Melting in Montevideo

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As it has been a little while since my last entry, some of you may have pondered whether I have melted in the scorching sun. Not quite. It is exceedingly hot, with temperatures occasionally reaching the 40s. It is too hot really, and can be pretty unbearable, especially in the afternoon. Before the emails start flooding in about how cold/rainy/downright miserable it is back home, please spare a thought for me sweating uncomfortably in the heat here. And don't get me started on the humidity or the omnipresent mosquitoes.

I spent about 10 days in Buenos Aires, and without doubt it is a fantastic city. It has a vibrancy which is hard to match and keeps buzzing all day and night, 364 days a year. The exception? Christmas Day. It was always going to be a quiet Christmas. In this heat, it didn't feel remotely festive, and I was quite happy to pass the day eating and drinking. The only thing was, there was nothing open except a corner shop with very limited stock. Of course, I could have been prudent and bought some supplies in advance, but you don't seriously think I cook out here do you? Eating out is too cheap to bother with cooking... well, that's my excuse anyway. In case you were wondering, my Christmas lunch consisted of a bag of crisps and a sympathy hot dog from one of my hostel buddies.

In late afternoon, the city began to spring to life and I spent the remainder of the day at Palermo racecourse with a Swiss chap called Martin. I had never been to a horse racing meeting before, and it proved to be much fun. There was a race roughly every half an hour and we put a few pesos (about 50p) on each race. We got chatting to an elderly man who told us that he was a retired jockey. He assured us that horse number 5 would win the next race, and we watched in amazement as that very horse romped home. We didn't hesitate in following his advice for the next race - the number 4 - but it finished an agonizing second. His next tip was "5 or 7". I plumped for 7, and was delighted to see it gallop over the line in first, winning me back my lost dosh. The old guy also reliably informed me that Carol Thatcher was in the crowd, curiously, prompting questioning on what I thought of Maggie. Being in Argentina (or anywhere, for that matter..), there was only one answer to that one.

Palermo proved to be a great part of the city to stay in, with a spacious park including a rose garden and lake, numerous cafés and bars, and streets and plazas ideal for strolling around. Nearby is Recoleta, a very plush area and home of the famous cemetery - basically it amounts to a village containing magnificent structures housing the city's rich and famous (the most famous being Evita) of times gone by. While in the cemetery I had a bit of a suncream disaster - it had spilled everywhere in my bag, making a grand old mess - but I´m not sure if I can blame this on the ghosts.

I also stayed in San Telmo, which is one of the poorer districts. San Telmo is a charming area with an abundance of character and history. There are cobbled streets on which artists, markets and tango performers can be found. It typifies the whole of Buenos Aires in having a distinct European flavour to it. Even poorer than San Telmo is La Boca. The colourful houses on the main touristy drag of La Boca barely camouflage the poverty in which the locals live here. Inevitably, there were plenty of people around trying to get money off me. One guy was dressed up as Maradona and asking people for money to have a photo with him. To be fair, he was not a bad lookalike, but I was not going to hand cash to someone resembling the footballer who (literally) single-handedly knocked England out of the World Cup. Yes, it was over 20 years ago, but you don't forget these things. Maradona is of course an idol here, even a god to some people. Believe it or not, there is even a church devoted to him. Boca Juniors, Maradona´s former club and Argentina's most famous team, is based in La Boca and I had a look in the stadium.

The nightlife of Buenos Aires did not disappoint. A siesta is imperative, since the clubs do not open until about 1.30 and don't get busy until 3ish. Walking home late at night, or rather early in the morning, is not a problem as security is very tight. You do have to be careful but the massive police presence makes the city feel safe. George Bush´s daughter would not agree with me there, though, as she was mugged recently in San Telmo. As a result, 14 officers were sacked, which seems incredibly harsh to me.

I left Buenos Aires on 30th December for Concepcion del Uruguay, a 4 hour bus ride north and situated on the River Uruguay on the border with Uruguay. That´s a lot of ´Uruguays'! This place is not somewhere generally visited by travellers but I was keen to take up the invitation of Pablo Torran to spend the new year period in his town. I met Pablo in Egypt 2 years ago. On my arrival Pablo whisked me off to his grandparents' house for the traditional family 'asado'. An asado is like a barbeque but more formal, a kind of ritual. I was introduced immediately to Pablo's parents, grandparents, brothers, aunt, and cousins. The amount of meat on offer was quite extraordinary and left everyone in need of a siesta afterwards.

On New Year's Eve I attended the Torran family dinner, which required another 10 or so cows I should think. I met many more relatives here, and there were some interesting characters including an uncle who is one of the President's bodyguards. As midnight approached, we were all given a glass of champagne before heading outside. At midnight, various family members lit fireworks in the street. It all seemed rather dangerous to me, with lots of kids about, but no-one seemed concerned. Many of the neighbours were also letting off fireworks, and so it was quite a spectacle. There was more merry fun afterwards - everyone was trying to talk to me and my ears were getting quite a bashing. I was quite glad to escape for the New Year disco, which didn't start until 3am. Getting in at 6, it was only a few hours later when I was off with the family to visit the other grandparents and more aunts/uncles/cousins in a small village called San Cipriani in the countryside. Here I was treated to another large lunch: the grandmother insisted on giving me more food even when I protested that I couldn't possibly manage any more. One of the cousins, a little girl, stared at me intently throughout with a serious look on her face. I don't think she had met a foreigner before. The grandfather seemed suspicious of me too - he questioned me on the Falkland Islands' war and, yes, on Maggie Thatcher.

As well as all the relatives, I also met heaps of family friends. I am not sure how many people I met during my stay in Concepcion, but it must be at least 60. It is such a close community, with everyone living no more than a short walk from each other. I found nearly everyone to be very friendly, although admittedly I struggled to understand them. It was a blessing, then, when I was introduced to Pablo's English teacher, who came with us to one of the nearby river beaches where we sat and sipped maté. Maté is like herb tea and is extremely popular in many South American countries.

It was a great experience for me to spend some time in an Argentine household, but on Wednesday morning it was time for me to head off. Crossing the border into Uruguay, I arrived in a city called Paysandu. I spent the afternoon in Paysandu before my bus to the capital Montevideo, a bus which I very nearly missed. I was sat in a café trying to kill time (Paysandu is rather short on sights) when an elderly man asked me for the time. When I informed him that it was 6pm, he looked at me with a puzzled expression before walking off. Suddenly it dawned on me - Uruguay time is 1 hour ahead of Argentina, and so it was 7 not 6. Oops. I dashed to the bus station and caught the bus in the nick of time.

I arrived in Montevideo at midnight. I asked the taxi driver to head for 'Che Lagarto' hostel, which advertises itself as being "impossible not to find". Well, neither the taxi driver nor myself could find it. I found a hotel to spend the night before finally locating the hostel the next day. Shortly after checking into the hostel, I decided to cool off in my dorm room's shower. I had just made it into the bathroom when there was an angry knock at the door. Opening the door, I found myself confronted with a plump woman of about 60 yelling at me in Spanish. I didn't have the faintest idea what her problem was. She then ran out of the room. Mystified, I went to follow her, only to find that she had locked me in! I had no way of getting out. After a short while the lady returned with a member of the hostel staff, who was looking very flustered. I had assumed that the woman was a cleaner, as it is rare that you find someone of that age staying in a dorm, but no, she was a guest. She was ranting and raving at the hostel chap and gesturing to me as if she wanted me dead. Eventually it was explained to me that the woman's problem was that she did not want to share her dorm with anyone, and certainly not with a male. Her rant went on and on - she was absolutely steaming, shouting her head off and trembling with rage. I fixed the hostel guy with a gaze intended to convey "don't you dare leave me with this crazy lady in my dorm, she will have me for breakfast". He seemed to respond to this and offered me a single room for the same price. I couldn't move fast enough. This little episode was the talk of the hostel for the remainder of the day and later on I tried to find out more of what the lady had been saying. I was told that she had threatened to walk around naked if I remained in the dorm with her. A lucky escape indeed.

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Photos

Boca Juniors´club shop
(spot the Maradonas)

The Torran family
(well, some of them!)