Rest assured though, as soon as I get back to B.A. and have time, I’ll relate everything back in a one-time Ian in Argentina prime time special.  Tune in for,

• Going insane on long flights
• Intense tropical heat
• Dividing bodies of water between continents
• The ghettoest ghetto I’ve ever seen
• Flight delays
• Train delays
• Bad ideas
• Good ideas
• Roasted Guinea Pig
• Rain
• More rain
• Even more rain
• Sunshine
• Inca Ruins
• The rain comes back
• Three hours of sleep a day
• Landslides
• And more!

Check back within the next week to read all about it.  Peace.

The trip there was an overnight bus ride over the Pampas.  Being completely flat for thousands of kilometres in all directions, the pampas are usually boring.  However, on this particular night, the geographical features of the area proved useful.  The thunderstorms to the south of us produced some of the best lightning I’ve ever seen, and I could see all of it.  I stayed up for several hours just watching the lightning out of the window.  It didn’t matter how far away it was, because of the terrain, It looked like it could have been right next to us.

We arrived at around 8:00 A.M. the next morning.  We all (about 14 of us) squished into a van and took off.  After a few minutes on the highway, we turned off down a dirt road.  Usually these kind of roads don’t go on for long.  But this one went on for miles.  Another hour of driving later, we arrived at La Estancia Ongamira.  It took it’s name from the valley it was located in.  I reveled in how far away from civilization we were.  It was especially awesome when we got on our horses and took off through the valley.

My horse was a large, white, and slow stud.  I named him Shadowfax.  On top of being the slowest horse of the group, he was also slightly stupid, and very unresponsive.  I loved him anyway.  It did get annoying after awhile however.  Having to constantly prod him to keep him from randomly stopping or going off the trail wasn’t exactly fun.  Horse problems aside, the ride through the wilderness was incredible.  While I’m making LOTR references, I must mention that the section we rode through looked exactly like Rohan.

In the middle of it though was a giant rock formation known as “Cerro Colchici.”

We rode the horses up as high as they could go, and then dismounted to continue on foot.  Everyone else went the long way around.  I climbed the almost vertical rock face.  There were lots of holds and parapets, so it wasn’t that technically difficult.  It was however the first time I’d ever attempted to climb something that would result in death (or something near it) if I fell.  In hindsight… I’d totally do it again.  The top of anything is so much more rewarding when you kick death in the face and scale it the hard way.  Our guides later informed us that the natives of the area had used this hill for a mass suicide centuries ago.  When the Spanish conquistadors had taken out the majority of their forces, and they realized that defeat was inevitable, the remaining people all climbed to the top and jumped off, choosing death over subjugation.  Take notice of how cloudy it is.  You see that?  Yeah, that’s prime sunburn weather right there.  Every single one of us.  Doesn’t make a lick of sense.

All of the workers at the Estancia were European of some kind (I saw a Swedish flag somewhere.) All of them spoke fluent English and Spanish though.  The head cook was a really cool Australian dude.  They knew we were American, and that it was thanksgiving, so on top of our regular meal, they made us pumpkin pie.  (The best I’ve ever had.)

The next day, we all crowded back in the van and drove even deeper into the wilderness for 3 hours to see Las Salinas.  (Salt Flats) It wasn’t until this point that I wished I hadn’t forgotten my camera.  It had recently rained, and large stretches of water only about an inch deep covered them for miles.  Also, the sun was setting.  The results were seven kinds of spectacular.

I really don’t know what else I can say that isn’t better seen.  I suppose I could mention how cool it was that it looked like we were walking on water, but you probably already noticed that.

After the sun set, we returned to a dry area and set up a campfire.  We sat around and had dinner and just took in the place.  Like the pampas, the the salinas are flat as far as the eye can see.  Leading to yet another awesome night of lightning watching sans rain.  We stayed way too late and didn’t get back until 3:00 A.M.  I slept most of the way back but whenever I did wake up, I looked out the front as we drove.  It was dark and the only light was the headlights of the van.  As we sped over the dirt road through the jungle-esque foliage the shadows and speed of our return felt surreal.  Given how tired and delirious I was, It was no surprise that this felt like the most exotic trip of my life.

The next day after much sleep, we went off hiking in the opposite direction.  This part of the valley was more akin to Jurrasic Park scenery.  We hiked for about an hour before stopping for lunch and swimming in the creek.  When we returned to the Estancia, we had one last incredible meal, and hit the road for the bus station back home.

And that was that.  It was nothing flashy (give or take the lightning we kept seeing.) but it was probably one of the best vacations I’d ever had.  It was a perfect mix of downtime with activity.  I got to do and see things I’d never done or seen before.  And most importantly, it got me out of the city.

Photos courtesy of Tyler Arrington, and Niles Geran.

“Write while the heat is in you.”

-Henry David Thoreau

Technically, Buenos Aires isn’t actually tropical.  Located at 34º S, it’s about 11 degrees south of the Tropic of Capricorn.  However, like Florida (Also not  located in the tropics), that doesn’t prevent it from being barraged by tropic weather.

Today. was. miserable.  30ºC with 90% humidity.  For those of you that don’t speak meteorology, that means extremely hot, and extremely muggy.  Even now, at midnight, the temperature has only dropped 8 degrees with the humidity remaining stable.  It is sweltering.  I feel like I’m in a Faulkner novel.

If that wasn’t fun enough.  About 2:00 p.m. this afternoon, the clouds rolled in.  A severe tropic thunderstorm hit B.A. like hammer to nail.  At one point we couldn’t see more than 10 feet through the torrential downpour.  The rain was thick and abundant, and warm.  By 4:00 p.m. our pools were overflowing, the lower sectors of B.A. were flooded waist high, and the sun was completely blotted out.  It was virtual nightfall.  The sunlight returned when the storm subsided around 5:30 p.m.  Returning to daylight after darkness within a matter of hours was experience of surrealistic proportions.  As if the tempest wasn’t content to merely ravage our climate, it also felt compelled to screw with our very minds.

And of course, throughout all of this not once did the heat decrease.  And as the night continues on, I doubt it will.  Welcome to summer.

There is a Starbucks only a minute’s walk from the casa, however the prices, remain the same as they are in the U.S. (when you account for exchange rates) In Buenos Aires, finding another café to replace Starbucks with is simply a matter of finding another street corner.  The problem however, is finding one that fills much of the same purposes.  Our rough criteria was as follows:

• A) Walking distance from the casa
• B) Relatively inexpensive
• C) Coffee oriented (Not restaurant)
• D) Quick service (Surprisingly hard to find in B.A.

The best one was called Havanna.  It’s known for being one of the finest alfajores brands, it’s café is top notch as well.

However, this post is not about Havanna.  Havanna is merely the tool for which greatness was revealed to us.  The true carrier of our infinite happiness is a drink called “El Submarino.”

El Submarino is made from two basic components.  First, you have your tall glass of steaming-hot milk.  Then you have your bar of rich, delicious chocolate.  You drop your bar of chocolate in the milk, it melts, and then you stir it in.  The result is a South American Hot Chocolate that tastes so good is should be illegal.

May this be a comfort to you who are currently shivering through Autumn and Winter in the Northern Hemisphere.  Alas, for me, Submarino season is coming to an end.

The settlement of Colonia del Sacramento, founded in 1680 was the first settlement in Uruguay.  It’s historic quarter is still mostly intact and is preserved as a UNESCO world heritage site. (My third so far in South America) While it was founded by the Portuguese, control changed back and forth with the Spanish 8 times plus twice more between Brazil and Argentina before Uruguayan independence in 1828.

Down on the waterfront, sectioned off by the still standing original walls, the historic quarter is still filled with mostly original colonial buildings.

Everyone who lives here is contractually obligated to maintain the original structure as best as possible.  From place to place you can tell what timeframe things were built in based on the roads.  Portuguese roads have more sporadic and jagged stone placement and look different than the well-ordered Spanish ones.

The Portuguese sucked at road building

It’s also a functioning sea port, that was the main entryway to the Rio de la Plata basin before Buenos Aires.

My mother would appreciate the presence of a historic lighthouse

Being the oldest settlement in the country, virtually everything is “the oldest.” That lighthouse: the oldest, this church: the oldest…

You’ll see many bikes and mopeds zooming around, but full-sized cars aren’t allowed into the old town. (Except this one.)

We got a good dose of Uruguayan cuisine at “The Colonia Rock” restaurant, where we all got a “Chivito,” a giant sandwich piled high with steak, ham, bacon, cheese, fried egg, mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato.  It was the best thing I’d eaten in days.  I virtually inhaled it.  We then got a couple hours to just soak in the city.  I loved the atmosphere.  The whole place was just chill and easy going.  All the people were incredibly nice, and friendly.  They all wanted to practice their English on us, and we all wanted to practice our Spanish on them.  Somehow, we met halfway.  The crime rate is virtually non-existent, and and everyone smiles and greets you.  All the quaint cobblestone streets lead to either a serene park or boardwalk looking out to sea.  As the day wound down, we all supported the local economy and bought as much stuff as we could carry.  (Uruguayan pesos go 20 for a dollar, and 5 for an Argentine peso.) We said goodbye to Uruguay and hit the open seas back home to B.A.

Once again, I found myself marveling in the laid-back and easy-going atmosphere, and wishing it was here that we could live instead of the big city.  This was the kind of place where your soul could breathe.  Definitely a return trip.

The first difference the northern provinces have in relation to B.A. is the natural landscape.  (If it had any that is.) The Capital Federal lies on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, on the edge of the Pampas Plains.  It’s flat, wet, and humid.  Springtime weather in B.A. is sporadic and random.  If you get the same weather two days in a row consider yourself lucky, if you get it two weeks in a row you’ve experienced a once in a lifetime miracle.  The North however, being closer to the equator is consistently warmer, and drier.  Also, being closer in to the Andes, the geographical landscape is much more varied with more hills and valleys.

The second major difference is the people.  B.A. is mostly populated by busy and hurried people of mostly European ancestry.  The people of the north are much more laid back, and mostly of native ancestry.  This area was the southern terminus of the Incan empire.  You can still see remnants of this today based on the ethnic makeup of the people, the scattered speaking of Quechua, the united Incan tribes flags, and the llamas.

Qualla Suyu

We flew into Jujuy early afternoon, and hopped on our awesome double-decker bus.  The allure and mystique of the different and innovative method of transportation was almost enough to tide us over for the 2 and a half hours of driving.  Most of the towns in Jujuy are located in the bottom of a giant ravine.  The town in which we were staying was called “Purmamarca” and was chosen for it’s proximity to the main natural landmark of the area “El Cerro de Siete Colores,” The Seven Color Hill.  We went for a hike through the valley and area surrounding it.  Some of us even climbed one of the bigger hills.  My uncle Lyle would’ve been proud.

I climbed that

We eventually followed the trail back around the major hill and descended upon the village from the opposite end.  In the village square was a big crafts fair with all kinds of people selling their handmade goods.  I loaded up on cool native themed stuff.  My pride and joy was the Llama wool sweater I got for about 15 USD.  Due to the altitude, many people chew coca leaves or drink coca tea.  It’s completely legal to posses and use as much coca leaves as you want, however it’s illegal to grow in Argentina, so all of the supply comes from Bolivia.

To be clear, coca leaves ≠ Cocaine.  Cocaine is highly processed and altered.  Straight coca leaves are essentially nothing more than really strong aspirin.  Everyone got free samples of coca leaves to try.  The key is to chew on the leaves and suck out the juice, occasionally gnawing on it, but mostly keeping it packed in your cheek or lip.  Many people reported feeling their mouth and tongue go numb after awhile.  I however, being the guy who needs multiple shots of novicaine when I visit the dentist, felt nothing.  Although my nose did slightly tingle a bit, as if my brain recognized what I was consuming, but was confused as to how it was getting there.

Our hotel was done in a native pueblo style that felt reminiscent of New Mexico or Arizona.  Fitting, considering that the the whole area was the South American equivalent of the United State’s Southwest/Mexican Northwest.  The complex was divided into one main building, and then a string of smaller houses around it, with a large, open central area.  Pepperdine students virtually ruled the hotel for the duration of our stay.  As far as I knew, we never encountered anyone other than us staying there.

The second day, we traveled to the Salinas Grandes (Salt Flats), but being sure to stop at the point of highest altitude in North Argentina at 4,170 meters, or roughly 13 thousand feet.  Fresh from our ascent of the red hill back in Purmamarca, the daring of us dashed up the hill in an effort to get to the “true” highest point.  We went strong for about 30 seconds before we realized that although we were breathing, nothing was happening.  The pace then slowed considerably.  We only made it about 4/5 of the way up before the bus honked for us to return.  We definitely could have reached the top.  It was only another 30 meters or so.

The Salt flats are pretty much what they sound like.  A vast expanse of natural salt stretching from the feet of one mountain range to those of  another many many kilometres away.

Most of the salt excavated sells for cheap in the first world countries.  Even after that though, there’s still more salt left over than could ever be used.  Locals make extra money through selling salt sculptures to tourists.  I bought a salt llama.  Also for sale were salt cactuses, ashtrays, and napkin holders.  I fruitlessly looked for salt salt & pepper shakers, knowing that if I found them I would revel in the irony for the rest of my life.  The more ambitious sculptors had even created tables and chairs made entirely out of giant blocks of salt.  Slightly past the salt merchandise vendors was a series of salt pools.  Not only were these pools full of the clearest and bluest water I’d ever seen, they were freezing cold.  (I’m still trying to figure that one out.) At the bottom of each was a trove of loose salt.  If you knelt down and scooped up great handfuls of the stuff, and rubbed it over your skin, you got the equivalent of a free salt scrub.  (My hands were softer than I ever though possible for several hours.)  When we got tired of exfoliating, we resorted to jumping over them.

For lunch we drove into a small town called Tilcara.  As we ate lunch we were entertained by a band playing Incan folk music. (complete with Pan-Flutes.)  It was really good… part of the time that is.  For some reason, every so often one of the musicians pulled out a giant horn that was about 4 metres long, and played only two notes in a horrible drunken foghorn tone.  If the fact that this contraption completely ruined the music wasn’t enough, the guy put on a show by playing it while swinging it around, over the heads of everyone in the restaurant.  Several people came close to getting clocked in the head as it went by.  We still don’t know exactly what it was, what it was for, or why they thought they needed it, as I’ve never heard anything like it in Incan folk music before.

For me, Tilca was special for it’s great view.  While it didn’t have the famous multi-colored hill in it’s scenery, it’s vista was so breathtakingly spectacular I found myself wondering if I wasn’t actually looking at hills, but instead, at some kind of giant painting.

The next day we headed south to the city of Salta in the province thereof, the biggest city in the region.  While not in the same ravine as most of Jujuy, Salta boasts another large valley in which it sits.  As we came through the hills and into the valley, I couldn’t see the opposite side of the valley through the haze.  My original impression of this being the most polluted city I’d ever seen proved incorrect as we learned that in the spring during long periods of drought the strong winds would sweep all the dust into the atmosphere, thus creating the haze we saw.  Our accommodations were provided by the Sheraton Hotel.  I’d never stayed in a big name hotel before and hoped it would be the epitome of luxury. (Everyone needs a break from roughing it eventually.) I wasn’t disappointed.  It was built into the hillside overlooking the city, with a view out over the colonial skyline.  From the main deck and pool, we watched the sunset over the hills and lights of town come up.

Our first day trip out of Salta was to El Bodega Esteca in nearby Cayafate.  While Mendoza is the major wine-producing region in Argentina, a good 5% of the country’s win is produced in the Cayafate region.  Bodega Esteca is one of the most prominent, and makes wine that sells all over the world under the name “Michel Torino.”  The Cayafate region specializes in Cabernet Sauvignon for red, and Torrontés for white.  (Side note: While the Cafayate wine is by no means bad, If you want to try Argentine wine go for a Malbec or Chardonnay from Mendoza.  Due to the unique geography of the region, the Malbec produced there is claimed as arguably the best in the world. )

We toured the winery and saw how it was all made and got lessons on wine tasting.  The owners gave us a crash course on what all the swirling, sniffing, swishing, and spitting is about when a connoisseur tests his wine.  Holding the glass to the side allows for a better view of the color of the wine, using opacity and vibrancy to determine age.  You swirl the wine lightly for two reasons.  The first is to see how long it takes for the rim to drip back down, measuring the sugar content based on how fast or slow it runs.  The second is the stir the aroma to make it easier to smell.  You give the wine 4 short sniffs to get a sense of the aroma, using it’s relative fruityness or oakiness to determine how long it was kept barreled.   The first sip is swished around to get the wine to different parts of the mouth.  Different parts of the tongue detect different parts of the taste.  The first sip in a tasting is then traditionally spit out so as to keep the alcohol from burning the back of the throat and making it harder to distinguish flavors and sensations on your tongue.  Yeah, it’s a pretty complicated process for determining the quality of your spoiled grape juice.

The bodega was very informational and pretty cool to see and hang around, but it wasn’t that cool.  By “that,” I mean worth the 3 hour bus ride to get there.  The only way there was through the rocky wilderness, this time more similar to Utah, and Nevada.  Because of a change in companies we no longer had our cool bus.  It was replaced by two other buses with less comfortable seats, and air conditioning that wasn’t fully functional.  We did stop to go in a rock formation called “El Amphiteatro” where all the sound inside was magnified.

Our next day was my personal favorite.  Mostly because it involved white-water rafting.  Because it was only a moderately difficult level III stretch, the entire group went rafting in crews of 8 down the Rio Juramento.  After everyone was sufficiently wet and tired, we returned to base camp for an asado and plenty of time to lounge about in the warm sun.  After returning to the hotel, and enjoying a candle light dinner outside on the Sheraton’s patio in their garden with a local choir and dance troupe for entertainment, I returned to my room, and passed out.  Almost perfect.

Our final day was spent at an Estancia outside of Salta.  The day was designed as a chillout vacation from vacation kind of day.  We got to see how their farm worked, ride their horses, watch them use their GIANT grill, eat what it produced, play soccer on their pitch, and swim in their pool.  Unfortunately, I didn’t ride any of the horses.  After the first group went and multiple people were bucked off/unable to control their horses, I decided that it would be best not to attempt to mount the crazy horses.  I’ve never ridden a horse in my life, and this clearly was not the time to start.  I know that I will be able to ride much more tame trail horses when I go to Córdoba.  Nevertheless, the day was a fun wind down to a great trip.

As I sat in the grass in the shade of a big tree at the distant mountains from the estancia, I found myself wishing that we could have school out here, and then make field trips to Buenos Aires.   The beauty of nature that I’d always had was something that wasn’t present in the middle of the city.  I had been living in Argentina, a country filled with some of the world most splendoured natural landscapes, and I had been missing them.  It was like Italy with no pasta.  The wide open spaces and fresh air of Salta made me feel like I was once again in touch with the earth on which I tread.  I savored that moment for a while.  Now, back in the city, I can still close my eyes and see that same scene.  That’s how I know this trip was a success.

The Argentine passion is best accurately described as a microcosm of the global fanaticism of the sport.  To put it in perspective of viewers, lets look at the quintessential America mega-event; the Super Bowl.  The last four have broken the 90 Million viewers mark, with XLIII (Steelers vs. Cardinals) topping the list with 98 Million.  It was estimated by various sources that the average viewership of a World Cup Finals match was 95 Million, and an estimated 260 million watching the Championship match.  Meaning virtually every day for a month more people watched soccer than watched the final episodes of M*A*S*H* and Dallas combined. *

Last saturday, I got a firsthand taste of the Argentine fútbol fervor.  Some of us got tickets to an Argentina vs. Perú World Cup Qualifier match.   It’s something I doubt I will ever forget, for multiple reasons.

Just getting to the stadium gave us a glimpse into just how seriously they take it.  The roads were all closed up to seven blocks away from the stadium.  Giant mobs of people all shuffling in the same direction through the crowded streets.  We had to pass through three ticket checkpoints complete with Armed Police in Riot Gear before we even got to the stadium.  At the stadium we queued up to get patted down before entering.  They must’ve only been checking for guns because it was the easiest security check I’ve seen.  Once past the checkpoint, and up the stairs, the stadium opened before us.

65 Thousand people crammed into that stadium, many with standing room only.  The aisles on either side of our seats were full of people for the duration of the match.  After the slightly long national anthem that none of us knew the words too, we sat down… well, at least some of us did.  In the midst of the big city, it’s easy to forget that you live in a third-world country.  The stadium seats left no doubt as to that fact.  Rickety wooden boards rotting from years of use with rusty bars for armrests.  This posed two problems for me.  First off, my friend Channing and I were the two tallest people there, and both of us didn’t fit into our seats.  Our legs sticking out at odd angles had no room to move in the space between our seats and the ones in front of us.  I had another problem in that my bootylicious backside was wider than the space between the armrests.  Once I finally got seated, I was pretty much stuck there.  Thanks to my Dad’s legs, and my Mom’s butt, I am genetically designed to not fit in those seats.

For the first half, the Argentine goal was on the opposite side of the pitch from us.  It mattered little considering the first half was scoreless.  10 minutes into the second half, after they had switched sides, Argentina scored.  I actually missed the goal because everyone around me stood up, and It took me a good 20 seconds to free myself from the seat.  The celebrations went on for a good minute.  The only thing that was conspicuously missing was the announcer screaming “gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool” for as long as his breath could last.  In fact, there was no announcer at all.  No announcer, no scoreboard, and no time clock.  Everyone there was expected to keep track of events, time left, and score for themselves.

Around the 70th minute, it started to rain.  I remember with a crisp precision the first drop that fell.  I remember it so vividly because it was big.  It was a solitary thick wet drop sent as a warning of things to come.  In under a minute, his friends showed up, each of them just as big.  By the time the match got to stoppage time, every soul was drenched.  Many fled to the dry security of the entrance gates, most, stayed, completely unfazed.   It didn’t take long for Perú to score, coming right out of the gate to tie the game 1-1.

Argentina needed to win this match.   Losing would’ve been a disaster of cataclysmic proportions.  Perú is in last place in the South American pool.  Argentina has been struggling, even getting booed off the field after a tie against Paraguay.  Their World Cup chances and by proxy, their national pride rested on scoring again in the next five minutes.  The intensity of the weather reflected that of the match.  The rain, by now a full-fledged thunderstorm fell by the bucketload.  The wind mixed with the constraints of the stadium created a maelstrom of water.  It was a fishbowl, the only time I’ve ever gone to a soccer game only to leave it a water polo match.  Everyone was standing (fine by me) and soaked.  We didn’t even bother with hoods anymore at this point.

Nobody in this photo was dry

The rain was so thick, we couldn’t see the opposite side of the field.  Then in the last minute, off a corner kick, the ball was lost in the mess, bouncing from player to player like a pinball game, when it found it’s way outside to Martin Palermo, a local player in as a substitute, who kicked it in for the winning goal, 2-1.

What happened after that goal can only be described as an explosion of communal euphoria.  Everyone was jumping up and down in the rain chanting “PALERMO!” and Singing the club song “Vamos Vamos Argentina” Diego Maradona was sliding through the wet grass in ecstasy, Palermo himself was circling the field shirtless in a “Shawshank Redemption” pose.

It was just mass chaotic excitement.  Everyone was soaked to the bone, but nobody cared.  Even after the game as they streamed out into the streets, singing and chanting that much harder, by now having to compete with the thunder and lighting.  The electricity from the lighting that lit up the sky was seemingly channeled into the passion of the crowd as they surged through the city.  Argentina still must defeat Uruguay on wednesday, but the ending of that match, as close to a buzzer beater as you get in soccer, made it more memorable than the most dramatic championship.

* My American Pride dictates that I must make the caveat that the Superbowl pulls roughly the same viewership as World Cup Matches with an audience of only Americans.  Also not counting how many people watch the Big game globally.  The 4% that is America puts up proportionally better numbers than the other 96% of the world? Given, the rest of the world doesn’t have quite as many televisions as the U.S. does. (Furthermore, Princess Diana’s Funeral was watched by 2.5 Billion people, kicking the crap out of anybody’s sporting event.)

There is a word in spanish that I feel is very important for you to know.  “Cerro.” It means “hill.” And that is what Chile is composed of.  Hills.  A successive series of them.

The Chilean peso was trading at around 500 to 1.  I found myself usually carrying around several thousand at a time.  I would often laugh to myself and make note to remember the comical prices.  700 for a Coke, 7,000 for a bus ticket, 12,000 for lunch and so on.  Dropping 36 grand for my hostel definitely made me feel like a high-roller.  The easiest system I could really think of for calculating actual price was to drop anything beyond the thousand and double it.  (much easier than dividing by 500) It actually became so easy that I started to wonder why they didn’t just drop the last few digits from everything.  As long as everything followed suit the currency wouldn’t gain or lose any value, it would just make the math easier, that and help the poor tourists who aren’t sufficient enough at large numbers in Spanish.  Ironically, the real problem I faced most repeatedly was that my bills were too large.  I really wanted a churro that cost 700 pesos.  The smallest bill I had was a ten thousand.  Apparently, Chile in the same fashion as Argentina has coin shortage.  Coins came in 500, 100, 50, and the completely useless 10.  I first learned of the latter’s existence when some wise guy decided to charge 560 for ice cream.  Despite this, the two largest varieties proved very useful.  Everywhere I went people were paying with their coins.  I never really had enough to make successful use of them.  I’m pretty sure I never once paid for anything with exact change.  Even now, I still have about 350 pesos left that I couldn’t buy anything with.

The twin sister to discovering what is different in a new place, is discovering what you didn’t know was different in the old one.  It wasn’t until I was on my plane gazing out across the seemingly endless pampas plain that I realized how flat Buenos Aires is.  I had known there was something missing that I just couldn’t put my finger on, that something was hills.  I don’t have to walk uphill anywhere.  One side of the city to the other, completely flat.  With this bit of knowledge, I’m amazed there aren’t as many cyclists as in other flat cities, like Amsterdam. (My theory: The crazy driver’s killed them all.)  After about an hour of Pampas in all directions, we finally hit the Andes, which I proceeded to take pictures till we crossed them.

Once we were over Chile itself, the hills awareness meter got turned to eleven.  They were everywhere.  Each little town was nicely tucked in between several of them, lounging in their shadows.  And there were trees!  Don’t get me wrong, the Pampas have the occasional “tree” but are 99% grassland.  Conversely, the Chilean countryside was speckled with them.  There were even whole forests in places.  While the dynamic nature of the geographical layout may not sound like something terribly interesting, for someone used to the American West, yet forced to endure one of the most monotonous environments on the planet, it was absolutely captivating.

As I left the plane and made my way towards customs I noticed a sign with several flags on it, one of which happened to be American.  Upon further review and translation I discovered that all Americans, Canadians, Mexicans, Australians, and Albanians had to pay a fee to enter the country.  $131, and that’s United States dollars, not Chilean monopoly money.  I’m not exactly sure how the British escaped the “let’s loot the rich people” excise or what the Albanians ever did to Chile, but I got my stamp and got out of the airport.

Evidently the amount of people traveling on tuesdays is minimal, and I flew threw customs only to be attacked by taxi services, hungry for customers in their time of famine.  Unable to distinguish between any of them, I picked the green company because I liked the color, that and the people at the yellow taxi service counter didn’t look very nice.  I managed to snag a spot in a courier van with about 4 other people heading into town.  I spent the first couple minutes taking in the highway and the buildings just off of it before I noticed the elephant in the room.  Those Andes I was admiring on the flight turned out to be a lot bigger from the ground.  It literally took me all day to get over just how bloody huge they were.

Just over 20 minutes later I landed on the curb outside my hostel. It was clean and had a friendly  staff.  While I did have to sleep on the top bunk in a room with 5 other people, given that I payed next to nothing for it, I wasn’t complaining, it would do.

Now, if you came to Portland, I could give you a pretty good list of things to do.  OMSI, the Rose Garden, Powell’s, and the Saturday Market would likely be near the top.  Portland is not a terribly “touristy” town.  We don’t get the traffic Seattle or San Francisco does, but there is definitely many things here to warrant a visit.  On that list somewhere in-between “Hawthorne District” and “Nike HQ” I’d probably recommend going up Rocky Butte or Mt. Tabor to see the view.  For Santiago, climbing a hill to see the view occupies the #1 and #2 spots of things to do.  There’s probably something to be said about a city where must-do activity is to get to a good vantage point to look at it, but I’m not going to say it.  I’ll leave that for someone who has never actually climbed those hills.

Cerro Santa Lucía is the smaller of the two, but was closer to my hostel, so I went there first.  Located right in the middle of the city, it reaches slightly higher than the skyscrapers around it, granting it perfect “vantage point” status.  However, this was more than just a hill.  Santa Lucía essentially has a series of castles built into it.  The first of which, and closest to the bottom, which I refer to as the “Italian” castle is reminiscent of Neo-Classical aesthetics, making good use of corinthian columns and roman arches along with a few statues and a tiered fountain, all topped of with a great dome.  After some more climbing and winding stairs we hit the “German” castle.  Complete with classic brick and mortar walls, gate, and crenellated battlements this one gives you the impression of a gothic fortress.  By now, anyone ascending Santa Lucía might begin to think they were heading back in time the higher they got, and architecturally speaking they wouldn’t be wrong.  (Although I highly doubt any of these structures were built in-period.) My mother, who is notoriously afraid of heights, would have done well to this point.  However, after this section, the final structure that sits atop the summit is pretty much a stone-age shamble.  She would never have made it.  The stairs quickly degrade to stacked rocks and the bricks get older and rougher.  The top is small parapet with 3 ft. high jokes for guard rails.  Adding in a several hundred foot drop in each direction, even I didn’t stick around very long.  The view however, was definitely spectacular.

I then hoofed it over to the other side of town (through some not so sparkling barrios) to get to the Parque Metropolitano.  Portlanders stop me when this sounds familiar.  It’s a large park, on a series of hills at the edge of town where several gardens, a concert venue and the zoo are located.  The most prominent hill is indeed that of Cerro San Cristóbal.

The funicular takes you about 3/4 of the way up, past the zoo and gardens.  At this height there’s a pretty good view of the city, and you’re definitely higher up than any of the buildings in the city.  A bit higher, we get to this big amphitheater.  Above that is the Santiago monument to the Virgin Mary.  Although not quite as famous or prominent as her son in Rio de Janeiro, she still occupies the place of honor at the highest point in the city.  It was from here that I watched the sun go down behind the hills in the west.

The hill in the distance is Santa Lucía

If you’ve ever looked at a map of Chile, you know it covers over half the continent, but only spans several hundred kilometers side to side.  Due to this fact, other than hills what Chile possesses in large quantities is coastline.  Due to that fact, fishing is a big industry, and the seafood is supposed to be top-notch.  I eventually settled on a sushi place and ate there.  The wine was horrible (Especially by Argentine standards) but the sushi was pretty good.  Up to this point in my South American adventures I had never really struggled with ordering food.  Most Argentine dishes don’t go to far beyond “Carne,” “Pollo,” and “Papas” (Beef, Chicken, and Potatoes.) I know the word for fish (Pescado) however beyond that, I’m sunk.  So I just picked two random things off the menu and hoped for the best.  It wasn’t a complete shot in the dark because one of them had “Salmón” in it.

Santiago in general feels a lot more like an American city than Buenos Aires.  Namely, it’s more spread out and has bigger roads.  It even has American style cars rather than European styles.   Of course, all references to feeling American come only from the fact that the U.S. is my greatest reference point.  The deeper truth is Santiago probably has the best mix of North American, European, and South American stylings.  If Buenos Aires is the Paris of South America, then Santiago is the Berlin.  For some reason was the vibe I kept getting as I traversed it’s streets and sidewalks, which were extremely clean.  All the main streets were divided with huge open spaces in the middle, and many of them even had bike paths.  I did a double take when I saw a street crossing sign with a bike instead of person.  There’s also an extensive subway and bus system.  The buses are the cool extend kind that bend in the middle so they can get around turns.  The bus stops are just as big as the buses themselves: raised and covered platforms that can be almost a city block long.  the subway is one of the best I’ve seen in the world (including European systems.) Tickets can be purchased individually, or in bulk and loaded to a card.  Prices go up slightly at peak hours, but not by much.  Each line follows a major street, has stops at major intersections.  Each station comes with a complete map of the system as a whole, and that line individually displayed prominently on the wall.  Above ground, the signs are large, and clearly labeled.  I had absolutely no problem using it whatsoever.

Like Moscow as a friend of mine recently discovered, there are wild dogs roaming the streets everywhere.  Not quite as populous as the dogs, but still very present were the police.  For much of the last half of the 20th century, Chile was ruled by General Augusto Pinochet in a military dictatorship.  While the country is now a free republic, the Police fashion is still reminiscent of their dark past.  Each uniform is an olive green military suit with full armament belts with holster.  Their shoes are polished shinier than the crown jewels, and the creases in their pants are sharper than most swords.  To top it all off, they all get those cool captain hats.  Each one of them looks like they could be an Army officer.   They all roam the streets in pairs, ever vigilant of disturbances.

Chile apparently never planned on the invention of electricity, because by the looks of it, they clearly had no plan on how best to distribute power once they actually had it.  In Santiago, and to an even worse extent in Valparaiso, power lines zoom between poles nine ways from sunday with no apparent pattern or plan.  From any sidewalk, chaos is only about ten feet about your head.

I spent the rest of the night relaxing at the hostel with an Australian dude and a British couple.  The movie channel was the only real thing in English se we watched Terminator 3, and Bridget Jones Diary (Which the Limeys think is pretty much the best movie ever BTW.)  I had the top bunk and had to get up sans ladder.  Luckily the guy below me hadn’t retired yet and I could step on that mattress.  The bed was pretty good, even came with bedding. (rendering my sleeping back useless). Despite the fact that it was free, I slept through breakfast. (I have priorities.) Got my stuff together and checked out.

The bus terminal was about four subway stops from my hostel.  Tickets were cheap, and the only real problem I had was figuring out whether or not I could use my return ticket at any date and time. (Which I could.)  I slept for most of it, and woke to the smell of the ocean.  I seriously lucked out as my hostel was only 3 blocks to the west of the bus station and off a main road.  El Rincón Marino is a guesthouse in central Valparaíso with a nautical theme, a spiral staircase, and very small doors.

There was some misunderstanding as I had apparently booked a two person room on accident.  They gave me a 25% discount due to the mixup.  Other than being a private room, the major kick was that the bed was queen sized.  After many nights on my military barracks sized bed in Buenos Aires, I was ecstatic for this reason alone.  At this point I really didn’t even have to go anywhere, and the trip would have been worth it.  On top of this, they even brought breakfast to my room each morning.  It was a bit of shock the first morning to wake up to knock at my door at 10:30 Am to a man with a tray.

Valparaíso was really interesting.  It’s a port town with a bohemian air.  It has this “anything goes” kinda feel to it.  Classical architecture and graffitied concrete sit side by side.  Artist markets and street vendors stand at the edge of parks filled with grand statues and fountains.  Behind the main portion of the city, the town stretches up into the hills.  Many different colored houses go on for miles.  On each of this hills is a neighborhood, bearing the name of the hill on which it sits.  Each of these neighborhoods also has it’s own “ascensor” funicular that carries pedestrians up the steepest grade.  Guidebooks I had read beforehand compared riding the Valparaíso ascensors to riding the Venice gondolas.  They’re evidently that important.

Seeing as I had hit the hills of Santiago the previous day, I vied to hold off on tackling the hills of Valparaíso till the next day.  On my first day I toured the “flat” urban sections of the city.  Like Malibu in California, Valparaíso is very long, stretching all the way around it’s namesake bay, but at the widest, it’s no longer than 6 or 7 blocks before it begins climbing into the hills.

I hit up the restaurant that was first on all the guide lists, a hole in the wall called “J Cruz.” It was located down a graffiti covered back alley.  The interior itself was just as marked as the exterior.  The “anything goes” air was interesting.  Take an eclectic collection of odds and ends, add some folk singers and you get the idea.  The dish to have was called “Chorillana,” a collection of fries, eggs, onions, and diced steak.  It was incredibly good, despite the fact that like my hostel room, it was too big, and meant for two people.

Realizing that the Pacific Ocean was only a few kilometers away, I then rushed as fast as foot traffic would allow down to the waterfront.  Given I couldn’t get right down to the water as there was a port in the way, I still could see it, which is what counts.

The next day would be the first over 70 degrees since my arrival in South America, so I decided it would be a travesty of traveling to not go to the beach in nearby Viña del Mar.  I hopped on the metro, which used a system similar to that of the London tube’s “Oyster Cards,” refillable plastic cards that you swipe over a reader to pay.  Only two or three stops later I was in Viña del Mar.  I chilled for a while there and saw what it had to offer.

On the way out, I stopped into a fancy looking Seafood restaurant called “Caleta Portales.”  It was right on the beach, and my theory is that seafood is always best when you can see where it came from.  Asking for fish is easy, what’s not so easy is figuring out types of fish.  As with most of my seafood excursions, I pretty much just pointed to a random thing on the menu.

On the way home, I decided to take one of the ascensors up to see the town from the hills.  My adventurous spirit, mixed with my Pepperdine hill-climbing experience kept taking me higher up the hills.  Before going back down I went to see the museum at Pablo Neruda’s old house.

I then headed back to Santiago for the final day.  I followed the tourist map past all the major collections of cool buildings, ending with Pablo Neruda’s other house, located in Santiago.

And then it was time to go.  I grabbed one more plate of sushi in the airport and took to the Sky back to B.A.  And now, I need a vacation from vacationing.

]]> http://ianinargentina.wordpress.com/2009/10/12/spring-break-09-again-spring-break-09-again/feed/ 1 shiochain hills Andes big mountains Santa Lucía Mas Santa Lucía top of the hill san cristobal mary the top Sunset powerlines chorillana ocean trees beach reloj de flores houses seafood ascensor mas houses down out bay even mas houses viña del mar la sebastiana bicentennial catedral correo central neo-gothic la chascona http://ianinargentina.wordpress.com/2009/09/24/tango-porteno/ http://ianinargentina.wordpress.com/2009/09/24/tango-porteno/#comments Thu, 24 Sep 2009 04:17:45 +0000 shiochain http://ianinargentina.com/?p=68 ]]> Tonight, we went to the Tango Porteño, a dinner and show kinda joint.  The entire place was decked out like an Art Deco theatre from the glory days of tango.  Even the sign and menu font fit in with the aesthetic. (because I’m a nerd and notice that kind of thing.)

The dinner was ok, nothing to special, spectacular, or otherwise outstandingly noteworthy; It was good enough.  The dining room was spread out before the giant stage where rows of seats normally would be.  Everyone got their picture taken with the dancers, and could even keep them for around 60 pesos.  In case you haven’t figured it out yet, this was a MAJOR tourist trap.  The clientele was composed of the usual suspects: American, British, and Japanese globe trotters rounded out the majority of the customers of this establishment, conveniently located right on the main boulevard of the city, only a few hundred feet from the Obelisk. (Basically the “Time’s Square” of Buenos Aires.)  Furthermore, the waiters all spoke perfect english to complement the bi-lingual menu.

I didn’t pay for any of it myself, so I really wouldn’t know how much it cost to hit up this place, but however much we payed would’ve been worth it just for the tango, even if it would’ve been in a crumbling rundown warehouse.  The dancing was incredible.  I haven’t seen that much spinning and kicking since the last Bruce Lee movie I rented.  But this was awesome to watch.  Each partner moving gracefully in sync with the other across the stage and back.  Tango is like visual dulce de leche.  I could explain it to you ’till my keyboard breaks, but you would never truly understand it unless you saw it.

It was such an absolute treat to watch, especially in a grand production like this was.  The scale of the show matched, if not exceeded that of it’s housing.  The band, consisting of a piano, upright bass, cello, two violas, three violins, and 4 accordians was placed on a second stage higher up and behind the main one.  The show began with a large group number of people dressed in classic city suits and dresses, dancing in and around an artistic backdrop of nostalgic B.A. (very reminiscent of Guys & Dolls)  From there it would alternate between group numbers, sung interludes, one-on-one dances, and musical interludes.  All of it was incredible.  Some of the highlights.

• The second one-on-one dance, performed through scenery designed to look like a park, including around a tree and over a bench.
• A dance evocative of a dream where the female was blindfolded for it’s duration, including some of the most daring moves I saw all night.
• A woman who with puppetry, and sleight of hand appeared to be dancing with an otherwise empty frame of a person covered in a suit and fedora. (As in she essentially tangoed with herself, and made it look good.)

All of it was nothing short of amazing.  Professional tango is without a doubt the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.  I wont learn how to dance it until next semester, but it’ll be worth the wait.

Tango, just another way Buenos Aires never ceases to amaze me.

I just got off the bus a few minutes ago.  The last time I rode a 1:30 Bus it contained about 9 sombre people, most of which couldn’t have been more than a few nods away from sleep.  This bus ride felt like the middle of the day.  The bus was full to the point of standing room only.  It even had all the characteristics of a midday bus.  Businessmen with their suits and briefcases, Old Ladies with their groceries, sleeping homeless people, and constant jabbering in Spanish.  The biggest difference though was the large populace of young adults all in total Latin fashionista mode.   This is how you know you’re on a Buenos Aires Bus at 1:30 in the morning.  They had all finished dinner, and were now, they were going dancing.  For months leading up to this trip, I had read multiple accounts of how Argentines were very fashion conscious and liked to dress up, and for the past week, as far I observed, they were wrong.  What all the guidebooks fail to mention is that the real show of Argentine vanity happens after normal people should be asleep.

At this point you might wonder why I was on a bus at such a time.  The short answer is that because the subway was closed.  And now for the long one…

Being a Friday, and being a college student in a country with legal drinking, I assumed there would be a group of students from my school going out to a bar or club or something.  I assumed correctly.  My incorrect assumption was that anyone would tell me about it.   As a point of clarification, I hate to go to things I’m not invited to, and I hate even more to invite myself to go to them.  This is why I really never go anywhere.  During the week I write it off as being a better student who actually does his homework and goes to bed early enough to get a decent night’s sleep for school the next day, however, seeing as it’s the weekend I wasn’t exactly keen to stay home again.  I even took a siesta so I’d have the energy to get through the night. (Which is why I’m still awake writing this as of now.)

So, around 22:00 (that’s 10:00 Pm for those of you who don’t speak 24 hour clock) I bite the bullet and invite myself to something.  I shoot out a text to see what’s going on, and I’m told to hit up this place at “1020 Chucabaca”  the dyslexic part of my brain smiled a bit when it read “Chewbaca” street.  I googled it, only to discover it was in San Telmo, south of “El Microcentro.” Seeing as it was pretty far away (Despite the fact that in terms of area Buenos Aires is actually fairly small for a city of it’s population) I went and jumped on the subway to downtown.

The last train leaves from the station nearest my apartment at 10:30. I beat it by a few minutes, but regardless, there would be no return trip on the subway.  It’s a bit odd that a city that stays out so late would have a subway system that closes so early.  (MAX trains in Portland run till at midnight.) If you ever ride one you may or may not notice how they run on the left side.  This is cultural residue from the fact that the railways were all built (and originally owned by) the British.  The D Line terminates at “Catedral” which is pretty much the central connection to all the different lines in the city.  After only a week I can navigate most of the city with ease.  the key is to stay to the peripheral east parts close to the water, and not venture too far west/inland.  The major parts of the city all generally fall onto a giant crescent with Av. 9 de Julio (the really freaking big one) running north/south in the south part of town, and Av. Santa Fe/Cabildo running Southeast to Northwest through the northern part.  The majority of people and things to see and do in Buenos Aires all fall on this curve.

After about 20 minutes of walking from Catedral to San Telmo I eventually found the place in the maze of small one way streets.  Turns out it’s a hotel/hostel and the bar was first stop on a guided Pub Crawl.  If you know me and know my luck, it’s needless to say they were already gone.  They shot me the name of the next place, but considering the unknown area, it wouldn’t have mattered how good my geographical skills were, I’d probably would’ve found D.B. Cooper before I found that bar.  I decided to make the best of it, and at least do something in that area to justify the price of my ticket.

I hit up a small cafe which looked bright and clean enough.  You may laugh at my precautions, bit where I come from, places open past midnight tend to be a bit sketchy.  I had already had dinner, so I decided on dessert and a drink.  I got Flan with Dolce de Leche (which they put on everything and is hereafter known as DdL) and Irish coffee.  There was enough DdL on this tiny piece of flan to give me a heart attack several times. (which fortunately didn’t happen, but I’m not out of the woods yet.) Most people will describe DdL as a kind of caramel, but the truth is that’s much more.  It’s like essence of sweet.  You can feel your teeth rotting away as you eat it.  I’m pretty sure it was discovered by an alchemist who accidentally dropped his candy bar in one of his experiments.

The Irish coffee wasn’t very good, and was terribly bitter.  I decided that being from the Northwest officially outweighs any Irish heritage when you think that the alcohol ruins the coffee.  But it was a learning experience, and a cheap one at that.  My alcoholic mission statement Potent Potable Category research isn’t as much to get wasted, but to try as many different drinks that I wouldn’t be able to try otherwise.  I, unlike most of my compatriots still think alcohol tastes nasty.  (Although I have developed an affinity for Tom Collins) I didn’t finish it, it was too much.

At this point, it was almost 1:00.  For me, it was time to go home, for the locals, it was time to go out.  So Buenos Aires and I each went our separate ways, I back to my keyboard, and it to it’s dance floor.  Good night morning Argentina!