15 minutes in Chile

Once upon a time, long long ago, I wrote a measly 4 entries on my experiences in Argentina. Then I took a bus to the tourist town of San Pedro de Atacama in Chile, where the evil god of lets-make-things-complicated restricted my internet access to the daylight hours and scoffed at my wishes to write more. Not satisfied with this simple limitation on my plans, he shut down all ATMs in the town, and chained me to the San Pedro gates. Alas, I escaped, and made the three- hour pilgrimage to the nearest money machines. I found socks and sweaters and batteries and juice, and other such luxuries of which I'd been deprived.

I returned to the town refreshed and emboldened. I rented a bike fit for a 10 year old's barbie and rode under the hot desert sun to the Valley of the Dead. Lagging behind the Dutchman of the group, I convinced myself that the gorgeous volcano views were to blame for my petty pace. But just as I wondered when I'd see my first mirage of an ice cream stand, we pulled our bikes to the side of the road and decided we'd arrived. We climbed a massive sand dune and took photographs, squeezing distant mountains between our fingers and pretending like we'd died of dehydration.


Some sense of scale


Skillz.


I play a terrible fake dead. Note the full bottle of water to my right.


Squish.


While in San Pedro, we did our best to find the best travel agency to the Bolivian salt flats. With low expectations for our Bolivian living conditions, we rounded out our trip in Chile buying scarves, raisins, and toilet paper. We crossed our fingers that our tour guide would be sober and set off.

Open roads

It's been two weeks since I last found myself in an internet cafe with enough bandwith to handle another blog post. But here it is, overdue but thorough (at least as of mid-May...)

I left Buenos Aires on an overnight bus to Mendoza, Argentine wine country near the central border with Chile. There I spent three days shaking off the big city feeling by hiking and rappelling through the mountains. Best of all, I took a day to bumble around on a rented bike riding from vineyard to vineyard, tasting the region´s pride while my joy steadily - and responsibly, no doubt - increased. I also had the chance to meet a few Argentines in my hostel, and had a great time practicing my Spanish accent by pronouncing ¨Winona Rrrrrider¨ over cup after cup of steaming mate.

From Mendoza, I took another overnight bus to the northern Argentine town of Salta. I should mention that the buses in Argentina are a trip and a half: reclining seats, proper meals, movies, and the bizarre game of argentine bingo make them a comfortable alternative to spending a night in a hostel and wasting a day in transit. But heading north, I wondered at what could inspire the bus managers´particular choices in entertainment. By the time I'd arrived in Salta, I'd seen two movies about prison and one about sex trafficking, and I hadn't won a single game of bingo.

At first sight, Salta seemed a bit of a paradox. Many people had suggested I go there, but by the time I got to my hostel, I was still unclear as to what there was to do besides for visit the market and take a 10-minute cable car ride up a bushy hill. But the charm of travel quickly worked its ways, and by the next day I was hiking a small mountain located just 40 rickety bus minutes outside of the center of town. By the day following, I was in a rented car with an Israeli, a Scot, a Californian and a German, setting off on a 600 km road trip east to Cachi, then south to Cafayate, and then back north to Salta.

We drove through desert mountains, past cacti, across small rivers that cut through roads, into clay-made pueblos, and below canyons colored by iron and copper. This is the part that can best be described in pictures. (Excuse the funky formatting -- blogspot isn't perfect.)

Stretching out...

...packed in.

Imitating cacti.

Etc. Etc.

Chau chau, Buenos Aires. Suerte.

If my trip to Buenos Aires were an episode of Full House, this would be the moment when the music starts: I've packed my bags, said goodbyes, learned a thing or two, and made enough plans to ensure at least two more episodes worth writing home about. In my case, though, the rolling hills of San Francisco will be replaced by the mountains of Mendoza, Argentine wine country along the central border with Chile. But first, here are just a few of the photos I promised.

My first parrillada (gluttonous plateful of grilled meat). I spent my first week in Buenos Aires recuperating from this meal. I decided I would give up my vegetarianism before leaving for South America, since my political reasons for rejecting meet in the US are moot down here. True, the hundreds of protests held by cow farmers in recent weeks prove that the Argentine government has some 'splaining to do, not to mention a serious responsibility to reevaluate its export tarifs. But for the time being, I've chosen not to wear my ideology on my sleave in favor of cultural immersion.

El humo! Fires in the nearby delta town of Tigre caused terrible pollution in the city for days. I didn't manage to get any pictures of the people walking around with respiration filters over their mouths, but the smoke really did get that bad.

This is my dog saying hello. Hard to decipher maybe, but Rulote liked to have his way with my leg during my first few days in my BA apartment. In my two weeks staying there, he peed on my floor three times and on my jeans once, stole one really amazing bar of chocolate (going away gift from New York) and three cookies (going away gift from Buenos Aires). He also liked to eat my passover matza, but I shared that liberally.

Fuzzy view of the main section of my apartment.

My solo daytrip to Tigre. I walked along the delta's many tributaries and played faithful tourist, visiting art exhibits and reading up on the area's naval history. I also spent some time in the Reconquista museum, entertaining myself with my camera while I tried not to get kicked out by the guard on duty.

Doesn't this one look like Lincoln?!

This smattering of photos doesn't give the most balanced view of my time in BA. The pictures don't show me chatting with strangers, losing myself over cone after cone of gelato, sitting in brightly lit Spanish classrooms and subtes, asking people to tell me about food, wondering about what poverty means in Latin America (and then in the US by comparison), contemplating the differences between natives and travelers and trying to encounter both. They don't show busy neighborhoods or green park refuges, though I spent my short time there weaving in and out of them. They do show me, though, with backgrounds that aren't quite skyscrapers and people (or historical replicas) that aren't so familiar. So I hope that that, at least, starts to give you a taste.

The things you learn (Part 1 of --)

I came to Argentina intent on breaking through the Spanish language barrier as quickly as possible. I set a two-week goal, giving myself about one ye old fortnight to learn how to fill the span between 'hola' and 'chau.' I arrived with about 20 hours of Spanish instruction under my belt, plus 9 years of French practice (helpful for its grammatical symmetry), 18 years of LA-living (made the language sound familiar) and a lifetime of Hebrew something-or-other (good for making making friends with traveling Israelis for when all of the above failed).

I was pretty thrilled with how all of this suited me once I arrived in South America. True, the range of topics I could discuss was limited, but I was starting to converse with people the night I arrived in Buenos Aires. In my first few days, most of my speech revolved around 'searching' for some things, 'finding' others, 'remembering' some, and forgetting how to say forget. Conversations were limited to the present tense, but I quickly learned how to cheat my way into the future by always 'going to' do things. Made me seem like a Yankee jet setter, for sure. ('Yankee,' or 'shanky' as it's pronounced here, is the Argentine term for US-American...but that's for a separate, political discussion.)

I've also found that a lot of smiling goes a long way. In those first few days, I managed to buy a cell phone from a shady little store by my hostel, and I got a number to give to those new acquaintances who were so patient with my crickety Castellano (Argentina's signature form of Spanish). I was getting into conversations with friendly store clerks and bank attendants, and learning such important words as 'apartment,' 'place,' and 'no, thank you, i'm just looking.'

It took a couple days to find a legitimate Spanish school, but I finished my two weeks of formal language instruction today. I was very happy with the program overall, and didn't mind that it got me out of my apartment by 8:30 every day (an ungodly hour in a place where many young people don't go to bed until the same time). The classes did a great job of checking my pride in my fledgling ability to communicate, since I quickly learned the errors of my wordy ways. This damper could still be countered, though, if not by any affirmation of my communication skills then by my seeming ability to comouflage myself among porteños through other means: unintentionally, the mullet of a hairstyle that's slowly forming itself around my face fits right in with the coifs of many styling porteños. Touche.

But, of course, I still have a ways to go. I went to see an Argentine indie film today, and I'd have to rate my comprehension of the dialogue at about a 9, on a scale of 1 to 100. The movie made me cry nevertheless, since the words 'drunk,' 'anorexia,' and 'need' permeated the fog of my [mis]understanding. In my defense, none of these words were in the title, and I couldn't have had any idea what it was about before seeing it. Besides, I'm sure the other three people in the theater also teared up.

Nueva Shork is far away

Even before leaving New York, I knew that my South American food tour would be about more than what I could fit in my stomach. At one point I envisioned this blog as a food diary, but quickly realized that writing about three months worth of snacks, meals, and farm-to-plate policy wouldn't be fun for anyone. I may take some time to write about juicy steaks and out-of-this world ice cream, but otherwise you can expect to read more cultural commentary than culinary critique.

That said, I've been in Buenos Aires for two weeks going on two months, and my journal is filled with notes on this city's quirks. I don't care how cramped the transportation system is, there's a certain charm that seeps through. Buses only stop when hailed, and only close their doors once they've hit 20 miles an hour; late-night cabs run red lights, and mid-day subway rides can be tighter than the E train during rush hour.

Vendors and consumers alike squirrel away loose change as if the metal is worth more than the coin. Corner stores will refuse to break a two-peso note, citing a lack of 'monedas,' but then they'll charge 1.50 for a pack of gum. I don't actually know what they would do if I tried to buy anything requiring them to give me change. But I'm quickly becoming a hoarder myself, learning the tricks of the bill-coin trade that will simplify my life in this city.

All in all I'm settling in comfortably. I found an intensive Spanish course (que bueno!) and a fabulous apartment (muy lindo!) with a little dog (Rulote! Did you pee on my floor?! [My Spanish skills are limited.]) Soon enough I'll start posting pictures, but for now I'm off to dinner. It is, after all, almost 10 pm.