News just to hand. I’m sitting in a café with wi-fi on the city square of Salta. I had to signal to the waiter to get the password, after which he seemed very happy to leave me to it. He seemed a little surprised when I asked for coffee, which I don’t particularly want but thought I’d better order out of courtesy.
Latest development. The coffee comes with banana pastry. Don’t mind if I do.
The weather is making me wish all my t-shirts weren’t at the laundry. Am I really in the foothills of the second highest mountains on earth in the depths of winter? I suspect an elaborate scam to part tourists from their dollars.
I spent yesterday in search of condors. The Parque Nacional Quebrada del Condorito (Canyon of the Condorito – a smaller, low altitude version of the bird) was set up in 1996 and is a little gem. If it’s anything to go by, Argentina’s national parks service is in good shape. The paths are good, the signposts are clear and I didn’t see a single scrap of rubbish during a six-hour trek. At the visitor’s centre a single ranger gave me a quick rundown on what I needed to know, cautioned me to be out by dark, and I was on my way. No fee, no gift shop, no snack counter. I walked across an open, undulating landscape made up of tufts of pampas broken up by outcrops of ancient, pre-Andean granite, copper green with lichen and sparkling in the sun. From time to time the path was scattered with hunks of pink and white quartz, and occasional slender streams snaked through the grass.
The weather was flawless. I trekked most of the day in a t-shirt, beneath a deep indigo sky and a bright sun. After an hour and a bit, a deep gorge opened up at the bottom of which was a green river, its stone slab banks peppered with round pools. You descend sharply to a bridge and climb equally sharply up the other side, amid gnarly trees and craggy boulders, but not before spotting three condors wheeling high in the sky. After traversing the hilltop at the other side of the gorge, you come to a balcony with a view that’s worth far more than the half an hour of scrambling and laboured breathing that it’s taken to crest the top. A wide valley of golden grass stretches across to another line of sierras, brown and wrinkled in the haze. In the distance, white houses dot the shores of a long gunmetal lake, above it a single striated cloud resembling a thunderbird. Immediately in front of the viewing platform, the gorge comes to a dramatic end, spilling into the valley in a clench of gigantic dragon claw ridges interspersed by steep streams with multiple waterfalls. The lair of the mighty condor.
I had about an hour to get up close and personal with one of these birds and sure enough, within ten minutes I spotted one sailing far below in a lazy circle of the bowl, unmistakeable with its white-topped wings, the end feathers splayed like fingers. It disappeared behind a cleft and a few minutes later as I strained for another view, what I assume was the same bird suddenly appeared less than a hundred metres away at my left, glided across for a good look at me, sheared off as it came at right angles, and did another lazy circle at my level before diving once again into the chasm. Curious creature, friendly bird, or complete camera tart? I suspect all three. In any case, it only pulled this trick once, and having said hello, or made sure I was only another gawping tourist, or whatever it was doing, it was content to glide in zig zags across the valley for the next half hour or so, and make occasional visits to a nest high amid the crags. I met a French-Argentinian couple on the trek who told me of getting similar visits from the birds while trekking in the Andes, and of paragliders being accompanied by sociable condors.
Apart from this the only other wildlife I saw were a couple of birds with a bright orange breast which are apparently long-tailed starlings, known in Spanish as loica, and some bigger birds. I did see a sign warning what to do if you encounter a puma and took pains to decipher the Spanish (wave your arms, apparently, and don’t trek alone) but didn’t have to use the advice. The park is also home to some guanaco, a smaller version of the llama introduced in 2005 after disappearing from the area a century ago, and a lot of red foxes, who are known wonderfully as zorro colorado.
I had about an hour back in Cordoba - just enough for a quick shower but not unfortunately for a change of clothes – or rather I wanted to reserve my last clean set for this morning - before getting on the 13-hour bus to Salta. The buses truly are amazing. This one left at 10.15 and after a reasonable night’s sleep on the almost fully reclining seat, I awoke to a snack pack handed out by the conductor and an urn dispensing unlimited coffee. Then I sat back for a few hours enjoying the view of scrubby forest that variegated from reddish yellow to olive green, with a series of ridges fading to blue in the background, as we made the final run into Salta. The only possible fly in the ointment was that I was seated next to four English lager louts who cracked cans of beer as soon as the bus pulled out and were loudly reminiscing about their exploits in the clubs of Buenos Aires as we burrowed into the night. I had picked their nationality the second I’d spotted them on the platform (and was briefly tempted to yell ‘Viva Thatcher!’ and run off to watch the consequences), and was ready for a night of shouting and chundering. But lo and behold, half an hour into the journey two of them had pulled out books (one of them was Crime and Punishment), the other two were lost in their iPods, and they were quiet as mice for the rest of the trip. I almost felt like congratulating them.
What a relief it is to be in a country where the people are completely relaxed about photographers, instead of the oppressive mix of suspicion and officiousness that you encounter everywhere in Australia these days. Want to take someone’s photo? They’ve very happy to oblige, without the clowning about and racing to get into the frame that you encounter in some other countries. Take pictures in a museum? No problem. Set up a tripod in a world heritage listed church? Go for your life. The only objection I’ve had was from a church attendant who pointed out (as far as I understood it) that it was prayer time, was incredibly polite, and allowed me to take one more. Nice people.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Domestic arrangements for guerrillas
The night bus brought me from Buenos Aires to Cordoba. The buses are to be admired, and in a country where the flights are expensive and the trains, apparently, almost completely non-functional, that’s a good thing. The terminal was a bit like an airport plus diesel fumes, with departure lounges, coin-operated TVs, security checks and X-rays for the bags. I didn’t get the X-ray treatment, so Cordoba is presumably terrorist-free at the moment. The bus was a sleek double decker with seats that reclined almost horizontal and a board that came up to support your legs so it really is almost like being in a bed. All this with the cheapest ticket, $25 to go 700km. I must try ‘ejecutivo’ class next time – it has to be truly luxuriant. My travelling companion was yet another fluent English speaker, a criminal lawyer from Cordoba just returning from a trip to Europe. We talked for an hour, after which she more or less passed out, having flown from Madrid the previous night and having been in Spain, Germany and Belgium in the previous week. And I thought it was only me that attempted such madness. That left me with the screening of ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’, which I watched for a while (the Argies take their foreign films with subtitles – another thing to like about them) until someone asked for the sound to be turned down. I didn’t object. I woke up as we pulled into Cordoba bang on time at 8am, and having made a date to meet Fernanda on Sunday (today), headed off to find somewhere to sleep some more.
Cordoba is the second largest city, with 1.5 million, 10 per cent of whom are students at its nine universities, but after BA it feels like a village. It also feels like South America, unlike BA which was more or less like Europe. There are squat eighteenth century churches with peeling pink paint and rotund belfries decorated with cornices and scrolls, and low ceilinged cantinas with whitewashed walls. There’s much less of the beaux arts and art nouveau, and more of the neoclassical and mission architecture. It also feels quite a bit safer.The city was capital of Argentina before BA came along, and boasts the oldest university on the continent, dating from 1621.
Yesterday I took a ride out to Alta Gracia, about an hour away, the boyhood home of Che Guevara. You can visit the house where he lived, more or less, from 1932 to 1943. It’s a modest but pleasant bungalow in a tranquil little town on the edge of the sierras, and I can’t imagine any place less conducive to revolutionary fervour, although the museum helpfully mentions that there were rich and poor in the town, and that the young Ernesto sometimes liked to play cowboys and Indians with his friends. There wasn’t a whole lot more by way of explanation, but there were a few telling details. The Guevaras moved there when he was four in the hope that it would be good for his pronounced asthma. It was – he apparently was a keen golfer and football player, and when he finished school went on a 4000km bike ride around Argentina. But in a video one of his schoolfriends theorises that Che’s asthma was brought on by his parents’ arguments, and there is a sad reminiscence by the family’s maid, who remembers sitting up with Che during his attacks - he read Zola and Verne and Anatole France as he struggled to breathe - because his parents slept all day and were out all night. They lived in four different places in Alta Gracia before moving to Cordoba, after which Che went to BA to study medicine. And then he started on his travels, which more or less never stopped. There is one photo of him before he left Cuba, sitting on a sofa in his fatigues with his wife and four young children, looking thoroughly miserable. Shortly afterwards he headed for the Congo in a ridiculous disguise to serve as a military adviser. The man clearly could not abide domesticity. There is another photo where he looks much happier, lying in a camp bed, smoking a cigar and reading Goethe. By the time he was killed in a schoolhouse in Bolivia (there is a tile from its roof in the museum), I suspect he had come to the end of the line. Like Michael Jackson, there was only one place left for him to go. Other than this there is another museum, the house of the Spanish composer Manuel de Falla (never heard of him but apparently he’s significant) and a World Heritage-listed Jesuit estancia which was a perfectly kempt little idyll of clipped lawns, scrubbed cells and period furniture. Not bad for a town of 10,000.
I won’t go on about Buenos Aires too much as that seems long ago now. But a couple of highlights included a visit to the annual agricultural show at La Rural, which included several of the biggest bulls I’ve ever seen, which were entirely white and amenable to being paraded around the showground. I noticed that the press photographers had all been given red vests, whether in evil intent or not I do not know. One day I went out to Tigre with Ana, the owner of the guest house, and Monika and Katerina, the Austro-German students who were also staying there, a very mature and thoughtful pair. Tigre is a town on the edge of a Delta on the River Plata, and we roared out there in Ana’s ancient VW wagon. I commented on the number of old Ford Falcons on the road, and she told me that it was a popular model until it was used as a police car during the dictatorship. The police used to drive round with dissidents in the boot until they suffocated. Urgh. Tigre is beautiful – there are hundreds of forested islands in the delta, which is named after some kind of small puma which used to frequent it. We didn’t take a boat trip, there wasn’t time, but wandered around the town, which has a feeling of moneyed leisure about it. There is a profusion of rowing clubs, including an English one which looks like an Oxford college, and an Italian one which looks like a Venice palazzo. Everyone’s favourite, though, was the art museum, which has been converted from an early twentieth century casino, built in the style of a chateau.
I’ve just noticed that I’m sitting here in my t-shirt, which is a good sign. Cordoba is sunny and pleasant during the day, and chilly at night. It doesn’t have the piercing wind of BA,which comes straight off the river. My next stop is Salta, close to a thousand kilometres north of here, which is supposed to be warm in spite of being in the foothills of the Andes.
A quick word on the restaurants here before I go. The waitrons believe in the back-to-basics school of service. The first thing they will ask you after you’ve sat down is what you want. If you ask for a menu one will be produced, but it seems to be regarded as a bit of an unnecessary affectation. Last night I asked for a beer and was not asked what kind – a Budweiser was produced and it was up to me to insist on something local. When it comes to paying the bill, you just ask the waiter how much and they will tell you. You hand over the cash and they hand over the change. Finito. Not that any of this bothers me in the slightest, in fact I appreciate the minimum of time wasting on the way to delivering the meal, which is inevitably wonderful. If in doubt (which I usually am when presented with the menu) I order a steak. This is produced, unadorned, on a plate which is usually barely big enough to contain it. No garnish, no sauce, nothing. The meat is always so tender and so perfectly seasoned and marinated that it doesn’t need anything – not even salt and pepper. The other staple is pizza, which is a little thick and cheese-laden for my taste, but I force it down. I had one the other night which I could barely finish (though finish it I did) for four dollars. And then there are the cake shops… but enough.
Cordoba is the second largest city, with 1.5 million, 10 per cent of whom are students at its nine universities, but after BA it feels like a village. It also feels like South America, unlike BA which was more or less like Europe. There are squat eighteenth century churches with peeling pink paint and rotund belfries decorated with cornices and scrolls, and low ceilinged cantinas with whitewashed walls. There’s much less of the beaux arts and art nouveau, and more of the neoclassical and mission architecture. It also feels quite a bit safer.The city was capital of Argentina before BA came along, and boasts the oldest university on the continent, dating from 1621.
Yesterday I took a ride out to Alta Gracia, about an hour away, the boyhood home of Che Guevara. You can visit the house where he lived, more or less, from 1932 to 1943. It’s a modest but pleasant bungalow in a tranquil little town on the edge of the sierras, and I can’t imagine any place less conducive to revolutionary fervour, although the museum helpfully mentions that there were rich and poor in the town, and that the young Ernesto sometimes liked to play cowboys and Indians with his friends. There wasn’t a whole lot more by way of explanation, but there were a few telling details. The Guevaras moved there when he was four in the hope that it would be good for his pronounced asthma. It was – he apparently was a keen golfer and football player, and when he finished school went on a 4000km bike ride around Argentina. But in a video one of his schoolfriends theorises that Che’s asthma was brought on by his parents’ arguments, and there is a sad reminiscence by the family’s maid, who remembers sitting up with Che during his attacks - he read Zola and Verne and Anatole France as he struggled to breathe - because his parents slept all day and were out all night. They lived in four different places in Alta Gracia before moving to Cordoba, after which Che went to BA to study medicine. And then he started on his travels, which more or less never stopped. There is one photo of him before he left Cuba, sitting on a sofa in his fatigues with his wife and four young children, looking thoroughly miserable. Shortly afterwards he headed for the Congo in a ridiculous disguise to serve as a military adviser. The man clearly could not abide domesticity. There is another photo where he looks much happier, lying in a camp bed, smoking a cigar and reading Goethe. By the time he was killed in a schoolhouse in Bolivia (there is a tile from its roof in the museum), I suspect he had come to the end of the line. Like Michael Jackson, there was only one place left for him to go. Other than this there is another museum, the house of the Spanish composer Manuel de Falla (never heard of him but apparently he’s significant) and a World Heritage-listed Jesuit estancia which was a perfectly kempt little idyll of clipped lawns, scrubbed cells and period furniture. Not bad for a town of 10,000.
I won’t go on about Buenos Aires too much as that seems long ago now. But a couple of highlights included a visit to the annual agricultural show at La Rural, which included several of the biggest bulls I’ve ever seen, which were entirely white and amenable to being paraded around the showground. I noticed that the press photographers had all been given red vests, whether in evil intent or not I do not know. One day I went out to Tigre with Ana, the owner of the guest house, and Monika and Katerina, the Austro-German students who were also staying there, a very mature and thoughtful pair. Tigre is a town on the edge of a Delta on the River Plata, and we roared out there in Ana’s ancient VW wagon. I commented on the number of old Ford Falcons on the road, and she told me that it was a popular model until it was used as a police car during the dictatorship. The police used to drive round with dissidents in the boot until they suffocated. Urgh. Tigre is beautiful – there are hundreds of forested islands in the delta, which is named after some kind of small puma which used to frequent it. We didn’t take a boat trip, there wasn’t time, but wandered around the town, which has a feeling of moneyed leisure about it. There is a profusion of rowing clubs, including an English one which looks like an Oxford college, and an Italian one which looks like a Venice palazzo. Everyone’s favourite, though, was the art museum, which has been converted from an early twentieth century casino, built in the style of a chateau.
I’ve just noticed that I’m sitting here in my t-shirt, which is a good sign. Cordoba is sunny and pleasant during the day, and chilly at night. It doesn’t have the piercing wind of BA,which comes straight off the river. My next stop is Salta, close to a thousand kilometres north of here, which is supposed to be warm in spite of being in the foothills of the Andes.
A quick word on the restaurants here before I go. The waitrons believe in the back-to-basics school of service. The first thing they will ask you after you’ve sat down is what you want. If you ask for a menu one will be produced, but it seems to be regarded as a bit of an unnecessary affectation. Last night I asked for a beer and was not asked what kind – a Budweiser was produced and it was up to me to insist on something local. When it comes to paying the bill, you just ask the waiter how much and they will tell you. You hand over the cash and they hand over the change. Finito. Not that any of this bothers me in the slightest, in fact I appreciate the minimum of time wasting on the way to delivering the meal, which is inevitably wonderful. If in doubt (which I usually am when presented with the menu) I order a steak. This is produced, unadorned, on a plate which is usually barely big enough to contain it. No garnish, no sauce, nothing. The meat is always so tender and so perfectly seasoned and marinated that it doesn’t need anything – not even salt and pepper. The other staple is pizza, which is a little thick and cheese-laden for my taste, but I force it down. I had one the other night which I could barely finish (though finish it I did) for four dollars. And then there are the cake shops… but enough.
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