You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Argentina’ tag.
4:50 PM, Cata Internacional Bus pulls up. I am relieved. My bus is punctual, and I am tired and a tad hungover after my last night in Buenos Aires.
5:15 PM, IPod is fully charged and set to shuffle. Despite the fact that I am sick of all of my music, I still listen for hours anyway. I don’t think much, just recline as far as the seat will go. I’m in the front seat of a two-story bus, so I have a view. It’s nice, but I have to close the curtains because the sun hurts my eyes.
7:00 PM, The bus stops. More people get on, and the seat next to me becomes occupied by an older, kind-faced gentleman. Although he has a rather large frame, he does not try to take up more than his fair share of space, and I feel grateful.
7:09 PM, My feet are cold. I’m happy with myself that I thought to put a pair of socks in my small carry-on backpack. I put the socks on and my sweatshirt, and I use my scarf as a blanket for my lap.
8:30 PM, Dinner service begins. Good thing too because I am starving. I eat the cold food first, make a sandwich out of the ham, bread, and mayo. After I eat half of an empanada, I accept the hot food that is handed to me. Opening the tin, I am kind of happy to see mashed potatoes set atop chicken milanesa, but then I watch the man next to me use his bread to make a sandwich out of his milanesa and ham, and I think I have food regret. Why didn’t I think of that?
8:50 PM, I am offered gaseosa or vino; of course, I ask for vino.
9:30 PM, Dinner is over, and I assume a movie is about to start. So used to the Argentine bus system after two months in the country, I know the routine. Dinner followed by a movie followed by lights off and a silent encouragement to sleep until morning.
9:45 PM, There is no movie, but the lights go out. I take a sleeping aid, methodically put my earplugs in my ears and secure my face mask over my eyes and pray for sleep.
9:52 PM, There is also no blanket or pillow proffered, I note with some annoyance.
3:00 AM, There’s a clock near my seat (my watch broke two weeks ago, and I never bothered to get it fixed), and I groggily lift my mask to check the time then retreat back into my dreams.
7:18 AM, I can tell it is light out and lift my face mask again to do a time check. Don’t want to miss the coffee service. Everyone around me appears to be sleeping, and I am tired still, so I resume my position.
8:21 AM, I smell coffee. I wake up and whip the sleeping mask off just in time. The old man hands me a cup of coffee and the bus employee hands me breakfast, an alfojar. The coffee is loaded with sugar, but it is hot and good.
8:28 AM, After I eat the cookie, I dig in my bag for something to supplement my breakfast and come up with almonds and raisins.
8:35 AM, The bus pulls into a parking lot just meters away from the Argentina/Chile border crossing. Caffeine hasn’t taken effect yet, so I barely understand what the driver tells us over the loadspeaker. I hear “un ratito” (a little while) and not much else. I assume that since this is peak travel season, there’s a delay at the border.
8:45 AM, Understanding that there’s nothing I can do to help get us across the border, I turn my IPod on again and place an issue of The New Yorker on my lap.
9:49 AM, Cars, buses, and trucks are piling up. No one is moving. We haven’t moved. I use the bathroom, wish there was more coffee.
10:11 AM, Bored and maybe a little hungry still, I eat the package of breadsticks that I’d saved from last night’s dinner.
10:30 AM, I don’t feel like reading, so I listen to my music and think about sex and food, though not in the same context.
10:55 AM, People are getting out of their cars and off of the bus and meandering around. I consider asking what the problem is but don’t feel like coming up with the words. I may be the only foreigner on the bus.
11:38 AM, I decide that I need to stretch my legs. Also, I think that maybe it would be cool to snap a few photos in case I decide to blog about this nightmare, er, experience.
11:56 AM, It’s hot outside, and after I take a couple of pictures, I decide that I prefer to be inside on the cramped bus where at least there is air conditioning.
12:02 PM, Before I board the bus again, though, I ask a woman standing by my bus what the problem is. The people aren’t working, she says. It’s on the news in Buenos Aires. So, it’s a strike, I think but don’t say because I do not know the Spanish word for strike. She thinks we should just go straight through, and I agree with her. Screw the damn border formalities. It’s just a stamp!
12:15 PM, Back on the bus and feeling sorry for the people in cars who may not have air-conditioning or who cannot use their A/C and take the chance of running out of gas.
12:25 PM, “Vamos,” the bus people say over and over, until we are “falta nadie” (missing nobody). And then we proceed to move about ten feet.
12:58 PM, I feel myself starting to get anxious, but what’s there to do?
1:17 PM, Lunch is served. I eat my second alfojar of the day and eat the sandwich (ham and cheese, always ham and cheese) before I can decline the gaseosa and boldly ask for vino blanco.
1:39 PM, I’m probably the only one on the bus drinking wine with lunch, but I don’t care. We’re stuck, and I think drinking wine is the only thing to do in a situation like this.
2:32 PM, I notice we are moving, but I’d been dreaming and feel like I could sleep for a million years.
4:30 PM, We’re pulling up to the border, waiting our turn in the bus line. I feel like I’ve got jet lag and am sleeping like I do. (In spite of my fog, I wonder how it took us this long to get to the border control and if we went a different way, but I don’t feel like asking.)
6:08 PM, Immigration. Relatively painless. Off the bus. Exit Argentina. Enter Chile. I exchange 100 Argentine pesos for 10,000 Chilean pesos. Realize I lost about $4 USD. Damn.
6:21 PM, I stuff my face with peanuts before my lugage goes through security. No food can be brought across the border. Sadly, I throw away half a bag of raw peanuts and think about how I really need to brush my teeth.
6:28 PM, Immigration dude reads my affirmation that I am not carrying any fruits or other forbidden items in my luggage and flirtatiously says, “Very good, Stacey.”
But I’m in no mood, and so I think to myself, sweet, so you know two words in English, and barely smile at him.
6:45 PM, “Cuanto se tarda a Valporaiso?” I ask the bus guy.
“Tres horas mas a Santiago y una hora mas a Valporaiso,” he tells me. Wonderful, I think and do the math in my head. 4.5 hours until I get to Valpo. Dinner with Denise and her sister is off, and I’m going to have to pay for a taxi to get to my hostel instead of taking the bus.
7:15 PM, We’re served a snack: another alfojar and gaseosa. I want to ask for vino but decide I don’t have the energy. I stash the alfojar for when I’m feeling desperate.
7:49 PM, Read an article in The New Yorker about Jules Kroll, the guy who reinvented corporate intelligence or something like that.
8:30 PM, Try to read another NYorker article, this one about a female architect from Baghdad, but I can’t relate and throw the magazine to the ground.
8:45 PM, The bus stops. There is road work. A man carrying a styrofoam box boards the bus and offers empanadas.
8:46 PM, I let him walk to the back of the bus. I don’t want one.
8:48 PM, I decide I want an empanada. Like, bad. Empanada guy is getting off the bus. He sold all of his empanadas before I had a chance to claim one. Oh my God! Noooo! I need that empanada!
8:52 PM, Empanada guy is back. I get him to notice me with the help of the guy sitting behind me, who can obviously tell from the expression on my face he better do what he can to help me get that empanada.
8:55 PM, For several minutes, am completely content eating my overpriced but delicious empanada.
9:15 PM, I decide to eat my third and final alfojar, setting a PR for alfojars eaten in one day. I feel fat but don’t much care. I guess I was desparate for something comforting and there’s nothing like a little dulce de leche to lift the spirits.
10:17 PM, Arrive Santiago, Chile. The bus empties except for about five people, including me and two girls who strike up conversation with me when I go to fill my water. They’re staying on the bus too, heading to Vina del Mar, about twenty minutes past Valporaiso. One is from Buenos Aires, the other from Santiago.
10:34 PM, The girls are sweet, but I’m so tired that I can barely speak my own language let alone theirs, so I excuse myself, return to my seat and wait for the bus to leave Santiago.
10:44 PM, IPod on. Listening to Radiohead, I start thinking about all of the avocadoes I’m going to eat once get to Chile. Then I think about breakfast and if I shouldn’t stop for a completo (hot-dog with everything) before I settle into the hostel.
11:00 PM, One of the bus employees takes a seat near me and begins chatting, forcing me to remove my headphones. He inquires about my accommodation in Valpo, and when I tell him that I’m worried about my reservation because the bus is so late, he lets me use his cell phone.
11:02 PM, They have my reservation. They’ll be waiting for me.
11:15 PM, Alone again, IPod goes on; I doze.
11:59 PM, I start seeing signs for Valpo. Force myself upright and awake.
12:18 PM, Bus pulls over at the side of the street. I check the seat and the floor, make sure I’ve got everything and hop off the bus. I accept the first offer I get for a cab and refuse to pay more than 4000 for the ride.
I have arrived.
And tomorrow at 7:50 AM, I am going to board another bus, and, if all goes as planned, arrive in Arica, Chile at 1 PM on Sunday, after only 29 hours of traveling. That’s got to be a walk in the park after 31.5, no?
Before
After
Turns out there are a couple of authentic Welsh villages in Argentina, and Trevelin is one of them. As far as I understand, the _only_ reason to visit Trevelin is to partake in a traditional Welsh tea service, which is just what I did.
After abstaining from sweet things for nearly a week–I know, I know, so unlike me, for I do not believe in deprivation of any kind, but after an unsuccessful attempt to climb a mountain, I had to step back and face the fact that medialunas dulces in the morning, ice-cream after almuerzo and an alfojar following dinner wasn’t going to get me through the 5-day “W” circuit of Torres del Paine–I was looking forward to an afternoon where tarts, pastries, pies, and cookies played the main role.
Anyway, fully ready to indulge, I sat down at about 4:30 in the afternoon and prepared to give in to my sweet tooth, which I inherited from my dad.
As you can see from the pictures, I mastered the Welsh tea service, and although I turned down second helpings of the sweets, I drank two whole pots of tea and was properly sated for the overnight bus that followed.
It must have been the three overnight bus rides and the twelve hour all-day Bolivian bus ride that led me into the Puerto Iguazu spa requesting a massage. Frankly, my body hurt so badly that I didn’t care how much it cost.
While I generally don’t do a great deal of walking with my big backpack, which now puts up a fight every time I go to zip it up and move on to the next destination, there are times when I’m weighed down by my things, all of which are bursting with demasiado cosas, for twenty of thirty minutes as I look for a hostel or choose to walk to the bus terminal instead of springing for a taxi.
The hour-long, seventy Argentinian peso massage was worth the break from the backpacker scene, despite the fact that the same amount of money could pay for two nights in a hostel with free Internet and desayuno included.
About a week later, I found myself in Cordoba with badly chipped toenail polish (my last pedicure was in Lima in mid-August) asking around at various peliquerias, “Cuanto sale por una pedicuria?” When one woman quoted a price I deemed too high even for a backpacker in search of gratifying her guilty pleasures, I moved on, determined to find a place that matched the prices stated by the local girls of Argentina whom I’d asked. Soon, I had myself an appointment for a pedicure and a decision to make about colors.
Last week, I cashed in on a very special gift from my friend Denise and her family. On the day that I was scheduled to fly to Sao Paolo, Brazil and commence my 9-12 month journey around South America, I opened my email one last time before saying goodbye to my Brooklyn apartment to find a Travelocity virtual gift card to be used at any number of hotels around the world.
Somehow, I managed to wait a full five months before taking advantage of this extremely generous gift and checking into my fancy hotel room in Mendoza, Argentina.
I wonder what the hotel staff thought when I showed up looking not like their typical clientele to be sure with my dusty backpacks, wearing faded navy blue shorts and flip-flops, appearing, no doubt, slightly dissheveled after the twenty minute walk in the intense sun of the morning, stating that I had a reservation. Although I’d claimed that I wasn’t going to leave the solace and luxury of my very own hotel room complete with private bathroom containing fresh towels, tiny soaps and shampoos, I changed my mind once I saw the lounge chairs surrounding the pool outside and peeked into the spa and noticed the hot tub.
And, of course, how could I not desert the king-sized bed for a little while in the morning before my check-out to partake in the breakfast buffet included in my stay at Tower Suites. After getting used to the typical Argentine breakfast of pan y marmelata y cafe con leche, I was like a heartbroken woman who’d recently decided that food would be her comfort in the dark days following a painful breakup. Watching as other guests took meager portions of the bountiful spread offered, I began with medialunas and cafe con leche, returning for cereal with milk, another pastry, toast with dulce de leche, and then finally making a sandwich with the ham and cheese and butter on offer. I stealthily pocketed a yoghurt for later and a couple of packets of butter to spread on the crackers I always have on hand.
I boarded my next overnight bus believing that the massages in Argentina rivaled those in China (where, at $10 USD, I’d indulged frequently last January during my stay), pleased with my red toenails and smooth feet, and refreshed following hours of alternating between channel-surfing and dozing from my post on the fluffy pillows, curious about the guilty pleasures of other frugal travelers. I’m listening, er, reading…
On the balcony of a loft apartment overlooking Cordoba last Friday night, I tried grilled intestines for the first (but I hope not the last) time.
I was couchsurfing again and had just met Ugo, my host, and his friends when Ugo proposed an asado, or private bbq. Would I like? he asked.
If you’ve been reading my posts (particularly the ones pertaining to Argentina), you know the answer to this.
So after a quick trip to the local carniceria and corner store, we had enough carne for five, two bottles of red wine, eight onions, a bag of bread, several lemons, and beer for later.
Franco was in charge of the asado, and none of the four other guys interfered or questioned as Franco and Franco alone guarded the flames, fixed the coals and watched the meat. He tossed whole onions in a side fire and then let them sit close, the heat from the smoke roasting them to utter bliss.
It seemed to me that it was taking an awfully long time; I wasn’t getting sober sitting there drinking the Malbec, and I was only growing hungrier as I sat feet away from the built in grill on the balcony. But, what did I know about the traditional Argentine bbq? Nada. Only that I enjoyed it to crazy degrees.
It would be my third time partaking in an asado (and I’d yet to eat at a parrilla, which is a restaurant offering a parrillada, or assortment of meat at a fixed price–the formal take on the asado), but Franco seemed to take the responsibility of asadoro (I made that word up, but I don’t think cocinero would be quite fitting here) so seriously that I knew it was going to be the best asado yet.
I was not wrong.
It was some of the ridiculously best food I’ve ever eaten, and for those of you who know me well know that this is a bold statement that I wouldn’t make lightly or nonchalantly.
We five ate cerdo that tasted like butter, artesenal chorizo sausage wrapped in bread with nothing else, blood sausage both cold and also hot off the grill (richer and rich), the aforementioned intestines drizzled with fresh lemon juice, crunchy, salty and , addictive, peeled onions tossed in oil, lemon, and salt and washed it all down with lots of vino tinto.
A few things were clear after this, my fourth incredible asado indulgence: one) we have a lot to learn back home about the way bbq is done, and two) I’d have to run a marathon before I burned off half the carne I’d eaten in under an hour, and finally, three) this is why I travel.
Blue Bell ice-cream: Cintia's favorite in Tucuman Argentina
Cerro and mate at tea time in Tucuman
Sunday Asado at Cintia's house
XII Fiesta Provincial del Caballo, Municipalidad de Trancas
Comida de Hugo
I watched with a mixture of disbelief, disgust, and awe as he took a large swig of lighter fluid and walked into the intersection, two identical balls of fire hanging by his side, his hands fiercely gripping the chains that led to the spitting fire. The traffic light was red and Hugo, the performer, conducted his dance with the fire until the light changed. Swinging the flaming balls of fire up over his head and around, again and again, exhaling at last and letting out a breath of fire, the finale of his performance, he nonchalantly bowed and walked between the cars, graciously accepting applause but looking for monetary handouts.
Trying to appear inconspicuous, I stood half behind a tree and looked on with anticipation as car windows opened and admiring observers dropped change into his palm. When no one was generous, when no one stopped him, I averted my gaze, glanced across at the other intersection, where another young Argentine was doing a practical performance. His attempts at earning handouts were not magical, I noticed as he wiped down the windshields on vehicles of obliging drivers.
“No saca fotos,” Hugo said, passing me as he returned to the corner to drink more of the viscous, dangerous fluid and relight the balls, and, ashamed, I dropped my camera in my bag, inwardly berating myself for acting so foolishly. They were the only harsh words he’d ever spoken to me, and even now, I wish he’d never had to utter them.
I continued to watch him perform for the people of San Juan until the lighter fluid was gone and his coughing grew more persistent. After the first few times seeing him drink the same thing he used to keep the balls on fire, I had to stop looking. My stomach was turning for him.
Later, when he wanted to know what I thought of his performance–although we’d been traveling together for about a week and had, despite the language barrier, gotten to know each other well, I’d heard of his street work but never witnessed it firsthand–I was at a loss for words. I asked about the taste of the fluid, for despite his shower, the smell lingered heavily and when he kissed me, I tasted smoke and extinguished fire in his mouth.
“No es muy rico,” he said as though it was no big deal at all. And, for him, it probably wasn’t. How long, I wondered had he been performing, hoping to make just enough money for food and drink as he made his way around parts of Peru and all of Bolivia?
Once we’d parted, the performance barely providing Hugo with enough money to travel to Valle Fertil, near San Juan in Mendoza, let alone Tucuman, my next destination, I wondered about practical matters: the ingestion of the lighter fluid, the inhalation of so much smoke, the blisters on his hands from such tight gripping– all for a few pesos.
I’d never seen anything like it before, I admitted to myself, and tried to conjure up memories of all the crazy stuff I’d seen people do for money in New York City. Nothing came close.
This was the kind of thing my guidebook didn’t mention.
About a week earlier, I’d tried to express my delight at not traveling like a tourist to Hugo and his friend, Nelson, as they set up a fire by the river (sans coals), pulled out a huge plastic bag full of carne, salted it, and created an asado (bbq) for the three of us, and I watched the tourists giddily white-water raft past us.
They had only laughed and said that what we were doing was “normal” for them, but I don’t know that they understood how grateful I was for their “tipica” experience. If only they knew how far off the beaten backpacker path they’d taken me, maybe they’d have been pleased with themselves.
Later, when I found myself couchsurfing in Tucuman with Cintia–una buena persona– and her family, and having some much-needed girl time, I explained that I felt lucky to be experiencing life as she experienced it: drinking mate in the park, sharing an enormous Saturday almuerzo with her family, going to a regional fiesta with live music, getting in the siesta groove mid-afternoon each day, enjoying tea time with cookies and cafe con leche following siesta, and eating dinner at 11 PM at night during the week. I was “fortunada” in so many ways that it was becoming increasingly difficult to feel–and express– sufficient gratitude.
I learned months ago to trust my guidebook for tips on bus travel, weather patterns, and border crossing information, but mostly, its advice is useless. Why consult it for the best place to find pastel de choclo (a Chilean specialty) when I can ask Pam and Aaron, the hip, young couple I stayed with in Santiago? Why bother reading about the best place to watch tango in Tucuman when I can accompany Cintia and her girlfriends? Why try the listed heladerias when I can ask a local–and a friend– where he or she goes when the ice-cream craving hits? Why go on every tour the book suggests is “not worth missing” when I can live as though I belong among the people who do belong and not as though I am merely passing through until I arrive at the next destination, where another over-priced, only halfway decent tour awaits me?
No, my guidebook cannot lead me to a rich, authentic, typical experience; that, I need to find on my own.
Fortunately, I’ve got more than five months to continue seeking my “tipica” experiences.
Recent Comments