Don't cry for me Argentina...

And so it was, after 5 months in Brazil, my stay had come to an end and my the final stop in South America, Buenos Aires, was looming. On the 20 hour coach journey from Foz I had a lot of time to reflect on my time in Brazil. Flicking through my photos on my camera, I kept thinking about my achievements to date - picking up three different jobs (construction work, receptionist and marketing, and a tour guide writer) in Rio, making numerous local and international friends, parading in the Carnival and learning Portuguese to name but a few. Though I arrived in Foz somewhat disappointed with my level of Portuguese, I had managed to hold a conversation with Rodrigo's aunt and uncle, who spoke no English at all, for half an hour without needing assistance, and knew I could leave proud of my accomplishments.

The coach ride was surprisingly decent, considering its minuscule cost - the seats were spacious and fully reclineable, there was no erratic South American driving, the air conditioning worked and we were even given champagne with our evening meal. Walking around the prayer circle that had formed by the passengers, trying not to interrupt the spontaneous sermon that had taken place (presumably in thanks to have been delivered alive and safe against all odds at our destination) I took a breath of the thick morning city air and set about finding accommodation. Giuliana had previously been living in Buenos Aires and so had hooked me up with a hostel, Kilka, to stay in in San Telmo with a friend and seemed like a good place to start.

The famous San Telmo Markets

San Telmo is considered the bohemian suburb of the city, though having lived in Santa Teresa, Rio's equivalent, I couldn't help feel it didn't match the standard I had been used to. This was in part due to the city's grid system, which, though practical, took a lot of soul out of the disorder that South America usually brings so much charm to. Previously so accustomed to the heat and vibrant colours of Brazil, the cold, grey streets felt all too similar to London at the end of winter as the overcast skies began to open with a downpour that was to last for several days. Having found my room I was feeling uncharacteristically down about leaving my last destination and crashed straight to bed, barely giving the quaintly quirky hostel or its intriguing group of eclectic guests a chance to charm me. Wallowing in self-pity is far from a usual personality trait of mine, however, and soon I was making friends, swapping travel stories and getting to know the best way to have fun in the city for my short stay. That night we went to a local outdoor performance to see La Bomba de Tiempo (Time Bomb) who were local artists playing a live percussion set and started to pick up the unique Buenos Aires vibe. I struggled with the desire to compare the music with the incredible carnival baterias of Rio, and finally resisted, taking it for what it was - a wonderful evening out with energetic, talented performers with a great crowd from Kilka.

Bomba de Tiempo

Everyone at the hostel seemed to have incredible culinary prowess and people would come together to share meals in the evenings, from stuffed peppers with risotto to fresh salads and fish dishes, all accompanied with generous pours of beer. Keen to contribute, I went to the local supermarket 'Disco' (my favourite shop name in the city) by apt chance wearing my 'To the Disco' t-shirt, then the local grocery and bought some ingredients, followed by 4kgs of beef spine from the butcher down the street. Though I'd never cooked with this before, I soon had a gargantuan pot of aromatic bubbling beef soup (with shallots, potatoes, sweetcorn, carrots, celery, herbs, spices, and the secret ingredient - a bottle of Argentinian wine) and everyone sitting round the living room table slurping and drinking gave a great homely feeling this foreign land.

Two days were spent on walking tours around the city, soaking in some of the culture, history and sights of Buenos Aires with local guides. One striking thing about the capital is that it is so visually distinct from many other South American countries, particularly in terms of architecture. Many nations have clearly been influenced by colonial designs, but none in quite the same way as the Argentines. Brazil being the only nation on the continent involved in the Second World War, Argentina was able to capitalise by sending supplies to Europe, making vast sums of money, enough to afford to fill their would-be empty returning vessels with all the valuables they desired. This chiefly consisted of entire Parisian buildings, packed stone by stone, brick by brick, so many classic French and Italian buildings were sent across the Atlantic that in many areas of the city it is easy to think you are actually in the French capital. There also is a distinct disdain felt by other nations on the continent that Argentines are stuck up, thinking themselves as Europeans and therefore better than anyone else... which many Argentines shamelessly agree with.

Buenos Aires or Paris?

This pseudo-European nation is, however, more distinct from its colonial nations in appearance than it would be proud to admit, for there are far more areas full of smashed paving slabs, piles of rubble and huge heaps of litter that shelter thousands of homeless people across the capital than there are these lavish buildings. Amid the parts of society that have all too good a life, one that is obsessed with fashion and figures (100 breast implant operations are completed in this city everyday - more than anywhere else in the world), the other includes the thousands that rally in the 40 - 50 weekly protests near the Constitution Hall, people banging drums, blowing horns, waving flags and writing political graffiti as they protest about working rights, pay and government legislation.

Since the military junta ended in the early 80s, Argentina became a democracy, though the country is still clearly finding its feet in this regard, having no less than 5 different presidents between December 2001 and January 2002 as just one example, and of course, political corruption is still desperately rife. The populous are also passionate about using their rights to protest since the severely oppressive regime of the junta fell. During the late 70s and early 80s, congregating in the street in groups of more than 3 was an arrestable offense, as was being suspected of revolutionary thinking - arrests that saw the 'disappearance' of 30,000 of residents - men, women and children, almost all of whom were likely to have been murdered by the state. The mothers of the lost children are still campaigning for the people in their 20s and 30s to get DNA testing as many children who were due to be executed were secretly adopted by their captors - controversially, over 100 children have discovered that, not only were they adopted, but their supposed parents had probably been directly, or at least indirectly been involved in the murder of their biological parents.

On the tour, we went on to visit the Big Ben style clock in the city - a gift from the old British rail workers - and the Falklands... sorry, ahem, the Malvinas war memorial directly opposite, commemorating nearly 700 Argentinian soldiers that fell in the war. They say they built it in front of the clock so they could 'keep an eye on us'... The antithesis to this sorry affair however, is that the war greatly expediated the fall of the repressive junta which liberated the nation from tyranny and feel less guilty about quietly humming Land of Hope and Glory at the monument. Perhaps if they weren't still so touchy about it I may not be so conceited...

The British Clock Tower - modelled on Big Ben

Don't mention the war...

The 16th of April was my last night in South America and I wanted to do it in true Argentinian style. I called Amanda, the first person who met me at Casa 579 and showed me the ropes of the guest house before moving from Rio back to her home city to study, and arranged to meet. It happened to be her mother's birthday, so 8 - 11pm consisted of eating and drinking with Amanda, her mother and a dozen of her friends, all drinking wine and all speaking very fast Spanish all at once. My abilities in Portuguese meant I was able to understand some of what they said (there is a significant overlap between the two languages) though still managed to cause some laughs as I struggled with the differences - 'Thank you' in Portuguese is 'Obrigado' and in Spanish is 'Gracias', and my accidental amalgamation would embarrassingly conjure 'Obri-gracias'. Fluent 'Portaniol', I've been assured.

Amanda's friend Maria was meant to meet us so we could leave for midnight (like the Spanish, the Argentines start nights out late), but though the international female phrase, 'I'll be ready in 5 minutes' always tells the seasoned male that pigs will sooner fly than 5 minutes being accurate, one cannot be prepared for the habbits of Argentine women. At 2am and another assurance of 'just 5 more minutes', my forehead was reddening from the banging of it on a wall. At just after 3am, when we finally left, I was told things are still just getting started at local bars and clubs, followed by Amanda's wonderful insight of local female time keeping, "If we're only an hour late then we're on time - three hours late is pushing it a little". Classic Latin America! As much as I jest about their time keeping, Amanda and Maria were great fun to go out with. We drank great wines and beers in local bars, made new friends and partied well past sunrise, all in time to have breakfast, send Amanda home to sleep and for me to go to the airport for my midday flight (which I was sure to sleep through, running on fumes for the rest of the morning)

Amanda, random Argentine & Lionel drinking some good old Malbec

Queuing for the Quantus flight on my next stop to Perth, the reality stepped in that the continent's Latin beauty had all but slipped away amongst the hubbub of the overwhelmingly thick Aussie accents of the sunset holiday makers and the 'Socceroos' football squad on the plane. My head started to throb for more reasons than just my hangover. As much as I initially doubted I would ever return, the vibrancy of the city did end up captivating me. During my short stay there was not enough time for a tango show or to enjoy nearly enough prime-cut steaks, but I certainly have a reason to go back. Though Argentina didn't quite win my heart as much as Brazil, it is still a fantastic South American capital that was a wonderful stop on my world tour.

Adventures in Foz

A quick precursor to this next blog post – though my current location is India, I realise that I am quite far behind with my write ups, in part due to having far too much fun with far too little internet in Asia. I now have more time to catch up and hope to have everything mostly up to date before I return home…

Sunday the 4th of April was shaping up to be a rather surreal day. Having urgently whisked myself away from 10 days of silence and existentialism in the Brazilian countryside, hurrying to make a flight, I was hit with the full force and mayhem of Rio International Airport. This shock to the system was joined by excitement, but also anxiety, for I would arrive to a foreign city - Foz Iguacu on the Southern Brazilian border next to Argentina and Paraguay, with no place to stay, no idea of where to go or what to do.

Upon arrival at 6pm, intending to seek out a tourist information point, the airport was all but abandoned. The one shop that was open that seemed to offer accommodation options - perfect. Alas, it was not meant to be... it had failed to occur to me that it was the Easter holidays and every single hotel, hostel and guest house in the whole city was, without exception, fully booked. I had one remaining option. Gabriel, my room mate at the Vipassana course, whom I spoke with for all of 15 minutes at the end of our Nobel Silence on the last day, mentioned he had a cousin, Rodrigo, living in the area who I might be able to go for a beer with or possibly stay over. He said he would try and call him when he got home, which would have given him about an hours warning, if he had called at all. Very tenuous indeed. Phone boxes don't take cash, only cards, and now all shops were closed at the airport. It was beg, borrow or steal time - my newly acquired phone rang... and as if blessed by my new accumulation of Karma, Rodrigo answered the phone and was more than happy for me to stay with him in Foz. Belesa!

Rodrigo turns out to be a dentist working for his uncle, Gabriel’s father, in the city and appears to be the friendliest person residing in it. “So, you must be starving – what do you want for dinner?” asked my new host. Nearly a fortnight of vegetarian food prompts the simple answer, “Meat. A lot of meat”, and it turns out he knew just the place. After a four minute drive from his house I was asked for my passport – we had already arrived at the Argentinean border and were barely another five minutes from a top Argentinean steak house. Two gargantuan slabs of incredibly tender chorizo steak later, all set to a background of life classical flamenco music, the sudden return to reality and the unexpected entrance into Argentina had left me exhausted, but ready to fight another day.

Me and Rodrigo in Argentina after our steaks...

Grateful to have the chance to practice his English and to share a cultural experience, my two day, one night trip with Rodrigo in Foz extends into a week long stay with him and his other Uncle and lodger, Rico. The Falklands is a big topic, naturally, though initially faltered by the fact that the Argentineans don’t know what The ‘Falklands’ are. The Malvinas, as they call it, is stubbornly claimed as Argentinean soil, written as such on every map (Malvinas [ARG]) and the fact that it has been owned by the British for over 180 years with a dominant British population has no relevance on things at all. At the time of my arrival, the news was full of reports that the British had found oil of the island coast and our intentions to drill was being met with the threat of an Argentinean blockade. Not the time to flex national pride considering my location and for every trip into our neighboring country, I was most definitely Canadensia (Canadian) – especially in restaurants..

And the location of Foz is excellent for Brazilians – anyone in the city is barely more than a 10 minute drive to Argentina or Paraguay, where prices are almost half that of Brazil. It was also great for my passport pride, collecting another pair of stamps every time we went to buy anything from the store. In my first few days of exploring the town, I had heard news from my friend, Giuliana (an American photographer living in Rio who, like me had been enamored by Brazil when staying at Casa579 during Carnival) had decided to come and join me and Rodrigo in Foz. The problem was in leaving Rio. The day I left, Rio suffered around 2 months worth of rain in as many days, the worst rains in 70 years. There were landslides around the city, 13 alone in Santa Teresa where I had been previously living, that killed 300 people (mostly in favelas) that stranded the entire city. I considered myself very lucky to get out when I did. While waiting for Giuliana, I visited the National Bird Park and saw hundreds of tropical birds, from bright purple and yellow macaws to bright pink flamingoes, rare and giant birds of prey to walking among hundreds of humming birds. It was a great day out, in spite of the fact I left with bleeding feet having been stalked and attacked over a 15 minute period by a crazed toucan.

The one on the left was my attacker - seeing this picture puts a shiver down my spine!

When Giuliana arrived, we finally got to see first hand why Foz Iguacu is a so highly acclaimed by travelers of South America. The waterfalls are a UNESCO heritage sight and are currently short listed as one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the World, and it is not hard to see why. As you slowly approach the falls, long before you can see them, one is already overwhelmed by the constant thundering roar as 400,000 gallons of water crash down into the river below every second. As the trees cleared during our approach, some of the 275 waterfalls, all around 250ft in height became visible. A vast cloud of spray shimmers over the falls catching the sunlight to create a myriad of vivid colours from a vast array of rainbows that sit in front of the rich greens of the forest in the distance.  After several minutes of stunned silence, we realised our mouths had been left hanging open for quite some time. This impossible place is literally jaw-droppingly beautiful. Following the trail down the canyon, more sights open up, revealing more and more waterfalls, big and small, until the path ends at the Garganta do Diabo – a walkway that leads out right in front of the largest of all the falls – at 280ft, the Devil’s Throat’s thunder is simply immense. Standing this platform over the middle of the river, within seconds the spray of water soaks through clothes and deafens with its titanic roar. As you turn to follow the water carrying on down stream, it travels just meters behind the walkway before cascading down more falls, deeper into the gorge and creating even more white spray - each droplet flaring into its own miniature supernova as they are caught by the setting sunlight beams through the trees on the horizon. Throughout this experience there are dozens of birds of prey circling above and hundreds of colourful butterflies at every turn. If you are ever in South America, I cannot stress enough how worthwhile it is to visit this monumental natural beauty.

A view of some of the Cataratas (giant waterfalls) at Iguacu

Garganta do Diabo (Devil's Throat) walkway

Views of the Devil's Throat

Spray rising above the falls, courtesy of Giuliana Mackler

Rodrigo and I went on several other excursions, including meeting his aunt and uncle for lunch at their place in Foz, and in the other circumstance, in Paraguay, where they, like a number of successful south Brazilians, have a second home. This was an exciting prospect - going to Paraguay had not been a part of the original travel plan and was keen to be able to experience another South American country.  Only a ten minute drive from Rodrigo's house, we were already crossing the border. Though I had my passport ready for another stamp, it turned out that border control was often unmonitored, and to go out of the way to get documents validated would probably arouse suspicion. I was assured that if I was checked on the way back to Brazil and found to not have the required documents, then purchasing the police a 'coca cola' would suffice. Though I visited Paraguay, I cannot honestly say I had a balanced view of the country. This once war-torn nation had around 90% of its inhabitants slaughtered in 1870 during the Tri-Nation war and still feels the effects of this today, so though most of the land is impoverished, many rich Brazilians live on a giant luxury estate near the boarders. Inside were top of the range sports facilities, club houses, hundreds of huge and custom built houses - 14 year olds would drive their parents' cars to the football field, from BMWs and Mercedes to Humvees and trucks, and enjoy the weekend with their friends in Paraguay before returning back to Brazil for week day school routine.

Leaving Rodrigo and Uncle Rico for Buenos Aires, I was extremely grateful for his kindness and hospitality. Nearly all who visit Foz to see the Cataratas (the falls) and go, but I had a unique experience seeing the city and learning even more about Brazilian, Paraguayan and Argentinian culture than I ever hoped possible.

A night out at 'Too Much Pub' in Puerto Iguazu, Argentina, with Rodrigo and friends