Argentina - June 2007

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Welcome back after a short sabaticcal from blogging.

My travels through Argentina have not been like other South American countries. There are no Wonders of the World to speak of, no golden beaches, no dramatic landscapes. Instead it is a tale of fine food, medium rare wines, sleepless nights, lazy days and generally taking gluttony to new levels.

Let's start this Argentina page by talking about Chile. I was only there for 3 days so it does not hold up as an entry in its own right. The original plan was to spend a few weeks travelling south through Chile to the Lake District and the southern polar region, but the seasons and my inept knowledge of them conspired against me. It was muy cold, so I decided not to head towards the Antarctic as the Antarctic heads towards Winter. But that's already more than enough space wasted on what I didn't do.
Upon gaining independence and becoming a republic in 1818, the first President of Chile was the very un-latino sounding Bernard O'Higgins. He unsurprisingly was of Irish heritage. Over the years Chile has won it fair share of wars with its neighbours, stretching itself northwards and so leading to its anorexic shape. It stretches over 4,000 km north to south, but just 200 km east to west.
Between the Bolivian salt plains and Northern Argentina, the Chilean town of San Pedro de Atacama is a convenient stop off and transit point. As its name suggests, it is stuck bang smack in the middle of the Atacama desert. To quickly tick off a couple more superlatives, the Atacama desert is the dryest place on Earth and is also the best place to view the stars (well the Southern constellations at least). By South American standards, Chile is expensive, and San Pedro is the Mayfair of the Chilean Monopoly board. It was quite a shock arriving from pound-stretching Bolivia.
Jumping from country to country, I still find problems grasping the Spanish lingo, as each country has their own little nuances. For example, "coje un coche" in Chile is to "catch a bus", but in Mexico, it's to "molest a baby". When I was loitering around a creche the other day, I ended up taking the number 47 back into town. It was all very embarrassing. (.....one for the best man speech there).

I was still travelling with the 2 English guys I met in Bolivia, Ben & Jordan. On the bus to Salta, we also picked up Caroline. Between us we would be an intrepid team of Brits Abroad, taking Argentina by storm over the next 3 weeks.

We arrived in Argentina with the 25th Anniversary of the Falklands at the forefront of current affairs. There was not much in the way of celebration going on, but it was a good excuse for the President, Nestor Kirchner, to re-state their claim to Los Malvinas. On the front page of the main national newspaper, he proclaimed: "Mrs Thatcher, the Falklands will be ours". Maybe foreign affairs is not Mr Kirchner's strong point, unless he plans on taking Mags a nice cup of Bovril and swapping the land for a colostomy bag and a walk-in bath. I didn't indulge in too much war-talk with the locals, but from my limited understanding we actually did them a favour by ousting the repressive government that had already killed 30,000 of its own people.

Salta has become a popular Backpackers haunt. Maybe I was missing something, but it seemed to be just another unmemorable city. However, the immediate surroundings were full of memorable attractions. As I remember, we went horse-riding on the altiplano, rock-climbing in the quebrada and canyoning in the ...er... canyon. Just outside the city we climbed San Bernard Hill that boasts "180 degree panaramic views" of Salta. In my book, this was 180 degrees short of your standard panarama, but once I got the pedancy out my system I enjoyed the view nonetheless. The other big selling point for Salta is the highly advertised Train to the Clouds - an apparently spectacular journey high into the cloud forests. It sounded like an ideal day trip, but the train stopped running a few years ago, and has been replaced by a minibus. Minibus to the Clouds doesn't conjour the same romance, so they decided to stick with the old name. I didn't go.
Although the city centre of Salta was short on sights, it was long on good food. An Argentine steak is something else. They rightly claim to produce the best beef in the World. It would be unjust to describe the way they cut the steaks as butchery, but more accurately a science in meat surgery. After so many months in Latin America without decent culinary fare, our greed took us over. Bife de Chorizo, Dulce de Leche, Choripans and last and by every means most, Empanadas. Empanadas are like mini pasties, filled with meat, chicken or cheese. During one such Empanada fest, conversation turned to how many we could demolish in one sitting. "I could easily eat 10". "11, no problem". "I'm thinking 16". There was only one thing for it - an Empanada-off. We decided to allow 48 hours to prepare before the big event. Tactics would be crucial. I was thinking a big meal the night before and a light breakfast on the morning of the challenge, to hit the ultimate balance in stomach-stretched hunger. More to come.

For months, all I've heard from other travellers is how great the long-distance busses are in Argentina. For months, I've been looking forward to trying them out - they provide meals, bingo and have seats that recline a full 180 degrees (panaramic seats, you could say). But then the opportunity arose to hire a car. Suddenly the idea of a 2,000km Road Trip to Buenos Aires was unshakeable. The four of us rocked up to the tinpottiest hire company we could find, hired the tinpottiest car they had (a 2.0 litre diesel Renault Megane with 150,000 km’s on the clock), bought enough CD's not to go potty with repeat plays, stocked up on snacks and light-reading material (if you know what I mean?) and we were set for the big Road Trip.
Day 1. We stopped off at the Quebrada de Humahuaca, a narrow mountain valley in the north of Argentina, with a large indigenous Wichi Indian population. The Wichi are a proud, cultural people, who try to maintain a traditional way of life. We took some time to speak to them as they were handing out leaflets about how their way of life is being threatened by the advance of civilisation and technology. If you want to offer your support or require any further information on how they are resisting the threats of modern life, you can email them at [e-mail] - No, honestly.

The next day we drove down to the valley of Cafayate. The journey through the quebrada was awesome. A quebrada is another word for a canyon or a gorge - I've never totally understood the difference between the two, myself. The Cafayate region is famous for fertile red soil, smooth red wines and goaty cheese. It would also be the home of the Empanada Challenge. Upon extensive research we found the ideal candidate restaurant and warned them in advance, so to ensure they had enough stock to see us through.
We spent the early part of the third day visiting numerous wineries and working up as much of an appetite as possible. Come 6pm, we were ready to eat. We arrived at the restaurant, as scheduled, and they had brought in extra staff for the event. As we sat down, they switched the sign on the door from Open to Closed. It was all very formal. Perfect eating competition conditions. Conservatively, we ordered the first plate. "36 empanadas please". We all shook hands, and so it began:
I went out hard and fast from the beginning, wolfing down the first 6 in record time. Sure, with hindsight, I could have played things differently, but I thought I could keep my stomach a few steps ahead of my brain at all times. Jordan decided to track me, always hanging on my shoulder, just 1 empanada behind. Ben decided to proceed at his own pace. Caz was just out to beat her own PB, and smashed that on the way to an impressive 15. I must say, my first 20 were delicious. By which stage, Ben had lagged too far behind to be considered a real threat. Although he probably had it in him to catch up, he was psychologically beaten and eventually tip-toed his way to 22. However, Jordan was still there, shadowing me on 19, a confident look in his eye. As my pace slowed between 20 to 25, he stayed steady and edged ahead to 26. I had hit the wall. I made a late token effort to reach 27. But Jordan had opened up a clear 2 empanada gap by now and was just going to match be one for one. When I bluffed that I wanted to order another plate, and he agreed, I knew the game was up and conceded. We all just sat there in sickly silence for 30 minutes, disgusted at ourselves. In the words of Maradona, "Inside every fat man is a thin man wanting to get out".

From Cafayate the next stop offs would be Cordoba and Rosario, Argentina's second and third cities respectively. On the way, we got pulled over by a Traffic Cop, for allegedy jumping a red light. He claimed this violation carried a $600 fine (and a lot of paperwork). After much protestations, we realised he was open to be bribed then and there. Bribing a cop is one of those things everybody seems to say happens regularly, but you never actually meet anyone who's done it. We managed to get away with a $30 cash in hand bribe - even though I'm absolutely 100% almost positive I probably didn't violate that particular traffic regulation on that particular day.

Cordoba still maintains a colonial feel, despite being the second largest industrial city in Argentina. Most recogniseable is the Jesuit block, a square of religious and university buildings, and the city has a large student population giving it a young, vibrant heartbeat.
Rosario is an attractive riverside city, with an expansive arts and culture scene and is a very pleasant city to be in. The centre is dominated by the National Flag Memorial. They take their flag very seriously here. The designer Manuel Belgrano, is considered a national hero (Yes, he of sunken-ship fame) and every June 20th, the anniversary of his death, they have a national flag day, which is one of the major bank holidays in Argentina. Now, I'm sure you are familiar with the Argentine flag. It has 3 horizontal stripes (blue, white, blue) with a sun in the middle. Imagine if such mediocre artistry carried the same disproportionate rewards back home, then we'd have a National Art Attack day and we'd be launching an offensive in the Gulf from the SS Neil Buchannon.

The other highlights of a week on the road included a 20 course steak dinner. Jordan had read an article in The Telegraph about this restaurant called Don Aristobulo's which he carried everywhere, until we finally paid pilgrimage to the Don's gaff. Every course was a different part of the cow, and except the brain and balls, pretty much the whole animal was devoured. My particular favourite had to be the Thymus Gland - or sweetbread in its plate state.
Other than a Trip, the other essential ingredient of any Road Trip is a Road. And for the mostpart we were treated to exactly that. However, as I was casually burning along the motorway from Rosario to Buenos Aires, things dramatically changed. I passed a turn off, which I'm still convinced was neither signposted Buenos Aires nor Diversion. The first inkling I had that things were not right was the fact all of a sudden no other cars were around us. Not to be put of, "Stick with it" I thought, "Let's see where this goes". The motorway soon became a brand-spanking new unmarked road. "Stick with it, let's see where this goes" I repeated. A few kilometres later and the tarmac ended and I was driving on a gravel track. "Stick with it..." The gravel track became a dust path and then after passing confused looking workman (who were very friendily waving at us... with both hands) we hit fields. I was now fully committed to "sticking with it and seeing where this goes". 15 mins or so later a small side-road became visible and we scrambled the battered car off-road, up a bank, and eventually winded our way back towards the official motorway. I think there's probably a moral to this story, which may be something like, "No matter how wrong you clearly are, stick to your guns, don't admit it, and every so often things might work out in your favour".

Finally, with 1980 km of tarmac, and 20 km of wasteland, behind us, we chugged into Buenos Aires (or as it will be A-Teamlike referred to from now onwards, BA). Somehow the car had made it, though I'm not confident it had much more love to give. We drove in to BA on the world's widest intracity highway, zigzagging between something resembling lanes, giving out as many beeps and rude hand signals as we were receiving. Almost.
If New York is the city that never sleeps, then BA is the city you never sleep in. In the week I was there, I totalled no more than 10 hours kip. Motor and language skills didn't escape unaffected, as by the end I was barely able to string a comprehendable sentence together - or less so than normal anyway. There is plenty to see in BA, but I ended up wasting most of the days in a insomniatic daze, only perking up again during the night. I did manage to pay a visit to La Ricoletta cemetary, one the world's finest they say. If viewing the graves of famous dead people is your thing (Eva Peron, Belgrano the flagman, etc), then I imagine it's a thrill a minute. I invented Gravestone Bingo to keep us occupied:
1. A point for someone who was born or died the same date as your birthday.
2. A point for someone who was born or died the year of your birth.
3. A point for spotting someone who died on their own birthday
4. A point for someone who died aged 100.
5. A point for someone who had your initials.
The list went on.
The piece de resistence was the person who had died on their 100th birthday. Bingo-tastic.

BA is the birthplace of Tango, a very passionate dance that the locals are very passionate about. But more than this, the Portenos (people from BA) are crazy for their football. There is nothing the Argies love more than an exciting young footballer. Except maybe a cheating footballer. They do love a good cheat. Only last week Lionel Messi (their equivalent of Wayne Rooney) who plays for Barcelona, punched in a goal and got away with it. The press here couldn't have been more proud. "We knew he had the feet of Diego , and now we know he too has the hand of God..."
But you can't come to BA and not go to a football match. The atmosphere at an Argentine stadium is second to none. And luckily enough I was here when Boca Juniors were playing the second leg of the South American Champions League semi final against Cucuta of Colombia. Although I paid over the odds for a ticket to the seating section, I decided I had to mix it in the standing area behind the goal. The crowd arrive 3 hours before a game, leave 1 hour after the final whistle, and sing and bounce throughout. If you are spotted not to be contributing the expected vocular support, someone in the crowd will point you out, then the whole section will start pointing and abusing you.
You need to arrive in BA with a definite exit plan, or you can get sucked in. So before I got spat out, I booked myself on a boat to Uruguay.

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