Iguazu Falls

Hola y buenos noches from northern Argentina.  I am currently in a hostel with the great unwashed in Puerto Iguazu, on the borders between Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay.  Today I visited each of the three countries, walking across the river from Paraguay to Brazil.  In terms of sight seeing, it was very pretty, but achieved little more than allowing me to say, "yah, like, this one time, I went to Paraguay, Argentina and Brazil in the same day." (No, I haven't thought through what situation would ever require me to say that...but it sounds impressive, right?!)

After much deliberation I decided to take the bus here - I am after all travelling and not simply on holiday (those of you who keep making that mistake, take note!), but actually, it was more like first class on an airoplane, so no great hardship.  Although mildly hungover  when I boarded the bus (thank you, champagne redbulls), I soon relaxed in my fully reclining seat complete with warm blanket and pillow.  A hot meal was served soon after we left Retiro, and there were films and music throughout the journey.  I would even have had my requisite 10 hours beauty sleep were it not for the squawking newborn two seats in front (she had her ears pierced!  No wonder she was so unhapppy).

18 hours later we arrived at Puerto Iguazu, where the streets are (dogpoo-free) red mud; the 'town' (or 'city' as they more ridiculously insist on calling it) is small but maze like; and the Backstreet Boys are experiencing an unexpected revival.  There isn't a single shop or bar here that hasn't played at least three of their 'classics' since I've been here.

Yesterday I connected with nature during an all day visit to Iguacu Falls.  These are a phenomenal series of waterfalls set in a stunning national park.  The Argentinos have taken a leaf out of the Scottish Universities' book, and have a sliding entry fee according to your nationality.  While locals pay only 50 pesos to enter, foreigners have to stump up 130!  Unfortunately this didn't put off the hordes of OAPs from across the globe, who were waddling three a piece along the winding walkways and narrow stairs.  Of course, there were also the requisite Asian tourists, who would stop unannounced and gather every living member of their family together for a photo in the middle of the public walkway.  Breathing deeply, I tried to shun all human interaction and really engage with the park.  As I stood, eyes closed, arms out, embracing the smells and sounds around me, I heard a strange squeaking from the ground.  Looking down I saw a cute creature (pictured) snuffling around by my feet, entirely unphased at being so close to a human.  I have no idea what these animals are called, but as they looked warm blooded (and therefore potential carriers of rabies) I left the clearing pretty quickly, and caught up with the plodding line of tourists!



It's hard to find the words to describe just how impressive the waterfalls are, and pictures don't even come close to conveying the power and vastness of these cascades of water are (it's a shame Laura and I didn't come here for our ´waterfalls´project in Year 8; Mrs Sturman would have had to give us an 'A' then!).  My camera ran out of battery early on in my visit, but this was definitely for the best as I was able to really look at what was around me, rather than through the lens of a camera (plus my photos are crap anyway!).  The surrounding wildlife is untouched, as the path is an elevated wooden structure leading through the jungle, under, alongside, and up to the falls.  Unhindered by the health and safety restrictions that bind the UK, the safety rail sat just under my hip, which (at 100 million feet above a crashing waterfall) was a little scary (or as an American guy remarked to his companion, 'Hey Danno, I could like totally rest my dick on this thing').  The tropically coloured birds and animals pop up frequently to see what's going on, and it was a great day to spend alone.  However,  and before anyone panics that I have undergone a total personality transplant, the first thought that entered my mind when a truly stunning butterfly landed on the rail in front of me was, 'where can I get a nail varnish in that awesome shade of red?!' (obviously it was a different butterfly to the one pictured!). 

As can be expected at a waterfall, there is a large quantity of water.  Combine this with a light breeze, and occasionally, small droplets will migrate towards the humans.  Although it's Argentina, this water is completely harmless, causes no staining and actually very little long-term wetness.  However, the souvenir vendors at the park have cottoned on to the preciousness of some of their visitors, and sell waterproof ponchos (a la Disneyland or Blackpool) in an array of lurid, translucent colours.  So every so often the line of human traffic would stop immediately, bottle neck-ing around the tourists struggling into their ponchos.  As the crowds dispersed along the viewing platform, I was treated to the sight of an awesome waterfall on one side, and a line of human-sized coloured condoms on the other.

This morning I made a comment to a girl in my room that I have not worn make up, or styled my hair for three days.  "Oh yeah," she replied, "me neither.  It's really liberating and makes you look so much better."  For the record: it's not, and it doesn´t.  Not to panic though, after 23 hours on the bus tomorrow, I'll be in Rio for the weekend where I promise to brush my hair, dig out my mascara - and finally get a tan!

El Tango!

So it would be wrong to leave Buenos Aires without perfecting the art of tango.  Having seen people of all shapes, genders and ages strutting their tango-stuff in the streets of La Boca, and along Calle Florida, I was fully prepared to excel in Argentina's national dance.


As Emma, Sabrina, Melissa and I arrived at the heaving Milonga venue for our class, I was a little apprehensive about giving the Argentinos a legitimate excuse to touch me.  I had covered up accordingly.  However, once inside, the opposite was true.  As our (incredibly sexy) teacher took his (also incredibly sexy) partner by the hand, and walked us through the steps, I discovered (for the first time ever!) I could actually manage the footwork.  After several run-throughs, we were instructed to find a partner and try it for real.  As the men sprinted through our midst to grab a partner, I found myself abandoned on the edge.  When the instruction to change partner was given a second time, I again found myself alone.  Eventually a gropey, sweaty Argentino clasped me to him, but the combination of slippery hands and bad breath was too much for me.  An older man with a thick grey moustache offered me his arm, and I found myself dancing the tango.  The dancefloor was utterly packed, and (after bumping into the 100th person), I commented 'hay muchas personas acqui!' to my partner, who smiled politely.  As we swept past a table full of people, they errupted into laughter, whooping and cheering.  '¿Ellos son tus amigos?' I enquired, but he looked blank.  "No eeenglish," he responded, pointing at himself, "d'Italie".  So much for two weeks of language classes!

As the lesson drew to a close, the floor opened up to couples tango-ing the night away.  However, it was very quickly made clear to us that this was for pros only.  Sabrina and I were on the receiving end of some very dirty looks after our poor attempt to join in, and one couple actually shouted in Emma's face that she should remove herself until she had some better moves.  And a partner.
Disheartened, I headed to the bar for some drinks, and was accosted by a plump older gringo in a football shirt.  "Inglés?" he offered by way of introduction.
"Si", I replied, waving down the barman.
We then had a conversation in Spanish (check me out!) about what I did, where I was from, and why I was at a tango class.
"Porque es Buenos Aires!" I exclaimed, "necessito bailar tango!"
"Hay tres cosas importantes en Buenos Aires," he continued, "Uno - tango.  Dos - Dulce de leche.  Tres - Maradona".
I confessed to enjoying the second, but knowing little about the third - expressing a preference for David Beckham (Maradona is a famous footballer...right??).  I then remembered that BA is famous for one more thing...
"El bife!" I added, "hay muchos bifes en Argentina!"
At this (and no word of a lie), the guy looked me up and down, said something in Spanish about beef, then said (in Spanish), "Yes, you have obviously enjoyed a lot of beef in Buenos Aires!", while leaning forward and pinching a bit of fat on my stomach.  I have literally never been more speechless in my life! He followed this up, hopefully, with, "¿tienes un novio?".  Like he had any chance after that!

Saturday night again saw me outside my dancing comfort zone, as a few of us headed to Pacha, on the outskirts of the city.  Having never been to Ibiza, I was entirely unprepared for the enormity of the place - and the vast queues that fed into it.  Unperturbed (and drunk), Sabrina and Melissa swanned up to the shortest queue, where they managed to secure queue jump and free entry for 'las chicas' only...which was then remarkably extended (no idea how we did it) to include our only 'chico' as well.

Once inside, it was impossible to move a muscle, let alone throw any shapes (other than the shape of a frozen hot-dog sausage).  The only thing to do in this situation was abuse the drinks offers (who knew champagne and red bull could be so addictive...and make you feel so bad the next day!), and get the elbows out.  We clambered into a taxi (missing Will's jacket, Melissa's shoes and Sabrina) at around 5:40am, and it was well into the afternoon before I surfaced.  Perhaps I won't be doing Ibiza this summer after all...

In actual travel news, I will soon be doing some actual travelling, and leaving BA.  Details of phase one of my 44 hour bus ride to Rio will follow when I've recovered!

La Boca, Bomba y Blokes

Buenos noches from sunny Buenos Aires.  Today is 'flag day', a national holiday which we celebrated with a trip to 'La Boca' (literally 'the mouth - see photo!), the area of BA all tourists are advised to avoid at night; in the evening; early in the morning on a day ending in 'Y', and if travelling alone.  Clutching our bags tightly to our sides (with emergecy pesos and AmEx hidden in my bra) we ventured into the vibrantly decorated former port. When the Italian sailors arrived here, they used their left-over ship paints to decorate the buildings, and the bright colours remain today. 

 

The cobbled streets were lined with artists flogging their wares, tango dancers, general souvenirs and a lady selling an array of canine fashions.  The porteños LOVE their dogs (you can't go anywhere here without tripping over a dog, or side-stepping piles of crap.  It's particularly amusing watching the roller bladers complete the 'dog-shit slalom' on a Saturday), and, irrespective of how ridiculous and unhapy their dogs look, they love dressing their animals up even more.

On Monday evening Mari-Fleur, Lana and I went to watch the phenomenal 'Bomba de Tiempo' at Konex in Once.  They are an amazing drumming and vocals group, and I was blown away by how good they were.  I was so impressed that Emma and I attempted to visit them at a clandestine venue yesterday.  Sadly BA taxi drivers do not have even a 1/100th of the local knowledge of London cabbies, so after 25 minutes driving around identical, deserted streets, we gave up and went for 1/2 kilo of totally fabulous gelato instead. 

With a new found appreciation of the burka, I have taken to wearing a hoodie with hood up whenever I'm out and about, as without the flash of blonde hair, I'm just an average face in a grey sweater, and the harrassment from Argentine men plummets. 

However, here are some people who took time out of their day to shout compliments/obscenities at me: 

• A window cleaner;
• Four bin men (on four separate occassions);
• A tramp (whilst touching himself);
• A waiter in a bar, who grabbed me on the way to the toilet and showed me several pornographic photos on his phone before offering me tequila (at 3pm) and asking for a kiss (both of which I politely declined);
• A passing taxi driver (who slowed down so much that the lights changed before he got through, resulting in a cacophony of horn-tooting behind him, and even more people shouting at me);
• A man having a p**s against a wall.

The big question at the moment is 'when do I leave Buenos Aires?'.  I'm totally in love with my life here so far, but I did come to travel, rather than eat out in new places and go out drinking with new friends (basically just London with more Spanish, more sun, more dogs and less hoummus). 

The second question is: 'to fly, or to take a 24 hour bus...?'

Updates shortly!

Missing UK friends a lot, hope all is ok with everyone.  And I hope that there have been no more instances of projectile vomit-ing in public (you know who you are!).

xx

Speed-dating y empanadas

Hola chicas y chicos, que tal?  Time is really flying out here - can't believe I've been away for almost two weeks!

Friday night saw Emma, Will and I try our luck at a Spanish speed-date.  Before anyone sprints to Clapham to bring this to Andrew's attention, I should point out that this was not the normal type of speed-dating (ie with romantic intentions) but for English and Spanish speakers to have a ten minute conversation in both languages.  Aptly named 'Spanglish'.

Still unused to Argentina-time (Buenos Aires is in the same time zone as Pam Lloyd, Miranda Clayton and Becca Tree, where '8pm' means 'some time after 9ish'), Emma and I arrived early, and had the misfortune of drinking two of the world's worst cocktails while we sat alone in the deserted bar.  When the event (eventually) kicked off, it was great fun, and for the most part, I was able to make myself understood...although I think I am more proficient in sign language than Spanish!

At one point an Argentinan guy (only mildy pervy) was asking about dancing, insisting that I must go, and refusing to listen to my protests that dancing really isn't my thing.  He was adamant that all British girls are good dancers.
"No mi!" I said (again), "pero mi hermana es una bailerina muy bueno.  Possibilemente, ella tiene los skills de bailar para yo y ella?"
He considered this, and seemed satisfied that all the dancing genes went to my sister.  He then asked what sort of dancing she did.
"Todos.  Jazz, ballet, modern - y pole".
This confused him.
"Pole?" I repeated, "pole-ay?"

Still nothing.  It was time to resort to sign language.  Pulling a nail file from my bag, I balanced it in the neck of a beer bottle.
"Esta un pole" I said, pointing to it.  I then proceeded to illustrate, with my fingers, how one would go about pole dancing.  Jess - if you're reading this, I think you would be very impressed with how flexible I made you out to be.  Juan certainly was!

As the evening drew to a close, Will and I were adopted by a group of porteños, who took us out for some more conversation and beers. Amazingly, my Spanish improved in direct correlation to the number of cervezas consumed (who knew?!)  Of course, this also gave rise to another translation fail.  As we were walking between bars, Will spotted a cat lurking behind a bouffanted and heavily made-up Argentinan lady.  "Gato!" he shouted, pointing past her to the cat, "gato!".  From the speed at which her face fell, it was clear the lady had taken offence at this.
"No te gusta los gatos?" I asked her, as she scowled at Will and muttered under her breath in Spanish.  She paused momentarily, and asked me to repeat the question.
"Los gatos...?" I repeated, pointing at the cat, "no te gustaN los gatos?" (earlier conjugation error).
"Ah!" she exclaimed, her face clearing, "I think he call ME gato".
Now it was the turn of the English to be confused.
Thankfully, one of the better English speakers intervened, explaining that calling a woman 'gato' is equivalent to 'slut' or 'whore' at home.  Happily, no long-term offence was caused (she is the lady sat to my left in the photo.  FYI).



On Saturday I helped Claire make empanadas for her leaving party, and they were so good that I'm pretty sure I can now officially call myself a porteño (or porteña...?)  They are not dissimilar to Cornish pasties, with much lighter pastry and smaller in size - as modelled on the right by James y Emma.


Chau! x

___________________________________________________________________________

BJ's top Spanish tips # 1: 

El Gato. 
 

 

 

Not to be confused with la gato.  



           

As the sun comes out...so do the perverts!

FINALLY we are having glorious sunshine here in BA!  The temperature is still nowhere near the tropical climes I was hoping for, but I can at least now leave my hoodie at home.  The unfortunate downside of the sun luring masses of Argentinans into the streets is that my daily harrassment quota from men has increased ten-fold.  It's the one time I'm glad my Spanish is limited, as I would probably rather not know what the assorted taxi drivers/street cleaners/random passers-by are shouting at me.  'Amor' I can work out.  'Guappa' I have been reliably informed is complementary.  I was somewhat confused as to why many men have been shouting 'Arriba' at me.  Quizzing my Spanish teacher in class this morning, she was momentarily perplexed, before exclaimaing, "ah, rubia, si.  No es 'arriba' - rubia'.  'Rubia' means blonde - as in 'to have blonde hair' rather than the more derogatory UK usage of 'blonde' as a noun (as per my Dad when I have locked my car keys inside the car.  Again.)  So men have literally been shouting "you have blonde hair" at me in the street.  Their imagination knows no bounds!

Despite being conservatively dressed (my total packing fail with regards the weather means I have had to layer up my clothes, and consequently almost every item I own is now in the laundrette...I had to make do with leggings and a long top) my walk to school this morning was particularly fraught with catcalls, wolfwhistles (and any other animal alliterations you can think of).  One particularly fat and greasy hombre (resplendent with handlebar moustache...I swear all he was missing was the sombrero!) actually turned back to continue our ´conversation´.  In my haste to cross to the other side of the road, I (unknowling) stood on the back of my own sandal, then as I moved to swerve him, I ripped out the toe post of the left shoe.  Already late, and halfway there, I had to continue my journey in a bizarre half limp/half shuffle.  On the plus side, walking in this manner reduced the number of obscene (or rather blatantly obvious) comments shouted at me by at least half!

My Spanish is coming along ok, and I have signed up for another week of lessons, to consolidate this week's efforts.  Being in school all day, however, means I have no cultural news to report.  In alcohol news...English Emma (all about the alliterations today!) and I went for a vino tinto in BA's poshest cocktail bar on Monday, which was most enjoyable.  The experience was tarnished only by the small joke played on us by the staff.  Without a phone, I am relying on the old school method of arranging plans, namely 'I´ll be in this place, at this time'.  The place was 'Milion', the time was 8pm.  I was early, and as I went to the bar, I mentioned to the doorman that 'una amiga inglesa' was on her way.  I then set up position at the bar, ordered a bottle of malbec, and waited.  When Emma arrived at 8:05pm, she also said to the doorman she was waiting for 'una amiga inglesa y rubia'...but was shown to the opposite end of the darkly lit bar.  Much to the hilarity of the bartender, it was 45 minutes, 3/4 of a bottle of wine, and a trip to the toilet later that I passed the table where Emma was sat alone, before we both realised neither of us had been stood up.  Brilliant.

Hasta luega amigos.