Nobody Can Eat Fifty Eggs.

Arriving in El Chalten, the hiking capital of Argentina, the bus dropped us at our Hostel, The Ranco Grande. El Chalten is a village inside The Parque Nacional Los Glaciares and a  virtual ghost town at this time of year. Businesses were boarded up for the winter. The much grander Rancho Grande was in this condition so we were ushered to what seemed like the manager’s quarters. This cosy little place would be our abode for the night. To complete the scene the cabin came with a friendly St. Bernard  dog for company.

Donned the necessary clothing for the occasion and set of for Chorrillo del Salto, a cascade fed by Glacial run off. The gradient was easy but the conditions underfoot were mushy. The rangers had told us that two days of ‘hot’ weather had made the tracks at lower altitudes muddy.

Chorrillo del Salto

The cascade was two hours return to El Chalten. I had eased my way into it so after gauging there would be enough daylight remaining to make the trek to Lago Capri and return to the Hostel, that is where I set off for.

This track was a little more challenging but the effort was worth it. Half an hour into this walk, an opening in the escarpment, about ten meters wide, affords a view to the valley from which I had come.

I was admiring the view and fishing in my pocket for my camera when a condor glided from right to left about five meters from me. These birds are big. A three metre wing span flashing along a ten metre opening in the cliff is a spectacular and intimidating sight. I was very close to soiling my pants both on the outside and the inside as I stumbled backwards. It was only a speak when I looked through the camera’s viewfinder after regaining my composure.

The upper sections of the track had iced over so it was slow going closer to Lago Capri. Logo Capri lies in the imposing shadow of Mount Fitzroy. When I reached it I felt the sense of stillness that only solitude in nature can produce.

Mount Fitz Roy.

Frozen Lago Capri.

Returned to the village of El Chalten calm and content seeing a woodpecker pair, pecking wood. Wonderful.

Woodpecker pecking wood.

I searched the village in the evening for food but to no avail. I was resigned to the prospect of going to bed hungry when I opened the door of the hostel to see, Pierre and Vincent, French guys I had shared a room with in El Calafate, tucking into a steaming hot ham and cheese omelette, fresh bread in a basket close by and even closer, a drooling St. Bernard.

El Chalten.

Wiping my own drool, I asked, could I have what they were having? Paul Newman, playing the character of Lucas Jackson in ‘Cool Hand Luke’, ate fifty hard boiled eggs. I may have been hungry enough to eat fifty eggs but it would be hard to match the taste of just a couple of those eggs beaten and fried and eaten as if it were the last supper.   

If the Mountain won't Come to Mohammad...

To see an unconscious, limp body crash to the canvass is a disturbing sight. The action that causes it is a beautiful study in motion.

In delivering a blow, a boxer fighting in the orthodox stance, places the left foot firmly in front. The right foot is raised at the heel, placing pressure on the ball of the foot, the fighter pushes through the hips. As the muscles of the abdomen tense, the core swiftly twists the torso to launch an extending arm, on the end of which are clenched fingers forming a fist, much as the field athlete launches a javelin. Unlike the field athlete, whose target is a position farther down field that his opponent, the boxers target is his opponent’s head.

On the 25th of February, 1964 Cassius Clay defeated Sonny Liston to become the youngest boxer ever to take a title from a reigning heavyweight champion. In the rematch with Liston, which was held in May 1965 then Mohammad Ali, who had  publicly converted to Islam, won by knockout in the first minute of the first round as a result of what came to be called the "phantom punch."

Ushuaia was Ali and I was Sonny Liston. Ushuaia delivered to me the “phantom punch.” 1000 km north of Ushuaia is the small city of El Calafate. A short distance from the city is the Perito Moreno Glacier. The Glacier and I have been in an entirely different contest.

On the 6th of February, 1967 Mohammad Ali was to defend his title against Ernie Terrell. In the pre match press conference Terrell refused to acknowledge Ali’s conversion to Islam and continued to call him Cassius Clay. Ali vowed to punish him.

And punish him he did.

“During the fight, Ali kept shouting at his opponent, "What's my name, Uncle Tom ... What's my name?" Terrell suffered 15 rounds of brutal punishment, losing 13 rounds on two judges' scorecards, but Ali did not knock him out. Analysts, including several who spoke to ESPN on the sports channel's "Ali Rap" special, speculated that the fight continued only because Ali wanted to thoroughly punish and humiliate Terrell. After the fight, Tex Maule wrote, "It was a wonderful demonstration of boxing skill and a barbarous display of cruelty." When asked about this during a replay of the fight on ABC's popular "Wide World of Sports" by host Howard Cosell, Ali said he was not unduly cruel to Terrell- that boxers are paid to punch all their opponents into submission or defeat. He pointed out that if he had not hit and hurt Terrell, Terrell would have hit and hurt him, which is standard practice.”

The road from El Calafate stretches out on a wide treeless plain. On one side sits Lago Argentino, a tranquil body of water that was once the frozen Glacier that would shortly batter me senseless. On the other side of the plain, a high snow capped mountain range. The drive to Perito Moreno is just like Ali toying with Terrell. The lake calms you, the vastness of the mountain range draws away your focus. Two condors riding the currents, something is going to happen.

Then a glimpse. No it couldn’t be. The punches start to rain down. Water is supposed to move. Is it a torrent frozen in time. If I blink will it return to a ragging torrent and wash me away. Whack. ‘What’s my name…’ I don’t know how much more I can stand of this. Whack. Ship sized chunks crash into the water below. A slow grinding creak. Something has got to give.

Faced with something of this magnitude the only response is to submit to what is greater. His name is Ali and this is Perito Moreno Glacier.

 

 

Sit Back and Relax, This Could Take a While.

I am writing from the warm comfort of the Hostel Antarctica, Ushuaia, Argentina. Ushuaia is the southern most city in the world. Outside the sun is shining down on a winter wonderland. More of this later.

Since last posting the World Cup has been run and won. The Spaniards deserved the accolades of World Champions. As much as I would have hoped to be in Buenos Aires to celebrate an Argentine win, it wasn’t to be.

The day after the final I traveled by ferry (yes this counts as sea time - Benn could you ensure the appropriate paper work is lodged) to Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay. The historic quarter of Colonia is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Control of the city passed back and forth between Spain and Portugal, then briefly to Brazil before the formation of Uruguay as an independent country.

Looking across the Rio De La Plata towards Buenos Aires

Coloina, Uruguay.

Colonia, Uruguay.

Despite its charms, my primary purpose for going there was to renew my 90 day tourist visa for Argentina. It is possible to pay a fee for renewal but it is more than the cost of the day to Colonia.

This done the next day was for goodbyes. Giselle, Alicia, Alejandro, Martin, Marcos and Vanessa at Café Origen, where I spent the majority of my time outside the Hostel, my last day coffees were on the house. Dennis, Natalia, Andrea, Armando and Chicho at the Parrilla. Rosario, Alejandro, Maria, Elva, Alfonso and Adi from the Hostel Carlos Gardel.

By midday of the next day I was I was high above Buenos Aires bound for the city at the end of the world.

Ushuaia spreads out on a bank of the Beagle Channel. The backdrop for the city is the Martial Mountain Range. Down here it is as if someone used geology as their plaything, they thought to themselves, let’s just see what we can do.

During the winter the days are short. I arrived in the afternoon and after settling in at the Hostel I did not have time to fully appreciate where I was. The evening I spent arranging passage to Cerro Castor, the ski field 30 kms from Ushuaia, where I would spend the next five days snowboarding.

For these five days I did little more than rise in time to have breakfast and catch the bus to the mountain at 9am when the sun was just starting to reveal itself. I tore up the mountain, and a few parts of my body, then returned to hostel each night with enough energy to cook a meal then fall into bed to recharge for the next day.

It is hard to find superlatives for this place. Any day is good when traveling. No work, at no one’s beck and call, as free as a bird. Good is the starting point. Add to this extraordinary scenery and a mountain to slide around and you can find the adjectives.

I may not be able to find the words but I have become accustomed to the feeling I get when I am somewhere special. It is a feeling that I don’t deserve to be where I am, I don’t deserve to be seeing what I am seeing. This is the feeling I had each time I rode the chairlift back up Cerro Castor.

In awe. Do I really deserve to be here?

Sink or Swim

This evening I had the pleasure of observing Argentine Roadside Assistance. The equivalent of our state motoring bodies (RACQ, NRMA, RACV etc) the objective is the same - to coax reluctant cars to start.

I am as familiar with the workings of the combustion engine as I am with advanced quantum mechanics, that is, I can pronounce the words. Hand me a ring spanner and I would be as likely to assemble a carburetor as I would to build the Large Hadron Collider.

I am told there is a certain satisfaction in ‘doing it yourself’. Some would even go so far as to say that you are less a man if you have to call for help.

It is not that I think the concepts are beyond me, it is more a question of probability. The time I would invest in understanding a car and the likelihood I would have the right tools or parts should a breakdown occur are significant. The fact I have owned or driven some real clunkers in my time still has not been enough of an incentive.

This is not isolated to vehicle maintenance. I am not proactive. I would prefer to be confronted with a problem than prepare for something that may not occur.

This explains why travel appeals to me. You are confronted with unfamiliar situations daily, if not hourly, for which there is no manual.

When the guy from the automobile club started the car he proceeded to explain what was wrong and how he fixed it. I could tell that the nodding heads of the two guys peering into the engine bay were not in recognition but satisfaction that the car started and they could be on their way.

I nodded in agreement.

Your input is required.

My usage of Spanish is still rudimentary but during my time here in Buenos Aires I have been exposed to a full vocabulary. I can understand words and phrases that are commonly used. Being able to follow a conversation is still a long way away.

Up until yesterday I had not registered the term ‘dar’ meaning - give. I think it is used in conjunction with ‘en’ meaning - to. Phonetically the term I hear is more akin to ’dali’.

I have asked Spanish speakers if it is commonly used and they tell me it is very common. I am perplexed by the fact that up until yesterday I had not registered its use.

Is it true that we hear only what we want to ?

In the spirit of Aristotle’s ‘aim of studying ethics is not the acquisition of knowledge about action but action itself - we read Ethics, not in order to know what good men are like, but in order to act as good men do.’ I would like to be told the things I may not want to hear.

If there is something in the way I behave that you think I could improve I would like to be told. If required be brutally honest. This is a quest to be a better person.

The Wheel of Fortune

This notice was placed in the kitchen of the Hostel Carlos Gardel today by Juliette and Michelle, two young ladies from France.

They arrived in Buenos Aires the day before this notice was placed, the beginning of a two month journey.

Full of the spirit of adventure they set off to see La Boca. La Boca is notorious. All advice to travellers is to remain in one small area called, Caminito and should you wander from there the police usurer the unwary back to the Caminito.

I have been there several times and nothing untoward has happened. In fact if people I meet are reluctant to go there I offer an escort. I have become complacent and I was of the opinion that La Boca’s reputation was unwarranted.

Juilette and Michelle were stopped by three men and had their backpacks physically removed and then stolen but did not suffer any injuries. Their backpacks contained their passports, credit cards, cameras and guidebooks. All the eggs were in one basket. No assistance was offered by passers by.

At the same time this was happening I was in The Walrus Bookstore. I happened upon a copy of Aristotle’s Ethics. The last time I held a copy of this work was 14 years ago. I was in the ski village of Spindleruv Myln and had been told by Stepunka of her interest in Philosophy. Although I cherished the book, it was littered with my comments and passages of note, I didn’t hesitate in offering it to her.

Libor and Stepunka, were a couple that I met on the bus to the ski fields. They accommodated me on the mountain, entertained me, taught me how to snowboard on equipment from their shop and when it was time for me to leave, handed me a set of keys to their apartment in Prague where I stayed for a month.

It sounds fanciful but their generosity was extraordinary. The impression stays with me now and will for a long time to come.

In Aristotle’s words, ‘…the characteristic aim of studying ethics is not the acquisition of knowledge about action but action itself - we read Ethics, not in order to know what good men are like, but in order to act as good men do.’

In the pursuit of happiness Aristotle says, ‘By common consent the beginning is almost half the whole task.’ An eastern proverb may put it as, ‘every journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.’

Travel has its pitfalls and rewards. I have found this book again or it has found me but not by chance.

‘That the most important and finest thing of all [happiness] should be left to chance would be a gross disharmony.’ Aristotle.

Defensa Street, San Telmo, Buenos Aires

I am writing while coming to terms with the fact that Australia’s 2010 World Cup Odyssey is over.

The tactical calamity of the Germany game proved the exception not the rule. Pim’s tactics for the Ghana game were spot on and our players were allowed to shine until the red mist shrouded us again.

It is difficult for non football public in Australia, that take no interest in the sport save for these do or die finals every four years, to recognise that it is an achievement just to be part of the tournament.

These same people usually follow sports in which Australia is pre-eminent and winning is the norm. Being the best in the world is an expectation. Unfortunately these teams, i.e. The Kangaroos and Wallabies, are big fish in small ponds. Place the Socceroos on the World Stage, a game played by all nations of the world, and we become small fish in a big pond but with the same expectations.

I am proud of our performance.

Football means so much to me because as a child it was my window on the world. The city of my youth, Toowoomba, was homogenous in almost every aspect. The height of Multiculturalism was ordering take away from the local Chinese restaurant. Come the weekend, whether it was my game or watching my Father play, I heard accents and languages I had never heard before. By listening to the stories I discovered why people from one country didn’t like people from another then I saw these same people embrace each other in celebration of a goal or a win.

I saw people that couldn’t communicate with speech walk on to a field and let their feet do the talking. This potpurri of cultures found a common voice. Football was a crucible that melted opposing forces then combined them to make something stronger. Football, for me, has always been a unifying force.

It also started a life long search of discovery. Why did you have to avoid certain topics when the Irish and English were drinking after the game? Why did one guy take umbrage with being called a Serb? One of the benefits of the small size of the city was that the community groups were generally not big enough to form their own teams so we avoided the enclave culture that larger cities suffered.

I could continue about football ad nauseam but I will contain myself by relating the contrast between the disappointment I feel today and the joy expressed by Argentines following their victory over Greece yesterday.

Having missed the Argentine victory over South Korea, for which I place the blame squarely at the feet of two vivacious young ladies from England, Ash and Kathryn, yesterday I witnessed another example of the unifying possibilities football has.

I have been watching some games at a Parrilla owned by Dennis, a guy who moved to Australia when he was 12 only to return, marry, settle and open his business here in Buenos Aires. It is from his Parrilla that I walked yesterday to find the city in universal celebration. The only event I can relate it to is a State of Origin game but this pales into insignificance compared to yesterday. It must be remembered that the game did not determine whether or not Argentina progressed to the round of 16, this was already assured.

Fireworks were released, people were hugging in the street, horns blowing and there was not a face that didn’t display a wide grin.

I was still awake at 2am when the garbage truck came past the hostel. It stops to collect rubbish from the café El Federal next door. This evening the collectors placed a large plastic bottle away from the truck and took turns kicking it into the back. When a kick was successful they wheeled around in celebration calling, ’Palermo goaaaaaaaaaal’, imitating the announcement of Argentina’s final goal, and its scorer, Martin Palermo. I should mention these were the actions of grown men. I can not imagine what the scene will be like if Argentina win the World Cup.

There was a ruckus last night. We have had a French couple in our room. They tried to sneak a friend of theirs into the Hostel. Not a grievous transgression in itself save for the fact that the guy in question had taken 12 'tallies' late one night from Carlos Gardel to his Hostel on the proviso that he would replace them the next day.

He wasn’t seen for days then turned up at the Hostel, promised again to replace the beer and booked in for the night. The couple from our room and the beer thief started drinking in the evening. By 3am, after many beers, he had the bright idea that as most of the night had passed he wasn’t going to stay ‘officially’ but sneak into our room.

Roy, the night receptionist, discovered the ruse and followed them up the stairs, after heated words were exchanged in our doorway, the guy from our room started pushing Roy. I was a bystander, or should I say bylayer, until this point. I didn’t understand the Spanish but when push came, I shoved. I lept out of bed and spun the guy from our room around. The shock of someone else entering the fray was enough of a circuit breaker. With motions I acted out the idea that pushing was not required. The beer thief beat a hasty retreat followed by Roy. I was left with the guy from our room, who reeked of beer, trying to protest his innocence. I made it known that whatever the circumstances, two on one wasn’t following the Queensberry Rules.

It is futile to have a discussion with a drunk so I managed to convey that I would like to go back to sleep.

The female of the couple was jovial enough during their stay, enough to at least say hola. He was ignorant, until the afternoon before this incident, when he managed to convey that they needed an alarm for the morning which I provided and set.

After the disturbance and before returning to bed I briefly thought of turning the alarm off but it would be petty on my part. To add a further insult when the alarm sounded at 7.00am they were too trashed to get up and turn it off. I had to stop the alarm then shake the guy.

I have certainly mellowed with the passing of time.

A Face Only a Mother Could Love

A Dog Walker at Plaza de los Dos Congresos, Buenos Aires.

I’ve heard it said that dogs resemble their owners. Whether this is ‘a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance’ I am not sure. When people choose a pet do they choose one that reflects their qualities or the qualities they would like to possess?

Whatever the case may be in general, it is true, that for the case of a regular visitor to the Café Origen, she has chosen her pet to reflect her own qualities.

The British Bulldog is not well known for being nimble or svelte but it is famous for having a face only a mother could love. So it also holds true that it has been a long time since the lady holding the dog’s lead could claim to have broken into a sprint and her visage, it is being kind to say, is homely.

Taking into account the poisonous relationship between Argentina and England I would have suspected that the breed would be unwelcome here in Buenos Aires. Obviously the ire does not extent to canines.

Dog ownership is high. Considering the density produced by apartment living, it is a quirk I cannot fathom. Dog walkers, employed by those who have neither the time or the desire to walk their pets, are a common sight. Released from the confines of their homes the dogs make merry. The result is footpaths littered with shit.

The desire for Portenos (residents of Buenos Aires) to foul their own nest does not stop here. Everything is discarded in the street. Rubbish is placed on the footpaths in garbage bags in the evening. One of the ways to scrape together a living is to collect plastic and paper to be sold for recycling. So as the bags are placed on the footpath, collectors tear them open to search for recyclables. The remainder is left to the winds.

Trucks come early in the morning and as the bags have been torn, a lot of the rubbish misses the trucks as the bags are tossed in. To complete the job, street sweepers follow the trucks on foot to collect the remainder.

As the city wakes, business owners and residents alike can be found hosing their footpaths and sweeping them clean only for the whole process to begin again.

It is a paradox that personal pride in appearance does not extend to their streets. Buenos Aires is a fascinating city, not despite this behavior, but because of it.

Crash and Burn

RE: Hola

Thursday, 3 June, 2010 10:38 PM

From:

"Ingrid T"

Add sender to Contacts

To:

michael.white01@yahoo.com

hi there :)
just finished reading ur blog (read it 2 times!) and i must say that u should be a writer in my eyes!
what a great way to express urself and play with the words :)
i must say u made me laugh (it was really humorous :)

well ... about the ¨THING¨ sry but i´m definitly not ready for anything with anyone at the moment ...
but yes of course we can meet before i go :) only we have to think when and where ... becuase tomorrow i´m already meeting a friend at day time and then prob. going to another couch surfing event in the evening
Sat. I was thinking that I should maybe go to the art museum (bellas artes) and Recoleta cemetary ... but maybe i can already go tomorrow ... hmm
at that case it would be Palermo SOHO on sat. i guess and on Sun. i´m coming to the fleamarkets in san telmo again :) only with another Estonian girl :) anyway .. if u want to join me (or me with any of my friends) on soame day just let me know nd we´ll try to organize it
now it sucks that we don´t have phones becuase i don´t have internet in Alfonsos/Agneses :(
but i´ll try to go to some cfe in the morning :)
see u!
Ingrid

Love's Labour's Lost

Cominito, La Boca, Buenos Aires.

An insight to the strange workings of my mind…and an example of why I’m still single.

My siesta was broken by the sight of a lady placing her back pack next to the spare bed in our room. Seeing I was now awake, she came and introduced herself as Ingrid, in an accent I couldn’t place. I said, ‘Swedish?’. ‘No,’ she replied, ’I’m from Estonia.’

A moments hesitation on my part before saying, ’Is it near the Ukraine, former USSR.’ The first part she was happy to clarify, ’No it is north of Ukraine. Almost Finland.’ Addressing the second part of my statement her tone changed, ’and yes it was a reluctant part of the Soviet Union.’

She then searched through her bag and produced a small book, ’If you would like to know more,’ she said handing me the book. It was a publication on Estonia. I could tell she had been through this routine many times. ‘I am the unofficial Ambassador of Estonia.‘ I took the hint and as she unpacked I turned the conversation to other matters.  I told her that the craft markets, only a short walk from the Hostel were still on but she would have to leave soon to see them and so she did.

I was determined to make up for my ignorance, so while she was at the markets I read the book from cover to cover and memorised even the obscure details in the Facts of Estonia section. Once completed, I showered and left for the café.

When I returned to the Hostel Ingrid was in the room and I declared I was now an expert on Estonia so she could ask me anything she wished. Having nailed the common questions I stopped her and said, ’Please, you’re insulting my intelligence, ask me something difficult.’ When I correctly answered how many rivers greater than 10 km the country had and the percentage breakdown of Russian, Polish and Finnish citizens correct to the second decimal place, grinning, she closed the book.

I wasn’t trying to be a smart arse but it was my way of trying to correct the fault that I could not even place her country on the map and being so casual with the remark about Estonia being a part of the USSR.

It turns out that Estonia has more in common with Finland, their languages share the same roots.

To give you a better picture, take someone who sounds like Bjork and give her the body of Anna Kournikova, and you have Ingrid. She ran a half marathon in Santiago a month before arriving in Buenos Aires.

Fast forward past Boudjeka’s going away dinner that evening, the next day spent wandering around La Boca with Ingrid then dinner that evening at El Desnivel and you find a group of five people having a drink at The Red Door in San Telmo. Ingrid and I, Alfonso and Agnes (Venezuelan and Latvian, a couple Ingrid knew from her travels) and another Alfonso (Brazilian, a friend from the Hostel). Things were going swimmingly.

As two Argentine girls sat down at the table next to us one spilt her drink. I asked Alfonso to ask her what she was drinking. She told him in Spanish, he told me in English and I went to the bar, bought the Argentine girl the drink and returned to the table and gave it to her. I couldn’t speak to the Argentine girl, so Alfonso picked up the ball and ran with it.

I don’t know if Ingrid had any amorous intentions towards me but I sensed things cool after this. The night continued and for a period Agnes and Ingrid spoke of conditions under Communist rule. It would not have been easy to bring up this difficult past and I felt privileged to hear the reality of the Communist Ideal.

We called it a night and I walked with Ingrid, followed by Alfonso and the Argentine girl, Donnella, back to the Hostel.

I don’t know if things would had been different if the Argentine girls hadn’t appeared. But I hope, if Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost is anything to go by, that I don’t have to wait a year and a day to re-establish a connection.

I’ll keep you informed.

I didn’t wake until midday today. Last night I attended my second Tango lesson. Boudjaka, as six degrees of separation goes, made contacts in the Tango scene though his film. To give some background, I’ll explain the connections.

The day we were shooting the film at the Hotel Elevarge I moved from spectator to participant. Originally I was given boom mic duties. A sub plot had the ex lover of the Scandinavian guy in the Hotel bar with her current fling. This current fling’s character was a rich guy who was showering her with gifts she was happy to receive but her heart still lay with the Scandinavian guy, although he was too poor to satisfy her wants.

An Argentine guy was to play this part but the shoot ran over time and he had to leave. Enter Mick White. The scene changed from Spanish to English and we had to improvise the lines but it went well.

The lady acting as the ex lover, who is needless to say typically attractive, works for a non-profit organisation that places people who want to volunteer with organisations that require assistance. She manages the Scandinavian volunteers.

Her good friend, Felipe, is the Tango teacher and holds the lessons in his apartment in San Telmo, very close to the Hostel.

So taking into account these connections I arrive at the apartment to find, as if a wish list had been hand delivered by god, half the females, dark brooding Argentine beauties and the other half golden blonde Nordic goddesses.

Now, you may say, wait a minute it couldn’t have been that good. I can assure you it was better until, after going through the introductions I found out to my disappointment that 90% of the females had their partners there.

Holding the lesson in the apartment had the advantage of being intimate but it also meant there was no where to hide. Thankfully a young lady from Norway, Sandra, took pity on me and lead me to the floor when the teacher called us to begin. She spends four days of each week volunteering for a variety of welfare organisations. A kind person that must have a soft spot for those less fortunate. When it came to the tango I was as a deaf, dumb and blind beggar to her. As the class would prove, I may also have had a limb or two missing, in the least a missing right foot replaced by a left. The poor soul didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

To enhance the suspicion that she was the result of Mother Theresa’s Immaculate Conception, I again discovered after the event, her boyfriend was in attendance all night but, despite being a capable dancer herself, she laboured alongside my best impression of Frankenstein’s monster.  Sainthood would be her just reward.

After the class most of us had a meal not far from the hostel. My lack of Spanish put me on the periphery but it is comforting to sit back and just observe people interact.

Following the meal was the milonga. This time I was purely a spectator. I walked one of the Norwegian girls, Mui, to her apartment before reaching the Hostel at 4am.

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole night.

All this is not the main point of this post but a preamble to explain why I woke late but in a fantastic mood. Shortly this would change.

Showered then left for the café. Normally I can sit and read at the café without distraction. Today at the table next to me, two American men and an English women were sitting and talking, naturally, in English. Because I could follow the conversation part of my attention was diverted and I couldn’t fully immerse in the story. For twenty minutes their entire conversation was about how they were maximising their wealth here in Argentina, who their accountants were, which lawyer they were using etc.

An elderly lady approached their table offering for sale a strip of paper with small flower petals glued to the paper. While I thought the pieces were intrinsically beautiful, it was primarily used as a tool for begging without being so blatant. They waved her away.

My blood boiled instantly. She came to me next and I chose one and gave 5 pesos for it. Nothing for me but it would be lunch for her. I couldn’t concentrate afterwards so I went inside and paid for my coffee. All the while a tirade was building that I didn’t think I could hold back. I still held the paper in my hand when I came outside. Almost involuntarily I made straight for their table. One step away, when all three stopped talking and looked at me, a wave of calm washed over me. Instead of firing both barrels, I gently placed the paper in the middle of the table and slowly offered each, in turn, a look of pity I hoped they would feel. They said nothing and I went on my way.

I am no Saint. I am not about to cast the first stone for I have been trying to use the financial system for gain. But there is a difference between trying to build a home and buying a second summer house in Malibu.

I am still angry as I write this.

I have not had the need to quantify the times I have been immersed in a book, unaware of my surroundings, only for some stimulus to cause me to switch from imagination to the here and now. If pressed I would hazard a guess that it would be in the tens of thousands. Of all these occasions I cannot recall a moment like I had today.

Returned to The Walrus Bookstore and purchased The Kite Runner, for I sought a less difficult task than the one set by Jorge Luis Borges', The Aleph. Made my way to Plaza San Martin and sat down to read. I was away with the story, dream like, when I had cause to lift my gaze from the page and regain a sense of my surroundings.

Before me was a lady walking across the Plaza. She wore dark brown boots with black pants over the boots, not contained under knee high boots as seems the standard. A fitted waist length black velvet coat, her dark brown hair worn up and a pearl for each ear set against her olive skin. To say she was beautiful would not be contradicted by anyone seeing her, but the fixation for me was that, one moment lost in a story and the next given this sight, for she walked without ostentation, I felt an overwhelming joy.

I projected nothing on her, no desire to possess her or even know who she was, it was simply a delightful moment.

A Day in the Life

Plaza San Martin, Central Buenos Aires

A vastly different week from the first.

Having covered the notable areas and sights of Buenos Aires during the first week here, I have now settled into a very casual routine.

I wake about 9 and have the breakfast the Hostel provides. I retire to the Café Origen where, having visited the place twice daily since my arrival, I can sit and a café con leche is made and placed at my table without having to order. I let the rush hour pass (9.30 - 10.30) and return to the Hostel to check the news.

Set off for a stroll which is interspersed with periods of reading if I pass a nice place to sit. Find my way back to San Telmo, I have now ditched the city map, and buy a lunch of empanadas de pollo, carne or a tortilla.

Exercise consisting of push ups and sit ups to which I have recently added skipping takes me to siesta from 3 - 5pm.

Wake, shower and again to the café for a long period with a book.

Evenings I leave to fate.

The El Eteneo Bookstore, Buenos Aires.

I sit in an ante room of the Hotel Elevarge. My purpose for being here is to view the final day of shooting on a short film directed by my room mate, Bujaka of Cameroon. The film will portray the love story of a Scandinavian man's fall for an Argentine lady, Dora. Bujaka wrote the script for one of the receptionists at Hostel Carlos Gardel. Broadly the plot has a foreigner falling in love, through the tango, with a lady called Dora. By coincidence the male lead of the movie fell in love with an Argentine, through the tango, called Dora.

This week I have…

Seen the Argentine National Orchestra perform in the vacant Harrods Building on Avenue Florida at the end of a day that included visiting El Eteneo, rated by the BBC as the second most important book store in the world. Viewed, due to the curiosity of Silvia, a fetching polish lady now living in London, the recreation of the history of Argentina from independence in 1810 performed by the Argentine military in period costume complete with musket fire and cannon blast. A lunch under glorious sunshine in the swish barrio (suburb) of Palermo and a tranquil stroll through Japanese gardens.

Had the pleasure of reading Jorge Luis Borges in his native country but sadly not in his native tongue.

Attempted without success, but through no lack of effort, to watch Boca Juniors play and in the process gained an insight into just what the team means to the down trodden residents of La Boca.

Had the privilege to see the tango danced in the milonga (dance hall) Cathedral. This gathering place is where the tango is danced by portentos (residents of Buenos Aires) for pure pleasure and not as a performance. I would not have had this pleasure if not for the good graces of the Mexican, Eduardo. After seeing the tango danced in this way I now realise that any attempt by me to dance the tango would have the same result as an Elephant trying to tip toe through tulips. Despite the best intentions it would end in disaster.

I have heard a German sing and play the blues as if he was born and raised in Mississippi and I have heard a Chilean trio play jazz as if it was a natural as breathing. Both of these events occurred in the common room of the Hostel.

With distress I have seen people attempt to scrape together a living by any means they can in a country that has no social security and felt helpless that any assistance by myself would only provide a temporary respite.

At every corner I watch in awe at the feminine beauty the passes me by.

A great deal more has happened…but I would spend all my time relating it so that I would not have time to experience more, therefore…

All is well.

 

I sit on the mezzanine level of the Hostel Carlos Gardel, San Telmo, Buenos Aires. I am winding down after my first full day here.

I arrived yesterday afternoon after a faultless journey from Brisbane. I had the good fortune to spend my last week in Australia on the Sunshine Coast indulging the hospitality provided by Josh Williams. Josh’s sister extended the send off with digs in Brisbane and a lift to the airport. Mucho gracias.

The horror show I anticipated from Aerolineas Argentinas could not have been further from the truth. I could not have asked for more. The surprises continued when the bus ticket from the airport to the city included drop off at your desired accommodation. From my glimpse the city takes pride in the provision of services. I am embarrassed by my reliance on English. I had ample time to gain some basic Spanish. I will rectify this.

The scope of the city is extraordinary. I walked with only minor breaks from 7am until 3pm and only covered a small portion. During this period the city’s arteries pumped with a solid steady beat. I don’t know yet what regulates the pulse, but café culture, pride in appearance, heavy smoking, both residents and their vehicles, and a barely covered passion help  push things along.

My first attempt at drawing money was an abject failure. The machine ate my card. The bank representative managed to convey to me that I would have to return tomorrow to collect my card. A gentleman who was watching proceedings had a quiet word to the lady, then I was told to wait. In a few minutes she returned with my card. After using my passport to confirm I was the person named on the card she handed it to me. I not sure what he said but I thanked him for his intervention.

I tried the card again and it worked although, only a small daily limit is available. While food seems to be cheaper than Oz, many consumer items are comparable or dearer. The hostel is clean and the other travellers considerate. I have just returned from a small Café/Bar just down the road where I watched The Argentine National Team defeat Haiti 4-0 in a friendly. All is well.

A back, a pack and a dream

I was waiting for it to kick in. A double dump of discharge delight and backpacking bliss. It happened the moment I clicked the lock shut on the shed door. With the worldly possessions I didn’t need firmly secured and all the worldly possessions I required contained in a pack, I felt as free as a bird. As free as a bird with 20 kilos on its back can be.

Having spent the last four nights on the block I woke yesterday with plan of attack. From the friendly ladies at the local bakery I was told it reached as low as 2 degrees celcius. So the sting in my nostrils that woke me during the night was a true indicator. While my brain was registering the sensation in my nostrils my eyes were sending their own message. The moon must have set, exiting stage left, allowing the stars to, well, shine. The scene was enough to cause me to emit an involuntary and audible ‘fuck.’

The next major population centre north of Stanthorpe is Warwick. After breakfast in town I started the half hour drive there. Warwick has twice as many residents as Stanthorpe. It rode to early prominence on the sheep’s back. The district is the birth place of Jackie Howe, recording breaking sheep shearer and dapper singlet wearing man about town. The burghers of the town decided to flaunt the wealth of the settlement and erected sandstone buildings befitting the growing status of the shire.It is a pleasant place.

Back in Stanthorpe I booked a taxi to collect me from the storage sheds. I washed the ute and prepared it for a long rest. It was symbolic to wash any remaining salt from the vehicle, a cleansing that provided a close to the chapter that had been open for six years and the beginning of the next.

It was arresting to see only a backpack lying there. When I think of the head long rush many people are under to insulate their lives with things and the contrast of how little we really need to sustain us, I felt good to be on the side of less is more.

The lock clicked shut and there I was….a back, a pack and a dream.

To the Manor Born

 

I spent last night on the block and I'm happy to report the weather was kind. It was not a Bear Grylls moment. If it were possible to halt my gaze abruptly 50 meters fore, 150 meters aft and 50 meters either side from this photo I would be Lord of all I surveyed.

On the evening I arrived in Stanthorpe it was raining so I opted for a room at a Pub in the main street. Camping is wonderful but its results are not conducive to 'normal' human interaction. I still had some tasks to complete in town so presenting myself to the good people of Stanthorpe ripe and unwashed would not be the first impression I was hoping to make.

I’ve secured and paid for the storage shed. Upgraded one of my key cards to one that contains a chip. I read that many ATMs will now not accept a non chipped card. With this addition I am confident I have all cash access bases covered for the trip. Went for a short walk in Girraween National Park. I wasn’t aware of the extent of the features in the Park. Serendipitous. Took a whistle stop tour of the wineries south of Stanthorpe and figuratively drank in the place.

Yesterday morning I sat at outdoor table of a bakery in the main street enjoying a coffee. People in Stanthorpe drive slowly, walk slowly and talk slowly. It is as if someone has hit the slow motion button and it suits me to a tee. The powers that be have made a reasonable attempt but the large footpaths of the main street require beautification. The business owners should take the lead.

It is encouraging to note the number of backpackers in town. There must be scope for another establishment to cater for them. This will be my focus on return.

Camping on the block did reveal just what a task it will be to transform it to my vision, a task I will relish. 

Kindness to Strangers

In every major city, to a lesser or greater extent depending on welfare provisions, beggars populate street corners and Sydney is no exception. Some entrepreneurs attempt to increase their takings by displaying signs. The signs vary from stating the obvious about their predicament to what they intend to use the money for. Some try humour, some try honesty, some barely have the capacity to remain upright and this was the state of the beggar I passed on George Street this evening.

I have become hardened to their plight over time. In my adolescence I was sympathetic. When I had a greater understanding of the welfare provisions I became less sympathetic to their homelessness but more understanding of the choices that put them in this state. When I experienced it for myself, I understood that no amount of help would change their situation if they weren’t willing to help themselves.

I have come to the point where now my engagement does not go beyond a smile in passing. So it was with this mindset that I passed the guy who was sitting cross legged and only a short distance from head butting the pavement. As I approached, a lady coming in the opposite direction stirred him from his state and handed him an apple and a piece of banana bread.

He was grateful and she seemed happy as she walked on. It was so simple in its execution that the ripple effect cracked my hardened heart. A terrible cynic would say she was only acting to make herself feel good. Even if this was the only motivation, so what.

All this washed over me after I had walked about ten paces past the scene and it literally stopped me in my tracks. I turned to look at him and he was taking the first bite of the apple. I looked at her as she waited to cross the street and I felt like walking to her to say thank you but initially I didn't know what I would be thanking her for. As I hesitated the walk signal turned green and the moment was lost.

If I saw her now I would thank her for an act of kindness that has caused me to reflect on my own behaviour and some good will come of that.

To Keep the Rabbits Out

Another iconic structure has failed to keep the rabbits out. Rabbits are taking over Sydney.

Raise a foot to the Havaiana.

I am loathe to follow a trend. For an item to gain my imprimatur it usually has to stand the test of time. An exception to this is if an item's innate qualities transcend the pack mentality of popularity, if it can stand on its own two feet, then sign me up.

I was waiting for a hamburger I had ordered from a Take Away last night when through my daydream I noticed a lot of Havaianas. Five out of six of us were wearing them and we were spread among the major demographics.

I have lived through the time when the 'double plugger' was the only choice in air conditioned footwear. Most commonly associated with stubbies shorts, jackie howe (wife beater) singlet or flannelette shirts when cooler weather arrived. For footwear, it was carrying major baggage.

Not only has the Havi broken the image problem the thong had, they are pret-a-porter. Double pluggers had to be broken in. The unforgiving rubber required a commitment commensurate with the wearers gut, i.e. big, to see them through to any level close to comfort. To top off the coup, those good people at Havaiana allow us to pay four times what the plugger cost and we are happy to do it, they are walking out the door.

From a footwear triumph to footwear tragedy. 

I can share a wry grin when witnessing a female in the wee hours of the morning barefoot with shoes in hand, a victim of fashion. Usually the shoes have seen out significant dance floor action and the feet are rebelling or one too many has caused sleek stilettos to become wobbly boots. All par for the course.

On a recent drive through the city there was a procession of young ladies with shoes in hand, walking from the cross to the city and the night was still young. Whoever is setting these trends must delight in cruel and unusual punishment. Long live capitalism !