By now I have a backcatalogue of blags and articles longer than Chile so all semblance of chronology can go BYE BYE!
Enjoy the lamentations of a gringo enamored with Argentina folks.
-----
It´s almost impossible to get a decent meal in Buenos Aires between 3.30 and 7. I walked for an hour before I found somewhere. As I walked I plotted my fame as the leader of a new journalistic movement. A little beat, a little gonzo but new. And as I walked I plotted the meal I would have. It would be junk. Food to comfort me in my final hour in my city. The starter would have to be something crisp, fried to perfection. And there would be steak. And whisky. It´s hard to get a decent whisky in the southern hemisphere too. I don´t drink much these days (which may be a problem in my later career when my alcohol fuelled antics would give my book sales a second wind and made my name tattoo worthy) but I like a good whisky. And i mean a good whisky*. None of that blended crap.
I found somewhere eventually. With one good whisky and steak. I'd passed it before but passed it up. I hadn't much Spanish to my name at the time. Didn't know what an empanada was. Nowadays it looks like a paradise.
I picked an outside table. A challenge to the rain. Real rain, something I'd almost forgotten about aside from that night in the Peña, fell today. Strange it fell today, my final day in a city that felt more like home than home. Wherever I go normally sees record rainfall. Egypt, Turkey, most of the Med, everywhere my parents took me when I was little. It all lead to me feeling we were rather victimised.
I ordered whisky and water and something I thought was a steak, but they'd cooked the soul out of that poor hunk of meat and added a little pyramid made from shitake and what looked and tasted like tater tots.
It'd been a strange last week. Everyone I'd known here seemed to be in Chile or Thailand or Patagonia or Brazil. Tranquil was one word. Lonely might've been another. I'm not sure. But I{d spent the week doing silly things I knew they wouldn't have been interested in. Went to the zoo and had my heart wrenched by a sorry looking polar bear, got excited about petting baby llamas and was briefly stalked by a beaver-looking critter. And I'd spent an afternoon hanging out in a punk record store condemning men and drinking matê and talking music with the girls who worked there. I went to China town and I fully embraced the siesta. I visited a marxist newspaper and called my grandma simply because I could.
Part of me doesn't want to go to Peru tomorrow, I was at home here. And I still knew enough people to have lunch in good company everyday and to find a beer with on a Saturday night. I know the people and the lay of the land, where not to go with more than a couple of pesos, where the political tourist in me can catch a good protest. And I know Graciela, my land lady, and her dogs and cats and uncontrollable rooftop garden.
I'd only come here to get a bit of Spanish before I hit Peru and...
I finished my whisky and steak and headed back to the flat. I'd told everyone left who knew me I didn't want to go out tonight. No one left to say goodbye to now.
Thousands of miles away I felt exactly as I had sitting just through customs back in the tiny Humberside airport. No goodbyes left. Just waiting to vanish.
*at didn't know at this point but the one good whisky I can find would become my traditional latin american farewell tipple. Bye bye Susan, Meike, minor Canadian celebrity, Cusco and all you wonderful people, Uruguay, Bolivia, and probably hasta Pronto to Argentina again in a few days.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Happy Birthday Bolivia
Just a quickie, penned in a lovely little gringo haunt while I waited for my bus home to Argentina. As a result of this article I got dessecated coconut on my arm so please don´t be too harsh. Also forgot to take my camera to the night in question. Smoooooth.
This un needs a little more tying together and work... and a spell checker.
-----
As luck would´ve had it we arrived in Sucre just in time for the Bolivian Bicentenial. The sparkling and thoroughly un-Bolivian city had decked out it´s colonial to Washington looking buildings in luminescant blues, reds and yellows boasting food festivals, puppet shows and drunken frivolity, covering the usual no to the constitution grafiti.
It was the friday night we arranged to meet somewhere along the food festival. Turned out to be an impossible plan though I´m well aware he tried. From a vantage point on some poor generous fool´s table I managed to see the bleach blond and ripped denim vanish from the crowd half an hour after i was meant to have arrived. Sometimes I medically depend on a milkshake, whatever my plans. Especially in Dulce de Leche country.
I decided I couldn´t possibly catch him so treated myself to some more tiny tamal and fake marzipan and tried to work out what else was going on.
I found a bBolivian folk band and a puppet show; exactly what i needed in the old capital it seemed. The show seemed to be a combination of Bolivian independence and original and uncensored Punch and Judy, complete with high voices, casual violence and a Spanish-Colonial crocodile-looking creature.
The real problem with Latin American cities is it´s almost impossible to differenciate between a firework and a gunshot, especially if you´re a nervous gringo. Before I knew it the number of people in the plaza had doubled. Banners waved and someone was talking through a megaphone about workers and constitutions and unity. I was too tired to get involved in this one, political tourist as I may be. I watched another flare hit the sky and the mad dash of parents dragging children into cafes and puppeteers dragging their theatres into buildings.
A crazy left and dearly loved friend of mine asked me the general consensus on Evo before I left La Paz. I´m guessing outside the propaganda and chilled protests of the new capital he´s not well loved.
I took the nearest side street and headed back to my labyrinthian hostel in some old colonial villa.
I sat on the balcony for a while listening to the shouting and banging drifting on the mountain breeze. After a while of playing guess what made the bang the music and the chatter came back and tipsy party goers, excited children and tired protestors wandered back down the street. I hit th hay and watched CNN world for a while, lamenting the lack of Latin American coverage and of the John Stewart story. Fan girls never die. They just go backpacking.
This un needs a little more tying together and work... and a spell checker.
-----
As luck would´ve had it we arrived in Sucre just in time for the Bolivian Bicentenial. The sparkling and thoroughly un-Bolivian city had decked out it´s colonial to Washington looking buildings in luminescant blues, reds and yellows boasting food festivals, puppet shows and drunken frivolity, covering the usual no to the constitution grafiti.
It was the friday night we arranged to meet somewhere along the food festival. Turned out to be an impossible plan though I´m well aware he tried. From a vantage point on some poor generous fool´s table I managed to see the bleach blond and ripped denim vanish from the crowd half an hour after i was meant to have arrived. Sometimes I medically depend on a milkshake, whatever my plans. Especially in Dulce de Leche country.
I decided I couldn´t possibly catch him so treated myself to some more tiny tamal and fake marzipan and tried to work out what else was going on.
I found a bBolivian folk band and a puppet show; exactly what i needed in the old capital it seemed. The show seemed to be a combination of Bolivian independence and original and uncensored Punch and Judy, complete with high voices, casual violence and a Spanish-Colonial crocodile-looking creature.
The real problem with Latin American cities is it´s almost impossible to differenciate between a firework and a gunshot, especially if you´re a nervous gringo. Before I knew it the number of people in the plaza had doubled. Banners waved and someone was talking through a megaphone about workers and constitutions and unity. I was too tired to get involved in this one, political tourist as I may be. I watched another flare hit the sky and the mad dash of parents dragging children into cafes and puppeteers dragging their theatres into buildings.
A crazy left and dearly loved friend of mine asked me the general consensus on Evo before I left La Paz. I´m guessing outside the propaganda and chilled protests of the new capital he´s not well loved.
I took the nearest side street and headed back to my labyrinthian hostel in some old colonial villa.
I sat on the balcony for a while listening to the shouting and banging drifting on the mountain breeze. After a while of playing guess what made the bang the music and the chatter came back and tipsy party goers, excited children and tired protestors wandered back down the street. I hit th hay and watched CNN world for a while, lamenting the lack of Latin American coverage and of the John Stewart story. Fan girls never die. They just go backpacking.
Monday, 23 February 2009
Early mornings.
The doorbell rang at 8.30am. Everyone in the house dutifully ran. At 8.30 in a house full of travelling types you naturally assume you´re the only one awake. The one who spoke the least Spanish got their first.
I watched from the door as she opened the gate on two women. One was a perfectly normal Cusqueñean woman. The other was purple.
´¿Habla Español?`
´Nope.`
I couldn´t stop staring at the purple woman. Her hair was violet. Her suit, quite a smartly cut suit, was purple velvet.
´No necesitas hablar Español cuando tu hablas con dio.`
She was so purple. Ribena adverts and Violet Bouregard flashed through my mind. Lisa looked at me for support. I was lost in the purple. Purple Haze. Purple Rain. Her eyeshadow matched her suit and her hair. I wondered if her god was purple too.
´¿Sabes Dio?`
Do you know God?
Lisa kept insisting, no hablo español.
´Hablamos con Dio.`
The purple woman started to turn more purple at our absence of reaction or response. She was becoming a ribena berry. She´d been the right shade but now she was puffing and swelling into a satisfying berry shape.
´Lo Siento` LIsa closed the gate on her.
´They said they speak to God` I said.
´Was it me or was that woman purple?`
I watched from the door as she opened the gate on two women. One was a perfectly normal Cusqueñean woman. The other was purple.
´¿Habla Español?`
´Nope.`
I couldn´t stop staring at the purple woman. Her hair was violet. Her suit, quite a smartly cut suit, was purple velvet.
´No necesitas hablar Español cuando tu hablas con dio.`
She was so purple. Ribena adverts and Violet Bouregard flashed through my mind. Lisa looked at me for support. I was lost in the purple. Purple Haze. Purple Rain. Her eyeshadow matched her suit and her hair. I wondered if her god was purple too.
´¿Sabes Dio?`
Do you know God?
Lisa kept insisting, no hablo español.
´Hablamos con Dio.`
The purple woman started to turn more purple at our absence of reaction or response. She was becoming a ribena berry. She´d been the right shade but now she was puffing and swelling into a satisfying berry shape.
´Lo Siento` LIsa closed the gate on her.
´They said they speak to God` I said.
´Was it me or was that woman purple?`
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
One night in Buenos Aires (draft-ish)
[I´ll shoot the moon is by the supremely talented Tom Waits from his collaboration with William Burroughs. The jazz club was thelonious, the bar was La Peña de Colorado, the restaurant was overpriced.]
We walked to the restaurant. I say ´the restaurant`. We went to find a restaurant. Which seemed like a bad idea since neither of us were anything close to hungry. So we took detours until we found somewhere to pass time til our stomachs showed some interest.
What we found must´ve dated back 200 years. A funny place where segragation still lived. Tango and tourists up front, locals and pool and something that involved green tables and dice and a lot of concentration in the back. We ordered a couple of beers and tried to sit in the middle. The waitresses all looked tired and no one but an old guy with an air of self importance and a laptop sat near us. Conversation was slow but pleasant. It was Susan´s last day and I´m hopeless at goodbyes. We ordered more beer and looked for somewhere to play pool. There were tables underground but everyone looked a little too much like a foul shot would cost you a finger so we resurfaced. Found a little table outback near the old guys and their dice.
Everybody smoked in that backroom. It was a little like those paintings of dogs playing cards or round a table, cigars hanging from their expressionless mouths. In fact it was a lot like that. We played a couple of games, drank a couple more beers and moved on.
Conversation is always a little poor with me walking through the city. I can´t hear for shit if there´s traffic. It took getting to Puerto Madero for my ears to pick up.
I ordered the steak She ordered something vegetarian that somehow managed to look better than my finest cut of Argentinian beef with a couple of Cuba Libres on the side.
At some point we must´ve left. I remember running across a zebra crossing despite their being no traffic, but the next clear impression on my mind was sat in a jazz club. I appreciate there is´t an excuse for being in a jazz club but the dj was playing ´I´ll shoot the moon´. We seemed to be sat with 3 americans and a guatamalen. No intention of being social, solely out of a need to sit.
A saxophonist came on and I ordered something tart with a lot of whisky. The whole club looked like someone had just fitted a blue light in their attic to light up their carefully arranged as many community chest sofas as they could cram in. It had a good vibe.
The saxophonist finished and a blues band showed up. They suited me better. I ordered up more tart stuff with whisky and watched white russians, beers and a bottle of red join my drink.
At some point funk came on and we vacated the area. By now we were best friends with the guys at our table. Just around the corner was a little bar with crumbling plaster walls and Incan pornography on the shelves. The place was nearly empty but we got some beers in, now a six, and compared culture, travel and mustaches. Over time the place picked back up again and guitars started to appear. One at every table. And one by one every table burst into a different song. But there was no competition. No one outsang each other. They just sang. The air was music. There was sudenly something really pretty about those ricketty wooden benches, and the decaying plaster walls, and the smell of the cigarettes and the glint of the empty glasses and bottles.
After a while some of the guys wanted to sing some Beatles with us. English speakers and all. So we sang up for Hey Jude and got in some more pizza.
By around 4 Susan had to go. I never gave her the goodbye she deserved. I expected to see her around 12 the next day, full of plans for the afternoon. Something to do with a tango club or art. I´d wonder where she´d gone for a good few days after.
But we stayed on at the bar. My second smokey backroom of the night but the music was a far cry from the clattering dice and cues and the tick of the clock reminding us nothing is free in the neighbourhood by the port. In this room there were only 2 guitars. Only one song.
I could feel my eyelids droop as I perched on that barrel listening to songs that I thought were about freedom, and love, and black haired, brown eyed girls who´d got away. It was pushing six when I forced myself to leave. There was real beauty in the room. Like the city had dissolved and there was just us. Singing, and plucking, and laughing, and listening.
When I stepped out with the guys from the jazz club it was raining. The first real rain I´d seen in the big Aires. We kissed cheeks and and I climbed on a wheezing bus I hoped would take me home. As it jerked around Plaza Italia I tried to remember something I´d heard in there. A line, a chord change, a voice raised for a cause a century old. I never did remember. But I remember it was perfect. Pornography, mustaches, cracked ashtrays and all.
We walked to the restaurant. I say ´the restaurant`. We went to find a restaurant. Which seemed like a bad idea since neither of us were anything close to hungry. So we took detours until we found somewhere to pass time til our stomachs showed some interest.
What we found must´ve dated back 200 years. A funny place where segragation still lived. Tango and tourists up front, locals and pool and something that involved green tables and dice and a lot of concentration in the back. We ordered a couple of beers and tried to sit in the middle. The waitresses all looked tired and no one but an old guy with an air of self importance and a laptop sat near us. Conversation was slow but pleasant. It was Susan´s last day and I´m hopeless at goodbyes. We ordered more beer and looked for somewhere to play pool. There were tables underground but everyone looked a little too much like a foul shot would cost you a finger so we resurfaced. Found a little table outback near the old guys and their dice.
Everybody smoked in that backroom. It was a little like those paintings of dogs playing cards or round a table, cigars hanging from their expressionless mouths. In fact it was a lot like that. We played a couple of games, drank a couple more beers and moved on.
Conversation is always a little poor with me walking through the city. I can´t hear for shit if there´s traffic. It took getting to Puerto Madero for my ears to pick up.
I ordered the steak She ordered something vegetarian that somehow managed to look better than my finest cut of Argentinian beef with a couple of Cuba Libres on the side.
At some point we must´ve left. I remember running across a zebra crossing despite their being no traffic, but the next clear impression on my mind was sat in a jazz club. I appreciate there is´t an excuse for being in a jazz club but the dj was playing ´I´ll shoot the moon´. We seemed to be sat with 3 americans and a guatamalen. No intention of being social, solely out of a need to sit.
A saxophonist came on and I ordered something tart with a lot of whisky. The whole club looked like someone had just fitted a blue light in their attic to light up their carefully arranged as many community chest sofas as they could cram in. It had a good vibe.
The saxophonist finished and a blues band showed up. They suited me better. I ordered up more tart stuff with whisky and watched white russians, beers and a bottle of red join my drink.
At some point funk came on and we vacated the area. By now we were best friends with the guys at our table. Just around the corner was a little bar with crumbling plaster walls and Incan pornography on the shelves. The place was nearly empty but we got some beers in, now a six, and compared culture, travel and mustaches. Over time the place picked back up again and guitars started to appear. One at every table. And one by one every table burst into a different song. But there was no competition. No one outsang each other. They just sang. The air was music. There was sudenly something really pretty about those ricketty wooden benches, and the decaying plaster walls, and the smell of the cigarettes and the glint of the empty glasses and bottles.
After a while some of the guys wanted to sing some Beatles with us. English speakers and all. So we sang up for Hey Jude and got in some more pizza.
By around 4 Susan had to go. I never gave her the goodbye she deserved. I expected to see her around 12 the next day, full of plans for the afternoon. Something to do with a tango club or art. I´d wonder where she´d gone for a good few days after.
But we stayed on at the bar. My second smokey backroom of the night but the music was a far cry from the clattering dice and cues and the tick of the clock reminding us nothing is free in the neighbourhood by the port. In this room there were only 2 guitars. Only one song.
I could feel my eyelids droop as I perched on that barrel listening to songs that I thought were about freedom, and love, and black haired, brown eyed girls who´d got away. It was pushing six when I forced myself to leave. There was real beauty in the room. Like the city had dissolved and there was just us. Singing, and plucking, and laughing, and listening.
When I stepped out with the guys from the jazz club it was raining. The first real rain I´d seen in the big Aires. We kissed cheeks and and I climbed on a wheezing bus I hoped would take me home. As it jerked around Plaza Italia I tried to remember something I´d heard in there. A line, a chord change, a voice raised for a cause a century old. I never did remember. But I remember it was perfect. Pornography, mustaches, cracked ashtrays and all.
Saturday, 24 January 2009
20/1/09 1500 hours Buenos Aires
(pre warning: in Argetina the symbol for pesos is the dollar sign. I will never, ever pay 7 dollars for water. Cartañeros are people on a government recycling/employment scheme, for a pitance they sort through the bins of argentina separating plastics, paper etc. They always travel with a hand cart or shopping trolley to take glass, cardboard and plastic to claim the peso back or anything worth having. Also first time I´ve tried to write this blog in this style. I would appreciate comments, pointers, love and violent abuse)
I was getting tired of tourism. 3 weeks is more than enough of that, especially when you have another 2 weeks in a city. But the active search for a soul and a beating heart in Buenos Aires was leaving me a little jaded and tired. My decision to hop on the Subte at the nearest station and to get off wherever felt about right was, I hoped, the cure. I wanted to find something more than our little apartment in Belgrano with it´s half a dozen cats and pedigree pooches to cling onto.
I got a seat on the train, something I always consider a small personal victory and waited for a stop to call to me. Nowhere did. I got off anyway. I was somewhere in Palermo, a wealthier barrio, and greener than most. I had some Swiss friends living somewhere round there who threw solid parties and had their own private pool. It probably wasn´t the place to hunt for anywhere´s soul.
Rising out of the underground grime I was confronted with another Avenida. You get tired of Avenidas quickly travelling through Buenos Aires. I took a back street and plonked myself down at the café with the least leather chairs and the most wisened locals sat on them. They charged me $7 to drink water from a wine glass and the ashtrays on the tables were sparkling, individually hand somethinged glass. The waiters all wore sparkling shirts and their trousers were sparklingly pressed. This wasn´t my stop. So I hauled my sorry arse back towards the main road.
Across from the station was something I´d not registered before. The first real patch of green I´d stumbled across in the city. I had work to do I´d been trying to ignore in my bag, and I´d been missing green. It turned out to be a sprawling park full of the local flora and little plaques. It´d for a seat. Shame really it took ten minutes of being hounded by a tour guide for my number and ten minutes of cursing mooning couples and baggy-looking backpackers before I found one. A sagging, green bench under what I´m reliably informed was a Yaquiri Husu tree. There was a school trip of 6 year olds who clearly didn´t care for botany nearby, and an old man washing his feet a few benches away. It might not have been a beating heart but it was natural. I laid out my books and got scribbling.
After a while one of the multitude of cats I´d seen that must´ve lived in the park came to join me. It was only a kitten but it had a strangely pleasent look of mange. It´s grey fur either was matted or sticking out like a back comb Patricia Morrison would be proud of. It nuzzled my legs for a while before joining me on the bench.
We sat there for a long time, girl and cat. I busied myself with my Spanish notes or putting on suncream, it kept itself entertained attacking leaves or licking it´s own arse. The whole thing had a nice atmosphere.
We´d been there half an hour when I heard the trundling of cart wheels. It couldn´t be cartañeros here, or someone else dragging their life in a suitcase. Not in our little zone of tranquility. How could I not look up to glare in the direction of whoever was coming?
But it was only two little girls, no older than 6. They were dragging one of those toy pushchairs. I say it was a toy, compared to their stature it looked huge. But that satisfied me, children could maybe be allowed to shatter zen, as long as they were quick about it. I settled back down to conjugating the verb to smoke, and then the wheels stopped. Right next to the bench.
I looked up. They didn´t look at me, only at the cat. They had strolled right into our little ball of zen and weren´t being quick about leaving, and whilst it´s not easy to pick up malignance in the eyes of a child in a gingham school frock something told me it was there. Something told the cat too. It began to move from the bench.
All the while they whispered between themselves, glancing around, checking out the surroundings. It took a final glance, assumably to confirm a lack of police presence, before they dived at the kitten. One at each end, they picked it up and hurled it into the pushchair, like hurling a body into a lake. The cat screamed for a second but the one in the school frock held him while the other tickled its belly and that was that. It was like rohypnol. It was drugged, out, completely pliable as he lay there in his carriage to the devil knows where. I felt as though I´d been caught short at a Columbian bus depot in a bad part of town. I should be greatful it wasn´t me hurled into their vehicle. I don´t suppose a five year old much goes in for kidnapping gringos but I didn´t want to risk it. They gave me the stare like they would. The ´go to the police and you´ll live to regret it´stare. I raised my hands innocently. And then they were gone. Silently, incriminatingly. The wheels don´t trundle at getaway speeds.
It tok me a few minutes to get off that bench. I wsn´t sure of the correct authorites for a kidnapping. Is it terrorism? I eventually resolved the best plan would probably be to not risk my own hide. You see little girls everywhere, but you never see if you can trust them. I would simply get a slice of pie from the next bakery i passed, hop the next train out of there and maybe try to work out where my stop really is.
My land lady here is Catholic, I may ask her to pray for that cat tonight.
I was getting tired of tourism. 3 weeks is more than enough of that, especially when you have another 2 weeks in a city. But the active search for a soul and a beating heart in Buenos Aires was leaving me a little jaded and tired. My decision to hop on the Subte at the nearest station and to get off wherever felt about right was, I hoped, the cure. I wanted to find something more than our little apartment in Belgrano with it´s half a dozen cats and pedigree pooches to cling onto.
I got a seat on the train, something I always consider a small personal victory and waited for a stop to call to me. Nowhere did. I got off anyway. I was somewhere in Palermo, a wealthier barrio, and greener than most. I had some Swiss friends living somewhere round there who threw solid parties and had their own private pool. It probably wasn´t the place to hunt for anywhere´s soul.
Rising out of the underground grime I was confronted with another Avenida. You get tired of Avenidas quickly travelling through Buenos Aires. I took a back street and plonked myself down at the café with the least leather chairs and the most wisened locals sat on them. They charged me $7 to drink water from a wine glass and the ashtrays on the tables were sparkling, individually hand somethinged glass. The waiters all wore sparkling shirts and their trousers were sparklingly pressed. This wasn´t my stop. So I hauled my sorry arse back towards the main road.
Across from the station was something I´d not registered before. The first real patch of green I´d stumbled across in the city. I had work to do I´d been trying to ignore in my bag, and I´d been missing green. It turned out to be a sprawling park full of the local flora and little plaques. It´d for a seat. Shame really it took ten minutes of being hounded by a tour guide for my number and ten minutes of cursing mooning couples and baggy-looking backpackers before I found one. A sagging, green bench under what I´m reliably informed was a Yaquiri Husu tree. There was a school trip of 6 year olds who clearly didn´t care for botany nearby, and an old man washing his feet a few benches away. It might not have been a beating heart but it was natural. I laid out my books and got scribbling.
After a while one of the multitude of cats I´d seen that must´ve lived in the park came to join me. It was only a kitten but it had a strangely pleasent look of mange. It´s grey fur either was matted or sticking out like a back comb Patricia Morrison would be proud of. It nuzzled my legs for a while before joining me on the bench.
We sat there for a long time, girl and cat. I busied myself with my Spanish notes or putting on suncream, it kept itself entertained attacking leaves or licking it´s own arse. The whole thing had a nice atmosphere.
We´d been there half an hour when I heard the trundling of cart wheels. It couldn´t be cartañeros here, or someone else dragging their life in a suitcase. Not in our little zone of tranquility. How could I not look up to glare in the direction of whoever was coming?
But it was only two little girls, no older than 6. They were dragging one of those toy pushchairs. I say it was a toy, compared to their stature it looked huge. But that satisfied me, children could maybe be allowed to shatter zen, as long as they were quick about it. I settled back down to conjugating the verb to smoke, and then the wheels stopped. Right next to the bench.
I looked up. They didn´t look at me, only at the cat. They had strolled right into our little ball of zen and weren´t being quick about leaving, and whilst it´s not easy to pick up malignance in the eyes of a child in a gingham school frock something told me it was there. Something told the cat too. It began to move from the bench.
All the while they whispered between themselves, glancing around, checking out the surroundings. It took a final glance, assumably to confirm a lack of police presence, before they dived at the kitten. One at each end, they picked it up and hurled it into the pushchair, like hurling a body into a lake. The cat screamed for a second but the one in the school frock held him while the other tickled its belly and that was that. It was like rohypnol. It was drugged, out, completely pliable as he lay there in his carriage to the devil knows where. I felt as though I´d been caught short at a Columbian bus depot in a bad part of town. I should be greatful it wasn´t me hurled into their vehicle. I don´t suppose a five year old much goes in for kidnapping gringos but I didn´t want to risk it. They gave me the stare like they would. The ´go to the police and you´ll live to regret it´stare. I raised my hands innocently. And then they were gone. Silently, incriminatingly. The wheels don´t trundle at getaway speeds.
It tok me a few minutes to get off that bench. I wsn´t sure of the correct authorites for a kidnapping. Is it terrorism? I eventually resolved the best plan would probably be to not risk my own hide. You see little girls everywhere, but you never see if you can trust them. I would simply get a slice of pie from the next bakery i passed, hop the next train out of there and maybe try to work out where my stop really is.
My land lady here is Catholic, I may ask her to pray for that cat tonight.
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
A delightful weekend in a country (draft)
So...
Uruguay...
What can I say, I´m in love.
Perhaps Colonia was either a little slow or a little too like home for me but Montevideo. Oh, Montevideo. But the food was good in Colonia and the scenery pretty. The Argentinians on holiday were fun, and the hostel settled for a single cockroach scampering in the court yard as I listened to tales from an irish guy about a friend in columbia who once spent two hours in the capital and managed to be robbed of everything but the pair of boxers he had under his clothes and had to walk to the embassy teetering on the brink of naked.
However I digress. The capital.
There is something altogether charming about a capital city that closes down for a football match. And a major city in which, when you stand in the very center, you can still see both coasts with a degree of clarity. The architecture is amazing. 16th century spain with glossy and glass highrise and tumble down victoriana created the strange and old place.
Whilst the theatres and the galleries and the plazas which draw we shameless tourist folk are nice it´s shedding the tourist mantle which makes the city worthwhile... much like any really, but here it is more rewarding.
So we took a wrong turn. Bad neighbourhood. We were oblivious to this until the fire started round the corner and the barman told us to watch our bags though. But maybe the nieghbourhood made it. The waiter stood talking in that peculiar mix of Spanish and English I´m getting worryingly used to for half an hour. Told us who to cheer for. Introduced us to his friends. To aband. To an English guy who stepped straight out of a Graham Greene novel. Specifically I´d say Our Man in Havana. He insisted I tried the whisky and told us of his year in the army, his years as a traveling salesman in Iraq, all in a wonderfully upper class tone flavoured with the drink and the forces. He claimed, and I´d believe him based only on the quality of the whisky he was drinking, that the bridges before the gulf war were his. And the bridges after the gulf war. But not a bridge of his still stands in Baghdad.
But the evening wore on and after a tale or two of his adventures in South America he set off, a little shakey but still amusingly colonial, with warnings of the night and an insistance on picking up the tab.
As luck would have it for two ladies travelling South America sin amigas however, we landed during the taxi strike. A driver had been killed. So we were forced to stay for more cerveza and a game of whisky flavoured chess which saw me loose painfully to the owner after I accidnetally mentioned, yeah I know the rules.For this favour we got our taxi, a friend of a friend of a waiter or a brother of a friend of a friend of the waiter, or a cousin of the friend of an ex wife of an ex waiter. I was lost in technicality.
The clubs of Uruguay, conveniantly all of them seemed to be under or next to our hotel were hilarious. We settled for one called the Prancing Pony, with a lord of the rings theme and free Psychobilly. Not too shabby but thoroughly odd. The fellowship played all night and the staff all wear a gold ring on a chain. After the band the music was filth but barely noticable. I´d found more whisky by now :s
I wish I could tell you more reasons I´m so hopelessly infatuated with Montevideo but for now I don´t recall much.
The evenings dragging on back in Buenos Aires and I´m vaguely aware of a need for sleep. I can assure you our hotel/hostel in Montevideo was literary though. Most of Evelyn Waugh´s noevls could have a scene or two filmed on it´s peculiar colonial balconies or on it´s rotten grand furnishings.
That´s enough for now.
I have a tale of Palermo for tomorrow.
Happy inauguration day.
Buenos Noches.
Ranna
x
Uruguay...
What can I say, I´m in love.
Perhaps Colonia was either a little slow or a little too like home for me but Montevideo. Oh, Montevideo. But the food was good in Colonia and the scenery pretty. The Argentinians on holiday were fun, and the hostel settled for a single cockroach scampering in the court yard as I listened to tales from an irish guy about a friend in columbia who once spent two hours in the capital and managed to be robbed of everything but the pair of boxers he had under his clothes and had to walk to the embassy teetering on the brink of naked.
However I digress. The capital.
There is something altogether charming about a capital city that closes down for a football match. And a major city in which, when you stand in the very center, you can still see both coasts with a degree of clarity. The architecture is amazing. 16th century spain with glossy and glass highrise and tumble down victoriana created the strange and old place.
Whilst the theatres and the galleries and the plazas which draw we shameless tourist folk are nice it´s shedding the tourist mantle which makes the city worthwhile... much like any really, but here it is more rewarding.
So we took a wrong turn. Bad neighbourhood. We were oblivious to this until the fire started round the corner and the barman told us to watch our bags though. But maybe the nieghbourhood made it. The waiter stood talking in that peculiar mix of Spanish and English I´m getting worryingly used to for half an hour. Told us who to cheer for. Introduced us to his friends. To aband. To an English guy who stepped straight out of a Graham Greene novel. Specifically I´d say Our Man in Havana. He insisted I tried the whisky and told us of his year in the army, his years as a traveling salesman in Iraq, all in a wonderfully upper class tone flavoured with the drink and the forces. He claimed, and I´d believe him based only on the quality of the whisky he was drinking, that the bridges before the gulf war were his. And the bridges after the gulf war. But not a bridge of his still stands in Baghdad.
But the evening wore on and after a tale or two of his adventures in South America he set off, a little shakey but still amusingly colonial, with warnings of the night and an insistance on picking up the tab.
As luck would have it for two ladies travelling South America sin amigas however, we landed during the taxi strike. A driver had been killed. So we were forced to stay for more cerveza and a game of whisky flavoured chess which saw me loose painfully to the owner after I accidnetally mentioned, yeah I know the rules.For this favour we got our taxi, a friend of a friend of a waiter or a brother of a friend of a friend of the waiter, or a cousin of the friend of an ex wife of an ex waiter. I was lost in technicality.
The clubs of Uruguay, conveniantly all of them seemed to be under or next to our hotel were hilarious. We settled for one called the Prancing Pony, with a lord of the rings theme and free Psychobilly. Not too shabby but thoroughly odd. The fellowship played all night and the staff all wear a gold ring on a chain. After the band the music was filth but barely noticable. I´d found more whisky by now :s
I wish I could tell you more reasons I´m so hopelessly infatuated with Montevideo but for now I don´t recall much.
The evenings dragging on back in Buenos Aires and I´m vaguely aware of a need for sleep. I can assure you our hotel/hostel in Montevideo was literary though. Most of Evelyn Waugh´s noevls could have a scene or two filmed on it´s peculiar colonial balconies or on it´s rotten grand furnishings.
That´s enough for now.
I have a tale of Palermo for tomorrow.
Happy inauguration day.
Buenos Noches.
Ranna
x
Sunday, 11 January 2009
Late night in the south
It´s pushing midnight on my 8th day here.
I´m too tired to sleep so here´s a few updates.
Buenos Aires really never sleeps. You can get a bus to an open bar or club at any hour you choose. ...Or a vet if you´re in Belgrano. Because the wealthy need 24 hour pet care.
On a weekend the city is a different place too. Everything shifts and a brief stroll can find you metal bands playing parks next to art galleries and impromptu drumming and dancing on any street corner in San Telmo. The tourist infromation and quiet street side cafes become all day fiestas and floor shows and markets selling everything from the ridiculous to the wonderful and a few bits that cover both catergories.
The live music is something else here. As I mentioned there is a good chance even the most serene and tranquil of green spots can host a heavy metal gig. In one plaza we took cerveza and a quiet moment in an acoustic ska trio wandered between tables. Blues guitarists set up where they like to entertain tourists and locals and the tourist friendly tango is danced anywhere and everywhere.
The food is still wonderful. Everybody had better know how to make me tamal when I get home or I shall be turning straight back around.
The politics here is free of apathy and wonderfully vocal. Demonstrations and political graffti and flyers are everywhere, blended with the free political periodicals i wish I could read you can get from most good tubes station dwelling 20 somethings.
My next mission is to completely uncover the punk scene. There are too many goths here. Especially considering the heat. I know I was once one of them but now I knwo they are all mad.
However Galeria Bond street is my new home for sure, haven of the punk and the goth and the metal and kitsch. And hopefully when I next write here i will also be brandishing my first tattoo from there atcha. If I haven´t explained yet Barrio Norte is similar to Camden with Afflecks palace nestled in the middle. However in this affleck´s there a squillion tattoo parlours and inserters of metal into flesh also, some nationally-internationally reknowned. It´s not the only evidence of a thriving alternative scene either. On buildings from microcentro to Belgrano to La Boca slogans for and aginst oi and skins can be read on shutters and an Anarcho punk group seem to be working hard with their cans city wide. The mohawks however need more height. You heard me Buenos Aires! Work on it!
Right.
I´ve got over excited enough for one day.
For those who asked a rundown of week one
Monday-started school, went for a all you can eat veggy with a couple of lasses from oz.
Tuesday-Picnic by the harbour with same ozzies, then beers in Retiro.
Wednesday- Went touristing with a dutch guy in Microcentro, saw the casa rosada, and cabildo de buenos aires which is now more of a museum to graffiti than to independance from Spain.
Thursday- Discovered Barrio Norte and Galeria Bond street. Was very pleased. Cerveza was drank. Also got a new flatmate- Susan from Liverpool.
Friday- Hit San Telmo with Susan, saw acoustic ska and a bit of blues and tango. Discovered just how cheap drink is here.
Saturday- Got up at a decent hour (ten or eleven after seven am starts) did touristy things, then learned of the cocktails of the south, and hit Palermo. Is very nice of an evening :) Arrived home at some point. Turns out buses run 24/7 here. This is good times for money for drinking and bands.
Sunday- Lunchtime start and chinese breakfast. San Telmo for more chilled times and slightly more traditional musics. Now I am home. There was pizza but little else.
Hasta Luego everybody
And to your good elves
Syd
x
I´m too tired to sleep so here´s a few updates.
Buenos Aires really never sleeps. You can get a bus to an open bar or club at any hour you choose. ...Or a vet if you´re in Belgrano. Because the wealthy need 24 hour pet care.
On a weekend the city is a different place too. Everything shifts and a brief stroll can find you metal bands playing parks next to art galleries and impromptu drumming and dancing on any street corner in San Telmo. The tourist infromation and quiet street side cafes become all day fiestas and floor shows and markets selling everything from the ridiculous to the wonderful and a few bits that cover both catergories.
The live music is something else here. As I mentioned there is a good chance even the most serene and tranquil of green spots can host a heavy metal gig. In one plaza we took cerveza and a quiet moment in an acoustic ska trio wandered between tables. Blues guitarists set up where they like to entertain tourists and locals and the tourist friendly tango is danced anywhere and everywhere.
The food is still wonderful. Everybody had better know how to make me tamal when I get home or I shall be turning straight back around.
The politics here is free of apathy and wonderfully vocal. Demonstrations and political graffti and flyers are everywhere, blended with the free political periodicals i wish I could read you can get from most good tubes station dwelling 20 somethings.
My next mission is to completely uncover the punk scene. There are too many goths here. Especially considering the heat. I know I was once one of them but now I knwo they are all mad.
However Galeria Bond street is my new home for sure, haven of the punk and the goth and the metal and kitsch. And hopefully when I next write here i will also be brandishing my first tattoo from there atcha. If I haven´t explained yet Barrio Norte is similar to Camden with Afflecks palace nestled in the middle. However in this affleck´s there a squillion tattoo parlours and inserters of metal into flesh also, some nationally-internationally reknowned. It´s not the only evidence of a thriving alternative scene either. On buildings from microcentro to Belgrano to La Boca slogans for and aginst oi and skins can be read on shutters and an Anarcho punk group seem to be working hard with their cans city wide. The mohawks however need more height. You heard me Buenos Aires! Work on it!
Right.
I´ve got over excited enough for one day.
For those who asked a rundown of week one
Monday-started school, went for a all you can eat veggy with a couple of lasses from oz.
Tuesday-Picnic by the harbour with same ozzies, then beers in Retiro.
Wednesday- Went touristing with a dutch guy in Microcentro, saw the casa rosada, and cabildo de buenos aires which is now more of a museum to graffiti than to independance from Spain.
Thursday- Discovered Barrio Norte and Galeria Bond street. Was very pleased. Cerveza was drank. Also got a new flatmate- Susan from Liverpool.
Friday- Hit San Telmo with Susan, saw acoustic ska and a bit of blues and tango. Discovered just how cheap drink is here.
Saturday- Got up at a decent hour (ten or eleven after seven am starts) did touristy things, then learned of the cocktails of the south, and hit Palermo. Is very nice of an evening :) Arrived home at some point. Turns out buses run 24/7 here. This is good times for money for drinking and bands.
Sunday- Lunchtime start and chinese breakfast. San Telmo for more chilled times and slightly more traditional musics. Now I am home. There was pizza but little else.
Hasta Luego everybody
And to your good elves
Syd
x
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Bloody Hell!
I did it.
I actually got my arse in gear and did something!
I don´t know if anyone else is surprised but I bloody am.
I´ve been in Buenos Aires, Argentina since about lunch time your time... unless you´re Greg then I don´t know... in fact we might be on the same time and already I´m a preacher of it´s junk food.
It´s all fairly english/spanish/yankee only tastier cos it picks the best parts of everything.
Like condensed milk which is apparently an acceptable lunch, breakfast, snack or supper here and was waiting for me on the table when I arrived at the flat :D
They have their own pasty, the encampada (or something, i forget even as i order them) and giant vaul aux vants (or however you spell it) all crammed withtasty treats... or prawns. And deep fried spinach cakes that make my heart sing despite the fact they don´t sound like heart singing material.
The language barrier is a little tougher than I expected but mimes and graciases and no entienda sorts most things out so far. That and written prompts from my German flat mate.
The lady I´m staying with is lovely if elusive and i even get along with her dogs who are all 20cm high, blind and incredibly endearing.
That´ll do for now. No sage words tonight. Anyone who queries this should look up jetlag somewhere.
Night night guys.
Til I communicate once more
x
Ah well, another round of bed for me I think
I actually got my arse in gear and did something!
I don´t know if anyone else is surprised but I bloody am.
I´ve been in Buenos Aires, Argentina since about lunch time your time... unless you´re Greg then I don´t know... in fact we might be on the same time and already I´m a preacher of it´s junk food.
It´s all fairly english/spanish/yankee only tastier cos it picks the best parts of everything.
Like condensed milk which is apparently an acceptable lunch, breakfast, snack or supper here and was waiting for me on the table when I arrived at the flat :D
They have their own pasty, the encampada (or something, i forget even as i order them) and giant vaul aux vants (or however you spell it) all crammed withtasty treats... or prawns. And deep fried spinach cakes that make my heart sing despite the fact they don´t sound like heart singing material.
The language barrier is a little tougher than I expected but mimes and graciases and no entienda sorts most things out so far. That and written prompts from my German flat mate.
The lady I´m staying with is lovely if elusive and i even get along with her dogs who are all 20cm high, blind and incredibly endearing.
That´ll do for now. No sage words tonight. Anyone who queries this should look up jetlag somewhere.
Night night guys.
Til I communicate once more
x
Ah well, another round of bed for me I think
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