For the last two weeks, we have been gallivanting in Western Argentina and Chile. We are nearly done completing a large loop: Buenos Aires to Mendoza from where we crossed the Anes to Santiago, then to San Alfonso (mountain town close to Santiago), Chillan (a non-descript Chilean city that we stopped in on the way south just to go somewhere typical and unknown) and Pucon (about 9 hours south of Santiago in the Chilean Lake District), from where we crossed over the Andes back into Argentina. We are currently in San Martin de los Andes, from where we will return to Mendoza and then Buenos Aires later in the week.
Highlights have included:
Renting bikes in a wine-country town outside of Mendoza and visiting wineries via bike, on a scary road where there was no divide between us and big trucks! There are no bike-helmets in Argentina! I told Joe to tell my mom I was having fun at the time of my demise, if I face-planted in front of a truck that day.
Seeing the Andes from various locations. North and South, Argentine-side (where it is drier) and Chilean side (where there tends to be more greenery, especially further south. Joe calls it the "rain shadow." Moisture from the Pacific accumulates on the Chilean side of the mountains, but doesn't make it over to the Argentine side).
Having a beautiful, outdoor lunch on el Dia de los Trabajadores (as my Tio Hugo called it, a Holy Day in Chile...also, a federal holiday which occurs on May 1) in Santiago with 3 generations of the Jordan family (my Gramasita's brother Hugo and his family). We had such a nice time. Juan Francisco (Cacquico) cooked an enormous side of meat for the family and Francessca made such vegetarian rarities (in Chile) as tofu and tabouleh (or something like it). Joe and I felt like it was like being with my immediate family (if we all lived in Chile).
Visiting Felipe Orrego's (my cousin Jessica's dad) house and community in San Alfonso, a gorgeous, tiny town in the Maipo River Valley, in the foothills of the Andes, outside of Santiago. His house (which is about 1/2 a mile from the nearest road. read: everything in their house has to be brought by hand!) is unlike any we have ever visited. It has been built over many years by he and his wife and family, with things they carried there themselves. It has one of the best views I have ever seen from a private house. Joe and I sat on the roof-top deck one evening as the sun set, snuggled under blankets, freezing our asses off, as the Andes turned pink before us.
Spending gorgeous days in the northern reaches of Chilean and Argentinian Patagonia. Joe climbed a snow-topped volcano (Villarica) and said it was one of the hardest things he has ever done. We went hiking on a sunny day outside of Pucon and lost the trail, so we ended up traipsing through private land, where we met friendly domestic animals but no people and ate a picnic on a hillside overlooking the valley. It is now raining in San Martin de los Andes, in Argentine Patagonia, and we are inside by a fire. It is the first time we have seen rain in nearly 2 months in South America and the first time we have been in winter in nearly 1.5 years. I forgot that it can be kind of pleasant, especially when there is a nice view and a fire going.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
I Want to Open a "Closed Door"
We are leaving Buenos Aires today, after a month, for Western Argentina (Mendoza), and our last night here was one of the best: we went to a puerta cerrada "closed door" restaurant.
These restaurants are a relatively (5-10 years?) new phenomenon in Buenos Aires, and they seem to be very popular among foreigners like us. They are basically a restaurant in someone's home. When you make the reservation, they give you the address and you show up at a certain time to eat and drink in someone's home. So fun!
We went to Casa Felix last night, run by a 1/2 Argentino (male chef), 1/2 American couple (female hostess). He was born to a vegetarian family here in Buenos Aires (such a rarity) and cooks mostly vegetarian food, which was perfect for me. There were 4 vegetarian courses and the main course was fish. This couple has a perfect life, it seems. They open their beautiful house 3 nights a week to 12 guests. They have traveled and continue to travel throughout Latin America, to learn about different foods and culinary traditions. They can close their informal restaurant whenever they like to travel. They have an incredible back garden where they grow regional herbs and spices. I want to be them, but first I have to learn to be an amazing chef. The food was so memorable and different and perfectly executed. The evening was very social and we talked to other guests from the U.S. (Americans outnumbered everybody else), the U.K., Argentina and Malaysia and we went to a traditional tango club afterward with some new friends we had met.
These restaurants are a relatively (5-10 years?) new phenomenon in Buenos Aires, and they seem to be very popular among foreigners like us. They are basically a restaurant in someone's home. When you make the reservation, they give you the address and you show up at a certain time to eat and drink in someone's home. So fun!
We went to Casa Felix last night, run by a 1/2 Argentino (male chef), 1/2 American couple (female hostess). He was born to a vegetarian family here in Buenos Aires (such a rarity) and cooks mostly vegetarian food, which was perfect for me. There were 4 vegetarian courses and the main course was fish. This couple has a perfect life, it seems. They open their beautiful house 3 nights a week to 12 guests. They have traveled and continue to travel throughout Latin America, to learn about different foods and culinary traditions. They can close their informal restaurant whenever they like to travel. They have an incredible back garden where they grow regional herbs and spices. I want to be them, but first I have to learn to be an amazing chef. The food was so memorable and different and perfectly executed. The evening was very social and we talked to other guests from the U.S. (Americans outnumbered everybody else), the U.K., Argentina and Malaysia and we went to a traditional tango club afterward with some new friends we had met.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Uruguay
We spent the weekend in Uruguay. Two nights, two cities, a bit of a whirlwind. And when we arrived back in Buenos Aires late last night, both of us felt very happy that we were home and heading back to our crappy, basement apartment.
There is a ferry that travels from Buenos Aires to Colonia, Uruguay several times a day. It is a huge modern affair, and there is live entertainment half-way through the trip. We were treated to a dance competition and a guy singing ballads.
Colonia is one of the prettiest towns we had ever been to. We couldn't think of one colonial town in the Americas we had seen that was more perfectly restored and preserved. It is a very small city, founded in the 1500s by the Portuguese. It sits on a peninsula out in the Rio de la Plata, which is an enormous river mouth that you can't see across. It was very warm while we were there, and we walked around in the sun, enjoying the light, the flowers, the water, the sunset, etc. We sat outside at romantic cafes with candles on the tables on cobblestone streets. It was endlessly pleasant. And very expensive. Uruguay is a destination for rich Argentinians and Brazilians. It is surrounded by the large, South American super-powers and receives a lot of their money and tourism. We could not have stayed there much longer, as we were continually shocked by the prices.
Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay, could not be any different than Colonia. It is not perfectly restored whatsoever. It has an aesthetically awful (in many instances) combination of 60s era modern, ugly buildings set next to colonial buildings. And it has an eerily abandoned feeling. Joe and I walked around and sat in parks and plazas, with the aim of watching people and life go by, as we do in every place we visit, but there were hardly any people to watch! We were often nearly alone in these public places! But we liked it there anyway. It had a good vibe: relaxed and friendly and real.
And now we are back in Buenos Aires for another week before taking a trip to Chile and Western Argentina.
There is a ferry that travels from Buenos Aires to Colonia, Uruguay several times a day. It is a huge modern affair, and there is live entertainment half-way through the trip. We were treated to a dance competition and a guy singing ballads.
Colonia is one of the prettiest towns we had ever been to. We couldn't think of one colonial town in the Americas we had seen that was more perfectly restored and preserved. It is a very small city, founded in the 1500s by the Portuguese. It sits on a peninsula out in the Rio de la Plata, which is an enormous river mouth that you can't see across. It was very warm while we were there, and we walked around in the sun, enjoying the light, the flowers, the water, the sunset, etc. We sat outside at romantic cafes with candles on the tables on cobblestone streets. It was endlessly pleasant. And very expensive. Uruguay is a destination for rich Argentinians and Brazilians. It is surrounded by the large, South American super-powers and receives a lot of their money and tourism. We could not have stayed there much longer, as we were continually shocked by the prices.
Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay, could not be any different than Colonia. It is not perfectly restored whatsoever. It has an aesthetically awful (in many instances) combination of 60s era modern, ugly buildings set next to colonial buildings. And it has an eerily abandoned feeling. Joe and I walked around and sat in parks and plazas, with the aim of watching people and life go by, as we do in every place we visit, but there were hardly any people to watch! We were often nearly alone in these public places! But we liked it there anyway. It had a good vibe: relaxed and friendly and real.
And now we are back in Buenos Aires for another week before taking a trip to Chile and Western Argentina.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Buenos Aires' Idiosyncracies
In addition to dog poop everywhere (this drives me crazy!), Buenos Aires has some other funny features worth sharing.
The problem of "moneda" (coins) is never-ending! No one has coins or will give out coins. Business-owners are not able to get coins from the banks. If you buy something that costs a fraction of a Peso, people will just round down (to the customer's benefit), so they do not have to give out coins. BUT, the city buses, which are great and convenient and fast and run all night long (very loudly, down our street), ONLY take coins. So, there is a constant struggle in this city to get coins and horde them! I am getting pretty good at it myself. In the first place, Joe gives me all his coins, which is key (he likes to take the subway more than the bus). Secondly, I am getting very used to lying. Any shopkeeper who asks me if I have exact change or any moneda at all, I just say "no", very emphatically. Sometimes, that results in a coin for me.
This is a very late-night city. Restaurants do not open on the weekends until 8:00 or 8:30, but even then, the waiters are usually just setting up because no one comes to eat until 10:00. Except me and Joe! We are ravenous by 8:00 and peaking in windows by 8:30, hoping that we will not be eating alone, again. But we usually are. We feel like giant losers. We haven't even attempted to go out and see any music or anything like that. That doesn't start until 2-4 in the morning. There are some clubs here, seriously, that do not open until 4 a.m. on the weekends, when we have been asleep for at least 5 hours, having eaten dinner by ourselves at 8:30.
The problem of "moneda" (coins) is never-ending! No one has coins or will give out coins. Business-owners are not able to get coins from the banks. If you buy something that costs a fraction of a Peso, people will just round down (to the customer's benefit), so they do not have to give out coins. BUT, the city buses, which are great and convenient and fast and run all night long (very loudly, down our street), ONLY take coins. So, there is a constant struggle in this city to get coins and horde them! I am getting pretty good at it myself. In the first place, Joe gives me all his coins, which is key (he likes to take the subway more than the bus). Secondly, I am getting very used to lying. Any shopkeeper who asks me if I have exact change or any moneda at all, I just say "no", very emphatically. Sometimes, that results in a coin for me.
This is a very late-night city. Restaurants do not open on the weekends until 8:00 or 8:30, but even then, the waiters are usually just setting up because no one comes to eat until 10:00. Except me and Joe! We are ravenous by 8:00 and peaking in windows by 8:30, hoping that we will not be eating alone, again. But we usually are. We feel like giant losers. We haven't even attempted to go out and see any music or anything like that. That doesn't start until 2-4 in the morning. There are some clubs here, seriously, that do not open until 4 a.m. on the weekends, when we have been asleep for at least 5 hours, having eaten dinner by ourselves at 8:30.
Friday, April 10, 2009
These are Memories that Make us Cry
There have been so many times over the past 10 months when things have seemed perfectly clear and happy and we have felt connected to people and inspired and hopeful by things we have encountered. There have been other times when we have felt overwhelmed, out of our element, and discouraged...At a camp site in New Zealand one beautiful night, we began to make a list of some of the memories that have been most impressionable. Africa featured heavily on our list; it was full of intense emotions for us...Thinking about these memories makes us cry.
* Querido* Old men are the best customers at traditional cafes, here in Argentina. They seem out of an another era, and would make great photos, sitting at sidewalk tables, deep in conversations over coffee and cigarettes. The other day, while we were sitting in a cafe, we saw two old men hug each other and say goodbye. One called after the other, "Ciao, querido!" (beloved one).
*Gentile* On our 3rd day in Senegal, we were feeling a little bit overwhelmed. We had failed to be adventurous enough to take a bus from the capital city to the beach town of La Somone, where we were staying. The bus station had been desolate and daunting and we ended up spending way more money than we wanted to take a 3 hour cab ride out to the beach. While swimming in the ocean just outside the walls of our over-priced, Western-style, fancy hotel (there weren't other options for us. Senegalese people don't often stay at hotels. only priveleged tourists like us do), 4 beautiful and friendly Senegalese boys started talking to us. In a mixture of French and English, they welcomed us to their country, asked us about the United States and ourselves. At one point, one of the boys told Joe, "you are so gentle..." The word for kind in French is gentile, so we knew what he meant. We loved it. The caretakers of our hotel, Le Fenix, there in La Sonome were also amazing. They were not accustomed to a "high-dollar" tourist (at $90 US, we spent more in 1 night at this hotel than most Senegalese make in 1 month) like Joe stopping to talk to them. From the gardener to the manager, Joe befriended all of them. He practiced his French and got all kinds of travel advice (the manager, at one point, told Joe that "every price in Senegal is negotiable"- a very important thing to know!) and information about Senegalese culture from them. While I could not understand what they talked about (in French), I watched these guys seek Joe out time and time again (the gardener knocked on our door one time, just to chat). They did not stop smiling the whole time they talked to him.
*Tortue* The Dogon country in Mali is anthropolically famous because when French academics "discovered" (began to study) the area in the 1960s, people were living in clay-walled homes in the cliffs. They had been there for hundreds of years, and their cliff- dwellings were advantageous because they were camouflaged and from their vantage point the Dogon people could spot danger and enemies for miles. Now, the Dogon have moved out of the cliffs and down the valleys, but they are still a very distinct people, with a different language and history than others in Mali and the region. Taking a guided walk (there are no roads) through the Dogon is high on the list of tourist attractions in West Africa. Usually, walks last for 3-4 days and tourists sleep in Dogon villages along the way. Finding a good, Dogon guide to lead you on a walk is a challenge, though. We decided to take our trip to Dogon with our new friend Nick, who we had just met, from Maine. Nick was a Peace Corps volunteer in Guinea (a West African nation close to Mali) and he had a recommendation for an English-speaking guide from another Peace Corps volunteer. Our guide's name was Usman. He was awesome. But he spoke almost no English. We communicated with him in broken English, broken French and broken Malinque (the local language in Guinea that Nick spoke and most Malians kind of understand). We did not learn anything about Dogon people or their land or history from Usman. At one point, he was trying to tell us a story about the the spiritual leader of Dogon villages/clans who would lock themselve in a clay house with an alligator and a tortue for days in order to divine some inspiration and direction. Nick asked what a "tortue" was? We really never knew what Usman was talking about and we usually didn't ask. But this time, we did. It was hot as hell and we had been walking all day long in the blazing heat. We were standing next to ancient, pygmy (a very long time ago, the Dogon apparently used to be pygmies) cliff dwellings and Nick wanted to know what a "tortue" was. Turns out it's a tortoise (French). But the four of us giggled up there for about 20 minutes. Usman did not know why we were giggling and we didn't really either, but we were nearly hysterical with laughter. Felt great.
*Le Compagnard* Our last nights in Mali were a blast, surprise, surprise. We met up with Nick, our Mainer Peace Corps friend, again, in the capital city, Bamako, and saw some incredible live music and became regulars at a Peace Corps/ex-pat bar called Le Compagnard. We had a little crew of people who spoke varying degrees of English and French. We communicated with a lot of hand signs. Our first night there, I realized that the 3 men sitting next to us were speaking Spanish, which is a rarity in West Africa. Not only were they speaking Spanish, but I was understanding everything they said, which meant they were not Spaniards. I got excited and leaned over and asked them where they were from. They were Mexicans! In Mali! [at one point we asked them if there were any other Mexicans in Mali and they answered us in all seriousness that there was one more, a woman who worked at a company in Bamako]! Joe and I, being great big Mexico-lovers, began an immediate rapport with these men, who were pilots with a Malian airline and had been living and flying in Mali for a year. They joined our eclectic group, which now spoke a mix of French, English, and Spanish and hung out together til the bar closed the next two nights! Joy!
*Akon* Akon, a world-famous rap/R&B singer, who moved to Jersey City from Senegal when he was young, is a national icon in Senegal. Everyone listens to him at all times, everywhere. We were fans before we got to Senegal, but while we were there, we became indoctrinated. Sadly, people in Senegal don't know what he is singing about. He sings in English, and they don't speak English. That does not prevent people from singing along, however. During our first week in Senegal, and in West Africa, we were lying on our hotel bed in the beach town of Saly, sweating to death, with the fan turned up high. But we could still hear the little kids outside, in the poor neighborhood where we were staying, singing Akon. They were butchering the English (and had no idea what they were singing about), but they sounded damn good.
*Angel girl* We had some rough times in Senegal (well, all of West Africa). The heat, the dust, the unexpectedly high costs, the very long, horrible bus rides or very expensive cab rides to get from place to place wore on us...A week into the Senegal portion of our trip, after taking a couple-hour cab ride, we arrived in a town called Joal-Fadiout that our guide book had described as a historical, 1/2 muslim, 1/2 catholic beach town. I despaired upon seeing it. The beach was awful, the town was super undeveloped and I could not imagine what we were going to do there. Luckily for us, the very young (16? 18 year old?) proprietress of our hotel was an Angel. I don't know how else to describe her. She had the sweetest, most lovely voice, smile and face. She soothed me down to my core. She wore a head scarf/covering so we could only see her perfect little face- no hair, no neck, etc. She made everything better when she smiled at us. She made us dinner the night that we stayed at her hotel. Joe told her that I was a vegetarian and she had many questions about that fact. "Did I eat rice? Tomatoes? Zucchini? Did I drink beer? Tea?" Normally, this might have been a bit annoying after a while, but I didn't care, as long as she kept coming to talk to us. She made our time in an otherwise run-down hotel in a very strange, desolate but interesting town...
*Banfora boat children* Burkina Faso is the fourth-poorest country in the world according to the United Nations development index. It feels like it, too. One day while in the small, pretty city of Banfora, we rented the most horribly decrepit bikes imaginable so that we could visit a regional park with a lake where hippo herds lived. After suffering through the ride on our stupid bikes, we arrived at the lake. But the boat man was not there to take us to see the hippos. So, a man sat us down in some chairs in the dirt at a little store (can I call it that? they sold soda, that was it) to wait, while he went to summon the boat man. Needless to say, we were a novelty in the area. Several kids came to sit by us and stare. It was hard not to stare back, especially because they were all awfully skinny and deformed in some way. One kid could hardly walk because he had bandied legs, another had a giant, distended belly from malnutrition and they all had orange hair because they were missing essential vitamins. I tried to smile at them, but I was nearly crying the whole time. They were so cute and so earnest and I wondered if they were going to make it in life? Would they see adulthood? While we were sitting there, a gorgeous, fat little baby girl came running into our circle. She was about 2 and she had incredible energy, while the other kids were lethargic. She ran around and grabbed things and threw things and generally acted like a 2 year old. I was transfixed: a healthy child! I could not help feeling like I wanted to abduct her and take her far away. I wanted to make sure she retained her health and energy and enthusiasm.
*Mali/Burkina border* We took a horribly over-crowded, miserable little van on an relatively untraveled route to get from Mali to Burkina Faso. We had successfully gotten ourselves stamped out of Mali, at the Malian side of the border. It was a bit of a question how it would go because we were 2 of only 4 tourists on the bus and sometimes border guards might ask for a "donation" to ensure our passage from one country to the next. The Burkina side of the border consisted of a lone, cement building in the hot, red dust with nothing around for miles. One guy, one desk, one stamp in a cement building. This border guard took his time. He had nothing else to do, no other entertainment, so he talked to every single person on the bus, while filling out their visas. Joe had been in there with him for a really long time with no progress on our passports, but was having a great time chatting, when a Burkinabe young man who had been living in France and was returning to Burkina to visit his family, slipped the border guy his passport with a 1000 CFA note (about $2.5) in it. He wanted quick attention, obviously. Duh, Joe, I thought: why didn't you try that trick? But the border guard took the note out, gave it back to the kid and said that he would need it while he was studying in France. It was amazing: an immigration official, with nothing, in the middle of nowhere, giving back a French resident an amount of money that would buy a Coke in France, but might make a real difference in his own daily life in Burkina...
*Joburg Bus Station* Johannesburg: the most dangerous city in the world, apparently. South Africa has a serious problem with crime and violence and we always had to be very vigilant while there. We were only going to Johannesburg in order to fly home, and we had been hearing scary things about it the whole time we were in the country. We arrived in Joburg on the bus. The hostel we were staying out was going to send someone into the bus station to escort us out to the car, because the neighborhood has such a bad reputation for violence. We were just supposed to stay inside the station. Fine, but I had to go the bathroom. Was that allowed/advisable/smart? Would I be mugged or knifed? I had to go find out, but I told Joe to flag down one of the many cops hanging out in the station if I took longer than 5 minutes. I went and got in line for the ladies room. I was the only white woman in a crowd of very large, very tall black African women, most of whom had enormous and heavy bundles that they carried on their heads when they moved up in the line. I stood there nervously, but as I approached the front of the queue, one of these ladies told me that I was next (someone had tried to cut me in line and I was going to let her! she had 100 pounds on me), another told me that their was no toilet paper and a third handed me some out of her own bag. They did not smile, but they made me feel safe- like people were watching out for me in the most dangerous city in the world.
* Querido* Old men are the best customers at traditional cafes, here in Argentina. They seem out of an another era, and would make great photos, sitting at sidewalk tables, deep in conversations over coffee and cigarettes. The other day, while we were sitting in a cafe, we saw two old men hug each other and say goodbye. One called after the other, "Ciao, querido!" (beloved one).
*Gentile* On our 3rd day in Senegal, we were feeling a little bit overwhelmed. We had failed to be adventurous enough to take a bus from the capital city to the beach town of La Somone, where we were staying. The bus station had been desolate and daunting and we ended up spending way more money than we wanted to take a 3 hour cab ride out to the beach. While swimming in the ocean just outside the walls of our over-priced, Western-style, fancy hotel (there weren't other options for us. Senegalese people don't often stay at hotels. only priveleged tourists like us do), 4 beautiful and friendly Senegalese boys started talking to us. In a mixture of French and English, they welcomed us to their country, asked us about the United States and ourselves. At one point, one of the boys told Joe, "you are so gentle..." The word for kind in French is gentile, so we knew what he meant. We loved it. The caretakers of our hotel, Le Fenix, there in La Sonome were also amazing. They were not accustomed to a "high-dollar" tourist (at $90 US, we spent more in 1 night at this hotel than most Senegalese make in 1 month) like Joe stopping to talk to them. From the gardener to the manager, Joe befriended all of them. He practiced his French and got all kinds of travel advice (the manager, at one point, told Joe that "every price in Senegal is negotiable"- a very important thing to know!) and information about Senegalese culture from them. While I could not understand what they talked about (in French), I watched these guys seek Joe out time and time again (the gardener knocked on our door one time, just to chat). They did not stop smiling the whole time they talked to him.
*Tortue* The Dogon country in Mali is anthropolically famous because when French academics "discovered" (began to study) the area in the 1960s, people were living in clay-walled homes in the cliffs. They had been there for hundreds of years, and their cliff- dwellings were advantageous because they were camouflaged and from their vantage point the Dogon people could spot danger and enemies for miles. Now, the Dogon have moved out of the cliffs and down the valleys, but they are still a very distinct people, with a different language and history than others in Mali and the region. Taking a guided walk (there are no roads) through the Dogon is high on the list of tourist attractions in West Africa. Usually, walks last for 3-4 days and tourists sleep in Dogon villages along the way. Finding a good, Dogon guide to lead you on a walk is a challenge, though. We decided to take our trip to Dogon with our new friend Nick, who we had just met, from Maine. Nick was a Peace Corps volunteer in Guinea (a West African nation close to Mali) and he had a recommendation for an English-speaking guide from another Peace Corps volunteer. Our guide's name was Usman. He was awesome. But he spoke almost no English. We communicated with him in broken English, broken French and broken Malinque (the local language in Guinea that Nick spoke and most Malians kind of understand). We did not learn anything about Dogon people or their land or history from Usman. At one point, he was trying to tell us a story about the the spiritual leader of Dogon villages/clans who would lock themselve in a clay house with an alligator and a tortue for days in order to divine some inspiration and direction. Nick asked what a "tortue" was? We really never knew what Usman was talking about and we usually didn't ask. But this time, we did. It was hot as hell and we had been walking all day long in the blazing heat. We were standing next to ancient, pygmy (a very long time ago, the Dogon apparently used to be pygmies) cliff dwellings and Nick wanted to know what a "tortue" was. Turns out it's a tortoise (French). But the four of us giggled up there for about 20 minutes. Usman did not know why we were giggling and we didn't really either, but we were nearly hysterical with laughter. Felt great.
*Le Compagnard* Our last nights in Mali were a blast, surprise, surprise. We met up with Nick, our Mainer Peace Corps friend, again, in the capital city, Bamako, and saw some incredible live music and became regulars at a Peace Corps/ex-pat bar called Le Compagnard. We had a little crew of people who spoke varying degrees of English and French. We communicated with a lot of hand signs. Our first night there, I realized that the 3 men sitting next to us were speaking Spanish, which is a rarity in West Africa. Not only were they speaking Spanish, but I was understanding everything they said, which meant they were not Spaniards. I got excited and leaned over and asked them where they were from. They were Mexicans! In Mali! [at one point we asked them if there were any other Mexicans in Mali and they answered us in all seriousness that there was one more, a woman who worked at a company in Bamako]! Joe and I, being great big Mexico-lovers, began an immediate rapport with these men, who were pilots with a Malian airline and had been living and flying in Mali for a year. They joined our eclectic group, which now spoke a mix of French, English, and Spanish and hung out together til the bar closed the next two nights! Joy!
*Akon* Akon, a world-famous rap/R&B singer, who moved to Jersey City from Senegal when he was young, is a national icon in Senegal. Everyone listens to him at all times, everywhere. We were fans before we got to Senegal, but while we were there, we became indoctrinated. Sadly, people in Senegal don't know what he is singing about. He sings in English, and they don't speak English. That does not prevent people from singing along, however. During our first week in Senegal, and in West Africa, we were lying on our hotel bed in the beach town of Saly, sweating to death, with the fan turned up high. But we could still hear the little kids outside, in the poor neighborhood where we were staying, singing Akon. They were butchering the English (and had no idea what they were singing about), but they sounded damn good.
*Angel girl* We had some rough times in Senegal (well, all of West Africa). The heat, the dust, the unexpectedly high costs, the very long, horrible bus rides or very expensive cab rides to get from place to place wore on us...A week into the Senegal portion of our trip, after taking a couple-hour cab ride, we arrived in a town called Joal-Fadiout that our guide book had described as a historical, 1/2 muslim, 1/2 catholic beach town. I despaired upon seeing it. The beach was awful, the town was super undeveloped and I could not imagine what we were going to do there. Luckily for us, the very young (16? 18 year old?) proprietress of our hotel was an Angel. I don't know how else to describe her. She had the sweetest, most lovely voice, smile and face. She soothed me down to my core. She wore a head scarf/covering so we could only see her perfect little face- no hair, no neck, etc. She made everything better when she smiled at us. She made us dinner the night that we stayed at her hotel. Joe told her that I was a vegetarian and she had many questions about that fact. "Did I eat rice? Tomatoes? Zucchini? Did I drink beer? Tea?" Normally, this might have been a bit annoying after a while, but I didn't care, as long as she kept coming to talk to us. She made our time in an otherwise run-down hotel in a very strange, desolate but interesting town...
*Banfora boat children* Burkina Faso is the fourth-poorest country in the world according to the United Nations development index. It feels like it, too. One day while in the small, pretty city of Banfora, we rented the most horribly decrepit bikes imaginable so that we could visit a regional park with a lake where hippo herds lived. After suffering through the ride on our stupid bikes, we arrived at the lake. But the boat man was not there to take us to see the hippos. So, a man sat us down in some chairs in the dirt at a little store (can I call it that? they sold soda, that was it) to wait, while he went to summon the boat man. Needless to say, we were a novelty in the area. Several kids came to sit by us and stare. It was hard not to stare back, especially because they were all awfully skinny and deformed in some way. One kid could hardly walk because he had bandied legs, another had a giant, distended belly from malnutrition and they all had orange hair because they were missing essential vitamins. I tried to smile at them, but I was nearly crying the whole time. They were so cute and so earnest and I wondered if they were going to make it in life? Would they see adulthood? While we were sitting there, a gorgeous, fat little baby girl came running into our circle. She was about 2 and she had incredible energy, while the other kids were lethargic. She ran around and grabbed things and threw things and generally acted like a 2 year old. I was transfixed: a healthy child! I could not help feeling like I wanted to abduct her and take her far away. I wanted to make sure she retained her health and energy and enthusiasm.
*Mali/Burkina border* We took a horribly over-crowded, miserable little van on an relatively untraveled route to get from Mali to Burkina Faso. We had successfully gotten ourselves stamped out of Mali, at the Malian side of the border. It was a bit of a question how it would go because we were 2 of only 4 tourists on the bus and sometimes border guards might ask for a "donation" to ensure our passage from one country to the next. The Burkina side of the border consisted of a lone, cement building in the hot, red dust with nothing around for miles. One guy, one desk, one stamp in a cement building. This border guard took his time. He had nothing else to do, no other entertainment, so he talked to every single person on the bus, while filling out their visas. Joe had been in there with him for a really long time with no progress on our passports, but was having a great time chatting, when a Burkinabe young man who had been living in France and was returning to Burkina to visit his family, slipped the border guy his passport with a 1000 CFA note (about $2.5) in it. He wanted quick attention, obviously. Duh, Joe, I thought: why didn't you try that trick? But the border guard took the note out, gave it back to the kid and said that he would need it while he was studying in France. It was amazing: an immigration official, with nothing, in the middle of nowhere, giving back a French resident an amount of money that would buy a Coke in France, but might make a real difference in his own daily life in Burkina...
*Joburg Bus Station* Johannesburg: the most dangerous city in the world, apparently. South Africa has a serious problem with crime and violence and we always had to be very vigilant while there. We were only going to Johannesburg in order to fly home, and we had been hearing scary things about it the whole time we were in the country. We arrived in Joburg on the bus. The hostel we were staying out was going to send someone into the bus station to escort us out to the car, because the neighborhood has such a bad reputation for violence. We were just supposed to stay inside the station. Fine, but I had to go the bathroom. Was that allowed/advisable/smart? Would I be mugged or knifed? I had to go find out, but I told Joe to flag down one of the many cops hanging out in the station if I took longer than 5 minutes. I went and got in line for the ladies room. I was the only white woman in a crowd of very large, very tall black African women, most of whom had enormous and heavy bundles that they carried on their heads when they moved up in the line. I stood there nervously, but as I approached the front of the queue, one of these ladies told me that I was next (someone had tried to cut me in line and I was going to let her! she had 100 pounds on me), another told me that their was no toilet paper and a third handed me some out of her own bag. They did not smile, but they made me feel safe- like people were watching out for me in the most dangerous city in the world.
More Memories that Make us Cry
Asia
*Star hotel boys* I had made a reservation for us before arriving in India at a budget hotel in one of the most crowded, ancient (cheap) neighborhoods, called Pahar Ganj, in Delhi. I wanted there to be a cab driver from the hotel at the airport to pick us up. I knew that India was going to be overwhelming and I wanted this small comfort upon arrival. Pahar Ganj was certainly overwhelming. And very exciting, too. We stayed there again, when we returned to Delhi before flying out to Nepal. Our second time there, we "upgraded" our hotel (maybe $12 rather than $10). The best thing about the Star Hotel was their young employees. Two 18-year old boys who offered us food and drink ("room service, it is available; very good food it is available; king fisher beer it is available") 5 times a day. They knocked on our door to ask us if we wanted beer. Strange room service. Finally, Joe asked for a kingfisher beer. The boy was elated. He went out into the neighborhood (maybe his dad or uncle owned the beer stall?) and brought us back not very cold beer and marked up the price, of course. It was still very cheap and Joe gave him a tip. Another time, we told the boys that our air conditioner was not working. They came in with a knife, severed a wire, fused it back together with their fingers and told us not to touch the wire or we would make fire. We loved their ingenuity! How many hotel workers in the US would be able to fix an air conditioner like that? My favorite memory of these boys (there were two and they were sort of interchangeable, both cute, usually together, etc), was when we were walking in the dark, down one of the crowded, bazaar, festival like alley-streets of Pahar Ganj and we ran into one of them. He was listening to his headphones, but he quickly ripped them out of his ears, grabbed Joe's hand (a bit of a schock since we knew exactly 2 people in all of Pahar Ganj's 1000s of residents) and with a beaming smile, shook his hand for a prolonged moment. Joe was his friend.
*Queue system* With one exception, we only traveled in first class train cars in India. In first class, they give you beds if it is a night train or comfy reclining seats if it is a day train. They also give you surprisingly good food and cups of tea every time you turn around, on some first class services. The one time we took a 2nd class train (where there are no assigned seats and you have to push and shove to get one or stand up the whole time) was when we went to a non-touristy city called Ajmer. There wasn't a first class service to Ajmer from Jaipur, so we went to the 2nd-class ticket counter! Yikes! We didn't know how it worked, people were cutting us in line and we thought we were never going to be able to buy our tickets. Just as a very, very old (as old as India said Joe), very short and fat grandma-type viciously cut in front of Joe with elbows flying, a helpful Indian man tapped Joe on the shoulder and advised him, "Sir, there is no queue system here." So, we started to push our way to the front, just like proper Indians.
*The Royal Guest House* Aaah, Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. Not that we saw much of it. But we did get to see Barack Obama win the presidential election with a group of American and other ex-pats. One of the highlights of our lives. Even on election day, we were coming down with a miserable stomach sickness that was going to knock us out for days. High fevers, chills, stomach cramps, nausea and other ill symptoms I won't talk about. Luckily for us, we were staying at the super comfortable Royal Guest House, run by 4 generations of a Chinese origin family - all women. During our illness, when we were feeling brave and hungry enough to eat, we went downstairs and ordered something from their restaurant (family kitchen). We filled up our water bottle and ordered sodas to bring upstairs with us 5 times a day. They knew we were sick and they kept an eye on us. One night, we woke up to the horrible screaming of a tourist on the floor below us. Such a strange scene: she was convulsing and crying and screaming. It seemed that she had maybe ingested too much marijuana food (there was a restaurant in phnom penh that was infamous for it's pot food, but tourists regularly freaked out from it) and she was losing it. In our feverish state, we were very concerned and bothered by what was happening. But the mama bear proprietress of the hotel was holding her and massaging her feet while an American nurse who was staying at the hotel was checking her out. As long as mama was in charge and taking care of her, we felt comfortable - and went back to bed.
*Nicest people on earth* Thai (and Lao, who are ethnically and linguistically similar) people are the nicest people on earth. How can I generalize about a country of 60 million people? Because it's true! Every single interaction with a Thai person is a pleasure. It must have something to do with their religion, Buddhism, which they practice in such a serene and beautiful way, by offering fruit and tea and incense each day at the gorgeously colored small spirit houses outside of most homes. Or it could be because of their food which is so fresh and healthy and interesting and delicious that it would make any people kind. They are also so polite! They bow often and never in an obsequious way- they are just too respectful and kind. The pinnacle of Thai kindness for us was the beach resort in Ko Phi Phi where we spent Christmas with Joe's mom, Janie. Every staff member there went out of their way to remember us, take care of us and spread loving kindness with every interaction. On Christmas night, there was a banquet for the hotel's 60 or so guests. While we were eating, the staff, all wearing Santa hats, visited each table as a group, bowed together and wished us a Merry Christmas. Later that night, Joe bonded with the male staff at the bar, drinking beer and playing cards til early in the morning. We loved them!
*Mekong River pub crawl* Vientiane, the capital city of Laos, and the smallest, most relaxed capital we have ever visited. It has a great Mekong River location and there are at least 40 spots along the river to have a beer or eat some food. These places range from fancy establishments to wooden shacks on stilts. We decided to try a few of them one night. Almost as interesting as walking into the different places and interacting with the families who ran them was visiting the bathrooms. Some of these restaurants just didn't have them. At one place, where we ordered a papaya salad which was one of the spiciest things we've ever eaten (but served with such a big smile, we felt we had to eat it all), the waitress brought me across the street to the local police station to use the bathroom there (basically just a hole in the ground). On my way out, the policemen practiced their English on me. They said "I love you" and all giggled loudly. When Joe tried to use the bathroom at the police station, they practiced some more English on him; they said "No."
*Kachenchunga* We arrived in Darjeeling, India after dark, so it wasn't until the next morning that we got a look at the jaw-dropping view of the 3rd largest mountain in the world, Kachenchunga. You can see the Himalayas from anywhere in town, but a wonderful pedestrian promenade on a hillside in town has the best views. We walked along it in the early morning, when the old men were out congregating and exercising. At one point, after we had taken a hundred pictures of the mountains, one old man asked us if we wanted him to take a picture of us. We did! He took a break from his exercise and stretching routine, took our picture a few times and chatted. He welcomed us to his country and asked us about the United States. He had a daughter who lived in California. We loved India; even better than the mountains were the Indians.
*Medan shopping mall* We had a tough time in Medan, Indonesia. I got deathly sick, we got into a fight with a hotel owner and we saw a kid passed out on the pavement with his eyes rolled back in his head (he might not have been passed out). But before those miserable adventures, we visited the mall where there was a McDonald's and an internet cafe. I walked behind Joe in the mall and observed how people stared at him. There are not a lot of white people in Medan. Nor tall people. Nor people with blue eyes and light hair. People stopped walking, lifted their short little heads up and just stared at him. Kids tried to touch him as he walked by. One woman whose whole family had stopped to stare, saw me, someone their height and closer to their color, walking behind him and reached out to shake my hand. I was as close as they were going to get to the white,blonde giant.
*Star hotel boys* I had made a reservation for us before arriving in India at a budget hotel in one of the most crowded, ancient (cheap) neighborhoods, called Pahar Ganj, in Delhi. I wanted there to be a cab driver from the hotel at the airport to pick us up. I knew that India was going to be overwhelming and I wanted this small comfort upon arrival. Pahar Ganj was certainly overwhelming. And very exciting, too. We stayed there again, when we returned to Delhi before flying out to Nepal. Our second time there, we "upgraded" our hotel (maybe $12 rather than $10). The best thing about the Star Hotel was their young employees. Two 18-year old boys who offered us food and drink ("room service, it is available; very good food it is available; king fisher beer it is available") 5 times a day. They knocked on our door to ask us if we wanted beer. Strange room service. Finally, Joe asked for a kingfisher beer. The boy was elated. He went out into the neighborhood (maybe his dad or uncle owned the beer stall?) and brought us back not very cold beer and marked up the price, of course. It was still very cheap and Joe gave him a tip. Another time, we told the boys that our air conditioner was not working. They came in with a knife, severed a wire, fused it back together with their fingers and told us not to touch the wire or we would make fire. We loved their ingenuity! How many hotel workers in the US would be able to fix an air conditioner like that? My favorite memory of these boys (there were two and they were sort of interchangeable, both cute, usually together, etc), was when we were walking in the dark, down one of the crowded, bazaar, festival like alley-streets of Pahar Ganj and we ran into one of them. He was listening to his headphones, but he quickly ripped them out of his ears, grabbed Joe's hand (a bit of a schock since we knew exactly 2 people in all of Pahar Ganj's 1000s of residents) and with a beaming smile, shook his hand for a prolonged moment. Joe was his friend.
*Queue system* With one exception, we only traveled in first class train cars in India. In first class, they give you beds if it is a night train or comfy reclining seats if it is a day train. They also give you surprisingly good food and cups of tea every time you turn around, on some first class services. The one time we took a 2nd class train (where there are no assigned seats and you have to push and shove to get one or stand up the whole time) was when we went to a non-touristy city called Ajmer. There wasn't a first class service to Ajmer from Jaipur, so we went to the 2nd-class ticket counter! Yikes! We didn't know how it worked, people were cutting us in line and we thought we were never going to be able to buy our tickets. Just as a very, very old (as old as India said Joe), very short and fat grandma-type viciously cut in front of Joe with elbows flying, a helpful Indian man tapped Joe on the shoulder and advised him, "Sir, there is no queue system here." So, we started to push our way to the front, just like proper Indians.
*The Royal Guest House* Aaah, Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. Not that we saw much of it. But we did get to see Barack Obama win the presidential election with a group of American and other ex-pats. One of the highlights of our lives. Even on election day, we were coming down with a miserable stomach sickness that was going to knock us out for days. High fevers, chills, stomach cramps, nausea and other ill symptoms I won't talk about. Luckily for us, we were staying at the super comfortable Royal Guest House, run by 4 generations of a Chinese origin family - all women. During our illness, when we were feeling brave and hungry enough to eat, we went downstairs and ordered something from their restaurant (family kitchen). We filled up our water bottle and ordered sodas to bring upstairs with us 5 times a day. They knew we were sick and they kept an eye on us. One night, we woke up to the horrible screaming of a tourist on the floor below us. Such a strange scene: she was convulsing and crying and screaming. It seemed that she had maybe ingested too much marijuana food (there was a restaurant in phnom penh that was infamous for it's pot food, but tourists regularly freaked out from it) and she was losing it. In our feverish state, we were very concerned and bothered by what was happening. But the mama bear proprietress of the hotel was holding her and massaging her feet while an American nurse who was staying at the hotel was checking her out. As long as mama was in charge and taking care of her, we felt comfortable - and went back to bed.
*Nicest people on earth* Thai (and Lao, who are ethnically and linguistically similar) people are the nicest people on earth. How can I generalize about a country of 60 million people? Because it's true! Every single interaction with a Thai person is a pleasure. It must have something to do with their religion, Buddhism, which they practice in such a serene and beautiful way, by offering fruit and tea and incense each day at the gorgeously colored small spirit houses outside of most homes. Or it could be because of their food which is so fresh and healthy and interesting and delicious that it would make any people kind. They are also so polite! They bow often and never in an obsequious way- they are just too respectful and kind. The pinnacle of Thai kindness for us was the beach resort in Ko Phi Phi where we spent Christmas with Joe's mom, Janie. Every staff member there went out of their way to remember us, take care of us and spread loving kindness with every interaction. On Christmas night, there was a banquet for the hotel's 60 or so guests. While we were eating, the staff, all wearing Santa hats, visited each table as a group, bowed together and wished us a Merry Christmas. Later that night, Joe bonded with the male staff at the bar, drinking beer and playing cards til early in the morning. We loved them!
*Mekong River pub crawl* Vientiane, the capital city of Laos, and the smallest, most relaxed capital we have ever visited. It has a great Mekong River location and there are at least 40 spots along the river to have a beer or eat some food. These places range from fancy establishments to wooden shacks on stilts. We decided to try a few of them one night. Almost as interesting as walking into the different places and interacting with the families who ran them was visiting the bathrooms. Some of these restaurants just didn't have them. At one place, where we ordered a papaya salad which was one of the spiciest things we've ever eaten (but served with such a big smile, we felt we had to eat it all), the waitress brought me across the street to the local police station to use the bathroom there (basically just a hole in the ground). On my way out, the policemen practiced their English on me. They said "I love you" and all giggled loudly. When Joe tried to use the bathroom at the police station, they practiced some more English on him; they said "No."
*Kachenchunga* We arrived in Darjeeling, India after dark, so it wasn't until the next morning that we got a look at the jaw-dropping view of the 3rd largest mountain in the world, Kachenchunga. You can see the Himalayas from anywhere in town, but a wonderful pedestrian promenade on a hillside in town has the best views. We walked along it in the early morning, when the old men were out congregating and exercising. At one point, after we had taken a hundred pictures of the mountains, one old man asked us if we wanted him to take a picture of us. We did! He took a break from his exercise and stretching routine, took our picture a few times and chatted. He welcomed us to his country and asked us about the United States. He had a daughter who lived in California. We loved India; even better than the mountains were the Indians.
*Medan shopping mall* We had a tough time in Medan, Indonesia. I got deathly sick, we got into a fight with a hotel owner and we saw a kid passed out on the pavement with his eyes rolled back in his head (he might not have been passed out). But before those miserable adventures, we visited the mall where there was a McDonald's and an internet cafe. I walked behind Joe in the mall and observed how people stared at him. There are not a lot of white people in Medan. Nor tall people. Nor people with blue eyes and light hair. People stopped walking, lifted their short little heads up and just stared at him. Kids tried to touch him as he walked by. One woman whose whole family had stopped to stare, saw me, someone their height and closer to their color, walking behind him and reached out to shake my hand. I was as close as they were going to get to the white,blonde giant.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Impressions of Buenos Aires
We are getting quite comfortable here (though we are still considering moving cities, and perhaps countries, next month, and renting another apartment somewhere else). We are over our most miserable jet-lag, which lingered way too long; our sleeplessness made us feel like we were going crazy and also like Buenos Aires was not nearly as cool as it is.
We have been wandering around and exploring and these are some things we have found:
This is a really chill city. For its size (about 12 million in the metro area), there don't seem to be large crowds anywhere (of course, we are not commuting in the morning), people are rarely in a hurry. There is a relaxed and calm vibe pretty much everywhere. Even the bus drivers and taxis who loudly cruise down our street, honking at all hours of the day, do so with a smile on their faces.
People love dogs here and many people are dog-owners; no one picks up dog poop, though and it is everywhere, on the beautiful streets and sidewalks of this city. What??? Joe reminds me that this was the case in the U.S. until the 1980s or so, but I hardly believe him.
Argentinos and especially Porteños (people from Buenos Aires) do not like spicy food. The food they like is meat and pizza and empanadas and desserts and coffee and tea (mate). On every single corner, there is a great looking little cafe that serves these things. There are also specialty meat and specialty pizza restaurants. That's about it. You really have to look around for other kinds of food. And the grocery stores? They have 100 kinds of cookies (Argentinos eat more sweets per capita than anyone else in the world, apparently), lots of pasta and sauce (which all looks weird and comes in cans or cardboard boxes), some cereal and milk and not very impressive looking produce.
Our internet (DSL) goes out on the weekends. Joe thinks the administrator goes home on Friday night, the system fails and no one looks at it again until Monday morning. Never mind that our landlord charged us $90 for a month's worth of internet when it costs locals $15. It doesn't work 2 days of the week because people just don't care enough to fix the system! Generally, we are amazed by the things in this country that just don't really work. For example: the mail system (mail is opened up and lost routinely). The “tax”/bribe system: there is a 100% tax on technology products; those that are available here are at least two years old. If we were to try and buy a computer in the U.S. and have it sent here (which Joe was considering), we would have to pay a “tax” on it at customs of up to 100% its value. This is a middle-class Latin American country with a real magnetism. There are ex-pats from all over the world here and their tourism industry continues to explode. They have a good education system and a functioning democracy. So, it is ironic to find that in some things, the country is just dysfunctional (when we complained about the internet, our landlord reminded us that “this is the third world.” It just doesn't look like it.)
We were walking up the pedestrian mall downtown on Saturday, when our destination came into sight: Plaza San Martín. A leafy, large, 200+ year old square- and there were 100s of large painted bears in it! It was the coolest art installation I had ever seen. These bears (all about 6 feet tall and quite fat) are called the “Buddy Bears.”
They are supported by world institutions like the UN and international companies and they are traveling (very slowly) to different parts of the world. There is a bear from each country represented in the UN (I think about 170), and they had all been painted by an artist from country that the bear was “from.” All the bears had their hands up in the air, close to the hands of the bear next to them and the project's goal is to promote international peace, understanding and friendship. It worked for me! Several times, tears came to my eyes, as I looked at the bears from the countries and regions I have visited - and those I have not, too. I loved looking at each one, so beautiful and individual. The U.S. bear was a Statue of Liberty bear, which was cute but not very inventive. Argentina had two bears, which seemed a little unfair.We like how Argentinos speak: an Italian-inflected Spanish. They don't speak too fast, but they have a different vocabulary than any other Spanish-speaker. I took a Spanish class last week that I really enjoyed. The class was composed of 5 women from 4 different countries, whose only common language was Spanish, taught by 2 male, Argentino professors. It was a lot of revision of verb tenses (ugh!) and lively conversation, which got quite rowdy at times. My challenge is now to continue to practice and study on my own, because classes are pretty expensive. I am going to begin volunteering this week at a community organization in a poor neighborhood near ours, so this will provide me with a new context in which to practice. Joe is busy working on his projects, when the internet is up. Even without Spanish classes, he tends to do most of the talking and questions-asking while we are out and about, trying to figure things out. He is not shy like me, which is great!
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