doing it was pretty loco. First the kids - and I mean children, usually between 6 and 12 - would be selected from different regions of the huge empire and be blessed by the Inca (emperor) during the Inti Rami (sun festival) in June in Cuzco. From there, the children, priests, and entourage would walk in a straight line to the sacrificial sight - straight across rivers, through valleys and over mountain tops, and whoever has seen the landscape here knows that isn't easy today with mountaineering equipment. (In the meantime, Jeremy Piven would be handling the logistics.) These sacrificial sites were of course significant in their own right - they lay atop the highest peaks in the Andes, usually above 6000 meters over sea level. The peaks were both home to gods, and also these high peaks were revered as deities themselves by the Incas. Although northern Argentina was among the furthest places from Cuzco still in the Incan empire, a disproportionate amount of these sacrifices took place in what is now Argentina, because some of the highest mountains in the Andes are there, including Aconcagua, which is the highest peak in the Americas although no sacrifices have been found there.
The little girl that is housed in the MAAM was first unearthed in the 1930s, but then sold to a collector in Buenos Aires, where she was soon forgotten and badly abused. Eventually, it was purchased at a yard sale in the mid nineties for an astounding U$S 25 - that's right, the same price as two movie tickets and a medium popcorn, and a far better investment considering that the buyer received an invaluable archaeological artifact that to locals is a semi-goddess. The museum was created to house her remains and explore the Inca influence in what today is Argentina.
The museum emphasizes the continuity of the belief system that led to the girl's being sacrificed, which among peasant indigenos in the area are still maintained. In fact, videos that form part of the display have interviews with campesinos who talk about how the girl's spirit appealed again and again to local people to return her body home during her decades in exile. According to these locals, those visions and dreams have discontinued since the body's return to Salta, although she did appear to one woman to thank her and affirm her spirit is back at rest. The exhibits also emphasize t he girl as a person, on not simply an object to be stared at, and so the room in which she is displayed is treated like a tomb: visitors are asked to remove hats and keep their voices low. Moreover, she isn't lit all the time, but visitors push a button that lights her up for several seconds.
Speaking of that lighting button, it's actually quite funny: There is a thick panel of glass, and behind it darkness. Since most museum exhibits aren't right up against the display screen, most visitors lean down and really close to the glass before pushing the button - only to find themselves 3 inches from the girl's half-decayed face, with her mouth and eyes torn wide open, screaming. I think it's about as cos e to a horror flick as any museum will take you. I certainly jumped at that, then decided to hang around the room and see what others' reactions would be. I wasn't disappointed, as most visitors not only jumped back from the glass, but most the girls would scream, also. I know the museum organizers wanted to give the girl dignity by keeping her obscured, but the result seems rather counterproductive.
I think the approach of the museum, particularly acknowledging the girl's continued importance to local peoples, is a tremendous step forwards for Argentina. This after all is the country that a) managed to kill almost all black descendants of slaves in a war with Paraguay and where many people say that if they're black, they simply can't be Argentine because there are no black Argentines, b) waged a war of extinction against indigenous peoples, know as the Conquista del Desierto, that today would probably be condemned as genocide, and c) not only has Catholicism as a state religion, but continues to ban all forms of abortion (and where many feel embarrassed to buy condoms!) and pays the country's bishops out of state coffers.
In essence, government money is supporting something that implicitly (or even explicitly) acknowledges - and even emphasizes - the country's polyethnic and polyreligious past and present. This goes along with the generational gap I've observed in how Argentines perceive themselves, with youngsters feeling more connected to the rest of South America than to Europe, and decrying anti-Bolivianism as outright racism, hypocrisy in a country that itself has indigenos and needs to embrace its Latino identity. Sure, much of this is the result of Argentines coming to terms with their new found economic position in the world (way farther down, and no longer on par with countries from Southern Europe or akin to the USA, and now being outperformed by Brazil and, even more so, Chile) that in many ways have made it more South American, but the affects are as much cultural as anything else.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Barney Gomez a.k.a. Barney Gumble
As I couldn't remember if we (and by that I mean Brad and Ben and I) had visited Salta during our foray to northern Argentina on fall break 04 other than to catch the Cope Libertadores match, I decided to check it out. After all, everyone speaks well of it. A 24 hour bus cama from Bs. As. later, I arrived. But only after tearing myself away from Buenos Aires with great difficulty.
When I arrived, I saw a city I really had no memory of whatsoever. I therefore headed towards a hostel recommended by another traveller. Of course, it turns out that there are actually 3 hostels by the same name in Salta, and I of course ended up at the wrong a.k.a. the boring one. But that didn't really matter since I would only be staying in town for one night before heading towards Bolivia and the great unknown.
One problem I encountered immediately upon arriving in the city was one of profound stupidity. Think of it as some kind of euphoria-less feeling of being stoned. Or the daze of bright sunlight on your eyes after pulling an all-nighter with Australian backpackers; read that as after drinking heavily all night. Anyway, i was entirely unable to express myself in Spanish, and even my English seemed a little off. Now, all the locals would laugh and say it's the altitude that affects all travellers; I think that's crap as Salta really isn't that high up. I think it's the combination of 24 hours on a bus, which means on and off low-quality sleep, plus hunger (the breakfast was small and not very good), plus the general damage Bs. As. did to my system are to blame. Whatever the cause may be, however, the effect was that my Spanish was greatly diminished, to the point of appearing laughable even to myself. But a nap later, this problem had dissipated, a further indication that it was not the altitude affecting me.
Rested, I thus went to explore the city. My first reaction to the city was that it seemed entirely new to me: even the beautiful central plaza and the gondola that connects downtown with a viewing mountain above the city didn't recall any memories. In fact, nothing I saw or did in Salta was at all reminiscent of 2004 - until I was on my way home after dinner that night, that is. I was looking at a little map/guidebook of the kind given out by hostels and found a bar by the name of Barney Gomez, a character from The Simpsons known to anglophones as Barney Gumble. The name brought back memories of a post-rafting evening with all the trapping of being our best night out on that 04 road trip, so I decided to check out the place. Indeed, it was the same bar we visited back in the day, except that it was pretty dead. But just being there brought back some memories of that road trip that had been long forgotten, and wouldn't be appropriate here.
The next morning I decided to take the gondola to the top of the hill that sits immediately above town, on e of the main in-town tourist attractions. (There are also some nice museums, but more on that later.) The elevation going up is an extra 250 meters, i think, and you do indeed go up in the gondola much like when skiing. Anyway, from the top you have an absolutely gorgeous view of the city, and beyond it the valley that stretches down from the Andean highland towards .... well, I don't really know, but in the direction of the pampa/sea, I suppose. After all, both of those are lower than Salta, and valleys tend to have some kind of incline. I then hiked down the mountain, which made me really glad that I hadn't hiked up; it's abut 1000 steps, plus some incline parts. Unfortunatly the nature trail on the back side of the mountain was closed (for no apparent reason), so I had to be happy with the flora and fauna I saw on the descent. This wasn't particularly spectacular other than the large amount of incredibly HUGE spiders. Some were definitely larger than my hands, and not being a huge fan of arachnids, this kind of creeped/grossed me out.
Other than that though, the city is quite lovely, and not totally unlike Cordoba, in that it has a beautiful central plaza, and the rest of city is sort of a mix between older, nice buildings (including plenty of churches) and more modern, less attractive ones.
As I couldn't remember if we (and by that I mean Brad and Ben and I) had visited Salta during our foray to northern Argentina on fall break 04 other than to catch the Cope Libertadores match, I decided to check it out. After all, everyone speaks well of it. A 24 hour bus cama from Bs. As. later, I arrived. But only after tearing myself away from Buenos Aires with great difficulty.
When I arrived, I saw a city I really had no memory of whatsoever. I therefore headed towards a hostel recommended by another traveller. Of course, it turns out that there are actually 3 hostels by the same name in Salta, and I of course ended up at the wrong a.k.a. the boring one. But that didn't really matter since I would only be staying in town for one night before heading towards Bolivia and the great unknown.
One problem I encountered immediately upon arriving in the city was one of profound stupidity. Think of it as some kind of euphoria-less feeling of being stoned. Or the daze of bright sunlight on your eyes after pulling an all-nighter with Australian backpackers; read that as after drinking heavily all night. Anyway, i was entirely unable to express myself in Spanish, and even my English seemed a little off. Now, all the locals would laugh and say it's the altitude that affects all travellers; I think that's crap as Salta really isn't that high up. I think it's the combination of 24 hours on a bus, which means on and off low-quality sleep, plus hunger (the breakfast was small and not very good), plus the general damage Bs. As. did to my system are to blame. Whatever the cause may be, however, the effect was that my Spanish was greatly diminished, to the point of appearing laughable even to myself. But a nap later, this problem had dissipated, a further indication that it was not the altitude affecting me.
Rested, I thus went to explore the city. My first reaction to the city was that it seemed entirely new to me: even the beautiful central plaza and the gondola that connects downtown with a viewing mountain above the city didn't recall any memories. In fact, nothing I saw or did in Salta was at all reminiscent of 2004 - until I was on my way home after dinner that night, that is. I was looking at a little map/guidebook of the kind given out by hostels and found a bar by the name of Barney Gomez, a character from The Simpsons known to anglophones as Barney Gumble. The name brought back memories of a post-rafting evening with all the trapping of being our best night out on that 04 road trip, so I decided to check out the place. Indeed, it was the same bar we visited back in the day, except that it was pretty dead. But just being there brought back some memories of that road trip that had been long forgotten, and wouldn't be appropriate here.
The next morning I decided to take the gondola to the top of the hill that sits immediately above town, on e of the main in-town tourist attractions. (There are also some nice museums, but more on that later.) The elevation going up is an extra 250 meters, i think, and you do indeed go up in the gondola much like when skiing. Anyway, from the top you have an absolutely gorgeous view of the city, and beyond it the valley that stretches down from the Andean highland towards .... well, I don't really know, but in the direction of the pampa/sea, I suppose. After all, both of those are lower than Salta, and valleys tend to have some kind of incline. I then hiked down the mountain, which made me really glad that I hadn't hiked up; it's abut 1000 steps, plus some incline parts. Unfortunatly the nature trail on the back side of the mountain was closed (for no apparent reason), so I had to be happy with the flora and fauna I saw on the descent. This wasn't particularly spectacular other than the large amount of incredibly HUGE spiders. Some were definitely larger than my hands, and not being a huge fan of arachnids, this kind of creeped/grossed me out.
Other than that though, the city is quite lovely, and not totally unlike Cordoba, in that it has a beautiful central plaza, and the rest of city is sort of a mix between older, nice buildings (including plenty of churches) and more modern, less attractive ones.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Damn you, homogeneity!
So i spent 2 days trying to get a falafel lunch in Palermo at a place the the whole study abroad crowd frequented.... and by frequented, I mean pretty much camped out in once we had discovered it. The reason I so desperately wanted falafel is that it is one of my favorite foods. Moreover, the food in Argentina is best summed up in the following two adjectives: repetitive and bland. So i had been pining for a good falafel and some hot sauce for quite a few weeks, really looking forward to tucking into about 3 sandwiches the first time I'd be eating there.
Here's what you need to understand about food in Argentina: I'm not saying it isn't good, because for the most part it's absolutely delicious. The only problem is the lack of diversity, and the lack of spice. In terms of food variety, your choices are pretty basic: Steak, pizza, past, or empanadas. Moreover, the main spice the country uses is mayonnaise. Mayonnaise! In lots of cheap restaurants, they don't have salt or pepper on the tables, and when you ask for it, you may even elicit a surprised stare - and they may not even have any. Sometimes I really wonder how they even cook in that country.
I couldn't find it the first time, and thought it was just a fluke, because even though there was a place that looked a lot like it from the outside, it sold empanadas, so I didn't go in. Then after spending the following day's lunch time looking for it again, I decided to go into the empanada place, and indeed it was the former Lebenese restaurant, complete with the stairs and bathroom in the same places, but nothing even remotely vegetarian or spicy on the menu. I was pretty upset, but even more so, disappointed. In a city already teeming with empanada places, why not remove the only cheap and accessible Halal food place and replace it with something you can get on every street corner!
So i spent 2 days trying to get a falafel lunch in Palermo at a place the the whole study abroad crowd frequented.... and by frequented, I mean pretty much camped out in once we had discovered it. The reason I so desperately wanted falafel is that it is one of my favorite foods. Moreover, the food in Argentina is best summed up in the following two adjectives: repetitive and bland. So i had been pining for a good falafel and some hot sauce for quite a few weeks, really looking forward to tucking into about 3 sandwiches the first time I'd be eating there.
Here's what you need to understand about food in Argentina: I'm not saying it isn't good, because for the most part it's absolutely delicious. The only problem is the lack of diversity, and the lack of spice. In terms of food variety, your choices are pretty basic: Steak, pizza, past, or empanadas. Moreover, the main spice the country uses is mayonnaise. Mayonnaise! In lots of cheap restaurants, they don't have salt or pepper on the tables, and when you ask for it, you may even elicit a surprised stare - and they may not even have any. Sometimes I really wonder how they even cook in that country.
I couldn't find it the first time, and thought it was just a fluke, because even though there was a place that looked a lot like it from the outside, it sold empanadas, so I didn't go in. Then after spending the following day's lunch time looking for it again, I decided to go into the empanada place, and indeed it was the former Lebenese restaurant, complete with the stairs and bathroom in the same places, but nothing even remotely vegetarian or spicy on the menu. I was pretty upset, but even more so, disappointed. In a city already teeming with empanada places, why not remove the only cheap and accessible Halal food place and replace it with something you can get on every street corner!
Home Sweet Home
I took an overnight bus from Cordoba to Buenos Aires, where i arrived early in the morning. There were several minor problems facing me when I arrived: Even though I had tried to book a bed at Milhouse Hostel - recommended to me by both Looney and a very experienced backpacker - they had somehow not received my first request and thus I didn't yet have a place to stay for the first 3 days. I also hadn't been in touch with my host family from study abroad, Josefina and Nacio, because when I got back to the States after the semester, my computer with the email addresses had been stolen; and since it was 6.30 in the morning, I didn't feel like it was an appropriate time to stop by for a surprise visit. Moreover, I didn't really have a game plan for what I wanted to do while in Bs As, except for my desire to eat falafel at our "establishment" up in Palermo (more on that adventure in another post).
Anyway, I hauled my rear end to Milhouse anyway, thinking they might reserve some beds just for stop-ins (a.k.a. people who just show up) since many hostels do this. Unfortunately, they do not. However, another person had recommended a hostel around the corner from there, which for all its other charms has the unfortunate nomer "The Clan House." However, I can certify that no Imperial Wizards or the like are hiding out there: it's just yet another example of Argentines' trouble with the English language, where certain phrases just don't carry over. I ended up really liking the feel of the hostel and more importantly, the people living there, so I stayed there for most of my time in Bs. As. even returning after my 3 nights at the Milhouse, which I found overly institutional and was populated by about 90% English and Irish. Coincidentally, I ran into the group of travelling Englishmen (and -woman) that have been trailing me around the continent: from checking into Casa Roja in Santiago on the same day to seeing them in Pucón, Puerto Varas, sharing a hostel in Chiloe, and the Bs. As., it's getting a little weird. They're good people though, so it's ok - though like many British travellers in these parts, they speak little Spanish and drink a lot.
Anyway, the first day in Bs As I decided to take a look at Plaza Francia/Recolleta and the design center there (my favorite shops in the world? probably...) and on the way back stopped by and luckily found both Nacio anf Fina at home, so hung out there for a couple hours catching up with them. Since it was Friday, Nacio said he'd drum together the old gang at their new bar, and we'd try to make it an early night. As it were, it was an early night for Argentines - we met at 12.30 am. I think I got home at 8.30 am.
I spent most of my 9 days in the city visiting old haunts and just generally walking around parks and visiting museums. Then, on the weekends, hanging out with Nacio and the other guys I met through him during my study abroad time there, which was awesome, and the best part of being in Bs. As. During my time there, I realized that the city really does feel almost like home to me. I realized that I've spent about as much time living in Buenos Aires as I have in London, and my knowledge of London is hardly any better than that of Buenoas Aires. Plus, which my various accents in various languages, I probably get no more strange looks - less actually - in Argentina than I do in London. And because I speak like a porteño, I don't get messed with like i do in the UK for having an American accent, people expect that I know the city. So hopefully, one of these days I can get a job in Buenos Aires and spend another couple months - if not years - there.
I took an overnight bus from Cordoba to Buenos Aires, where i arrived early in the morning. There were several minor problems facing me when I arrived: Even though I had tried to book a bed at Milhouse Hostel - recommended to me by both Looney and a very experienced backpacker - they had somehow not received my first request and thus I didn't yet have a place to stay for the first 3 days. I also hadn't been in touch with my host family from study abroad, Josefina and Nacio, because when I got back to the States after the semester, my computer with the email addresses had been stolen; and since it was 6.30 in the morning, I didn't feel like it was an appropriate time to stop by for a surprise visit. Moreover, I didn't really have a game plan for what I wanted to do while in Bs As, except for my desire to eat falafel at our "establishment" up in Palermo (more on that adventure in another post).
Anyway, I hauled my rear end to Milhouse anyway, thinking they might reserve some beds just for stop-ins (a.k.a. people who just show up) since many hostels do this. Unfortunately, they do not. However, another person had recommended a hostel around the corner from there, which for all its other charms has the unfortunate nomer "The Clan House." However, I can certify that no Imperial Wizards or the like are hiding out there: it's just yet another example of Argentines' trouble with the English language, where certain phrases just don't carry over. I ended up really liking the feel of the hostel and more importantly, the people living there, so I stayed there for most of my time in Bs. As. even returning after my 3 nights at the Milhouse, which I found overly institutional and was populated by about 90% English and Irish. Coincidentally, I ran into the group of travelling Englishmen (and -woman) that have been trailing me around the continent: from checking into Casa Roja in Santiago on the same day to seeing them in Pucón, Puerto Varas, sharing a hostel in Chiloe, and the Bs. As., it's getting a little weird. They're good people though, so it's ok - though like many British travellers in these parts, they speak little Spanish and drink a lot.
Anyway, the first day in Bs As I decided to take a look at Plaza Francia/Recolleta and the design center there (my favorite shops in the world? probably...) and on the way back stopped by and luckily found both Nacio anf Fina at home, so hung out there for a couple hours catching up with them. Since it was Friday, Nacio said he'd drum together the old gang at their new bar, and we'd try to make it an early night. As it were, it was an early night for Argentines - we met at 12.30 am. I think I got home at 8.30 am.
I spent most of my 9 days in the city visiting old haunts and just generally walking around parks and visiting museums. Then, on the weekends, hanging out with Nacio and the other guys I met through him during my study abroad time there, which was awesome, and the best part of being in Bs. As. During my time there, I realized that the city really does feel almost like home to me. I realized that I've spent about as much time living in Buenos Aires as I have in London, and my knowledge of London is hardly any better than that of Buenoas Aires. Plus, which my various accents in various languages, I probably get no more strange looks - less actually - in Argentina than I do in London. And because I speak like a porteño, I don't get messed with like i do in the UK for having an American accent, people expect that I know the city. So hopefully, one of these days I can get a job in Buenos Aires and spend another couple months - if not years - there.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Cordoba
Cordoba is known for its UNESCO world-heritage site status and its many prestigious universities, particularly the O.G. of Argentine universities, the Jesuit University that was among the first in South America. This university was later shut down but then reopened a hundred years or so later, after the Spanish crown - which had kicked the Jesuits out of all of Latin America - no longer controlled the country.
In Argentina, it is also known for the beauty of its residents, if such a thing is even possible in that country (for those that don't know, Argentines are considered attractive despite their preference for the mullet haircut).
My personal response to Cordoba is disappointment: although there are some nice areas of historic buildings, most of the city is quite modern. This isn't to say that attending the university int he historic buildings wouldn't be spectacular, it's just that relative to the size of the city (1 million) a few building don't really weigh in heavily. As for the cordobesas - because i was only in town for a short while, and during the week, i really didn't get to meet any, since most of downtown is full of students who come from all over the country. Moreover, my argie friends tell me that what makes them sexy are their accent and inflection in speech. As a result, I think that special something is unlikely to be picked up on by foreigners. This reminded me of one of the many lessons gleaned from all those anthropology classes I took as part of my major: Sex and sexuality with all they entail are, like race, cultural constructs.
Also, the city sounded like it was in the middle of a civil war. There were constantly loud bangs that sounded like cannon shots. The reason for this was an ongoing protest by remis drivers, who blocked roads with their vehicles, burnt tires on the road, thew eggs at those remises that didn't join their protest, and burnt tires in the middle of intersections. They also besieged the municipal government's building so there was a constant stand-off between drivers and heavily armed riot police. That's when they weren't sitting on curbs drinking fernet and cola and verbally harassing the female traffic wardens.
For whatever Cordoba lacked otherwise, it made up for in the people I met. Principally, there were Paul, Frank and Kendal. Frank and Paul are British, Kendal is Australian, and Frank and Kendal are engaged. The two of them are travelling around the world from London on their way to Oz, where they will be married. Paul decided to join them for some time in Latin America as a way to spend time with them. Anyway, they are buena onda as they say in Argentina. The last evening in town, before catching our respective buses, we went out for a steak dinner. The food was delicious, and the steaks were huge - so large in fact that I couldn't finish mine or I would have missed my bus, which I just barely made as it was. I think this was the best steak I had in my entire time in Argentina. And as Frank pointed out regarding the size of our bife de chorizos (sirloin steaks): "It was about the size of a newborn baby...... roughly."
Cordoba is known for its UNESCO world-heritage site status and its many prestigious universities, particularly the O.G. of Argentine universities, the Jesuit University that was among the first in South America. This university was later shut down but then reopened a hundred years or so later, after the Spanish crown - which had kicked the Jesuits out of all of Latin America - no longer controlled the country.
In Argentina, it is also known for the beauty of its residents, if such a thing is even possible in that country (for those that don't know, Argentines are considered attractive despite their preference for the mullet haircut).
My personal response to Cordoba is disappointment: although there are some nice areas of historic buildings, most of the city is quite modern. This isn't to say that attending the university int he historic buildings wouldn't be spectacular, it's just that relative to the size of the city (1 million) a few building don't really weigh in heavily. As for the cordobesas - because i was only in town for a short while, and during the week, i really didn't get to meet any, since most of downtown is full of students who come from all over the country. Moreover, my argie friends tell me that what makes them sexy are their accent and inflection in speech. As a result, I think that special something is unlikely to be picked up on by foreigners. This reminded me of one of the many lessons gleaned from all those anthropology classes I took as part of my major: Sex and sexuality with all they entail are, like race, cultural constructs.
Also, the city sounded like it was in the middle of a civil war. There were constantly loud bangs that sounded like cannon shots. The reason for this was an ongoing protest by remis drivers, who blocked roads with their vehicles, burnt tires on the road, thew eggs at those remises that didn't join their protest, and burnt tires in the middle of intersections. They also besieged the municipal government's building so there was a constant stand-off between drivers and heavily armed riot police. That's when they weren't sitting on curbs drinking fernet and cola and verbally harassing the female traffic wardens.
For whatever Cordoba lacked otherwise, it made up for in the people I met. Principally, there were Paul, Frank and Kendal. Frank and Paul are British, Kendal is Australian, and Frank and Kendal are engaged. The two of them are travelling around the world from London on their way to Oz, where they will be married. Paul decided to join them for some time in Latin America as a way to spend time with them. Anyway, they are buena onda as they say in Argentina. The last evening in town, before catching our respective buses, we went out for a steak dinner. The food was delicious, and the steaks were huge - so large in fact that I couldn't finish mine or I would have missed my bus, which I just barely made as it was. I think this was the best steak I had in my entire time in Argentina. And as Frank pointed out regarding the size of our bife de chorizos (sirloin steaks): "It was about the size of a newborn baby...... roughly."
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Hard feelings?
The Argentines are none-too-happy about how IMF support eroded their country.
At least that's how they see it. Under President Menem in the 1990s, Argentina pursued an open economic policy that favored foreign direct investment. As it turned out, many businesses were bought up, and so the Argentines feel that they were forced to sell out on their own assets to protect the IMF loans, which eventually they ended up defaulting on anyway.
However, I think economists see the situation somewhat differently: It was the unsustainable currency-exchange board that locked the Arg. Peso 1:1 with the US$ that ran the country into ruin, because businesses' costs weren't equal to actual value. Moreover, the corruption surrounding the abandonment of the fixed rate angered many, but was no more than emblematic of the great corruption under Menem's economic regime. But when everyday Argentines saw their assets depreciate by 70% in 24 hours, saw their bank accounts frozen so the government could appropriate the money in a last-ditch effort to service debts, saw the political leaders and their cronies flee with immense wealth, and saw their once wealthy country decimated, factories shut, the public sector's workers unpaid for months, and no politicians willing to step up to the challenge, that they came to associate all these policies - whether good or bad, actually imposed by the IMF or not - with that organization and rejected it.
Now I can see both sides: On the one hand, I understand the value of the IMF as a last-resort lender to countries at risk for debt default. I also understand criticism of the IMF that says in the case of Argentina, it should have force the Menem government to give up the fixed exchange rate, as it simply wasn't viable in the long run. What's the point of structural adjustment if you aren't willing to make the dumbest of all ideas part of history?
Well,regardless of what I think, those former middle-class teachers and professionals now living on the street in Argentina have little love for the IMF. It has some of the best educated cab drivers in the world - often university educated, articulate, travelled and intelligent. But because all of this, popular culture in Argentina remains angry at the IMF. Just check out the above artwork, displayed at Mendoza's municipal museum for modern art, and entitled The Queen of the IMF.
Bingo and other on-board entertainment
So on my bus from Mendoza to Cordoba - which despite the poor geographic logic of going there before heading to Buenos Aires was my next stop - we spent the first hour playing. In this case, we played a bastardized form of bingo that took about 5 times as long as it normally does, because before the bus steward (yup, like on a plane) made the passengers guess what number he had drawn before actually calling out the number.
The above is just one of the many forms of "entertainment" provided on public transport in Latin America. here's a short list of others:
Chile - Steven Sigal movies; best when 3 are played immediately in a row, revealing that the story line is always the same: terrorists threaten America, Steven kicks ass despite impossible odds.
Argentina - by far the best movies and entertainment; if you're lucky, you will catch both a good movies (as in: from the last 6 months and running for an Oscar) and an aspiring stand-up comic - the steward.
Bolivia - indio-pop music blared on bad speakers for a long time against the wishes of every single passenger. Another highlight is Bolivia cinema, although this cannot be found on the buses, which have neither TVs nor bathrooms, but is played on the trains. These movies are just plain horrible, make no sense, and they can't edit sound, so you have no idea what people are saying since it's all filmed in the altiplano, and all you hear is the wind on the microphones. For visual entertainment on buses, here are your options: Watch the landscape go by - very amazing; play spot'em - from whom is the smell originating, and what is it? Fecal matter? Coca leaf? Urine? Industrial solvent?; Watch people pee - the lack of sanitation in this country means people take care of business outside, whether your fellow passengers or people on the side of the road. My favorite so far was a little boy in Potosí, in the middle of the city street, pants around his ankles, scratching his head and his butt. He turned to walk away and fell into the dirt. Priceless.
I'll let you all know what they do in Peru when I get there.
So on my bus from Mendoza to Cordoba - which despite the poor geographic logic of going there before heading to Buenos Aires was my next stop - we spent the first hour playing. In this case, we played a bastardized form of bingo that took about 5 times as long as it normally does, because before the bus steward (yup, like on a plane) made the passengers guess what number he had drawn before actually calling out the number.
The above is just one of the many forms of "entertainment" provided on public transport in Latin America. here's a short list of others:
Chile - Steven Sigal movies; best when 3 are played immediately in a row, revealing that the story line is always the same: terrorists threaten America, Steven kicks ass despite impossible odds.
Argentina - by far the best movies and entertainment; if you're lucky, you will catch both a good movies (as in: from the last 6 months and running for an Oscar) and an aspiring stand-up comic - the steward.
Bolivia - indio-pop music blared on bad speakers for a long time against the wishes of every single passenger. Another highlight is Bolivia cinema, although this cannot be found on the buses, which have neither TVs nor bathrooms, but is played on the trains. These movies are just plain horrible, make no sense, and they can't edit sound, so you have no idea what people are saying since it's all filmed in the altiplano, and all you hear is the wind on the microphones. For visual entertainment on buses, here are your options: Watch the landscape go by - very amazing; play spot'em - from whom is the smell originating, and what is it? Fecal matter? Coca leaf? Urine? Industrial solvent?; Watch people pee - the lack of sanitation in this country means people take care of business outside, whether your fellow passengers or people on the side of the road. My favorite so far was a little boy in Potosí, in the middle of the city street, pants around his ankles, scratching his head and his butt. He turned to walk away and fell into the dirt. Priceless.
I'll let you all know what they do in Peru when I get there.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
On Mendoza
Just a really quick note on Mendoza: It's a really beautiful place, I happen to think it's one of the more attractive places around. It's not that the architecture is spectacular, because it most certainly isn't, but rather each street is lined by trees, there are sort of streams that run in gullies along the sidewalks, and they have some very nice plazas and parks evenly distributed throughout the city. Particularly the central plaza is nice: there is a free museum underground displaying modern art by various Mendocinos, and outside there is an open air market that has artisan crafts from jewelry to bottle holders. At the same time, bands play in the little amphitheater, and various street performers are all around the plaza, showing of their various acts. It's really nice in the evenings.
Just a really quick note on Mendoza: It's a really beautiful place, I happen to think it's one of the more attractive places around. It's not that the architecture is spectacular, because it most certainly isn't, but rather each street is lined by trees, there are sort of streams that run in gullies along the sidewalks, and they have some very nice plazas and parks evenly distributed throughout the city. Particularly the central plaza is nice: there is a free museum underground displaying modern art by various Mendocinos, and outside there is an open air market that has artisan crafts from jewelry to bottle holders. At the same time, bands play in the little amphitheater, and various street performers are all around the plaza, showing of their various acts. It's really nice in the evenings.
I'm cured!
Ever since arriving in South America, other travelers have been telling me to chill out - apparently I was constantly on the move, or when I was sitting, I couldn't sit still. Anyway, I think this is because of all the work I did in the year before travelling, with balancing IFPRI/Google/ultimate, and then all the double shifts in London. Once I got down here, I always felt that if I wasn't doing something, I was disappointing myself and others, which is a pretty ridiculous notion since this is my trip and I can do or not do whatever I please. As you might imagine, this made the travelling quite grating, and not so pleasant at times, since I always was exhausted.
Once I checked into the hostel in Mendoza, I met a bunch of Chileans and Argentines who were just relaxing in their last days before university or job vacations were to end. After watching me for a day or two, they took it upon themselves to make me relax and get into a more latino pace of life. Well, thanks to their intervention, I have since been able to just hang for a day, not stress too much and maybe just spend an afternoon watching Champions League matches and having a cold beer.
In continuing this theme, I went to the mountains above Mendoza, ad stayed in a small town by the name of Uspallata, where I pretty much just read, lounged in the little river they have, and one day made an excursion to the Puente del Inca, a rock and sulfur formation that spans a river about 2800 meters above sea level. The myth is that the Inca was bringing his sick son to a healer but couldn't cross the river, so his soldiers formed a human bridge over the gap and then turned into the rock formation. It also has some hot thermal sulfur baths that are great for the skin. Or at least had....
Upon arriving at the Puente, it turned out that it has been closed for foot traffic for about a year and a half now. Apparently, the 300,000 visitors a year crossing the bridge have structurally weakened it, and they fear eventual collapse. Moreover, because the thermal baths are on the other side, there really isn't much to do there anymore. So, if you're going to Mendoza - make the Puente part of one of those all day tours where you'll only spend 20 or 30 minutes there.
Ever since arriving in South America, other travelers have been telling me to chill out - apparently I was constantly on the move, or when I was sitting, I couldn't sit still. Anyway, I think this is because of all the work I did in the year before travelling, with balancing IFPRI/Google/ultimate, and then all the double shifts in London. Once I got down here, I always felt that if I wasn't doing something, I was disappointing myself and others, which is a pretty ridiculous notion since this is my trip and I can do or not do whatever I please. As you might imagine, this made the travelling quite grating, and not so pleasant at times, since I always was exhausted.
Once I checked into the hostel in Mendoza, I met a bunch of Chileans and Argentines who were just relaxing in their last days before university or job vacations were to end. After watching me for a day or two, they took it upon themselves to make me relax and get into a more latino pace of life. Well, thanks to their intervention, I have since been able to just hang for a day, not stress too much and maybe just spend an afternoon watching Champions League matches and having a cold beer.
In continuing this theme, I went to the mountains above Mendoza, ad stayed in a small town by the name of Uspallata, where I pretty much just read, lounged in the little river they have, and one day made an excursion to the Puente del Inca, a rock and sulfur formation that spans a river about 2800 meters above sea level. The myth is that the Inca was bringing his sick son to a healer but couldn't cross the river, so his soldiers formed a human bridge over the gap and then turned into the rock formation. It also has some hot thermal sulfur baths that are great for the skin. Or at least had....
Upon arriving at the Puente, it turned out that it has been closed for foot traffic for about a year and a half now. Apparently, the 300,000 visitors a year crossing the bridge have structurally weakened it, and they fear eventual collapse. Moreover, because the thermal baths are on the other side, there really isn't much to do there anymore. So, if you're going to Mendoza - make the Puente part of one of those all day tours where you'll only spend 20 or 30 minutes there.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Patience, my friend
Well, so I took a 20 hour bus ride from Bariloche to Mendoza. Or at least it was supposed to be 20 hours. Unfortunately, I awoke in the middle of the night to a stopped bus without heating a.k.a. it was freezing, even wrapped up in 2 sweatshirts, a winter jacket and a winter hat. Moreover, I had no idea why we were stopped.
When I looked outside, I saw that we were on the border of the Province of Mendoza. There were a bunch of signs welcoming people to the province, and signs indicating that spraying had to be undertaken to ward off any transfer of agricultural diseases from province to province. Since it was the middle of the night, I assumed that we were standing because the bus, which had been falling further and further behind schedule during the previous day (for instance, departure had been scheduled for 11 am but didn't happen until 11.45) had simply failed to arrive on time for the spraying and was now waiting for the station to open the next morning. Peeved and to cold to sleep, I resigned myself to reading crack - Harry Potter.
However, when these exceedingly annoying German-speaking girls from the back of the bus asked me what was going on, I vented my frustration over Argentine tardiness in about a 3 minute soliloquy about how the companies need to get their act together. It wasn't pretty, but at least I delivered in German so no one else understood, and even the girls, who had been mocking everything Argentine for the past 12 hours or so (this is what made them annoying) looked taken aback by my reaction.
About 90 minutes later I felt like a total jackass. The on board steward (like on a plane) came upstairs and told us that the replacement bus had arrived, so we could change buses and continue onward. Apparently, we had been stopped due to a mechanical fault in the motor, not incompetence. It made me feel really bad that I had gotten so upset over something that wasn't the fault of either driver or steward.
More importantly, it showed me that I still need to go a long way in relaxing and accepting the daily problematic of travelling in Latin America. In this sense, it was a major eye-opener. And since then, I've really worked hard on relaxing and taking things as they come. Moreover, now that I'm in Bolivia I'm very glad I had that epiphany in Argentina, as travel here is a complete mess. But more on that later.
Well, so I took a 20 hour bus ride from Bariloche to Mendoza. Or at least it was supposed to be 20 hours. Unfortunately, I awoke in the middle of the night to a stopped bus without heating a.k.a. it was freezing, even wrapped up in 2 sweatshirts, a winter jacket and a winter hat. Moreover, I had no idea why we were stopped.
When I looked outside, I saw that we were on the border of the Province of Mendoza. There were a bunch of signs welcoming people to the province, and signs indicating that spraying had to be undertaken to ward off any transfer of agricultural diseases from province to province. Since it was the middle of the night, I assumed that we were standing because the bus, which had been falling further and further behind schedule during the previous day (for instance, departure had been scheduled for 11 am but didn't happen until 11.45) had simply failed to arrive on time for the spraying and was now waiting for the station to open the next morning. Peeved and to cold to sleep, I resigned myself to reading crack - Harry Potter.
However, when these exceedingly annoying German-speaking girls from the back of the bus asked me what was going on, I vented my frustration over Argentine tardiness in about a 3 minute soliloquy about how the companies need to get their act together. It wasn't pretty, but at least I delivered in German so no one else understood, and even the girls, who had been mocking everything Argentine for the past 12 hours or so (this is what made them annoying) looked taken aback by my reaction.
About 90 minutes later I felt like a total jackass. The on board steward (like on a plane) came upstairs and told us that the replacement bus had arrived, so we could change buses and continue onward. Apparently, we had been stopped due to a mechanical fault in the motor, not incompetence. It made me feel really bad that I had gotten so upset over something that wasn't the fault of either driver or steward.
More importantly, it showed me that I still need to go a long way in relaxing and accepting the daily problematic of travelling in Latin America. In this sense, it was a major eye-opener. And since then, I've really worked hard on relaxing and taking things as they come. Moreover, now that I'm in Bolivia I'm very glad I had that epiphany in Argentina, as travel here is a complete mess. But more on that later.
¿Cuando...ahem, Wann? wait, When?
So while in Bariloche, I was walking down the street after getting some groceries, when I was thinking about something I have by now long forgotten. (this was, after all, about a month ago), when suddenly I realized I was thinking about it in Spanish.
That was pretty sweet since I had hopes of really improving my Spanish on this trip. In fact, it was a major motivation. I then thought about the last time I had spoken German or English, and realized I was on my 3rd day of Spanish only. Excellent....
I have to thank the hostel I was staying in, Bolso de Deportes. As I mentioned in my penultimate post, they are real nice and have a lot of information. Moreover, they have great kitchen facilities and comfy beds free of bugs. Most importantly, they attract a great group of people: Mainly Argentines, Chileans, as well as some Europeans (2 Italians who cooked for the whole hostel every night!), and a bunch of cool Basques, as well as friendly Spaniards like Roger. Moreover, the lingua franca of the hostel is Spanish, unlike most other hostels. Although now that I've been through all of Argentina and am in Bolivia, I have to say that the large number of Chileans travelling in Patagonia and generally in the west of the country helps tip the balance in favor Spanish as the main language in hostels, something I missed in Buenos Aires and since.
So while in Bariloche, I was walking down the street after getting some groceries, when I was thinking about something I have by now long forgotten. (this was, after all, about a month ago), when suddenly I realized I was thinking about it in Spanish.
That was pretty sweet since I had hopes of really improving my Spanish on this trip. In fact, it was a major motivation. I then thought about the last time I had spoken German or English, and realized I was on my 3rd day of Spanish only. Excellent....
I have to thank the hostel I was staying in, Bolso de Deportes. As I mentioned in my penultimate post, they are real nice and have a lot of information. Moreover, they have great kitchen facilities and comfy beds free of bugs. Most importantly, they attract a great group of people: Mainly Argentines, Chileans, as well as some Europeans (2 Italians who cooked for the whole hostel every night!), and a bunch of cool Basques, as well as friendly Spaniards like Roger. Moreover, the lingua franca of the hostel is Spanish, unlike most other hostels. Although now that I've been through all of Argentina and am in Bolivia, I have to say that the large number of Chileans travelling in Patagonia and generally in the west of the country helps tip the balance in favor Spanish as the main language in hostels, something I missed in Buenos Aires and since.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Different forms in different countries
As anyone who has studied South American history knows, Chile and Argentina are traditional enemies. Historically, Argentina has had the upper hand in most respects: It is larger; more fertile; more populous; and its geographic position at the head of the Rio de la Plata and the Atlantic to control exports to Europe. However, the past century has seen a Chilean ascendancy: With the growth of the American West, there was an export market for agricultural products; sitting upon some of the richest fishing grounds in the world (the Humboldt stream), refrigeration and instant freezing allowed for a fishing industry for export; and after annexing the Atacama desert from Bolivia in the War of the Pacific, it was a principal nitrate exporter in the world (this actually was the first of the 3).
Today, many people consider Chile the wealthier of the two countries, and GDP per head confirms this I believe. In fact, these days Chilean businesses actually own major stakes in many Argentine companies - they bought up massively after the 2001 currency collapse. On the other hand, Argentines are proud of their quality of life, and maintain that Chile, for whatever success it's had in the last few decades, lacks much of what makes Argentina a great place to live. Chileans on the other hand praise their incorruptible police (very unlike Argentina - more on this in another post), their responsive government, and their progressive country.
Here's a major difference I've noticed in the "wealth" of the two countries:
Argentina had 150 years of infrastructural investment, starting with the train concessions given to the British. The road network is excellent, you can drink the tap water in just about all parts of the country, and the administrative infrastructure, particularly in regards to agriculture, is great. For instance, contaminated honey can be traced to the hive from which it originated, even if the contamination isn't discovered until months and thousands of miles later, abroad. Moreover, Argentina can produce almost all food needs domestically, due to the incredible breadth of environments within the country. Schools and telephone and internet services exist just about everywhere. Unfortunately, ever since 2001 many of its people have had to live in bitter poverty, although this is visibly becoming better.
Chile on the other hand, has great personal wealth; although many of the places I went still lacked paved roads, people were skeptical of the quality of drinking water, and waste water management remains an "idea to be explored in the future," people had many personal accessories that are great luxuries elsewhere. For instance, a digital camera, though not rare anymore in Argentina, is pretty much standard even for backpackers in Chile. In fact, the whole country was packed with Chileans travelling around - from15 year old girls in brand name gear to families in new cars. And on top of the digital camera, everyone was rocking one some form of m3 player, to boot.
As anyone who has studied South American history knows, Chile and Argentina are traditional enemies. Historically, Argentina has had the upper hand in most respects: It is larger; more fertile; more populous; and its geographic position at the head of the Rio de la Plata and the Atlantic to control exports to Europe. However, the past century has seen a Chilean ascendancy: With the growth of the American West, there was an export market for agricultural products; sitting upon some of the richest fishing grounds in the world (the Humboldt stream), refrigeration and instant freezing allowed for a fishing industry for export; and after annexing the Atacama desert from Bolivia in the War of the Pacific, it was a principal nitrate exporter in the world (this actually was the first of the 3).
Today, many people consider Chile the wealthier of the two countries, and GDP per head confirms this I believe. In fact, these days Chilean businesses actually own major stakes in many Argentine companies - they bought up massively after the 2001 currency collapse. On the other hand, Argentines are proud of their quality of life, and maintain that Chile, for whatever success it's had in the last few decades, lacks much of what makes Argentina a great place to live. Chileans on the other hand praise their incorruptible police (very unlike Argentina - more on this in another post), their responsive government, and their progressive country.
Here's a major difference I've noticed in the "wealth" of the two countries:
Argentina had 150 years of infrastructural investment, starting with the train concessions given to the British. The road network is excellent, you can drink the tap water in just about all parts of the country, and the administrative infrastructure, particularly in regards to agriculture, is great. For instance, contaminated honey can be traced to the hive from which it originated, even if the contamination isn't discovered until months and thousands of miles later, abroad. Moreover, Argentina can produce almost all food needs domestically, due to the incredible breadth of environments within the country. Schools and telephone and internet services exist just about everywhere. Unfortunately, ever since 2001 many of its people have had to live in bitter poverty, although this is visibly becoming better.
Chile on the other hand, has great personal wealth; although many of the places I went still lacked paved roads, people were skeptical of the quality of drinking water, and waste water management remains an "idea to be explored in the future," people had many personal accessories that are great luxuries elsewhere. For instance, a digital camera, though not rare anymore in Argentina, is pretty much standard even for backpackers in Chile. In fact, the whole country was packed with Chileans travelling around - from15 year old girls in brand name gear to families in new cars. And on top of the digital camera, everyone was rocking one some form of m3 player, to boot.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Freezing on the Frey
So while I was in Bariloche, I stayed in hostel where a lot of outdoorsy type people stay, and they have good maps and excellent information on a number of outdoor activities in the area. Moreover, the vibe is really laid back and everyone is of "buena onda" i.e. everyone's cool. So one of the popular hikes in the areas takes you from the the base of the main ski area (Cerro Cathedral) to a refugio at 1700m altitude, something that's claimed to take about 4 hours. Refugio Frey is one of the best rock climbing locations in Argentina because of it's rock facades immediately above the lake, or in the adjoining valleys. You can also use it as a jumping-off point for multi-day hikes that eventually take you back down to the town - or at least to places where there's a bus to town a couple times a day.
Although you can do Frey and back as a day hike - although a very tiring one - I was convinced by another guy to go up there for two nights and hang out, maybe borrow someone's equipment and do some climbing. Moreover, the guy I was going to go up there with had a friend who was living on the mountain as a climbing guide. So with that in mind, I headed out from Bariloche with Roger, a cool Spaniard from Barcelona. The two of us being in decent shape (mine in acute decline over the trip, I should mention, but apparently still living off the alumni weekend game), we actually reached the peak in about 1.5 hours less than is considered "normal" - and indeed, we were going fast, with only short breaks.
The refugio itself is a small stone house that sits by a beautiful lake almost entirely surrounded by high rock formations in rough shapes. On one side, it spawns a small stream by the side of the building. You can either stay at the refugio itself, or you can camp alongside the lake. Roger and I pitched our (separate) tents and made our respective soup dinners - he rocked some very good miso, and I was impressed. I instead opted for an old favorite, tomato cream, but is' since come off the list - you will see why.
First of all, my soup didn't really desolve properly, and thus was a little chunky for a cream soup. And almost the moment I finished the soup, I began feeling a little ... funky. Nonetheless, we chilled for a little while longer before retiring to sleep. I however, was having difficulty sleeping, which i chalked up to the cold. Despite my sleeping bag's claim to be comfortable around freezing and work until -8 C, I will at this point acknowledge that the Polish manufacturer is quite frankly wrong. So I was comfortably huddled up in my sleeping bag in sweatshirt, winter hat and pants, but began shaking more and more, in tune to my stomach becoming more and more uncomfortable. Finally, I decide that I needed out of the tent - and quickly. After opening the tent and crawling about 3 feet to the end of the portal, I vomited immediately in front of the tent in the strong wind. A storm was brewing, Roger heard me and asked if I was ok, even came out to check on me. He said he would probably head to the refugio soon, as his tent (a second hand Argentine contraption he'd picked up in Bariloche) wasn't keeping him dry. I instead decided to stick it out in the tent, as the fresh air was actually quite nice. Moreover, having vomited I didn't feel nearly as cold, so I actually was able to fall asleep once I'd crawled back into the tent (my lower half never left the sleeping bag).
Unfortunately for me, neither my stomach nor the weather held. The wind increased more and more, beginning to drive heavy raindrops in front of it, until finally the rain turned into hail. My stomach settled into a rhythm of demanding an "emergency action" every two hours, and so I passed the night in and out of the tent, in and out of the hail.
By the next morning, the weather was foul. Low clouds made climbing impossible, and any views towards above impossible. I slowly packed up my gear, got a tea at the refugio, and began my descent while Roger decided to stay. It took me more than an hour more to descend than it had taken me to climb the mountain, plus I took some long breaks (including a 30 minute nap) and I was a wreck by the time I got down. Luckily for me, a bus to town was leaving just then; unluckily for me, i was at the back of the line, so I had to stand, making me feel like I was going to either get sick again or faint.
I'm glad I went down that day though: the next day there were 20 cm of snow at the Frey that had fallen overnight, which made for beautiful pictures (Roger showed me), but would have been a miserable descent in my sneakers. On the upside, from Barloche itself, the views were spectacular: Instead of either green or brown mountain tops, all around the city and the lake the hills were crowned in white.
That's summer in Patagonia.
So while I was in Bariloche, I stayed in hostel where a lot of outdoorsy type people stay, and they have good maps and excellent information on a number of outdoor activities in the area. Moreover, the vibe is really laid back and everyone is of "buena onda" i.e. everyone's cool. So one of the popular hikes in the areas takes you from the the base of the main ski area (Cerro Cathedral) to a refugio at 1700m altitude, something that's claimed to take about 4 hours. Refugio Frey is one of the best rock climbing locations in Argentina because of it's rock facades immediately above the lake, or in the adjoining valleys. You can also use it as a jumping-off point for multi-day hikes that eventually take you back down to the town - or at least to places where there's a bus to town a couple times a day.
Although you can do Frey and back as a day hike - although a very tiring one - I was convinced by another guy to go up there for two nights and hang out, maybe borrow someone's equipment and do some climbing. Moreover, the guy I was going to go up there with had a friend who was living on the mountain as a climbing guide. So with that in mind, I headed out from Bariloche with Roger, a cool Spaniard from Barcelona. The two of us being in decent shape (mine in acute decline over the trip, I should mention, but apparently still living off the alumni weekend game), we actually reached the peak in about 1.5 hours less than is considered "normal" - and indeed, we were going fast, with only short breaks.
The refugio itself is a small stone house that sits by a beautiful lake almost entirely surrounded by high rock formations in rough shapes. On one side, it spawns a small stream by the side of the building. You can either stay at the refugio itself, or you can camp alongside the lake. Roger and I pitched our (separate) tents and made our respective soup dinners - he rocked some very good miso, and I was impressed. I instead opted for an old favorite, tomato cream, but is' since come off the list - you will see why.
First of all, my soup didn't really desolve properly, and thus was a little chunky for a cream soup. And almost the moment I finished the soup, I began feeling a little ... funky. Nonetheless, we chilled for a little while longer before retiring to sleep. I however, was having difficulty sleeping, which i chalked up to the cold. Despite my sleeping bag's claim to be comfortable around freezing and work until -8 C, I will at this point acknowledge that the Polish manufacturer is quite frankly wrong. So I was comfortably huddled up in my sleeping bag in sweatshirt, winter hat and pants, but began shaking more and more, in tune to my stomach becoming more and more uncomfortable. Finally, I decide that I needed out of the tent - and quickly. After opening the tent and crawling about 3 feet to the end of the portal, I vomited immediately in front of the tent in the strong wind. A storm was brewing, Roger heard me and asked if I was ok, even came out to check on me. He said he would probably head to the refugio soon, as his tent (a second hand Argentine contraption he'd picked up in Bariloche) wasn't keeping him dry. I instead decided to stick it out in the tent, as the fresh air was actually quite nice. Moreover, having vomited I didn't feel nearly as cold, so I actually was able to fall asleep once I'd crawled back into the tent (my lower half never left the sleeping bag).
Unfortunately for me, neither my stomach nor the weather held. The wind increased more and more, beginning to drive heavy raindrops in front of it, until finally the rain turned into hail. My stomach settled into a rhythm of demanding an "emergency action" every two hours, and so I passed the night in and out of the tent, in and out of the hail.
By the next morning, the weather was foul. Low clouds made climbing impossible, and any views towards above impossible. I slowly packed up my gear, got a tea at the refugio, and began my descent while Roger decided to stay. It took me more than an hour more to descend than it had taken me to climb the mountain, plus I took some long breaks (including a 30 minute nap) and I was a wreck by the time I got down. Luckily for me, a bus to town was leaving just then; unluckily for me, i was at the back of the line, so I had to stand, making me feel like I was going to either get sick again or faint.
I'm glad I went down that day though: the next day there were 20 cm of snow at the Frey that had fallen overnight, which made for beautiful pictures (Roger showed me), but would have been a miserable descent in my sneakers. On the upside, from Barloche itself, the views were spectacular: Instead of either green or brown mountain tops, all around the city and the lake the hills were crowned in white.
That's summer in Patagonia.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Fixed the comments settings
yeah, so I went the was of House and have opened up comments to all readers, reardless of blogger membership. So feel free to leave me a note, or as always, you can hit up the email.
yeah, so I went the was of House and have opened up comments to all readers, reardless of blogger membership. So feel free to leave me a note, or as always, you can hit up the email.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Oh Argentina, you're so silly
One thing about Argentina that I'd forgotten is how totally incomprehensible illogical some organizational aspects of this country are. Or rather, what lack of simple common sense underlies these administrative decisions. I was immediately confronted with two examples in the first 3 hours in the country:
You can't trade Chilean to Argentine pesos in Chaitén. I doubt you can in Futaleufú, but since the bus from Chaitén arrives after the bank closes, and the morning bus to the border goes before it opens, it wasn't possible for me, even if there is general availability. The border of course is in the middle of nowhere, and so you are dependent on the bus to get you from there to the nearest towns of Trevelin or Ezquel. However, this bus costs money, and can only be paid in local currency, which you can't get anywhere within 2 days travel of the border. Wonderful, and well thought out Argentina.
So I was able to overcome the above problem through the generosity of two other travelers (2 Israeli girls, actually). Unfortunately for both them and me, when we arrived at Ezquel, it turned out that the nearest ATM is about a km away. So I rushed off to get cash and repay them as well as buy my onward bus ticket. So with my heavy backpack, I began running down the street until I finally reached the first ATM, where there were approximately a bazillion people were standing in line to use it - a common Latin American feature, I might add. So having waited it out to use the machine, I then sprinted back to the bus station, because I had a feeling that I would miss the next bus if I didn't.
By the time I had returned to the bus station, the bus had already left. (this resulted in a 6 hour layover for me, and non-payment of my debt even though I spent part of the next day going hostel to hostel looking for the girls). So here's my question: How do two such obvious points of interest not appeal to independent ATM operators who charge a small fee? If not at the border, then at least at the bus station where people from abroad arrive? And it's not like the bus station was old and didn't have space. The thing was brand new, in gorgeous condition, and all other traveller amenities were built in, including a rather large internet cafe. But in a country where a quite a number of bus operators do not take credit/debit cards, or where the window of time between arrival and departure is designed to be small, you would quite simply expect something like an ATM, which would make so much sense.
So, Argentina: Why are you so silly?
One thing about Argentina that I'd forgotten is how totally incomprehensible illogical some organizational aspects of this country are. Or rather, what lack of simple common sense underlies these administrative decisions. I was immediately confronted with two examples in the first 3 hours in the country:
You can't trade Chilean to Argentine pesos in Chaitén. I doubt you can in Futaleufú, but since the bus from Chaitén arrives after the bank closes, and the morning bus to the border goes before it opens, it wasn't possible for me, even if there is general availability. The border of course is in the middle of nowhere, and so you are dependent on the bus to get you from there to the nearest towns of Trevelin or Ezquel. However, this bus costs money, and can only be paid in local currency, which you can't get anywhere within 2 days travel of the border. Wonderful, and well thought out Argentina.
So I was able to overcome the above problem through the generosity of two other travelers (2 Israeli girls, actually). Unfortunately for both them and me, when we arrived at Ezquel, it turned out that the nearest ATM is about a km away. So I rushed off to get cash and repay them as well as buy my onward bus ticket. So with my heavy backpack, I began running down the street until I finally reached the first ATM, where there were approximately a bazillion people were standing in line to use it - a common Latin American feature, I might add. So having waited it out to use the machine, I then sprinted back to the bus station, because I had a feeling that I would miss the next bus if I didn't.
By the time I had returned to the bus station, the bus had already left. (this resulted in a 6 hour layover for me, and non-payment of my debt even though I spent part of the next day going hostel to hostel looking for the girls). So here's my question: How do two such obvious points of interest not appeal to independent ATM operators who charge a small fee? If not at the border, then at least at the bus station where people from abroad arrive? And it's not like the bus station was old and didn't have space. The thing was brand new, in gorgeous condition, and all other traveller amenities were built in, including a rather large internet cafe. But in a country where a quite a number of bus operators do not take credit/debit cards, or where the window of time between arrival and departure is designed to be small, you would quite simply expect something like an ATM, which would make so much sense.
So, Argentina: Why are you so silly?
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Chaitén -> Futaleufú -> Ezquel -> Bariloche
After my tent pole snapped in Chaitén, it was clear to me that I wouldn't be able to repair it on the carretera austral, because quite frankly, there really isn't anything there. So instead of sulking about the tent and my rapidly disappearing money, I decided to make a move for the border and get my rear over the cordillera and into Argentina, which at the very least has to be cheaper then Chile, right? So I spent the following morning checking out the local museum - dedicated to the construction of the carretera and local settlement, and based on the army base that is responsible for road maintenance and construction - and a nearby waterfall before taking the one daily bus to Futaleufú which serves as the border. I'd already realized that I lack the equipment to undertake Torres del Paine, so I know I'll be back to Chile. (Christoph und Steph, falls ihr das hier liesst ist das der direkte Aufruf, mit mir naechsten Dezember/Januar in Suedamerika Wandern und Bergsteigen zu gehen.)
The ride from Chaitén to Futa is amazing. The dirt track winds its way through pristine temperate rain forests/pine forests, which are crowned by glowing blue glaciers on the mountains above - and shimmering blue lakes below. The ride takes about 6 hours for the 100 or so km, and of course, it gets dusty in the bus. By the time I reached Futa it was too late to cross the border, so I had to find a boarding house, which I was able to do. The following morning I caught an 8 am ride to the Chilean border post, and then on to the Argentine border post. I have been told that crossing this border can be very stressful - stressful to the tune of 3-4 hours between Santiago and Mendoza, where every piece of luggage is x-rayed and hand luggage searched by hand. However, at the Futa crossing, you drop your backpack on the lawn in front of the border post, walk in, and get your passport stamped. They don't even give you the little piece of paper you need to leave the country again! When I asked them about it, they said they didn't do that there, and none of the other extranjeros (because most people crossing there were) hadn't received one either, so I figured I wasn't being picked on more than others, and didn't aggravate the guards any more. For people who have extremely little to do, they seemed quite irritable about their low workload. As for luggage being stolen, it's really not possible: although I wouldn't trust the guards standing outside to stop theft, everyone there is waiting on the bus (and by everyone, I mean all 20 people) so it's not like the thief could make off with your stuff.
As soon as the passport is stamped, one realizes that one is in Argentina. How, you probably are asking? Well, the bus is late..... very argentino. About 45 minutes late, which is impressive for a bus that only has to go about 2 hours total. So everyone lounges around on the front lawn, waiting for the bus, with a number of people drinking mate.
Once on the bus, it turns out each passenger needs to pay either a) 10 pesos to get to Trevelin, which is useless or 15 pesos to get to Ezquel, from where buses run north and south. Oh, and they don't accept payment in Chilean pesos. This presented a considerable challenge to me, as the only arg. pesos I had remaining were the change I had left in my wallet when I left the country after studying abroad there more than 2 years ago. Basically, I had 10 pesos, but getting stuck in Trevelin was not an option as far as I was concerned, particularly as I did not know whether they have cash machines there (probability: fair, desire to be stuck if wrong: zero). So I figured I'd do what probably every other mochilero (backpacker) in my position would do: I hit up the other mochileros for help. And indeed, the first group, two Israeli girls) were willing to spot me a 5er, and I promised them to go straight to the ATM in Ezquel in order to pay them back.
Eventually, I arrived in Bariloche that night after an unexpectedly long lay over in Ezquel. However, during that time I was able to get replacement/fixing parts for my tent pole, as Prachee had kindly been in touch with the tent makers and gotten instructions on how to get around the problem. I walked to a nearby hardware store, and about 20 minutes later I not only had what I needed to fix the break, but 4 additional pieces of the same piping in order to repair any future breaks, should they occur. When I asked the guy what I owed him, he just shrugged and laughed. The way he saw it, the 20 cm of copper piping weren't even ringing up, since they usually sell by the dozen meters to construction companies. Sweet, already the argentines were living up to another stereotype, that of the friendly outgoing middle class. And also, the stereotype of disorganization/general nonsensical organization, which I will elaborate on at another point.
Finally, I caught the 5 hour bus to Bariloche, where I arrived exhausted at about midnight, as 5 hours in Argentina actually means that the bus will leave 30 minutes late, and it will take five and a half hours to arrive. Arriving in Bariloche at night at the height of the tourist season really isn't a problem - if you have a reservation. I of course did not have a reservation. Normally when you arrive at a bus station, there are people standing around offering you alojamiento (housing) in any number of hostels, hotels, and home stays. Unfortunately, at Bariloche there wasn't a single offer, which generally means everything is full. Faced by this unexpectedly bad situation, I swung my heavy pack on my back and began the 4 km walk into the town center. As usual, my luck held and the first place I asked at actually had one bed remaining, though by that time I'd already spend 45 minutes walking, sweating, through some good and some less-than spectacular neighborhoods worrying about the prospect of being on the street for the night, because although I had the replacement pieces for the tent, I had not yet had the opportunity to make the repairs. It was called Bolsa de Deportes, and I would seriously recommend that hostel. However, I was exhausted, went out for a quick lomito, and hit the hay.
After my tent pole snapped in Chaitén, it was clear to me that I wouldn't be able to repair it on the carretera austral, because quite frankly, there really isn't anything there. So instead of sulking about the tent and my rapidly disappearing money, I decided to make a move for the border and get my rear over the cordillera and into Argentina, which at the very least has to be cheaper then Chile, right? So I spent the following morning checking out the local museum - dedicated to the construction of the carretera and local settlement, and based on the army base that is responsible for road maintenance and construction - and a nearby waterfall before taking the one daily bus to Futaleufú which serves as the border. I'd already realized that I lack the equipment to undertake Torres del Paine, so I know I'll be back to Chile. (Christoph und Steph, falls ihr das hier liesst ist das der direkte Aufruf, mit mir naechsten Dezember/Januar in Suedamerika Wandern und Bergsteigen zu gehen.)
The ride from Chaitén to Futa is amazing. The dirt track winds its way through pristine temperate rain forests/pine forests, which are crowned by glowing blue glaciers on the mountains above - and shimmering blue lakes below. The ride takes about 6 hours for the 100 or so km, and of course, it gets dusty in the bus. By the time I reached Futa it was too late to cross the border, so I had to find a boarding house, which I was able to do. The following morning I caught an 8 am ride to the Chilean border post, and then on to the Argentine border post. I have been told that crossing this border can be very stressful - stressful to the tune of 3-4 hours between Santiago and Mendoza, where every piece of luggage is x-rayed and hand luggage searched by hand. However, at the Futa crossing, you drop your backpack on the lawn in front of the border post, walk in, and get your passport stamped. They don't even give you the little piece of paper you need to leave the country again! When I asked them about it, they said they didn't do that there, and none of the other extranjeros (because most people crossing there were) hadn't received one either, so I figured I wasn't being picked on more than others, and didn't aggravate the guards any more. For people who have extremely little to do, they seemed quite irritable about their low workload. As for luggage being stolen, it's really not possible: although I wouldn't trust the guards standing outside to stop theft, everyone there is waiting on the bus (and by everyone, I mean all 20 people) so it's not like the thief could make off with your stuff.
As soon as the passport is stamped, one realizes that one is in Argentina. How, you probably are asking? Well, the bus is late..... very argentino. About 45 minutes late, which is impressive for a bus that only has to go about 2 hours total. So everyone lounges around on the front lawn, waiting for the bus, with a number of people drinking mate.
Once on the bus, it turns out each passenger needs to pay either a) 10 pesos to get to Trevelin, which is useless or 15 pesos to get to Ezquel, from where buses run north and south. Oh, and they don't accept payment in Chilean pesos. This presented a considerable challenge to me, as the only arg. pesos I had remaining were the change I had left in my wallet when I left the country after studying abroad there more than 2 years ago. Basically, I had 10 pesos, but getting stuck in Trevelin was not an option as far as I was concerned, particularly as I did not know whether they have cash machines there (probability: fair, desire to be stuck if wrong: zero). So I figured I'd do what probably every other mochilero (backpacker) in my position would do: I hit up the other mochileros for help. And indeed, the first group, two Israeli girls) were willing to spot me a 5er, and I promised them to go straight to the ATM in Ezquel in order to pay them back.
Eventually, I arrived in Bariloche that night after an unexpectedly long lay over in Ezquel. However, during that time I was able to get replacement/fixing parts for my tent pole, as Prachee had kindly been in touch with the tent makers and gotten instructions on how to get around the problem. I walked to a nearby hardware store, and about 20 minutes later I not only had what I needed to fix the break, but 4 additional pieces of the same piping in order to repair any future breaks, should they occur. When I asked the guy what I owed him, he just shrugged and laughed. The way he saw it, the 20 cm of copper piping weren't even ringing up, since they usually sell by the dozen meters to construction companies. Sweet, already the argentines were living up to another stereotype, that of the friendly outgoing middle class. And also, the stereotype of disorganization/general nonsensical organization, which I will elaborate on at another point.
Finally, I caught the 5 hour bus to Bariloche, where I arrived exhausted at about midnight, as 5 hours in Argentina actually means that the bus will leave 30 minutes late, and it will take five and a half hours to arrive. Arriving in Bariloche at night at the height of the tourist season really isn't a problem - if you have a reservation. I of course did not have a reservation. Normally when you arrive at a bus station, there are people standing around offering you alojamiento (housing) in any number of hostels, hotels, and home stays. Unfortunately, at Bariloche there wasn't a single offer, which generally means everything is full. Faced by this unexpectedly bad situation, I swung my heavy pack on my back and began the 4 km walk into the town center. As usual, my luck held and the first place I asked at actually had one bed remaining, though by that time I'd already spend 45 minutes walking, sweating, through some good and some less-than spectacular neighborhoods worrying about the prospect of being on the street for the night, because although I had the replacement pieces for the tent, I had not yet had the opportunity to make the repairs. It was called Bolsa de Deportes, and I would seriously recommend that hostel. However, I was exhausted, went out for a quick lomito, and hit the hay.
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