(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.
Saturday, 24 January 2009
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
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
