25/6/2012 - Reflections

Perhaps it is strange to write reflections of a previous trip while in the middle of a different one but whilst on this current journey (in Turkey) my mind kept wandering back to and making comparisons with south America. So maybe now is not such a bad time.

When I think back, I am conscious of how it is all too easy to white-wash memories of travelling. Honestly, although my blog probably doesn't reflect it, I remember the times I felt like crap and had no idea why I was seemingly purposelessly travelling in a foreign continent so far away from home, as much as I remember the times I felt inspired by the people I met, ecstatic about the things I saw and exhilarated by the experiences I had. But I think the point is, I remember them all. More so than any other period of my life, I can recount those 6 months with strikingly clarity. The solo wanderings through Quito which left me haplessly out of breath, the small snippets of conversation about existential angst I had with Mexican Victoria in Siete Angelitos bar in Cuzco, the taste of the ice-cold beer that our guide fetched me and Vova as we waited in the pouring rain after the Roraima trek. It's all so vivid. Is that what travelling is all about? Memories that are branded onto your mind so that even a slight reminder produces a detailed picture of a time and place. And that feeling of “I was there, I did that” is absolutely delicious.

1-4/4/2012 - 3 days in Buenos Aires and the end of the adventure

My 3 days in BA raced by in a blur of sightseeing, going out and trying to come to terms with the fact that I was actually going to be going home. From only a brief exposure to the city I was really drawn in. There was an ever present vivacity about the place, probably helped by the fact that there was a motor sport race going on right through the city centre on the day I arrived and the 30^th anniversary of the Falklands war the day after.

Re-enacting hooliganism at athe Boca Juniors football statium

Both events had locals out in force, the latter manifesting itself in a large parade down one of the main streets. “Fuera Ingleses” was plastered across many a bus stop and a catchy chant of “We will return, we will return, like we did the first time” was bellowed out by young and old alike. Although a few firecrackers went off, the parade seemed mostly good natured and culminated in a chanting session in front of the parliament building. It might not have been a good day to be a Brit in Argentina but I kept a low profile and enjoyed the spectacle without bothering to delve into any political arguments. 
 

The sane day I rented a bike (I'd gotten a taste for it now) and went marauding around the northern part of the centre, taking in the cemetery where Argentina's rich and famous got entombed. Among the generals and bankers was the tomb of the Peron's which meant that I had “don't cry for me Argentina” in my head for the rest of the day.

It was a slightly odd place, made even stranger by the hoards of tourists wandering around and taking photos. Something about turning death into a tourist attractions didn't sit right with me but naturally I was one of those tourists so there goes my moral high ground.
 

Cycling through a couple of quiet neighbourhoods, where walkways were shaded by trees and the cafés were littered with lounging locals, I was drawn to make comparisons with down town New York. In some ways it also reminded me a little of Caracas, if Caracas had a multicultural facelift and replaced its shoe shops and filth with cafés and tango shows.

That isn't to say BA is perfect. I saw more homeless people sleeping in doorways along many of the main avenues in my 3 days here than I think I'd seen through my whole 6 months in SA.

The city and Argentina in general is such a whirlwind of activity and mixture of cultures that its almost impossible not to be swept along in it. Couple that with the fact that University education is free and it only takes 2 years to gain citizenship and its not hard to see why the place has definitely made it on to my “need to go back to” list. Who knows when. I'd also tentatively add it to my list of places I could see myself living in. That dream will have to wait.

In the last week I'd tried to juggle all the emotions of looking forward to going home, not wanting to leave and trying to savour every moment. When it came to packing my bag for the last time I found that I couldn't fully comprehend the journey I'd had. Those days of volunteering at the foundation in Venezuela all those months ago now seemed like a previous life. Vivid snapshots of different cities and people drifted across my mind and I was left with a sense of awe at how lucky I'd been to see and experience so much in just 6 short months, 6 months that at times felt like they were dragging on forever and other times seemed to race by.

The same questions came back to me. Had I learned anything? About life, about myself? Had I changed? Could any of these things be written down in blog form? The answer is “probably yes” to the first 3 and “probably not” to the latter (what a cop out, right?). Shall I try?.. later.

And so it was time to go. I waved goodbye to the wonderfully cheerful receptionist, picked up a couple of bottles of wine and headed to the airport. Goodbye South America.

30-31/3/2012 - Grapes and spokes

The next day me and Jack unbelievably followed through on our promise to each other to get an early start but suffered a slight set back immediately after.

We'd been recommended a bike rental place called “Mr Hugo's” and, as the public bus we were on wound its way further into what was unmistakably wine country, Jack spotted a sign with “Mr Hugo” written on it. Jumping off the bus, we wandered over to the place but found that the sign actually read “Owned by Mr Hugo”. Hmm... Gringo paranoia kicked in and we managed to convince ourselves that this place must be a fake trying to cash I on the real “Mr Hugo's” which couldn't possibly be located here. So off we went, walking for a good half an hour along the country roads, jumping on several more buses and asking a bunch of locals where the real Mr Hugo's was, before eventually someone wrote down an address for us and, surprise, surprise, we ended up at the very same “Owned by Mr Hugo” which we had assumed to be a fake a good hour ago. This is the idiocy that happens when 2 physicists put their sceptical hats on. In any case it was now getting on for midday and felt like a more appropriate time to start boozing/wine tasting.

The grin of a man who's cycling through wine country

Kitting ourselves out with bikes and a loose map of the area we set off in high spirits. Our first port of call was a fairly drab wine museum but we did get our first taste of a Malbec – the grape for which Argentina is most renowned for. After a stop at what I can only describe as a delicatessen where we lined our stomachs with various olive oils, chutneys, jams, dulce de leche's and a shot of absinthe, we hopped on our bikes and cycled through the midday heat to the furthest winery on our map. Our palates still untainted and our states still uninebriated, we decided to take a tour of the winery and actually try to, dare I say, learn something. This was going to be hard work, perhaps even on a par with the “work” involved in tripping out on hallucinogenic drugs. Ok I won't start that again...

As the afternoon wore on, we cycled from winery to winery treating out palates to everything Mendoza's vineyards had to throw at us. Some of the wines really were great, especially a Carmenere which felt like pouring silk into your mouth. However I still wasn't convinced I could tell the difference between a cheap and expensive wine. The only discernable difference I noticed was that the more expensive ones tended to be more complex and thus more difficult to describe without sounding like an idiot or a pretentious toff.

After around 5 wineries we decided that the expedition was beginning to lose its cultural tone and decided to call it a day. As well as hiring bikes, Mr Hugo also plies his customers with cheap wine when they return. As one might expect, our group which had expanded to accommodate several other travellers (including Alex who I'd met on the Inca Trail and trekked up EL Misti with) was in merry spirits on the bus back to Mendoza. We ended up partaking in an all-you-can-eat grilled meat affair (called asado (bbq) cooked on a parilla (grill)) at another hostel and I waved goodbye to Jack who was off north tomorrow. I would be travelling to my final destination of Buenos Aires. It had been a great day.

Steak, wine and physics

The next day was somewhat reminiscent of a very low budget version of “The Hangover” as I spent a large chunk of it locating a few things I'd managed to scatter in a variety of locations in Mendoza. My backpack, hat, sunglasses and a plastic bag full of clothes all had to be tracked down. Maybe next time I'll spit the wine out.

With that ordeal behind me I bid farewell to Mendoza and got on what would be my last overnight bus in South America. I won't bother calculating how many hours I've spent sitting on buses while I've been here but I think “a lot” is a pretty good summary.

28-29/3/2012 - The last of the epic bus rides

Inexplicably the bus journey seemed to fly by. Either my boredom threshold is going up or I'm actually beginning to enjoy the terrible films that have been a running theme throughout my bus travels. The 36 hour marathon threw up such gems as “White Chicks”, “Grown-Ups” (again) and the outstandingly awful “Old Dogs”. I'd originally become aware of the latter film back when Aled, Arth and I were on the west coast of the US and had seen a trailer for it. At the time we were all struck by how horrific it looked so it was nice that towards the end of a another journey I got to experience just how devastatingly bad it was first hand.

Another highlight that I also remembered was from a previous bus journey when I was relatively impressed that “Downfall” (a great film about the last days of the 3^rd Reich) was being shown. However in true South American style the film was inexplicably turned off 10 minutes before the end so we never got to find out what actually happened to those pesky senior Nazis. Maybe that's how the idea for “Iron Sky” came about.

Arriving in Mendoza, I was again reminded that an actual world existed outside of the bus. I like to think that I've been learning a bit about who I am whilst travelling. Perhaps my tolerance of epic bus journeys suggests I don't mind incarceration and would probably get accustomed to prison life quite quickly. Good to know.

The 15 minute walk from the bus terminal to my hostel, located slap bang in the middle of Mendoza, convinced me that I was going to like this place. The whole city had been left in tatters after a huge earthquake in 1861 but had been rebuilt in a carefully planned way whilst still retaining a lot of charm. After a wander around I met up with Jack, a friend from University who was also travelling South America but had started in Argentina. In true touristy fashion, we decided to celebrate our meeting by going for a steak and wine dinner – an Argentinian staple.

Jack had been given a recommendation for a restaurant which turned out to be a fairly plush affair and would certainly have been expensive if they hadn't mistakenly only charged us for one steak. We weren't complaining since the steaks were absolutely top draw. We ended the night by foolishly going to an “artesan beer” bar which promised much but delivered watery pints of bilge and ignited a pang of homesickness as we lamented the lack of good beer in SA. We were foolish to expect anything else, especially in the land where wine is king. With that in mind, we decided to tick another touristy box by doing a tour of the wineries, a good number of which are located close together in a suburb of Mendoza... on bike. Neither Jack nor I can claim to be connoisseurs or particular fans of red wine but when in Rome...

25-27/3/2012 - Iguazu falls part 2 – The Argentinian side

The Argentinian side of Iguazu did a pretty good job of winning me over to the waterfall cause again. Compared to the Brazilian side, you felt like you were actually walking around the waterfalls as opposed to gazing at them from afar. And obviously I had to do the obligatory power-boat ride which took you right under the many roaring torrents. My flimsy poncho, which I'd bought at Colca Canyon did little except to trap more water and deposit it on my already soaked clothes as the driver of the boat plunged us ever further into the spray. Although saturated with tourists, the large array of paths leading thought the forest and providing access to the plethora of different waterfalls made the place feel a lot more wild than the other side.

Arriving back in Puerto Iguazu I got my act together and boarded a bus which would take me to Mendoza, Argentina's fourth largest city, a mere 36 hours away. 

 

23-25/3/2012 - Iguazu falls part 1 – The Brazilian side

There's a nice symmetry to my 2 experiences of Brazil – my first was on the northern-most border from Venezuela at the border town of Pacaraima when I was volunteering all those months ago. The other has come near the end of my journey at one of its southern most points at the Iguazu waterfalls. Despite the language barrier (Portuguese is surprisingly very different to Spanish) both experiences left me wanting to see more. La proxima vez I guess.

My hostel in Foz de Iguazu was a nice chilled out affair and the receptionist, who also doubled as the barman, was friendly. Iguazu falls sit right next to the triple border point between Paraguay, Argentina and Brazil and are accessible from both Brazil and Argentina. Opulently I decided to do both. In the morning I jumped on a bus to the Brazilian side and can't say I was overly impressed. My only other experience of waterfalls had been in Venezuela where the experience had been a lot more close up and exhilarating. We'd walked under the curtain of one of the waterfalls and climbed around a couple of others. Despite Iguazu being huge, the tourist path never let you get close enough to appreciate their power. Sure they were pretty, but when it comes to waterfalls you want to be able to feel the sheer force of the water and I was left a little disappointed.

Cheeky racoon type things at the waterfalls

Everyone I'd spoken to had said the Argentinian side is better so I decided to reserve my judgement until I'd heard both sides of the story. Just outside the Iguazu complex was a bird sanctuary which I decided to go to on a whim but actually turned out to be really fun, with lots of toucans hopping around within touching distance and staring at you with their beady eyes.

I headed back into town and grabbed a typical Brazilian all-you-can-eat buffet which went down a treat but made the walk back to the hostel a bit of a challenge.

The next day I jumped across the border into Argentina – my last country of the trip. Puerto Iguazu (the Argentinian town on the border) was a nice if slightly touristy affair and it didn't take long to explore the entire town which was mostly comprised of restaurants and shops selling tourist tat. Tomorrow I would give the waterfalls another shot.

21-23/3/2012 - Asunción, NEXT!

Landing in Asunción I was greeted with torrential rain but I obstinately dodged the cabs and got a bus into the city. Eventually tracking down a hostel and found it to be deserted, apart from the Swedish guy working there, a German couple about to leave and an American guy. After a brief wander around the neighbourhood, beers were procured and we spent the night chewing the fat. The Swedish guy was a particularly odd character. His stories of heartbreak at the hands of an Argentinian girl and his ongoing attempts to buy a car in Paraguay were funny in all the wrong ways and I couldn't keep a straight face or the cynicism out of my voice when I spoke to him. Luckily he didn't seemed offended.

The next day I spent exploring Asunción and apart from an unexpected number of good looking ladies and a warning from a policeman about straying into areas that were “Peligroso, peligroso” (yawn) there was little memorable about the city. The buildings were pretty enough and the people friendly but there was nothing outstanding or notably “Paraguayan” that I could put my finger on. Again I will make no generalisations from my brief stay.

In the evening, the fiancé of the hostel owner (who was currently away) offered to take me and Drew (the American guy) out on the town. The proposal smelt of danger but her husband-to-be wasn't getting back for a few days (and I would be leaving tomorrow) so we went for it. It was a relatively fun night as she dragged us around a couple of discos, the last of which had an “erotic dance” performance at 3am. Very odd.

The aforementioned fiancé of the hostel owner was quite an interesting person – she was my age, already had a baby and a pretty nice car to boot. So perhaps she'd notched up a few more rungs on life's ladder but she definitely didn't seem happier for it. Hmm.

The next day I waved goodbye to what had definitely been one of my more bizarre hostel experiences and grabbed a bus to Ciudad del Este and then a taxi across the border into the town of Foz de Iguazu in Brazil!