The First Ever Blog of Its Kind

So, about the blog . . .

2006-08-22T21:54:00.000-03:00

I don't think there's much reason in keeping it around. I'm home now, and doubt I'll find much to post about, not that anything I could dig up would be very good anyway. So thanks to everyone who read and commented; I very much appreciate the interest that everyone took. All the best.

Dave

Peru

2006-07-19T18:52:00.000-03:00

I'm back on my own travelling again, as Pat and Andy have sensibly chosen to return to their jobs, girlfriends, and whatever other commitments they have that got left in Toronto like gunsmoke. I think that if they had stayed much longer than their allotted three weeks, then they too would have divested themselves of those commitments, as I have, or perhaps as they have of me. Another week or so in Rio and we may have forgotten our own names; another trek into the Sacred Valley and our Social Security Numbers would have had no more meaning than a disconnected telephone number; another stamp and 90-day visa and our passports may have ceased to read "Canada". No one, of course, is able to take the experience of travelling so far, but we at least had a taste of it, and I'll follow them shortly in the act of suiting back up in the lives we left.

BsAs to Lima first thing in the morning - a Sunday morning, might I add; as in the kind that follows a Saturday night - and taking the advice of virtually every traveller that I've met, right off to Cusco without even a glimpse at Lima beyond that from our departure terminal. We're not long off the tarmac in Cusco before the (possibly psychosomatic) impact of the much touted altitude crawls into us: do we feel dizzy? Faint of our usual brio and verve? How much are the altitude sickness pills we took really helping us? Was that all-nighter at the pub last night such a good idea? Other than finding ourselves more than usually winded when climbing stairs - or Cusco sidewalks, as one might as well call them - we were largely unaffected by the altitude bugbear in which lurked, supposedly, the potential to ruin our trip. We watched Zidane administer the head-butt heard round the world, followed presumably by some team winning the World Cup. We called it a night quite early on, and prepared for the next four days that would be the culmination of our trip: a trek from Lares to Ollantaytambo, finishing in a visit to Machu Picchu.

Peru, as I had hoped, was not at all like Argentina; whereas the latter is likened often by its residents as a chunk of Europe that had, by some clerical error, been grafted onto South America, Peru's indigenous heritage thrives in its spiritual centres like Cusco and the Sacred Valley, albeit somwhat uneasily with the hordes of visitors - be they Pizzaros or Peers - that overrun these sacred places every day. Our guide Carla, a descendent of Inca royalty, escorted us around the ruins of palaces that would have been her home if not for her birth on this side of the last 500 years. When two young visitors to Machu Picchu were asked to remove themselves from the grass terrace on which they had chosen to rest, the official behind the order was quite vocally criticized by a gentleman who reminded her that these visitors have rights, for after all, "they are Peruvians." Carla confirmed that a particularly reactionary group of indigenous people sought the return of Machu Picchu to its original purpose as a functioning town and sanctuary, not a tourist destination, though the initiative is politically and economically impossible.

All this is not to suggest, however, that the locals we met along the way were somehow hostile. Quite the opposite. Given that they see gringos with backpacks nearly every day, the residents of the small Andean towns that we passed were surprisingly curious and playful. Surprising too given that many of these people have part-time jobs lugging whatever we don't want to carry up and down the Inca Trail. One group was happy to have us by for a chat and glass of chicha (a white corn-based alcoholic beverage), and the kids enjoyed being in pictures and only rarely were so jaded as to jump straight into a request for candy. We played a hotly contested game of football at 3600m, which I'll have to concede to our hosts (and Andy), they being the only ones able to run for more than 15 seconds at that altitude.

Having some delicious and alcoholic chicha with the locals.

I've always thought of myself as being fairly hearty in dealing with the cold, but I've realized that in Canada we work hard to control our doses of it, simply by heating our buildings. While an Andean woman will never step out of her hut in the morning to fetch her llama and have difficulty breathing the -30C air, or have to curse as she scrapes the frost off of the same llama, temperatures got near freezing each night that we camped, as they do virtually every night in the dry season. These people just bundle up and deal with the cold every morning and every night, and if it's not cold, it's raining. Do I really like the cold that much, or is it coming in from the cold that I enjoy so much? Sleeping in all my clothes and my alpaca hat with my sleeping bag pulled up over my head I could only endure for a couple of nights. That's half the year for these people.

Describing Machu Picchu is virtually impossible, so I'll just share a few interesting facts that I learned that day. The word Machu Picchu is Quechua, and means "old mountain". Take the second "c" out of the word "Picchu", and you have an old something that is considerably more vulgar. So one must be certain to pronounce the name correctly. Machu Picchu was "discovered" by Hiram Bingham, a Yale archeologist, who was surprised to find two families living in the ruins when he showed up in 1911. One of the kids was happy to show him around. Pablo Neruda has written that "Machu Picchu is a trip to the serenity of the soul, to eternal fusion with the cosmos, there we feel our own fragility. It is one of the greatest marvels of South America. A resting place of butterflies at the epicentre of the great circle of life. Another miracle." To be sure, it made for a pleasant day trip.

Cusco, former capital of the Inca Empire, is where I spent the rest of our time in Peru. An unabashed tourist town, at least in its centre, it is difficult to walk down the street without someone attempting to entice you into their travel agency, souvenir shop, or restaurant. The tactics used in pursuit of this goal fall just short of a lasso, and walking up Procuradores to my hostel, especially at dinner time, was a task better suited to a tight end than a tourist. Fortunately, I found the town beautiful and interesting enough to reward a few days stay, despite these petty annoyances, and booked my bus out for Sunday, a few days after Pat and Andy flew home. The next stop was Copacabana: not the hottest spot north of Havana of Barry Manilow fame, nor the beach where we played football in Rio, but rather the less notorious town in Bolivia on the shore of Lake Titicaca. From there to La Paz and the rest of Bolivia, and finally - I hoped - a glimpse of South America.

Some kids from a town we stayed in along the way.

A first look at Machu Picchu.

More Machu Picchu.

Moving past the Mundial

2006-07-05T17:02:00.000-03:00

Like most of Buenos Aires and the rest of Argentina that day, I was pretty crushed on June 30. Seeing this team for which everyone had such high hopes lose to Germany in a penalty shootout wasn't unjust - as nothing can be in sport, at its purest - but it proved nothing. Germany certainly didn't prove itself the better team, and while Argentina did, they couldn't prove that they deserved to move on. So why not Germany then? But how agonizing. Ernesto Cambiasso, who played every ball he found firmly and accurately, struck a similarly confident ball towards the upper-right corner before a diving Lehmann intercepted it, ending the game. He and his teammates would have been worthy competitors in the semi-finals. But they won't be, so we move on.

This - in case there was any confusion - is how you get pimped out for an important game.

Ever so pimped out. How can Argentina lose?

Fortunately I had plenty to move on to: June 30 was my last day in my apartment in Recoleta, my last day in Buenos Aires before hitting the road with visiting friends Pat and Andy. The boys and I are off on three weeks in South America so loaded with travel and activity that I'm amazed that we were able to budget time for sleep. Our first stop after four days in Buenos Aires was Las Leñas, a ski resort in the Argentine Andes. Despite the presence of two snowboards to slow us down, the four of us tore it up and enjoyed the spring-like conditions. The porteños are happy to bring their famous appetite for nightlife on vacation with them, and as we cut off our evening around three to ensure that we were in a reasonable condition for the next day's skiing, the nightclub we left was just beginning to fill up. Whistler it ain't. We celebrated Canada Day as best as we were able, though the Argentines seemed oddly dispassionate about the occasion when we informed them of it. Still down about the previous day's loss, no doubt.

Andy makes it look easy.

The crew on our final day.

Back to Buenos Aires on the morning of the fourth; a flight that afternoon to Rio. After all that snow and brutal sub-10˚C temperatures, we were ready for some beach and sun, and Rio delivered. Andy had been itching for a football match since he touched down in South America, and we finally found one on Copacabana beach with a group of Brazilians, who clearly weren't playing this sport for the first time. The beach game is odd for those of us who learned on grass, and while the flat area closest to the water allowed for some dribbling (in between waves), further up the pitch the ball was usually played in the air. We foolish gringos made the mistake of trying to pass the ball through the sand a few times, before attempting the more logical indigenous style of a short flip upwards followed by a mid-air lob over one's opponents. While at least one local player possessed such phenomenal ball control skills that he would slide himself and the ball past my 6'4", 200-pound frame without so much as a brush of contact, I could defend against some of the less obviously gifted players by exploiting their adversion to passing, a trait they share with their Argentine counterparts.

So a few more days in Rio, back to Buenos Aires on Saturday for our last swig of the porteño nightlife, and then to Cusco, for something completely different. Three days hiking in Peruvian Andes to Lares, and then a fourth at Machu Picchu, perhaps South America's most famous destination. The boys pack up for Toronto afterwards, and I get some rest.

Beautiful Rio from the famous statue of Christ.

Another side of Rio.

Cariocas take an interest in the football.

So long Group of Death, thanks for the memories; yours, Argentina

2006-06-17T18:29:00.000-03:00

Cambiasso betrays some enthusiasm after he puts Argentina up 2-0 against Serbia and Montenegro.

Though I have no unique insights into what took place yesterday, to write a blog set in Argentina and not mention THE GAME would be a thundering silence, as the oxymoron goes. The significance of Argentina's 6-0 dismantling of Serbia and Montenegro yesterday, considering just the impact on the tournament standings, is actually relatively minor. Argentina was expected to win, expected to finish in the top two of Group C, and expected to establish themselves as a contender in doing so. Wednesday's game between Argentina and Holland will decide who finishes on top of the group, but both teams have now assured their passage to the Round of 16. Had Argentina earned anything short of their six points thus far it would have been a disappointment.

The significance of the game to the country, however, is simply that it was one of the greatest World Cup matches in Argentina's history. The game was a majestic rout; a performance so dominating that the Serbians & Montenegrans were rendered foils for Argentine brilliance, no more a threat than the Washington Generals. Fans were delirious with the spectacle, and the players - all of them - described the experience as "a dream", or "dreamlike", or some similar nod to the sense that what just happened was so much better than what could or should have been. The game, as most of the commentators and columnists and ex-player-turned-talking heads have noted, was perfect. Looking for a quick start? Maxi Rodriguez gets the party started in the sixth minute. For consistency? Three goals in the first half, three in the second. Teamwork? 25 passes before Cambiasso drives in the second goal. Individual skill? Carlos Tevez breaking through one defender, and another, and bending the ball past the helpless keeper for the fifth goal. Even Leo Messi - the 18-year-old phenom who's face is becoming about as ubiquitous here as Maradona's - capped the scoring in his first ever World Cup match.

Now, obviously it's too soon for Argentines to clear their schedules on July 9th, or RSVP for the victory party that night. But the world has been put on notice, and while Argentina hasn't looked in finer form since 1986, their opponents are sputtering. The English got their result, but needed 83 minutes to pull ahead of Trinidad & Tobago; the Germans just squeaked by Poland with an extra time goal; the Mexicans couldn't beat the Angolans, the Italians couldn't beat the U.S., and even the mighty Brazilians looked vulnerable in their opening match against Croatia. When planning out various scenarios for this tournament - and adjusting my travel schedule accordingly - I realized that finishing on top of Group C would give Argentina the best chance of avoiding any serious competition until the semi-finals. Avoiding England, Brazil, and Spain seemed the best way to assure a good result. Now those teams ought to be asking themselves an equally pressing question: "how can we avoid Argentina?"

This city is buzzing. There wasn't an Argentine friend I spoke with yesterday that wasn't in celebration mode, not one who wasn't making comparisons to '86; there wasn't a bus on the street from 10:00 to 12:00, a business that didn't take time off for the game, a bakery with any medialunas (mini croissants) in stock by 10:30. Six is the number. 1986, 2006. Six goals, six more games. Six more victories to an event of epic proportions, and if you think I'm exaggerating, well . . . ask a porteño. You're in the minority.

In other news, it turns out that they used to show "Different Strokes" down here, only they called it "Blanco y Negro", which means "White and Black". Rather lacking in subtlety, no? Anyway, when I found this out from one of my Argentine friends, I naturally asked after Gary Coleman's famous line. I refused, just refused to believe that such an iconic catchphrase could be accurately translated. She told me that whenever he was responding to his brother with his trademark incredulity, Arnold would say "de que estás hablando viejo?" This literally translates to "of what are you speaking elder brother?", which I pointed out is totally not in the spirit of the original catchphrase, but she then told me that the more colloquial translation of the phrase is "what are you talking about older brother?" That's fine, except that of course Arnold didn't say "what are you talking about Willis?", he said "whuchutalkinboutWillis?", dropping only the patently superfluous syllables from the clause. Now, Spanish is a syllabic language, and unlike English-speakers, people really say every syllable down here, and my friend simply COULD NOT imitate Gary Coleman accurately, but only get as close as "whatareyoutalkinabouWillis", which is no more Gary Coleman-esque than the same line in Swahili. Checkmate.

Oh, and Kermit the Frog in this country? Rana René. WTF?

A few Argentine heroes

2006-06-04T15:41:00.000-03:00

General Jose de San Martín

Image shamelessly ripped from some site on San Martín I found on google.

A little history: San Martín liberated Argentina from Spanish rule. That's a pretty good one-sentence bio in and of itself, but it's only the start: after studying in Spain and fighting against Napoleon in the Battle of Baylen, San Martín returns to Argentina and quickly beats back the disembarking Spanish army arriving from Montevideo. He then decides that the only way to completely liberate Argentina is to unseat the Spanish royalists in the Viceroyalty of Peru, and so takes over as the Governor of Cuyo in western Argentina, and devotes three years to developing his strategy for conquering Peru. At some point the BsAs old boys feared his popularity and power, and tried to strip him of his Governorship, but protests in his support and against his successor force San Martín's reinstatement. In 1817, San Martín crosses the Andes and defeats the royalist forces in Chile, following it up with post-siege takeover of Lima. Checkmate. In 1824, depressed by civil wars and political infighting, San Martín moves to France to raise his daughter, dying in 1850, never living to see his dream of a strong and united South America.

And today: San Martín, the liberator of Argentina, Chile, and Peru, is interred in a magnificent mausoleum in the Metropolitan Cathedral in Buenos Aires, and lives in effigy on the $5-peso note, though this doesn't put him in especially distinguished company, as dictator and genocide-happy Juan Manuel de Rosas appears on the $20. In BsAs, where every undeserving rich politician gets a statue, San Martín earned the many tributes to him around the city, and around the country, as it seems that virtually every city or town in Argentina has a Plaza San Martín right in its centre. I get the feeling that were he still alive, San Martín would still be living in France, rightfully miffed at the mismanagement that frustrates his vision.

Canada's equivalent: As an Argentine friend is very fond of reminding me, Canada fought no wars for independence, and thus has no claim to a San Martín-esque hero. I'm then fond of reminding this friend that Canada was suiting up for WWI and WWII while Argentina was warming the coals for its "Welcome Nazi War Criminals" asado, but I have to admit, there's nothing quite like a guy who freed your country from imperial rule by military force, and did the same for two of your neighbours to boot. But hey, 2.75 Argentine pesos to the Canadian dollar, so peace and treaties can't be all bad, eh? Eh?

Diego Maradona

Image blatantly stolen from some hardworking guy's fan site on Maradona.

A little history: As if the man needs any introduction. Born in a shantytown outside of BsAs, of mestizo origin, Maradona's talents were first spotted when he was 10, and he was recruited to play for the junior team of the Argentine Premiership squad Argentinos Juniors. Maradona then flew up the footballing ladder through the Argentinas Juniors, the Boca Juniors, Barcelona, and SSC Napoli. It was during his tenure with Barcelona that Maradona is said to have been introduced to cocaine, no doubt by a supporter of Real Madrid, or perhaps a West German spy. Maradona earned accolades at every step along the way, but his most famous exploits came in the 1986 World Cup, which Argentina won. In the semi-finals against England, Maradona scored both of Argentina's goals in the 2-1 game, the first, famously, with his hand. The referee missed the infraction, and Maradona later claimed that goal was scored by the "Hand of God", though his second goal that game was all skill, and voted "Goal of the Century" in a 2002 online poll conducted by FIFA. So I guess it evens out. His better days behind him, the 90's saw him struggle with drugs, his health, and a very public private life, but he has since had a little surgery, kicked the dope, and looks surprisingly good.

And today: As one might guess, Maradona is much in the news these days, given the topical events going on in Germany. What's ridiculous about it, really, is that he's everywhere. In between games he's on the television, discussing his thoughts on this year's squad, or holding a press conference, evaluating the action thus far. He's in advertisements, he's lent his face to various forms of food packaging, he's got his own page in the World Cup section of the daily newspapers here. It's insane. 20 years since that stocky little punk scored two of the most famous goals in history and my English friend tells me that Argentines still give him a special little wave whenever his nationality is raised in a conversation about football. The "Hand of God" is considered to be a classic example of Viveza Criolla, a porteño trait that could be charitably described as a flair for getting away with acts of questionable morality. At least he can say that no one's done it better.

Canada's equivalent: In terms of near-universal celebrity, it has to be the Wayne, though number 99 is a little too clean, and frankly, boring to be compared to el Diez. Maybe the Tocchet and Mrs. Gretzky gambling scandal had a little of the Viveza Criolla in it, but "I didn't bet" doesn't quite have the same flair for mythology as "a little of the hand of God, and a little of the head of Maradona", now does it?

Carlos Gardel

Image very obviously appropriated from Wikipedia, to which I neither donated nor said thank you.

A little history: Though born in Toulouse in 1890, from the first moment that Gardel picked up a guitar and sang, he was pure porteño. Gardel didn't just write many of the most famous tango songs in history, he embodied the tango spirit, and spread it throughout South America, and to Barcelona, New York, and Paris, where he performed in 1928. In 1917, he performed Mi Noche Triste, a song about brokenhearted pimp that makes liberal use of lunfardo slang, at the Esmeralda Theatre in Buenos Aires. Whereas previously tango songs would only be heard in milongas or houses of ill repute, Gardel was performing for the porteño gentry, and he was a hit. Gardel's music and film career was ended in 1935 when he died in a plane crash in Colombia, prompting a few particularly devoted fans to attempt suicide. He remains Argentina's most celebrated musician, and has declined little in popularity since his death.

And today: Gardel's face with its famous smile is plastered all around the Almagro barrio in central BsAs, especially near the Abasto shopping centre, where he toured the club circuit in his early days. Upon hearing his unmistakable voice, it is common for an Argentine to comment that "Gardel sings better every day." The televisions in the subte take time out from their barrage of ads to play selections from his songs. When Maradona scored against Greece in the 1994 World Cup, a popular radio announcer, overflowing with excitement, exclaimed "Gardel is alive! Gardel is alive!" This joy was short-lived, as Maradona was expelled after two games for failing a drug test, and Argentina eliminated by Romania in the Round of 16, but that's okay, because life goes on, new stars emerge, and escucha! - Gardel sings better every day.

Canada's equivalent: Again we're lacking. In terms of songwriting talent, only Neil Young comes close, and I think you could make a case that his innovation and creativity put him at least in Gardel's league, though Gardel had only 45 years in which to book his considerable achievements. But Neil Young has nowhere near the recognition that Gardel had at the time, in his home country and abroad, and obviously our most famous exports don't even warrant a mention on the scale of artistic merit. And that dying at the peak of your popularity thing? Hard to find better legend-making stuff than that. So again Canada finds itself unable to compare, but I suppose that every national hero earns their honours in a style particular to their country, and could Argentina produce a Tommy Douglas? Or a Don Cherry? Or a Lester Bowles Pearson? Keep your freedom fighters, your world-class sports legends, your musical pioneers of a uniquely national genre. We're doing just fine. Oh Canada.

A visit from dad; a little vacation

2006-05-25T17:33:00.000-03:00

I was fortunate enough to have a visit from dad last weekend, and we both had a great time. It's nice to be able to show someone around city - makes one realize how much one has really absorbed - and I got to do some of the more touristy things that I often don't get around to. I had never even been to San Telmo on a weekend. Pathetic! Rather than narrate the whole trip, I'll just drop in some photos that we took, and add some commentary.

Colonia del Sacramento is a pretty and historic village right across the river from BsAs in Uruguay. It makes for a natural day-trip for porteños looking to escape the pace of the big city, and for gringos who need a new 90-day visa from Argentine immigration.

The beautiful Iglesia Matriz on the north side of the Plaza de Armas in Colonia.

Dad and I enjoying a parillada, which is a selection of various cuts of beef brought out on a little grill, which is visible in the centre of the table near the front. I enjoyed the bife de lomo and the bife de chorizo (both cuts of steak); I took down the chorizo (sausage) and was a little thrown by the morcilla (blood sausage), but I've developed a taste for it now; the liver and tripe I could only handle in smaller doses. But we did a pretty good job overall.

San Telmo on a weekend reminds me a lot of Las Ramblas in Barcelona, only with more tango.

Che says . . . "for love, use condoms". Thanks Che.

Here's the beginning of a series from Recoleta Cemetery. Recoleta Cemetery is more like a miniature village of masoleums in which Argentina's aristocratic dead are not so much buried as stored. It is said that a property here of just a few square feet costs more than virtually any estate in the rest of the country. Naturally, everyone buried here was born into one of Argentina's elite families, except for a common farm girl who managed to marry up and sneak in. Hardly proper.

More of the cemetery.

Needless to say, the architecture of the cemetery and the surrounding city are often incompatible.

No shortage of angels to keep watch.

Dad found the dog walkers quite funny. Since porteños are far too busy and important to walk their own dogs, they hire professionals who take large packs of them all at once throughout the city. The dogs are permitted to hang out in the park and make a mess wherever they see fit.

From the Plaza de Mayo.

We were there just before May 25, which is one of the Argentine holidays of independence. May 25 celebrates that day in 1810 when a group of citizens in Buenos Aires formed the Primera Junta to take charge of Argentine affairs for themselves. Later, on July 9 (though six years later), they declared independence from Spain, so that day is a holiday too.

Patagonia: El Chaltén & El Calafate

2006-05-09T17:37:00.000-03:00

I left El Bolsón on yet another sunny and crisp afternoon, but by this time I was ready for the road and the long journey south. My destination - both in my mind and on my ticket - was Puerto San Júlian, a coastal town halfway down the country where I planned to catch another bus to El Chaltén, thus bypassing the standard and lengthy trip south to Río Gallegos, which is right in the corner of the continent. My Rough Guide called Puerto San Júlian "a convenient place to break the enormous journey between Trewlew and Río Gallegos", which is true, but I should have paid more attention to their other descriptions, including "treeless and barren to look at." Indeed. What's more, upon entering the bus station I saw that all of the bus service's kiosks were closed, which suggested that I may not find my connection to El Chaltén any time soon, if at all. The idling bus - of which almost all of the passengers were going to Río Gallegos - presented an opportunity, and while the driver was doing his paperwork in the office, I casually hopped right back on the bus and took my old seat. My first experience as a stowaway.

I don't like scamming Argentine corporations (I'm such a foreigner), so I felt rather badly for my decision, but at least they made me sweat a little for it. The last stop before Río Gallegos is Luis Piedra Buena, which is an even smaller and more desolate town than Puerto San Júlian, but for some reason it's also where a considerable number of new passengers chose to embark. I watched as the empty seats were steadily occupied, packed my bag, and began to make plans for staying in Luis Piedra Buena if the bus proved to be sold out. I was ever so relieved when we finally pulled out, every seat on the bus but mine claimed by a legitimate passenger. Thank you bus company; sorry about that.

By the time I arrived in Río Gallegos I had spent 27 hours on the same bus with only a few brief stops, but I was still a ways from my destination, and booked my bus to El Chaltén for 9:30am the next morning. Río Gallegos was typical of many of the Atlantic coast towns that I saw in Patagonia: wide roads and dirt sidewalks; makeshift shacks adjacent to cement houses; very few multi-story buildings; fences around every property; stray dogs everywhere; many properties in a state of partial completion, with piles of wood and cement blocks scattered about; faded colours. The town didn't appear to be good for much more than arriving, sleeping, and leaving, and that's about all that I did.

The trip from Río Gallegos to El Chaltén was beautiful and rather desolate.

It was quite a time-consuming journey from Río Gallegos to El Chaltén, and once again I found myself arriving in an unfamiliar town at midnight. I won the race to the nearest hostel though, and scooped up one of the last beds. Traveling can be stressful when one arrives somewhere, late, with no clue where one is going to stay, but it certainly teaches one to appreciate as simple a comfort as a roof and a few blankets. The next morning, El Chaltén would turn out to be a scattered town, easily the most rustic of any that I had visited, but perfectly situated next to Parque Nacional de los Glaciers, where lived many hiking trails and the area's star attractions: Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy Mountains. On a clear day, the twin spires of Torre and Fitz Roy, purple and orange as the sunlight oozes down them, jutting into the pure blue sky like the throne of a God, are an awesome marvel. Or at least that's what we've been told, for anyone who was there over just the same three days as I caught no sight of them for the clouds. That's okay though; the hike to Cerro Piltriquitron taught me to value the challenge rather than the reward.

El Chaltén certainly has its own vibe; a town that exists for no purpose other than to serve the needs of hikers and climbers, it lacks Bariloche's polish, El Bolsón's hippy spirit, and El Calfate's touristy manicure. What's more, the clientele matched the town's spartan character: here the hikers cooked their meals at 8:00pm in the hostel kitchen, perhaps allowing themselves a beer or two, but soon after set off for bed, alarms primed for 4:45am so that they could watch the shadow peel off of Fitz Roy as the sun rises. I stuck with my usual schedule, and won this round, as the early-risers received no reward but were only drenched for their dedication.

I spent one day relaxing - recovering, perhaps, after all that travel time - in El Chaltén, and three days hiking. Devoid of a nightlife, El Chaltén instead rewarded introspection, and I was happy to walk alone for a few days after a very social two weeks in El Bolsón. Not to mention that I had my hiking legs well under me at this point, and was able to cover as much ground in as little time as anyone there, I'd guess. It's difficult to describe the hikes, and I'll leave it to my pictures to even attempt it, but I'll just add that the reaction that many have to the Parque Nacional de los Glaciers is respect: respect for Fitz Roy, which despite its middling elevation remained unconquered by the world's best climbers for decades; respect for the weather, which is capricious and sometimes fierce; respect for the land, which offers as many challenges as one is willing to take on. Patagonia is many things but it's never mild. Parque Nacional de los Glaciers is the closest that most of us tourists got to knowing the hostility of the land.

Looking back towards El Chaltén.

Sometimes the scenery reminds me of Canada; sometimes it looks quite foreign. This swamp gave me a B.C.-ish vibe.

There she is: the majestic Cerro Torre, between the two visible peaks, coyly reveals its grandeur.

The last stop on this leg of my trip was El Calafate, which like Bariloche, is a popular destination for vacationing porteños and tourists, and is thus very touristy. Lots of hotels and hostels, chocolate shops, pricey restaurants with large slabs of meat proudly displayed in the windows, and of course many opportunities to buy a postcard or t-shirt. Not the kind of place in which I wanted to spend too much time, but before I passed through on my way to Ushuaia, I had to stop in at one of Patagonia's most famous tourist destinations: the Perito Moreno Glacier.

The Perito Moreno Glacier is a massive - just massive - glacier, one of only three in Patagonia that isn't receding, that stretches right across to the opposite shore of Lago Argentino, forming a natural dam between the two sides of the bisected lake. As a result, the water level slowly begins to rise on the Brazo Rico side of the lake, and can reach a height disparity of 30m with the other side before smashing through the glacier wall, restoring balance. This cycle occurs once every four or five years, the last rupture taking place only a few days before I arrived. Not that there's any shortage of activity on an ordinary day: pieces of the glacial wall are frequently falling off, making for quite an amazing noise, and splash.

The trip to the glacier eats up the whole afternoon and much of the evening, as they leave you there for about four hours. I was reminded of the Simpons episode in which they parody King Kong, and Mr. Burns (playing Carl Denham) is asked about the program for his show:

Reporter: What kind of a show you got for us, Mr. Burns?
Mr. Burns: Well, the ape is going to stand around for three hours or so. Then we'll close with the ethnic comedy of Duggan and Dirschwitz.
Reporter: Sensational!

In my case, I showed up, stared at the glacier for three hours or so, and then went for a brief hike. Sounds a little boring, but the glacier is so compelling that I was glad that I had the amount of time that I did. One can walk around a little and see it from different views, but really, you're mostly just watching it. Hopefully the pictures give some sense of why it rewarded such attention.

Like a frozen avalanche released from the mountains.

I had a strong impulse to swim over, climb up, and just walk into the distance. It was just so . . . naturey.

Pretty amazing.

Two liberated pieces that had swam away to freedom but became unfortunately lodged in a shallow part of the lake, where they now pose for pictures.

So that was about it for me and El Calafate, though I still had a fair amount of time to kill, as my bus didn't leave for Río Gallegos until 4:00am. The timing was ridiculous, and there were numerous buses between El Calafate and Río Gallegos, but I had seen a sign advertising a $25 peso fare, $7 pesos less than what was standard. I tried to buy a ticket for a trip at a reasonable time, like 8:00pm or 10:00pm, but was told that those cost $32 pesos; the reduced price was only available for the 4:00am trip. Trying to give me the old bait 'n' switch, eh? Well we'll see about that. So I was leaving for Río Gallegos at 4:00am. The bus, which was surprisingly busy, would take me to Río Gallegos by 8:00am, where I would catch another bus shortly thereafter that would make the long trip to Ushuaia. Just a 16-hour jaunt down to the end of the South American continent, into Chile, across the Magellan Strait, back into Argentina, to Tierra del Fuego, to the end of the world.

Veléz Sarsfield vs. Newell's Old Boys

2006-05-04T20:25:00.000-03:00

Picked up a ticket on Tuesday night to go see Wednesday night's match between Veléz Sarsfield and Newell's Old Boys. First off, the patently English names for some of these teams is quite amusing, and I haven't heard anyone offer a satisfactory explanation other than that the Brits helped to make the game popular down here in the early days. Other anglo-friendly team names include Racing Club, Arsenal, Argentinos Juniors, Banfield, River Plate, and of course the Boca Juniors. Hearing an Argentine who doesn't speak a word of English try to spit out "Newell's Old Boys" is pretty humourous. Letters just aren't arranged like that in Spanish.

I've mentioned the Copa Libertadores before: it's South America's answer to the Champions League. The league stage pared the teams down from 32 to 16; those that remain now play two matches in a knockout tournament, away goals counting double. Four Argentine teams were able to make it to the round of 16: River Plate, Veléz Sarsfield, Newell's Old Boys, and Estudiantes de la Plata. Newell's is from Rosario, and were clubbed there by Veléz in their first match, 4-2, giving Veléz an effective 8-2 lead for the final game. Not quite a sure thing, but anything other than sound defeat would allow Veléz to move onto the next round.

I'm not sure how I decided to become a fan of Veléz. I had started by supporting Boca, but they're pretty popular, and have enough of real fan base as it is, the passion of which I can't match. I moved onto River, and I'm still into them, but I hadn't realized just how many of the teams in the Argentine Premier league come from other parts of BsAs. I thought it would be cool to find one of the squads that were a little off the well-established Boca-River axis, and a bartender suggested Veléz, which was so well off of the axis, it was almost out of the Capital Federal. I looked them up, and they had a good history, nice colours, and some success in the Copa Libertadores, so I decided to give them a go. Changing one's allegiances to a football team is tantamount to apostasy around here, so I suppose that I'm Veléz fan for life now, though I bought their jersey, so ensuring that my $100 pesos is well spent will likely be enough to keep my loyal anyway.

I made it to the stadium about a half-hour before things got started, which turned out to be a good idea, as we were slow-going getting in. The police were everywhere, and let only 100 or so people up to the entrance at any given time, where they were then patted down, and finally admitted after their ticket was scanned. Assigned seating doesn't exist in most of the stands, and certainly not in the cheapest seats, which I had chosen ($10 pesos was just too good a price to pass up). There are seats, sort of, but it's all first come, first served, so since I arrived near the start, I was off to the side a little ways. I expect that Boca games are well more packed, but there was a lot of room to move around at Veléz.

One of the most surprising aspects of the game is the complete disregard that the fans have for the sanctity of the pitch. At MLB games they have troops of men in dark sunglasses ready to eject any fan that snatches a blade of grass; at football matches here, the spectators are given more leeway. A staple in the fan's arsenal in stadiums across the country is the toilet-paper roll: compact, inexpensive, and effective. Simply hurl in the direction of the goal, and enjoy as it snakes along the pitch, getting caught up in the boots of whoever might happen to playing around it. The refs don't even warn the goalies when a roll of toilet paper slides behind their backs into the box; the attitude seems to be that it's your goal, and your responsibility to keep it toilet paper-free. Seeing a world class player try to shake toilet paper off of his boot is pretty amusing. I've been thinking that the Argentines must freak out a little when they go to Europe to play in the World Cup: "look how green the grass is, and the lights all work, and there's no toilet paper anywhere!" Beyond the toilet paper, other (probably improvised) projectiles are common enough, and in the 18th minute of the second half, someone from the Newell's side chucked some exploding noisemaker thing into the Veléz goaltender's box, which went off just as he was preparing to take a goal kick. That caused a two- or three-minute delay. It seems that every week there is at least one game that is called off partway through the match due to uncontrollable interference or violence by fans.

For the most part, though, everyone is well-behaved and just looking to watch the match and have fun. The singing is pretty well constant from one side or another; a few songs are adaptations of Argentine classics (an "ole, ole" chant that I first heard at the 30 años march was popular), though the catchy melody from "Pop Goes the World" also made its way in*, and a few that seemed to be originals of the Veléz hinchada (fans). Lots of noise too: the usual "oh" and "ah" whenever a player does something particularly skillful, the fanatic screaming of "gol!" when someone scores, and a lot of whistling, the shrill whistling that I associate with hailing a cab. The whistling is a convenient (and conspicuous) way to say "you suck"; one whistles when the opposing team takes the field, and when one of the players on the other side makes a poor play, that's a particularly good time to remind them that they suck.

The match was pretty good: Veléz brought a lot of offense in the opening 15 minutes, which surprised me, and seemed to surprise Newell's as well. They were looking, I suspect, for a quick goal to take the visitors out of it early, but were unable to take advantage of the pressure they generated, and the remainder of the half was a balanced and unexceptional affair. In the second half the action picked up considerably, however, and when Newell's scored at the 53-minute mark to pull within two goals of a tie, the massive delegation from Rosario opposite saw cause for optimism. That energy was sucked out of them just as quickly eleven minutes later when a Newell's player was sent off for what appeared to be rough tackle, though I'm uncertain that it was a red card-worthy offense. A Veléz goal on a penalty in the 77th minute rendered the prospects for a comeback rather grim. A goal per side in the closing minutes made little difference, and Veléz closed out the series victory with a 2-2 tie at home.

I've since learned that Veléz fans are considered to be amongst the most tranquilo in the league, which is at best a benign comment when referring to football fans. And to be fair, the stadium was busy but far from packed, and the Newell's hinchada made considerably more noise than the home side. I'm a hincha tranquila myself though, so I'm perfectly happy to stick with Veléz Sarsfield for life, or until I go to another team's game, or buy another jersey. My pictures from the evening didn't turn out too well, as I'm not much good at taking pictures at night, but here are a few, which I hope give a decent sense of what was going on.

About 15 minutes before game time. Everyone started blowing up those funny little white and blue long balloon things, and just before the game started, they all threw them, pretty much right onto the people in next row. I'm not sure what the point of that gesture was, but it was cool enough.

Everyone has 'em and are just about ready to toss 'em.

During the game. Again, pretty tranquilo.

*Men Without Hats are Canadian? Oye. I guess the Montreal scene had to start somewhere.

Best Animal's Day ever

2006-04-30T22:10:00.000-03:00

So I had another one of those experiences that every traveler has to try at one point or another: someone tried to rip me off. I've probably been ripped off a few times and not realized it, but this time I knew what I was looking for, and caught it. It was my first run-in with a dishonest cab driver, which is surprising, because as in other parts of the world, they have a reputation here for being less than trustworthy. There are three main scams that one has to watch for when taking a cab: the roundabout route, the juiced meter, and the dinero trucho (fake money). Fake bills are a problem for everyone, actually, and most waiters or cashiers will give anything higher than a ten a quick once over, but since a cab driver's customers are often inebriated, tired, or distracted, some cabbies can't resist availing themselves of the opportunity to slip a few through. The bills are quite obviously trucho, but if one isn't paying close attention, they're realistic enough to give the cabbie just enough time to get out of there. I always try to pay for cabs with exact change. The roundabout route is the obvious tactic of getting from origin to destination as indirectly as possible, or wading into evitable traffic when a more obvious and less congested street is available. Not much you can do about that one other than know your way around.

I've never been passed any dinero trucho, and as far as I can tell I haven't been taken to my destination via the scenic route, but last night I was the victim of a juiced meter. Our first stop was to drop off a friend, and when I got back in the cab, I noticed that the meter seemed a little high. Cabs are quite cheap here; one can travel for probably about fifteen minutes before cracking the $10 peso ($3.60 CAD) mark, and yet we were already at $9 pesos after just a quick jaunt to Villa Crespo. I watched the meter quite intently for the next ten minutes or so, and didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, though obviously it's difficult to gauge the rhythm of it accurately. Once it hit $17 pesos, though, the thing took off, and climbed three pesos in 15 seconds. I rather indignantly told the driver what I had seen, but he replied only with a "Qué?" I explained it again, this time far more directly and succinctly, but again, "Qué?" My Spanish certainly isn't eloquent, but I knew that I was being clear both times, so this guy was obviously determined to go down taking the fifth. I asked to be dropped off at the next corner and walked the remaining twenty minutes to my apartment.

Outside of cabs, the gringo doesn't have to worry too much about getting taken advantage of, though a little skepticism is of course warranted. The most common problem one encounters is dual pricing: one price for foreigners and one for locals (guess which is higher). Some places are quite brazen about it: a friend of mine was shopping at a feria (a little like a craft fair) the other day, and picked out a pair of sandals identical to that which an Argentine woman had just bought. The vendor had sold the sandals to the Argentine for $30 pesos, but quoted $40 to my friend. She put up a fight, of course, but the vendor was quite convinced of the logic of charging a foreigner a higher price than a local for the same product. My friend was able to work him down to $35, which was apparently quite a concession on his part. Inflated prices will also hit now and then when anyone thinks that you might not know the true price. I was buying mate the other day, and noted that the price was $4.10. I then had the following conversation with the cashier:

"$5 pesos please."
"I looked on the aisle and the price says $4.10; are you sure?"
"Yes, I am, it's $4.10."
"Oh, all right, I thought you said $5 pesos."
"No, $4.10."

The difference we're talking about here is between the words "cuatro y diez" and "cinco". So I doubt I misheard.

I suspect that I've been ripped off at least a few times since I've been here, but at least I'm getting wise, and my Spanish is good enough to call someone on it, as last night's incident demonstrated. I was coming home late last night because I had been at another excellent party hosted by SAE, this one a birthday/good-bye party for our intern Rosie, who is turning 25/leaving us on Tuesday. As if the Rosie-related festivities weren't enough of a reason to celebrate on their own, Saturday was also an Argentine holiday, the Día del Animal (Animal's Day).

OMG so cute!!!!

The Día del Animal is a day to recognize the animals in our lives, and the contribution that they make to our well-being. The holiday also commemorates the work of Dr. Ignacio Lucas Albarracin, who died on April 29, 1929 after a lifetime of work protecting the rights of animals. What I'm not so clear on is how Argentines choose to celebrate Día del Animal, though it was suggested that work animals would get a day off, and perhaps the lucky ones would get presents, like the little pooch in the photo above. I doubt, however, that many Argentines have thought to recognize the day as we at SAE chose to: by throwing a party in which everyone dressed up as animals.

Our Día del Animal party turned out pretty well; though quite a number made the rather uninspired decision to come dressed as a human, we were visited by a flamingo, a werewolf, a few mice, the odd leopard or puma, and a large population of cats. Many of the cats had arrived as humans, but were transformed in short order with a little liquid eyeliner. I'm not usually one for dressing up as anything other than a human, but I'm trying a lot of new things these days, so I decided the perfect choice for me was a Blue Jay: Blue Jays are dominant and territorial, which is a fun little alter-ego for a night, and obviously I get to show a little home-town pride. Naturally none of the Argentines knew what a Blue Jay was, or what they looked like, and they were similarly bereft of baseball knowledge, but at least one or two North Americans in attendance were able to put it together. Another great party, another good weekend, another good week coming up in BsAs. Now if only I can get the rest of this eyeliner washed off . . .

Me and Rosie the birthday girl and flamingo. There wasn't much else to my costume than what you see here; I had jeans on to represent my plumage, but that's about it. All in all, I think that I was a pretty fantastic Blue Jay, and if you disagree, I'll respect that, but still peck you relentlessly until you abandon my bird feeder.

I owe Jared a drink for this. We were harassing him because he hadn't worn a costume, and I casually mentioned that I might just have to sic my newly-developed aptitude with an eyeliner brush on him if he didn't make more of an effort. Five minutes later, this photo. To be fair, though, that's what you get for showing up at a Día del Animal party without a costume.

Rosie again on the left, Marcie the clubhouse manager on the right, and a lovely woman in the middle whose name or reason for being there is a complete mystery to me.

The selling culture

2006-04-21T02:44:00.000-03:00

I often measure a city or country on how easy it is to move around without someone trying to sell you something. Toronto is fine, though degenerating, whereas Morocco makes for tough slogging. I've found porteños to be pretty good about respecting public space, on the whole, though of course one can expect to at least encounter someone handing out commercial pamphlets on busy corners. I find though, refreshingly, that sales efforts aren't too invasive around here, and there are only a few places in which one can expect to see a pitch.

On the Subte

The Subte is what they call the subway system here, and with such a great number of people of trapped for at least the minute to the next station, it's little surprise that a few people try to take advantage of some impulse shoppers. The dominant technique, by far, is to enter the subway car armed with one's collection of goods, walk down the car dropping the goods in each passenger's lap, and then make a return trip, collecting the dinero if the subject is convinced, and the goods otherwise. The funny thing is the reactions of the passengers: were I to sit on the subway - and I never sit - I would cross my legs and wave off whatever was coming. But most people react by ignoring the vendor's efforts; "I don't know what you have in mind, but there is nothing in my lap right now but my personal space, okay?" They simply look the other way, both when the product alights on them and when it is reluctantly removed. A few will take a casual look, flip it over, appear to consider it, but ultimately leave it for collection if it doesn't suit their expectations of what they were going to buy on the subway car today. A few will buy it.

What sorts of products can one expect to see falling from the hands of previously unnoticed passersby? Oh, packets of coloured pencils, mesh laundry containers, notepads, an odd leather envelope that might have been meant to protect a passport, small plastic geometry sets. Most cost just a peso or two, though I've seen some go for five. The uniting theme, usually, is products that commuting parents might think to buy for their children. Not an unreasonable target market. Today a gentleman in his early thirties sitting in front of me purchased a small colouring book featuring Dora la Exploradora. He was wearing a Boca jersey and looked a little scruffy and tired. He very carefully slid the frail book into the front pouch of his backpack; it looked as if it wouldn't fit, but the pouch was just long enough, and he closed the zipper very carefully so as not to catch the book's cover in it. A gift for his daughter, no doubt.

During the summer the salespeople were kids, but now that they've returned to school, I hope, adults have taken over. While the drop-and-go technique is the most popular, some come in with a bit more of a hard sell: "a tape measure, a very fine tape measure, suitable for use in the home or office, five metres for five pesos, five pesos, nothing more, thank you very much señor, five pesos for this fine tape measure." Still some jump past the product entirely and straight into the sales pitch; once the tape measure fellow had moved on (one can transfer freely between subway cars, even while the train is moving), as if he had been tagged in, the man with the white cane and sunglasses stepped forward: "Ladies and gentleman, I'm sorry to disturb your passage. A workplace accident that struck just eight months ago has left me completely blind . . ."

The last group that has entered the Subte to make a little moneda - and by far my most preferred - is the buskers. While I'd happily dish over at least five pesos to any tango musicians who made the trip into the tube, that's just not their scene, they preferring to stalk the floors of smokey, crowded bars, and the asados of fortunate gringos. Most buskers play what I assume is a charango, and accompany it with a bamboo panpipe, looking like a Peruvian translation of Dylan with his guitar and harmonica. Traditional songs are standard, of course, but without exception these gentlemen will play one song and one song only that I recognize: El Condor Pasa, which I had always just thought of as "I'd rather be a hammer than a nail." Apparently the song is based off of a traditional melody from the highlands of Peru. You know, you learn something new every day. You really do.

In clothing stores

The clothing salesmen here definitely look to make the most of your presence in their store. I did a lot of shopping when I got back from Patagonia, as I had only packed city clothes suitable for the sweltering BsAs summer, most of which I spent in the particularly un-sweltering south. I had few opportunities to wear all that linen, and when the temperature dipped below 20C, I found myself pathetically unprepared. I take jeans shopping pretty seriously, and since getting jeans that fit demanded spending more than any sane Argentine would rightly consider (Ben Simon's biggest jeans came down barely to my ankle), I asked for three similar pairs, with slightly different cuts. When I had tried them on, and picked out the pair I wanted, I brought them all to the desk, pointed to mine, and said "these." He then packed them up with the other two, and said "these two as well, yes?" Right, I want three pairs of very expensive, nearly identical jeans. Of course. No, just the one pair, thanks. He then asked which shirts I'd like to throw in, in the same tone that the waitresses ask whether you'd like fries or salad with your carne. Perhaps I've been spoiled by the exemplary clothing salesmen with whom I've mostly done business, but still.

In restaurants

The drop-and-go has made its way into restaurants as well. You'll be sitting there, eating your pizza that tastes suspiciously like an empanada (I'm eating cheap these days), and before you even notice that someone is walking by, there's a pen on your table. One of those pens with five different colours of ink loaded in it, which takes me back to that time in my academic career when it seemed practical to have such supplies, like a complete highlighter set, or a compass. Grade 6 or 7, perhaps. So you go back to eating your pizza, and the next time you look up, it's gone. More aggressive salespeople might give you an inquisitive look before moving on, but I've never seen anyone try to push the sale. No reason to, I suppose, as they make sales frequently enough as it is.

I used to get a little riled up at this kind of stuff. I got quite irritated in Vegas with the ubiquitous advertising cards that young gentlemen would practically flick at me as I walked down the strip, or the struggling actresses in New York who approached me to discuss some adventure travel scheme. Even more galling were the invasive tactics that I witnessed with increasing frequency in my last days of employment in downtown Toronto: the choir clad in Rickard's Red robes at King and Bay belting out a beery ode set to a melody from the Carmina Burana; the imitation revolutionaries in Union Station skipping right past social justice in order to vehemently campaign against halitosis. I didn't stop to check, but I'm pretty sure that Listerine was behind that one. I don't hold anything against the instruments of these pathetic shenanigans (every city needs a use for its struggling actresss); I save my vitriol for the profiteers in the background - the suited "entrepreneurs", the geeks and poseurs - who imitate legitimate businessmen, but offer nothing but a willingness to sink lower than their predecessors in poisoning whatever remains of public space.

Here, at least, one sees the face of need behind the sale; those who benefit and not their agents. The work isn't demeaning either; I'd spend a year hocking something in the Subte before I'd spend a week wandering through Toronto's underground with a rediculous artificial tan rolled in a stripe across my face, as another struggling actress that I saw a year ago was asked to do. She had spent too much time watching her Delissio pizza rise in the oven, you see. For the most part, I've observed here that the customers respect the vendors and the vendors respect their customers. There's a demand, for one, and for another, it's difficult to dismiss the needy when they make up a little more than a third of the population. I still haven't bought a tape measure on the Subte, but to these guys I'll at least give a little respect.

Patagonia: El Bolsón (Feb. 26-Mar. 9)

2006-04-15T12:39:00.000-03:00

At the very fringe of the Lake District - Patagonia's barren steppe gaping to the south - two hours from Bariloche (the favoured sojourn of porteño socialites), El Bolsón rests between two ranges of mountains that run parallel like railroad tracks down the continent. The town became famous in the 70's as a hippy hangout, and while its founding spirit has since been mostly paved over with the inevitable commercial imperatives, El Bolsón still offers some opportunity for an alternative lifestyle. Every other day a craft fair springs up in the Plaza San Martin, with plenty of homemade trinkets, toys, and clothes on sale, as well as waffles and veggie empanadas. This is probably the only town in Argentina in which it's difficult to get a bottle of Quilmes; most restaurants stock only their cerveza casera, which is home-brewed beer. What's more, numerous organic farms and occasional communes have settled in the outskirts of town, so the souvenir shops and overpriced bistros haven't completely denied El Bolsón its hippy cred.

In my first few days in El Bolsón I was finally able to get up in the mountains, and took on a 3-day hike. The trails in the area were well-suited to a hiker with my profile (capable but lacking equipment), as the mountains are dotted with refugios, which are cabins where hikers can eat, sleep, and have a little mate. The first day was tough: a 5.5-hour ascent from the mountain's valley to nearly its peak, covering about 1.2 vertical kilometres, done in just enough rain to make the trail slippery. I made it by the late afternoon though, and was greeted by the first of two spectacular refugios: this one nestled in a lush valley overlooked by the Cerro (peak) Hielo Azul, neighbour of both the valley's forest and its river, a river that flows from the glacier at the mountain's peak right down the pitch I had climbed to the river I had crossed at the mountain's base. The refugio was simply a two-floor cabin, the downstairs housing the eating and sitting areas, the upstairs one big room where up to 40 guests could pick out their spot on the floor, throw down a mattress, and sleep. It was hardly private, but naturally no one had any difficulty nodding off.

The next day was comprised of two legs: a return trip to the Cerro Hielo Azul, and then onto the next refugio, the Refugio Cajon de Azul. The cerro topped out at 2270m, which isn't especially high in absolute terms, but it was a long way up from where I had started and from the refugio. The glacier and glacial lake were a little disappointing, but the views along the way more than repaid the considerable effort required for the climb. After a brief break, I set off for the next refugio, and arrived about five hours later, though at least this time there wasn't much climbing left to do.

The Refugio Cajon de Azul, in contrast with the Hielo Azul's awesome setting, was more of a ranch where gaucho types took in hikers to support their horse rearing and daily steak asados. While this refugio was a little bigger and more elaborate, the use of space was similarly devoted either to food preparation, food consumption, or sleeping. We had a sociable evening - thanks, no doubt, to the ample supply of cerveza casera and vino casero - followed by a shorter walk out the next day. Since the weather was so nice, we decided to spend much of the day milling around, planning to catch the 5:30pm bus back to town from the trail's base instead of the more popular 1:30pm. After a relaxing morning and a beautiful hike out, we arrived at the bus stop promptly at 5:40pm, and hailed a cab. Good finish.

The bridge over the Rio Azul where the trail commences. It was a little on the rickety side; somewhere in between complete confidence and Temple of Doom.

A little ways up on Day 1.

The view from the Cerro Hielo Azul, overlooking the valley in which the refugio is set.

Me at the cerro, with the glacier and glacial lake in the background.

View of the valley on Day 3. El Bolsón is a little ways off to the side, out of the picture.

Another look from Day 3. So very nice.

Upon my return I decided to settle down in El Bolsón for a little while, as I had made some friends on the hike who were around for a few days. I had found an interesting place to stay: the Chacra el Cielo, which my friend from Junin de los Andes had recommended. El Cielo is run by Rosa and Nano, the former an ex-pat from Pennsylvania, the latter pure Argentine. Rosa had wanted a farm, but didn't think highly of her prospects in the U.S., and Nano had a farm, but needed some help. At some point they met, saw the compatibility of their situations, and promptly got married, despite barely knowing one another. Their son Dante turned three when I was there, and Rosa and Nano seemed quite happy. Theirs was neither the first nor the last marriage-for-citizenship arrangement that I would encounter in Argentina.

Chaca el Cielo is an organic farm about an hour's walk outside of El Bolsón, the last twenty minutes of which is right uphill, so if I hadn't found my hiking legs after my first trip, I certainly had by the time I left. Guests staying at El Cielo had a choice of how to pay for their accommodation: $10 pesos ($4 CAD) a night, or four hours of work around the farm. At first I took a capitalist approach to the decision, and confident that my labour was worth more than a dollar an hour, I just paid. Later I came around to a socialist perspective, and thought it would be fair if we all pitched in to help, and all shared in the benefits. Before I got around to actually getting in some work, though, my laziness overcame both ideologies, and I decided that I'd rather just hang out. I spent about a week at El Cielo, occupied mostly by making trips into town and studying Spanish.

I went on one additional hike; a day-trip to the top of the Cerro Piltiquitron, a little less than 15km each way from El Cielo, covering about 1400m in elevation. No pictures from that one, as my view was often blocked by clouds, especially as I reached the cumbre (summit). What made it worthwhile was my first run-in with the famously volatile Patagonian weather: as I neared the top, the weather shifted from a typical grey day, to a light drizzle, to very high winds, to hail and heavy clouds, all in about twenty minutes. This all caught me a little off-guard, and I was still in my shorts, though at least I had my MEC raincoat on at this point, which held up admirably. Just as quickly as it had started, the weather dissipated as I crossed over a ridge, and I could see more than 10m in front of me, and walk without having to fear getting knocked over by gale-force winds. The Patagonian winds really are legendary; one reads stories of car doors being blown off, and more than one veteran of the Torres del Paine hike in southern Chile has reported seeing people literally blown off their feet. So I got off all right.

A week to the day after arriving at El Cielo, I said my goodbyes to Rosa, Nano, and Dante, and hopped the 5:00pm bus to the south. El Bolsón isn't even in Patagonia proper, really, and I was eager to get on the road; that travel itch again that sent me down there in the first place. I would arrive at my next destination - more than 48 hours later - desperate to settle down somewhere for even just a few days. Such is the effect of crossing the vast and empty steppe that runs from the 39th parallel to "the end of the world"; remembered by travel writer Bruce Chatwin as the safest place to be in the event of nuclear attack; largely uninhabitable and nearly uninhabited; barren and flat and unknowable. Patagonia.

A cute little farm near where I first stayed in El Bolsón.

"Yo soy la vida" means "I am the life". Apparently there was some confusion about just who the subject is in that clause. Nice spot for some religion regardless. Evangelicals are very rare in Argentina, a country that is 92% Roman Catholic.

The SAE Opening Party

2006-04-12T12:33:00.000-03:00

A great Saturday night at the SAE. The Buenos Aires clubhouse is the newest of the SAE branches - they were already in Lima and Cusco, both in Peru, and Quito, Ecuador - and has been up and running for only a month. So a little housewarming party was in order. The BsAs clubhouse is pretty nice, but without a doubt its finest feature is the rooftop patio, which is quite big, and perfect for a party. The party had two features that are essential to parties everywhere - nice decor and a sweet freestanding bar - but we also added two that were distinctly Argentine: an asado and tango musicians.

An asado is the Argentine's answer for a barbecue, though it's more of a tradition than just the act of cooking meat over an open flame. And since it's Argentina, it's a little more involved than cooking up burgers and hot dogs; our asado focussed on chorizo (sausage), a few different cuts of steak, and chicken, though a full asado would go well beyond those basics. The tango musicians (check my "Two Months" post if you're unsure of the difference between tango music and dance) were the same that we go see at the local bar, and they played a pretty sweet set. In keeping with local traditions, no one got too smashed, and things didn't fully wind down until the sun was coming up.

Anyway, all this is by way to introduce some photos from the evening, which would be of interest to those who are curious about where I work and who I'm working with these days. Also, parties are cool.

Getting our sweet patio set up while Rosie poses.

More of our sweet patio.

Prepping el asado.

Serving el asado.

Me and Paul. Paul from Colorado.

Los músicos.

Buenos Fucking Aires. These were raffle prizes we were giving away, and winning one would not have made me at all unhappy.

Thoughts upon seeing the trailer for "The Simpsons Movie"

2006-04-10T15:23:00.000-03:00

It begins. I've known that it was coming for awhile, but there it is. They've picked the weekend of July 27, 2007, over 15 months away, but the hype machine starts working now. Hype is going to be a big word for this film.

The first thing that struck me about the trailer is that it's not at all funny: quite predictable, actually, to the point at which one knew almost exactly where they were going within about a second. One who has internalized the Simpsons style of humour through hundreds of half-hour doses would know, at least. It's an interesting exercise in anti-hype hype, actually; they're parodying the hype that will inevitably be generated over the Superman movie - oh the absurdity of generating so much fuss over Homer Simpson - but of course the creators of this trailer are well aware that "The Simpsons Movie" will be anticipated with more hype than the "Superman" marketers could ever hope to whip up. One doesn't produce trailers 15 months before a release date unless one expects to make a big splash. So they mock the very hype that they're strategically massaging. Clever.

One of the greatest parodies of the Hollywood hype machine that has finally swallowed "The Simpsons" comes, ironically, from "The Simpsons" itself - before the shark jump, of course. Season 4, actually - right when the show really hit its stride - the "Itchy & Scratchy: The Movie" episode. As history has so often proved, movies based on television shows are usually desperate, pathetic affairs, though occasionally they can make for a successful series. What they all share is a firm belief in their own self-importance; they're also the films that the studio-bought shills who masquerade as journalists will inevitably deem "the movie event of the summer", thus fulfilling whatever ambition these small people had to attend a press junket with an open bar and see their name appear on television, however illegibly. "Itchy & Scratchy: The Movie" is so similarly elevated that its release assumes historical significance.

The episode's authors made two particularly clever decisions as the plot develops: never showing any of the film's content until the episode's very end - 40 years later - and choosing Lisa to embody the frenzied reaction to the film when she describes it to Bart. The quality and content of the film itself is tangential to the point that the authors are making, just as the hype surrounding blockbuster films is tangential to the actual work on the screen. The authors instead parody the hype; the hype that Lisa most memorably falls for. Lisa; cautious, insightful, immune to equivocation and duplicity ("Mr. Hutz, are you a shyster?"); Lisa returns from the premiere under a mound of merchandise - another face of a film's commercial ambitions - and raves about the use of celebrity voices. The latter is a favourite trick of the producers of animated films*, lest their customers focus too much on an otherwise uninspiring enterprise.

Both Bart and the audience catch their first glimpse of "The Itchy & Scratchy Movie" well after its historic eight-month run, when Homer's parenting has paid off and Bart is Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. In a rather grim-looking future, they wander past the now decrepit theatre, which is showing "Classics of Animation", with "Itchy & Scratchy: The Movie" taking first billing. Bart suggests they see the movie, and Homer agrees. Stripped of the mass hysteria, the marketing hype, the media fascination, we see the movie for what it always was: nothing but a rehash of any Itchy & Scratchy episode, typically sadistic and insipid, with only the slightest acknowledgement that what is featured differs at all from the program's daily appearance on television. Homer asks which is the mouse.

"Itchy."
"Itchy's a jerk."
"Yeah."

*"So when the snooty cat and the courageous dog with the celebrity voices meet for the first time in real three, that's when you'll catch a flash of Tyler's contribution to the film . . ."

Two months

2006-04-07T01:55:00.000-03:00

So I bothered to find out what the date is today, and it turns out that it's exactly two months since I touched down in Buenos Aires. At that point the extent of my planning was the addresses for three hostels that I had written down on a piece of paper, and the hope that seeing the city would bring back memories of my first trip in 2004. That actually did turn out to be the case, somewhat, and I remembered which bus company ran from the airport to the middle of the city, and even had a vague memory of where I was when we arrived at the station. I took my first walk that day around Recoleta, my then and current barrio, realized the obvious limitations of my Spanish, took a few photos, and posted to the blog. It was all looking good, but I certainly had no idea how all this would work out.

So it's two months later, and I'm living in an apartment, an amazing trip to Patagonia in the books; I volunteer during the day and go out most nights; I've made a few friends that are Argentines and many that are gringos; I cheer for River Plate, drink máte, and eat late; it's an ex-pat's life but it's pretty nice. Reflecting over the past two months has got me thinking about one of those lists that one sees on every traveler's blog, it seems, the one comparing the adopted country and home. It's interesting what one learns about one's own priorities when the things that one is accustomed to are removed or transmuted. So here are two such lists:

Things I miss from home

Friends and family. The obvious one. I was out having dinner last night and there was a group of ten Argentines there my age, drinking and chatting and enjoying themselves, and I gathered that they had all known each other for a long time. I have groups of friends here, and it's fun to meet a lot of new people, but you can't replace the love of family or long-time friends.
Coffee shops. The second morning that I was here I decided that I just wanted to grab a coffee and a muffin, and then walk around the city for awhile. It took me about an hour of impatient wandering before I figured out that coffee shops, as we understand them, don't exist here. They have cafés, of course, so one can sit down and order a coffee, but the idea of distributing coffee in a paper cup, to go, just has no commercial support here. So far as I can tell, there is not a single Starbucks store in Buenos Aires or the rest of Argentina. They're in the United Arab Emirates, they're in the Forbidden City, but they're not here. The lesson is that I like to spend my mornings around the house, but porteños like to get out and socialize. So one adjusts.
Breakfast. Breakfast gets no respect in this country. Walk into a café on a given morning and you're pretty well restricted to medialunas, which are mini-croissants. They have a few other confectionaries, I suppose, but anyone who is used to bacon, or eggs, or perhaps even home fries (papas fritas de casa? Si? No? No.) is in entirely the wrong place. I can't even find bacon in the grocery stores, which pretty well defeats the purpose of buying eggs. No muffins either. I eat cereal most mornings, just as I would at home, so it's not a huge loss, but 11:00 am on a Sunday morning after a late night demands more than what mini-croissants can provide.
Trust in the authorities. I guess I never have trusted authority that much, which is good, of course, but I could at least rely on the provision of basic services. Some things work just as they should, and some things definitely don't. The police are the most obvious example of the latter. I've heard two schools of thought on how to deal with the police when you're stopped for a minor infraction: bribe them, or convince them that you'll be more trouble than it's worth. A bribe will set you back around $30-$50 pesos, and is pretty standard (here's a story from another ex-pat blog), but our Argentine friend Francisco described a more subtle way to get the fuzz off your back: "you just need convince them that it's not worth their time. 'I want a doctor,' you say. 'Why? Because I can see one. Also, I'm not going to have just one lawyer, I think I'll get ten. My mother is a lawyer, and knows many others. This is going to be a very busy month for you.' As soon as they realize the amount of work involved, and that you'll be out tomorrow while they'll be doing paperwork for two weeks, they'll let you go, and pick on someone easier. All they want is a bribe, but you can avoid paying it." If a wealthy resident decides that he would like a police officer guarding his apartment's door, then he only need pay off a sergeant, and the cop will be out front the next day. Nice.
Feeling at home. Another obvious one, I suppose, but being home is more than just knowing good bars and talking the same way as everyone else. I mostly miss that feeling of having context: I went to the 30 años march, but am very far removed from the political struggle that it represented; I support River, but know little about the team's players or history, and I'm certainly no fan, by their standards; I can't give directions or make a recommendation or speak knowledgably about anything local. And then there's the language. I definitely have developed a respectable "get around" Spanish, and I'm getting better every day, but if I'm comprehensible I'm very inarticulate. It's frustrating to have to be so heavy handed: repeating the same words, constructing sentences the same way, lacking rhythm. It's always a relief to come back to English.

Five things I miss, and I couldn't have made the list much longer. It's a silly list though, in a way, because I knew that I would miss people and things in coming here, and it's hardly news that I can't get the breakfast I'm accompanied to. The better list follows:

Things that I love about living here

The night. Those who know me are aware that I'm not naturally an early riser; those who knew me in university know that I can sometimes take extreme measures to avoid early mornings. Nighthawks have never had it so good: dinner is at 10:00 pm, later on weekends; the clubs are barely open by 1:00 am and you won't see a crowd until 3:00 am at the earliest; the "after-hours" clubs get going when the sun is well up and right in your eyes. One heads out to those around the same time that North Americans are usually waking up and cursing hangovers. As a result, the attitude towards going out and drinking here is different than at home. With last call at 2:00 am, we would usually pre-drink, hit the bar around 11:00 pm, drink until intoxication, get kicked out of the bar, and find a pizza joint or something before falling into a cab, making it to bed by 3:00 am. There are late-night alternatives, of course, but that's the standard. When you're looking forward to 12 hours of nightlife, pacing is paramount. The locals just don't drink that much. Public intoxication is uncommon, and any of the jackassy behaviour that I've come to associate with Saturday nights is very much frowned upon here. It's quite a relief, actually: no drunken jerks in striped shirts picking fights, no one ordering that round of shots that no one else wants to stomach, no roving packs of guys sizing everyone up, just a night out with friends and new friends.
Tango culture. Upon hearing the word "tango", most of us think of some kind of dancing, perhaps we don't know exactly what kind, except that it's steamy and distinctly Argentine. That's fair, but the word tango also refers to a broader artistic movement, of which I've become particularly interested in the music. One will go to a tango bar, and that doesn't mean that there will be two exotic-looking people sliding across the floor, rather it usually means that one can expect to hear at least a singer and guitarist performing a style of acoustic music that could be described as pretty and passionate. The lyrics often integrate BsAs's homegrown slang, lunfardo, and focus on the usual subjects: love, love lost, and home. The singer cradles and waves his guitar quite gently, and will often close his eyes when releasing a particularly poignant line. It might all be a little cheesy were it not so earnestly delivered and received. We were fortunate enough to have a tango performer named Amancio visit us at the clubhouse last night to play a brief set. There were only ten of us who came, most of whom were there all the time anyway, so we chatted and drank wine for awhile before the guitar came out for about six songs. When he finished, Frank (the club manager) apologized for the smallish turn-out, as he felt that Amancio deserved a bigger audience, but Amancio replied that "I prefer this." That is, not performing so much as sharing music amongst friends. Carlos Gardel, probably the greatest of the tango musicians, once said (in my inelegant translation) that "To sing a tango, it is not enough just to have a melodious voice. No. It is necessary to feel the tango. It is necessary to live its spirit." These musicians do.
Political involvement. Argentines have been dealt a pretty poor hand in their political leaders. Perhaps no country gets the leadership it deserves, but as I wrap up the brief book on Argentina's history which was given to me before I left, I'm struck by the string of corrupt, megalomanic, or profligate leaders that this country has had to endure, as well as the occasional gem that is all three in one. Little wonder political action is such an ingrained part of the culture here. The 30 años march certainly demonstrated one side of it - pretty tough to imagine getting more than 30,000 people gathered in downtown Toronto for a non-hockey-related demonstration - but I've only seen hints of the numerous local groups that are trying to enact change in this country (seems like every Argie I know is connected to one). I can't speak knowledgably about that, but at least the statistics are telling: in 1999 almost 80% of the voting-age population made it out to determine the country's next President. In the United States, that same metric hasn't cracked 50% since 1992. Canada isn't much better: around 55% of the VAP decided to just give Chrétien another go in 2000. And if we in Canada have ever complained that we don't have much in the way of alternatives (I know I did before volunteering for the Greens), then take an Argentine's word for it that choosing between Kirchner and Menem is considerably more distasteful. In the end, Argentines never even got the chance: Menem was loathed by such a significant portion of the population that he stood no chance in a runoff against Kirchner, and chose to withdraw rather than suffer an embarrassingly overwhelming electoral defeat. It takes a lot of work to keep these guys out of positions of power.
Currency. I'm not exactly happy about this one, because the economic collapse that accompanied the currency devaluation has been devastating for many of the people here, but the value for money is fantastic. I read that out of the 147 major cities that a study ranked for cost of living, Buenos Aires came in at 144. I can believe it: a haircut for $5 CAD, a decent bottle of wine for $3 CAD, a ride on the subway for a quarter, fútbol in the cheap seats for $12 CAD. The Argentine peso bought this trip for me; I wouldn't be here if it was still pegged with the US dollar at 1:1. I wish that it weren't a zero-sum game, and that my gain hadn't come from another's loss, but I'm not Paul O'Neill, and I don't feel guilty. It's a fantastic opportunity and I'm glad that I'm able to take advantage of it.
People. I won't dwell too much on this one, because it's impossible to do the people here justice. As a summary, though, they're nearly universally friendly, even those working for the government or other bureaucratic organizations, which is new to me. I don't recall ever being taken advantage of, even though I'm an obvious target. People want to know where I'm from and ask why I'm in Argentina. I've been invited to numerous asados (like a nice Sunday-night barbecue), even by people I've only just met. My coffee that I had after lunch at the restaurant today was on the house, and I'm still not sure why. They appreciate the effort that I make to speak their language, and rarely show any impatience as I struggle to comprehend, despite being given good reason. When you're introduced to a new friend, it's customary not to shake hands but kiss on the cheek. How friendly is that? I mean, it's not utopia, and I'm sure that there are some unpleasant people around, but I haven't met them yet, and I've met a lot of people. That's a pretty good record.

So there it is: I'm a third of the way done, and really, I've still just scratched the surface. To think that six months once seemed like a long time.

Just a little about what I'm up to here

2006-04-01T18:43:00.000-03:00

I suppose I haven't done much "what I'm doing" blogging of late, as I've been mostly concerned with past and current events. But I've settled into Buenos Aires fairly nicely. For one, I have an apartment: a large, quiet place in Recoleta that I share with the owner and possibly two other tenants, if she can ever rent the rooms. But for now it feels like I have the whole place to myself. Photographing rooms and apartments, I've realized, is rather difficult, but here's my best attempt:

My bed and my charming little balcony which has quite a nice view onto Ayacucho.

A slightly different view, with my shelving unit and TV.

There's a nice big closet in there as well, and a desk, and more space than it may appear. But again, photographing rooms is a little difficult to do accurately, so I'll just leave it at that.

The neighbourhood (barrio), Recoleta, is expensive, a little touristy, and perhaps disproportionately populated with elderly retirees. That's not ideal, I admit, but it's also very nice, and close to many cooler neighbourhoods. I can party anywhere, but this is the only place that I'm living right now, so I'm happy for it to be well maintained and quiet. The apartment market here is difficult to break into: one requires a local co-signer for any purchase or long-term rental, as the law disproportianately favours tenants, and short-term rentals are extremely expensive. The shared room option was best for me, as it keeps the cost down and allows me to live with Spanish-speakers, and I pay a rent that would be a steal in Toronto. Not the way that most things are a steal down here, but still, very good value.

I'm occupying my days at the South America Explorers Club, an organization for the gringos down here who are looking for travel advice, companionship, and maybe a place to crash. I'm volunteering, of course, as they have absolutely no money with which to pay any employees, and I know this for certain, as my job is to get their finances in order. I'm happy to do it though, as I get a free lunch and often dinner, and a lot of cool people to hang out with. It's probably not fair value for my labour in the capitalist sense, as I'm accustomed to barely adequate compensation from a major Canadian corporation, but as a bartering deal, it's just fine. I'm considering another volunteer position, perhaps one connected to my potential future line of study (Economics), though these guys are keeping me busy enough. So we shall see.

Socially, the SAE are turning out to be great contacts, and through them I've met a reasonable number of locals, as well as the usual stable imports from northern California, Portland, Germany, and Australia. We had an excellent gathering on Wednesday night: after poker we went to a crowded bar down the street, which was excellent, and there was live music to boot. But at this place they didn't simply offer some stage where someone warmed up and then did you usual 40-minute set. Rather, there was just two gentlemen with guitars who found a spot in the middle of the bar, and played. They interacted a lot with the crowd, played some obvious classics given that the Argies were singing along . . . very nice. One of those moments in which one is glad to be traveling.

Add in the small group of porteños and Argentines from other provinces that I met while down south, and I'm certianly not without contacts, though I still have yet to expericence the famous BsAs nightlife. That may be taken carae of tonight, however. I have decided to spend three months in the city, and have rented my apartment until June 30. Autumn in Buenos Aires is proving to be pretty well perfect: beautiful sunny days, not too hot, busy but not overly crowded, a sense that I might be able to tap the city for even just a small amount of its energy. I can't speak highly enough of this city, or its habitants and their near-universal hospitality. As they say: ciao, besos.

Patagonia: Junin de los Andes (Feb. 22-25, 2006)

2006-03-30T13:49:00.000-03:00

I almost forgot about the whole Patagonia thing.

My first stop was at a small town in Neuquén province called Junin de los Andes, sister town of the more popular - but more expensive and touristy - town to the south, San Martin de los Andes. JdlA is more in what's called the Lake District as opposed to Patagonia, and as it turns out, the area is quite charming and scenic, as the name would suggest. I woke up a little too late on my first morning to get to the hiking, as the buses departed for Parque Nacional Lanín at 10:00am, and I was far too tired to make that particular deadline. Instead I had quite a nice day wandering around the town, taking in the scenery and a long lunch, and appreciating the very odd but very compelling monkey puzzle trees.

It was easy to forget, at that point, that I my arrival in JdlA had been in a perpetual state of jeopardy. I don't remember the Argentine bus system as confusing and inefficient - habitually tardy and inveterate loiterers, even in the most avoidable of places - but perhaps that's because it was Scott's job to be concerned with such things when last I visited. The delay that was out of the bus company's control, to be fair, was a storm that descended on Buenos Aires right at 8:00pm as we were leaving. I wasn't in a mood to make excuses for these people, however, as they had managed to roll into Retiro (the bus station) only two minutes before departure time, and in the wrong spot. Running along the line of 70+ buses, dodging people, looking at the useless departures board, trying not to panic; that I actually do remember from my last visit.

So the roads out of Buenos Aires were frequently covered in water, the surface of which sometimes reached a car's rim, and sometimes its bumper. The going was slow. I wondered, as we finally arrived at Neuquén at 3:15pm the next day, more than 2.5 hours late, if 12:30pm was a realistic arrival time even in the absence of the storm. We stuck around at the most apparently insignificant bus stations for at least 15 minutes, waiting for no one to get on or off, and of course every time the bus pulled into one of the carbon-copy bus satations I had to ask "Estamos en Neuquén?" We weren't.

But I had stopped worrying about all this entirely by the time I was sat down at a cafe along the Plaza San Martin, chatting with a field biologist from Banff who had come down south for a break before returning to study a salamander with a distinctive yellow stripe down its back, the name of which eludes me. One frequently meets people down here whose conversation is, if nothing else, unpredictable. I suppose we thought something might be up when a large paper maché lizard ambled down the street, carried by about eight kids, just as the sun was setting; we knew for sure that this was not an ordinary night when a group of forty-odd kids gathered in the middle of the Plaza San Martin to rehearse an impressive display of drumming and dancing. I was pretty far away from the action for South America, but even still, it was February 24, the beginning of Carnivale.

For a town that could not have had more than 5,000 inhabitants, Junin de los Andes deserves quite a bit of credit for the show they put on that night. The parade consisted of three separate groups of drummers, maybe ten of them, with dancers, maybe twenty, who all performed a few basic sways, spins, and kicks, all to the same fairly elaborate drum beats. All of the dancers and most of the drummers were kids, mostly under the age of twelve. In between these groups were rather odd floats: a bulldozer, an F1 racing car, the lizard from before that took repeated runs at the kids on the sidewalk, just stopping short (though eliciting a few surprised screams), and a cigarette with the word "Neuquén" printed around the filter. I'm still a little puzzled by that last one. Quite a spectacle.

The most surprising thing about the parade was its length. Not that the parade route itself was long, as it covered most of the town's main drag, about four blocks. After the groups reached the end though, they did a little cheer, and then went right back to the start, and did it again. The going was slow, so each trip took at least forty-five minutes. I went to bed when they were on the third lap. Between the parade and their extended warm-up beforehand, those kids must have been dancing for hours. Props.

I missed the bus again the next day - not because I woke up late, but because it was all booked up - so I had decided that I had spent just enough time in Junin de los Andes. It was a lovely time, and I enjoyed myself, but I had hiking to do, and the town had served its purpose of breaking up the trip nicely. Next up: El Bolsón, a town that I had, on impulse, decided to visit in favour of the more popular Bariloche. Just a few days there, I told myself, and then onto Patagonia proper. Just goes to show the futility of planning.

Getting lined up for the parade.

Rolling down the main drag.

More dancers.

Just before leaving Junin. Pretty.

Nunca más

2006-03-26T11:00:00.000-03:00

Today is March 26, 2006; 30 years and two days after a coup d’état forced Isabel Perón from office, commencing seven years of military dictatorship and a program of state terrorism that would come to be known as la Guerra Sucia (“the Dirty War”). Of course, the remembrance of a terrible past, the marches, the closed shops, the eerie calm about the city lasted only for one day; yesterday was a typically well-attended Saturday, with the exception of those who had chosen to spend their long weekend at one of the numerous Atlantic coast beach resorts. Were it only two days since the coup, and not 30 years and two days, I suspect that the coup would seem less like a one-day event than a discernable, but irrelevant starting point. Such is the weakness of anniversaries: those who survived lived every day of the Dirty War’s seven years, not just the first and last, the latter of which will likely also be commemorated. “Was that really seven years ago?” might be the future’s typical response. Time flies when your children haven’t been disappeared.

Before going too much further, I’ll throw in one of many photos that I took at the march on Friday:

The large puppet is an effigy of General Rafael Videla, leader of the coup and one of three dictators to run the country during the subsequent seven years. It’s not a great photo, and I’ll attach a better one later, but I wanted to draw attention to the woman holding up Videla’s right arm; the one with the Uncle Sam hat. Extra credit if you can piece together the symbolism. A timely release of documents by the National Security Archive on Thursday details Henry Kissinger’s immediate support for the military regime, and cooperation between the Southern Cone’s secret police forces operating under Operation Condor. The day after Kissinger’s staff meeting, though well after the U.S. was aware of the planned coup, the IMF released a $127 million credit for the military junta. Argentine citizens have rarely found themselves on the right end of an IMF loan, but that’s another matter.

Another photo, this one taken at the Congreso, the plaza out front of the Argentine Congress building. The march began at the Congreso and proceeded to the Plaza de Mayo in front of the Casa Rosada, about a kilometre away.

A few examples of the many banners that political groups had created for the event, and these were a representative sample. We’ve got the Socialists on the left; ‘Che’ Guevara – by far the best represented guy there – next on the right; followed by one I can’t make out, though the colour, star, and Che symbol suggest that this is not the extreme right wing; two to the right are the Communists, with a nicely drawn hammer and sickle, and of course the ubiquitous Che. In case anyone doesn’t know much about Che – for instance, if you’ve ever worn a t-shirt with his face on it – Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara was born in Rosario, now Argentina’s third-largest city, north-west of Buenos Aires. While he did his revolutionary work in Cuba, the Congo, and finally Bolivia, he still had an indirect influence at home, providing an inspiration for leftist guerillas who opposed the military governments of the late 60’s and early 70’s, and even the Perón administrations of 1973-1976. So he’s not just a benign symbol of vague leftist ideologies here: he represents the actual struggles of the extreme left to incite revolution.

While you don’t have to idolize Lenin and Mao to show your distaste for seven years of state repression and terrorism, there is a definite political stripe here that runs down through extreme resistance to the military junta; through socialism and even communism; through opposition to the United States’s occupation of Iraq; through China, Russia, and Cuba; through Che and leftist guerillas. The alliance between these political imperatives was laid bare on Friday: they shared space on banners, in stencils spray-painted on the walls of buildings between the Congreso and Plaza de Mayo, and on the leaflets that activists handed out at every corner. One may support one of these movements and have contempt for another, but regardless, the way between them is well traveled.

This is what surprised me about Friday’s demonstration. I had come expecting a sombre mood, images of the dead, and moments of silence. What I saw instead was a political demonstration. While the junta’s crimes were certainly the day’s cynosure; in each group, in every speech, the actions of the past were examined with an eye to present and future political action. Not everyone feels this way of course – Kirchner’s narrative was something along the lines of “past bad, present good”, and the more incendiary speeches conflicted with the message that traditional groups, such as the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, were trying to get across – but most of the people at the Plaza de Mayo on Friday wanted more than just awareness: they wanted change. Media outlets reported that at least 30,000 people likely came out, and the event was almost entirely peaceful, though one riot broke out near the Plaza San Martin. Two days on, thirty years on, and the wounds are still fresh.

Approaching along Callao.

The kids love Che.

Socialists are in the house; Congreso in the background.

A better view of Señor Videla. Videla is currently under house arrest, awaiting trial.

Just a huge number of people along the Avenida de Mayo.

The Joventud Peronista were one of many young, leftist groups in attendance, but they're distinguished by their history. During Juan Domingo Perón's exile, the JP evolved into a resistance movement; their more militant wing - the Montoneros - embarked on a campaign of robberies and political kidnappings in the late 60's and early 70's. When Perón returned in 1973, his coalition had become so fractured by divergent interests that his arrival literally triggered a battle. On June 20, 1973, as hundreds of thousands awaited his plane at Ezeiza airport, a scuffle between the Montoneros and armed union guards (unions being Perón's traditional power base) evolved into a firefight that left hundreds killed or injured. In the following year before his death, Perón would begin to crack down on his party's extreme left wing, pushing them onto their own branch of revolutionary, Che-inspired politics.

Plaza de Mayo. Just one cross-section of the massive crowd.

The Casa Rosada, behind a large, temporary barrier, guarded. And I was hoping to see a President evacuated by helicopter. Maybe next demonstration.

Fútbol! - and other Argentine happenings

2006-03-23T09:46:00.000-03:00

When I first arrived in Buenos Aires, on February 7, I got the sense that I was in very large, but spacious and not especially bustling city. Turns out everyone was on vacation. These days, the cafes are packed, the traffic is ludicrous at all hours, but, more importantly, it's all happening. Argentines are taking to March and a return to normal life with far more enthusiasm than I was ever able to muster for September.

Fútbol

Most notable, by far, is that this town is on the brink of going fútbol mad, though they were pretty mad about the stuff to begin with. The Primera División de Argentina will showcase its greatest rivalry on Sunday: the Superclásico, a match between arch-rivals Boca Juniors and River Plate. Still three days away, the news programs have been showing archive footage of previous matches, discussion of the match fills the front page of every newspaper's sports section, and any local with whom I've discussed the subject of football has expressed a preference. Boca, unsurprisingly, seems to be the people's choice.

Though Boca has had the upper hand in the rivalry of late, I'm pretty confident that my boys River are going to pull this one off. River has been playing very well of late, with convincing victories in both the Primera División de Argentina and the Copa Libertadores (more on that later). The Primera División de Argentina is split into two tournaments, which to us look just like leagues, with the winner being the team with the best record at the end. The first tournament is the Apertura, and the second the Clausura. Boca rolled to victory over second-place Gimnasia la Plata in the Apertura, but have stalled in the Clausura, sharing second place after a disappointing tie last week with one of the league's weakest teams. As Boca hesitates, River are striving forward, and sit atop the league with nine games remaining, but the most important by far taking place this Sunday. But while River may seem to be the favourite on paper, as the saying goes, the game is taking place in La Bombonera, an advantage that occludes analysis.

While the Primera División de Argentina offers more than enough football to keep this town engaged, we're also fortunate enough to be right in the middle of the Copa Libertadores - South America's answer to the Champions League. Currently, 32 teams are playing to determine the top two teams in each of eight divisions, with those winners moving onto an elimination tournament. Teams from every South American country (and Mexico) are eligible, and the international rivalries are as impassioned as the inter-club rivalries. Argentina tends to work itself up a little more than usual when one of their squads meets one from Brazil or Uruguay. Argentina's top clubs, naturally, are represented, with the surprising exception of the Boca Juniors, who fell to Guadalajara (Mex.) in the qualifying round. Their deciding game was abandoned in the second half when - their team's defeat inevitable - Boca fans hurled missiles onto the field, rushed Guadalajara's goalkeepeer, and incited violence generally. The players had done their fair share of brawling at that point as well.

30 años

On a more demure note, tomorrow is a national holiday here, but not of the happier variety. On March 24, 1976, Argentina's President, Isabel Perón, was ousted in a military coup d'état. What followed in the seven years of dictatorial military rule has been called the "Dirty War": a program of state terrorism in which civilians suspected of opposing the junta or having left-wing political views were tortured, murdered, and "disappeared". In 1976, a General in the junta predicted that "We are going to have to kill 50,000 people: 25,000 subversives, 20,000 sympathizers, and we will make 5,000 mistakes." A civilian government commission convened after the military's fall estimated the number of the killed or disappeared at 11,000, though some groups, such as the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, claim that the number is as high as 30,000.

So while tomorrow's holiday - the first ever on this day for this event - ostensively exists to allow Argentines to remember the past and honour the memory of the dead, many have pointed out a contradiction: on one hand, memories of a terrible day and a terrible time for Argentina; on the other, long weekend! While some are packing for the beach, many will gather in a series of demonstrations, one of which I will be joining tomorrow in the Plaza de Mayo outside the Casa Rosada. I suspect that it will be fascinating and quite moving. There are many other events surrounding the holiday, including art exhibits, films, speeches, and music. I hope to take in a least a few of these, particularly a performance of Messiaen's Quatuor pour la fin du temps. It will match the tone of the event well, I think.

Politics

The big political news here has been the re-nationalization of Aguas Argentinas, Argentina's water supplier, which had been run by a French firm called Suez. The rhetoric has been none too surprising: Argentina's president, Nestor Kirchner, claimed that Suez was reaping substantial profits while many Argentines suffered shortages, and Suez claimed that they in fact have incurred substantial losses, particularly since the government imposed a price freeze in 2002. A crisis in which some of the water supply was contaminated with nitrates certainly didn't bolster the relationship much. Many hope that the national service won't be just another inefficient state-run monopoly, but few would bet on it.

Michelle Bachelet, Chile's recently elected socialist President is in town, on her first visit abroad since taking office. A little like Stephen Harper going to Afghanistan, only more expected. Lastly, economic signs are good: the economy continued its impressive growth of 9.1% through January, and the number of the Argentine poor fell from 40.2% in the second half of 2004 to 33.8% in the same period of 2005. President Kirchner stressed that "while we are determined to see even further reductions in the number of the poor, 2/3 Argentines are now out of poverty, and that ain't bad." Sorry.

Autumn in Buenos Aires, it's good to live it . . .

2006-03-21T17:21:00.000-03:00

So here I am: a month, albeit a short one, to the day after I last posted from Buenos Aires, I post again, only with a four-week trip to Patagonia under my belt. My apologies to all who may have checked here during that month of suckiness, but rest assured that I'll try to make up for it from here on in with some hopefully decent, though at least more frequent posts. I've decided that I'll add a post for each of the major stages of my trip over the next few weeks, intermingled with contemporary updates from BsAs, flashback style.

Today was a pretty busy day: I woke up in the morning with a bag to retrieve from the bus station - my beloved mochila grande, about which I had never forgotten despite all the time that mochila pequeña and I were spending together - which gave me the opportunity to complete my last hike: about 1.5km from the bus station to my hostel, just a little elevation, and with virtually everything I brought on my back. Pretty tame given what I'm accustomed to. With my full complement of toiletries at my disposal, I took a much-needed shower, and then sized up the scattered collection of wiry hairs that had settled on my face, masquerading as a beard.

It's pretty clear now that I'm just not a beard guy, or a facial hair guy of any kind. Not because I lack the face for it - I think that I could potentially pull it off - or because I lack the will, as I'm game. The hairs just don't grow. So, on March 21, I took the clippers to the longest facial hair that I had ever let my body sprout:

Whatever that is, 'tis no beard. Patchy and thin it is, but a beard it is not. Sigh. An hour, some clippers, and a dull razor later, I'm looking more familiar, just with a more common poof of hair. I get a haircut next door, and I'm myself again. The soul of Patagonia Dave escapes my body to go wander in the Andes near El Chaltén. Perhaps we'll meet up again some day.

Next up, an apartment, and a life. I have a few leads on rooms in a shared apartment, which I've decided is best for the cost and for the benefit of living with people, and Spanish-speaking people at that. I could get my own studio for not a considerable amount more, but I just don't see the value. So I'll be checking out places today and tomorrow, and then I'll begin to think about how I'll be occupying the next three months, which I've decided to spend mostly in BsAs, travelling around occasionally. I hope to score a volounteer job with an agency of interest to me - one in economics, ideally - but I'll take what I can get, which may even be normal work, perhaps translation. I'd rather do something important to me and forego the pay though, as my savings will keep me more than afloat down here. That search begins tomorrow. Until then, it's a perfect day here - a perfect autumn day in Buenos Aires - and I'm off for a coffee on a terrace somewhere. It's good to live it indeed.

By popular demand?

2006-02-21T01:22:00.000-03:00

Well, I've been called out by my sister - totally fair given that I called her out on her blog - so I guess that demands a post of some sort. I was trying to avoid the obvious point that this blog would be better titled "Aborted Attempts to Do Interesting Things" (that's the AAtDIT, or in honour of the same sister, the UNAAtDIT*), because that's been my life of late. There was, of course, my aborted attempt to hit up Colonia del Sacramento, but more recently my aborted attempt to go see the Boca Juniors. Sold out, you see.

I had a decent enough afternoon as a result - hanging out with the fellow travellers with whom I had arranged to see the game - but still, heading to the Bombonera would have been cool. And at the very least, one interesting thing that is not going to end up as an aborted attempt is my trip to Patagonia, as it's going down in two days. Highlights will include the following:

Tierra del Fuego: that means "Land of Fire". End of the continent. Wildlife, extreme geography, and temperatures that will allow me to get a decent night's sleep.
Perito Moreno: a big glacier. The appeal pretty much speaks for itself. I'm saying hello to the glacier on the behalf of anyone who wishes to say hello, and that's a lot, because usually I'm not one of those "oh by the way [acquaintance 1], [acquaintance 2] says hello" kinda guys.
Peninsula Valdés: a cool peninsula between two bays with some odd wildlife. Highlights include killer whales rushing baby sea lions at 50 km/h.

So that's what's up, and the blog will likely be put on hold for a while, until I return rested, cooled, and with totally mind-blowing pictures. Having said that, I'd love for the wicked comments-leaving to continue. Thus far through the comments I've learned about alfajores and the fine art of picking up Argentine babes with poor spelling. Muchas gratias Paul. I'll be back in about two weeks or so; my best to everyone in the meantime. Until then, a few random shots:

Artigas looks forward to decades of political mismanagement while porteños play football in the background.

A pretty building in Palermo.

The closing minutes of the Boca game. San Lorenzo had just put the nail in Boca's coffin with a second goal, and Dyfan and I had to work really hard to cover up our laughter, because the announcer was doing the classic "gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal!", [big breath], "gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooal!"

*It exists.

Just sorta hangin'

2006-02-16T11:25:00.001-03:00

Not a whole lot to add, unfortunately, as these last few days have been pretty quiet. I spent most of Monday recovering from a very sociable weekend, and in a hostel on the weekend, you have no choice but to be sociable. On Tuesday I was supposed to go to Colonia del Sacramento, but that was contingent upon my travel companion's camera arriving from Australia, which it didn't. Regrettably, I didn't find out about the wayward camera until well after we were supposed to leave, so I squandered a lot of Tuesday waiting around. While I was a little annoyed about that, I have only myself to blame that I let the exact same thing happen on Wednesday. To quote one of our age's great orators: "fool me once, shame on - shame on you. Fool me . . . you can't get fooled again."

So, Colonia del Sacramento is out, and I've made alternate plans. Today the Welshman and I are heading down to one of the shopping districts - because at these prices how can I justify not buying fashionable wares! - and then maybe to the pools with a few other people. At some point today, definitely, a trip to the Bombonera to get tickets for this Sunday's Boca Juniors game. I'm not necessarily siding with either squad (Boca or River Plate) in this very intense rivalry, but Boca was home this Sunday, so I'll be there in blue and gold. If I can't find any blue and gold, I'll at least avoid the white and red that would assure me a thorough stomping. No joke here: wear white and red to a match in Boca, get stomped. If you're lucky.

Next week is going to be Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego. BA is lovely and all, and I'm enjoying getting to know the city, but settling down in a more spacious landscape right now would be quite nice. I'm going to focus on the mountains and glaciers, mostly by hiking, though I'll rent a bike now and then. That'll probably be at least a week or two, and if I don't come back from that trip with some cool pictures, then I will have failed massively as a photographer. Speaking of which, is there no one to criticize my photos? No one want to tell me what technical or compositional guidelines I've violated? Caley and Evan and Teya, I'm looking in your direction.

One last thing: for all those who suggested that I was fortunate in escaping the Canadian winter, well, you're right. But - last night was so hot that I could barely sleep. Sleeping here isn't especially easy at the best of times, with the foam mattress, tired sheets, wooden frames that are maybe an inch longer than I am, and five other snoring CO2 emitters, but toss in the kind of heat that causes me to sweat in bed, and this place becomes considerably more uncomfortable. That's part of the reason I'm heading South, actually: BA is just stinking hot right now. Enough.

Travellers

2006-02-13T14:24:00.000-03:00

Interesting weekend in the hostel. This place was very quiet during the week, which is why I spent most of my time walking around, getting my bearings, taking pictures . . . solo stuff. The hostel saw a definite spike in traffic on Thursday, and by Friday night, the place was packed. Interesting people come here from interesting parts of the world, so virtually every introduction is followed up by the usual "where are you from and what brings you here" line.

There was one Israeli, though I didn't really get his story; a couple of recent high school graduates from Columbia; a few party guys from California; Australian mountain climbers; an artist from Philadelphia who comes down here every time he sells a few paintings; a Swiss guy who is waiting on delivery of his motorbike so that he can drive down to Tierra del Fuego and then up to the equator, and back here; a Welshman who just wants to find a bar at which he can watch the Six Nations rugby tournament before he goes.

Elisabeth, a 28-year-old Norwegian, was definitely the winner amongst them all in terms of life experience, if we define “life experience” as those things that more fortunate or circumspect people are glad didn’t happen to them. Her last memory before being impregnated, she recalled, was taking a vertical swig of 198-proof home brew, pulling it aside to snatch a breath, and seeing . . . somebody. By the time she could register her next memory – waking up alongside a handsome albeit unfamiliar partygoer – the future life experience had already settled in her 15-year-old body. What remained of her old life was lost when Elisabeth’s mother was murdered by a jealous ex-husband.

It was at that point that her story took a Norwegian left turn. The Norwegian government – presiding over four million residents and an advanced welfare state – supported her because she was single mother, and added an incremental allowance in exchange for her staying in school. She raised her daughter and her little sister, earned her undergraduate and post-graduate degrees, and was able to get a well-paying job with an international bank, thus allowing her to pay back all that the country had given to her. Despite the happy ending, I don’t see Elisabeth as a slam-dunk case study for the socialist cause: it’s difficult to know how much of her success was achieved through her own efforts, and how much through the government’s support; and her misfortune was the result of her own decisions as well as those that were out of her control. Still, coming from a country that likes to boast about its social safety net, I was struck by the Norwegian people's dedication to ensuring that none of their citizens slip through the cracks.

Oh, and on a completely unrelated note, my name in Welsh is "Dafydd". Where have you been all my life, third "d"?

Shopping

2006-02-10T15:04:00.000-03:00

Talk about a successful shopping trip. I left my hostel around 12:00 to head down to the calle Lavalle (calle means "street"), a long open-air pedestrian shopping area. A little on the touristy side, of course, but some nice stuff in there regardless. I was very much in need of a white t-shirt, because the one I brought had wine stains all over it (I rock at packing), and I finally found a nice fitted one at Zara, of all places. I know: you come all the way to Buenos Aires and you shop at Zara? It's a little lame, I admit, but were there a single local clothing store that didn't sell football jerseys, and nothing but football jerseys, I'd go there for my t-shirt. I guess I was in the wrong part of town if I wanted to buy an Argentinian shirt without blue and white stripes.

The beautiful Avenida 9 de julio, "9th of July Avenue".

A better shot of the obelisk that pins together two major streets in Buenos Aires: the Avenida 9 de julio and the Avenida Corrientes.

Next up was sandals, and I had been looking for these since I had arrived, with little success. Not many men's sandles being sold around here, and not for less than $120 pesos, which struck me as absurd. $45 CAD for sandals? I pay $0.50 for a perfectly good empañada and you want me to give you $45 for sandals? Not happening. So what would the calle Lavalle be able to offer that the areas I had already searched couldn't? How about a sandal warehouse liquidation sale! Think I'm joking?

Not a great picture, I admit - I just snapped it on the fly - but you get the idea. So that went pretty well: a nice pair of brown leather sandals for about $25 CAD, a much more civilized price. Hurrah. So I came back to the hostel and grabbed a nice prosciutto sandwich along the way to celebrate. The folks in the sandwich shop were quite nice and patient with my poor Spanish, as has been almost everyone here. The guy who has been the friendliest to me so far was looking to scam me for a few pesos, I think, but numbers two through ten in the top ten nicest porteños were all genuine, so that's pretty good.

calle Lavalle

I think the sign in the background reads "Jesus Christ is the Lord; Universal Church of the Kingdom of God".

One of the many beautiful parks in Buenos Aires. This one is in the Plaza San Martin.

A belated thank you

2006-02-08T20:18:00.000-03:00

I definitely owe a thank you to everyone who came out on Feb. 4 for my little gathering. As predicted, there was no self-important speech-making, and there were no shots (thank goodness), but instead just a collection of excellent people, all of whom got along very well and all of whom I'm proud to call my friends. Special thanks to my dad for strolling in, picking up a round for the whole group, staying for thirty minutes, and then, regrettably, hitting the road. That was classy.

This is but a small selection of the 100+ people who so kindly came out.

My first walk around Buenos Aires

2006-02-07T17:08:00.000-03:00

Hit the streets this afternoon with a mind to getting four critical things: food, a map, a plug adaptor, and sandals. I succeeded in procuring all but the sandals, so I'm pretty happy. As for the food, I was going to give the restaurant's cannelloni a try, but I didn't know what "verdura" was, other than the main ingredient. So I asked, but the waitress didn't speak a word of English, so after 15 seconds of getting nowhere, I made a mooing noise and added "poco" (small), as I had a hunch that "verdura" is veal. No dice. I then tried a quick baaa (only baby-like), but that wasn't it either, so I just gave up and ordered the chicken. I just checked, and "verdura" is vegetables. Not even close. Now I'm trying to imagine what noise a vegetable makes.

I really enjoyed taking a bunch of photos though, so my thanks to dad for the camera.

A family friend recently offered the simile that Buenos Aires "is like a run-down Paris". I think it has a character all its own, but you see what he's talking about in buildings like these.

The chap in white is Carlos Pellegrini. He lead the Partido Autonomista Nacional (PAN) - a collection society's elite who ruled the country for at least 30 years of its democratic history - to an election victory with himself at the helm in the 1870s, and then later through massive electoral fraud with his successor as the ostensive leader. He then passed a series of electoral reforms in 1911 that outlawed the abuses that had kept the PAN in power all those years, apparently believing that the PAN was so popular that syetemic fraud was just a waste of time. The PAN was then soundly trounced.

A very typical street in BA. Trees and white buildings.

Unfortunately, I didn't catch the name of this guy. Now, one would be forgiven for thinking that we're simply looking at another well-intentioned member of the ruling elite who became drunk on his own power and was brought down in a nasty coup, hence the defacing, but really, that describes just about every Argentinian president. And they all have their own statues, and streets named after them. It's odd.

I blame my mother for not letting me do cartwheels in a busy city street.

Preface

2006-02-05T13:33:00.000-03:00

So I'm heading off for South America for six months, and a handful of people have shown an interest in what I'll be up to down there, hence this blog. I doubt that I'll update it very regularly or that it will be particularly interesting, but who knows, I might just get into this blogging thing, and I should come up with at least a few good pictures. Right now I'm in Toronto and my plane takes off in about six hours. Naturally, I've just begun to consider this whole packing thing, and should be wrapped up about two minutes before I have to go. My first real post will be from Buenos Aires in two or three days. I'm going to spend roughly the next 20 hours either in airports or on planes, so after I'm finished with that, and the two things that I've planned for my next six months, I'll be ready to communicate again. Feel free to fire off an email to me anytime at davidpeer@hotmail.com.

Oh, and I'm an autocrat, at heart, so I'm moderating comments. Do leave one now and then though, particularly comments critical of me or this blog, as those are the kinds of comments that I leave on other people's blogs, and they always really appreciate it.