Sudamérica

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Agua Dulce, Agua Sala ( South America 2008 )

Commencing transposition of barely legible scrawl in a small black notebook, I begin committing this entry from an internet café overlooking the local plaza of Aguas Calientes, portal town to the Incan ruins of Machu Picchu, deep within the Peruvian Andes.

Trips have a strange tendency to melt into blurs after a short while, so I resolved to purposefully document them henceforth to avoid losing the precious commodity of life experience.

Travelling, in my subjective opinion, has three purposes.

1. To see the world and experience different cultures (the anthropological bent)
2. To force one outside their comfort zone and allow the evaluation life from a more detached standpoint
3. To position for heightened exposure to coincidental anomaly

The coincidental anomalies to which I refer are those moments where something elusive suddenly becomes clear, or one unexpectedly discovers something perception altering. Likelihood of such occurrences increases exponentially whilst travelling (backpacking in particular) as the routine of normal life is broken exposure to unsystematic situations amplified. Individually, such situations do not tend to register as significant, but, taken collectively, a series experienced in a short time frame accelerates personal development at a velocity far greater than scheduled living. So it begins.

***

5^th September

Whilst en route from Sydney to Auckland, the LAN hostess stowed my cabin bag in a different section of the plane. A couple of hours later, I went to retrieve it and asked a hostess “another hostess stowed my bag, do you know where she put it?” After showing me to my bag, she muttered in a barely audible, crestfallen tone “she was me.”

I had neglected to acknowledge I’d asked the very same hostess who stowed my bag.

Incidences like these serve as a reminder that I am still a hypocrite beyond hope of salvation. I cannot begin to comprehend how it must be to spend hours serving people with a smile, without but a glimmer of hope of being recognised as a human being. I wanted to apologize to her and I disembarked at Auckland feeling somewhat guilty but grateful I’d been afforded that small but vital enlightenment.

Auckland to Santiago was comparatively uneventful. The mind doesn’t function at peak capacity when it is under pressure of anticipation, so I put analytics on the backburner and watched Zohan.

Despite my being hypercritical of the mass of entertainment genres, there are isolated incidences where even the most nonsensical of films yield progressive themes. The entire notion of the rivalry between Israel and Palestine for example, though portrayed sardonically in the film, was brought into sharper focus. It brings into question the very concept of allegiance. Why does modern day interracial hatred exist? Must Jews necessarily feel resentment toward Germans? Aborigines to Anglo-Australians? Blacks to whites? Historically, heinous acts have been committed, but must I, as a modern day Anglo-Australian apologise to an Indigenous Australian of my generation for something I was not responsible for, and which he has not been directly affected by?

For this precise reason, division along lines of race or nationality is something I will never quite grasp. The actions of isolated individuals, groups and governments indeed have in the past, and continue to cause damage, yet resentment, being something of a blunt instrument, is misdirected across unconscionable breadths.

Returning to path proper after that philosophical deviation, we arrive at our first destination, São Paulo, Brasil, the most highly populated city in South America, home to some eleven million inhabitants.

Fitting the adventure about to be embarked upon, there was, by happenstance, a particularly amusing exchange between Lord Darlington and Cecil Graham in Act III of Lady Windermere’s Fan (1892) by Oscar Wilde, I read on the plane:

Lord Darlington: You always amuse me, Cecil. You talk as if you were a man of experience.

Cecil Graham: I am. (Moves up to front of fireplace)

Lord Darlington: You are far too young!

Cecil Graham: That is a great error. Experience is a question of instinct about life. I have got it. Tuppy hasn’t. Experience is the name Tuppy gives to his mistakes. That is all. (Lord Augustus looks round indignantly)

I can’t take credit for my reading of Wilde, as that charge is held by a young lady by the name of Sera who compelled me to read his works. Bringing to surface the age old debate concerning experience versus intuition, Cecil makes a compelling argument. Experience is indeed accumulated as we learn from our mistakes. However, this fact does not invalidate perceptive inference or deduction as an equally legitimate source. Time and again, I have found properly executed observation and analysis negates the need to put one’s hand in the fire to see if it is hot.

***

6^th September

First impressions of Brasil were those of a culture not unlike Australia. By virtue of speaking Portuguese, Brasil is isolated from the rest of Latin and South America, which is overwhelmingly Spanish-speaking. As such, Brasil is very much a world unto itself, and quite an introspective nation, similar to the United States. The internal focus is perpetuated by a very high degree of local tourism, and despite strong national fabric, each region possesses a unique brand of culture, down to the dialect of Portuguese spoken. Systems are still highly bureaucratic and inefficient, a legacy of the Portuguese colonisation, and red tape is prohibitively dense.

The people are perceptibly more open and expressive, as evidenced by smiles that conveyed meaning, the routine of embrace, and young teenage couples vacuuming each other’s faces off in the streets. Humanistic tenets permeate secular domains. Loyalty and prerogative are geared firmly toward family and friends over career and employer.

Business is conducted in a manner far removed from the stiff and clinical formality of the West. Relationships are primordial, small talk is vindicated by the interest in the counterparty being genuine, clockwatching is nonexistent, the dialogue, frank and forthright. Degrees of dodging, schmoozing and general balderdash were markedly lower. Most refreshing was the noticeable reduction in what I call the ‘plausible deniability’ phenomenon – that is, the use of heavy obscurity and meandering circumvention popular with paranoid Western businesspeople to bend the truth or cover their backsides.

A further point of intrigue was the sheer disparity between classes, and the manner in which Brasil’s social class system operates. Instead of a working, middle and upper class, people are ranked by affluence from ‘A,’ denoting the elite, through ‘F’ for the impoverished. I could catch a taxi from the Intercontinental in Jardins, (an ‘A’ class district), and minutes later, end up in rolling slums of decaying flats with old clothing hanging from glassless windows.   

Such is the nature of the incredible class divide in Brasil. The only thing that surprised me more was the seeming absence of vertical resentment in the ascending direction, and the patent lack of prejudice in the descending direction. Brasil is a nation of Brasilians, who largely identify with their own countrymen and do not observably denigrate those lower on the social hierarchy.

***

Denigration is visiting a foreign country and expecting them to adapt to you. Being a foreigner, I make an earnest effort to speak the language, even if I sound utterly retarded in the process. It eludes me how one can enter a foreign country with the expectation that one can get by on knowing how to say “hello, yes, no, and thank you” in the foreign tongue and rely on the thumbs up gesture for the rest. Worse are those who incessantly speak their mother tongue and expect people in the host country to understand exactly what they mean. It’s almost painful.

Further along this train of thought, five star hotels I find disconcerting. I have never been able to reconcile being called ‘sir’ and waited on as if I somehow deserve to be treated better because I or my company can afford to pay the rates at the hotel. No sooner than the morning after the Intercontinental had checked me in, I was out venturing the streets and ended up some distance from the safe and pretty Jardins district: at one street market complete with characteristic beggars and piles of decaying organic matter.

There milled a group of old Paulistanos holding an animated conversation in emphatic and fast Portuguese between mouthfuls of a variant on Tortes. I spot the vendor a few metres away, and R1.25 later, I have my very own bread roll filled with freshly carved chicken from a spit, tomato and onion.

A short subway ride later, I step out of the central station, Sè. Sky is cloudless; a nearby temperature gauge reads thirty-one degrees. On the steps of the Cathedral Metropolitan, above the station, a man with a crazy look approaches me and begins to preaching at velocity. Not being able to understand a word he is saying, I implore “No falo Portuges bem, que você quer?” He pauses, reaches into his pocket, hands me two items: a calendar depicting a saint and a small metal charm on a string necklace, and smiles. Silence. A few seconds pass. He looks up at me, eyes expectant. A few more seconds… “Money?” I deserved the self-imposed two Reai penalty – should’ve seen that one coming.

Rather worn-out from exploring, I saunter off to the pool that afternoon to extract some benefit from the hotel facilities. Low and behold, there present is an especially insufferable American with his pillion passenger: an inexhaustible capacity to talk crap. Patrick seemed a typical vacationing middle aged fellow who you’d expect to see lounging next to the pool at a five star hotel; until he opened his mouth. He was trying to convince the two ladies sunbaking adjacent that women expect men to do all the work and don’t put enough effort into relationships. In a half hour tirade of drivel (during which my mind had to raise shields to defend against stupidity) the only remotely intelligible thing he said was that you don’t eat at Subway when vacationing in Brasil.

This broad-spectrum Subway rule also extends to conferencing in Brasil. My ethical code considers ludicrously expensive dining when someone else is paying a moral hazard. The exception to this rule is stockbroking, where AMEX is to broker what stethoscope is to Doctor. Absurdly, the Lobster and Malbec I had that evening at Rubayat (a pretentious restaurant built around a gargantuan fig tree), cost one hundred times as much as lunch, but wasn’t anywhere near as good as that street roll. The fallacies of Epicureanism.   

I stride into the lobby in a slightly vacillated state that evening and meet Melina, the Intercontinental’s absolutely delightful night manageress. By the time she’d pointed out places I should visit on the map, I knew she was one of those people. Living in a sea of neutrality heightens one’s sensitivity to anomalies.

As is often the case, the day ends in the vicinity of two in the morning. A storm rages outside as I sit in the darkened, empty business lounge on the seventeenth floor; my attempts at smashing out emails on a loathsome Portuguese keyboard causing no end of frustration. I am fortunate enough to receive an especially sweet message from an old friend and acknowledge a change in life trajectory.

***

7^th September

Sunday was Brasil’s Independence Day, so I took the opportunity to rummage around for cultural happenings. At Parque Ibirapuera, metallic pings echo as children throw stones against a large, rusted metal panel. Guards sit operating boom gates to private streets in the exclusive district nearby. Outside the Santa Cruz Metrô station, hip hop emanates from nowhere, providing the aural backdrop for street vendors selling pirated movies.

Unable to bear the thought of fast food for lunch, I made a point of visiting the Mercado Municipal that afternoon to pit my pathetic Portuguese against staff at the eateries. Terra de Santa Cruz, an old-world bistro overlooking the markets from the mezzanine was chosen for its understated charm. No sooner had I stopped to glance at the menu, one of the waiters shouts “Ingles!” Seconds later, a character by the name of Cicero appears from the kitchen to explain, in English, the best typical dishes on the menu. A credit to Cicero; the plate of chicken in cream sauce with potato purée and salad, accompanied by a glass of Brahma Chopp Black (a sweet stout that mops the proverbial floor with Guinness) was outstanding fare.

Returning to the Intercontinental, I’d left too great a time contingency before dinner, so I chewed the fat with hotel staff on which cultures made for the most frustrating customers. Contrary to my belief it was the noxiously obnoxious American, a quick poll had the Japanese take first place, followed a close second by the Arab. Among the entertaining stories, was one of an irate gentleman who took issue when the phone was picked up after three rings instead of instantaneously, and another where room assignments had to be changed because of an apparent convention in Arabic culture that those higher on the hierarchy should reside on loftier floors than their subordinates.

Dinner at Fogo de Chão marked the first stop on a carnivorous rampage through various Churrascarias and Parrillas across the continent. To expound, the progression of a meal at a Churrascaria is distinct from the average restaurant. Shortly after being seated, an assemblage of Passadors descend upon the table, each carrying a large knife and an even larger slab of meat on a metal skewer. They proceed to carve chunks of meat onto your plate until you emphatically tell them to stop. In true Church of Duracell Bunny style, here they just keep going, after you tell them to stop. Being of part Argentine heritage, this was nostalgically good, but any self-respecting vegetarian would have been in the seventh circle of hell.

Some ungodly quantity of animal later, Luciano, one of our Brasilian hosts, calls for the chimarrão. The passing around of the gourd from which yerba maté herbal tea is sipped through a bombilla is a social custom in Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay and Brasil. Despite my best attempts to sell maté’s supremacy, the vessel meets with some bewildered looks and polite refusals from fellow Australians as it makes its way around the table. We conclude our dining experience with dessert and obligatory shots.

***

Ten o’clock on any normal Sunday evening, my psychological ether tanks are fully depleted. Not so when there is the imperative of being in an alien environment. A block’s stroll down to Starbucks that night affords further insight. Ten o’clock on any normal Sunday evening, you don’t expect a twenty deep queue outside a chain coffee shop – but then again, as they keep telling me: this is Brasil. Of greater curiosity was the queue’s demographic: young, smartly-dressed Paulistanos and Paulistanas from obviously well-to-do backgrounds, lining up to pay R8.30 for a Venti Caramel Latte. To put this into context, the minimum weekly wage across major metropolises in Brasil would be enough to cover nine such Lattes.

Qualitatively, Starbuck’s is inferior to regular coffee served almost anywhere else in Brasil, and considerably more expensive. Clearly, we have an empirical case of esteem projection. Young people frequent Starbucks because the brand’s tragic Americanism is perceived as differentiated and exotic. When you couple these attributes with elevated pricing, the outcome is status value. Backwardness is a concept you don’t become acquainted with until you see dressed-up teenage couples out on a date at a big box, chain coffee shop.

***

8th September

Karmacoma belts out of my Nokia N95 with headache-inducing treble at the agonising hour of four thirty in the morning: early departures call for extreme measures. Today was the first of many such flights – to Brasilia, then connecting to another bound for Barreiras, Bahia state, where the airport is (literally) a shack.

We arrive in the dusty town, population some fifty thousand, in time for another weeks’ worth of red meat in one sitting at Los Pampas, a traditional feeling, open-air churrascaria, situated down a dirt road off the main thoroughfare. My synapses must’ve been overloaded by the excessive quantities of Guaraná Antarctica consumed with lunch, because the interceding hours are missing in action.

Skipping to the next lucid memory, the small-town amity hit me that evening as I entered Confraria restaurant. By the door stands a glass cabinet housing some hundred bottles of Red Label, some near full, others bone dry, each bearing its owners name. The cabinet’s plaque reads ‘Johnnie Walker Club.’ Dinner, served not a whisker earlier than ten, is accompanied by live folk music, and the evening is rounded out with discussions on farm life and Cachaça (sugar cane liquor) cocktails, spliced with assorted fruit.

***

9^th September 

A Kodak moment on the drive up to the regional airport that morning as a Brasilian colleague sits in the 4WD with an oversized bag of fast food from Giraffa’s, drinking out of a Coke can. 4WD hits pothole. Coke goes everywhere. Laughter ensues. You had to be there.

Strained conversation in a fusion of Portuguese, Spanish and English decorates the remainder of our journey across the bland savannah. In one hour, we had two breakthroughs: I managed to establish that ‘galinha’ was Portuguese for chicken, and they managed to convey their evaluation of two Brazilian girls who passed us on a motorcycle: “mucho caliente.”

Situated two hours by four-seat light plane from Barreiras was our destination: the diversified farming operation: Fazenda São Francisco. Forty thousand hectares of harvested cotton fields stretching out to the horizon, punctuated by truck-sized bricks of cotton every few metres. The farm itself could’ve been a self-sufficient community. Looking like a compound from the air above, the ‘town’ had a fully staffed parts shop, warehouse sized maintenance shed, a carpentry, dormitories, medical centre, canteen, a vast fleet of farming vehicles, a cotton gin, and a few aeroplanes, including the owner’s US$3m Cheyenne II.

Following a comprehensive tour of the facilities, we sat down to a home-style buffet lunch of salad, rice, meatloaf, zucchini filled with a tuna and corn purée, chicken schnitzel, penne, antipasti and palm hearts. It’s not all too often I dine at the table of someone whose wealth has nine figures, so the experience was novel. Among the incongruities were not one, but two white snowflakes jutting from a breast pocket.

It appears even farming is not immune to the projection imperative. Even in the far reaches of rural Brasil, the subtle snowflake born by Mont Blanc writing instruments is acknowledged as a mark of status. But it gets better. Farmers who’ve ‘made it’ are discerned by their reaping and sowing fleet. Once that critical level of success has been reached, the farmer will often liquidate the entire fleet of vehicles and replace them with the shiny green machines bearing prominent yellow John Deere logos.

Whilst standing outside Brasilia airport getting some fresh air, I am asked the time by a gentleman. Some minutes later, I realise how you could justify ‘needing’ two Mont Blanc pens to demonstrate status: most Brasilians don’t wear watches. Trivial though it may seem, the latter fact speaks profoundly to life priorities in Brasil as distinct from the West, where we are slaves to the clock.

***

10^th September

Breakfast offerings at Norton’s in Hotel Melia 21 put the Intercontinental to shame. Worthy of special mention are the granola and selection of smallgoods. What’s more is that they had a jaffle iron sitting discreetly on the corner of the bar. I hold deep reverence for any hotel that provides its guests with both the ingredients and amenities to fabricate toasted sandwiches.

There was a half hour before the first meeting, so we embark on a whirlwind bus tour of Brasilia narrated in a thick Chicago accent by our eccentric American driver, who gestures wildly with both hands, emphatically pointing out various sites. He’d have looked the portrait of a maniac to anyone outside the vehicle (also to anyone inside for that matter). I honestly couldn’t figure out why the man was a bus driver, he was sharp and charismatic enough to be a comedian. A motorist outside makes an obscene gesture at him, and without skipping a beat, he waves and proclaims jovially “Hey! How you doing?” then turns back to us and explains: “I have lots of friends here.”   

Normally, government meetings tend to be mind-numbing, as you’re fed some combination of lies, mumbo-jumbo, practiced promotion, and political fudge disguised as dialogue. Not so with the Brasilian Ministry for Agriculture. The candidness, realism and admissions of policy issues on the part of the bureaucrats were enough to make any sceptic feel they were was hallucinating. Hospitality is similarly unbelievable – outstanding espresso is served, along with pão de queijo, small spheres of fluffy cheese bread popular in region of Minas Gerais, where the Minister hails from.

***

Back in São Paulo, sitting through a blockbuster four hour, 130 slide presentation that runs into early evening, I am bequeathed a crash course in the markets for Soybeans, Corn, Cotton, Sugar and Frozen Concentrated Orange Juice.

Circa nine thirty, I find myself back at the Intercontinental in São Paulo, and venture out for a late dinner. Unsavoury characters have a penchant for haranguing me for money, so it was no surprise when I was besieged in three languages by an unstable looking vagrant who finally demanded “where chu from” when his requests for money in Portuguese, Spanish and English failed. I am forced to issue a blunt “Deutschland” in my best rendition of heavy German to avoid potential altercation. 

Unfortunately, my brief run of the gauntlet was futile, as the Pizzeria recommended by the concierge) didn’t deliver. For want of an open establishment in the vicinity, I defaulted to Domino’s. Subsequent to painstakingly explaining that I needed delivery to a hotel room, and not a street address, I returned along Av. Santos to avoid my vagrant friend and waited in the lobby, remembering I’d quoted the wrong room number by mistake to the Dominiero. In the ensuing twenty minutes, I stand waiting, but alas, no pizza cometh.

This must’ve been providence, as I end up having an in-depth conversation with Melina, punctuated by guests arriving. Brasilian born of Japanese heritage three generations prior, gets bored easily, wants to enjoy life but have a career and base too, and was quitting at the end of the week to work on a cruise ship in French Polynesia. She sees herself as a bit crazy, and speaks fluent Portuguese, Spanish, and English, working Japanese, and wants to learn French and German. The kicker: she is only twenty four.

After some minutes of conversation on life, boredom and the nuances of clients, she calls Dominos and harasses them about my pizza, which arrives promptly thereafter courtesy of a sheepish looking delivery boy. I could’ve kissed her (I didn’t understand a word she said on the phone, but she sounded like the type of woman you wouldn’t want to cross), but instead we exchange details and I withdraw to my room with said pizza, somewhat famished.

***

11^h September

Day seven is the last on the Brasilian leg of the trip. At this stage, I was beginning to tire of normal breakfast combinations, and get a deservedly peculiar look from the waiter as he glances over my table; atop which sits a glass of watermelon juice, bowl of Miso soup, and plate containing boiled rice, fresh fruit and a glazed pastry. Early morning company meetings subsequent to four hours’ sleep stipulate the need for such a breakfast of champions.

In the short space of the meeting’s ninety minutes, I learned of the sheer complexity underlying the international markets for sugar, ethanol, oil, grain and the plethora of linkages in between. Pensiveness is the flavour of the morning as the conference crew disbands, the main party bound for Santiago that afternoon, and I hail a taxi to Guarulhos International, destination Montevideo.

Outside the cab window, bleak scenes of slums and homeless roll by, the stucco buildings and grey dirt a stark contrast to the elegant hues and leafy greens of Ibirapuera, mere minutes away. The driver stops by the terminal and becomes animated when I tip him ten Reais. Leaving the sprawling chaos of São Paolo, it dawns on me how fortunate I am to live in the small cosmopolitan village called Melbourne.

Almost as if it were fated, I’m obliged to spend three hours’ milling around Guarulhos airport on account of LAN flight 4551 being delayed. Following a further half hour banked up in a line of passenger jets, the Airbus, at long last, leaves the tarmac bound for Buenos Aires.

A word of warning to anyone who may be planning short haul flights with LAN: the food makes the cut for human consumption, but only by the thinnest of whiskers. I spent the better part of half an hour speculating whether the damp, triple-decker sandwich’s filling was, in fact, the alleged chicken loaf, or something more sinister.

By the time the metal bird roosts at Aeroparque, there is only half an hour before my connecting flight to Montevideo. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue, but when that connecting flight is from another airport, 37km away in heavy traffic; it becomes a slight problem.

Rather than surrender to time crisis, I pick up a steak sandwich and Quilmes, sit down, have dinner, and then instigate my contingency plan. Four phone calls and sixteen minutes thereafter, I learn the flight has been cancelled due to “adverse weather conditions” in Uruguay and am able to obtain a seat on an alternate flight two hours later. Cutting it dangerously close to turning into a pumpkin, I arrive in the hotel lobby with five minutes to spare.

***

12^th September

Charismatic is an understatement when it comes to describing the old-world charm of the Radisson Victoria Plaza in Montevideo. An ornately decorated lobby, casino in the basement and restaurant on the top floor, styled with classic elegance. The hotel is a scene straight out of a Connery-era Bond film.   

Breakfasting in Restaurant Arcadia on the twenty fifth floor that morning, the scene is even more reminiscent of Ian Fleming’s world. Instead of the expected clientele, the dining room is filled with high ranking men in uniform, from a dozen different countries – a military convention is being held at the hotel.

Then it is back to the reality; a morning of meetings with dairying and agribusiness companies at retro 50s offices and a tour through a milk processing plant.  There’s nothing quite like a long lunch after eight days of flights, early morning starts, marathon meetings and site tours. To that end, we catch a cab down to Mercado del Puerto and annex a table at a quaintly furnished Parrilla. We reach consensus on the grilled meat platter and place our order with the waiter. Words are inadequate to describe what arrives twenty minutes later, the photograph speaks for itself.  

“Serves 2″ was the note printed in the menu. There were three of us, and we didn’t even make it halfway through the frightening quantity of meat. Fries accompanied the platter, but a defibrillator would have been more poetically appropriate.

***

Lunch commemorates the end of the conference, I see my colleagues off, and switch faculty to the right hemisphere. Whittling away the hours wandering the streets of Montevideo, architectural character oozes from every edifice I pass. Cuidad Vieja (old city) is dominated by colourful, crumbling façades, rusted wrought iron, and dilapidated blocks sprouting with tendrils of plant life: a concrete jungle being reclaimed by nature.

Light fritters slowly away as the sun sets over the city. Back at the hotel, from my perch in the business lounge, I can hear someone playing the marble black Yamaha grand piano that sits in a large atrium adjacent to the lobby. Art exhibitions line the walls; by which tables of expatriates, socialites and military sit listening. Chandeliers bathe the space in a warm yellow light.

After filling my quota of emails, I order a drink and join the audience. A young couple tangos to the music emanating from the corner, where a trio of musicians play: one silver-haired Pianist sits at the Yamaha, and two further weathered gentlemen play supporting instrumentals. 

At nine, both the tango and my glass of Frangelico are drawing to a close, so I meander down to the basement. Typical of small hotel casinos, the seediness contrasts sharply with the elegant vibe of the lobby above. A large group of Japanese and Uruguayan men stand clustered around one of the roulette tables, laying frantic bets as the wheel spins. Wide-eyed gamblers sit idly in front of slot machines. Hostesses in tight uniforms flutter around with trays of drinks. Not quite the picture of sophistication.

***

13^th September

Scenic countryside of green patchwork fields, dairy cows and gently rolling hills make the morning’s one hour bus trip from Montevideo to Colonia del Sacramento seem much longer. Arriving at the small town, I can’t decide which was more picturesque: the journey or the destination.

Colonia’s cobbled streets hark back to a bygone era. The city was established in 1680, and has a unique personality, having changed hands between the Spanish and Portuguese numerous times. Small enough to explore on foot, the village is a popular destination for holidaymakers from around South America, who sit, bantering cheerfully outside old-fashioned cafés and restaurants.

Faced with the perennial travelling dilemma of too many sights and not enough time, I acquire a scooter for the afternoon. Stephanie from the rental agency gives me a ten minute crash course, and within minutes, I’m cruising the route parallel to Mar del Plata, looking (I’d imagine) like a young hooligan. Between numerous detours for scenes that were calling to be photographed, I somehow end up in the grounds of the Sheraton where guests crawling around golf buggies give me dirty looks.

Four hours of motoring later, I regretfully return the scooter and hasten for the Buquebus terminal to catch the Patricia Olivia II to Buenos Aires. It is well into the evening as the high speed ferry drops anchor, so I drop my bags at the hostel, and dine on pizza and wine (32 pesos) at a bright red Trattoria. The day concludes to the sound of midnight traffic outside Hostel Esotril on Avenida Mayo.

***

14^th September

Nine AM, I walk into the kitchen and am greeted by large plates, piled with medialunas (small, sweet croissants, ‘half-moons’ literally translated). Post that categorically unwholesome breakfast, I meet Marina and Francesco as I’m sitting in the lobby pondering how to spend the day. We get to chatting, and I ditch the guidebook in favour of a spur of the moment trip to San Telmo markets.

Avenida Defensa is a paradise of antiquities. On the main square, stalls of traders monger everything from coloured glass bottles to old German million Deutschemark notes. The thoroughfare is flanked on both sides by many an ornate antique shop, with entry only after ringing a bell and being permitted by the owner. Further still, the avenue morphs into a world of street performers and locals selling their leather and craft wares from wooden tables and blankets.

Experimentation with public transport consumes the remainder of the day. Among the more interesting destinations reachable using Buenos Aires’ subway: Congress, Casa Rosada (‘Pink House,’ Argentina’s Presidential palace), and Avenida Florida, a pedestrian mall with more stores than could be sensibly shopped in an afternoon.

I disembark the historic carriage at Sáenz Peña station and evaluate dinner options along Avenida Mayo. Restaurants in Argentina are normally deserted before eight, so I was drawn to the tables of a left-of-centre place called La Claca, which were showing some signs of life. Whilst the food was average, it was redeemed by a Jennie of respectable white for a comical $6.

***

15^th September

Having accumulated a critical mass of knowledge about the subway system the day prior, I manage to make all the correct interchanges to Plaza Italia station without ending up at the end of a different line. From the plaza, it is a short walk to the primary target, Recoleta Cemetery, a fortress of the dead and perfect destination for an overcast day.     

Traversing the passageways of opulent burial chambers inadvertently dressed like Beetlejuice, I felt abnormally at ease. This leads to philosophising that perhaps I should’ve become a Crypt keeper – quite possibly the most elegant solution to my grievances with the living.

Of course, once speculation on such matters starts, it doesn’t stop until a suitable hypothesis is fashioned. To the question of why absurd amounts of money are spent on the dead, I could deduce three explanations. First, for man’s ability to convince himself of almost anything, it could be that lavishing excess upon a cadaver absolves guilt for the way it was treated whilst living. Second, out of a genuine respect for the deceased, despite it going against the grain of efficient resource allocation. Third, to reflect the life status of the deceased in death. Again, this is nonsensical as it’s hard to get utility out of anything material if you’re dead.

On a broader level, the central issue is the rationalisation of death. Crypts, funerals, cremations, wakes, vigils, eulogies, mourning, burials, the laying of flowers – all are rituals designed to shroud the turmoil and uncertainty of death in a veil of process and formality to make it more psychologically palatable. The follow-up question you need to be asking is whether the entire industry of religion is in fact the greatest swindle of all time.

***

That evening, as I’m being chivalrous wheeling Marina’s suitcase down to the cab, I meet Virginia, an old friend from back in the day when I studying at Penn in the States. A fellow student in the international program, now back home in Argentina, she’d graciously offered me to take me for an evening’s tour of Buenos Aires.

First stop is Café Tortoni, a famous coffee house founded in 1858, where the traditionally attired waiters served us chocolate accompanied by churros that were nothing short of adulation-worthy. Next stop is the stylish neighbourhood of Palermo, home of Argentina’s first Starbuck’s, outside which a long queue snakes its way into the shopping centre.

Dinner is at a random Parrilla: fillet steak, red wine and conversation at length on politics and economics. By the time the bill was called for, I’d had a crash course through Argentina’s economy (15% interest rates, 20% inflation, and an economic crisis every ten years), and further learned that Bank of America just bought out Merrill Lynch. We wrap up the evening with dessert at a trendy bar; dangerously rich creations known as ‘Chocolate Volcanoes,’ cone-shaped cakes of chocolate, filled with hot liquid fudge and served straight out of the oven.

***

16^th September

My Lanpass gets clipped at Aeroparque for the next flight to Puerto Iguazú, the town on the Argentine side of the famous Iguazú falls where the borders of Argentina, Brasil and Paraguay intersect. A short bus ride from town lands me at Parque Nacional Iguazú, and I board the train to Garganta del Diablo (Devil’s throat), the most popular lookout. Here, a unique roar is created by torrents of water plunging across seven hundred meters of sheer cliff, and a rainbow from the mist as the water crashes on the rocks below.

The tranquillity is marred by large groups of tourists. They’re obnoxious, hunt (quite loudly) in packs, and walk terribly slowly, occupying the full width of walkways in the process. I am forced to practice politeness “puedo pasar por favor” in lieu of conveying my underlying meaning: “adelante! adelante! adelante!”

***

Nearing seven o’clock by the time I return to hostel Timbo Posada, the night shift guy Fernando is on the desk and we start talking in Spanglish about Yerba maté (Rosamonte is his recommendation), agriculture (intensive cane farming for ethanol production apparently leaves soil barren after two crop plantings), and restaurants. After consulting the Footprint guidebook for a second opinion, I order a plate of typical cuisine at Pizza Color: empanadas, chorizo, arroz and a Quilmes Stout. I detour to a corner store on the way back to purchase said Yerba Rosamonte, then sit in the hostel lounge drinking maté whilst watching National Geographic. Fernando is laughing like a lunatic as two bear cubs take down a baby wild boar.

***

17^th September

Another day at Parque Nacional Iguazú to hike the two main trails, Superior (upper) and Inferior (lower) – which present compelling photo opportunities and vistas markedly more rewarding than the touristy Garganta del Diablo. I complete the circuits in faster time than anticipated, so resolve to do the 8km Macuco trail to round off the afternoon.

On the way up, I am delayed by a troupe of Argentinean schoolgirls (seeing an Australian must’ve been a novelty for them), but manage the 4km in just over forty minutes, finishing with a descent down a hazardous 400m trail to a pool at the foot of the falls, which warranted a slow trudge taking care to avoid low branches and jutting rocks.

Thoroughly exhausted, I catch the bus back to town and seek out one of those gruesomely large hamburgers which seem like a good idea at the time but you know you’ll regret afterward.

***

As I’m preparing my bags, I meet Emma at the hostel and am condemned with an all too short conversation before I have to cab it to the airport. She hailed from Queensland, recently had her quarter life crisis which resulted in a voyage to Asia the prior year, was currently in the last ten days of her five month trip, and, to my disbelief; she was only twenty. It always refreshing when I cross paths with such people – life is far too short to sit in a box.

***

Courtesy of the LAN flight being on schedule, I find myself back in Buenos Aires in good time for an evening’s layover, and book a remise into town. They set me up with a Black Citroën C4 (for which the famed robot commercials were made), complete with a digital speedometer and driver named Fabio. The former reads 122Km/h as the French motor careers uncompromisingly down the arterial. My mind is running at a similar velocity forward planning the logistical interchanges to get to Cusco, Peru the following morning.

***

18^th September

In need of mental discharge, I watched a stop-frame animation, Corpse Bride, to kill flight time. In a similar vein to The Nightmare Before Christmas, Tim Burton effortlessly weaves macabre notions into fantasy animation to produce something flippantly entertaining, yet enveloping much thornier thematic ‘beneath the surface.’

Through the perilous tale of an arranged marriage set in a picture of Victorian era continental Europe, the film challenges customary views on life and death, light and darkness. We see ‘upstairs’ (world of the living), portrayed in bleak, dull shades of grey – cruel, cold and clinical. ‘Downstairs’ (world of the dead) is embodied with magnificent contrast – alive with melody and comedy, vibrant and colourful.

***

Lima International Airport was so lacklustre that my only memory of the place is impulse buying chorizo pizza sticks from Papa John’s. Fortunately it is only a couple of hours’ layover, and before long, I touch down in Cusco. Outside the arrivals checkpoint, there’s a driver holding a ‘Mr. Waterstone’ placard, courtesy of Hostel Recoleta. Arriving at the hostel, I am greeted with a large terracotta cup containing Coca tea, which is reported to help with the altitude adjustment. In a similar vein, I take three hours’ rest to acclimatise to the lower Oxygen concentration, and hit the streets circa six in search of rations.

Dinner is put on hold on account of aesthetic diversion, which called for a good hour wandering the cobbled streets aimlessly taking photographs. Cusco was the capital of the Incan Empire, and some of their stonework from the thirteenth century still stands, distinguished for its near perfect geometry. Exploring Cusco on foot is the very essence of Anthropological overload.

During the brief creative interlude, I’m stopped by a group of local children and a friendly flute-playing busker who exclaims “ey, you from the land of Oz!”   

Memory card nearing capacity, I resume my quest for supper and end up sampling a couple of local specialties – grilled Alpaca replete with a Pisco Sour, at a quiet little restaurant on Carmen Alto.

***

19^th September

Benjamin Franklin clearly had no idea when he uttered “early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” There is nothing healthy nor wise about awakening whilst it’s still dark outside and I cannot for the life of me see how doing so benefits my asset portfolio.

Departing at daybreak, the PeruRail Vistadome voyage from Cusco to Aguas Calientes takes just over three hours complete. The train ascends slowly by switchback along a zigzagging track, a cleverly engineered solution to the otherwise impossibly steep gradient of the mountainous terrain. Flanking the tracks are scenes from a surreal world. Mud-brick houses, packs of stray dogs, straw shacks, and pairs of harnessed oxen tilling soil.

Aguas Calientes is a small village nestled among sheer mountains in the Sacred Valley of the Incas, is the final frontier before Machu Picchu. Very nearly nothing to do in town, I saunter around, requisition a computer for a few hours, and make occasion for a long dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the village, Indi Feliz, run by a Frenchman that does French-Peruvian fusion like nothing imaginable. For the princely sum of 44.50 Nueve Soles (A$18), I selected three courses from their unexpectedly diverse set menu.

For entrée, mixed vegetables with sour sauce made from Lime and some local spices. Carefully arranged on the oblong plate were carrots, broad beans, potatoes, champignons, avocado, onion, tomato and spinach. Pollo Piña, the main course, was a char-grilled fillet of chicken served in Jamaican Rum sauce with sauté pineapple, sweet potato, Spanish fried potatoes, fresh pineapple and a stuffed tomato. Rounding off the trio, a dessert of uncharacteristically rich orange pie with custard and orange sorbet.

***

20^th September

Waking before dawn with the intention of catching the first bus to the ruins, I step out into light precipitation and start toward the bus stop. Though it is barely five o’clock in the morning, already a few hundred people mill around in line. A few enterprising locals work the queue selling overpriced bottles of water and sandwiches to absentminded tourists.

Shortly after I join the queue, a convoy of gold ducos approaches from the distance, the fleet of modified Mercedes-Benz coaches looking decidedly out of place in the tiny mountain village. Like clockwork, human cargo is loaded, and the queue quickly dwindles.

MarcoPolo #1 ascends the mountain, traversing the narrow, zigzagging dirt road and dodging oncoming buses with the deft skill of a driver who’s likely made this trip a thousand times before. Twenty minutes later, we disembark at Machu Picchu Sanctuary.

The experience of visiting this Incan Citadel cannot be understood adequately by anything less than standing somewhere in the vicinity of 13°10′00″ South by 72°33′00″ West. One feels awfully small standing on the edge of a stone step overlooking a valley far below, surrounded by imposing forested mountains.

Machu Picchu is among the few imperative destinations one should plan on visiting prior to dying. Though people go to admire the tribal fifteenth century architecture and marvel at the stunning natural vistas, the real energy courses through veins much deeper than the aesthetic. Over five hundred years ago, an intellectually and spiritually advanced culture existed in the dense South American jungle, and this city was its crowning achievement. Inca civilisation possessed medicine, astronomy, agriculture, engineering and social systems comparable in advancement to those of Renaissance Europe. Of vital difference was the overarching power of a simple governing moral code (do not steal, do not lie, do not be idle) which was more commonsensical than the contrived, fear-reliant, politically motivated hogwash that reflected religion back on the continent, or indeed the convoluted institution of law and religion that rule humanity today.

***

Between bouts of high-level philosophical cognition, I Circumnavigate the various circuits, accumulating photographs and stopping intermittently for bouts of high-level philosophical rumination. In one such bout of rumination (specifically how easy it is to control people who are afraid), who should I spot but my girl Marina, dressed in her trademark purple.

Marina is a highly spirited and entertaining young woman, almost a decade my senior, so naturally, I can’t resist the urge to adopt her. She jumps when I tap her on the shoulder, and turns from her tour group with a wicked grin “you little shit!” After a short yak, we farewell and part ways.

There is a long line at the gates to Wayna Picchu, the peak which overlooks the city and promises dreamlike vistas. By the time I sign in at the checkpoint, the mercury is pushing thirty as the sun ascends, now nearing vertical apogee. Five minutes of relatively undemanding trail, one could be forgiven for being presumptuous of an intermediate trek. Then, it begins: a gruelling climb grading over 200% (i.e. 65° inclines) in some segments which requires edging up very shallow stone steps and crawling through a narrow tunnel. Stopping to check my GPS at the summit, I am perplexed. It felt like an eternity since setting out, but the time mocks forty-one minutes. I was drained enough by the end of it that my brain had zero retentive power until the following morning.

***

 22^nd September

There wasn’t a seat to be found on all train departures back to Cusco: a predicament given I had an early afternoon flight to make. “Improvise at all costs” is the mantra to enforce in such situations. An alternative route is formulated ad hoc, which sees me train it to Ollantaytambo, and continue to Cusco by taxi. For the record, ninety minutes in a cab with rigid suspension and a driver with a penchant for bad rock music is something I’d rather not have had to endure.

Arriving with a couple of hours up my sleeve, I go to store my bags at the hostel, and who should I bump into but Marina. After I get over the paranoia of her following me, we have brunch at a restaurant overlooking Plaza del Armas. Between us, we order a miniature banquet of Peruvian: potato empanada, an elaborate omelette, and a curious national dish named Cebiche – raw trout and seafood mixed with purple onion, spices and lemon juice, accompanied by white corn and sweet potato. 

***

“For you amigo, I give special price.” That was the catch cry of a vendor at Cusco’s artesian markets. With outstanding crafts at ludicrous prices, it wasn’t hard to walk out with five bags of merchandise for less than a hundred dollars. Among the acquisitions: two alpaca scarves in suitably ridiculous shades of baby blue and bright crimson, a woven wall-hanging, a white sweater with llamas embellishing the edges and an alabaster totem pole.

Turns out Marina and I were on the same flight to Buenos Aires, so we meet back at the hostel and share a cab to the airport. One short, uneventful flight later, at Lima, the real fun begins. We were so bored, we resolved to compile and execute a list of the top ten things to do when you have a seven hour layover at Lima airport, which goes something like this:

• 1. Commandeer locutorio (internet lounge) terminals to watch ridiculous 80s music videos on YouTube
• 2. Drink Iced Caramel Frappucinos from Starbucks whilst doing so
• 3. Acquire and consume Pepperoni Pizza from Papa John’s
• 4. Try to con your way into business lounges
• 5. Get slugged US$30 in departure tax
• 6. Sleep in departure terminal / babysit in departure terminal
• 7. Muster up the courage to wrestle the lounge chairs from rude backpackers in Starbucks.
• 8. Ask for Hyrdocortisone lotion (in Spanish) for Marina’s mosquito bites
• 9. See who could spot the best looking member of the opposite sex
• 10. Spot the most unique airport-seat lying down postures among fellow weary travellers

It speaks to the sheer tedium that I could only find the first six (Marina kindly contributed the balance). Sometime between midnight and one in the morning, we scrape ourselves off the seats and head for the boarding gate.

Lima to Buenos Aires is lengthened markedly by two very loud women rambling neurotically in Japanese, and LAN’s 3am serving of breakfast – a warm, soggy bread roll filled with what my gut instinct told me must’ve been cheese.

A final farewell at Ezeiza as Marina heads for the sea and sun of Rio de Janiero, and I to Bariloche, in sub-zero Patagonia.

  ***

Unfortunately, Barioloche being a small airport, there was no competitive market for cab fare price discovery (only one scalper quoting a suspiciously high offer). Fortuitously however, I chance upon a public bus, and get to the city centre for a fraction of the cost and reduced carbon footprint to boot.

  ***

 23^rd September

Day eighteen: the novelty of bread for breakfast at hostels is beginning to wear thin. I toy with the idea of soaking it in coffee and refrigerating it to create sham Gâteaux, but abstain. Exploration calls.

San Carlos de Bariloche is a hidden jewel in the Patagonia region of Argentina. The small alpine town is positioned idyllically on the shore of Lago Nauhel Huapi and surrounded by a vast national park of the same name. Log buildings, tasteful eateries and the chocolate shops you’d expect to find in fictional literature.

I improvise Circiuto Chico (little circuit) into a short expedition using the public bus system and condense a day’s sightseeing into three hours, beginning with chairlift ride up Cerro Campanero with the smell of burning pine lingering in the air, and espresso at the summit to escape the icy winds. Continuing down Avenida Bastillo, I collect photographs of Eduardo Cathedral and Hotel Llao Llao along the way, and stop for a late lunch at El Tronador, a small Confiteria. Puerto Pañuelo, at the end of the road, is the checkpoint for the two o’clock sailing of Modesta Victoria to Parque Arrayanes and Isla Victoria.

***

What the Modesta Victoria lacked in speed, it made up for in charm. Built during the Second World War, it is a piece of living history, most everything is original and unspoiled by modern embellishment. 

First mooring is on the Quetrihue Peninsula, where a forest of centuries old Arrayanes grow in an eerie arboreal form.

Anchorage two was Isla Victoria – a tranquil island in the middle of the Patagonian wilderness, the kind of place from which Microsoft source picturesque desktop backgrounds. I manage to venture most of the mapped trails, and a few of the unmapped, before the Modesta Victoria’s foghorn breaks the serenity to signal her departure is eminent.

Having been blissfully detached from civilization for the vast majority of the day, I commissioned an ad-hoc social experiment to make up for it. I was curious to see if simple banter had any true communicative efficacy. To this end, I traded in my meal ticket for a bowl of half decent Penne with vegetable sauce, found a table where five other people sat conversing in English, and joined in. It stands to reason that I conclude in the negative. Writing one month to the day the experiment was performed, I can vividly recall what I had for dinner that night, but not so much as a single person’s name or occupation.

Returning from a midnight photography expedition that evening, the previously empty dormitory has been settled by three newcomers, one of whom sleeps breathing as deafeningly as a vacuum cleaner. I cursed not having saved my earplugs from the flight.

  ***

24^th September

Improvisation is the order of the day as I hadn’t bothered researching Bariloche in enough depth to plan a proper itinerary. Vacuum cleaner rises a few minutes after I do, initiates a conversation with himself, and begins to curse in Spanish. We start discussing which sights to see, but something gets lost in translation.

Perusing the brochure in the lobby, I make a whimsical selection: horse riding. The instructor was a bit of a maverick, whilst doing the drill, he advises in a thick Spanish accent “rememberr, de steeck is de pow-err,” and proceeds to demonstrate by belting the animal with a two foot length of sapling. Whilst the flyer explained a very basic beginner’s ride, the reality was three hour trekking up a mountain, jumping over streams, scraping through thorny foliage and negotiating paths of crumbling rocks.

For the price of damage endured by my prized Windsor Smiths, the spectacular vista from the summit was worth it: serene lakes of dark teal, dense alpine forest, mountain peaks decorated with patches of snow.

***

Ardent on substantiating the superiority of the region’s famous chocolatiers, I pay visits to Frantom, Abuela Goye and Mamushka. After sampling the wares, which included the obligatory dark and white, a small block of Frutos de Bosque, and a hot chocolate, it was clear why guidebooks harped on about the chocolate in Bariloche – the quality is exceptional.

I’d anticipated having dinner at Chalet Suisse, an endearing restaurant in a Swiss country house, but it was regrettably closed. Fortunately, Refugio del Montañes, is just down the road, the commended Parilla doing an impressive Filet Mignon for 33 pesos (A$14).

***

25^th September

Not being fond of lingering at the hostel for its final few hours in Bariloche, my camera went for a morning walk to capture some more random imagery. It was a pity said camera wasn’t on hand at the airport. Two hundred passengers and they chose my inconspicuous black suitcase to search. A policeman carefully examines my collection Peruvian stoneware. Satisfied I wasn’t a terrorist, they let me write the police report myself, and I make my flight with a literal minute to spare.

Three thirty that afternoon, I find myself once again in Buenos Aires, awaiting a connecting flight to Mendoza. Previous experience with the food at Aeroparque necessitated applying a contingency plan for my late lunch. I went outside and walked across the road to a park overlooking the sunken submarine in Mar del Plata. Not two hundred metres from the airport, there are men angling the murky brown waters of the river, couples snuggling on the grass, and an elderly gentleman dressed in white, selling ice creams from a polystyrene box clumsily attached to a rusty bicycle. Then, I spot what I was looking for – a riverside kiosk with a few locals loafing outside. Feeling audacious, I order the colossal ‘Hamburguesa Full.’ and take delivery of the heart attack sandwich shortly thereafter.

 ***

A young scruffy cabbie motions to me at Mendoza airport. Instinct told me he was a fast driver, so I cram my luggage into the back seat of the wrecked old Peugeot and commandeer the front. Anthropology’s definition needs to be rewritten to include riding in cabs with the windows wound down, listening to blaring Latino hip-hop and drag racing against commuters.

I arrive at Hostel Lao in good time for the wine tasting that evening, as Richard, a trainee sommelier from the South of London, hands me a glass of Rosé. Four reds and two whites from the region are discussed over the ensuing two hours, through the course of which, the difference between Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc is explained for the initiates.

***

26^th September

Friday morning at Plaza Independencia, Mendoza, I sit on a park bench watching human traffic. Packs of youths wearing American sports apparel and sporting ghastly mullets, women strutting unnaturally – the same omnipresent noise. Forty minutes later, the signal: a blackbird extracts worms from the ground. Simultaneously, a public servant extracts garbage from the fountain across from my park bench.

As the dull shell of an oyster encases a brilliant pearl; bland, everyday occurrences are often infused with hidden wisdom. In likeness, to prise it open, a degree of effort must be sacrificed. The more valuable insights tend to be much harder to pry open, but the reward is always commensurate. For this reason, I whittle away hours of my life ruminating on park benches.

Philosophically, both blackbird and man are making their living, both expend time and effort working.  The blackbird cares only for survival and will stop when it is no longer hungry, but the man works to fill a bucket riddled with holes. I don’t need to elucidate how much weight this observation carries, it should be obvious. This fundamental difference between man and beast is the root cause of the absurdity with which we pursue life.

***

Content with the morning’s advancement in understanding, I continue walking without a destination. Some minutes later, I wander into a dilapidated rail yard, complete with overgrown tracks, decrepit, hollow engines with homeless people sleeping in them, stray dogs, and burnt, windowless buildings graffitied over. Oftentimes, such places conceal true artwork – images and prose that are products of genuine life wisdom as opposed to flippant expressionism.

Continuing the random thematic, I went back to the hostel and booked a paragliding jump, spur of the moment. Half an hour later, my feet leave the ground as I jump off a small Andean mountain for twenty minutes of flight.

***

Restaurant dining had become tedious by this stage of the trip, so I resolved to set myself a challenge. A culinary odyssey out to the local market to accumulate ingredients for a spontaneous dinner, ten minutes, ten pesos, no use of English or hand gesturing.

It was a passable success; the bag containing all the necessary materials for a makeshift pizza – five cherry tomatoes, a large Portobello mushroom, fifty grams of locally produced Gouda cheese and a particularly thick slice of meatloaf. Accompanied by a random selection of communal wines, it was a dining experience.

Surprisingly, many of the travellers at the hostel are well-versed in US politics, and I join them to watch the Presidential debate. I don’t know what was more painful – watching McCain blink and stumble his way through a string of rants so pitiful they didn’t actually qualify as rebuttal, or the knowledge that this man could be the next President of the United States.

***

27^th September

Every trip has one of those days. Sixteen degrees, overcast and threatening to rain at any given moment – hardly optimal conditions for anything in the open air. Perfect though for lounging around at the hostel, distilling thoughts, and listening to an old UB40 album playing in the background.

By the time defragmentation had progressed to a satisfactory level, it was three in the afternoon.  Stepping out onto Avenida Rioja confirms my suspicion that siesta was still in full swing: the streets are empty, everything is closed save for a few souvenir shops. Between the hours of twelve and five on any given Saturday afternoon, Mendoza is a ghost town.

An evening prior, Josh and Linda, a honeymooning couple from the States, had prepared an industrial quantity of curried rice, a large, parched bowl of which was sitting in the fridge. Through some combination of my culinary dexterity and pure luck, a stock concocted from chicken, mustard seeds, soy sauce and polenta morphed it into a stew that fed six hostelling comrades.

 ***

28^th September

Farewelling everyone at the hostel, the sun finally begins to set upon the adventure. Homeward bound after twenty-three days, I was looking forward to crystallising my experiences. But it wasn’t over yet, there was still one day ahead.

Coincidentally, Jessica, a young lady from America I’d met, was also bound for Santiago, so we share a cab to the bus terminal, and after sorting out a few ticketing dramas, we board the ten thirty Andesmar to Santiago de Chile.

Seven hours is a long time to sit on a bus, but the trip proved anything but boring. I was entertained by Jessica’s stories of her experiences teaching English in Santiago and random conversation. We engaged topics of culture, politics, economics, career paths, and after struggling for some time, even managed to recall the seven sins.

Photo opportunities abounded with the impressive scenery crossing the Andes; bleak ochre faces of rock on the Argentine side, metamorphosing into ski slopes between jagged peaks, melting into richly coloured countryside on the Chilean front.

Crossing the border, I met Rita and her sister Maria, a couple of fellow Australians travelling with their father. Chatting to Maria as we were being processed through customs, the conversation moves from her unusual purple leather and suede handbag to her ethos – an open perspective on life and not wanting to be held down.

Before boarding the bus, I spend my remaining Argentine currency on a numinous empanada at the border station. Numinous, because, of the odd dozen empanadas I’d had in South America, this particular one, from a remote outpost in the Andes, was by far the best – a peerless masterpiece of pastry if ever there was one.

***

Originally, there was to be a prolonged layover in Santiago awaiting the evening flight out at quarter to eleven. Instead, Jessica gives me a guided tour of the city. We drop the luggage at her apartment, meeting Oscar the concierge on the way, and hit the streets for a whirlwind expedition.

Assisted by the subway system, an entire day’s exploring is condensed within the frame of three hours. Jessica expertly points out historic buildings, and we discuss the military coup, power distances, and differences in opportunity in the lulls between sights. Whilst discussing how to solve the power distance problem, she produces a prodigious analogy: something along the lines of the average cute guy being an arrogant jerk, but the cute guy who used to be the fat kid being nice. Framed in context; the only avenue to resolution was the installation of a leader who knew powerlessness intimately.

***

Plaza de Armas is a nexus of activity. An outdoor mass is being given in front of the cathedral, to a crowd waving white handkerchiefs en masse. Athwart, a large pagoda hosts a dozen tables of old men attentively betrothed in chess matches. Nearby, a demonstration of students snakes its way through the streets, and the ornately costumed couples dance the Cueca, Chile’s national dance.

In exhaustion, we shelve plans for dinner out and opt instead to hit up the local Domino’s. Jessica stands by the door laughing as I order and attempt to elucidate that we wanted the pizza sans olives and ham.

Grocery shopping at the nearby supermarket fills the twenty minute pizza spawning time, and we return to her apartment to have dinner. There is something indescribably satisfying about indulging in unwholesome rations after a long day on the road.

At eight thirty, I exchange the last of my South American currency – 12,000 Chilean Pesos for a taxi to the airport.

***

September 29^th

…Is forever lost in the ether upon crossing the international date line.

September 30^th

I collect thirty one kilograms of luggage at Tullamarine. The weight of my experience is beyond measure.

~ by X on October 25, 2008.