I like Buenos Aires.

So that is where I am. It was a flight to the familiar.

Yesterday a boarded an Air Canada plane that took me comfortably from Santiago to Buenos Aires. The Andes, that I had recently crossed with trepidation at ground level, passed far below.

After a long comfortable sleep, this morning I enjoyed my first coffee at Café Origen and re-established acquaintances. I have just finished watching a 10 men Liverpool side heartbreakingly concede a late goal to Arsenal drawing the match 1-1.

I intend to read for a while before taking siesta. Coffee, football, reading and rest. If tonight is without incident it will be close to a perfect day.

Crossroads.

Santiago seems an ordered and efficient city. It citizens seem to have aspirations towards Western capitalism. It seems to look towards the United States more than its South American counterparts.

Order and efficiency always exist at the expense of variety so from my very cursory view Santiago lacks the bohemian charms of Buenos Aires. Much to their credit it doesn’t seem like a country that experienced a massive earthquake. Although the epicentre was in the south of Chile, the capital shook, but I cannot detect any lasting effects. The jewel of Santiago, for me, is Santa Lucia, an ornate park built on a steep hill in central Santiago that affords 360 degree views of the city.

Valparaiso, the port city two hours west of Santiago, is a tumble down collection of shanties that sprawl up from the port far into the hills beyond. The citizens are in an unfortunate position and it seems every day is a struggle. It was difficult for me to be there. In life’s lottery I could not stop thinking, ’but for the grace of God go I’.

My night in Valparaiso was a seminal moment. Many of the disagreeable elements that I left the Navy to avoid have returned since I left Buenos Aires. Communal living and broken sleep in particular, although this is ameliorated by the fact that I don’t have obligations. I looked ahead to the many long bus rides that would be required for me to see what I want to. I asked my self is it better to know one place intimately or many places but only superficially?

Well the answer is..

Crossing the Andes. Mendoza, Argentina - Santiago, Chile.

The residents of Mendoza take pride in the appearance of their city. Unlike the chaos of Buenos Aires the streets are free of rubbish and canine land mines. It maintains large public spaces like Park San Martin and the quartet of small plazas surrounding the large central Plaza Independencia. Should the residents have thoughts of defacing these areas the Municipal Police that patrol the Plaza’s, packing enough heat to hold off a small army, would make them have a second thought.

Fountains of Plaza Independencia, Mendoza.

Mendoza endeared itself to me not because it is clean and not because the restaurant attached to the hostel I stayed in served exquisite meals that cost the same as a McDonald’s combo. It endeared itself to me because on the day before I left the sun shone. In the morning I sat in Plaza Independencia and took in everything it offered. Warm and beaming a purchased a pair of running shoes and went to Park San Martin and ran to a stand still. That afternoon, ‘if I was ever going somewhere, I was running!’.

I am now in Santiago De Chile. The bus from Mendoza to here crosses the Andes. I am not a good passenger and this journey tested me. On the Chilean side of the Andes the road has 27, 180 degree turns to take you down the mountains. I was beyond care at this stage and left my future to fate. I made it.

What goes up must come down.

Empty Vessels Make the Most Noise

Last year I had the honour of witnessing the creation of a sand mandala. Over five days two monks from the Tashi Lhunpo Monastery fashioned this extraordinary work.

An integral part of the ritual is the destruction of the mandala. The sands are swept up and placed in moving water. This is to remind us of the impermanence of all things and to guard against attachment.

I was walking through Mendoza city centre today and I came across a protest. The protester’s anger was directed at foreign banks. At one stage they surrounded a branch of Citi Bank. Under the cover of the crowd, slogans were spray painted across the building.

I respect protesting as a right in an open society. It should not have to extend to property damage but that’s their form of expression. Plaza Independencia, close to the site of the protest, has a large fountain and water feature. I passed the Plaza as I walked back to the hostel and it reminded me of skipping stones on Lake Nahuel Haupi. This, in turn, made me recall the sand mandala.

The Tashi Lhunpo Monastery is the traditional seat of the Panchen Lama. Most people are aware of the Dalai Lama. In Buddhism the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama is revealed to the Panchen Lama and vica versa the Panchen Lama is revealed to the Dalai Lama.

In May 1995 Gedun Choekyi Nyima, the six-year-old boy identified by His Holiness the Dalai Lama as the 11th Panchen Lama, disappeared. Suspicions that he had been kidnapped were confirmed in May 1996 when the Chinese leadership admitted to holding him and his family in "protective custody." After repeated attempts to gain access to the boy, no international agencies or human rights organizations (including the United Nations) have been allowed to visit Gedun Choekyi Nyima or his family, and their condition remains uncertain.

In this way the Chinese will have broken the chain of succession if they can hold the Panchen Lama until the death of the current Dalai Lama. If ever a people had a reason to protest it is the Tibetans.

The more I see of the natural wonders this planet has to offer the more I understand the concepts that Buddhism espouses. Our concept of time is so short. The Glaciers I saw took hundreds of thousands of years to carve great valleys but carve they did. A few meters a year they eventually moved mountains. A drop of water given enough time can wear away a mountain.

Today I offer a drop of water for the release of the 11th Panchen Lama and the return of exiled Tibetans to their homeland. 

Time is on my Side.

The city of San Carlos de Bariloche and its surrounds are known collectively as Argentina’s Lakes District. The harshness of southern Patagonia in El Calafate has given way to thick pine forests and postcard perfect blue lakes. After spending 28 hours on a bus to get here a change of scenery was expected.

The trip did not follow the most direct route. Ruta 40 is the most direct road. It holds iconic status for Argentines as Route 66 does for residents of the United States. Unfortunately at this time of year it is impassable.

Bariloche is a year round playground. In Winter crowds flock to Cerro Cathedral, Argentina’s biggest and most popular ski resort. Unlike the intimate resort in Ushuaia, Bariloche is high volume tourism. When the weather warms and the snow melts trout fishing, horse riding, mountain biking, hiking and water sports take over.
 
The bus ride took its toll on me. I arrived at 8.30 in the evening. The bus terminal is 30 mins walk to the centre of town. After finding a hostel, I showered and hit the hay.

That was two days ago. I was tempted to strap a snowboard on again but I have resisted the urge. Instead I spent a good portion of yesterday skipping stones on Lake Nahuel Haupi. It took mother nature countless years to smooth the stones I was throwing. I could think of no more enjoyable activity than returning them to the lake for another cycle.

Smelling roses or skipping stones, if you find yourself doing either, you know that time is on your side.

Next stop, Mendoza.

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.