Advertisement
I arrived in Buenos Aires full of expectation for Argentina. Initial impressions didn't disappoint as I settled myself into a plush hotel to polish my tango shoes and oil my chaps.
The first morning and I breakfasted magnificently and headed downstairs for what was to become my finest day in a city so far. The Dalai Lama decided to drop by to wish me well, or at least that's how I interpreted his visit, but unfortunately our meeting was rather hijacked by a phalanx of PorteƱo Buddhists who had unceremoniously turned up to pay him (us) their respects. We both exhuded serenity, and a profound sense of well-being, although I expect that he hadn't raided his mini-bar with quite the same vigour as I had. Myself and DL exchanged a knowing look as we passed each other on the red carpet, and I headed off to the 'burbs to enjoy a cowboy festival.
Now had this festival occured in the UK, it would have been accompanied a sea of tight white vests and the haunting warbling of Gloria Gaynor. This, however, was altogether different. Local people turned up in their droves to watch various octogenarian gauchos prancing around, to
purchase exquisite trivets fashioned from horseshoes, and to stuff all manner of barbecued meats into their mouths. 'Yee-ha' in step, trivet in hand, and sausage in stomach, I headed back into town for museums and the antique market in San Telmo. More dancing here, this time tango. I resisted the urge to be plucked from the crowd and humilated by disguising myself as a befuddled tramp, barking at strangers and soiling myself.
And so passed a number of days in Buenos Aires. Each area of the city had something different to offer.
La Boca: gritty football fanatic neighbourhood with a touristy area of multi-coloured houses down by the River Plate.
La Recoleta: grand cemetery with Evita's grave - testimony to the Argies' obsession with status, even in death (a kind of post-mortem 'my cock is bigger than yours' competition).
Palermo: rich suburb packed with lunching ladies and pro-am dog walkers.
Avenida Corientes (where I stayed): an intellectual haven stuffed with bookshops, cafes and exotic cabaret clubs (thinly veiled strip joints).
A trip to the zoo reminded me how much more fun seeing animals in the wild is. Though by all accounts much improved since it was privatised, the zoo
still had far too many animals looking far from happy. An elephant mournfully broke wind at me, and I could do nothing more than break wind back with a fist raised aloft in solidarity, and tears rolling down my (facial) cheeks.
I tried once again to enjoy the south, flying into Trelew, a Welsh immigrant town near the coast. Unfortunately, I had to get back to Buenos Aires to see a man about a dog (woman about a horse), and there weren't many tours to the spectacular marine parks nearby because of the season. It was still more entertaining than the equivalent latitude in Chile, and somewhat cheaper. Indeed, Argentina as a whole was proving cheaper than expected. It's currency may not be trembling quite as much as it once was, but it is still the sickly child of international monetarism, having sand kicked in its face by the dollar and euro, who are both in the football team and dating cheerleaders.
I amused myself by visiting Trelew's two museums and soaking up the atmosphere in my hotel, the crumbling Touring Club. Possessing one of the grandest cafes I have ever seen, complete with Art Deco bar the
Cowboy dancing in Mataderos
Here, he is holding up an imaginery handbag... length of a swimming pool, the hotel had seen better days. Now it sits out its remaining tenure populated by the grumpy old men of Trelew and a solitary miserable waiter in a white coat.
There was some evidence in the area of the Welsh immigration to Argentina in the latter half of the nineteenth century - mainly in placenames and old photographs in the handful of museums. Unfortunately the influx has been almost entirely assimilated, dashing my hopes of encountering barrel chested Welshmen singing in the damp Patagonian valleys in between mouthfuls of lava bread. This may have been a good thing, as it also precluded me from being firebombed out of my residence.
I had time to visit Puerto Madryn on the Atlantic coast - much more of a tourist resort. This pleasant town is best known for whale watching, but they were elsewhere during my visit (probably having a rumble with a Japanese 'scientific' vessel somewhere), and I had to content myself with an excursion to a sea lion colony with some aging Argentinian football fans in town for a crunch match. While we didn't spend much time admiring the wildlife, it was fun chatting
with the chainsmoking obsessives and briefly being part of their boozy weekend away from their wives. I wished I had had more time here to explore the area, but at least now have a clear idea of what my route will be when I return to Patagonia. And I am certain I will return one day - the scenery is the amongst the most spectacular I have seen.
After a brief stop back in Buenos Aires for more steak and tango, and an inspection of the rather alarming rash/infestation/terminal disease that I seem to have acquired on my left buttock in some dingy hostel, I decided to head north to Mendoza in search of more outdoor fun and games.
A word on the Argentinians themselves: I have generally been struck by their hospitality, although on a couple of occasions superciliousness has shone through. As in Chile, there seems to be a strict social hierarchy here, and much of it is based on one's appearance. Attired, as I am, in my well-worn travelling garments rather than looking like some chinless dolt at a polo tournament (lilac polo shirt, mustard blazer, polished orange brogues), does not immediately endear me to
Caves near Puerto Madryn
This is where the Welsh stayed upon their arrival in Argentina in the latter half of the nineteenth century. local waiters, hotel receptionists etc. Of course, when they realise that I have hard currency to spend, they became rather more attentive, making their former snobbery all the more apparent. I have also noticed a rather strong undercurrent of nationalism, highlighted most starkly by an unpleasant Falklands war exhibition at one of the museums in Buenos Aires. Nonetheless, for every snooty waiter there has been a flirty museum attendant telling me how much she loves London; for every pencil-pushing-shit-kicking-hick-with-a-badge who won't tell me when the bus is leaving, there has been an exhuberent old man spotting my guidebook and leading me in a chant of 'Argentina! Argentina! Argentina!', while enthusiastically slapping me on the back.
It gets hotter from now on in. After the north of Argentina, I pass into Brazil like a fleeing criminal, and then up through Central America. Time is ticking away, and decisions loom about what to do upon my return to Blighty, but for the moment I can think of little apart from where my next slab of meat is coming from.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.057s; Tpl: 0.013s; cc: 8; qc: 23; dbt: 0.035s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
John Turnbull
non-member comment
Molsey Mentions
We too thought Argentina nice, what we saw of it. Have you eaten cojones? How's your basic conversational Spanish?