Of Teeth and Tango

Having asked one of the English speaking locals on the cruise it seems that the chances of finding an equally multi-lingual dentist in Ushuaia are slim. This is becoming something of a priority now given that it is day 3 on anti-biotics and my face is a tad swollen still. C thinks that we can get by on broken Spanglish and sign language, based in part I guess on the standard of communication one gets anyway when you’re sat in a chair with a mouth full of tongue suppressor and drill. Given that no dentist is going to do anything until the abscess subsides we decide to fly to Buenos Aires on the basis that we’ve done the bus thing now and the increased odds of a dental appointment conducted in English grunts instead of Spanish grunts that a capitol city might offer.

The legendary difficulty of getting out of Ushuaia nearly bit home. We had the choice of separate flights out the next day, the loser getting in at gone midnight, or waiting 4 days for a flight we could take together. We were just settling for the former when a cancellation came through and we were duly booked on the late flight the next day. With nothing much left to do we rattled around Ushuaia, fortunately with bags stored at the hotel, taking in museum and the ever dependable Irish bar before getting to the airport early.

We flew with Aerolineas Argentinas and, as we tore down the runway, wondered why the flight was in fact only three quarters full. We were also able to marvel at an inflight entertainment that ensures we will never out of choice take a long haul flight with this airline. The inflight catering looked, and more importantly smelled, equally suspect and I passed on the chicken and rice lest it pass through me in altogether more violent ways. More worryingly the inflight piloting can only have come out of the air force and, this being a multi-hop flight, we were treated to two landings that had us briefly wishing we had taken the bus after all.

After what seemed like a low level tour of downtown Buenos Aires we did actually meet up again with our possessions in baggage claim in one piece at 02:00 in the morning. Here we attempted to execute our intricately prepared plans for accommodation and proceeded to ring around various hotels advertised in the terminal all of which, as it turned out, were fully booked, causing us to execute our backup accommodation plan of crashing, much like the flight seemed to at one point, in the terminal.

When it opened the tourist information kiosk kindly provided a list of hotels and it only took us until half way through this to find a hotel that actually had any rooms available for the next three nights. Outside the terminal we tried to catch a taxi and were entertained for a few minutes by a near fist fight between two drivers, the gist of which seemed to be the taxi we were about to take had jumped the queue in the rank. The winner claimed his prize, i.e. us, and we finally arrived at the hotel without further incident.

Before I could catch up on any sleep I had the small matter of a dental appointment to arrange. The first offer, nine days hence, was declined on the grounds that we would likely not be in the country let alone the city then. The British Hospital seemed like a good bet, but the standard of English spoken belied the name and all they could give me was the number of the dental practise next door. A quick surf of the internet threw up the web site of a Tango instructor who, by the web site at least, also dabbled in dentistry. A call to the office confirmed that whilst the dentist himself was mono-lingual, he had an assistant who would translate.

So, the following day at 12:00 we turn up at the dentists, then retreat to a nearby café when the appointment actually turned out to be for 13:00, a result of my appallingly bad Spanish. At least I got the day right. A couple of Pepsi Lights and many many ciggies later, which latter was sure to endear me to the dentist, we tried again. The assistant, who turned out to be the dentist’s daughter, spoke excellent English and the appointment proceeded to the inevitable extraction of tooth. I spent the rest of the day in abject misery as the anaesthetic wore off.

Our decision to extend our stay in the city required a hotel change when the original could not accommodate us. The bellboy nearly had us in tears when he saw us to the lift and advised us that he would take our baggage up the back passage. Later we thought a waiter had offered, in no uncertain terms, a more personal service to C than is customary in a dining situation, another result of our language difficulties in South America. All very funny but it makes us wonder what linguistic disasters we are entertaining the locals with in our quite frankly pathetic attempts to speak Spanish.

Having endured the whole dental thing we finally got to spend a day sampling some of the finer points of the city. For the first of our two part day of tourism we settled on a city tour. It turned out cheap enough and would have been a good way of sampling what sites would have been worth a more in depth visit if only it hadn’t been our last day in the city. The bus was a standard coach and I thought it odd that they didn’t operate an open top thing, after all the weather was good and it was hard to see the sights unless you have a window seat. The first stop was a case of speed tourism as we tried to take in the cathedral and the seat of government, including Eva Peron’s balcony, in just 20 minutes. The tour guide did an excellent job of multi-lingual commentary, her English faultless and the volume deafening. The second stop was an entirely uninspiring free market where we could have stocked up on antique cutlery, amongst other things, if we had so desired. For some reason this stop was twice the length of the first, altogether more interesting stop. The final segment of the tour took us through the heart of the original settlement close to the original docks. Like all old docks areas the place had seen better days and is now one of the dodgier sides of town. Apparently it was too dangerous to stop, and the reason became clear as we gave way to riot police supported by an armoured car moving on a crowd of football supporters, there being a local derby being played out at a nearby stadium. It was at this stage that I revised my opinion of open top bus tours.

For the evening we signed up for a tango show. Along with a whole crowd of tourists we were bussed to the restaurant where we enjoyed some of the legendary Argentinian beef. Whilst definitely better than the chewy grissle we get all too often at home, it was nevertheless disappointing. Never mind, we were here to watch tango and the meal was just a side show. The supporting act for the show was provided by a lone American tourist who objected loud and long at being given a seat at the side by the entrance. She eventually made a unilateral move on one of the balcony seats and remained to us thereafter out of eyesight and earshot. The tango itself was impressive in a way that only tango can be, with passionate moves around the stage and legs apparently appearing out of nowhere and at impossible angles, usually between the legs of the partner. It made my eyes water to watch and I hoped that the men were suitably protected. I was however particularly impressed with the traditional Andean musical interlude whilst C was mightily impressed with the guy who played the squeezy instrument, the name of which escapes me right now. Looking like John Sessions with a little extra weight, his facial expressions throughout the evening lent the performance a whole comedy sub-plot. I am though a little concerned by the number of pictures she was taking of him.

As is only right and proper when one has to checkout and catch a flight the next day we stayed up late and drank far too much.

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