Argentina-rena and Uruguay-Hey!

Argentina and Uruguay

In this episode, Ryan…
-Explores his sensual side with Argentinean Tango and Brazilian Carnival dancers
-Becomes lunch-meat for disease-ridden tropical mosquitos
-Learns the Spanish for “Man Overboard” during a rafting expedition in the Andes

The Argentina Scena

“Don’t cry for me Argentina…” okay, I’ll leave the Eva Peron references for the Buenos Aires section. Let’s start with the waterfall.

Iguazu Falls, made famous by the most recent Indiana Jones film, was my first stop in this elongated country. Legend has it when Eleanor Roosevelt saw the cascades she exclaimed “Poor Niagara!” I’d have to be inclined to agree. While Niagara Falls are impressive in their own right, Iguazu Falls are much larger and while they attract a lot of tourists, the area around the Falls is a national park (meaning it’s developed with hiking trails and wildlife reserves rather than casinos and viewing platforms). The experience is surreal to say the least. I first came at the Falls via a short jeep tour through the jungle, where we encounter giant-ass spiders that were reportedly docile although I wasn’t taking any chances. Then they threw us into river runners that sped over the rapids towards the foot of the falls (it is something else seeing waterfalls from the water itself), after posing for the requisite photos, the boat decided to dampen the crowd by driving head first into the white plumes of not one, not two but three of the massive falls, including one of the more major ones (Needless to say, seeing your boat driver hit the gas headfirst into one of the largest waterfalls you’ve ever seen is a good way to wake yourself up).

The Iguazu Falls are basically the only attraction in the area, but man what an attraction they are. The park is well-serviced by hiking trails (although expect to climb a lot of stairs in 35 degree humid heat) with many bends and turns that constantly stop you in your tracks with stunning views of the falls, not to mention jungle birds, wandering lizards (including one on San Martin Island that was two feet long), and a weird cross between a raccoon and an anteater with a penchant for going after tourist’s bags. There are two main sets of falls (that would be famous in their own right if they weren’t so close to each other), and a series of other falls that dot around the landscape surprising you at every corner. There’s a free old train that takes you to the mouth of the Devil’s Throat (the curved curtain of water and the most intense section of the falls) and an exotic island between the falls, called San Martin Island where you can observe the Falls through natural stone arches, douse yourself off at the base of the Falls (more than a few tourists have succumbed to Iguazu’s currents so the swimming area is understandably small and they’ll close it if too many jack-os try going beyond it as happened while I was there), and evade that aforementioned big lizard.

All in all, even if you’re not remotely interested in waterfalls, these cascades are simply stunning and shouldn’t be missed.

And after you’re done, you can stay at the Hostel Inn Iguazu in Puerto Iguacu, Argentina where I stayed (without a doubt the most luxurious hostel I have ever stayed at, and I’ve stayed at a few). Converted from an old casino, this hostel actually looks brand spanking new and comes with a massages, palm trees, air conditioning, its own excursions desk, meal plans, a volleyball net, nightly entertainment, two bars, a massive TV room, a firepit, and even a big outdoor pool that’s open late (and practically has a swim up bar). Seriously, this isn’t a hostel, it’s an underpriced resort. The only drawback was I got stuck with a group of annoying fresh-out of high school teens in my dorm room whose immature antics prevented me from getting any sleep (one, whom I assume most of just gotten off a reality show, made such a fuss over his cigarettes that I finally broke down and told him to just go buy some from the front since they cost the equivalent of like $2). Then again, I can’t blame the hostel for that.

Indeed, I met a few good people at the hostel, including a couple of Canadians I later re-encountered in Buenos Aires, a friendly and perky Australian dance partner, and a sassy Brit and her German… sorry Austrian accomplice (he always got offended when anyone insinuated he was in any way German, spoke German, or had anything do with Germany, so naturally these connections were made on a frequent basis) with whom I ended up in an impromptu Mid-night dip in pursuit of sandals in which some people entered the pool fully clothed.

Things might have gotten a little out of hand that evening, I for one blame the Brazillian traditional dance show, which took “traditional dance” to a whole new level. First the hostel fed us fresh BBQ’d Argentinean meat, a treat in its own right, and let us know that traditional Brazillian dancers were coming out to entertain us. Now, when I heard “traditional dance” I thought Folklorama or Lt Gov’s Winterfest type dancing (ie. Scottish sword dancing, Chinese umbrella twirling, that thing Ukrainians do when they jump around a lot in flashy pants).

At first it started pretty sedate, just a samba dude with a tambourine. He was energetic but most people just continued eating. It was only when they brought the girl out that I remembered what Brazil’s most famous traditional fest was called: Carnival.

Before I knew what was happening, I was whisked on stage where a scantily clad Brazillian woman in a g-string and feather cap began gyrating in front of my face (and about 8 other eager but pleasantly surprised men), this continued with flirtatious hip bumps, (at one point one guy was cajoled into giving what he thought was one of the girls a lap dance only to turn around and find out it was the same crazy Samba guy from before, prompting the lap dancing dude to run away in shock) a bringing of women on stage for some samba twists, and ultimately a giant congo line where I ended up paired with an Australian girl whom I was expected to twirl and spin above my head (Thank God she was rather petite). At any rate, if the Brazillians thought they could teach the world to dance, they’d apparently never met a Manitoban… despite copious efforts, rhythm was not my companion, but my well-intended dance buffoonery apparently endeared me to the Australian and her boyfriend (okay, granted I’m not so sure about the boyfriend) and they soon conscripted me to perform lift and chicken fighting duties in the pool with numerous beautiful recent dancers. It’s a tough life I know.

The next day, I caught a 17 hour bus to Buenos Aires, which was nice and air conditioned (although long and motion sicky) and had copious amounts of border stops, checkpoints, and shepherd’s pie. Go figure.

Anyways, Thanks Iguazu for a fantastic time, on to Buenos Aires!

So I ended up in Buenos Aires a night before my friend Megan arrived from Canada, and I spent it drinking in patio bars and hostel bars sipping a ridiculously awful cocktail called a Fernet and Cola. Apparently, it’s a favourite amongst Argentine men, although the girl behind the counter sold it to as “tastes like bad medicine.” Her prognosis was correct, as the only equivalent I could think of in Canada would be if you mixed a wad of cola, added a tinge of campari, and topped the whole thing off with a bottle of Buckley’s Cough Syrup. An acquired taste to say the least. Man, that drink was terrible. The stuff was so unswallowable, I couldn’t finish it and was forced to spend the remainder of the evening pawning sips off on unsuspecting hostellers and amusing myself with their facial reactions. Incidentally, Argentine women apparently drink something called Giancia (Giancia Blanca I think the name of the cocktail), which I tried for comparison purposes and rather enjoyed it, promptly wondering why socially acceptable drinks for men generally taste godawful, perhaps being able to stomach atrocious liquids is a sign of masculine prowess (ladies?). Women’s drinks, while often a bit on the sweet side, actually tend to go down a lot smoother, with the possible exception of a Monkey’s Lunch. Seriously, I might try to write an article on this for a feminist magazine or something (the unemployed gotta finance their drinking habits some way).

Anyways, so Megan arrived the next day and we hit up the Buenos Aires scene pretty quickly. Buenos Aires is said to be the most “European” of major South American cities, and definitely the San Telmo neighbourhood we were staying in, with its old colonial apartments, narrow alleys, and cobble stone sidewalks, felt like a barrio of Paris—if Paris had a suburb that spoke Spanish, had an unusual obsession with empanadas, and survived on a heavily devalued currency. Both Rio and Buenos Aires have very vibrant nightlife scenes, although quite different—where you might not even bother to put on a shirt to go to a party in Rio (or pants as the case might be), Buenos Aires socialites tend to be a tad more subtle in their approach to sexiness (ie, they’ll still show plenty of skin, but there’s more of an emphasis on style). That said, I was still wearing my barely washed backpacker shorts. Like any true South American Paris, though, Buenos Aires is stylish on to some, arrogant and prickish to others (Megan’s guidebook, for no apparent reason, had a list of jokes about Argentineans, including “How does a Argentinean commit suicide?” The answer: “He climbs to the top of his ego and jumps off”).

Cynical guidebook writers aside, I actually found little to no arrogance or prickishness from the porteños (people from Buenos Aires) and in fact, the anti-Buenos Aires sentiment is probably equivalent to Canadian Toronto-hating (sure there are some assholes, but there are plenty of non-assholes, just take the city for what it is). In fact, the dude who did our walking tour for free, although he accepted donations naturally, was probably one of the best tour guides I ever had. Not only was he very knowledgeable about Argentine and Buenos Aires history and cultural going-ons, he also could shoot the shit about topics as varied as gaucho mystique, why Latin Americans love Homer Simpson so much (seriously, they’re on TV almost as often as futebol), Argentine relations with Chile, Canadian Confederation (I told him Canada gained its independence because Britain didn’t want us anymore, and a bunch of provincial heads got wasted in Charlottetown and didn’t realize what they were signing), and of course what tour of Buenos Aires would be complete without at least one conversation surrounding 1980s animation sensation the Thundercats (yes it came up, although I can’t recall why).

Perhaps you’re wondering what a gaucho is, which would make sense because I never explained them. Basically, they’re like an Argentinean cowboy and play a similar role in the Argentinean cultural psyche as they do in American folklore—agricultural, rugged and masculine, fervently individualistic, always ready for a fight, somewhat unbathed, etc. Unlike their American counterparts, gauchos forewent the six shooter and fought with knives and panchos, and yet for some reason still knew how to tango. I think one would make an excellent Indiana Jones adversary.

Let’s see, what else did we do in BA? Well there was the Defensa street market on Sunday (which covered half the city), an old colonial mansion and converted party space, and the Casa Rosada (Pink House instead of White House) famous as Argentina’s seat of government. This—presumably—was that same building from which Eva Peron (EVITA!) gave her famous speeches from the balcony, cementing her place in history as the first major female political figure in world history to deliver her speeches entirely in song (what, you thought Andrew Lloyd Webber wrote them?). (The current Argentine president, Cristina Fernandez, is also a woman, and a mucha caliente one at that). We also saw Evita’s grave in the Recoleta cemetery (cuz nothing says vacation fun like a reminder of your own mortality), itself a treasure trove of ornate tombs and gothic artwork (seriously, if I ever get the budget for a major vampire or zombie movie, I am totally coming back here, or possibly Edinburgh), although I spent most of my time there searching for the tomb of Jorge Luis Borges, mainly so I could ask him what the hell was going on in Labyrinths, the collection of short stories I had to read for Postmodern Lit. Unfortunately, the cemetery proved to be an unsolvable Labyrinth all its own—and in Spanish no less.

No matter, we gave the labyrinth a rest and proceeded to consume delicious dulce con leche ice cream (dulce con leche is a sweet caramel spread South Americans love almost as much as futebol, ham and cheese sandwiches, and the Simpsons) and eat ridiculously underpriced and absolutely delicious Argentinean steaks (sorry Paraguay). Seriously, this has got to be the only country on Earth, with the possible exception of Uruguay, where steak is a common menu choice for grimy backpackers (seriously, the thing cost like $6-$7 Canadian).

Last but not least we did the ubiquitous tourist requirement and went to a Tango Show. Apparently, I have just as many left feet in the southern hemisphere as in the north, so the next Carlos Gardel I was not, but I did amuse my poor Dutch dancing partner with my serious Tango-dancing face which I saw the Tango Dance who looked like Bill Murray using during a street Tango earlier in the day. Later on, we were whisked to a dinner theatre where we were entertained by tango theatrics. Colombian pop sensation Shakira, who I believe had a famous song about dancing tango, once quipped that her dancing was not “sexual but sensual.” I think this adequately describes Tango. Sure it involves a lot of interlocking legs, body contact, slinky dresses, sleek suits, and invasions of personal space, but that’s not “sexual”—ie an overt means of expressing or arousing sexual desire—it’s “sensual”—a slightly less overt means of expressing or arousing sexual desire. And man was that dancing sensual, unbelievably sensual. When they had me pose for a photograph with one of the leading ladies raising her leg ever so sensually across my body, my face turned as red as her fishnet stockings. Now, that’s some sensuality.

Phew, moving on. What to follow that with? I know, ECONOMICS! Yay! Argentina—no stranger to financial crises—appears to be in the grips of one especially bizarre one, a change drought. Retailers, restauranteurs, and businesses were constantly perilously short on small change, so much so that many would ask if they could write us an I.O.U. or giving us the nearest amount in bills or whatever tiny denominations of coins they could scrape together from the bottom of the cash register. Seriously, no one had coins. If somehow you received a one peso coin, you were told to cherish it, save it, and impress your grandchildren with it presumably. Indeed, I was a little taken aback by the excitement I received when I first spent a one peso coin (about the equivalent of $0.33 Canadian) as the clerk reacted as if I had just handed them a bar of gold (this was before I was made aware of Argentina’s unique coinage situation). Why, you might ask, would an entire country be constantly short on small change? In fact we did ask, a lot of people, but nobody seemed to want to give us a straight answer. One girl from Iguazu told me it was the mafia (apparently the Argentinean mafia had stockpiled ridiculous sums of small coins and were charging businesses exorbitant sums for them) while our tour guide claimed it was just due to an unexpected popularity of the Buenos Aires transportation network which only accepts coins (and therefore receives the lionshare of them). My guess… some form of Subway Mafia is at fault, or I suppose I should say Subtle Mafia. (Argentinean Spanish, by the way, is incredibly strange. Where other Spanish speakers say “yo” they say “cho,” and they use a lot of archaic overly polite Spanish constructions like “vos” and “sos,” presumably to maintain their European aristocratic image amongst South Americans).

So that in a nutshell, was Buenos Aires. Oh and I caught a duo of pick-pockets trying to steal my bag at the bus station (they thought I wasn’t paying attention. They were wrong).

In addition to Buenos Aires, I also visited Uruguay (which I will write about after this) and the Mendoza region, famous for its high mountains (Mt. Aconcagua is the highest peak in the Americas), Arizona-esque landscape, wine tours (it’s Argentina’s wine-making region) and extreme sports (an odd combo to be sure). I basically was only stopping there en route to Santiago, Chile, but I still found some time to do some extreme sports like horseback riding, whitewater rafting, and rappelling (okay, maybe not so much the last one). Basically it was a combo package, and since I wanted to try whitewater rafting (and things are generally cheaper in Argentina, even if Mendoza is like Argentina’s Banff-Okanagan) I decided to give the other two a whirl. We started with horseback riding which is a bit like hiking except the horse does the walking for you. The terrain around here really is desert and canyon-esque a lot link the American Southwest (or at least what I imagine the American Southwest to look like from watching Road Runner cartoons as I have never been there). Only you’d be in the middle of the desert and off to one side would be a giant mountain with snow on it, so you could actually stand in a desert and see snow… weird.

Next we did white-water rafting (the land was dry, but there was still a lot of run-off from the mountains) and it was actually pretty wicked. The safety instructions were only in Spanish mind you, but I quickly learned the Spanish for “Paddle Goddammit!,” “Stop,” and “Man Overboard.” No, it wasn’t me who fell overboard. It was the Argentinean guy sitting across from me (you know, just beyond the handle of my paddle that occasionally jutted out unrelatedly in his direction). Seeing my Argentinean amigo flop backwards in the frothing surf, I leapt heroically to his aide, grasping his hand and thinking I had done well, when our guide pointed out (with excited gestures, he didn’t speak English) that by us both abandoning our posts the craft was steering dangerously towards a giant rock. I hurried back to my post—paddling my ass off, as my amigo clutched the rafts siding for dear life—as our guide plucked him out of the water like a wet puppy and set him back to paddling.

Like I said, there was also supposed to be some rappelling on this trip and indeed our guide did take us up a steep crumbling 30 m cliff with lots of cute and spiky cacti to fall on at its base. Now, I’m not so nuts about rock climbing to be honest (hell, I can’t even climb a tree) and heights are for me what snakes are for Indiana Jones (a cause of great phobia yet also a phenomenon with which my life choices frequently bring me into contact), but I was going to give it a shot, that is until my legs and hands became inexplicably consumed by cramps—right after our flip-flop wearing guide (if my Alps experience has taught me anything, flip-flops ain’t exactly the best mountaineering shoes) tried to explain in his broken English that our loose straps weren’t flimsy at all and passed not but the most stringent of Argentinean safety standards—it probably didn’t help that, as my guide was distracted by his struggles in English, the tourist on the end of his support rope careened into the cliff wall. Oh well.

The next day, I went up to pay the Aconcagua area a visit (it takes 12-15 days to actually climb the mountain, and after my aforementioned distaste for climbing, although I just photographed from it the highway). To be honest though, the mountains just outside Mendoza look more impressive from the ground (probably because there’s a much greater degree of change from the flatlands of Argentina to these sky-high mountains). We also stopped at a natural bridge, a bizarre steep man-made bridge to nowhere over a creek that could easily be hopped across, and a deserted (and I do mean “desert”) ski resort (apparently it snows here in winter, though it looks more like Arizona right now).

Uruguay, more than just the butt of 3rd Graders’ Wordplay

Ah Uruguay. Yes, it’s a real country. No, they don’t think that joke is funny either.

Of course, that might be because they speak Spanish and don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

Having had a bit of a run-in with South America’s other “Guay” I was a little apprehensive about what this venture across the Rio Plata would net me. But as their slogan “There’s Paraguay and then there’s a Better Guay” suggested (note: may not be an actual slogan), Uruguay proved to be pleasantly free of questions about my security (at least compared to Paraguay) and if anything it was probably over developed for tourists (The reasons we visited, Colonia Del Sacramento and Punta Del Este, where like Uruguay’s Wasagaming and Monte Carlo respectively). Actually both towns—Colonia Del Sacramento being a quaint colonial-ish village while Punta Del Este being a beach destination for the Spanish-speaking nouveau riche—were surprisingly devoid of tourists, at least during the day, but then we learning that South Americans, at least the ones who can afford to party, are actually full fledge nocturnal creatures (an early party starts at midnight, most start after 1, indeed one club we visited said the space was for children only until 1:30 am). How so many people are able to keep this going confuses me to this day (Presumably these people still have jobs, and occasionally fatigue?). Is this why they need a siesta?

Compared to Buenos Aires, Uruguay felt like we were stepping back into rural Manitoba (copius amounts of flat farmland might have had something to do with that). Being just across the river from Buenos Aires, Uruguay has a Canada-US complex with its bigger neighbour to the south. And yes, Uruguay your beef is good too.

To be honest, we didn’t do a whole helluva lot in Uruguay other than lounge on the beach, ride the bus, purchase personal care products, and fail in our attempts to see Montevideo. There was absolutely no accommodation to be had the night we dropped in on Uruguay’s capital and largest (perhaps only) city, as apparently some Geography conference had attracted conference-goers from across the nation and hotels and hostels had been booked up solid for months (Uruguayans must really freak’n love Geography). The conference also ran into Argentinean spring break, which meant we couldn’t even get a boat ticket back to Buenos Aires until the morning of the day Megan flew back to Canada.

About the only thing disastrous that happened would be that I suddenly realized the number of mosquito bites I had accumulated in the last few days (after travelling through regions known for malaria and dengue fever, yay) that my legs and arms looked like they were breaking out in hives. I was mess with itchiness let me tell you, so much so that I apparently woke people up with my incessant scratching throw the night (you’re not supposed to do that, but I lost my self-control). Inevitably, I started taking some meds and my legs and arms seem to be on the mend (although they still don’t look pretty). Odd thing was, Megan and everyone else barely got bitten at all. Apparently, I’m considered muy guapo and sensual in the South American mosquito world. Great.

Well I haven’t developed malaria or dengue fever yet, fingers crossed, and I should be immune to Yellow Fever, so on to Chile!