Home Away From Home

My record for the longest stay in: one city, was Siem Reap at two weeks; and in one country, Brazil at just over six weeks. But, they are merely footnotes, as now they are officially known as the previous record holder, surpassed by Buenos Aires, Argentina.

In real time, I arrived in Buenos Aires, six and a half weeks ago and with only a couple days left on my lease in my shared flat in Recoleta/Barrio Norte, I have little desire to leave. In truth, Buenos Aires, almost feels like home to me, I could definitely live here: for a short while, for a long stay, maybe for good.

So, what is it about this city of Good Air, well it is definitely not the good air, especially with the recent fires that are burning out of control, just outside the city, originally started by the farmers to turnover the dirt/crop. For most, it’s a little of everything, as you will hear many ex-pats say. And for me, it’s been: the food (namely steak), the people (fellow lemmings and semi-locals, wish to interact with more locals), the abundant activities, the lifestyle… But, probably more than anything else: it is having the comforts of home, mixed in with a gallon of exoticness, as you are still in a foreign land, with a different language, and an unfamiliar history and culture.

On the surface, Buenos Aires, would appear no different than any world class first world city, with it’s high rises, historical and political centres, artist on-claves, aging infrastructure, mass transit, parks, shopping centres, museums… but one of the unique features of this capital city with it’s 13 million Portenos, is that it just doesn’t feel that big. There are numerous barrios north, south, east and west of the MicroCentre (it’s version of downtown), but almost everything you have to do or get to, is just a subte (subway), el collectivo (bus), or a 12 peso taxi ride away.

In addition, unlike the other places I have visited, there are no must do’s while you are here, with the exception of having a steak dinner and hitting at least one club (the humble opinion of this author). Some may tell you, that you have to see a Tango show, visit Evita’s tomb in the Recoleta Cementario, or attend a futbol match. While they are all great excursions, it is unlikely that you will have any lingering regrets, about missing any one of those, as you leave the city.

As a result, my days are not unlike many of the local Portenos: with my version of school and work, in the morning to afternoon, followed by errands, gym or a nap, before meeting with friends for dinner or a night out. It is almost guaranteed that if you are backpacking through South America, Buenos Aires is on your list. As a result, many that I have met, while in Brazil, I have had a chance to say hello and goodbye to, as they pass through, here. I even had a chance to meet up with Belinda, whom I originally met back in Nepal. She finished her Asia leg of her trip at the end of last year, than went home to Oz for a few months, before starting her South American leg in Buenos Aires. I also got to hangout with Beau, for a night, as he quickly passed through, en-route to catch a flight “headed” for the Easter Islands.

Life here, can be as simple or hectic as you want it to be: from a stroll in one of it’s many great parks on a bright sunny day, to eating dinner at 11 pm and staying out till many hours after sunrise. There aren’t many things that you can’t get here, that you miss from home, from watching a box office hit or an independent film at the local theatre (in English with Spanish subtitles), great deserts and ice cream, to finding a fresh pair of Nikes, they really do have it all. About the only major difference in lifestyle, is that you can not flush the toilet paper (or at least, you are not suppose to).

The culture is: fun, warm, friendly, but just when you think you have figured it out, you are thrown for a loop. As I have been told by others (ex-pats), there is a distinction between a local and a foreigner, no matter how long you have lived here. You may be treated as family, once you are accepted, but never forget that you are still not Argentine. In most cases this will never make a difference, but if a conflict ever arises, it could make all the difference in the world. Fortunately for me, this has not been an issue, but as I have heard it a few times, there may be something to it. To me, this may be attributed more to their sense of national pride, of being simply: Argentine. As a country and people, they have gone through a lot, and continue to see change and uncertainty. Maybe, it is because of their constant struggle to reach a state of equilibrium and certainty of the future, they have developed a special and unique bond with each other which has since evolved into: strong national pride. Any local will be more than happy to tell you how much greater, Argentine music, food, dance, culture… is, than that of other countries, especially when compared to it’s closest neighbors (there is almost a hate-hate relationship with Chile). In many cases, they may be right, but regardless, there is no sense arguing, even for someone like me, who likes to argue, as it will go no where. One time, I made a joke, a casual comment about one of the numerous protests in the streets of Buenos Aires, which the rest of the class found funny, but the only Argentine in the room, the teacher, found it a bit offense, and said that I should not make such comment, as I was not Argentine. And to be honest, it was just in fun: another person, said that there was another protest today, at the Plaza and down the street, the teacher asked what it was for, and as there had been protest almost on a daily basis in the MicroCentre for various reasons, I responded: does there need to be a reason, we are in Buenos Aires. To which, the rest of the class giggled, and I was sent to the principle’s office (ok, not really).

Partially or mostly because of the economic meltdown in 2001, there is little faith by the locals in the banking institutions. Almost literally, the value of the peso dropped overnight. As the locals scrambled to preserve the value of their life savings, by exchanging the peso for US dollars, the government and banks, withheld people access to their funds, leaving them to watch their savings deteriorate, right in front of their eyes. Since than, the government has implemented various plans, in an attempt to stabilize and strengthen the economy, including the pegging of the peso to the US Dollar, roughly at 3 to 1. Of course, this does not bold well, again, for Argentina, with the rapid fall of the dollar against the world’s other currencies, namely the Sterling Pound and Euro.

Some interesting things, when traveling in Argentina, and dealing with money:

Bills. It is almost impossible to get change for a 100 peso note sometimes, especially at night, and you never want to use it for a taxi, as one of the most popular scam is: the taxi driver well do a quick switch and give you back a fake bill, and say that it’s fake and need another, at which point you provide a second bill, and he gives you the change with a fake fifty and twenties, so your ten pesos fare, just cost you 200 pesos. Keep in mind that the 100 pesos is approximately thirty US dollars, and is the most common denomination out of the ATM. There are actually a huge amount of counterfeit bills in circulation, at least in the hands of a foreigner.

Modenas (coins). Another form of valued cambio (change) are the modenas, actual change/coins, largest are the single peso down to the five centos coin. The buses only take coins, and many kiosko/quicky marts are always running short on change, and I have even been turned away from some purchases because they can’t make change for me. The single peso coin, is a hot commodity, for those that take buses.

ATMs. The biggest grip, that you will hear from the foreigners, is that the ATMs are set up, so that you can extract a maximum of 300 pesos with each transaction. You can do as many transactions as you like to reach your daily limit, but as each transaction generally incurs a fee, this can and will be a costly exercise. Some have been able to find ways around this, but none seems to work consistently, and when it does happen, it may be a fluke and you just consider yourself lucky. The explanation that I have been told, is that, many of the locals do not trust the banks, so they pull their money out, as soon as it is available, therefore the banks limits the amount one can extract, for Argentines at 1000 pesos, and foreigners at 300 pesos. The fellow lemmings, believe that the real reason, is to charge you the $5 USD plus fee, each time you pull out the equivalent of $100 USD.

Mortgage. Crazy enough, it is possible to buy many large purchases, such as TVs, refrigerators, appliances, even clothing and shoes on an installment plan. But, it is not possible to buy a flat/house, with a loan/mortgage. Most people buy their place, all cash, and the only form of payment plans require to pay for everything within a year. As a result, most people, live at home well into their late twenties, and housing prices have remained modest compared to other parts of the world, especially to foreigners, including myself.

Rewind: Brazil

Pictures of Brazil:

Iguazu – Argentina and Brazil

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.33nd0azv&x=0&y=-o8fyfr&localeid=en_US

Salvador to Florianopolis

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.6kwa7mbf&x=0&y=a1yfe2&localeid=en_US

Rio

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.7mqq11ov&x=0&y=66m8zt&localeid=en_US

Rio – Carnaval

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.7e1sjcj3&x=0&y=-2zisaz&localeid=en_US

Library Book(s)

Much like that forgotten library book, I am a bit overdue with the uploading of pictures. Fortunately, I was able to get a computer installed at the apartment, so enjoy the pictures from the remaining portion of my Asia tour. Can’t believe that some of these pictures are almost five months old.

Dubai

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.c5nqfcxr&x=0&y=1y9mxi&localeid=en_US

Hong Kong & Macau

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.7izti31r&x=0&y=-6×6h12&localeid=en_US

Cambodia

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.1kls1qdn&x=0&y=-417z3e&localeid=en_US

Cambodia – Angkor Wat

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.1ph4stjf&x=0&y=uapvyg&localeid=en_US

Laos

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.5xpcmsej&x=0&y=-o8w0t9&localeid=en_US

Taiwan

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=78ky293.5nwpt0yf&x=0&y=xsjwpa&localeid=en_US

The Hidden City

Laura and Noelia, always sit in the front of the class, pay attention, but are much to shy to ever answer any of the questions, first. Diana, is sassy, smart, and a show off, as she loves to raise her hand before I even finish asking the question, and likes to whisper the answers, when I am asking one of the other students. Jesus and Alexis are buddies that always arrive to class together, albeit constantly a few minutes late, and always sit together, but elbow each other almost the whole duration of the one hour class. Natalie, is a mix of all the others combined, always smiling and shy when she doesn’t know the answer, but excited and eager to participate when she does. My class started with these six kids when I arrived on my first day, as the profe (professor), of the level B students, aged 9 to 12. Since than, my class has grown to an enrollment of ten, with the addition of the sister-brother team of: Noelia and Nahuel, clearly the brightest, in terms of current knowledge of English, in our class. And Christian and Osuald, who just started the last week.

The classroom is small, and I have to steal chairs from the common areas, when the kids all show up, on the same day. As the English class, is free and not a part of any mandatory program, many of the kids show up here and there, but I have been lucky, with the majority of the kids showing up almost everyday day. Conviven is an NGO, with a centre located in Ciudad Oculta, translated as the hidden city, due to the level of poverty and it’s forgotten existence to those that live outside of it. On Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, the centre offers four English classes free of charge, two at 3:30 pm, and the other two, an hour later. One class at each hour is catered for the younger kids, level A, while the other is for the older kids, level B. During those times, adults also stroll in for both group and individual lessons, based on the number of students their knowledge, and the availability of volunteers that particular day.

The volunteers come from all around the world, with many from non-native English speaking countries, such as: France, Norway and Denmark. Then there are those of us from English speaking countries, but are often reminded of how different our language really are from each other, starting with the letter Z (zee to those from the States, but zed to those from the various Commonwealth countries).

Although the actual hours for the majority of our group are short, 3 hours a day, 3 days a week, the trek to and from Conviven makes for a very long day. After taking Spanish class in the morning from 9 to 1 pm, I have about 40 minutes to grab something to eat and run any errands, before hopping on the 103 bus for Conviven. After an approximately 45 minute bus ride, I am dropped off at a corner in Barrio Mataderos, and cross the street to wait at the snack shop of the local gas station, to join the other volunteers, as we are picked up by the staff of Conviven, to walk to the centre together. Apparently, the neighborhood is not the safest, and the staff at Conviven does everything in it’s power to make the volunteers, feel safe and protected.

My first class starts at 3:30 pm and is followed by the tutoring of some adults, along with Courtney starting at 4:30 pm. Last week, I have also been given the privilege of teaching Carmen, a sweetheart and one of the managers of the centre, for her first formal (or informal in my case) English lessons. Than, at about 6:15, I hop on a bus headed back for the MicroCentre of Buenos Aires, and finally make it back to my home away from home, at half past seven.

Having never taught English, as the primary lead teacher, I am constantly kept on my toes to read the students, and to adapt the class to keep the kids excited and interested. These kids, from homes and poverty level, that we are fortunate enough to never know, or ever understand, have great energy and thirst to learn, that I feel obligated to keep them interested and motivated to return to class each week. The tough part, has been, that they come from different knowledge base of this foreign language, and have an amateur teacher, who is developing their lesson plans on the fly. I just found out that Nahuel and his sister Noelia are actually world class tournament chessplayers, with Nahuel competing in the World Championships in Turkey, earlier this year. That clearly explains how diverse the students can and may be, but obviously Nahuel and Noelia are the exception more than the norm, in any city of any country, rich or poor.

The best feeling has been, when you see that light bulb turn on in the eyes of the kids and adults, and after only a few weeks as their profe, I feel as proud as any of their relatives might feel. The hardest, has been when you feel that you might have failed, when a couple of the kids feel completely lost, and you have no other idea of how to teach that material to the kid, as your knowledge of Spanish is limited, and you can not jeopardize the attention of the other kids in class. Luckily for me, the kids mostly all get along, and the ones that easily understand and learn the material, seem eager to help the others who don’t.

Although, I have described mostly about the kids, the adult class is very much the same, but with the work load and other commitments that being an adult requires, their attendance seem to be a lot more sporadic. Courtney and I, do have one student, Gilberto, who probably the age of our father, has the excitement to learn, as much as the kids. Starting with the basics, of ABCs and 123s, he constantly surprises me each class with perfectly pronounced sentences, that he has learned from television. His motivation to learn and speak English, now, is because he just found out that he has a sister in the States, and somehow they got connected from the internet. Now, he wants to learn the language, so that one day, he can have an in-depth conversation with her and learn about who she is and about his new extended family.

It is truly a humbling experience, being a novice volunteer, when surrounded by those who have a lot less, and are probably more appreciative of everything that they do have. And more so, knowing that you are just passing through, as if browsing through the window into a part of their life, not knowing if you should feel lucky, previledged or guilty, for everything that we do have.

And, once again, there are the true volunteers, those that commit: months, years, if not their whole life to organizations such as this. To talk to the other volunteers and to hear their resume of helping out, and their aspirations to save and change the world, makes you wonder if you could really be from the same species, as they clearly have something that you don’t. But, they never let you doubt the importance of your role, no matter how little it is. In some ways, when you compare yourself to them, you feel like a parasite/a leech, as you backpack across continents, in a quest of self fullment to see the wonders of the world, they/others stay behind to make a difference.

Since the beginning of this trip, many have asked me: what are you searching for, or running from? My answer has always been the same, I just want to see the world. But it’s experiences like this, that makes me ask, myself the same question.

Conviven’s website: www.centroconviven.blogspot.com

Spidey Sense

Just like being back in High School, all over again, I started this morning by rolling out of bed, less than an hour before the start off class. After spending two weeks, switching between a couple of hostels, I found a room to rent in a shared flat in the Recoleta/Barrio Norte area. My walk to school now, jumped from one minute to about twenty minutes.

Like all the other typical mornings, after a late night out, I dragged myself out of bed, washed up, and left myself about ten minutes to speed through my homework and breakfast, before I had to hurry downstairs, to walk the twelve blocks to my Spanish school. As, it was a Tuesday, a day off from Conviven, where I teach English in the afternoon, I made plans with Zoe, Lorraine, and Orla, to play some basketball at my gym in the MicroCentre. Luckily, because of this, I had with me an extra change of clothes.

With my Ipod on, my sling bag filled with my school materials and the change of clothes, and a basketball in hand, I probably stuck out, like a sore thumb, on the streets of Buenos Aires. After making it more than two-thirds of the way to school, I suddenly felt a: SPLAT, over my left shoulder, and saw some white mushy debris fly pass me. Instinctively, I grabbed at my left shoulder, and my right hand was now covered in some white gooey, mushy, mess. I looked at it in disgust, thought, yuck, and flicked my wrist, to have the larger portion fall to the ground.

Immediately, I looked up and behind me to see the source of the crap. A lady passed me, none the wiser, than a guy a few feet behind me, montioned to the sky, as to say it was a bird or something, and reached into his pocket for some napkins, and swipped at my back to assist. He than, motioned for us to get out of the way, by walking into the building alcove. Initially, I took a step and reached for his hand of napkins, than an alarm rang in my head, my Spidey Sense, told me that something smelled funny on the streets of Gotham. Why would a random guy walk down the street in the morning with a pocket full of napkins, plus I knew that it wasn’t bird crap, as it wasn’t warm, as if it just came from a warm blooded animal. So, I pretended to walk towards him with a step, grabbed a few of the napkins, than immediately turned 180 and walked away from there. A block away, I went into a quicky mart, bought a bottle water, and proceded to wash my hair, neck and hands, and changed in the middle of the sidewalk.

Later, over the course of the next couple of days, I told a few people about the random “bird crap” incident, not knowing for sure if it was an attempted robbery/mugging. Others, assured me that I overted from being stuck up with a knife or gun, and someone told me that they had a friend who had a similar thing happen, where when he followed into the alcove, a couple other guys popped out, and another incident with a guy flashing a gun.

Although stories of being robbed/mugged in South America, have been common, it is important to remember that common sense and acting cool, will get you out without any harm, and only the lose of some pesos. These street criminals are often times as nervous as you are, and want to run away as fast as they can, and are not looking to get into any physical altercation. So, when walking on the streets of the big cities of Buenos Aires, Sao Paulo, Rio, and Salvador, only carry what you are willing to lose, meaning not all your credit cards, and cash. If you are carrying your camera, many people have adopted, removing their flash cards from the camera, when walking through a dark or sketchy neighborhood. Seriously, the majority of the places are fine, especially during the day light hours. And by using common sense of: not being flashy, don’t walk through questionable/dark sketchy neighborhoods that you are unfamaliar with, alone, and acting like a stupid turisto, you will be fine. I have met some travelers that have become overly paranoid, to the point that you don’t want to go anywhere with them. Often times it’s because they have been mugged or something was stolen, but when you look at the city you live in, or the big city near you, is it really that much different? Now, if I could only spin some web from my wrist, and fly through the city, by swinging from building to building.

Irish Sisters

Sitting in the lobby of Party Central known as the Milhouse, I saw a familiar face sitting across from me. We both looked and pointed at each other, and said: don’t I know you from somewhere. Than, begins the game of: where did we meet, first you start backwards from the most recent destination, country, than city, than hostel… until you figure it out. The backpacking/lemming community, is both large and small at the same time, but the best is that it can be a tight knit community, when you are lost among the sea of strangers. Often times, you may be alone at a bus depot, or checking into a new hostel, when suddenly you see a familiar face. You may never have spoken to this person before, but you both recognize each other, and that is all you really need, as that is the bond that connects you, and instantly you become long lost friends, and no longer feel along. This is what, make traveling alone, not so lonely, and is one of the things that I know, that I will miss most, when this trip is over. In many ways, when you travel solo, you may actually meet more people, as you are forced to get out there and meet others, or else it could be a long and lonely road ahead.

After rattling of at least a dozen places, we finally figured out where we met, when she called her traveling mates for help. When, I looked over to see who her mates were, I immediately recognized her two other friends. Funny thing was, that I would not have recognized anyone of them individually, as we didn’t even talk much to each other, but with the three of them together they were truly memorable. I met the girls, I affectionately refer to as, the Three Musketeers back at Itacare, on consecutive nights. Standing in front of the Favela Bar on Main Street, Beau and I ran into the girls, on one night, than saw them standing in the same exact spot the following night. On the second night, I mentioned to them, that they are either homeless and squatting on that land, or they should be paying rent. And literally that was almost the extent of my initial conversation with them, little did I know, I would soon become the talent and publicity agent for the dynamic trio.

Zoe, Lorraine and Orla, from Ireland, with Lorraine being the common denominator, as she grew up with Orla, and worked with Zoe. From the average outsider, you would have thought that they were best friends since birth. After we exchanged the common stories of our recent travel path, Zoe, reminded me that it would be St Patrick’s Day tomorrow, and that they were truly going to represent, outfitted from head to toe, and invited me to join their crew. Not recalling in recent history, that I ever had the chance to celebrate St Patty’s with real green bloods, I gladly accepted, and digged into my bag for any article of clothing with the slightest hint of green.

When they said, head to toe, they weren’t kidding. These girls really did it up, not only did they have green, but they did it true Irish style, as they wore the other colors of the Ireland flag as well, with white and orange. Starting with a huge sparkling green top hat, reminiscent of the tea party from Alice in Wonderland, to the white Nike sweat bands, the orange spandex, to the green socks, the three girls were dressed identical and stuck out like the Obelisk at Avenida de Julio. The four of us headed for the Barrio Norte area, in search of the Irish bar, Kilkenny’s. First we walked north along Avenide de Julio, and that was quite the sight, with hundreds if not thousands of Portenos walking home after walking, doing a double take, as they saw these three girls dressed in attire that made no sense to them. Than, with Lorraine, jumping in front of random people, wishing them: top of the morning to ya, and a Happy St Patrick’s Day, in her best Irish pirate voice, if they didn’t notice the three of them before, they did now. Some people stared puzzledly, as we passed by, but most just smiled and pointed. It was great to witness, as I felt awkward walking between the three girls, as if I was their agent or manager traveling to some gig, felt even more uncomfortable and sterotypical, when I took random pictures of them walking down the street, so I pulled back and walked behind them to see the people’s reaction. It was actually very reminscent of the movie Patch Adams, where people started to smile and became happy, just by the sight and acknowledgement by someone dressed in a custom. The girls even made a couple police officers in a car, smile and wave.

Who would have known, that St Patrick’s Day in Buenos Aires, would yield one of the best street parties of the year. We arrived at pub row, to find a couple of the streets closed off to traffic, so that the celebration/festivities was much more in the streets than any one bar. As soon, as we approached the major intersection, the lights turned on, and bulbs started to flash. There were news camera, photograhers, and journalist, everywhere wanting to get pictures of the girls, and their publicity agent (okay, maybe I sponged off of their fame, but unfortunately there was no fortune). As we walked down the street in search of a pub without a line, they were followed almost every step of the way, and others started to jump in, in an attempt to ride their coat-tails. Eventually, we teamed up with another group of green clad lemmings from New Zealand, and partied the night away. The party ended up back at the hostel, but as it was a school night for me, I called it a night some what early, and apparently missed out on the truly crazy part of the night.

After that night, I suddenly became an adopted member of the Three Musketeers, the Three Amigoes, almost like that member of the Ratpack that no one knows, if you were born anytime after the 70s (Peter Lawford, I had to look it up). The four of us, broke bread many nights at La Cabrera, one of the preimer steak resturants in Palermo, with Orla’s parent’s even treating us one night, thanks again Mr & Mrs Cosgrove. During that time, I found out that these girls were not your ordinary backpacker, taking a Gap Year/Time Out, but all three had very professional jobs/career back home, two lawyers, and the other an organizational assesor for a telecommunications company. It was one of the first time, that I finally found another pack of lemmings, that were at a similar point in their life, and still act as crazy, and have as much fun as any recent college grad. Believe it or not, one of them, even collects Nike sneakers, and claims to have more pairs than I do. Maybe I do have some Irish blood after all.

All-Righttttt!

This trip has always been about spending the bulk of the time in South America. Originally planning for a month and half in Europe, two months or so in Asia, and the remaining three months, mas o menos, in South America. For whatever reason, ever since the early part of the Asia leg, I was just waiting/anticipating for my trip to Buenos Aires. Having never been there, and only knew a couple people who ever have, I was putting a lot of faith into what I have read and heard about Argentina and it’s capital city. Maybe it’s the abundance and hearty portion of steak, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s one of the only country in the world in which it’s currency has not made up ground on the US Dollar, or maybe it’s the stories of how the city is filled with some of the most beautiful people in the world, with the Portenos’ mixed bloodline of Latin America and European. For whatever reason, the bar had been set pretty high, and my biggest fear was that it would not meet my expectations.

The bus arrived into the main regional bus depot by the Retiro metro station, mid-morning, about an hour late. The traffic was heavy and hectic, but the sun was shining, and I could not be happier, as I was here, merely hours from my first Argentine steak. I had finally reached a destination, that I didn’t have an immediate countdown of the number of days before I had to purchase my departure ticket, and had to pack my bags, again. My intention was to stay flexible, open minded, and to give Buenos Aires a full month, where I could get more of a real/authentic feel for the vibe and essence of the city, rather than the quick browse that you get with only a few days to a week. Additionally, I had made contact with a language school to sign up for a few weeks of Spanish lessons, and to learn about volunteering oppurtunities, in an attempt to be productive.

For the first week or so, I made reservations at a couple of hostels, giving me time to explore the city, and to determine the correct Barrio to live in. The first hostel was nice, comfortable, and very tranquilo, maybe a bit too much for my first days in the energetic city of Buenos Aires. After three days, I transferred to THE party hostel of BA, and maybe in all of South America. The reason, that I didn’t move into this hostel from the start was that I couldn’t get in, as almost all of the weekends are booked a full month out. But, it really didn’t matter, as the parties at the hostel and the energy of it’s occupants, resemble that of a nocturnal species, not dependent on the day of the week, but rather the time of day, or should I say: night. To sum up the environment and craziness of the place, it’s the only hostel that you will ever hear many backpackers say: I had to finally checkout and move into a different place, so that I can finally get some rest.

After five days there, I switched back to the first hostel, as learning Spanish was the priority and the traquil hostel was coincidentally located just across the street from the school, which meant that I could almost just roll out of bed, when the first school bell rang (not really, but remember back in high school, with the tardy bells).

As, I will be in Buenos Aires for a month, the next few blogs entries well be different in format. Instead of attempting to log my daily activities, which will likely become routine and monotonous (more so, if you have thought so already), I will write about random events and experiences, that I would like to remember and hopefully are some what entertaining to you. The first, such entry:

On my third day in Buenos Aires (BA), I finally made it to the roof of the hostel, which was home to a terrace bar, and had a great view of the colonial style buildings and their rooftops, along Avenida de Mayo. The talk of the evening was the Bob Dylan concert later that night. I must have been hiding under a rock, as it was the first I heard of it. A few of us, ticketless souls, were discussing various alternatives for the evening, when a guy walked up to us and annouced that he had one ticket to the concert that he had to sell, as his buddy was MIA, and he had fronted him the cash for the ticket. Since the other guys, I was talking to, were in a group of four, they all nodded that I should take the ticket, if I wanted to go. I told the guy, that I would buy the ticket, only if I could split a cab with him and his friend, to which he happily nodded. We decided to head off in about ten minutes, so I ran back downstairs to change, and returned to find him and his friend, opening a new bottle of beer. I asked him when are we planning to leave, and when was the scheduled start of the concert. His answer to each, was: in about ten minutes, and at 9:30 pm, which meant that we would leave about 15 minutes before the concert was scheduled to start. I didn’t have too much of a problem with this, as concerts never start on time, and plus we are now on Argentina time. Than fifeteen minutes passed, than half an hour, than they opened another bottle and started to smoke as well. I started to get antsy, and asked again, when are we planning to leave, as everybody else had left more than half an hour ago. They finally responded that they were waiting for a call from their friends from another hostel, who they wanted to follow to the concert. After another fifeteen minutes, their friends finally called, and wouldn’t you know it, they now said that they were going to their room to change for the concert. In my pass life, I would have blew a gasket, but a s a new tranquilo South American I just told them that we really needed to head out soon, as I doubt that Dylan would have someone else for an opening act.

Eventually we hailed a cab sometime after ten pm, and they decided to ask the taxi driver to stop at the quicky marts along the street so that they could get some beer, in an attempt to drink some more, before they had to pay the inflated prices in the stadium. We arrived at the stadium so late, that the immediate area had already been closed off to traffic, and had to walk a few blocks before we heard the music as we approached the stadium. That is when we realized how late, we really were, as there were little or no other concert go-ers in sight. So, we immediately broke into a sprint, around the stadium, into the entrance and onto the field of the general admission area. As, I was now a bit annoyed with my companions, for the tardiness, I immediately took a spontanteous left into a thick crowd so that I could lose them, in an attempt to enjoy what remained of the concert alone, or at least away from them. When I found a place to stand, I asked my neighbors: when the concert had started. To which, they responded, 9:30 pm, right on time. It was now 10:45, and less than half an hour later, Dylan and his band, walked up to the edge of the stage, waved, than bowed, and walked off. The wave of appluase, caused them to return for a two song encore, but than it was over, as the stadium lights turned on, signaling us to make way for the exits.

Luckily for me, all was not lost, and from my perspective, it was still an entertaining night, for two reasons. One, not being a premium full fledged paying member of Dylan’s official fan club, I have minimal knowledge of his full catalogue to songs, and my only requirement was to hear, “Like a Rolling Stone,” which I did. And to be honest, he was almost incomprehensible when he spoke, initially I thought that he was speaking Spanish, as I could not understand what he was saying or singing into the microphone. But, as I didn’t recognize a sngle word from my Spanish volcabulary, I quickly came to the realization, that what he was speaking was not a foreign language to me, rather it was a different dialect of English, it was mumble-nese.

Secondly, I had one of the most entertaining taxi drivers, ever. As soon, as we hopped in and gave our destination, he immediately knew that it was for the Dylan concert, and became excited that we were possibly fans of music in English. He than asked if he could turn up his radio, and play some songs from his collection. As the first song began, he started to bounce in his seat, and pump his fist, in excitement, and explained that he was a serious fan of 80’s music. From Madonna, to Lionel Richie, to Inxs, to Guns and Roses… his collection from that era was much greater than what I had in my Ipod. And to each and every song, he sang along, saying each word almost perfectly. After the first song, he asked me the meaning of a few lyrics, not understanding what he meant, as he knew the words so well. It soon became apparent, that he memorized the sounds of the lyrics, but had little understanding of the words. After, I explained a few to him, and as the next song started, he started to bounce again, pump his fist in the air, and started to shout: All-Right! As, we were all from the States, he said that he heard that everybody from the States, always said: Alright, and that it was now his favorite word to say. Of course this immediately prompted the three of us, to throw our fist in the air, and to yell out: Allll-Righttttt!

Chasing Waterfalls

Arguably, the waterfalls at Iguazu as known on Argentina’s side, or Foz de Iguacu, as known on the Brazilian side, is one of the natural wonders of the world (by the way, Paraguay also actually borders this collection of waterfall, at Ciudad del Estes, but is known more for the electronic swapmeet and/or the Itaipu Dam, than any Cataratas). The distinction of world’s largest waterfall actually goes to Victoria Falls in Africa, bordering the countries of: countries of Zambia and Zimbabwe. But some argue that although Victoria Falls may be larger in area, Iguazu is actually larger in terms of volume of water, which is always important when talking about waterfalls. Than there are the Angel Falls in Venezula, which is home to one of the tallest drops. In any event, when comparing falls, such as Niagra Falls to Iguazu, it would be similar to comparing a toddler to a linebacker in the NFL, or a rugby player for the non-Americans.

The seventeen hour bus ride, mas o menos (more or less), passed without incident. Surprisingly, I have become somewhat accustomed to the overnight to 18 hour rides/trips. I still remember dreading my first fifeteen plus hour bus ride, from Prague to Copenhaven, at the beginning of this journey. Now it’s the twenty plus hour trips, that I dread, as I sleep well in the bus, but can be bored beyond words, during the daylight portion of the trip.

During the ride to Iguazu, I came of the realization, that today, was the day, I was actually leaving Brazil. After spending six weeks in my first South American country, I felt a little mixed about saying goodbye. Brazil, was truly a test of will to enter, but it was very much worth the effort. Despite all the hassles and precautions that you must take as a tourist/foreigner, it is important that you don’t let the fear and paranoia over take you, as you will find the locales to be: tranquilo, friendly, gracious, fun loving and very helpful.

As I arrived into the city of Foz de Iguacu, I immediately hopped onto a local bus, that took me to the border of Brazil and Argentina. There are two checkpoints, one for each country. On the Brazil side the bus doesn’t wait for you, as you have to hop off to get your stamp, and hop on the next one. Whereas, on the Argentine side, the bus waits as everyone gets processed. After going through both checkpoints, I finally arrived at the Iguazu bus station in the middle of town, only to hop on my fourth bus of the day, headed to my home for the next couple days. Initially I planned to visit Argentina’s side of the falls, that day, followed by re-entering Brazil to see the falls, on the other side the next. But, when I arrived later than expected, and saw that their was a large swimming pool at my hostel, I decided to call it a day, and just to push everything off by a day.

The Hostel Inn, is one of the most random hostels, I have seen or stayed in. As you approach, the only thing you notice is the large swimming pool in the front, resembling a swank hotel. The lobby is large, with pool tables, a large TV lounge area with plenty of couches, a movie room, a caferteria/dining hall, and an actual check-in counter, like a real hotel (seriously unheard of in the world of hostels). Of course at this point, I was quite happy with my selection of accomodations. But than when I got my room and bed, I was somewhat brought down to Earth. My bed was located in a diconnected lodge off to the side, where there were no doors to seperate my sleeping area/bed from those going upstairs and walking through the hall, and very little lighting, which probably was a good thing, so I couldn’t notice how dirty my dorm room and bed were. But, if the bathroom was any indictation, it’s a good thing that I was never in the room longer than fifteen minutes when I was awake. It was quite obvious, that all the expenses and labor went into the main building (where they also have rooms), instead of the lodges with dorm rooms, than it all made sense, when I found out that the Inn, was formally a casino.

The next morning, I got up bright and early, and caught the public bus to the Cataratas (waterfalls). For a mere 40 pesos ($1 USD = 3.17 Argentine Pesos) entrance fee, you are free to roam throughout the National Park. Of course, I was suckered into doing the boat ride, to get close in an attempt to feel and hear the power of the falls. There are two options for the boat ride: one, a quick fifeteen minute ride, where you approach the base of two falls, and get drenched for 60 pesos, and the second, for 120 pesos, you are taken on a “jungle ride” on the back of an open bus, followed by a longer boat ride through two “rapids” and finish with the same boat ride that take you to the base of the two waterfalls. Hopefully you can tell, by my use of qoutes that the extra 60 pesos was not worth it, but for a mere $20 USD, the fifeteen minute boat ride, is a must do. Many of the others were disappointed, as the boat never got close to Garganta de Diabo (the Devil’s Throat), but after feeling the power of this much smaller waterfall, you begin to realize, that you wouldn’t survive if you were anywhere close to the base of these great falls.

I could go on and on about the grandness and majesty of the falls, and how you are in awe of it’s power and beauty. But, I will just say this: you only start to realize the raw energy and electricity of the falls, when you are standing at the catwalk towards the top of the Devil’s Throat, still hundreds of meters away, but are being drenched by the mist created by the falls, and can not hold any conversation with the person standing next to you, as the thundering and pounding of the water, resembles that of an approaching train. That day, is only second to Petra, in terms of the number of pictures that I took in one day.

The next day, I returned back into Brazil, to see falls from the other side. To be honest, it was a little anti-climatic, after being so close to the falls the day before. Viewing the falls from both sides, is worth while, but I would definately recommend visiting the Brazil side first, as it’s great for the panaromic view, and of course to Argentina for the close up. Other recommendations for the trip to Argentina’s side: pack some snacks, as it’s a long day, and the food are sporadic in terms of food type and location; do the lower circuit first, than the upper circuit, which takes you to the big daddy, the Devil’s Throat.

Floripa

Ask any lemming, about the best beaches in Brazil, and Florianopolis is sure to be near the top of the list. Located in the state of Santa Catarina, Florianoplis (aka Floripa) is it’s capital city and one of the most affluent city in the whole country. Floripa is physically located both on the mainland and on the Ilha (island) de Santa Catarina. Upon arrival to the regional bus station, most including myself, hop directly onto the locale bus bound for the Ilha, as it’s home to 42 beaches, some of which are the most beautiful in Brazil and also home to some of the best surfing waves, similar to Itacare. The two main places to stay are in Lagoa or closer to the beach at Barra da Lagoa. I decided to stay at the Tucano Hostel in Lagoa, based on a recommendation from a friend, and as it provided easier access into the city and resturants for the night life, while still being close enough to the beach during the days.

The two main beaches, based on where I stayed are: Praia Mole and Praia Joaquina, each a healthy walk or a 15 to 20 minute bus ride. Mole in my opinion is the better of the two beaches, as the sand is white and fine, but as the Brazilian Surf Championship was happening that weekend at Joaquina, we split our time at the two beaches. While at Mole, as I woke up from another mid-day nap, what did I happen to see but, two guys tossing a football (American) around, I immediately jumped up and introduced myself, and asked to join in. This would be only the third time this whole trip that I got to throw the ole’ pigskin around, the first time was way back at our campground in Stockholm (about nine months ago), and crazy enough the second was just a few days prior on the beach of Impanema, when I went to catch the sunset on the beach, I saw a few guys tossing the football and joined them too. In that case, it was a bunch of locale Brazilian guys who were in a beach American Football league. They explained that the sport was becoming popular, and that their league had games every Saturday in the morning on the beaches of Impanema or sometimes Copacabana. This time the two guys, were from the States, and oddly enough one of the guys was from my most recent hometown of Costa Mesa.

Originally the plan was to stay in Floripa for two or three nights, but after the first full day, I immediately extended my reservation for five days, and considered additional days beyond that. The days in Floripa flew by, and although they were somewhat routine of: milling around the hostel and town till around mid-day, than heading to the beach till just before dusk, followed by dinner with the gang, than hanging out at a bar, club or a buddy’s house till the am hours, they were always different and fun. Once again, the friends that I met, made all the difference in the world, there were: Kate and Sarah, best friends traveling together from Australia; Sam, raised in London, but most recently from Dubai and Suadi Arabi, where he worked for a couple years; and Rob from Ireland. Both Sam and Rob, had originally stayed at our hostel weeks ago, but as they, like many others fell in love with the area, thay each found apartments down the street, and became our personal guides for our stay there. Sam, probably had one of the more interesting stories. Many years ago, Sam saw a surfing movie named Riding Giants. According to him, that movie changed his life, as now he has quite his job as an economist, and is now dedicating his life to surfing, with the goal of riding the giants himself one day. The kicker is that before watching that movie, he had never even attempted to surf.

If you ever make it to Floripa, I would highly recommend trying sandboarding by Praia Joaquina. For only 10 Reais you can rent a sandboard equipped with velcro for you to strap your feet into, as you attempt to board down the dust fine sand dune/hill. The number of runs are only limited to how many times you could gather enough energy to climb back up the hill. It was one of the more fun sporting type activity that I have done on this trip, ranks definately higher than para-gliding at a fraction of the price. A funny story, only because no one was seriously hurt: Rob, Kate, Sarah and I shared two boards, as you could not do back-to-back runs due to the climbing of the hill, so one would watch and help critique the others technique to help them with their following run. Each one of us, was improving signifanctly with each of our sucessive runs, until fatigue started to set in. First the girls, tried to slide down, tobaggon style, and as the board was narrow, they had a hard time keeping their line straight, and as they approached the bottom, they wiped out, and each thrown off the board. Sarah ended up with the board hitting the back of her foot, causing a cut, and thus ending her day of sandboarding. Kate now without her bobsled partner, reverted back to boarding down the hill conventional style. She had actually done very well her last couple runs, and was growing with confidence each time. On her final run, she started off great, bending her knees in an effort to keep a lower center of gravity. As she didn’t fall yet, her speed down the hill was probably greater than her previous set, and we cheered her on, as she was blazing down the hill. Than, as she approached the base, she lost control, and full on, stacked it! Which is Ozzie for: fell hard, planted, ate it, bit it, wiped out… It was as if I heard Jim McKay say, “Spanning the globe to bring you the constant variety of sport! The thrill of victory…and the agony of defeat! The human drama of athletic competition! This is ABC’s Wide World of Sports!” And as he said the agony of defeat, instead of showing the Slovene Ski Jumper tumbling down the ramp, there was Kate stacking it in the sand. As she tumbled, I could only see her limbs from behind the plomb of dust she caused as she rolled down the hill. The next thing I saw, was the board flying out from the cloud of sand. When she finally rolled to a stop, we all held our breathe to see if she was alright, to determine if we needed to hurry down the hill to assist her. She immediately jumped up, bent over with her hands on her knees, and started to laugh hysterically. I then grabbed the extra board and met her mid-way down the hill, and she was still laughing, and told me that she had some bumps on her legs from the crash, and was hanging it up for the day. When we asked if she was okay, she said that she was fine, but when it happened she knew that it was going to be a good one, and only hoped that she wasnt going to be injured. But, when she got up, all she could do was laugh. She wasn’t sure why she laughed, but is was the only thing that her body would allow her to do at the time. In the end, she was fine with a few battle scars. but she definately won the prize for the best stack of the day, if not the week or month.

Another funny story, involved our buddy Caio (sounds like Kyle), who was the one of the managers of the hostel. His family owns the hostel, so he and his sister ran it most of the days. Caio is in his young to mid-twenties, and the hostel offered him plenty of new friends each week. Right off the bat, we hit it off with Caio, so we hung out a couple times at night. On one of my first night, he got us on the semi-VIP list for a popular club down the road, so he were able to get in for half price. On my last night, they had a big VIP party for the Finals of the Surf Competition, and according to him, it was the party of the year. He would give us lamost hour by hour countdowns, and status of reports on whether or not we were on the list. Than about mid-day, he told me that he called in everybody he could, but there was no way we were getting on the list, but he was going to do what he had to, to get in. Later that night, about eight to ten of us, hung around after dinner, debating whether it was worth the hassle to get in line, and pay the exorbitant entrance fee, which was still unknown, but expected to be a minimum of fifty Reais. While the group debated the plan for the night, Caio got a friend to come by with his semi-VIP wrist band, and scanned it into his computer. He told me that he was going to print it out, and give it a try, as the worse thing that could happen was that they wouldnt let him in. He then printed out a few extras, glued it on, and ran out the door, offering to be the gineau pig. If it worked, he said that he would call, and we could follow. After about twenty minutes, we decided to give it a go as well, as we knew that if he made it in, he wasnt going to come out, so a bunch of us went to work and made the fake wrist bands. In the end Caio, who grabbed Kate on the way out, got in, as he sneaked in just before midnight, when the bands really served its purpose, and the rest of us got to the club to find a long line outside, with everybody and their mother wearing the legitimate versions of the bands. We proceded to wait in line for about half an hour, but then heard that the entrance fee was now at 100 Reais, and we were out. The rest of the night, was non-productive, as we walked through town, with the gang constantly asking each other what they wanted to do. When I finally strolled down in the morning, and saw Caio at the desk, he had a big smile, and was about to tell me about how much fun he had last night. I put up my hand and immediately told him, to please say that he had a misreable time at the club, and that it was over-rated. Having already heard about our mis-adventures from last night, he said in his most sarcastic voice: yeah, you didnt miss anything, the place was boring, the music bad, and the girls not pretty, than he laughed, and couldnt help it, so he proceded to tell me about how much fun he had, and how I had missed out on the party of the year.

Go Go Speed Racer

Many of you, probably hoped that the reason I choose to return to Rio, was because I may have met someone special. But, the real answer, was that I just wanted to chill out a couple more days in the sun, before hopping on a bus for 3/4 of a day to Floripa. I was also a bit curious to see what Rio is like, when not hosting the party of the year.

Similar to my first visit, my bus pulled into the Nuevo Rio bus station early in the morning. This time I was a veteran, and quickly walked passed the taxi drivers, headed straight for local bus stands. Again, unlike last time, I could sit comfortably back on the bus without having to constantly look at the street signs and map, to follow the course that the bus was taking, insuring that I didn’t miss my stop or take the wrong bus. After a 30 minute bus ride, I hopped off in Copacabana, and found my home for the next few days at the Stone of a Beach hostel. Staying true to form, this would be my fourth hostel in Rio. My favorite to date was Copacabana Wave Hostel, where I stayed during Carnaval, but had to do with my buddies who worked there, more than the rooms and/or any amenities there, which were more than adequate, but less than desirable for all the champagne backpackers. The funny thing was, that during my first five days when I had stayed at Copa Wave during Carnaval, I was barely there, as I would go to Botafogo to hangout with my friends: Zoe, Nicci and the gang there. Now this time, in one of THE party hostels in Rio, with a bar and jacuzzi on the roof, I spent the majority of my free time back at Copa Wave to hangout with Bernardo and Sarah. Bernardo, is a semi-locale, who was raised in Brazil, but spent his high school years in New York, where he attended high school, and played some basketball. He told me that during his early years, he actually played in a basketball league that he would often play aganist Leonardo Barbosa, of the Phoenix Suns, who was also the 6th man of the year (best non-starter) in the NBA last year. Sarah, originally from England, has been traveling/backpacking for over three years now, and never wants to go home. A journalist by trade and heart, Sarah, spent the early part of her trip in Asia, where she spent a year in Thailand, and worked at the premier English newspaper in Bangkok. Now in Brazil, she hasn’t had as much luck in getting a job in her profession, so she was working at the hostel, to buy her sometime to figure out her next stop and to really keep her expenses to a minimum and to stay afloat. Sarah, also has the distinction, as the only person that I have personally met, that wants to visit French Guiana, certainly not on the path of the lemmings. When ever someone new joined our chat circle, I would ask them in front of Sarah, if they are/were headed for French Guiana, to which some would respond, why would I want to head there, it’s crap and expensive, and I would just look at Sarah and laugh.

Over the course of the next couple days, I would spend the day: jogging and sleeping at the beach, the evening at the Wave hostel, and Bernardo and I went to the street party at Lapaon Saturday night, and the Favela Funk party on Sunday night. To answer my own question, is Rio still crazy, and filled with parties and chaos, outside of Carnaval, the answer is an overwhelming: YES, even when lent is supposedly being observed.

After two nights in Rio, I headed south to the backpacker beach paradise known as Florianopolis. The trip is 18 plus hours, and the bus ticket is around 200 Reais, a ticket I almost had to eat. Feeling confident, that I now knew my way around Rio and the public transportation, I hopped on the locale bus headed for the regional bus station (Novo Rio Rodoviaria), a little less than one hour before my bus to Floripa. Tired from the all-nighter at the Favela Funk, I decided to take a short snooze on the locale bus. Waking up, around forty minutes later, I saw that we were stuck in traffic, but still headed in the right direction, so I just hoped that the traffic would clear soon. Than, after a few more turns, we were in a part of the City that I recognized from the block parties, but not in the vicinity of the Novo Rio bus station. The bus than pulled into the Main Center locale bus terminal (the wrong bus station), and I looked at my watch, and realized that my Floripa bus was taking off in less than fifeteen minutes. I asked the conductor (money collector) how much longer to the Novo Rio bus station, and she said another 20 minutes. So, I jumped off the bus mid-station, and ran like a mad man down the street, weaving between the stopped cars in traffic. When I finally made it to the intersection, I waved down a taxi, chucked my bags into the back seat, and and told him: Novo Rio Rodoviaria, mas rapido, por favor. I pointed to my watch, and kept saying mas rapido. He got the hint, and started to speak Portugese, which I assumed him asking why I am in such a hurry. I pointed to the cars and the bus, and tried to tell him that the traffic was bad and that I took the wrong bus, all the while, I would throw in a mas rapido. At one point the two lane road turned into one, and wouldn’t you know it, after the 40 minute ride on the slowest bus in Rio, my taxi driver tried to beat out this random bus before the lanes merged, but this bus was the fastest one in Rio and made it out in front of us, before the roads converged into one, of course the bus slowed down after that. When we stopped at an intersection, he looked back at me, and I told him that my bus was taking of in exactly five minutes, and to please hurry. He looked foward, and believe it or not, actually prayed, and motioned the sign of the cross with his hand across his forehead, mid-section, and both shoulders. He then weaved in and out between cars, and we almost got slammed into the side by another car at a round-a-bout, and as he turned the corner, I saw the bus station not more than 50 meters infront of us, but we got stuck at a light. He turned around, and looked back at me apologetically, but I flung open the door, gave him the money, and told him to keep the change, yelled at him obrigado (thanks), threw my bags over my shoulder, and jay-ran across the street, bolted through the bus station and terminals, and arrived at my bus about a minute past the scheduled departure time. Luckily the bus was still there. I gave my bag to the porter, checked in, and after sitting in my seat for less than two minutes, the bus pulled out of the berth, and I was on my way to Florianoplis.