Thursday 31 January 2013

31st January 2013


Its been a pretty busy couple of days in La Paz for me in the run up to my sojourn to Peru... I've nearly come to an end of my Spanish lessons and in an effort to give me some time to practice before my final assessment Carlos (my instructor) taught me past and present tenses this week in ten hours of classes across Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. I really can't quite believe how far I've come with my Spanish, not bad for someone who's pretty convinced that his memory is permanently impaired for one reason or another. Outside of Spanish I've been pushing on with various pieces of research, including my first proper interview! Tuesday night I met with Elena McGrath a PHD student I met at my Spanish school from Michigan who's thesis is all about the history of mining co-operatives in Bolivia. We met in the Blueberry cafe where I picked her brains for a couple of hours ahead of trip we're making together in a couple of weeks to visit some mining co-ops in Oruro. As soon as my website's up and the visit's complete I'll have my first research article up for public consumption so watch this space.

Aside from work stuff I've spent a bit of time wandering around La Paz to visit various mountain trekking outfits to see if I'd be able to climb Illmani before I head off. This was complicated initially by the pretty much complete closure of central La Paz on Tuesday thanks to a bus strike. I'd mistakenly assumed that a bus strike simply meant there would be no busses running Tuesday. In reality hundreds, yes hundreds of collectivos (these are little toyota people carriers that ship people all around the city) blockaded the Prado. The Prado is the main street in La Paz which pretty all street connect to (try to imagine beach tree leaf and you're pretty much looking at an overhead view of La Paz, the Prado being the central vein). Thanks to the blockade most everyone in La Paz had decided it was best to take the day off so no mountain excursions for me. Undeterred I tried again the next day only to find out the first available (safe) date to make the ascent is after I leave so I'm going to have to settle for the lower (still 6,088m) and slightly less challenging Huyana Potosi. Also found time to eat some more Bolivian delicacies, this time it was quinoa soup in a little restaurant run by a good friend Ruben's. Its up in the hills of La Paz nestled underneath one of the most famous paradors called Kiri Kiri. I think it just about killed Ruben getting up there thanks to a rather heavy night on the Fernet (form him not me) but it was well worth the trip. I've always looked down my nose at Quinoa but I have to admit this soup was on a par with my granny's own scotch broth. If you're ever in La Paz let me know and I'll give you some more detailed directions.

As I'm writing this post I'm once again on a bus this time rapidly approaching Cuzco for a week of fun and frolics here and in the nearby sacred valley. The bus journey today has been a definite step up form the Argentinian experience for a variety of reasons.... First the journey has almost all been in day light and the scenery has been at times breath taking. We skirted around lake Titicaca (highest lake in the world if you didn't know), and I can report its very big and very beautiful. It was almost hard to remember how high up we were as the Alti Plano plateaux it sits on is so vast with flat plains and distant mountains climbing higher still. I suppose it must be the biggest / highest plateaux outside of Tibet? The waters of the lake gleamed bright sapphire blue as we sped past adobe houses and farmers tending their plots shaped like run-rigs (minus the dry staine dykes) running towards the reed beds around the edge of the lake's tranquil expanse. Next bonus was the border crossing which took no more than two hours to clear. A hell of a lot better than the Bolivia – Argentina crossing that was more like six.

The final travel treat was a book called The Open Veins of Latin America by Eduard Galleano. I'd recommend it to anyone how intends to come and visit Latin America or an interest in history. I was glued to it all day and found myself devouring it cover to cover (a feat I've rarely achieved in my life). I won't try to give a synopsis but simply state that its a pretty insightful history written with the panache usually reserved for great novelists. Not to say that its in anyway fictional but this ability to paint a picture makes it one of the, if not the best history book I've ever read.

Lights have come up on the bus so I guess we're about to arrive at the station. Not bad just two hours later than advertised!

Monday 28 January 2013

28th January 2013


Its been a few days since I arrived back in La Paz and even though I don't have anything out of the ordinary to report I've really enjoyed taking a little time to focus on work (research reading, correspondence and interview prep), picking up again with my Spanish lessons and beginning a fitness regime aimed at getting into good enough shape to tackle Mt Illmani (meaning Golden Eagle in Aymara) towards the end of February. Its the second highest mountain in Bolivia clocking up 6,438m in altitude and I expect its going to be just about the biggest physical challenge I've ever subjected myself to.

My fitness regime has been helped by the plentiful sunshine we've enjoyed here the last couple of days (I don't think I had two consecutive days of sunny weather here in La Paz in the entire month I stayed here previously) and the continuing presence of those ever so helpful extra red blood cells I built up in my previous stay which don't seem to have been depleted by my trip to the Buenos Aires. Perhaps my huge intake of red meat helped with the iron?

The clement weather hasn't just helped with the fitness, as it seems to have slowed the already rather relaxed pace of life here down another couple of notches making the experience of walking through the streets of La Paz and their ever present array of stalls and street hockers more pleasant than ever. Street life really is where its at in La Paz. There are very few actual shops you can enter with almost every ware sold in stalls lining the streets be it sim cards, fruit, raincoats, blankets, padlocks, fish and a whole lot more. People eat in the street too and since I've returned I've got more and more involved in the delights of food “en la calle” (in the street). I've developed a particular passion well its probably more like an addiction for a local snack called tucumanas. I was first introduced to this rather delicious jack of all trades morsel by my Spanish teacher Carlos who took me along to his favourite stall one afternoon right before I left. Tucumanas are basically a pastry based snack think empenada and if you don't know what that is pasty, at least as far as the shape goes. Unlike either of these the pastry is a thin slightly crispy fried affair that is really very light; the filling is a little more exciting containing: potato, onion, chicken, minced beef and hard boiled eggs. But the real fun starts with the array of sauces on offer to accompany them. Convention is to eat your tucumana at the stall you buy it from where you have a handily positioned table with at least six different sauces I can remember, these are: a green picante (spicy) one, a slightly less spicy tomato based one, a peanuty one, another tomato one without spice, a more herby green one, and another brown one that is kind of salty. You can switch sauce with every bite and two of these beauties costs around £1! I must also give an honourable mention to the soups here too, top two: sopa de mare and sopa de quinoa.

Aside form gorging myself on the delicacies of the street I've also spent some time with my friend Ruben who's 100% Bolivian and 100% cool. He took me out with a couple of his friends, Raul and Luis to a proper Bolivian boozer on Saturday night. Aside from the merriment and opportunity to practice my Spanish I leant about Bolivian customs and superstitions. They've got a tonne of them! I won't list off the entire gamut but I'll give you a quick flavour... First off its very bad luck to have any odd numbers of bottles on the table which meant Ruben was attentively checking the count at all times and moving offending odd numbered bottles from the table to the floor. The fun doesn't stop there as every fifth drink must be shared with Pachamama (translates loosely as mother earth and she's the no. 1 god around these parts, although all three of my hosts insisted they were catholic, who I thought were rather keen on having only one god?) this means pouring a little beer on the floor where I assume she can enjoy at her own leisure. This is the least of Pachamama's demands though, as I already discovered in an earlier trip to the witches market llama foetuses are readily available for farmers to bury under their crop in yet another offering, but more shocking still is the necessary offering if you're in the business of building a large home or office of a “lazy” person buried underneath said building. I took this in jest at first but my hosts insistence and independent verification from my Spanish teacher have confirmed this really happens. They even assured me that La Paz was a great place for it as there are a host of “lazy” people to choose from!

Tomorrow I conduct my first interview relating to the mining co-ops here in Bolivia which should be interesting and then Wednesday night its off to Cuzco in Peru for some fun with a couple of friends out there. Much as I love Buenos Aires La Paz really does seem to be my home away from home here in South America. I'm off to compare a ping-pong and pool tournament...

Friday 25 January 2013

24th January 2013

One again I'm back on a bus, this time round I'm heading from Santa Cruz to La Paz, having short circuited the journey thanks to a flight from Buenos Aires. I would have flown all the way alas flights direct to La Paz are prohibitively expensive and even with the bus ride my entire journey back will take less than a third of my outbound leg.

I leave Buenos Aries craving more time there, but as many folks say the best time to go is before you feel ready. Anyway I'll be back before my trip concludes to do some follow up work with a couple of co-ops and visit some of my new friends.

Last night I met with Marco and Sean O Macdonald (who I mentioned in a previous post) he bares an uncanny resemblance to a dear old friend Simon who's also in the business of saving lives although in a slightly different context Sean even agreed on the similarity (I think its unusual for people to acknowledge their own doppelgänger)! Yet it goes deeper than that, they're both people with big open hearts they wear on there sleeve, its a shame there aren't more like them. Adding to the brew of weird(ish) coincidence he's from Nelson a town of ten thousand in remote British Columbia, Canada where it just so happens three of my good friends from school now live.

We rendezvoused in San Telmo and headed down to Plaza Dorrego (fast becoming my favourite haunt) where I was able to get one last steak fix and once again enjoy the unique vibe of San Telmo's streets. On this occasion I opted for Bife de Lomo, (tenderloin steak – I've practically completed the anatomy of a cow in my brief time here and it seemed fitting to continue my exploration of all things beefy) it was very tender as the name would imply and delicious although I don't think it quite reached the highs achieved in some of the other places I've visited. Food aside I did get one final missing piece of my Buenos Aires experience as a couple danced the tango complete with live band as we feasted on red meat and wine.

Even though it was stiflingly hot with humidity close to 100% and the temperature up in the mid to high thirties through the day the tangoists looked perfectly cool on the surface as they glided across the floor, punctuating their elegant movements with an abrupt stop as if compelled by sexual tension to arrest their passion for a moment. I'm really not one for strictly come dancing but this was a sight to behold. Perhaps I was just smitten by the latin looks of the svelte young lady as she flicked her legs and swayed her hips set against the hypnotic music; accordion lilting gently while the guitar play moved between intricate finger picking an violent percussive strikes as the vocalist took up residence low in the mix as a supporting piece (same idea as Mick Jagger's voice on Exile on Main Street). As the night wore on Sean's squeeze a lovely Argentinian girl called Victoria joined us and we crossed town to Palermo for some drinks where we met some of Marco's old school friends and I despite the temptation to stay and dance the night away slipped off back to my hostel at around four (I still can't get over how late everything happens here. We're sitting in front of a bar at four in the morning, its a Wednesday night and the place is buzzing!).

So that's it back to the mountains and ever changing weather of La Paz... The bus has just started our long ascent back up into the clouds, and I'm going to close my eyes and dream of the city on the Rio del Plata...

Wednesday 23 January 2013

23rd January 2013


On Monday night I went to see La Bomba de Tiempo at Konex a former warehouse that's been turned into a cultural centre, concert venue and night club. La Bomba de Tiempo are a collective of drummers who play every Monday who are famously conducted by a rotation of the members using a variety of hand, finger and from what I could see whole body movements. Far more entertaining than Simon Rattle with his stick and penguin outfit.

I arrived early on the advice of a percussionist who works at my hostel and after scoffing a couple of carne empenadas (I'm becoming increasingly addicted to these badboys) I made my way into the venue. Everything radiates from a large courtyard where the band were set to play with a steady stream of people arriving as the main event approached. First though we were entertained by a warm up act (appropriately enough another drum group), who rather than playing on the stage were down on the ground in amongst the crowd. After working my through a litre or two of beer and absorbing the general good vibes I met with my friends Sean (Canadian forest fire fighter) and Francois (Quebecois guy I'd also met in La Paz) who despite having polished off 12 empenadas before we met seemed just as energised by the general vibes and rhythms as me.

The main act (La Bomba de Tiempo) arrived on stage around eight and began over the course of the next two hours to treat us to a cacophony of driving rhythms, divine polyrhythms and infectious energy. For me the arrival of a virtuoso bass player for a jam was the absolute highlight with his heavily groove laden bass lines acting as the perfect counterpoint to the beats. The crowd's energy built with the bands and by the end of it all there was a front to back bounce and a ton of whoops, shrieks and applause. Afterwards we piled out into the street and figured out our next move... The plan was to go to a reggae club which in the end turned out rather reggaeless (good news for me) and was actually the official afterparty. Much drink, dancing and merriment was had and I ended the night not long before sunrise.

As it was my second to last day in Buenos Aires I forced myself out of bed earlier than I normally would given the size of my hangover, thanks in no small part to the customer of drinking litres of beer rather than the good old fashioned pint. San Telmo is pretty near the port and given its prominence in the history of the city it seemed only natural to pay it a visit. Despite the intense heat (the temperature and humidity gauges seems to have risen steadily these last few days) I made it to the port which is now completely given over to luxury residential and commercial developments with only the brightly coloured derricks and a huge iron hulled tall ship serving to remind me of the past. Basically I'd discovered the Argentinian docklands. Even though it was a little sterile the bright sunshine and a rather sexy new bridge meant it wasn't a wasted journey, and if I'm honest I'm kind of a sucker for tall buildings.

As evening approached I made a break for a restaurant to grab a asado / steak fix, this time opting for a skirt steak (entrana), the obligatory papas fritas al provencal and lashings of chimicurri (I'm not sure if I've mentioned this stuff before? Its the perfect compliment for steak made of: chopped fresh parsley, garlic, and dried oregano in olive oil and red wine vinegar). If you haven't tried anything like this and want to get involved back in the UK there's a restaurant in London Fields called Buen Ayre (http://www.buenayre.co.uk/) that provides a pretty authentic asado served with chimicurri. The entrana was perfectly cooked (assuming you like it bloody as hell) and the flavour was just about the best I've known, even if it takes a little more chewing than sirloin (think rump steak tender).

After dinner I headed across town to catch up with Marco at his friend Nacho's place. There I was treated to another night of music and laughs as the two friends sat and jamed with their acoustic guitars playing a session to end all sessions with Marco on six strings and nacho on twelve. I got to hear tango, blues, swing, candombe and a little rock. Once more I found myself returning home as dawn approached, and once again I'd been treated to a musically extravaganza. 

Monday 21 January 2013

20th January 2013

On Sunday I travelled a hour by train to the Tigre delta on the north side of Buenos Aires. We departed a station that seemed like a sort of ramshackle Kings Cross in London. I told Marco and he replied “the English built the railroad here” - I guess that's when we exports something other than financial expertise (not sure that's the appropriate term?), weapons, jet engines and oil know how? The platform was packed with locals, backpacks and mate flasks in hand jostling to get onboard. We settled for some floor space in the car usually reserved for bicycles and started our journey towards the delta.

After an hour or so we reached the end of the line and Tigre. On leaving the station it was clear we'd arrived to a favourite spot for locals to get out of the city and being a bright sunny Sunday it was packed. I'd imagined a slightly more rural and certainly less frantic scene but as we made our way along the river bank towards to the Puerto de Frutos I started to enjoy the hustle and bustle of local families, teenagers, elderly and twenty somethings. I think the thing to do here is take a boat to cruise through the waterways and see all of the tree covered island but the boats seemed even more crowded that the banks and the roaring diesel engines didn't seem to be to conducive to tranquil reflection or relaxation so we decided to give it a miss. I supposed that we'd arrived in a sort of Argentinian Blackpool; a feeling confirmed at least at first by the theme park, vast concrete casino and array of stalls and street sellers hocking weaved baskets, boat trips and all manner of trinketry. Thankfully there was more to come and I knew there was more to it than initially met the eye. From time to time as we wove our way through the crowds I'd catch a glimpse of a tree lined water way, offering something all together more appealing and hope sprung.

After another ten minutes of navigating the thining crowds we came found ourselves walking along a spittal of land in amongst the delta lined with cafes, restaurants and bars with views across the waterway to forest covered islands. We took a seat the one closest to the end and enjoyed some rabas (calamari) washed down with a few beers as the world passed by. My time in Buenos Aires up to now has been strongly biased towards recreation but in the glow of the sun I did manage to get some work done preparing for an interview with B.A.U.E.N. hotel. Sadly my Spanish isn't quite ready to do an in depth interview without a little help. Fortunately the ever accommodating Marco has kindly agreed to help. Interview drafted, bellies full and a little sun blushed (at least in my case) with evening approaching we made our way back to the station and onward to Buenos Aires.

Today, feeling a little aware of the budgetary drain I left the B.A.U.E.N. hotel having already extended my stay three times and moved to the Ostinatto hostel in San Telmo for the last few days of my stay in Buenos Aires. The hostel is tall and narrow with whitewashed walls and clean lines, rooms radiate from a central courtyard / landing on each floor and original wooden door frames and terracotta tiled floors. Its one of the most attractive and clean hostels I've ever visited, probably only trumped by the YHA hostel in Braemar, Scotland, although its been a few years since I last visited that one.

After grabbing some brunch (an unexciting but none the less delicious meal of bacon and scrambled eggs washed down with tea and OJ) I typed up the interview questions for the B.A.U.E.N. hotel Marco and I prepared ready for Marco's translation and working on the website to support my co-operative research (more news on this coming soon). This afternoon was spent on the roof terrace of the hostel looking across the rooftop, basking in the bright sunlight and finishing off reading my favourite book (Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow for anyone who's interested). Tonight I'm off to a percussion night called La Bomba de Tiempo which comes highly recommended by the receptionist (and percussionist) here at the hostel.

Saturday 19 January 2013

19th January 2013


Once more my plans to visit the Tigre delta were scuppered, this time thanks to the inclement weather. Rain hardly fits the bill for a trip to a beachy paradise, nevertheless my day was not to be ruined thanks to the ever resourceful Marco's suggestion to check out the MALBA (Museo de Art Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires) – Buenos Aires gallery of modern art for those of you unable to decipher the name.

After taking breakfast in the hotel and extending my stay for another night I headed for gallery only to find myself outside the MALBA photocopy shop in the completely wrong part of town! Undeterred I grabbed some pizza in a nearby restaurant (I've definitely hit my steak threshold for the time being) and afterwards hailed a cab to take me across town to the real MALBA. As we moved north through the streets I was astonished to find even more expansive streets and boulevards than those I'd already stumbled upon in my early travels through the city. As always they were lined with proud and handsome buildings, most ringed by inviting balconies I'd love to inhabit, punctuated by green parks and plazas one housing a huge sculpture that I can only describe as a giant silver radio telescope.

I arrived at the real MALBA to find a modern concrete and glass building that looks like so many others of its ilk. Not to say it was unattractive, just not particularly awe inspiring (there's been a lot of awe here in Buenos Aires). Nonetheless its not whats on the outside that's of most importance in an art gallery, it whats inside that really counts...

I'm even less of an expert on art than the culinary matters that seem to have occupied so much of my recent blog posts. Still I know what I like and I'm pleased to say there were many painting I that captured my attention in the permanent collection. I've posted pictures of three of my favourites to add a little more colour (if you'll excuse the pun), these were:
  • Antonio Berni: Manifestocideo – I love all of the faces looking longingly or is it in desperation towards the viewer, except for one guy at the left of the picture with piercing green eyes who's looking off to the left.



  • Roberto Matta: Diapositiva – I'm not sure what this paintings about but the colours and light against the darkness are amazing.



  • Wilfredo Lam: La Manana Verde – This one makes me thing about some sort of etherial jungle spirit deep in the Amazon. The deep greens and almost primitive earth mother type figure feel so dreamy.



After the permanent collection it was on to the two guest shows. The first took no longer than a minute to cover and frankly that was too long. Tracey Emin is not my cup of tea and I wasn't about to revise my opinion wasting time watching the four video installations exhibited that as far as I could tell were about being called a slut at a dance contest and comparing her abortions to Edward Munch's Scream.

Fortunately desptite the Tracey Emin shaped blip the best had been saved 'till last. The top floor of the gallery had Oscar Munoz' solo show, I'd never heard of him before but the biography (thankfully provided in English alongside Spanish) sounded very interesting... He's a Columbian artist who uses all sorts of mediums including photography, paint, video and shower curtains! Its hard to describe many of his pieces as they were all so unique but I'll give it a go...

Many of his pieces involved projections of water and photographic images. I think he's very interested in transition and all things temporal or perhaps it was impermanence and entropy? I'm not sure but I guess those were the things I found myself thinking about.

One installation projected from above onto white squares on the floor where you could see the bottom of a shower basin. When the basin was full with water you could see a clear crisp image of a face that slowly deteriorates as the water drains down the plughole before reversing as the water filled the basin once more. The shower theme continued with a series of shower curtains on which ragged silhouettes of figures painted or printed. I read that Munoz had developed a photographic technique that let him develop photographs on water, I'm not quite sure about the ins and outs but I expect this was instrumental in many of the pieces on display.

Shower Curtains:


Another installation also used an overhead projection but this time it illuminated a table top; the projected image revealed a series of portrait photographs or blanks with a with a hand coming from nowhere that would lift and move one revealing another underneath moving it to a sink at the side of the table where the photos would wash away and the blanks develop. Mind-blowing. The guy can paint too. One projection he paints a face on blotting paper with only water or something that disappears in a matter of minutes. As the face fades and he continues to paint it evolves from a woman into a man and back again, it was an astonishing concept and the beautiful aesthetic of the images combined to devastating effect.

My trip to MALBA proved to be one of my best art experiences ever, and I'd strongly urge anyone who has a chance to see this magician Munoz or visit the gallery to grab it. Tomorrow I'm going to try for the Tigre again, let hope I fair better than today, although I'm sure Buenos Aires will provide something else unexpected and wonderful should the hand of fate intervene.

Friday 18 January 2013

18th January 2013


Buenos Aires has continued to enchant me these last few days…

When I last signed off I was on my way to a restaurant called Juana M. that sits at the end of Avenida 9 de Julio, the main drag in town who's name commemorates the date Argentina won its independence. My quest was to find Asado de Tira (beef ribs) and a quick look at trip advisor (not my usual move but no local knowledge was close at hand) suggested I could find some good ones here, only a 20 minute walk from my hotel.

I arrived at 9pm safe in the knowledge that I'd be a little earlier than is conventional here, alas my appetite wouldn't permit any further delay. Consequently the vast basement the restaurant occupied was pretty empty. Still I didn't really crave too much of a buzz and as time passed it started to fill with an urbane clientèle. I chose to go straight to the main course and as per the master plan opted for Asado de Tira with some papas fritas a la provencal. Unfortunately for my prospects of starting tomorrow hangover free wine was only available by the bottle so I had to make do with a bottle of Argentinian malbec to accompany dinner. Things got even more mouth watering when my waiter let me know that I could help myself to the salad bar while I waited for my order and what a salad bar it was! Pretty much every variation of salad I know of was there for my delectation. As is my way when I find myself confronted by a opulent buffet (it was much closer to buffet than what I would usually term salad bar) I did my best to try a little of everything, though my plate nor common sense would allow complete coverage. Particular highlights included the three different type of potato salad, spinach leaves in a light mustardy mayonnaise, and a sort of quinoa tabbouleh thing.

When I arrived back from the salad bar my ribs and papas fritas were waiting on the table and it was time to make a start on my one man feast. Rather than presenting the ribs in the manner of chops they were cross cut, a new one on me but it seemed to offer two noticeable benefits... First there was much less fiddling around getting the meat of the bones, second they were cooked medium rare which in my limited culinary knowledge isn't always possible when there are large pieces of bone that need to get cooked through. All of the food was delicious and rather fortunately the vast quantities I consumed seemed to hold at bay the full impact of the bottle of wine, at least until morning. After trying and failing to tackle a super rich chocolate mouse I trundled back to the hotel to sleep off the meat and wine. My full belly, the wine and perhaps my location filled my sleep with vivid dreams which I can't quite recall.

As expected I awoke feeling a little fuzzy but a quick infusion of water and stroll into the warm sun soon put pay to all that. In the afternoon I met with my Argentinian friend Marco who'd just returned to Buenos Aires after spending a year or two in Bolivia, Peru and Chile. Originally we'd planned to spend the day in the Tigre delta just outside of Buenos Aires but the late start necessitated alternative arrangements. Marco arrived thermos flask in hand matte cup and straw in the other and we headed for a cafe and a brief lesson in Argentinian history Marco kindly offered to provide.

As we sat in the shade of a cafe's parasols once more on Avenida 9 de Julio next to a huge obelisk Marco explained how Argentina came into being. It was an interesting story which I hesitate in regurgitating too much of for fear of getting it wrong but I'll risk a few details… Argentina's birth came about in much the same way as the US. Here just as with the US settlers there was a deep seated resentment about the taxes and patronage levied by the crown (Spanish rather than British) with little if anything to show for it. Unlike the US the country and constitution that emerged didn't consist of a federation of states but a more centralised government dominated by Buenos Aires. Although this was a contentious point and Argentinian if only in name calls actually calls itself a federation. This issue is embodied in the struggle between the rest of Argentina and Buenos Aires who Marco tells me still to this day are pretty distinct, with Buenos Aires continuing to assert its hegemony over the rest of Argentina to this day. The birth of the nation also witnessed the arrival of the strongman as the prototypical model for Argentinian leaders which is still very much alive today, even the latest incarnation is wearing a dress and sporting a few nips and tucks.

Later that night I met with Maddie and Heather, two Australian girls I'd met in the Adventure Brew hostel in La Paz who'd arrived in Buenos Aires for the conclusion of their whistle stop tour round most every part of South America. They were staying in a part of town called San Telemo situated near the port. After saying our hellos and catching up on travels post La Paz (they'd been hiking in Patagonia) we took a cab up to a restaurant Marco suggested we go to in the district where Tango was invented. The restaurant was an authentic Padilla joint with countless football strips suspended from the ceiling and a lower key feel than the restaurant I'd visited the day before. For the third night running it was time to get involved with some serious meat. Maddie and I shared a vast asado platter, this consisted of: a disk of grilled provolone cheese covered in oregano, chinchulines (chitterlings), tripa gorda (large intestines), Molleja (sweetbreads), half a chicken, on the bone, Asado de tira (beef ribs), Vacio (flank steak), Bife de Chorizo (porterhouse), Entrana (skirt steak), and kidneys; topped off with a large plate of chips. I'm happy to report we spent pretty much and hour devouring almost all of it, washed down with some Malbec and Cabernet Sauvingon expertly chosen by Heather our resident wine expert.

After dinner we went back to Marco's place in the Palermo district where his brother Lucio and a couple of his friends were hanging out. A good few cervezas and laughs were had, not to mention Marco's wonderful mandolin playing and impromptu juggling display. Eventually got back to my hotel a little drunk and sated with meat.

As might be expected after such an extravagant evening of eating and drinking it took a little while to get going but eventually I managed to get into the sunshine. While Heather lunched Maddie and I lounged around on the roof terrace at her hostel with little sign of our appetites returning any time soon. A stroll to a cafe, a few beers, a little chocolatey thing and a couple of rounds of chatterbox followed before the inevitable siesta. On waking and feeling much refreshed we decided to go for dinner in a square just down the road from the girls hostel. And what a square it was. We arrived to a three piece jazz outfit (double bass, drums and keys) playing in the wide square that opened out from the narrow street lined with bohemian shops and street art. We took a table not far from the band among dinners of all ages, a couple of street urchins performing an array of breakdancing moves and a smattering of street vendors selling bracelets, taro readings and cards of no discernible value. After a delicious vegetable soup (based on a chicken broth!) I briefly contemplated having fish before finding my senses and opting for ojo de bife (rib eye steak) served rare with potato gratin, papas fritas provencal and slow cooked sweet peppers we all shared. Where the previous nights meat fest had provided a startling variety of flavours and texture tonight's beef was quite simply the best steak I think I've ever eaten. As we enjoyed the delights of the food the jazz band took a recess while at the other side of the square a rock / blues outfit struck up, treating us to a wide range of classics from Hendrix to Muddy Waters, Cream to Bob Dylan. To say I'd found a piece of heaven in this wonderful square doesn't really feel like it does it justice, it was blissful. As the jazz band continued to lay down a soundtrack that both soared and slinked we soaked up the vibes of the square and sat late into the night enjoying the music, wine and good company. I'm really not sure how I'm going to be able to tear myself way from this place?

Today's been a more sedate and beef free affair. Most of which I've spent preparing for interviews with co-ops here and back in Bolivia. Tomorrow its the Tigre delta which promises another perspective on Buenos Aires and chapter two of my Argentinian history lesson with Marco.

Tuesday 15 January 2013

15th January 2013


I awoke today in the cool tranquillity of my room in Hotel BAUEN at around 10am. After getting myself organised and booking in for another four nights I decided to hit the streets and explore a little of Buenos Aires.

As I walked from my hotel past the National Congress I made a left onto a grand looking boulevard called Avenida Mayo. This street like most of the others I wandered down was lined with august old buildings which reminded me that at one time Argentina was one of the richest countries in the world thanks to its huge resources of cattle and other non-agricultural industries that once thrived. Even if some of the grandeur has passed this its still a much wealthier city than any in Bolivia, it feels a long way from the chaos of La Paz. Much more like a grand european city. This feeling was further cemented by the glamorous cosmopolitan Portenos (people of the port) as I understand the people of Buenos Aires are referred to. Strolling through the streets (people walk at a more European pace rather than the painfully slow amble of the Aymara in La Paz) I could have been walking in Paris, a feeling re-enforced by the abundance of book shops.

Not only was glamour on show (and an abundance of tattoos), politics was everywhere I looked… On Avendia Mayo I passed a small march for a Co-operative called C.C.C.! And on arriving in the plaza at marking the end of the avenue I found slogans scrolled on the barriers in front of the Mayor's building and a small protest installation for the Falklands. I continued to wander for another hour or two, soaking up the atmosphere, wandering through leafy boulevards stopping briefly for a light bite to eat. Eventually I retreated to my hotel to regroup and figure out a plan for the afternoon.

Paging through the ever trusty Timeout webpages and consulting Google maps it appeared as though I was pretty close to the highly recommended La Rocletta cemetery where many of the great and the good of Argentina were buried. Once more I enjoyed a pleasant stroll through the warm streets dappled in sunshine under completely cloudless azure blue skies. La Rocletta was in the opposite direction to my morning wander and the streets had a slightly different feel. Buildings we more contemporary, although no less grand. Looking up I could see long luxurious balconies draped with an abundance of green plants which explained why I was unexpectedly dripped on in my earlier peregrinations. After twenty minutes of walking I arrived at La Rocletta where I was greeted by an enthusiastic charity collector / guide who gave me a very quick run through of where I could find the tombs of Eva Peron, a Nobel prize winner who's name escapes me and a couple of other notables I can't recollect. After carelessly opening my wallet in front of him I was encouraged to part with 50 pesos which unluckily for me was the first note that appeared. Regardless the guy was a pleasant chap and he was collecting for HIV so I happily made the donation.

As walked in though the grand doric gates I arrived in an enchanting maze of tombs and shrines commemorating notaries of Argentinian history. I think the cemetery was first consecrated in something like 1831 but the sometimes crumbling marble tombs made it feel much older. I decided to walk to the opposite side of the cemetery to the one suggested by the collector / guide; after all I was less interested in finding the grave of Eva Peron or an Irishman who'd founded the Argentine navy he'd suggested I might like to see. I wanted to find the tombs of writers and poets.

Alas my search which extended over the course of an couple of hours yielded no writers, instead I found a plethora of generals, politicians, industrialists and the founder of the Buenos Aires Rotary club. I suppose it requires the money and vanity of the wealthy to have a grand tomb built to aide one's quest for immortality. As I considered this I speculated that the writers and thinkers who were interred here had very probably been granted entry and underwritten by the very same wealthy individuals who's shrines were so prominent? Most likely their tombs were the small unmarked ones. What does it matter anyway, the weathly members of this cemetary were vaingloriously striving for immortality that is perhaps the one domain writers can inhabit shrine or not thanks to their works.

Even though I'd failed to identify the tombs of a writer, poet or thinker I was enchanted by the cemetery. It reminded me of one I'd seen in an adaption of a John Le Carre book called Tinker, Tailor, Soldier where a young english spy called Ricky Something meets a Russian agent he seduces, it really is the ideal place for a tryst or two. The narrow passages between the tombs, some brutal black expanses of marble, others crumbling stucco that wasn't quite the Italian marble the Wikipedia page suggested most were built from. None the less these were still resplendent in their dilapidated state, intricate iron gates and pillars topped out with angels or busts of the dear departed. On the whole I preferred the older tombs but it was interesting to see that there were newish ones nestled amongst the long-term residents, including the Nobel prize winners tomb that was distinctly 1970s in style.

Back in my hotel now I'm plotting my course for an evening meal. Tonight I think I'll give steak a miss, although this is only to take up Matt Phelps suggestion of Assado de Tira (beef ribs). Hopefully it'll be another carnivorous delight.

14th January 2013


After a rather uneventful final leg of my epic bus journey to Buenos Aires punctuated by little more than the occasional John Deer outlets and farmsteads we wended our way across the vast and green pampas to our final destination: Buenos Aires completing the longest bus ride I expect I'll ever take in my life (the final leg clocking in at over 30 hours!). As is my usual way on arrival I'd opted not to do too much planning or research, this proved to be somewhat shortsighted as the bus terminal we arrived in was on the outskirts of Buenos Aires and offered little assistance for uninformed tourist. I decided the best bet was to take a taxi into the centre of town and try to get into Hotel B.A.U.E.N. a couple of days ahead of my scheduled booking.

My taxi driver proved to be a jovial character and not for the first time in South America found the best means of communication was to cry William Wallace on finding out I was scottish. I guess they really do have a love for a freedom fighter down here in South America. I really need to figure out how to say "my mother's maiden name is Wallace" in Spanish. As we travelled towards the centre of town I was able to enjoy the smell of beef on paradillas (Argentinian BBQ) across the city and the sights on an all together much more European style of city as the balmy air flowed through the open windows and the sun advanced to wards the city's skyline.

On arrival at the hotel I jumped out of my cab and scuttled across the street to the reception of the rather grand if somewhat threadbare hotel. As I was going through the process of registration it dawned on me that I'd left my bag with all of my clothes and toiletries in the boot of the cab! My dismay was tempered by the obliging hotel staff who via committee managed to decipher my spanish and do their very best to track down my bag despite the scant details I'd provided. Alas their efforts came to nothing, although the said they wouldn't stop there and tomorrow if my bag hadn't been returned they'd review the security tapes from in front of the building. I decided not to let all of this get me down, after all I'm in a new city and I still had all my valuables. Furthermore I had a sense the taxista was a good man and there was every chance he'd return with my bag once he realised what had happened.

I went to my room and enjoyed a long overdue shower, as the powerful jet cleansed my travel weary bones I felt renewed and aware that it had been a longtime since I'd enjoyed a good meal (the buses meals were to be fair reasonably substantial but somewhat rudimentary). I headed out and strolled down a long street in the warm evening air. I found an expansive restaurant with linen table cloths after walking a few blocks and decided this was the place to try my first Argentine steak. I ordered what turned out to be a steak covring the entire large white plate accompanied by papas friatas a la provencal (chips with garlic and parsley - a treat I'm already familiar with thanks to London's own Buen Ayre), at the waiter's prompting I agreed to switch from coca-cola to a huge glass of wine from Mendoza and tucked into my feast. The lost bag seemingly already a distant memory. The steak was delicious and the wine a fine accompaniment, feeling almost painfully full I waddled back to my hotel.

On my return to the hotel I was greeted by a new concierge who quickly enquired which room I was staying in. A light went on and I realised before he'd even said it that my bag had been returned! I guess I've got a little more luck on my side than all those years ago when the absent minded child repeatedly left his coats in parks serving as goalposts in perpetuity. As I'm sure my dad would say despite it being an early Dylan piece… The Times They Are a Changin'!

13th January 2013


A month into my trip seems like a very tardy effort as far as starting my journal goes, but their is a reason… I decided I didn't want to start until I'd got my initial stay in La Paz out of the way. My stay there feels quite distinct from the rest of the trip, mainly because I was solely focused on learning Spanish. Although that does a bit of a disservice to both La Paz and the fun I've had there. No doubt I'll slip a few reminiscences in as I make futher entires.

I'm finally in Argentina after a border crossing that took more than 4 hours! I'm safely seated on the lower deck of a full cama bus once more cruzing across a vast expanse of plains. As I look to my left the sky is a leaden grey, the mountains that mark the plain's edge are partially obscured by cumulonimbus as the view is occasionally punctuated by broad bolts of forked lightening carrying a vast curent back to earth. To my right the plains stretch in similar fashion towards mountains in the distance, although the sky is bright and clear. The landscape if so different to the Bolivian one I leave behind for the moment. Its easy to see why Argentina was a more inviting place for european settlers. 

Although much of the Bolivian landscape I moved through on my way first to Sucre and then to Villazon was cloaked in darkness, the geography of the place was still apparent… Take for example my journey from Sucre to Villazon last night. I embarked on a semi-cama bus, having enjoyed the most comfortable journey I've known via bus the previous night on my way from La Paz to Sucre on a full cama bus I braved the semi-cama (this was the only way to make progress towards Buenos Aires as there was only one bus service in the Sucre terminal to Argentina). Alas semi-cama is not much in comparison to its upmarket bed-fellow. To make matters worse the seat I was allocated was right at the front of the bus up against a window so leg room was virtually non-existant. Despite my discomfort the seat did offer a clear view of the road ahead, this revealed the narrow winding roads in Bolivia and cleared up the question mark in my mind about how such seemingly direct and relatively short distances  took so long (I don't think the journey from Sucre to Villazon is any greater than Newcastle to London, yet it takes 10 + hours) as the bus rarely exceeded in 50 kph. Yet the most astonishing aspect was the heights we ascended and descended from. About an hour after we'd left Sucre which is at a relatively low level in comparison to much of Bolivia we started to climb, and climb, and climb. For more than 1 hour we continued our ascent, I couldn't see much outside of the field of the bus' headlights but I suspect we were on the edge of some precipitous drops and having looked at the map the following day I believe we climbed back into the Andes to god only knows what altitude, no doubt it trumped the Tomintoul road!

My stay in Sucre despite is brevitous nature left a marked impression. I arrived pretty well rested thanks to the full cama bus which provide seats that are on a similar theme ot the old Pullmans I can just about remember in the Odeon or was it the Dominion? Anyway, I arrived at a rather ramshackle bus terminal (so far this is a consistent trait of all the bus stations I've known in South America), and felt like it a might be a long day killing time. After circling the terminal a couple of times trying to find a toilet I managed to interpret the instructions of the third of fourth person I asked ( I think my Spanish is pretty functional but sometimes missing one key word is enough to throw a rather large spanner in the works (this time it was underneath or below?)). I decided a taxi was the best bet to get into the heart of things and spotted a picture for a particularly inviting casa de tourisma in the station that looked as though it was in the old colonial part of town. The taxi seemed even cheaper than the ones in La Paz, a 15 minute journey into the centre only cost 8Bs (16s in old money).

As soon as I got out the taxi I was struck simultaneously with a familiar feeling and that excitement I get when I arrive somewhere completely new. The familiar feeling was one of my favourites… The sense of pleasant hot but not to hot heat in a Mediterranean town or city with shaded streets and locals gently perambulating through the morning light. The sense of the new was the beautiful architecture of Sucre. I can see why its a UNESCO heritage sight. The grand but elegant whitewashed buildings that radiate out in blocks from the central square, Plaza viente cinco a Mayo I think? After strolling through the streets (the ambiance and perhaps my front and back rucksack configuration meant even I found myself strolling at a gentle pace!) I took up residence on a bench in said plaza, watching the world go by, reading my book and declining the occasional offer from a passing Cholita to buy something I don't need (at least they try to sell you something as opposed to the more ardent Cholitas who simply beg in La Paz), and finally a very pleasant snooze in the sun for an hour.

I had lunch in a rather lovely Italian restaurant just off the Plaza as I couldn't find anything more traditional to eat in the vicinity. Very nice it was too; Cezar salad followed by spag Bol. Still not up to the standards of the tucumana Carlos my spanish instructor had treated me to the day before. Afterwards I took myself to a little bar and charged up all my technology and enjoyed a couple of cervesas. Sadly that was all I had time for in Sucre but I have a feeling I'll be back someday. Its probably best to make note at this juncture about how I happened to end up here…

The original plan was to go from La Paz to Santa Cruz which is further west of Sucre and appeared to be the only route via bus to Asuncion in Paraguay and onward to Ignazu falls. Sadly (well not really as Sucre was awesome) it seems either my bad accent, the general lackadaisical nature of the cashier in the bus terminal or most likely a combination of both, my Santa Cruz ticket turned out to be for Sucre. I only discovered this as I was about to board the bus, where I pretty much decided on the spot to roll with it as the main objective was getting to Buenos Aires and I figure I can always go and see Ignazu falls on my way back up. So Sucre it was.

I made reference earlier to my rather less satisfying bus trip on the semi cama last night from Sucre to Villazon. After a fairly sleepless 10 hours or so I arrived in Villazon, feeling a little crinkled and tired but in good spirits with the prospect of the full cama for the final leg to Buenos Aires that included the added inducements of meals and a toilet that we're actually allowed to use! All sounds too good to be true, and as it turns out it was. I had a feeling as we arrived in Villazon with the sun starting its painfully slow ascent things were not going to be straight forward. Dawn revealed Villazon to be everything you could imagine if you were to paint a mental picture of a a frontier town in the wild west with a Latino twist and a few more mod cons (tarmac wasn't one of them).

I walked over to the depot for my next bus only to be informed by stout and distinctly unhelpful Bolivian lady that the full cama  but I'd paid for would in fact be semi cama. The prospect of another semi cama experience (bear in mind the final leg to Buenos Aires is by far the longest at 30ish hours) filled me with dread and I was forced to really dig deep in my Spanish vocabulary to explain my grievance with her, alas to little discernible effect. At times like these there is little that can ease my tension than a step into the fresh air a few breaths and a ciggie. While outside gathering myself and facing the prospect of a journey straight from hell I heard a hombre from another company shout cama a Buenos Aires! I walked over and talked with him and found out that there was a bus that would take me in my preferred mode but there were a couple of snags… My initial plan to say to hell with the cost and buy a ticket was scuppered as I had no cash in my wallet, the two atms in Villazon didn't work with my cards and the bus guy only accepted cash so I was quickly back at square one. Thankfully the bus guy got me to talk with his colleague a young lady who showed more patience with my broken Spanish than most. Who despite having no english whatsoever helped persuade me that this was a job for the Bolivian Transport police as I was clearly entitled to a refund from the other bus company as I'd been assured of full cama.

I was rather reluctant to take this course of action never being a great fan of spending time in the company of police so I returned to the original bus depot and pleaded my case once more. There was now in attendance a man who seemed a little more senior and a least a little more willing to field my complaint. After much remonstration, a call back to the woman in Sucre who sold me the ticket (not sure how I pulled that off, although I did just learn the verb to lie (mentir) which came in handily) I secured a partial refund of 200Bs. This small injection of funds alongside my emergency stash of $60US was enough to get my ticket. It doesn’t end there though… The friendly girl who'd suggested I get the police involved wasn't satisfied that I'd secured a good enough deal so went to the Police on my behalf! A few minutes later I was asked to come to the nearby station with a friendly Bolivian retiree (Jose) who turned out to be seated on the bus next to me decided it would be a good idea to offer me some moral support (again no one is speaking any English in this equation). At the station the cops dragged, well escorted the guy I'd negotiated my partial settlement with. And after another schpiel in broken Spanish from yours truly I got another 300 Argentian peso back.

Drama behind me it was on to the full cama which I'm delighted to report is comfortable and all together more suitable for a 30 + hour journey. Though full or semi cama one problem on the journey was intractable… Crossing the boarder to Argentina took 4 hours! Still it was sunny I was able to practice Spanish with a jovial Peruvian passenger and the Jose. Hopefully its all plain sailing from here to Buenos Aires but its never wise to count too many pollos in South America before they've hatched.

Update… I've just looked up from my keyboard and seen the most enormous, vivid and complete rainbow, these plains sure do pack some meteorological punch!