Argentina 16/12/2009 to 30/12/2009.

Buenos Aries

If only we had deciphered the transport omen of doom on our flight into BA. Sitting next to a (Canadian) gentleman who would not shut his face hole. He spoke French too, so there was no escape. V and I buried our faces in our books. I was reading Homer’s The Iliad, when really it should have been The Odyssey. Or perhaps Dante would have been more appropriate.

Next it was into a taxi. Not going to go on about driving but Argentina is like Peru….on steroids. Cars are faster, more powerful and some still have those gas canisters in the boot if you are not already scared enough…..

Steve Irwin would be filling his jocks.

We had reserved an hotel in the bustling microcentro to be close to the action. In Argentina they eat later than a Roy Keane tackle so off we toddled to a classic BA restaurant at 9.30pm. Not a soul there. By the time we finished at 11.30pm it was rammed. The old waiters treated you like grandchildren, recommending which plates to have. It was so convivial; like eating at a great uncle’s. Oh and delicious food. 1-0 to the GdR in Argentina.

Next day it was grids to the launderette and an attempt to reserve some flights south to see some whales and glaciers. No luck on the transport front once more. It appears that unlike its A-Team namesake, BA hogs all the flights. Everything comes through here and there was not a connecting plane to be had. It seems Argentineans head home at Christmas too.

Not being able to see our families at Christmas, we tried to track down a post office to send some presents back. It had moved as the main building was under renovation and on locating the temporary office (after about an hour) we were told that we could only send parcels of a maximum of 2kg at a time. So off to the ‘International’ post office at the other side of town with all of our stuff.

The post office is not in the Notting Hill area of BA and when cutting through the crowd I felt the zip on my rucksack being opened. I turned in time to prevent the miscreant taking V’s camera and my laptop. Fortunately I had left my passport in the hotel.

At the post office a sour-faced female Jabba the Hutt informed us that we needed a passport to send items out of Argentina………….

Plan B was to DHL the gifts, as the Argentine mail service has a reputation more chequered than Diego Maradonna.

The only items that we could not send were the Peruvian chocolates (French regulations), so we gave some to the girl at DHL and the rest we kept for us. A partial success.

Following our jaunt into the blue collar area of Retiro (where the post office lurks) we toured Palermo, the most chic region of BA.

Subsequent to the crash of the Argentine economy in 2003, the middle class were decimated. Some are still living in poverty and for those who were struggling before, the situation became very Portsmouth football club. The government is squeezing the more fortunate with some controversial policies to aid the lower classes. This was explained in a very different way to the text in my guide by Claudio and Viviana (see later), who are obviously on the receiving (or is it giving?) end of Mrs Kirchner’s methods.

Feeling suitably bourgeois, we ate in the best restaurant on the quay, slurping fine wine while the well-heeled looked down over their noses at our shabby attire. Fortunately there were Americans there, so we were not the worst dressed.

The next day it was an early rise resplendent with hangover for the fast ferry to Uruguay.

Prior to our scintillating food on the dockside the night before we had reserved tickets to travel across the River Plate (In Spanish it means the silver river – it is indeed greyish – but the English translator must have had a schedule to meet).

V was not amused to discover that our reservation had been deleted. A bit of arguing with Mullet 1 at the cash desk and we were prompted to Mullet 2 (more helpful) to redo our reservation. Then it was back to Mullet 1 to pay.

Queuing. The Argentineans love standing in line. Not just straight ones but ones that have gaps across pavements to allow those not queuing to pass by and that can also turn corners and extend for 200 metres. French people do not understand the art of queuing but being a Brit I was strangely compelled to stand at the end of any I saw.

Colonia (Uruguay)

The fast ferry was comfortable and the immigration control a marvel in efficiency. This was the only transport that we took in Argentina that was flawless.

We arrived in Colonia, a quaint picture postcard colonial (no pun intended) town, wandered through the 6 museums (all about the size of a decent bedroom) and had a rubbish lunch by the riverside.

Dinner in BA the previous night had been V’s choice, prompted by the Guide de Routard. Lonely Planet (my guide) wins on info, Guide de Routard on culinary matters.

From now on we’ll put an LP (for Lonely Planet) and a GdR (for the Guide de Routard) after every restaurant and keep score.

An example of the Lonely Planet’s thoroughness is that they mention an industrial town by the name of Fray Bentos, a 4 hour bus ride from Colonia. For those not familiar with this most British of brands, Fray Bentos manufactured meat pies in Frisbee shaped tins and kept students alive for their first months away from home. Being too far away to get there and back in a day we did not manage to see if there was a monument to Chris Williams inside the (now defunct) factory.

That evening we took in a spellbinding tango show. Another discovery was Dave Montgomery’s splendid singing voice (see the photos).

Iguazu

In a downpour we took a taxi to the airport to catch a flight north to the border town of Puerto Iguazu. Being Europeans we arrive in airports early and we walked into carnage. Orderly queues everywhere but it had taken so long to check-in for some, they had missed their flight. A flight cancellation also knocked us back to the following flight. No apologies, no voucher for a sandwich but we were thankful that we would be moving at least.

The bad weather continued and we finally left 3 hours later than scheduled.

We recovered our sodden bags from the carousel in Puerto Iguazu. They had been sitting in the torrential rain for 5 hours or so. In the hotel it was everything out, air conditioning on and our room transformed to a Chinese laundry.

At the airport we had taken an official taxi. It was twice the price from my guide. It seems inflation is hammering Argentina with the real rate far above the official one of 9%. From when my guide book was written (middle of 2008) prices for the tourist attractions, guides and tours have all doubled.

Only the entry into the national park, AR$60 instead of an indicated $AR40 was below this.

The falls are on the border of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay and are mesmerising in their size, noise and beauty.  At lunchtime we took a fast RIB and due to us only being a few, the helmsman made sure we were well dunked under the torrents.

The name of the RIB (Rigid Inflatable Boat)? Espiritu Santo. It was just like its (almost) namesake FPSO except that it actually worked.

At the end of the day we were rowed down the river in a boat. All very relaxing.

The wildlife was abundant. We saw Coutis (Raccoon type creatures), monkeys, many wild birds (including Toucans), tiger ants (about 3cm long), yellow ants that defend their host tree from insect invaders, snakes, lizards and alligators. Butterflies are everywhere and they land on you to hoover moisture from your skin. A strange sensation.

Back in Puerto Iguazu we broke our unwritten rule of not eating Italian food when not in France or Italy. Argentina has a strong Italian heritage and the pasta was fabulous. V had gnocchi which is served on the 29^th of the month in most restaurants. In the past, the reason for this was that it was subsidised by the government and served at the end of the month – why is there always a lot of month left at the end of the money?

Gnocchis is also the less affectionate name for members of the Argentine Civil Service. They do very little but are guaranteed something at the end of the 4^th week. 

The following day we revisited the falls from the Brazilian side. It was an idea that many others had as we saw some familiar faces from the previous day.

We made a trivial error with the immigration, checking out of Argentina but not into Brazil. Erroneously stopping at the Brazilian immigration on the way back there was consternation and calling of station chiefs. V’s fine Portuguese apologies (and blonde hair) worked wonders and we were let off with a wag of the finger and ‘do better next time’. 

Food was good in a restaurant that struggled with the service of so many patrons so much so that families complained vociferously or walked away without eating at all.

I replaced my Havaianas as my feet were torn to pieces by the muck I had bought out of necessity in Mexico. I still wonder how a Brazilian product can be cheaper in Argentina than in the country of manufacture. Similarly, in Mexico, Perrier is cheaper than in Nice. Discuss.

Mullets

Note that a mullet is a hair style and not a place.

Argentina is the country of the mullet (as well as the queue). This was not acceptable in Maradonna’s heyday in 1986. Unlike fine claret, the mullet does not age well and 23 years have not made ambrosia from vinegar. Still there are many impressive examples to spot; the twist (pony-tailed); the Michael Bolton; the Pat Sharpe; the Bono; the Peter Grant. It defies generations, sexes and social boundaries. V’s sister and brother in law, Caroline and Fabrice (both hairdressers) could do some meaningful work here. They would have queues around the block for their services. Literally.

We have tried on our journey to bring you the documentary evidence of the finest examples of mulletry. Argentina is unparalleled. It is uplifting to see this fine tradition of appalling (appealing, if you are German) hairstyle alive and well throughout the world.

San Ignacio

The bus was stopped in traffic for 3 hours (on top of its scheduled 6) due to a strike by disgruntled locals. They blocked the road and refused to let any vehicles pass until someone in power came to speak to them. To compound our misery a teenage baw-bag insisted on playing snippets of his repertoire of Spanish power ballads on his mobile phone. I spoke to him (in English), another woman had a calm word before V threatened him with me taking the phone off of him and either inserting it in him or ejecting him/ it from the bus. He had told the lady who spoke to him after I had that his earphones were not working. Miraculously they appeared to be functioning again after a threat of a Nokia/rectal interface.

We therefore had only one hour to explore the ruins of the Jesuit Mission in San Ignacio. If ever there was need to show religion having a positive effect, this is it. Unfortunately, the government of the time (and the Vatican) suppressed the Jesuits and the missions faltered. For a good cry rent the DVD The Mission with Jeremy Irons and Robert de Niro.

We raced with all our gear to the tourist office to attempt to catch a bus to anywhere. Cordoba was the only option and there were 2 seats available on a bus at 8.00pm. The chap in the tourist office was very helpful, even offering to phone ahead to book our accommodation. V gave our ad(mission) tickets to a grungy French couple (Swampy and Marsha) as they granted access to the nighttime light and sound show

We were waiting at the side of the road for our transport as there is no bus station in San Ignacio (contrary to what the LP says). A chap asked where we were going and with which company. He told us we would have to walk another 2km (we had already transported our bags weighing the same as a standard American lunch about 1.5km from the Mission) to the petrol station at the top of the hill to flag down the bus we were to take. It was 7.55pm so we grabbed the same taxi that picked us up when we arrived earlier that evening and he took us, his wife and his daughter (who were still there from before) up to the Esso garage.

There we waited for 3 hours, flashing our torches and waving like castaways who have spotted a passing ship at any bus that came our way. Just before we were about to head back into town to try and find somewhere to sleep the night, the correct bus pulled over.

With champagne and a hot meal we settled down in our reclining seat/beds to watch a film.

Cordoba

We arrived in Argentina’s 2^nd city in the middle of the afternoon. The hotel was under renovation and the room the temperature of the sun.

It started to rain. The same torrential rain that Singapore and Malaysia have. Except that it did not stop. It flowed over kerbs and cut power to blocks of the city. I was scared to lose one of my new flip flops in an Igauzu-style white water drain. We were on our way to a recommended restaurant and we stopped for a beer out of the downpour. The rain was mesmerising and we decided to eat where we were before the power disappeared from this part of the city.

After the deluge the air sizzled with an electrical storm. Lightning flashed behind and between dark clouds. An incredible sight. Even more spellbinding was that there was no accompanying soundtrack.

Next day was Christmas Eve and laundry day. It was also a day of trying to hire a car or book a bus and reserve a restaurant for the night.

With not a car to be had we managed to get a place on a bus on Christmas day to La Rioja. The lad in the hotel also managed to book a restaurant for us for the night. All beyond the call of duty, so we gave him one of our bottles of wine we had picked up in the supermarket earlier. We had bought a contingency picnic for Christmas Day.

Dressed in our Sunday best we ate well at the restaurant (even though they overcooked V’s meat - normal for South American countries), stepping outside to watch the fireworks. There were police on every corner. I guess that they were there for overtime to pay Santa as the streets were silent.

Like an SBM FPSO it could have all been perfect, but it was just a little flawed in places. Over Christmas you need to plan or else you are stuffed more than the turkey.

We watched the fireworks from our hotel balcony. Two great free shows on successive nights.

On Christmas day after speaking to my younger brother on Skype we ate our picnic in the square in the centre of the city. Hardly a soul. Only homeless people, dogs and us.

It was time to take the bus and our luck had not changed. With the brake locked on one of the wheels, it smoked like Yul Brimmer on the highway. The bus pulled into a little mechanic’s place in a tiny town/ settlement and the fella performed some percussive maintenance beneath the stricken behemoth. For once we were lucky.

A girl on the bus was returning home and when waiting for the mechanic to work his magic, she reserved a place for us in La Rioja. Bless her cotton socks.

La Rioja

Next morning was spent trying to track down a car rental place mentioned in the GdR. It did not exist. The ones that did were closed. We found one called Winner and we hired a Chevrolet Corsa but with a boot. The one advantage being we could put both our bags in it. American car companies deserve to go bust for creating things like this.

With the morning gone we drove to the geological park. The roads are arrow straight going on until melting into the horizon like mercury in the heat haze. It was 38°C outside and we passed a cyclist, replete with panniers toiling along the burnt tarmac.

Not my idea of a good holiday.

In both directions we passed only a handful of other motorists but plenty of goats (the 4 legged kind, not the cyclist), horses, cows and sheep.

Occasionally a road runner would dash from the bush scrambling across the road in front of the car. The cartoon Road Runner must be the only one with a sense of self preservation. The rest are suicidal.

Parque Nacional Talampaya

It was only V and I on our private tour. Even though the sand burned my flip flop shod feet (it was 43°C in the park) I could not help be impressed by the rock formations, early nomadic inscriptions and 150m sandstone cliffs. See V’s photos.

My Uncles Frank and Graham (geologists) would love this place. Lucy Capeling, too.

San Agustin de la valley fertil

On our way to our hotel for the night we passed the same cyclist on the road. He must have covered over 100km that day, and he still had 14 to go before he made it to a town. All in 40°C. He was not going to be happy with the comical undulating road where the river (when it rains) runs over the asphalt. Once installed in the hotel we took some olives and a bottle of wine to the swimming pool. There we met two couples; one Argentine – Claudio and Viviana. We chatted as Viviana had spent some time working in Paris, and Claudio had been everywhere. After the bottle and a wash we met them again for some dinner in town.

Parque Provincial Ischigualasto

Next day we headed back along the rollercoaster road (no sign of a cyclist so I hope he made it) we traversed the day before to the park of Ischigualasto. A little less eco friendly, we toured the site in our cars (4 of them) with the guide hitching a ride with Claudio and Viviana. Our host explained how 250million years ago the sedimentary layers (and the oldest dinosaur on record) were displaced through tectonic action, tipped over like a sliced loaf of bread (explaining the angle of repose) and uncovered numerous fossils.

Enough to leave geologists and palaeontologists reaching for the special sock.

The double acts of wind and water erosion had again created some dazzling effects and V’s photos are worth a view.

For the drillers out there, there were hills of bentonite, that white stuff that you put down the well to increase the specific gravity of the mud. No? That stuff you once tried to eat and you were very ill and couldn’t eat your jelly and ice cream and the OIM was very annoyed and took your crayons and colouring-in books off of you for a week.  

Our car had a semi flat tyre to add to the blowing exhaust (on inspection on the ramp later it was found only to be the coupling between the front silencer and the rear box that had loosened). 108000 km. Heap of dung and a fortune to rent. The car in Cuba and most of our buses were a better ride.

It made it back to La Rioja where V gave the owner some chew, only to be met by a smile.

We had time to grab some dinner and a beer in the main square and watch the boy racers do their laps before grabbing an overnight bus to Mendoza.

Mendoza

This was the bus of Satan. Although V had explicitly requested seats on the top deck we were folded in to the bottom at the back next to the engine. In fact, it felt like being in an engineroom on a ship. The thump thump of the diesel behind us and the temperature of 35°C. Our seat numbers had been written in (drillers’) crayon on the bulkhead above us leading us to believe that an extra row had been crammed in as a very poor afterthought. The seat of the guy in front of V was broken so when it reclined, it landed on her lap.

I asked the co-driver to up the output of the air conditioning but as the system was not balanced properly those upstairs turned to ice. One hour of kip and I was awoken when we were stopped once more with an unknown problem at the side of the road. We arrived at 8.00am in Mendoza. In pieces.

After paying the sweaty man who removes the baggage from the hold of the bus a couple of dollars we grabbed a taxi that was coke can thin. I prayed that we did not hit anything, and if we did then it to be another taxi.

I later read of the legend of ‘Gauchito’ Gil, a Robin Hood-like character from the 19^th Century who was eventually captured and killed by the army. Before his grisly death at the hands of the law - he was hang upside down from a tree and beheaded - he informed the executioner that his son was ill if his body was buried – uncommon for a renegade – the boy would recover. On returning to his home the hangman discovered that his son was indeed gravely ill, fetched the body and buried it. The lad recovered immediately. So there are makeshift shrines to Gil along Argentina’s roads that passing cars should honk their horns to or else face interminable delay or sometimes not at all…….

As I said, I found out about this later.

Or perhaps it was when the black cat stood on a cracked pavement while walking under a stepladder and caused a mirror to crack.

The GdR had recommended a small hotel and we checked in with the most exuberant and friendly woman in South America. The room was not ready, so no shower, no doze but we could drop our bags.

A quick coffee in a café and we embarked on a mission to a wine tour in nearby Maipu.

An old chap at the bus stop directed us to where we could buy our chip card for the bus and to where we could hire transport (bikes) in Maipu. The amateurs are more friendly and helpful than the organised tour operators. La Rioja and Cordoba take note

Maipu

Vineyard heaven, with olive trees growing alongside. We picked up some hire bikes and helmets (safety first). This is more than what some motorcyclists wear in Argentina.

Claudio had explained that the law differs from region to region. In La Rioja we saw father, mother, daughter and baby on a moped; all of them without helmets. They were at least wearing their safety flip-flops.

V convinced the reluctant tourguide in the museum to do just that; guide us on a tour. We then sampled some wine before moving on to taste chocolate and liqueurs. One being absinthe. My Lord.

Back on the bike we cycled the 9km to a little French run vineyard, sobering up en route.  The two owners restarted it - it was a defunct vineyard - in 2003. A small operation, it produces only 100,000 litres per year. Pifling compared to the quantity the other vineyards pump out. We invested in a bottle after some (paid for) tasting, as we had decided to give a gift of a bottle of wine to my family in New Zealand from the previous country we had visited.

A tradition that we plan to continue.

Another French couple with us bought a 2004 bottle (the first vintage from the vineyard) for Ar$500 (about 100 euros). Am not sure I would ever spend 100 bucks on booze, unless it was an ample amount of Guinness. Saying that, I have blown more on a bottle of vodka in a Monaco Club, but by then I could hardly speak.

One of the vineyard owners is an electrical engineer. It therefore seemed more strange to me that the winery was using neither solar or wind power.

He explained that there were infrastructure problems (storage and cooling capacity) so it would make sense to harness the available natural resources. In Mendoza they already do, with glacial meltwater being used to artificially irrigate the vines. All very different from France where nature is left to its own devices.

This stream diverted through the warehouse would provide adequate cooling. His wine is very good so perhaps he made the better career decision.

It was then back on the bike to another vineyard, again small but this time much cheaper.

Following our last wine stop we ate excellent lasagne (GdR), thoroughly smashing our Italian food abroad rule. We only drank water with our food. No wine was necessary.

On returning our hired bikes we had a chat with the owner’s kids about their currency collections. They coaxed a Brazilian Riais and 25 Cuban cents out of me. I think it will be hard to trump the latter.

On the return to our hotel we finally had a shower, soaking our aching cheeks. When you haven’t cycled for a long time, it hurts. Sorer than Macauley Culkin’s after a visit to Neverland. The bikes were the most successful and least painful transport we had in Argentina.

Refreshed, we ventured out to a specialty wine and cheese tasting restaurant (LP). Excellent stuff then off to bed.

Bueonos Aries (again)

In Mendoza, we had mulled (see what I did there?) over whether we should take a good hotel and simple food or vise versa when we returned to BA. In our normal fashion we had not reserved an hotel and the Costa Rica was full. Helpfully, they arranged a room for us in the hotel Magnolia in the adjacent street. With a little negotiation on the price (go V) that Carwin would be proud of, we were installed for welcome wine and canapés.

Learning our lesson we organised our hotels in Tahiti via the web.

As we had chosen a boutique hotel we ate in fair priced restaurant, Don Julio. Still, the food and service were superb. Less so were the manners of the lady in the restaurant. They are strange the BA’s. They’ll queue like it was a soup kitchen but if you are discussing with a receptionist, maitre’d or the pope, they’ll butt in. This was what occurred when we were putting our names down for a table. A blonde, highly stressed woman had been standing like rigidly outside but had not addressed herself to the maitre’d. When she saw us do so, she jumped over our shoulders to put her name before ours.

Originally we were seated outside, but being a little chilly for V we were relocated inside by the friendly waiter. We also signed the bottle of wine we enjoyed (from the little French vineyard where we were in Maipu) and it was placed with the others on display.

Next morning with a great breakfast in us we took a pre-booked taxi to the airport. It was just like the French movie of the same name.  

If you ever have constipation I would recommend an Argentinean taxi ride.

So there we were 2 hours before our flight. Or so we thought. We had not verified our departure flight and it had moved to one hour earlier.

Thank you, Fangio.

For all its good food, we ate some substandard offerings in Argentina. Transport scuppered us. We lost about 3 days with strikes, broken down buses and just trying to get anywhere. It blunted the experience. I am sure and hope (for Argentineans and tourists alike) that it was just due to the Christmas period.

Socially, there is a large split between the middle and the working classes in Argentina. This was evident in BA more than anywhere else and through discussing with Claudio and Viviana. Why should those with, pay for those who have not? Why should there be those who are poor? I don’t mean this in the terms of the ‘disappeared’ but more in the way Norway operates. There are those who would be on the street with nothing earning a good living in Scandinavia. Mostly as Project Managers.

It will be interesting to see how Kirchner (Mrs) copes with this growing discord in the richer parts of the country.

To see how the country progresses under its present leadership and to experience it in winter - skiing in the Andes, whale watching, glaciers calving into the ocean – would necessitate a return to this vast and fascinating country. Hopefully next year.