Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 11 - 13 november 2002
Every other day, there appeared to be street protests and demonstrations somewhere. Occasionally, after my classes, I would stumble upon a group waving flags, shouting into loud-hailers and preparing to march down the streets. Some groups drew messages on the ground or pinned up notices on the walls, lambasting the government and the president. Others made lots of noise with brass bands and drums. The police would always be lined up nearby, in their bullet-proof vests, ready and waiting.
The street-wares for sale on Calle Florida which I had noted when I first arrived in Buenos Aires had also been disallowed recently. These people were trying their utmost to earn just that little more money selling something but no… they could not do that anymore. As expected, the street vendors protested against this issue too.
But the worst must be the news that in Tucuman province, there were children who had died of starvation because of the economic crisis and possibly, corruption. Gosh, this was horrible news! From the news on TV, I saw many protesters confronting the officials and the president outside government buildings and screaming, “Have you read the papers today? HAVE YOU?!!?!!!”
I bought ‘Clarin’, an Argentinian newspaper, hoping to understand more about the politics and economics situations in Argentina. I nearly dissolved in tears. I was checking the dictionary after every two words. Pablo told me to stop, for I would be discouraged from reading anything Spanish in the future. Even HE did not understand the politics and economics of Argentina.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 14 november 2002
I donned my tourist garb, grabbed my camera and headed out to San Telmo and La Boca today. The sun was brilliant; the sky, a perfect blue.
I made my way slowly along Calle La Defensa in the San Telmo region. This place has charming old buildings with wooden doors and iron balconies, and some streets remain cobbled-stoned. This is a traditional corner of Buenos Aires, peppered with many of those lovely, traditional bar-cafés I had written about. There are also numerous antique shops selling all sorts of, well, antiques - old record players, Baroque-style furniture, vases, discoloured posters of Che Guevara, Eva Perón and the likes, glass-wares and crystals, terribly kitsch plastic toys, ancient books and mate cups, etc… Kitschy but charming.
I spotted two decorative statues, the size of my hands, to be placed, preferably, on a piano or mantlepiece. What of them, you ask? They were the heads of two chimpanzees, one male, one female and dressed like what the costume designer had in mind for Glenn Close and John Malkovich in ‘The Age of Innocence’. Yes, they had white wigs and powdered faces. The female chimpanzee even had a tiny heart painted on her cheek. Like, W-H-O would BUY these?
Outside one house, I saw the owner had artistically-bent spoons and forks and other metallic kitchen wares as his window grilles. I was taking a photo of it when a boy and a girl appeared in my frame. They peered out of the window at me curiously. We chatted. Well, I could only ask them for their names and ages while they chatted on and on to me… Argh, I really kicked myself. I had no idea what the sweet dears were talking about. Like all children, they did not understand why someone else could not speak their language and prattled on innocently. They were beautiful. I love them!
Along one of the roads nearing La Boca, there were colourfully-painted caricature-dummies looking out of fake windows of fake houses. The walls by the side of the road were also painted with the legendary (to me, I would put inverted commas on) ‘heroes’ of Argentina like a very stocky Maradona.
Then, when I arrived at La Boca, I realised the stretch around the famous Caminito was similarly decorated with such caricature-dummies, including more ‘heroes’ like Juan and Eva Perón and Maradona waving down from a balcony.
La Boca is at the south of Buenos Aires, next to the smelly river Riachuela. It had gloriously colourful wooden buildings. I understood from Pablo that the reason the buildings were so colourful was because this region was previously populated by sailors who had to paint boats. And what did they do with the left-over paint? They painted their houses with them.
The fire department of La Boca was also rather famous because of the frequent fires here due to the wooden houses. In fact, a cluster of houses had been burnt down perhaps a week or so earlier.
This place was quite a tourist playground. There were many souvenir stalls and shops. There were expensive cafés and restaurants. And there were cut-out boards where one could place one’s face against the hole and pretend to be playing football with, yes, again… Maradona or doing a sensual tango with a babe they would NEVER get the chance to do so in real life. Argentine kitsch. But a pretty place to take photos if the sun is right.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 15 - 16 november 2002
I was informed that the Recoleta area is the place where the rich and shameless hang out. True, the streets were lined with very, very fashionable international branded shops like Christian Dior, Armani, etc… and chic, fancy clubs and restaurants. Shiny and posh, well-coiffed and immaculately-dressed porteños walked around with… well, scowls on their faces.
The Recoleta Cemetery is unexpectedly delightful. I came to Argentina without a guidebook, so in a way, I was quite clueless about what to visit in Buenos Aires. I merely flipped through some guide-books from bookstores about places to check out in Buenos Aires and the Recoleta Cemetery was mentioned.
The coffins were not buried in the ground. The families of the departed constructed little mausoleums to hold the coffins, sometimes the mausoleums were constructed for a couple; others seemed to be for the entire family. As a result, the entire cemetery was lined with little mausoleums and not gravestones. It felt a little like walking down narrow streets with small houses by the side.
Some of the mausoleums were more elaborately done up than others. They had sculptures, gigantic crucifixes, plaques denoting the life history of the dead, intricate wrought-iron grilles… Others were a little run-down with broken glass, cobwebbed gate, dusty windows. It was one incredibly surreal cemetery, well worth the visit.
There was a park in front of the cemetery with a weekend fair. I spotted a sign from a Tarot-card reader – ‘ENGLISH SPOKEN’. Hmmm… I had never had my fortune read. I had been a little curious about Tarot cards. Oh well, yes… if not here, where? If not now, when?
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 17 november 2002
My school had organised a gathering to attend a ‘Tango y Poesia’ [Tango and Poetry] performance by an actress and a guitarist in Bar Seddon today. Bar Seddon is located in San Telmo.
I asked Pablo to join me. To my surprise, he had never attended such a tango-cum-guitar session in a traditional bar-café before. Naturally, I could not understand a word. Pablo told me too many Argentine slangs were used. He would not even try to explain them to me. So, I just sat there and enjoyed the performance.
The actress was seated on a bar-stool and she either read the poetry or she sang the songs. My goodness, from such an immobile position, I was utterly floored by the range of emotions and expressions she was able to convey. Her deep melodious voice trembled at the emotional bits or soared like a bird at the happy bits. Her clenched fists shook with anger or her fluid hands flowed with grace. Her performance was stunning, captivating. The guitarist was terrific. The nostalgic ambience in the bar was another strong factor. What an excellent way to experience a unique culture of Buenos Aires.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 18 - 20 november 2002
I had previously mentioned about dulce de leche but I feared I did not grant it enough print space.
I do not know if I suddenly turned into a pastry-and-pie person recently but no place within a city could, well… now at least, stop me dead in my tracks than the confiterias [confectionaries] of Buenos Aires.
I racked my brain for confectionaries in China (forget about Mongolia), Europe and Brazil… Hmmm… not many mouth-watering memories surfaced.
I recalled the Chinese baked huge tiered cakes and then, creamed it entirely with white, pastel-pink, lilac and sky-blue colours, wedding-cake style, that just grossed me out. In Europe, yes, in Austria, there were many charming confectionaries with pretty little cakes but nothing earth-shattering. In Brazil, I apologize, I was checking out other yummy stuff like tanned, bare-chested men.
But here in Buenos Aires, my goodness… I would stop suddenly and stare at the assortments of sweets, cakes, pies, pastries, alfajores (typically Argentine, shaped like a yo-yo with dulce de leche in the middle of two cake-biscuit thingies), cookies, chocolates, etc… laid out at the window displays to tempt us mere mortals. Sometimes, people behind me would crash right into me when I stopped. I would examine the cakes from different angles, tilting my head as perverts do when studying the pictures from Playboy magazines. I would check out the windows on the other side, lest I missed out some yummy pastries. I would pretend to be buying and enter the store for a quick up-close-and-personal browse. And dulce de leche was almost always prominently featured in these goodies. I must think of ways to import dulce de leche back to my country.
Speaking of ‘import’, I had written some post-cards, slotted them into envelopes and attempted to buy stamps for them. To my horrors, the price of each stamp was 5.25 Arg Pesos, that was about US$1.50. For something less than 20 grams, it was US$1.50?? It was incredibly expensive! I now understood why Sheena, this lady I met in Pantanal, told me she crossed over to Paraguay in order to post things she bought from Argentina home. If I had a package of 2 kg, would it cost more than US$150? Gosh, I sent a box weighing more than 2 kg from Brazil and it cost me merely US$15. I refused to send my post-cards. How could the Argentinians afford to send ANYTHING out of the country? My hope for importing dulce de leche dimmed.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 21 november 2002
Francisca brought me to experience another Buenos Aires high today.
I supposed, with cattle as the main industry here, cattle-related products like bife and dulce de leche (translated as ‘sweet from milk’) would be cheap and excellent. The other amazing ‘sweet from milk’ would be ice-cream, wouldn’t it? And as you know, I have always been an aficionada of ice-cream.
The city is strewn with brightly-lit heladerias [ice-cream parlours]. We went to a very posh heladeria in a very posh corner of Buenos Aires. The very posh price of the cone of ice-cream was 7 Arg Pesos. Gulp! Francisca insisted it was her treat, paid with her mom’s money.
As the master ice-cream scooper piled on the second scoop of ice-cream of the flavour dulce de leche (but of course), he turned the ice-cream cone upside-down and proceeded to elongate the ice-cream. It was of such rich, thick texture, the ice-cream would not flop down and die. It merely extended in length. Then, Master-Ice-Cream-Scooper dipped the ice-cream cone into liquid chocolate and placed the cone in a freezer for a few seconds to harden the chocolate.
We were now looking at the tallest ice-cream cone I had ever laid my eyes on, all of 1-metre high. We wielded it like it was the light sabre. As we proceeded to eat it, WE stopped traffic as five-year-olds just back from nursery schools stopped and gaped in awe. I offered them a bite but their mothers declined and hurried them along. They left but their eyes remained fixed on our posh ice-cream cone.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 22 - 24 november 2002
Pablo had to go to Patagonia on 24 November for three weeks, guiding a group of Italians. The past two weeks he had stressed himself out, revising his Italian, learning all the biological terms in Italian, trying to find out information about the trip which the company he worked for did not even know themselves.
Three days before his trip, he was then informed he would be going to Trelew by bus one day before the Italians arrived to sort things out with the drivers. Suddenly, he was told he would be doing the cooking for some of the days. He had to go shopping with the boss’s mom for groceries, by the way.
Then, the company informed him maybe he ought to find out about restaurants along the main routes of Patagonia to see if the group would be able to arrive there by meal-times. And ooops, the company had booked the hotels and restaurants for the wrong dates, they had booked one day in advance for the entire three-week trip.
Pablo was frustrated, jumpy, tense and very, very stressed out. But what could he do? In a country with so much unemployment now, everyone had looked at him with envy of having a job.
I would be apartment-sitting for him for the next three weeks. Remember to water the plants everyday.
The last plant I had, ten years ago, was a little cactus, reputedly the most resilient plant in the world. I probably killed it within weeks of procuring it. But I was so numb-skulled I did not realise it until months later when I touched it and it keeled over, revealing just an empty shell. The entire succulent insides had died out long ago. I thereby promised myself never to be in charge of the lives of another living thing… until now.
I had named one of the plants ‘Frida’. No, I was not cashing on the fame of the current movie by Salma Hayek. I love Frida Kahlo’s works. The plant looked radiant at the top but had some tortured-looking leaves at the bottom. So, it reminded me of how Frida Kahlo was radiant on the outside but tortured with pain on the inside.
On 20 November, Frida had sprouted a new bud. By 24 November, Frida Baby was 2.5 inches long.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 25 - 27 november 2002
A quick observation about the mental health of the Buenos Aires inhabitants. Apparently, it is really popular here to visit psychologists. Nearly everyone, especially those from the middle and upper classes, visits psychologists. They even send their children to such sessions. It is so common in Buenos Aires that there is absolutely no stigma with regards to this issue.
A classmate of mine has a psychologist girl-friend and her young patients’ mood-swings were like yo-yos. They could be partying one moment and then, 2 hours later, would call up my friend’s girlfriend, crying their eyes out, feeling utterly depressed. They were really reliant on her.
Francisca told me her friend visited one three times a week. She is just 21 years old. Gosh, I wonder what sort of problems she has? I suspect boy-girl relationships, friendships, insecurity, jealousy, etc… Stuff we used to solve by ourselves and grow up in the meantime.
Of course, in some cases, there are people who really needed help or at least, the sessions could help to improve self-awareness but, to me, the psychologist mania sounded a little excessive.
Frida baby was 4.5 inches long now.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 28 november 2002
I was having my lunch in a Chinese Restaurant in the ‘Chinatown’ of Buenos Aires in Belgrano. A toddler veered near to check me out. I made monkey faces at her. The guy sitting behind me, made goo-goo noises too and he greeted her, “Ni Hao Ma? [How are you? -- in Mandarin]”
I turned to look at him curiously. He was Argentinian, not Chinese. Then, I spotted some photographs on the table which his friend was looking through. I gasped at the photos. They were gorgeous! And they looked strangely familiar too.
I asked him, in Spanish, ha ha, where they were taken. He said the ones I pointed to were taken in the western part of China, near Tibet.
“Langmusi?” I ventured. His eyes lit up, “Yes! Langmusi!!”
Oh my goodness!!! Imagine, meeting another person here in Argentina who had been to the obscure Tibetan town of Langmusi in China, where my best memories of China were from! The guy is Marcelo, he is a photographer and had been in Asia for one year on assignment.
As I went through the stack of photographs, I realised he had been to South East Asia, India, Nepal, China and Mongolia!! His photographs of China and Mongolia were especially precious to me for I had seen somewhat the same things. They were artfully captured with amazing spontaneity, skill and mood.
Marcelo pointed out one photo which was the niece of Leisha, of ‘Leisha’s Café’ fame in Langmusi. I had previously mentioned her in my article. Yes, she was the one who churned out apple pies and yak burgers. I nearly fainted with delight.
Marcelo’s photographs would appear in a magazine (free too!) in the middle of next month and he would also have a slide-show presentation soon. Pablo had been to India and Nepal as well and had loved those countries intensely. We would be delighted to see his presentation. I obtained his contact eagerly and promised to write him for more details. ¡Qué suerte! [Such luck!]
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 29 november 2002 - 03 december 2002
Professional dog walkers. I am not sure if they exist in such abundance in other countries but here in Buenos Aires, everyday, I saw at least one such dog-walker. People who did not have time to walk their dogs would enlist such a professional. The guy could have up to twelve huge dogs tied to his waist as he careened down the streets. Quite a sight!
With the dogs, came the poo on the streets. No, they did not clean up after their dogs.
While Buenos Aires has enchanting cupolas at the top of some corner blocks, I do not suggest you stare skywards when you walk. Watch out for the poo.
Frida baby was 6.5 inches long. I was really proud of her!
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 04 december 2002
On one of the evenings when Pablo was still in town, we had gone to watch the movie ‘Kamchatka’. It was an Argentinian movie about the military repression period in the late 1970s.
My Spanish was terrible then, so half the time, I had no idea what exactly was exchanged between the characters. But the story was about a family who had to hide in the countryside after the colleagues of the father, a university lecturer, were kidnapped by the military. Then, finally, when all hope was lost, the father and the mother left the kids with the grandparents and they drove away, never to be seen again.
The horrific actions from the military were never spelled out in the movie. They were hinted at, suggested and implied. The movie was very intellectually, tastefully and subtly done, in that sense. However, to someone not familiar with this dark period in the history of South America, the impact might be lost. This, respectfully, was my humble two-cents’ worth.
After the movie, tears had streamed down Pablo’s face. He was between four and ten years at that time. It was the age of ‘Why?’ and ‘Why not?’. Yet, no one could explain why he could not do this, why he could not do that. Everything was hush-hush, lest there were spies.
The movie reminded him so much of his childhood, right down to the bag the boy was carrying and the sunglasses worn by the mother. Like the movie, there were suggestions at one point, to change their names and they also had a command that when uttered, all had to abandon everything and run out of the house to escape. It was a frightening and very dark period.
Pablo explained as much as he could about that period to me. I turned things over in my head. While my heart was heavy, my eyes had remained dry.
Today, tears flowed freely down my cheeks. By chance, I had strolled to Plaza de Mayo in the afternoon.
The square had painted white headscarves on the ground. The headscarves symbolised the mothers of that period, who had had their children kidnapped and who were left, asking ‘Why?’, ‘What happened?’, ‘Where are they?’
Today, in front of the government building ‘Casa Rosada’ [Pink House], police in full gear, including shields, were lining up and waiting for action.
25 years had passed. Nothing was forgotten. The square was lined with black-and-white photographs of the disappeareds. The parents, grandparents and even children of the disappeareds had prepared posters to commemorate their loved ones. Posters with the songs and poetry composed by them during their teenage years, the last letters written to their mothers or sisters, photographs of their first toddle, their 15th birthday, their wedding.
I circled the square several times and read the touching posters. My Spanish was more or less alright for reading. I recalled Pablo’s words and the movie. I blinked and tears streamed down.
The words ‘DETENIDA’ [detained], ‘SECUESTRADO’ [kidnapped], ‘DESPARECIDO’ [disappeared], ‘ASESINADO’ [murdered] screamed at me. The charming, good-looking faces of these people my age smiled back at me.
30,000 disappeared. Ariel Horacio Gabriel Roman Franco Manuel Adriana Omar Ernesto Álvaro Gustavo Eduardo Carlos Susana Norberto Hector Fernando Roberto Antonio Luis Graciela Stella Mario José Gisela Julio Nora Claudio Elena Alejandra Beatriz Teresa Samuel Rubén Nestor Nina Maria Rodolfo Ricardo Claudia Clara Juan Daniel Pablo Alicia Laura Jorge Rosalba Agustina Alejandro Cecilia Laura Margarita Mónica… No one was forgotten.
Wednesday, December 4, 2002
Sunday, November 10, 2002
17 - Tango and Not Enough Cash (Puerto Iguazu, Buenos Aires)
Puerto Iguazú to Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 29 october 2002
I had to really wash ‘OBRIGADA’ out of my hair. I am now in Argentina, speak Spanish, por favor! Yet, over and over, from Iguazú Falls to this morning, I blurted out “Obrigada… [Thank you -- in Portuguese]” repeatedly.
I had written an email to Pablo whom I had met in Beijing way back in June and travelled together for one month, crossing three countries to Moscow. I told him I was coming to Argentina and he had replied that he was in Buenos Aires and was looking forward to meeting me. He could even put me up at his apartment. Excelente!!
I informed him I would arrive in Buenos Aires on 31 October, as I wanted to spend a day at San Ignacio first.
However, when I arrived at San Ignacio at 3pm or so, it was raining cats and dogs. Suddenly, I did not feel like staying in this miserable-looking drenched town. I made inquiries in a hotel if there was a night-bus to Buenos Aires leaving that night. The lady told me to phone an affiliated company selling bus-tickets.
OK, major test here. Speaking face-to-face in my so-called Spanish was moderately OK for one could still use sign languages, the magic of a smile, a knowing look, pointing and hand gestures. But to speak in Spanish on the phone to someone and to understand him was a little trickier. Well, I did a not-bad job. I managed to figure out there was one bus leaving at 6pm. I thanked the guy and said I would walk to his office now to make the purchase. Unfortunately, the office was ten blocks away and it was pouring! But he kept saying something about a ‘coche’ [car]. I declined the offer but he insisted, “Gratis. [Free]” “¿Gratis? Oh, obrigada… er, muchas gracias… Por favor, gracias.”
I set the phone down, wondering if I had misunderstood him. Did such excellent service exist? Was he driving over to the hotel in the rain just to pick me up to go to his office?
Indeed he arrived and later, after I purchased the ticket, I took out the wet map and wondered if I could still squeeze in some time to visit the San Ignacio Ruinas in the meantime. Again, the guy offered to drive me to the ruins! I was speechless for a moment. He hurried out to the car just when the heaven opened up some more and POURED all its sorrows out. The rain was torrential. It was certainly not a good idea to visit the ruins at all but my declines now appeared to him to be just trying not to trouble him. And he was very willing to be troubled and would not take ‘no’ for an answer. It rained so hard we could not see out of the car windows. But he was so kind, I had to at least pretend I would visit the ruins.
I stood at the ticket counter of the ruins for a long time before telling myself, “Hey, whatever… Stop being such a wimp. Enjoy the rain as one enjoys the sun.” and bought a ticket.
I sloshed through the gates of the ruins with ankle-deep water to the museum. A curator working there asked “¿De dónde sos? [Where are you from?]”. I peered down at his notebook and found him recording which country crazy tourists who visited ruins in torrential rain came from. I replied, “Singapur”. He neatly wrote down, “Japon”. I threw him a look, took his pen from him and corrected it solemnly. If anything, for the record, I had to make sure that it be noted that this crazy tourist came from the right country.
He then asked if I needed a guide. Oh no, obrigada… er, gracias… How could I bear to make someone else come out in this awful rain with me?
My feet were totally submerged in the flooded field. I waded through the grass and rivulets. I was surprised to see two other crazy tourists visiting the ruins as well. Visibility was so low, I could not see far. When I lifted my head to look at the walls, my eyes were closed because of the pelting rain.
I returned to the museum, wonderfully wet, and beamed at the bemused curator, “¡Qué lindo! ¡Qué bueno! [How pretty! How nice!]”
I dried myself in the restaurant opposite and ordered a bife [beef steak]. This would start my streak of bife-eating in this country. While I complained about the over-done, tough, tasteless beef in Brazil, here… just right across the imaginary line called the border, the Argentinians made the most gorgeous, juicy, mouth-watering piece of steak in the entire world. I praised the chef and muttered many thanks to the waitress.
Later, as I prepared to brave the rain once again to walk eight blocks back to the bus office, the owner of the restaurant stopped me. She refused to let me go out in the rain. The husband of the waitress had coincidentally just arrived to pick her up. The owner thus asked the waitress to get her husband to drop me off at the office. Oh my goodness!!! The Brazilians had been wonderfully friendly… and the Argentinians appeared to be even more hospitable and kind! I had just gotten three free lifts in a day!
Then, at 6pm, the most perfectly-evolved double-decker bus arrived to pick me up. There were three seats per row. The seat was as spacious as a business-class seat on airplanes. It could recline until almost horizontal. A set of pillow and blanket were provided. A pretty little stewardess came up and served cookies, drinks, dinner… I could not believe it! After all those horrendous bus-rides in China and Mongolia, this specimen of bus was utopia itself.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 30 october 2002
By the way, we were even served breakfast too this morning! Incredible.
Throughout the ride, however, police constantly got on the bus to check our documents and possessions. I noted I was singled out to be checked all the time. It felt a little weird for in Brazil, nothing like this ever happened.
So I arrived in Buenos Aires, one day earlier than the date I had informed Pablo. Upon arrival, I could not get him on the phone so I tried to contact him via email.
He later told me that when he realised I was already in Buenos Aires, his first reaction was sheer panic: “Oh my God!! Trisha is ALONE in my city!!!!” Through a comedy of errors of when, where and how to meet, communicated entirely by emails as he and I strove to log-in multiple times that day to check each other’s replies, we finally met at 6pm at the correct McDonald’s.
It was pure joy. We were thrilled to see each other again!! We jumped up and down in delight and gushed about what we had been doing the past months after we separated in Moscow, Russia. We talked excitedly about our trip together in China, Mongolia and the Trans-Mongolian Railway. “Remember this… Remember that…” It was fantastic to be reunited with Pablo again. And thoroughly unexpectedly soon too, for I had not intended to come to Buenos Aires until perhaps next March. Ah, yes, that guitar-pick we snapped into two in Mongolia… they would soon be united too.
We paced up and down Calle Florida, the main pedestrian mall in the centre of Buenos Aires, many many times. We were totally oblivious to the surroundings and thoroughly distracted as we yakked non-stop for five hours or so.
Like Jane when I was in Ireland, he felt extremely responsible for my safety and comfort. I felt as if I was a baby. He feared that the Buenos Aires traffic would crash into me; he feared that I would crash into the Buenos Aires lamp-posts and telephone booths, and loaded me with warnings and be-carefuls here and there. “Gee, Pablo, thank you for being so sweet and nice but I crossed the horrid China-Mongolian border by myself and didn’t die, remember??”
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 31 october 2002
Pablo and I met up in Café Tortoni after his work and I was introduced to the most famous and charmingly traditional café in Buenos Aires.
The bar/café culture is a quintessential aspect of Buenos Aires. All over Buenos Aires were these traditional bars-cum-cafés which are usually located at the corners of streets. While many had closed, the few which remained were, to me, thoroughly charming. They had high ceilings, ancient iron-fans, antique lamp-shades shaped like flowers, black-and-white checkered floors, wooden tables and chairs and little old men for waiters.
For individuals, they are great places to sit and while away the time as one reads or ponders over various questions in life. For friends, they are excellent places to talk, discuss, reminisce, laugh, share, grow.
They are nostalgic and inspirational. And for many decades, poets, writers, political revolutionists, tango composers, the intellects of Buenos Aires, had pined for love, debated over ideas, grieved over disillusions, hoped for a new way of life, drowned their sorrows, praised their good fortune, recollected their pasts… and in turn, churned out the tremendously excellent culture of Buenos Aires - the poetry, the literature, the music, the tango dance of Argentina.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 01 november 2002
As I learn about the Argentinian way of life, allow me to introduce to the readers: Mate and dulce de leche.
Mate (pronounced Ma-tey) is the typical drink of the Argentinians. It is served in special cups made from round gourds or a vase-shaped silver vessel.
The mate leaves are not just a couple of wimpy leaves swimming at the bottom of the cups. The leaves and sometimes stems are crushed up really small and filled to the brim of the cups. To drink it, one needed a bamboo or usually a metal straw with tiny holes at the bottom to filter out the tiny leaves.
One could only pour enough water into the cup for one suck. The water, and this is very important as imparted gravely by Pablo, must be about 80°C or so. Never to 100°C. It is all alchemy. Mate is strong stuff.
So, all over Buenos Aires, one could see the locals holding their mate in one hand and a flask of hot-water in the other, refilling, sipping, refilling, sipping… It is a social drink too, meant for sharing among friends.
Dulce de leche (Dool-say dey ley-chey) is heaven. Yes, it is. I cannot explain what goes inside it for Pablo was unable or perhaps unwilling to part with this secret knowledge. It seemed to be a cross between chocolate cream and caramel. It is brown, sticky and gorgeously sweet. Every other pastries and desserts, magnificently and lovingly prepared by the wondrous chefs of Argentina, had fillings of dulce de leche. Cartons of dulce de leche are sold everywhere and people have been known, for example Pablo, to finish up a carton of dulce de leche in one day. I had grown to love it too. There was always a carton ever-ready in our refrigerator.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 02 november 2002
I had passed by many banks which were either shuttered up entirely or had a small door furtively left open for their employees to enter. Harsh graffiti messages like ‘CHORROS!!’ (Argentinians’ slang for ‘Thieves!’) were spray-painted on the walls and shutters.
Today, we spotted some people cleaning the wall of yet another disfigured bank.
When Pablo left his country in December last year (2001), Argentina was going through a major economic crisis. When he returned eight months later, he returned to a country totally unrecognisable to him. The Argentinian Peso had been devalued from US$1 = 1 Argentinian Peso to US$1 = 3.5 Argentinian Pesos now, ‘mas o menos’ [more or less]. So, imagine the mentality of the people… what they earn now appeared to be 3.5 times LESS than before. 100 Argentinian Pesos is now US$28.50, no longer US$100.
And I am sure the readers know that Argentinians who had savings in banks had had all their money robbed. Their money gone just like that. Disappeared. The middle-class basically went bankrupt, in a sense.
I tried to imagine how it would be like if the bank where my rapidly-depleting life-savings are stored now, suddenly announced that they have my money now and sorry, you have nothing anymore. I tried to imagine how it would be like to be in my 50s, to have worked my entire life, saving up my money for a nice retirement and then, to receive this piece of news. I could not imagine it. People would go mad, some could kill themselves and I am sure, a few had.
I do not claim to understand ‘Economics’ very well. I mean, amongst my er… ahem, considerably wide knowledge, my weaker subjects were ‘Neuro Brain Surgery’, ‘Myths and Practices of Ancient Mesopotamia and Sumerian cuneiform decipherment’ and I’m afraid, ‘Economics’.
But I looked at Buenos Aires now with a tinge of sadness. I spotted beggars on the streets, people going through every coin-drop of the telephones to see if there were any change, families pushing shopping carts and collecting and sorting out cardboard boxes, poor children busking, old men or women sleeping on the streets.
Along Calle Florida, a new phenomenon, even for Pablo, was people lining up wares, crafts, clothes, mates, souvenirs, kitsch Spiderman costumes, etc… in the middle of the pedestrian mall. All to earn just that little more cash.
On the other hand, the posh shops, trendy boutiques and chic cafés remained in the background. After all, (I believe) Buenos Aires had been the most expensive city to live in here in South America. The mighty rich who have savings in US dollars are 3.5 times richer now, if you think about it. They are still shopping in Emporio Armani and attending performances at Teatro Colón.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 03 november 2002
Being a Sunday today and being Italians, Pablo took me to his parents’ apartment for a wonderful pasta lunch (and some nagging on his side). I did not always understand what was being said among them. But through Pablo’s dad, I really found myself admiring the resilience of the Argentinians in such a sore period of the economic crisis. He had said he had lost everything but poof, what was he to do, he had to stay happy and ‘life goes on’.
Indeed, I had been thoroughly impressed with the general good nature of the locals here (not those getting ready for another protest on the street, of course). They are civil, polite, friendly, and very sweet. They bounce “Hola” off one another everywhere. The men almost always let ladies get on buses first. If they bump into one another, a profusion of apologies emerge. A picture of cultured behaviour.
I had come across a few street performances of tango by now. The couple whom I thoroughly loved watching could usually be found at the intersection of Calle Florida and Calle Lavalle in the centre of Buenos Aires.
Tango is sensual, beautiful, fluid. The music always nostalgic, always romantic. The dancers are the key-stones to my enjoyment of the art. The couple I love was perfect together. The lady appeared to be feather-light as she was lifted, pulled (as she leaned towards the man until her body was at an angle of 40 degrees) and twirled around seemingly effortlessly by her partner. The kicks between each other’s legs were swift and exact, in other words, no… they never tripped over each other. Their precise movements were perfectly synchronised. The mood was sometimes serious, sometimes playful, always enchanting.
I always stayed for a while whenever I passed by to admire them. I always had a huge smile on my face as I watched, with great excitement, as they expressed their craft so beautifully and passionately. I always willingly forked out money for them. Bravo.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 04 november 2002
I had decided to stay on in Buenos Aires to study Spanish.
I had wanted to do this in Bolivia before I embarked on the rest of my trip around South America. But since I could not go to Bolivia, I had headed south to Argentina. To be very frank, after the ‘high’ of the Iguaçu Falls, I felt a little drained now. I know the rest of Patagonia would be even more spectacular, so I decided I needed a breather for a moment before I pop a vessel with too many overwhelming experiences.
After travelling for six months, I also felt a need to stay longer at a place to get to know it better, instead of packing up every three days or so. And these few days had been great. I had grown to love Buenos Aires. Hence, I signed up for a Spanish course and would be here until Christmas.
I had contacted my other Argentinian friend - Francisca, whom I met in my Pantanal trip. She could not believe her ears when she learnt that I was already here in Buenos Aires and would be staying for two months. She squealed in delight over the phone. We arranged to meet at the McDonald’s at the Obelisk at 5:30pm this evening.
I waited for her at a McDonald’s, facing the Obelisk, for half an hour. I got suspicious and decided to pop my head out and see if there was another McDonald’s near the Obelisk. In the city with the most number of McDonald’s per square area… sure, why not? Not more than 100 metres away, I spotted a strangely familiar yellow curve of an arch! Argh!!! I quickly hurried over there and waited.
An old man came over and asked if I was Trisha. He took me over to the side of the road and there was Francisca, waiting in the car. She had been driving round and round for half an hour as she could not stop her car here. She drove so many times, the old man standing at the road recognised her and so she enlisted his help to look for me, la china.
We exchanged the typical Argentinian kissie-on-the-right-cheek. As she pulled away into the busy traffic, cars blared their horns at her and drivers shook their fists. An excitable Francisaca screamed and wailed, “Too many cars!!! I hate coming to the centre!! Oh, where do I go? I don’t know the centre!! AHHH!!! Sorry… sorry… Where to go?” Great to be united with la chica loca.
As I feared for our lives, I suggested that we should keep quiet while she concentrated on her driving but she would have none of it and chatted away, bombarding me with questions and enriching my knowledge with her life story. More cars whizzed by narrowly. More taxi-drivers cursed us.
Our conversation was peppered with, “Oh!!! Oh!! What street was that?? What street?? Did you see???? Oh… I want to go there… I want to turn there… Now, I cannot turn…” She was looking for Shamrocks, an Irish pub. She said she had been craving for their bruschettas. But she had no idea where it was.
We spun around in circles, she made left turn when she was on the right side of the street, she stopped suddenly to ask for directions, her engine stalled at traffic lights… When we found the pub, we spun around some more to look for FREE parking. In total, we had been driving around for more than 2 hours. And I was amazed we were still alive. I offered to pay for parking so as to get out of the car some time this century.
The biggest joke must be that Shamrocks did not serve bruschettas anymore. Ha. It was so fun to catch up with her.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 05 - 08 november 2002
I spent the days either going for my Spanish classes, doing my homework and wandering the streets of Buenos Aires.
I had really grown to love the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires. The city seems to have everything.
The fine architecture of most older buildings in the beautiful city centre reminded me a little of the splendour of St. Petersburg’s architecture in Russia. Very pretty are the cupolas found at the top of some corner blocks.
The busy avenues, the wares sold on the streets, the high energy level reminded me a little of Mexico City in Mexico.
The charming cafés, posh bookshops, theatres reminded me a little of classy London in United Kingdom, lending a very intellectual feel to the city. I love book-stores and Buenos Aires is full of them. I frequently popped into them. Oh, I wished I knew Spanish well enough to devour the huge range of books. Sadly, I could only head towards the English section, if any, and browsed through what they had to offer.
I really love it here. All sort of shops are found iin every other block. There are kioscos selling snacks and drinks, locutorios which offered telephone cabins and computers for internet use, stationery shops, laundries, clothing stores, garages, butcheries, pastry shops, grocery stores, hair-dressers, video-rentals, supermarkets, photo studios… everything was available. You never needed to go far to get something you want.
And what is best about the city is that it is a city that never sleeps. Late at night, many restaurants and cafés stay open. People show up for dinner at 11pm. And to us tourists, things now are cheaper. For example, a bife, and not just any bife: a thick, juicy slap of delicious beef steak, costs a little more than US$1 to US$3.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 09 - 10 november 2002
I hung out with Francisca over the weekend, meeting her friend, her friend’s mom and then, her family. I had never been hugged so hard in my life, thanks to Francisca’s grandmother. Gosh, Argentinians are simply so passionate and wonderful. I felt great to have made the decision to stay longer here in Buenos Aires.
I had to really wash ‘OBRIGADA’ out of my hair. I am now in Argentina, speak Spanish, por favor! Yet, over and over, from Iguazú Falls to this morning, I blurted out “Obrigada… [Thank you -- in Portuguese]” repeatedly.
I had written an email to Pablo whom I had met in Beijing way back in June and travelled together for one month, crossing three countries to Moscow. I told him I was coming to Argentina and he had replied that he was in Buenos Aires and was looking forward to meeting me. He could even put me up at his apartment. Excelente!!
I informed him I would arrive in Buenos Aires on 31 October, as I wanted to spend a day at San Ignacio first.
However, when I arrived at San Ignacio at 3pm or so, it was raining cats and dogs. Suddenly, I did not feel like staying in this miserable-looking drenched town. I made inquiries in a hotel if there was a night-bus to Buenos Aires leaving that night. The lady told me to phone an affiliated company selling bus-tickets.
OK, major test here. Speaking face-to-face in my so-called Spanish was moderately OK for one could still use sign languages, the magic of a smile, a knowing look, pointing and hand gestures. But to speak in Spanish on the phone to someone and to understand him was a little trickier. Well, I did a not-bad job. I managed to figure out there was one bus leaving at 6pm. I thanked the guy and said I would walk to his office now to make the purchase. Unfortunately, the office was ten blocks away and it was pouring! But he kept saying something about a ‘coche’ [car]. I declined the offer but he insisted, “Gratis. [Free]” “¿Gratis? Oh, obrigada… er, muchas gracias… Por favor, gracias.”
I set the phone down, wondering if I had misunderstood him. Did such excellent service exist? Was he driving over to the hotel in the rain just to pick me up to go to his office?
Indeed he arrived and later, after I purchased the ticket, I took out the wet map and wondered if I could still squeeze in some time to visit the San Ignacio Ruinas in the meantime. Again, the guy offered to drive me to the ruins! I was speechless for a moment. He hurried out to the car just when the heaven opened up some more and POURED all its sorrows out. The rain was torrential. It was certainly not a good idea to visit the ruins at all but my declines now appeared to him to be just trying not to trouble him. And he was very willing to be troubled and would not take ‘no’ for an answer. It rained so hard we could not see out of the car windows. But he was so kind, I had to at least pretend I would visit the ruins.
I stood at the ticket counter of the ruins for a long time before telling myself, “Hey, whatever… Stop being such a wimp. Enjoy the rain as one enjoys the sun.” and bought a ticket.
I sloshed through the gates of the ruins with ankle-deep water to the museum. A curator working there asked “¿De dónde sos? [Where are you from?]”. I peered down at his notebook and found him recording which country crazy tourists who visited ruins in torrential rain came from. I replied, “Singapur”. He neatly wrote down, “Japon”. I threw him a look, took his pen from him and corrected it solemnly. If anything, for the record, I had to make sure that it be noted that this crazy tourist came from the right country.
He then asked if I needed a guide. Oh no, obrigada… er, gracias… How could I bear to make someone else come out in this awful rain with me?
My feet were totally submerged in the flooded field. I waded through the grass and rivulets. I was surprised to see two other crazy tourists visiting the ruins as well. Visibility was so low, I could not see far. When I lifted my head to look at the walls, my eyes were closed because of the pelting rain.
I returned to the museum, wonderfully wet, and beamed at the bemused curator, “¡Qué lindo! ¡Qué bueno! [How pretty! How nice!]”
I dried myself in the restaurant opposite and ordered a bife [beef steak]. This would start my streak of bife-eating in this country. While I complained about the over-done, tough, tasteless beef in Brazil, here… just right across the imaginary line called the border, the Argentinians made the most gorgeous, juicy, mouth-watering piece of steak in the entire world. I praised the chef and muttered many thanks to the waitress.
Later, as I prepared to brave the rain once again to walk eight blocks back to the bus office, the owner of the restaurant stopped me. She refused to let me go out in the rain. The husband of the waitress had coincidentally just arrived to pick her up. The owner thus asked the waitress to get her husband to drop me off at the office. Oh my goodness!!! The Brazilians had been wonderfully friendly… and the Argentinians appeared to be even more hospitable and kind! I had just gotten three free lifts in a day!
Then, at 6pm, the most perfectly-evolved double-decker bus arrived to pick me up. There were three seats per row. The seat was as spacious as a business-class seat on airplanes. It could recline until almost horizontal. A set of pillow and blanket were provided. A pretty little stewardess came up and served cookies, drinks, dinner… I could not believe it! After all those horrendous bus-rides in China and Mongolia, this specimen of bus was utopia itself.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 30 october 2002
By the way, we were even served breakfast too this morning! Incredible.
Throughout the ride, however, police constantly got on the bus to check our documents and possessions. I noted I was singled out to be checked all the time. It felt a little weird for in Brazil, nothing like this ever happened.
So I arrived in Buenos Aires, one day earlier than the date I had informed Pablo. Upon arrival, I could not get him on the phone so I tried to contact him via email.
He later told me that when he realised I was already in Buenos Aires, his first reaction was sheer panic: “Oh my God!! Trisha is ALONE in my city!!!!” Through a comedy of errors of when, where and how to meet, communicated entirely by emails as he and I strove to log-in multiple times that day to check each other’s replies, we finally met at 6pm at the correct McDonald’s.
It was pure joy. We were thrilled to see each other again!! We jumped up and down in delight and gushed about what we had been doing the past months after we separated in Moscow, Russia. We talked excitedly about our trip together in China, Mongolia and the Trans-Mongolian Railway. “Remember this… Remember that…” It was fantastic to be reunited with Pablo again. And thoroughly unexpectedly soon too, for I had not intended to come to Buenos Aires until perhaps next March. Ah, yes, that guitar-pick we snapped into two in Mongolia… they would soon be united too.
We paced up and down Calle Florida, the main pedestrian mall in the centre of Buenos Aires, many many times. We were totally oblivious to the surroundings and thoroughly distracted as we yakked non-stop for five hours or so.
Like Jane when I was in Ireland, he felt extremely responsible for my safety and comfort. I felt as if I was a baby. He feared that the Buenos Aires traffic would crash into me; he feared that I would crash into the Buenos Aires lamp-posts and telephone booths, and loaded me with warnings and be-carefuls here and there. “Gee, Pablo, thank you for being so sweet and nice but I crossed the horrid China-Mongolian border by myself and didn’t die, remember??”
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 31 october 2002
Pablo and I met up in Café Tortoni after his work and I was introduced to the most famous and charmingly traditional café in Buenos Aires.
The bar/café culture is a quintessential aspect of Buenos Aires. All over Buenos Aires were these traditional bars-cum-cafés which are usually located at the corners of streets. While many had closed, the few which remained were, to me, thoroughly charming. They had high ceilings, ancient iron-fans, antique lamp-shades shaped like flowers, black-and-white checkered floors, wooden tables and chairs and little old men for waiters.
For individuals, they are great places to sit and while away the time as one reads or ponders over various questions in life. For friends, they are excellent places to talk, discuss, reminisce, laugh, share, grow.
They are nostalgic and inspirational. And for many decades, poets, writers, political revolutionists, tango composers, the intellects of Buenos Aires, had pined for love, debated over ideas, grieved over disillusions, hoped for a new way of life, drowned their sorrows, praised their good fortune, recollected their pasts… and in turn, churned out the tremendously excellent culture of Buenos Aires - the poetry, the literature, the music, the tango dance of Argentina.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 01 november 2002
As I learn about the Argentinian way of life, allow me to introduce to the readers: Mate and dulce de leche.
Mate (pronounced Ma-tey) is the typical drink of the Argentinians. It is served in special cups made from round gourds or a vase-shaped silver vessel.
The mate leaves are not just a couple of wimpy leaves swimming at the bottom of the cups. The leaves and sometimes stems are crushed up really small and filled to the brim of the cups. To drink it, one needed a bamboo or usually a metal straw with tiny holes at the bottom to filter out the tiny leaves.
One could only pour enough water into the cup for one suck. The water, and this is very important as imparted gravely by Pablo, must be about 80°C or so. Never to 100°C. It is all alchemy. Mate is strong stuff.
So, all over Buenos Aires, one could see the locals holding their mate in one hand and a flask of hot-water in the other, refilling, sipping, refilling, sipping… It is a social drink too, meant for sharing among friends.
Dulce de leche (Dool-say dey ley-chey) is heaven. Yes, it is. I cannot explain what goes inside it for Pablo was unable or perhaps unwilling to part with this secret knowledge. It seemed to be a cross between chocolate cream and caramel. It is brown, sticky and gorgeously sweet. Every other pastries and desserts, magnificently and lovingly prepared by the wondrous chefs of Argentina, had fillings of dulce de leche. Cartons of dulce de leche are sold everywhere and people have been known, for example Pablo, to finish up a carton of dulce de leche in one day. I had grown to love it too. There was always a carton ever-ready in our refrigerator.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 02 november 2002
I had passed by many banks which were either shuttered up entirely or had a small door furtively left open for their employees to enter. Harsh graffiti messages like ‘CHORROS!!’ (Argentinians’ slang for ‘Thieves!’) were spray-painted on the walls and shutters.
Today, we spotted some people cleaning the wall of yet another disfigured bank.
When Pablo left his country in December last year (2001), Argentina was going through a major economic crisis. When he returned eight months later, he returned to a country totally unrecognisable to him. The Argentinian Peso had been devalued from US$1 = 1 Argentinian Peso to US$1 = 3.5 Argentinian Pesos now, ‘mas o menos’ [more or less]. So, imagine the mentality of the people… what they earn now appeared to be 3.5 times LESS than before. 100 Argentinian Pesos is now US$28.50, no longer US$100.
And I am sure the readers know that Argentinians who had savings in banks had had all their money robbed. Their money gone just like that. Disappeared. The middle-class basically went bankrupt, in a sense.
I tried to imagine how it would be like if the bank where my rapidly-depleting life-savings are stored now, suddenly announced that they have my money now and sorry, you have nothing anymore. I tried to imagine how it would be like to be in my 50s, to have worked my entire life, saving up my money for a nice retirement and then, to receive this piece of news. I could not imagine it. People would go mad, some could kill themselves and I am sure, a few had.
I do not claim to understand ‘Economics’ very well. I mean, amongst my er… ahem, considerably wide knowledge, my weaker subjects were ‘Neuro Brain Surgery’, ‘Myths and Practices of Ancient Mesopotamia and Sumerian cuneiform decipherment’ and I’m afraid, ‘Economics’.
But I looked at Buenos Aires now with a tinge of sadness. I spotted beggars on the streets, people going through every coin-drop of the telephones to see if there were any change, families pushing shopping carts and collecting and sorting out cardboard boxes, poor children busking, old men or women sleeping on the streets.
Along Calle Florida, a new phenomenon, even for Pablo, was people lining up wares, crafts, clothes, mates, souvenirs, kitsch Spiderman costumes, etc… in the middle of the pedestrian mall. All to earn just that little more cash.
On the other hand, the posh shops, trendy boutiques and chic cafés remained in the background. After all, (I believe) Buenos Aires had been the most expensive city to live in here in South America. The mighty rich who have savings in US dollars are 3.5 times richer now, if you think about it. They are still shopping in Emporio Armani and attending performances at Teatro Colón.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 03 november 2002
Being a Sunday today and being Italians, Pablo took me to his parents’ apartment for a wonderful pasta lunch (and some nagging on his side). I did not always understand what was being said among them. But through Pablo’s dad, I really found myself admiring the resilience of the Argentinians in such a sore period of the economic crisis. He had said he had lost everything but poof, what was he to do, he had to stay happy and ‘life goes on’.
Indeed, I had been thoroughly impressed with the general good nature of the locals here (not those getting ready for another protest on the street, of course). They are civil, polite, friendly, and very sweet. They bounce “Hola” off one another everywhere. The men almost always let ladies get on buses first. If they bump into one another, a profusion of apologies emerge. A picture of cultured behaviour.
I had come across a few street performances of tango by now. The couple whom I thoroughly loved watching could usually be found at the intersection of Calle Florida and Calle Lavalle in the centre of Buenos Aires.
Tango is sensual, beautiful, fluid. The music always nostalgic, always romantic. The dancers are the key-stones to my enjoyment of the art. The couple I love was perfect together. The lady appeared to be feather-light as she was lifted, pulled (as she leaned towards the man until her body was at an angle of 40 degrees) and twirled around seemingly effortlessly by her partner. The kicks between each other’s legs were swift and exact, in other words, no… they never tripped over each other. Their precise movements were perfectly synchronised. The mood was sometimes serious, sometimes playful, always enchanting.
I always stayed for a while whenever I passed by to admire them. I always had a huge smile on my face as I watched, with great excitement, as they expressed their craft so beautifully and passionately. I always willingly forked out money for them. Bravo.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 04 november 2002
I had decided to stay on in Buenos Aires to study Spanish.
I had wanted to do this in Bolivia before I embarked on the rest of my trip around South America. But since I could not go to Bolivia, I had headed south to Argentina. To be very frank, after the ‘high’ of the Iguaçu Falls, I felt a little drained now. I know the rest of Patagonia would be even more spectacular, so I decided I needed a breather for a moment before I pop a vessel with too many overwhelming experiences.
After travelling for six months, I also felt a need to stay longer at a place to get to know it better, instead of packing up every three days or so. And these few days had been great. I had grown to love Buenos Aires. Hence, I signed up for a Spanish course and would be here until Christmas.
I had contacted my other Argentinian friend - Francisca, whom I met in my Pantanal trip. She could not believe her ears when she learnt that I was already here in Buenos Aires and would be staying for two months. She squealed in delight over the phone. We arranged to meet at the McDonald’s at the Obelisk at 5:30pm this evening.
I waited for her at a McDonald’s, facing the Obelisk, for half an hour. I got suspicious and decided to pop my head out and see if there was another McDonald’s near the Obelisk. In the city with the most number of McDonald’s per square area… sure, why not? Not more than 100 metres away, I spotted a strangely familiar yellow curve of an arch! Argh!!! I quickly hurried over there and waited.
An old man came over and asked if I was Trisha. He took me over to the side of the road and there was Francisca, waiting in the car. She had been driving round and round for half an hour as she could not stop her car here. She drove so many times, the old man standing at the road recognised her and so she enlisted his help to look for me, la china.
We exchanged the typical Argentinian kissie-on-the-right-cheek. As she pulled away into the busy traffic, cars blared their horns at her and drivers shook their fists. An excitable Francisaca screamed and wailed, “Too many cars!!! I hate coming to the centre!! Oh, where do I go? I don’t know the centre!! AHHH!!! Sorry… sorry… Where to go?” Great to be united with la chica loca.
As I feared for our lives, I suggested that we should keep quiet while she concentrated on her driving but she would have none of it and chatted away, bombarding me with questions and enriching my knowledge with her life story. More cars whizzed by narrowly. More taxi-drivers cursed us.
Our conversation was peppered with, “Oh!!! Oh!! What street was that?? What street?? Did you see???? Oh… I want to go there… I want to turn there… Now, I cannot turn…” She was looking for Shamrocks, an Irish pub. She said she had been craving for their bruschettas. But she had no idea where it was.
We spun around in circles, she made left turn when she was on the right side of the street, she stopped suddenly to ask for directions, her engine stalled at traffic lights… When we found the pub, we spun around some more to look for FREE parking. In total, we had been driving around for more than 2 hours. And I was amazed we were still alive. I offered to pay for parking so as to get out of the car some time this century.
The biggest joke must be that Shamrocks did not serve bruschettas anymore. Ha. It was so fun to catch up with her.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 05 - 08 november 2002
I spent the days either going for my Spanish classes, doing my homework and wandering the streets of Buenos Aires.
I had really grown to love the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires. The city seems to have everything.
The fine architecture of most older buildings in the beautiful city centre reminded me a little of the splendour of St. Petersburg’s architecture in Russia. Very pretty are the cupolas found at the top of some corner blocks.
The busy avenues, the wares sold on the streets, the high energy level reminded me a little of Mexico City in Mexico.
The charming cafés, posh bookshops, theatres reminded me a little of classy London in United Kingdom, lending a very intellectual feel to the city. I love book-stores and Buenos Aires is full of them. I frequently popped into them. Oh, I wished I knew Spanish well enough to devour the huge range of books. Sadly, I could only head towards the English section, if any, and browsed through what they had to offer.
I really love it here. All sort of shops are found iin every other block. There are kioscos selling snacks and drinks, locutorios which offered telephone cabins and computers for internet use, stationery shops, laundries, clothing stores, garages, butcheries, pastry shops, grocery stores, hair-dressers, video-rentals, supermarkets, photo studios… everything was available. You never needed to go far to get something you want.
And what is best about the city is that it is a city that never sleeps. Late at night, many restaurants and cafés stay open. People show up for dinner at 11pm. And to us tourists, things now are cheaper. For example, a bife, and not just any bife: a thick, juicy slap of delicious beef steak, costs a little more than US$1 to US$3.
Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 09 - 10 november 2002
I hung out with Francisca over the weekend, meeting her friend, her friend’s mom and then, her family. I had never been hugged so hard in my life, thanks to Francisca’s grandmother. Gosh, Argentinians are simply so passionate and wonderful. I felt great to have made the decision to stay longer here in Buenos Aires.
Monday, October 28, 2002
16 - Crouching Caymans Hidden Piranhas (Bonito, Foz do Iguacu)
Bonito, BRAZIL - 22 october 2002
My whole body was aching from the gallops yesterday and I had some flesh wounds on my legs from rubbing against the saddle. I decided not to go to the river snorkel today in order not to aggravate my wounds since I always healed badly. I spent a tranquil day today, visiting caves.
The first cave was Gruta Lago Azul and it was really interesting. As we walked further and further into the cave, the water in the cave became more and more blue. It looked eerie and impossible. We could see huge rocks and fallen logs at the bottom of the lake. At first, we figured they were perhaps at a depth of 3 or 4 metres.
But when the guide explained that the huge rock that we were looking at was 25 metres below and the fallen log was 12 metres, our minds were simply blown away. 25 metres! I tried to imagine a regular swimming pool - that is, say, 4 metres. So, this rock was located 6 times deeper!! I could not imagine that EVER, as we could we could see it so clearly. It was incredible.
Last evening, we had arrived at the hostel in Bonito really late in the night. Yet, the receptionist wanted us to book the tours we were interested in right away in order for her to make transport arrangements.
I was with Daniel from the Pantanal trip and two Israelis, Patricia and Shuki. The three of them had signed up for the Rio Prata trip today but I decided to postpone it til later. And for tomorrow, Daniel, Shuki and I signed up for the abseiling trip.
Patricia refused to do it, claiming it was too dangerous for her. She was afraid. “But you did the ARMY! It should be OK for you!!” I tried to encourage her. She simply refused.
Shuki shook his head, saying that Patricia was a disgrace to the Israeli army.
Tonight, Daniel, Shuki and I had to go to the abseiling company to learn and practise how to go up and down on the rope. When we were done, Shuki decided to pull out of the trip. He now claimed he was afraid of heights. We were practising at perhaps ten metres just now and he had problems already. So, 72 metres would be too much for him. Poor dear.
Daniel and I looked at each other, “So. The Israeli army pulled out, huh? It is left to us mere peasants now…”
Bonito, BRAZIL - 23 october 2002
And Bonito just got better thereafter…
Daniel and I were tethered together and went down slowly. Along the 72 metres to the bottom of the cave, we were surrounded by wonderful stalactites. At the bottom was a subterranean lake. There was a huge hole which let in natural light so all was not totally dark.
We finally reached the bottom. It was eerily silent and we basked in the dim light, enjoying the splendid sights around us. We got on a boat and the (if I may add, very cute) guide Nilton paddled around explaining in Portuguese and pidgin English about the structures.
I had always been enchanted by cave structures. One thing unique here was that because the lake contained calcium, it actually formed structures IN the lake, that grew from the bottom of the lake, 1 mm a year. This kind of structure was different from the usual stalagmites that one saw at the bottom of other caves formed from the dripping of water from the top stalactites.
I could not really see the bottom structures properly until we donned the snorkel gear and our wetsuits and plunged in. Then, the most amazing sight unfolded below us.
The lake was ssssoooo deep we could not see the bottom. It just turned black after a while. The structures appeared to spring out from nowhere. They were cone-shaped, sometimes standing alone, sometimes in pairs or more, some small, some had reached the top of the lake and could only grow sideways now.
As we were floating at the top of the lake, it felt as if we were floating through space. All was quiet around us. We really could not see the bottom. If a person was afraid of heights and managed to overcome his fear and did the abseil, I seriously suspected he would have another panic attack here floating on top of this bottomless lake.
As I moved around, I saw more and more such curious cones emerging from the blackness down below and standing stubbornly in silence. It really felt like being in outer-space. I had never, never, never, ever seen such wonders and felt so surreal and eerie and yet strangely exhilarated about them. It was like being in a different world. Words did no justice. It was too amazing!
Bonito, BRAZIL - 24 october 2002
The next day, I joined the river-snorkelling trip at Rio Prata. Yes, a river! Usually, one goes snorkeling in the sea, so this was especially different.
The river was so crystal clear, one could see up to 50 metres away. It was not too deep and there was a current which carried you along.
As I was small, I floated faster and kept crashing into the people in front. I had to back-paddle, swim in circles or grab onto tree trunks in order to let them go further ahead first. The fish were just right next to us, some up to 1 metre or so big. It was superbly crystal clear, again I felt like I was floating in the sky and seeing all these wonderful fish around me.
At times where the currents got really strong, I put my arms straight by my side and torpedoed down the river, twisting here and there to avoid the fallen tree trunks and uneven ground. Precioso!! We even saw shoals of maybe 80 huge black fish and chased them a little.
Underground springs emerged from the bottom of the sand and we could see huge circles of bubbling sand as the spring burst into the river. Nature is gorgeous!! I had never felt so uplifted in my life!
Bonito to Foz do Iguaçu, BRAZIL - 25 october 2002
Spent the entire day on buses to Campo Grande and then, onwards to Foz do Iguaçu.
Foz do Iguaçu, BRAZIL - 26 october 2002
I realised I might have too much Brazilian reais with me. I decided to go for a last-minute shopping spree at Foz, my last Brazilian town.
Not the best time for it, as it was Saturday and many shops were closed. Here at the border, some sales assistant started to speak to me in Spanish already. For sure, I knew Spanish a little better than Portuguese but I was really confused, wondering if that was a Spanish word or yet another Portuguese word I did not know.
I was offered a menu at a café. As I pored over it, the lady came again and asked if I preferred the Spanish menu instead. “Oh, obrigada… melhor. [Oh, thank you… better.]” I replied, almost too confidently. But when I stared at the Spanish menu, I realised I had gotten so used to my juice vocabulary in Portuguese that now I had to re-recall my Spanish with difficulty: Zanahoria??? Er… Oh, that’s cenoura, carrots!! Err… Durazno? What’s that? I forgot… Ah, pêssego! Yes, peach peach…
How do people who speak multiple languages handle so many vocabulary in their heads?
Foz do Iguaçu, BRAZIL - 27 october 2002
Today was my six month anniversary of my trip. I landed in China (without my backpack, remember? Gosh, how long ago it felt!) on 27 April. Today was 27 October. I could not have given myself a better present!
As I was heading to the Iguaçu Falls, I wondered if I should have gone with a friend I made at the hostel. But when I arrived at the falls, I was glad I went alone for I could enjoy my solitude and be in touch with my thoughts so much more.
As I turned the corner and caught the first sight of the falls, I was floored. I had mentally prepared myself for this and yet, I was floored. The immensely captivating sight of the falls (and the best was yet to come!) left me in awe, with my mouth hanging open. I refused to move. People came, did a snappy and moved on. I grew roots there and savoured.
So many thoughts went through my head then. I would share some, even if it leaves the readers thinking what a sentimental load of crap I am. I felt glorious to be alive to witness this sight. I wondered how I deserved to be here, to stand before this priceless treasure, this unmeasurable wonder. I am nothing! I can be gone tomorrow just like that, but this waterfall will flow forever and ever, like it has always been!
About three or four years ago, I had gone to the Omnitheatre in Singapore and watched a 3D show about the wonders of the world or something. One of the wonders featured was the Iguaçu Falls. At that time, when I learnt it was in Brazil / Argentina, I had thought to myself, “Oh, that is impossible!! I can never get the chance to go to Brazil or Argentina!! They’re too far, so exotic, so difficult to get there. I will not know how to travel there! Gosh, the Iguaçu falls is magnificent but I may never see it in person!!”
Never say never. This thought flashed in my head when I was there and I had to say this, “Hey!! I’m here. I’m right in front of the falls! I had realised something I had thought impossible!” It was almost the same feelings I had when I was bulleting on the Trans-Mongolian train through Siberia. I had thought that impossible too.
While I felt undeserving of the honour to be at the falls, yet, I felt I deserved it too because I made the effort to come here and my reward was THIS… plus the chance to experience these overwhelming feelings. Now, I appreciate that I can choose how I want to lead my life and that I can change the things that I can to do what I want.
I realise I am gushing now. Usually, I am not like this. I am a lot more sensible. Bear with me. The readers must think I am some sentimental slob by now, but really you had to be here yourself.
And that was just at the start of the trek.
By the time I got to the Garganta del Diablo (Devil's Throat) - the most incredible part of the falls which was shaped like a horse-shoe, my head popped into a total blank. I over-saturated myself with feelings. I ran out of thoughts. I walked all the way to right in front of the falls and drenched myself with amazement, soaking in the essence of the power of the falls. Nothing was in my head then. I just lingered in all the glorious sprays and stared into space.
Foz do Iguaçu, BRAZIL to Puerto Iguazú, ARGENTINA - 28 october 2002
The next day, just when I thought things could not get any better, they did.
From the Brazilian side, we saw the overall view of the falls from a respectful distance but at the Argentinian side, we were walking right ON TOP of the falls, the tremendous force of water gushing down at our feet.
Maybe because of the intensity of being so close to the falls, my thoughts flitted to the small, silly, ridiculous details - the patch of grass growing at the edge of the falls, right in the path of the falls: How did it survive and grow there, being whammed and trashed by the falls everyday all the time?; The butterflies: What in the world were they THINKING??? They were fluttering so so so close to the falls when a single drop could kill them! They were dancing with death!; And these swifts building their nests beneath the falls: Hey, you crazy pájaros!! Oh well, they must be proud of their prestigious home address.
At each viewpoint, I stood mesmerized, a silly grin on my face.
At the last viewpoint, which was right in front of the top of the Garganta del Diablo (the day before, I was at the bottom bit), I was staring at a profanely copious amount of brown water crashing down, mere metres from me. I felt weak in the knees in view of such power. Tears smarted in my eyes. I am so lucky to be alive to see this, I chanted. I gagged for breath. I was choked for words.
I looked around for someone and a woman (I learnt later from Ecuador - sweet dear) next to me returned my look and we connected, we knew. I paced the platform, like a confused person, shaking my head in disbelief and then, raising my head to face the sight before me again. Yes, believe it, dear. The Iguaçu Falls had shared its magic with me. I felt like soaring in the sky like those crazy swifts below.
I returned 40 mins late to my bus and found that they had left without me. Yeah, in other words, they ditched me. The day before, some people returned 2 hours later and the rest got really mad, so I think my driver feared I was going to pull the same stunt. As I was the only one to be left on the Argentinian side as I had crossed the border (the rest returned to Brazil), I guess the driver thought all the more he could leave me here.
OK, being ditched is never a good feeling but hey, I did not care. After witnessing the last MAGIC, being ditched was NOTHING.
Of course, when my rational thoughts returned and I found I had only 4 Argentinian pesos with me, I panicked a little. I later found the bus ride to town was 2 pesos. Well, things would always work out…
My whole body was aching from the gallops yesterday and I had some flesh wounds on my legs from rubbing against the saddle. I decided not to go to the river snorkel today in order not to aggravate my wounds since I always healed badly. I spent a tranquil day today, visiting caves.
The first cave was Gruta Lago Azul and it was really interesting. As we walked further and further into the cave, the water in the cave became more and more blue. It looked eerie and impossible. We could see huge rocks and fallen logs at the bottom of the lake. At first, we figured they were perhaps at a depth of 3 or 4 metres.
But when the guide explained that the huge rock that we were looking at was 25 metres below and the fallen log was 12 metres, our minds were simply blown away. 25 metres! I tried to imagine a regular swimming pool - that is, say, 4 metres. So, this rock was located 6 times deeper!! I could not imagine that EVER, as we could we could see it so clearly. It was incredible.
Last evening, we had arrived at the hostel in Bonito really late in the night. Yet, the receptionist wanted us to book the tours we were interested in right away in order for her to make transport arrangements.
I was with Daniel from the Pantanal trip and two Israelis, Patricia and Shuki. The three of them had signed up for the Rio Prata trip today but I decided to postpone it til later. And for tomorrow, Daniel, Shuki and I signed up for the abseiling trip.
Patricia refused to do it, claiming it was too dangerous for her. She was afraid. “But you did the ARMY! It should be OK for you!!” I tried to encourage her. She simply refused.
Shuki shook his head, saying that Patricia was a disgrace to the Israeli army.
Tonight, Daniel, Shuki and I had to go to the abseiling company to learn and practise how to go up and down on the rope. When we were done, Shuki decided to pull out of the trip. He now claimed he was afraid of heights. We were practising at perhaps ten metres just now and he had problems already. So, 72 metres would be too much for him. Poor dear.
Daniel and I looked at each other, “So. The Israeli army pulled out, huh? It is left to us mere peasants now…”
Bonito, BRAZIL - 23 october 2002
And Bonito just got better thereafter…
Daniel and I were tethered together and went down slowly. Along the 72 metres to the bottom of the cave, we were surrounded by wonderful stalactites. At the bottom was a subterranean lake. There was a huge hole which let in natural light so all was not totally dark.
We finally reached the bottom. It was eerily silent and we basked in the dim light, enjoying the splendid sights around us. We got on a boat and the (if I may add, very cute) guide Nilton paddled around explaining in Portuguese and pidgin English about the structures.
I had always been enchanted by cave structures. One thing unique here was that because the lake contained calcium, it actually formed structures IN the lake, that grew from the bottom of the lake, 1 mm a year. This kind of structure was different from the usual stalagmites that one saw at the bottom of other caves formed from the dripping of water from the top stalactites.
I could not really see the bottom structures properly until we donned the snorkel gear and our wetsuits and plunged in. Then, the most amazing sight unfolded below us.
The lake was ssssoooo deep we could not see the bottom. It just turned black after a while. The structures appeared to spring out from nowhere. They were cone-shaped, sometimes standing alone, sometimes in pairs or more, some small, some had reached the top of the lake and could only grow sideways now.
As we were floating at the top of the lake, it felt as if we were floating through space. All was quiet around us. We really could not see the bottom. If a person was afraid of heights and managed to overcome his fear and did the abseil, I seriously suspected he would have another panic attack here floating on top of this bottomless lake.
As I moved around, I saw more and more such curious cones emerging from the blackness down below and standing stubbornly in silence. It really felt like being in outer-space. I had never, never, never, ever seen such wonders and felt so surreal and eerie and yet strangely exhilarated about them. It was like being in a different world. Words did no justice. It was too amazing!
Bonito, BRAZIL - 24 october 2002
The next day, I joined the river-snorkelling trip at Rio Prata. Yes, a river! Usually, one goes snorkeling in the sea, so this was especially different.
The river was so crystal clear, one could see up to 50 metres away. It was not too deep and there was a current which carried you along.
As I was small, I floated faster and kept crashing into the people in front. I had to back-paddle, swim in circles or grab onto tree trunks in order to let them go further ahead first. The fish were just right next to us, some up to 1 metre or so big. It was superbly crystal clear, again I felt like I was floating in the sky and seeing all these wonderful fish around me.
At times where the currents got really strong, I put my arms straight by my side and torpedoed down the river, twisting here and there to avoid the fallen tree trunks and uneven ground. Precioso!! We even saw shoals of maybe 80 huge black fish and chased them a little.
Underground springs emerged from the bottom of the sand and we could see huge circles of bubbling sand as the spring burst into the river. Nature is gorgeous!! I had never felt so uplifted in my life!
Bonito to Foz do Iguaçu, BRAZIL - 25 october 2002
Spent the entire day on buses to Campo Grande and then, onwards to Foz do Iguaçu.
Foz do Iguaçu, BRAZIL - 26 october 2002
I realised I might have too much Brazilian reais with me. I decided to go for a last-minute shopping spree at Foz, my last Brazilian town.
Not the best time for it, as it was Saturday and many shops were closed. Here at the border, some sales assistant started to speak to me in Spanish already. For sure, I knew Spanish a little better than Portuguese but I was really confused, wondering if that was a Spanish word or yet another Portuguese word I did not know.
I was offered a menu at a café. As I pored over it, the lady came again and asked if I preferred the Spanish menu instead. “Oh, obrigada… melhor. [Oh, thank you… better.]” I replied, almost too confidently. But when I stared at the Spanish menu, I realised I had gotten so used to my juice vocabulary in Portuguese that now I had to re-recall my Spanish with difficulty: Zanahoria??? Er… Oh, that’s cenoura, carrots!! Err… Durazno? What’s that? I forgot… Ah, pêssego! Yes, peach peach…
How do people who speak multiple languages handle so many vocabulary in their heads?
Foz do Iguaçu, BRAZIL - 27 october 2002
Today was my six month anniversary of my trip. I landed in China (without my backpack, remember? Gosh, how long ago it felt!) on 27 April. Today was 27 October. I could not have given myself a better present!
As I was heading to the Iguaçu Falls, I wondered if I should have gone with a friend I made at the hostel. But when I arrived at the falls, I was glad I went alone for I could enjoy my solitude and be in touch with my thoughts so much more.
As I turned the corner and caught the first sight of the falls, I was floored. I had mentally prepared myself for this and yet, I was floored. The immensely captivating sight of the falls (and the best was yet to come!) left me in awe, with my mouth hanging open. I refused to move. People came, did a snappy and moved on. I grew roots there and savoured.
So many thoughts went through my head then. I would share some, even if it leaves the readers thinking what a sentimental load of crap I am. I felt glorious to be alive to witness this sight. I wondered how I deserved to be here, to stand before this priceless treasure, this unmeasurable wonder. I am nothing! I can be gone tomorrow just like that, but this waterfall will flow forever and ever, like it has always been!
About three or four years ago, I had gone to the Omnitheatre in Singapore and watched a 3D show about the wonders of the world or something. One of the wonders featured was the Iguaçu Falls. At that time, when I learnt it was in Brazil / Argentina, I had thought to myself, “Oh, that is impossible!! I can never get the chance to go to Brazil or Argentina!! They’re too far, so exotic, so difficult to get there. I will not know how to travel there! Gosh, the Iguaçu falls is magnificent but I may never see it in person!!”
Never say never. This thought flashed in my head when I was there and I had to say this, “Hey!! I’m here. I’m right in front of the falls! I had realised something I had thought impossible!” It was almost the same feelings I had when I was bulleting on the Trans-Mongolian train through Siberia. I had thought that impossible too.
While I felt undeserving of the honour to be at the falls, yet, I felt I deserved it too because I made the effort to come here and my reward was THIS… plus the chance to experience these overwhelming feelings. Now, I appreciate that I can choose how I want to lead my life and that I can change the things that I can to do what I want.
I realise I am gushing now. Usually, I am not like this. I am a lot more sensible. Bear with me. The readers must think I am some sentimental slob by now, but really you had to be here yourself.
And that was just at the start of the trek.
By the time I got to the Garganta del Diablo (Devil's Throat) - the most incredible part of the falls which was shaped like a horse-shoe, my head popped into a total blank. I over-saturated myself with feelings. I ran out of thoughts. I walked all the way to right in front of the falls and drenched myself with amazement, soaking in the essence of the power of the falls. Nothing was in my head then. I just lingered in all the glorious sprays and stared into space.
Foz do Iguaçu, BRAZIL to Puerto Iguazú, ARGENTINA - 28 october 2002
The next day, just when I thought things could not get any better, they did.
From the Brazilian side, we saw the overall view of the falls from a respectful distance but at the Argentinian side, we were walking right ON TOP of the falls, the tremendous force of water gushing down at our feet.
Maybe because of the intensity of being so close to the falls, my thoughts flitted to the small, silly, ridiculous details - the patch of grass growing at the edge of the falls, right in the path of the falls: How did it survive and grow there, being whammed and trashed by the falls everyday all the time?; The butterflies: What in the world were they THINKING??? They were fluttering so so so close to the falls when a single drop could kill them! They were dancing with death!; And these swifts building their nests beneath the falls: Hey, you crazy pájaros!! Oh well, they must be proud of their prestigious home address.
At each viewpoint, I stood mesmerized, a silly grin on my face.
At the last viewpoint, which was right in front of the top of the Garganta del Diablo (the day before, I was at the bottom bit), I was staring at a profanely copious amount of brown water crashing down, mere metres from me. I felt weak in the knees in view of such power. Tears smarted in my eyes. I am so lucky to be alive to see this, I chanted. I gagged for breath. I was choked for words.
I looked around for someone and a woman (I learnt later from Ecuador - sweet dear) next to me returned my look and we connected, we knew. I paced the platform, like a confused person, shaking my head in disbelief and then, raising my head to face the sight before me again. Yes, believe it, dear. The Iguaçu Falls had shared its magic with me. I felt like soaring in the sky like those crazy swifts below.
I returned 40 mins late to my bus and found that they had left without me. Yeah, in other words, they ditched me. The day before, some people returned 2 hours later and the rest got really mad, so I think my driver feared I was going to pull the same stunt. As I was the only one to be left on the Argentinian side as I had crossed the border (the rest returned to Brazil), I guess the driver thought all the more he could leave me here.
OK, being ditched is never a good feeling but hey, I did not care. After witnessing the last MAGIC, being ditched was NOTHING.
Of course, when my rational thoughts returned and I found I had only 4 Argentinian pesos with me, I panicked a little. I later found the bus ride to town was 2 pesos. Well, things would always work out…
Monday, October 21, 2002
16 - Crouching Caymans Hidden Piranhas (Pantanal)
Campo Grande to Pantanal, BRAZIL - 17 october 2002
The group heading to Pantanal was made up of Daniel from USA, Sheena from Ireland, Mark and Florein from The Netherlands, Francisca from Argentina, Sherry from Canada and Trisha, (sorry, indulge me for a moment… for I have always wanted to do this) from the beautiful tropical island of S-I-N-G-A-P-O-R-E!!
It was a long drive to the camp-site today. During this time, we saw a great number of birds, caymans, capybaras. It was wild. It was fantastic.
The camp-site was one well-organised place. We would sleep in hammocks slung under a structure, lined with mosquito nets. There were flush-toilets and showers available. We could relax by the fire-place, a bar or at the dining tables. When meals were served, they would sound the gong.
Pantanal, BRAZIL - 18 october 2002
At around 5am, the howler monkeys started howling. Actually, it was like a siren with the sound of a growl. The growling sound grew in crescendos and diminished in descendos and went on and on, really quite like a siren. I was half-asleep and half-awake when I heard it. When I woke up, I was not even sure what I had heard.
We went for treks early in the morning and in the late evening to spot wildlife. We saw many types of birds like spoonbills, screamers, hawks, jabiru storks, etc… and mammals such as cabybaras, coatis, howler monkeys, etc… Although it was hot and tiring, I treasured the treks very much as we had seen quite a lot of animals today.
The true nature of Sherry started to emerge too. She whined on and on about the mud, about not being able to see the birds, about bugs, about everything.
While we were, at first, faintly amused by how naïve she was, for what did she expect out of a Pantanal trip, soon, her negative energy and continuous complaints really got on all our nerves.
Pantanal, BRAZIL - 19 october 2002
We were driven to the next campsite today. This was simply a tree with eight hammocks tied to the branches. What an amazing tree! Its luscious foliage provided very welcoming shade for us. Temperatures here at the Pantanal reached 40°C or so. And that was not all…
There was a river next to the tree. Although there were caymans (or alligators) in there, my guide Gabriel said he had never seen them bite anyone. So we all went in furtively. It was really hot. We were desperate to cool down.
We spotted about five or six caymans around. Some were basking in the sun, some had surfaced a notch above the water. When one of us tried to go near them, they would disappear back into the water beneath silently. We could not see what was in the water as the water was black, this being ‘Rio Negro’ (Black River) after all. It was a tad spooky to think the caymans were lurking amongst our feet and one wrong move, we might step on one of their snouts!
That night, when we shone our torch along the river, gosh… there were like thirty pairs of eyes up and down the immediate area, reflected back at us! And we had thought there were just five or six caymans!!
We headed to a nearby lake and fished for piranhas for our lunch. At first, we simply and cluelessly donated our baits to these cunning fish. Later, we got the hang of it and managed to reel in some juicy ones every five minutes or so. Yeah, the lake was teeming with piranhas.
Once, a piranha I caught dropped into the boat and started dancing around with the ferocious teeth chattering away. We screamed our heads off.
In panic, I lifted my legs away from the boat and let them hang out of the boat to avoid that piranha. Gabriel stepped on the side of the boat to try and walk over to my section to catch it. The boat tipped to the side and plunged my entire two feet into the lake!! Argh!! The piranhas in the lake almost got a taste of Chinese food…
The piranhas were brought back to the campsite and gutted. The caymans came to right by our feet when they smelled the piranhas. Ooo… treading on dangerous ground there. The cook deep-fried the piranhas for lunch. Gosh, they tasted excellent! They were surprisingly meaty. One of the best meals I had had in Brazil!
Sherry stared at her one piece of piranha and left the whole thing there, hissing, “God… I CAN’T EAT THIS STUFF!!!”
As for our evening trek, Sherry refused to go. I guess after she realised the jaguar and the giant ant-eater would not be delivered to her on a platter, and that she needed to put in effort to see some wildlife, she started to give up on the Pantanal trip. What a shame this was her attitude.
Before we left, Gabriel announced he would try to catch an armadillo for us. Sherry asked if he would bring it back to the camp-site. I looked up and almost said, “Why? You want to cook the armadillo too?”
Later, Gabriel actually caught an armadillo for us!
Its colour blended in perfectly with the background of dried grass. How Gabriel spotted it from 150 metres was beyond us. He crept stealthily across the grass, from the direction of the down-wind. At the final moment, he ran and threw himself on the ground and held up an armadillo. Just like that!
Despite the lack of mosquito nets here, I wanted to sleep in the hammock instead of in a tent to be closer to nature. I was dutifully devoured by mozzies throughout the night.
Much later, strong winds came and blew the mozzies all away. It felt like the coming of a huge storm, like the one I experienced in Campo Grande. The wind howled and howled. The hammocks rocked ferociously from side to side. I braced myself for the first sign of pelting torrential rain. Moments like these seized me with a strange mix of anxiety and exhilaration as I knew I was absolutely vulnerable to the elements of nature and yet, I wanted to be here to witness it. However, I was rocked to sleep instead. No rain. Still, it was magic.
Pantanal, BRAZIL - 20 october 2002
More treks today. Sherry refused to go again. We spotted more obscure animals like a tamandua (tree ant-eater). When we returned, she lamented that we were SO LUCKY to see the armadillo and the tamandua. What the…??
We spent the rest of the day, relaxing by the river at this AMAZING TREE. While Sherry was negative energy personified, Francisca was the exact opposite. She was the brightest sunshine, the beacon of positive energy, la chica loca [the crazy girl] of the group. She had a great personality.
Other groups had arrived to join us here and all of us interacted with information about trips in Bonito, Bolivia, etc… There was not much to do but sleep in the hammock, chit-chat and swim. During this afternoon, a number of us really connected with one another with our love for travelling and wildlife. It was a very enjoyable afternoon for us. Francisca got along swimmingly with almost everyone. In the river, we even tried to build a human tower. We had such great fun!!
Meanwhile, Sherry whined and whined about when we were going back to the first camp-site. Sigh… She was one sad person.
Oh, Gabriel caught an anaconda that night. We wondered vaguely if this was the token pet anaconda in the camp-site to wow the tourists.
Pantanal to Bonito, BRAZIL - 21 october 2002
Francisca had slept through all the alarm-clock calls of the howler monkeys from the previous mornings. So, when I first heard the howlings this morning, I got up from my hammock and gave her a nudge, “Listen…”
The orchestra of howler monkey calls felt surreal. It rose and fell like the sound of waves. Now and then, the exotic calls of this bird and that would play a melodious solo performance with the accompaniment of the howler monkeys in the background. The symphony was exquisite and unpredictable. My eyes remained closed as to better savour the incredible orchestral performance put up by nature. It was truly MAGIC, truly memorable!
Today, horse-riding… I had never galloped before in my life. The horse-trek in Songpan, China was merely walking and some trotting. And today, I got to experience the magic of a gallop.
The first time, I was unprepared. I reached for my camera behind and touched my horse’s back by mistake and it just took off. There was a herd of cows in front of us and they scattered in two thousand directions and that got my horse (and me) into further panic.
Transforming from a fast trot to a gallop was INCREDIBLE! It felt as if I entered through a glass mirror and crossed into a different realm. Suddenly, the rhythm, the mood changed. The thunderous hooves were there, but you heard nothing. You stared straight ahead, but you saw nothing. The bouncing on the back of the horse was higher and rougher, but you felt nothing. The whole experience felt unreal.
My feet lost their stirrups all the time so I could only hang on to my dear life with my LEFT hand holding the saddle while my right hand struggled to control the horse’s rein. It was an amazing experience.
After my first try, I was hooked! It was terribly scary yet addictive. I was game for some more. It was more or less alright if I was mentally prepared for it. But so many times, I thought to myself, “Oh no! I’m going to fall!! I’m going to fall!!” But I knew if I fell, my situation would be MUCH WORSE than if I maintained this frightening position of desperately hanging onto the horse’s saddle! It was all up there in your head.
Well, 10 minutes before we reached the campsite, a lady fell off! Her foot was caught in the stirrups and she was dragged for a while!! Argh, we thought she died!! Thank goodness, she fell off finally and actually got up and walked!! Later, she fell into shock and claimed she could not remember anything. She just cried and cried. Well, not without its danger…
After these few days at the Pantanal, we bade farewell to one another. Some of us would be going to Bonito and others to Campo Grande for their onward travels. Francisca hugged and bade farewell to us almost tearfully. She kept saying it was so difficult to say goodbye to Trisha. Oh, she was so sweet. She had been superb! I guess Latin Americans were just a lot more passionate. I promised to contact her when I got to Buenos Aires, sometime in the future…
The group heading to Pantanal was made up of Daniel from USA, Sheena from Ireland, Mark and Florein from The Netherlands, Francisca from Argentina, Sherry from Canada and Trisha, (sorry, indulge me for a moment… for I have always wanted to do this) from the beautiful tropical island of S-I-N-G-A-P-O-R-E!!
It was a long drive to the camp-site today. During this time, we saw a great number of birds, caymans, capybaras. It was wild. It was fantastic.
The camp-site was one well-organised place. We would sleep in hammocks slung under a structure, lined with mosquito nets. There were flush-toilets and showers available. We could relax by the fire-place, a bar or at the dining tables. When meals were served, they would sound the gong.
Pantanal, BRAZIL - 18 october 2002
At around 5am, the howler monkeys started howling. Actually, it was like a siren with the sound of a growl. The growling sound grew in crescendos and diminished in descendos and went on and on, really quite like a siren. I was half-asleep and half-awake when I heard it. When I woke up, I was not even sure what I had heard.
We went for treks early in the morning and in the late evening to spot wildlife. We saw many types of birds like spoonbills, screamers, hawks, jabiru storks, etc… and mammals such as cabybaras, coatis, howler monkeys, etc… Although it was hot and tiring, I treasured the treks very much as we had seen quite a lot of animals today.
The true nature of Sherry started to emerge too. She whined on and on about the mud, about not being able to see the birds, about bugs, about everything.
While we were, at first, faintly amused by how naïve she was, for what did she expect out of a Pantanal trip, soon, her negative energy and continuous complaints really got on all our nerves.
Pantanal, BRAZIL - 19 october 2002
We were driven to the next campsite today. This was simply a tree with eight hammocks tied to the branches. What an amazing tree! Its luscious foliage provided very welcoming shade for us. Temperatures here at the Pantanal reached 40°C or so. And that was not all…
There was a river next to the tree. Although there were caymans (or alligators) in there, my guide Gabriel said he had never seen them bite anyone. So we all went in furtively. It was really hot. We were desperate to cool down.
We spotted about five or six caymans around. Some were basking in the sun, some had surfaced a notch above the water. When one of us tried to go near them, they would disappear back into the water beneath silently. We could not see what was in the water as the water was black, this being ‘Rio Negro’ (Black River) after all. It was a tad spooky to think the caymans were lurking amongst our feet and one wrong move, we might step on one of their snouts!
That night, when we shone our torch along the river, gosh… there were like thirty pairs of eyes up and down the immediate area, reflected back at us! And we had thought there were just five or six caymans!!
We headed to a nearby lake and fished for piranhas for our lunch. At first, we simply and cluelessly donated our baits to these cunning fish. Later, we got the hang of it and managed to reel in some juicy ones every five minutes or so. Yeah, the lake was teeming with piranhas.
Once, a piranha I caught dropped into the boat and started dancing around with the ferocious teeth chattering away. We screamed our heads off.
In panic, I lifted my legs away from the boat and let them hang out of the boat to avoid that piranha. Gabriel stepped on the side of the boat to try and walk over to my section to catch it. The boat tipped to the side and plunged my entire two feet into the lake!! Argh!! The piranhas in the lake almost got a taste of Chinese food…
The piranhas were brought back to the campsite and gutted. The caymans came to right by our feet when they smelled the piranhas. Ooo… treading on dangerous ground there. The cook deep-fried the piranhas for lunch. Gosh, they tasted excellent! They were surprisingly meaty. One of the best meals I had had in Brazil!
Sherry stared at her one piece of piranha and left the whole thing there, hissing, “God… I CAN’T EAT THIS STUFF!!!”
As for our evening trek, Sherry refused to go. I guess after she realised the jaguar and the giant ant-eater would not be delivered to her on a platter, and that she needed to put in effort to see some wildlife, she started to give up on the Pantanal trip. What a shame this was her attitude.
Before we left, Gabriel announced he would try to catch an armadillo for us. Sherry asked if he would bring it back to the camp-site. I looked up and almost said, “Why? You want to cook the armadillo too?”
Later, Gabriel actually caught an armadillo for us!
Its colour blended in perfectly with the background of dried grass. How Gabriel spotted it from 150 metres was beyond us. He crept stealthily across the grass, from the direction of the down-wind. At the final moment, he ran and threw himself on the ground and held up an armadillo. Just like that!
Despite the lack of mosquito nets here, I wanted to sleep in the hammock instead of in a tent to be closer to nature. I was dutifully devoured by mozzies throughout the night.
Much later, strong winds came and blew the mozzies all away. It felt like the coming of a huge storm, like the one I experienced in Campo Grande. The wind howled and howled. The hammocks rocked ferociously from side to side. I braced myself for the first sign of pelting torrential rain. Moments like these seized me with a strange mix of anxiety and exhilaration as I knew I was absolutely vulnerable to the elements of nature and yet, I wanted to be here to witness it. However, I was rocked to sleep instead. No rain. Still, it was magic.
Pantanal, BRAZIL - 20 october 2002
More treks today. Sherry refused to go again. We spotted more obscure animals like a tamandua (tree ant-eater). When we returned, she lamented that we were SO LUCKY to see the armadillo and the tamandua. What the…??
We spent the rest of the day, relaxing by the river at this AMAZING TREE. While Sherry was negative energy personified, Francisca was the exact opposite. She was the brightest sunshine, the beacon of positive energy, la chica loca [the crazy girl] of the group. She had a great personality.
Other groups had arrived to join us here and all of us interacted with information about trips in Bonito, Bolivia, etc… There was not much to do but sleep in the hammock, chit-chat and swim. During this afternoon, a number of us really connected with one another with our love for travelling and wildlife. It was a very enjoyable afternoon for us. Francisca got along swimmingly with almost everyone. In the river, we even tried to build a human tower. We had such great fun!!
Meanwhile, Sherry whined and whined about when we were going back to the first camp-site. Sigh… She was one sad person.
Oh, Gabriel caught an anaconda that night. We wondered vaguely if this was the token pet anaconda in the camp-site to wow the tourists.
Pantanal to Bonito, BRAZIL - 21 october 2002
Francisca had slept through all the alarm-clock calls of the howler monkeys from the previous mornings. So, when I first heard the howlings this morning, I got up from my hammock and gave her a nudge, “Listen…”
The orchestra of howler monkey calls felt surreal. It rose and fell like the sound of waves. Now and then, the exotic calls of this bird and that would play a melodious solo performance with the accompaniment of the howler monkeys in the background. The symphony was exquisite and unpredictable. My eyes remained closed as to better savour the incredible orchestral performance put up by nature. It was truly MAGIC, truly memorable!
Today, horse-riding… I had never galloped before in my life. The horse-trek in Songpan, China was merely walking and some trotting. And today, I got to experience the magic of a gallop.
The first time, I was unprepared. I reached for my camera behind and touched my horse’s back by mistake and it just took off. There was a herd of cows in front of us and they scattered in two thousand directions and that got my horse (and me) into further panic.
Transforming from a fast trot to a gallop was INCREDIBLE! It felt as if I entered through a glass mirror and crossed into a different realm. Suddenly, the rhythm, the mood changed. The thunderous hooves were there, but you heard nothing. You stared straight ahead, but you saw nothing. The bouncing on the back of the horse was higher and rougher, but you felt nothing. The whole experience felt unreal.
My feet lost their stirrups all the time so I could only hang on to my dear life with my LEFT hand holding the saddle while my right hand struggled to control the horse’s rein. It was an amazing experience.
After my first try, I was hooked! It was terribly scary yet addictive. I was game for some more. It was more or less alright if I was mentally prepared for it. But so many times, I thought to myself, “Oh no! I’m going to fall!! I’m going to fall!!” But I knew if I fell, my situation would be MUCH WORSE than if I maintained this frightening position of desperately hanging onto the horse’s saddle! It was all up there in your head.
Well, 10 minutes before we reached the campsite, a lady fell off! Her foot was caught in the stirrups and she was dragged for a while!! Argh, we thought she died!! Thank goodness, she fell off finally and actually got up and walked!! Later, she fell into shock and claimed she could not remember anything. She just cried and cried. Well, not without its danger…
After these few days at the Pantanal, we bade farewell to one another. Some of us would be going to Bonito and others to Campo Grande for their onward travels. Francisca hugged and bade farewell to us almost tearfully. She kept saying it was so difficult to say goodbye to Trisha. Oh, she was so sweet. She had been superb! I guess Latin Americans were just a lot more passionate. I promised to contact her when I got to Buenos Aires, sometime in the future…
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
15 - Babes in Bikini-Land (Curitiba, Ilha do Mel)
Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 07 october 2002
Argh… The lady at the Bolivian Consular informed me there was no status on my visa application yet. Maybe next week, maybe the week after.
I had to brace myself for the likely possiblity that I might not be able to enter Bolivia. I obtained her email contact so that I did not have to keep returning to Rio in order to check on the status. I would email her and return if my visa was approved.
The weather in Rio was up to 38°C today. It was much hotter than when I was here three weeks ago. Many women were strutting around in bikinis and men, bare-chested. It was interesting to see how casual attires were here in Rio. Even on the main streets, some people were walking around bare-footed and most were in flip-flops. Ah, beach culture…
Copacabana beach had mostly gorgeous stunners in dental-floss bikinis but truly, everyone in all shapes and sizes were decked out in bikinis and not necessarily at the beaches: they were shopping at the grocery stores, taking buses, etc… Mothers with children, grandmothers with grossly sagging skin, pregnant women in their third trimester (oh well, what else could they wear?), toddlers still not weaned from their pacifiers…
OK, I admit it. I caved. When in the country, you have to do what the natives do. So, I went and bought myself a present. My best beach days in Brazil may be over as I had already traveled down the coastline of Bahia state but I did not care.
Rio de Janeiro to Curitiba, BRAZIL - 08 october 2002
I did not want to stay in Rio for weeks, waiting and waiting. I wanted to visit other places in Brazil. But Brazil is immense. If I head off too far and, Insh’allah [‘God willing’ in Arabic], I DO get my Bolivian visa, I would have to double-back to Rio. I thought it through and decided to go to Curitiba tonight - only 12 hours away. For Brazil, that was a relatively short distance.
I went to visit the other famous mountain in Rio, to see the famous statue which looked like it was about to perform a triple-somersault dive from a spring-board.
In the tram that delivered us to the top of Corcovado was a group of Chinese tourists. They, as expected, were snapping pictures of themselves in the tram, outside the tram, and on the way up the steps to the Christ Redeemer at various so-called ‘view-points’.
Once in front of the about-to-perform-a-triple-somersault-dive Christ Redeemer, they, as truly expected, posed with their arms outstretched like they were about to perform a triple-somersault dive themselves. China-kitsch-photo-poses flash-back.
It was midday. Everywhere looked smoggy. But the view was still incredible. Like when I was on top of the Sugar Loaf Mountain, one could really appreciate the unique geographical location of Rio de Janeiro. We could see more of Rio from this locale actually. I felt a burst of joy in my heart.
I chatted with the group of Chinese tourists as a means to maintain the level of Mandarin (the highest I ever attained in my life, I think) I acquired after my 2-month stint there. Soon, true to their trigger-happy nature, they were snapping pictures WITH ME. I had inadvertently become part of their holiday snappies.
Curitiba, BRAZIL - 09 october 2002
Curitiba appeared rather unremarkable at first glance. The claim to fame for this city is the reputedly gorgeous train-ride down to the port town of Paranagua. I got myself a train-ticket for tomorrow.
Surprisingly, the lady at the Tourist Booth spoke English. Those working in the Tourist Information in Salvador (well, those I spoke to, at least) did not speak English and I had figured this lady did not either.
You know, if the person you are speaking to does not know English, he or she would look so pleased and touched by your faltering efforts to speak their language, he or she ignores the ruthless massacres done to their beloved mother tongue and beams at you with sincere delight and pride.
But if the person you are speaking to KNOWS English (but you did not know it yet) and you attempt to speak to them in their language, he or she looks at you with disgust, with scornful eyes, with an impatient countenance, with irritation and loathing, like you are the stupidest idiot in the world.
Yep, I got that latter look from lady at the Tourist Booth.
Curitiba was really unremarkable. All the way to the main shopping pedestrian malls, I saw unremarkable shops, very cheap unremarkable hair-dressers and unremarkable lanchonetes (eateries serving snacks), etc… Perversely, I kinda liked this place.
Curitiba to Ilha do Mel, BRAZIL - 10 october 2002
The train station was filled to the brim with excitable 15-year-old teenagers on school trips. Yeah, people at the P-R-I-M-E of their youth. Argh…
They were loud, disorderly, insolent. They disregarded all other passengers who had yet to board. They inconsiderately stood along the aisle of the wagon, enthusiastically snapping photos with this amigo and that. The rest of the passengers had to queue up behind them as the aisle was jammed.
At the first tunnel, they screamed their heads off. All of them. A few more decibels could drive you to wring their necks. All of theirs.
At the second tunnel, they screamed their heads off again and so on and so forth.
The best view could be seen from the left side of the train. I, unfortunately, was seated on the right side of the train. A train conductor spotted me, looking helplessly at the crowd converged on the left side of the train and beckoned me over. He offered me the store-room and I had the entire window to myself! Bless the train conductor!
As the most astonishing, breathtaking mountain sceneries swept over, my camera jammed and would not snap. I was left alternating between gasping at the view in front of me and cursing my darn camera.
You would imagine the teenagers would have worn off their enthusiasm by the thirteenth tunnel, 4 hours later, but no… there was still that ONE guy…
Once in Paranagua, I took the boat heading to Ilha do Mel at 3pm. Aside from seeing someone with a T-shirt declaring ILHA DO MEL in Caravelas and knowing that since it was right opposite Paranagua, I could head there after the train-ride, I really did not know much about it nor have any expectations from the island. It was just my excuse to crack open my bikini.
Boy, was I floored by the simple beauty and tranquility of the island. It was shaped like an ‘8’. The centre bit was entirely sand, horizon-to-horizon. It had no roads, no cars. Many walked around bare-footed. It was a great place to chill out. Muito tranquilo [Very tranquil].
A fellow boat passenger, Cathy from the USA, and I followed two ladies from the same boat to their pousada and settled ourselves in. Then, we walked along the beach right in front of the pousada, facing the open ocean all the way, to the fortress. The entire beach was flat and empty. We spotted three people in our 2-hour-long walk. We let the waves gently lap upon our feet. We stared constantly into the horizon. We heard only the sounds of the crashing waves. I was charmed beyond words by the island. I loved it here.
Ilha do Mel, BRAZIL - 11 october 2002
Throughout the entire night, I slept to the wonderful melody of the crashing waves. It was gorgeous. Places like these overwhelmed me with feelings.
The next morning, I headed out to the beach by myself and took a very slow walk to the fortress again. The magic here on this island made me enjoy my solitude, my connection with nature.
People usually headed out to beaches in their minimal beach-wear and carried as little as possible. I dragged my camera along. I was very inspired here. I wanted to be creative with my camera, photographing the beach from interesting angles. There was no one to disturb or distract me. I concentrated on looking out for objects that could express my feelings here. It was pure joy…
After hours at the beach and burning nicely, I returned to throw myself upon the delicious desserts prepared by the dessert chef, Meri, of my pousada. Heavenly. What a great place this was…
Ilha do Mel, BRAZIL - 12 october 2002
I slept at 9pm the night before and woke up at 9am this morning. 12 hours of fitful sleep. Gosh, sun-bathing by the beach yesterday really exhausted me. What a life! I attached myself to the hammock for a few more hours, reading my amorous and amoral book from the Brazilian author from Ilhéus, Jorge Amado - Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, drinking in the fluid verses and poetry.
When I finally surgically detached myself from the hammock to go for a walk, I went dressed. Because with my slightly-burnt back, I did not fancy too much sun today. Gosh, I really regretted this move. It was the weekend. The entire island was filled to the brim with local Brazilians and everyone, naturally in teeny weeny, itsy bitsy swim-wear, stared at me as if I was diseased or something! I had never felt so self-conscious walking around fully-clothed in my life.
Ilha do Mel, BRAZIL - 13 october 2002
Cathy and I decided to walk to the Grutas on the other side of the island today. We had to climb through rocky headlands to get from one beach to another. We were unsure of our steps at some tricky spots and felt the rocks under our bare feet sharp and uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the local Brazilians had evolved to handle terrains like beaches and rocky headlands without problems. They constantly overtook us, traversing across beaches and running down the rocks with ease. We were humbly put into our place as mere tourists.
The caves were nothing much. We did not expect much anyway. It was just an excursion to another part of the island, instead of vegetating near our pousada again. The journey was the most effort we had put in since we arrived on the island. To get back, Cathy refused to walk and so we, the lazy tourists, chartered a speed-boat back to our side of the island. I wondered if I could shake off my recently-acquired languidness soon.
Ilha do Mel to Curitiba, BRAZIL - 14 october 2002
My eager return to Curitiba to get online was a disappointment. There was no reply from the Bolivian Consular. I decided to send them an email.
Well, here’s my two-cents’ worth on food in Brazil. Since I left Bahia state which had gorgeous food, food in Brazil seemed to me rather monotonous. Sure, there were the huge breakfast buffets served in my hostels. But except for more expensive restaurants with a larger variety, what were available in buffet-por-quilo [per kilo] restaurants were rice, spaghetti, beans, salad, badly-prepared beef and chicken. Fish would be a rare treat. Sauces appeared to be impossible to find. For lanchonetes, they always served the same greasy X-burger, X-egg, X-salada, X-bacon, etc… ‘Prato do Dia’ [Plate of the Day] was almost always rice with beans (I hate beans) and a piece of over-done beef or chicken.
In this quiet unassuming town of Curitiba, I encountered lanchonetes after lanchonetes, restaurantes after restaurantes, selling the same few selections over and over again. All I wanted was some variety in my diet.
I spotted some Chinese faces and veered near the restaurant to see if they sold Chinese food like what my cousins… well, THEIR cousins, in other parts of the world do. No, they sold the same X-burger, X-egg, X-salada, X-bacon, etc… I was a tad disappointed. Alright, I confess: I visited Chinese restaurants here and there pretending to be on a mission to see how Chinese food had been bastardised in other parts of the world. The truth is occasionally, I miss Chinese food and now was one of the occasions.
Curitiba to Campo Grande, BRAZIL - 15 october 2002
I finally received some news from the Bolivian Consular. My visa had been denied. VISA NEGADA. NO AUTORIZADO.
Yes, after three and a half months of earnest waiting, I found that I could not enter into Bolivia. Why? Why? Why?
My application was sent to La Paz, Bolivia from Beijing way back in July. I seriously did not believe the authorities in Bolivia did any background check on me and discovered my criminal past. (Yeah, you know about my lucrative chewing-gum smuggling ring from way back…) I believed they just sat on it and when they started receiving curious faxes from consulars asking about the status of this application, they simply rejected it.
I was devastated. I spent the rest of the day mourning in Curitiba.
By late afternoon, I accepted defeat. Until I find a South American guy to marry (and get that alternative passport), I guess I was not going to enter Bolivia on this trip. I had to plan my next course of action.
If I could go to Bolivia, I would visit Iguaçu Falls next and then go on to the Pantanal. But now that I could not, I could still go on this route and then head further north through southern Amazon into Peru, just to circle around the border of Bolivia. Yes, this is the challenging ‘ruta de la selva’ [jungle route]. Two jaguars, five anacondas and sixteen caymans later, I should emerge in Peru with, hopefully, just one missing limb. Or I could go to the Pantanal first and then head south to Iguaçu Falls and enter Argentina from there. I pondered for a long time before deciding on the latter route.
I tried to buy the ticket to Campo Grande leaving that night. The ticket-guy told me there was no ticket available. Darn!! Is this fate? Should I wait another day? Should I go to Iguaçu Falls then?
I dithered at the counter for a long time and decided to buy for tomorrow. He wanted my passport which I had left at the Left Luggage. By the time I returned with my passport, he told me there was ONE ticket leaving for Campo Grande today. How he managed to get that, I had no idea. He now gleefully wanted Coca-Cola for his effort. Ha!! Alright, I gratefully bought a can for him.
Campo Grande, BRAZIL - 16 october 2002
Campo Grande was impossibly hot and humid. I checked into a nearby hostel and immediately, was pounced upon by tour touts asking if I wanted to go on a Pantanal trip. I was too tired and too hot to go around and compare prices. I listened to the first proposal and paid up.
That night, a storm brewed. There were scary lightnings the entire night. The lightning was not just a streak across the sky. The entire sky lit up. It went totally white for a brief second and then, black again. This repeated over and over. It was a little eerie to sit in the room by myself and observe this.
The start of a heavy storm was another magical moment that I savoured. I did not know why but somehow I found that this trip had made me more in touch with my emotions and more aware of all these little magical touches that nature offered. I guess I could never be indifferent to such things in the future. This trip was slowly changing me.
Argh… The lady at the Bolivian Consular informed me there was no status on my visa application yet. Maybe next week, maybe the week after.
I had to brace myself for the likely possiblity that I might not be able to enter Bolivia. I obtained her email contact so that I did not have to keep returning to Rio in order to check on the status. I would email her and return if my visa was approved.
The weather in Rio was up to 38°C today. It was much hotter than when I was here three weeks ago. Many women were strutting around in bikinis and men, bare-chested. It was interesting to see how casual attires were here in Rio. Even on the main streets, some people were walking around bare-footed and most were in flip-flops. Ah, beach culture…
Copacabana beach had mostly gorgeous stunners in dental-floss bikinis but truly, everyone in all shapes and sizes were decked out in bikinis and not necessarily at the beaches: they were shopping at the grocery stores, taking buses, etc… Mothers with children, grandmothers with grossly sagging skin, pregnant women in their third trimester (oh well, what else could they wear?), toddlers still not weaned from their pacifiers…
OK, I admit it. I caved. When in the country, you have to do what the natives do. So, I went and bought myself a present. My best beach days in Brazil may be over as I had already traveled down the coastline of Bahia state but I did not care.
Rio de Janeiro to Curitiba, BRAZIL - 08 october 2002
I did not want to stay in Rio for weeks, waiting and waiting. I wanted to visit other places in Brazil. But Brazil is immense. If I head off too far and, Insh’allah [‘God willing’ in Arabic], I DO get my Bolivian visa, I would have to double-back to Rio. I thought it through and decided to go to Curitiba tonight - only 12 hours away. For Brazil, that was a relatively short distance.
I went to visit the other famous mountain in Rio, to see the famous statue which looked like it was about to perform a triple-somersault dive from a spring-board.
In the tram that delivered us to the top of Corcovado was a group of Chinese tourists. They, as expected, were snapping pictures of themselves in the tram, outside the tram, and on the way up the steps to the Christ Redeemer at various so-called ‘view-points’.
Once in front of the about-to-perform-a-triple-somersault-dive Christ Redeemer, they, as truly expected, posed with their arms outstretched like they were about to perform a triple-somersault dive themselves. China-kitsch-photo-poses flash-back.
It was midday. Everywhere looked smoggy. But the view was still incredible. Like when I was on top of the Sugar Loaf Mountain, one could really appreciate the unique geographical location of Rio de Janeiro. We could see more of Rio from this locale actually. I felt a burst of joy in my heart.
I chatted with the group of Chinese tourists as a means to maintain the level of Mandarin (the highest I ever attained in my life, I think) I acquired after my 2-month stint there. Soon, true to their trigger-happy nature, they were snapping pictures WITH ME. I had inadvertently become part of their holiday snappies.
Curitiba, BRAZIL - 09 october 2002
Curitiba appeared rather unremarkable at first glance. The claim to fame for this city is the reputedly gorgeous train-ride down to the port town of Paranagua. I got myself a train-ticket for tomorrow.
Surprisingly, the lady at the Tourist Booth spoke English. Those working in the Tourist Information in Salvador (well, those I spoke to, at least) did not speak English and I had figured this lady did not either.
You know, if the person you are speaking to does not know English, he or she would look so pleased and touched by your faltering efforts to speak their language, he or she ignores the ruthless massacres done to their beloved mother tongue and beams at you with sincere delight and pride.
But if the person you are speaking to KNOWS English (but you did not know it yet) and you attempt to speak to them in their language, he or she looks at you with disgust, with scornful eyes, with an impatient countenance, with irritation and loathing, like you are the stupidest idiot in the world.
Yep, I got that latter look from lady at the Tourist Booth.
Curitiba was really unremarkable. All the way to the main shopping pedestrian malls, I saw unremarkable shops, very cheap unremarkable hair-dressers and unremarkable lanchonetes (eateries serving snacks), etc… Perversely, I kinda liked this place.
Curitiba to Ilha do Mel, BRAZIL - 10 october 2002
The train station was filled to the brim with excitable 15-year-old teenagers on school trips. Yeah, people at the P-R-I-M-E of their youth. Argh…
They were loud, disorderly, insolent. They disregarded all other passengers who had yet to board. They inconsiderately stood along the aisle of the wagon, enthusiastically snapping photos with this amigo and that. The rest of the passengers had to queue up behind them as the aisle was jammed.
At the first tunnel, they screamed their heads off. All of them. A few more decibels could drive you to wring their necks. All of theirs.
At the second tunnel, they screamed their heads off again and so on and so forth.
The best view could be seen from the left side of the train. I, unfortunately, was seated on the right side of the train. A train conductor spotted me, looking helplessly at the crowd converged on the left side of the train and beckoned me over. He offered me the store-room and I had the entire window to myself! Bless the train conductor!
As the most astonishing, breathtaking mountain sceneries swept over, my camera jammed and would not snap. I was left alternating between gasping at the view in front of me and cursing my darn camera.
You would imagine the teenagers would have worn off their enthusiasm by the thirteenth tunnel, 4 hours later, but no… there was still that ONE guy…
Once in Paranagua, I took the boat heading to Ilha do Mel at 3pm. Aside from seeing someone with a T-shirt declaring ILHA DO MEL in Caravelas and knowing that since it was right opposite Paranagua, I could head there after the train-ride, I really did not know much about it nor have any expectations from the island. It was just my excuse to crack open my bikini.
Boy, was I floored by the simple beauty and tranquility of the island. It was shaped like an ‘8’. The centre bit was entirely sand, horizon-to-horizon. It had no roads, no cars. Many walked around bare-footed. It was a great place to chill out. Muito tranquilo [Very tranquil].
A fellow boat passenger, Cathy from the USA, and I followed two ladies from the same boat to their pousada and settled ourselves in. Then, we walked along the beach right in front of the pousada, facing the open ocean all the way, to the fortress. The entire beach was flat and empty. We spotted three people in our 2-hour-long walk. We let the waves gently lap upon our feet. We stared constantly into the horizon. We heard only the sounds of the crashing waves. I was charmed beyond words by the island. I loved it here.
Ilha do Mel, BRAZIL - 11 october 2002
Throughout the entire night, I slept to the wonderful melody of the crashing waves. It was gorgeous. Places like these overwhelmed me with feelings.
The next morning, I headed out to the beach by myself and took a very slow walk to the fortress again. The magic here on this island made me enjoy my solitude, my connection with nature.
People usually headed out to beaches in their minimal beach-wear and carried as little as possible. I dragged my camera along. I was very inspired here. I wanted to be creative with my camera, photographing the beach from interesting angles. There was no one to disturb or distract me. I concentrated on looking out for objects that could express my feelings here. It was pure joy…
After hours at the beach and burning nicely, I returned to throw myself upon the delicious desserts prepared by the dessert chef, Meri, of my pousada. Heavenly. What a great place this was…
Ilha do Mel, BRAZIL - 12 october 2002
I slept at 9pm the night before and woke up at 9am this morning. 12 hours of fitful sleep. Gosh, sun-bathing by the beach yesterday really exhausted me. What a life! I attached myself to the hammock for a few more hours, reading my amorous and amoral book from the Brazilian author from Ilhéus, Jorge Amado - Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, drinking in the fluid verses and poetry.
When I finally surgically detached myself from the hammock to go for a walk, I went dressed. Because with my slightly-burnt back, I did not fancy too much sun today. Gosh, I really regretted this move. It was the weekend. The entire island was filled to the brim with local Brazilians and everyone, naturally in teeny weeny, itsy bitsy swim-wear, stared at me as if I was diseased or something! I had never felt so self-conscious walking around fully-clothed in my life.
Ilha do Mel, BRAZIL - 13 october 2002
Cathy and I decided to walk to the Grutas on the other side of the island today. We had to climb through rocky headlands to get from one beach to another. We were unsure of our steps at some tricky spots and felt the rocks under our bare feet sharp and uncomfortable. Meanwhile, the local Brazilians had evolved to handle terrains like beaches and rocky headlands without problems. They constantly overtook us, traversing across beaches and running down the rocks with ease. We were humbly put into our place as mere tourists.
The caves were nothing much. We did not expect much anyway. It was just an excursion to another part of the island, instead of vegetating near our pousada again. The journey was the most effort we had put in since we arrived on the island. To get back, Cathy refused to walk and so we, the lazy tourists, chartered a speed-boat back to our side of the island. I wondered if I could shake off my recently-acquired languidness soon.
Ilha do Mel to Curitiba, BRAZIL - 14 october 2002
My eager return to Curitiba to get online was a disappointment. There was no reply from the Bolivian Consular. I decided to send them an email.
Well, here’s my two-cents’ worth on food in Brazil. Since I left Bahia state which had gorgeous food, food in Brazil seemed to me rather monotonous. Sure, there were the huge breakfast buffets served in my hostels. But except for more expensive restaurants with a larger variety, what were available in buffet-por-quilo [per kilo] restaurants were rice, spaghetti, beans, salad, badly-prepared beef and chicken. Fish would be a rare treat. Sauces appeared to be impossible to find. For lanchonetes, they always served the same greasy X-burger, X-egg, X-salada, X-bacon, etc… ‘Prato do Dia’ [Plate of the Day] was almost always rice with beans (I hate beans) and a piece of over-done beef or chicken.
In this quiet unassuming town of Curitiba, I encountered lanchonetes after lanchonetes, restaurantes after restaurantes, selling the same few selections over and over again. All I wanted was some variety in my diet.
I spotted some Chinese faces and veered near the restaurant to see if they sold Chinese food like what my cousins… well, THEIR cousins, in other parts of the world do. No, they sold the same X-burger, X-egg, X-salada, X-bacon, etc… I was a tad disappointed. Alright, I confess: I visited Chinese restaurants here and there pretending to be on a mission to see how Chinese food had been bastardised in other parts of the world. The truth is occasionally, I miss Chinese food and now was one of the occasions.
Curitiba to Campo Grande, BRAZIL - 15 october 2002
I finally received some news from the Bolivian Consular. My visa had been denied. VISA NEGADA. NO AUTORIZADO.
Yes, after three and a half months of earnest waiting, I found that I could not enter into Bolivia. Why? Why? Why?
My application was sent to La Paz, Bolivia from Beijing way back in July. I seriously did not believe the authorities in Bolivia did any background check on me and discovered my criminal past. (Yeah, you know about my lucrative chewing-gum smuggling ring from way back…) I believed they just sat on it and when they started receiving curious faxes from consulars asking about the status of this application, they simply rejected it.
I was devastated. I spent the rest of the day mourning in Curitiba.
By late afternoon, I accepted defeat. Until I find a South American guy to marry (and get that alternative passport), I guess I was not going to enter Bolivia on this trip. I had to plan my next course of action.
If I could go to Bolivia, I would visit Iguaçu Falls next and then go on to the Pantanal. But now that I could not, I could still go on this route and then head further north through southern Amazon into Peru, just to circle around the border of Bolivia. Yes, this is the challenging ‘ruta de la selva’ [jungle route]. Two jaguars, five anacondas and sixteen caymans later, I should emerge in Peru with, hopefully, just one missing limb. Or I could go to the Pantanal first and then head south to Iguaçu Falls and enter Argentina from there. I pondered for a long time before deciding on the latter route.
I tried to buy the ticket to Campo Grande leaving that night. The ticket-guy told me there was no ticket available. Darn!! Is this fate? Should I wait another day? Should I go to Iguaçu Falls then?
I dithered at the counter for a long time and decided to buy for tomorrow. He wanted my passport which I had left at the Left Luggage. By the time I returned with my passport, he told me there was ONE ticket leaving for Campo Grande today. How he managed to get that, I had no idea. He now gleefully wanted Coca-Cola for his effort. Ha!! Alright, I gratefully bought a can for him.
Campo Grande, BRAZIL - 16 october 2002
Campo Grande was impossibly hot and humid. I checked into a nearby hostel and immediately, was pounced upon by tour touts asking if I wanted to go on a Pantanal trip. I was too tired and too hot to go around and compare prices. I listened to the first proposal and paid up.
That night, a storm brewed. There were scary lightnings the entire night. The lightning was not just a streak across the sky. The entire sky lit up. It went totally white for a brief second and then, black again. This repeated over and over. It was a little eerie to sit in the room by myself and observe this.
The start of a heavy storm was another magical moment that I savoured. I did not know why but somehow I found that this trip had made me more in touch with my emotions and more aware of all these little magical touches that nature offered. I guess I could never be indifferent to such things in the future. This trip was slowly changing me.
Sunday, October 6, 2002
14 - One Long Bus-Ride Too Many (Ouro Preto)
Caravelas to Ouro Prêto, BRAZIL - 03 october 2002
I paid for the night. These people were simply too nice to take advantage of.
At breakfast, I met Tony from England. He was heading off today too. I mentioned I was going to Ouro Prêto, which meant I had to go to Belo Horizonte. Since the only bus to BH left at 9pm from Teixeira de Freitas, I had the whole day to wait here.
He suggested going to Vitória which was perhaps 3 hours away and there might be buses to BH. He himself was heading to Rio from there. Vitória is the capital of the next state Espírito Santo and he figured we could spend the afternoon wandering around the city for a while, see something different, before catching the night-buses. Hmmm… that sounded like a great idea. So, we left together for Teixeira de Freitas on the morning bus.
The ride to Vitória was not 3 hours. The ticket guy told us 6 hours. But it actually took 8 hours. We arrived after 8pm. There was no chance whatsoever to wander around town.
After all the small towns I had been to, where after a short drive through some dusty buildings, a quick turn and we were in the Rodoviária, here in Vitória, being a huge city, it took about 1 hour of driving through traffic before we finally pulled up at the Rodoviária. Gosh. Another long tiring day on the bus.
To my surprise, there was a bus straight to Ouro Prêto and it was leaving in 45 minutes’ time. Excellent timing, I thought.
Ouro Prêto, BRAZIL - 04 october 2002
OK, I was feeling a little sick and tired of all the long bus-rides. But such is the size of Brazil. The interesting places are spread out way too far. I had limited myself to Salvador as the northernmost city I would go because I wanted to be back in Rio de Janeiro in three weeks. Loads of people had sung praises about the places further north like Natal, Fortaleza, Jericoacoara. But I knew it would be very expensive and time-consuming to head up there and back in three weeks.
After the coastal towns, I made a token stop in a colonial-flavoured town in the interior of Brazil, with a gold-mining history. Ouro Prêto is set in the cool mountains. The Rodoviária was at the top of a hill and walking down, I was accosted with a superb view of lovely red-roofed colonial houses on undulating streets, pretty mountain scenery and rising clouds.
It was 5am, very early. A guy who was opening up his shop greeted me. He immediately followed me, suggesting this hotel and that. While I was polite, I was a little wary of such offers, as I heard that they earned commissions from bringing guests to certain hotels and the commissions came from me as I would be charged a higher price for the room.
I declined politely but he was all smiley and insistent. The first hotel he shouted up to replied that it was full. I told him I was heading to the Youth Hostel. He needed not to tag along as I knew the way.
He was not easy to dissuade. He followed me to the hostel and rang the bell, woke up the guy and only left when he got me settled in the room. He even introduced himself and shook my hand. Gosh, he could not have earned any commissions as the room prices were stated clearly on the wall. So, he simply wanted to get me settled in a place. Now, that was really sweet of him. I was really very touched by all the wonderful Brazilians who had treated me with so much kindness and hospitality.
I was the only one in the Youth Hostel. When I woke up at 10am, I saw a huge spread of breakfast waiting for me. They had prepared three flasks - one for coffee, one for milk, one hot water for tea - and a huge jug of orange juice. I know it was their job but I felt rather bad they went through all the trouble just for me.
Ouro Prêto, BRAZIL - 05 october 2002
Ouro Prêto is quite a touristy town. But so so so pretty. At first glance, it reminded me of Taxco in Mexico, with the steep cobble-stoned roads, the charmingly-restored colonial houses, the churches standing at the top of the hills in the distant. Most shops around the main square sold tourist souvenirs.
My room faced one of the most beautiful churches in Ouro Prêto, no less - Igreja de São Francisco de Assis and overlooked the downhill part of town. Gorgeous, enchanting view everywhere.
A soapstone market was right next to my hostel too. There is a soapstone quarry nearby, hence the souvenirs. They were heavy but were different from those kitsch, colourful, useless souvenirs I had seen in Salvador and around here. I loved them. I bought a few items. Yes, they were heavy and fragile. I would have to post them home once I get to Rio.
I visited a gold mine, Minas de Passagem, a section of which was now opened to tourists. To get down, we had to sit in a rickety trolley-car that plunged down deep into the tunnels. The guide earnestly gave me a tour in Portuguese. I was the only tourist with him. He rattled on and on about how gold mining was done. I actually understood him a little and even managed a question or two in my ‘Spanguese’. There was an eerie blue subterranean lake in the mine. No swimming or drinking allowed though, due to the minerals in the water.
Ouro Prêto to Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 06 october 2002
Today was Brazil’s Election Day. As it was also a Sunday, apart from the tourists shops, almost all the other shops and restaurants were closed. I wandered around town and actually came upon the office where the election was being carried out. It was not busy, though.
Ouro Prêto is not very big, but hilly. Walking around required quite a bit of effort but the views offered were usually impressive. I had almost covered every street on the LP map by afternoon.
For want of somewhere else to go, I took a local bus to Mariana, a town 12km away. It took me 35 minutes to get there. It was even more dead than Ouro Prêto. As it was not set up for tourists, absolutely nothing was open. The election fever there was more apparent here. Tiny campaign papers, printed with the numbers the politicians wanted them to punch in, were strewn all over the ground. Sweepers were busy today. It took me 20 minutes to decide this was a really boring town. But the bus back to Ouro Prêto came only after a 30-minute wait.
Yet another night-bus to Rio de Janeiro. It was almost three weeks already. I hope I sleep well tonight. I also hope I get my Bolivian visa.
I paid for the night. These people were simply too nice to take advantage of.
At breakfast, I met Tony from England. He was heading off today too. I mentioned I was going to Ouro Prêto, which meant I had to go to Belo Horizonte. Since the only bus to BH left at 9pm from Teixeira de Freitas, I had the whole day to wait here.
He suggested going to Vitória which was perhaps 3 hours away and there might be buses to BH. He himself was heading to Rio from there. Vitória is the capital of the next state Espírito Santo and he figured we could spend the afternoon wandering around the city for a while, see something different, before catching the night-buses. Hmmm… that sounded like a great idea. So, we left together for Teixeira de Freitas on the morning bus.
The ride to Vitória was not 3 hours. The ticket guy told us 6 hours. But it actually took 8 hours. We arrived after 8pm. There was no chance whatsoever to wander around town.
After all the small towns I had been to, where after a short drive through some dusty buildings, a quick turn and we were in the Rodoviária, here in Vitória, being a huge city, it took about 1 hour of driving through traffic before we finally pulled up at the Rodoviária. Gosh. Another long tiring day on the bus.
To my surprise, there was a bus straight to Ouro Prêto and it was leaving in 45 minutes’ time. Excellent timing, I thought.
Ouro Prêto, BRAZIL - 04 october 2002
OK, I was feeling a little sick and tired of all the long bus-rides. But such is the size of Brazil. The interesting places are spread out way too far. I had limited myself to Salvador as the northernmost city I would go because I wanted to be back in Rio de Janeiro in three weeks. Loads of people had sung praises about the places further north like Natal, Fortaleza, Jericoacoara. But I knew it would be very expensive and time-consuming to head up there and back in three weeks.
After the coastal towns, I made a token stop in a colonial-flavoured town in the interior of Brazil, with a gold-mining history. Ouro Prêto is set in the cool mountains. The Rodoviária was at the top of a hill and walking down, I was accosted with a superb view of lovely red-roofed colonial houses on undulating streets, pretty mountain scenery and rising clouds.
It was 5am, very early. A guy who was opening up his shop greeted me. He immediately followed me, suggesting this hotel and that. While I was polite, I was a little wary of such offers, as I heard that they earned commissions from bringing guests to certain hotels and the commissions came from me as I would be charged a higher price for the room.
I declined politely but he was all smiley and insistent. The first hotel he shouted up to replied that it was full. I told him I was heading to the Youth Hostel. He needed not to tag along as I knew the way.
He was not easy to dissuade. He followed me to the hostel and rang the bell, woke up the guy and only left when he got me settled in the room. He even introduced himself and shook my hand. Gosh, he could not have earned any commissions as the room prices were stated clearly on the wall. So, he simply wanted to get me settled in a place. Now, that was really sweet of him. I was really very touched by all the wonderful Brazilians who had treated me with so much kindness and hospitality.
I was the only one in the Youth Hostel. When I woke up at 10am, I saw a huge spread of breakfast waiting for me. They had prepared three flasks - one for coffee, one for milk, one hot water for tea - and a huge jug of orange juice. I know it was their job but I felt rather bad they went through all the trouble just for me.
Ouro Prêto, BRAZIL - 05 october 2002
Ouro Prêto is quite a touristy town. But so so so pretty. At first glance, it reminded me of Taxco in Mexico, with the steep cobble-stoned roads, the charmingly-restored colonial houses, the churches standing at the top of the hills in the distant. Most shops around the main square sold tourist souvenirs.
My room faced one of the most beautiful churches in Ouro Prêto, no less - Igreja de São Francisco de Assis and overlooked the downhill part of town. Gorgeous, enchanting view everywhere.
A soapstone market was right next to my hostel too. There is a soapstone quarry nearby, hence the souvenirs. They were heavy but were different from those kitsch, colourful, useless souvenirs I had seen in Salvador and around here. I loved them. I bought a few items. Yes, they were heavy and fragile. I would have to post them home once I get to Rio.
I visited a gold mine, Minas de Passagem, a section of which was now opened to tourists. To get down, we had to sit in a rickety trolley-car that plunged down deep into the tunnels. The guide earnestly gave me a tour in Portuguese. I was the only tourist with him. He rattled on and on about how gold mining was done. I actually understood him a little and even managed a question or two in my ‘Spanguese’. There was an eerie blue subterranean lake in the mine. No swimming or drinking allowed though, due to the minerals in the water.
Ouro Prêto to Rio de Janeiro, BRAZIL - 06 october 2002
Today was Brazil’s Election Day. As it was also a Sunday, apart from the tourists shops, almost all the other shops and restaurants were closed. I wandered around town and actually came upon the office where the election was being carried out. It was not busy, though.
Ouro Prêto is not very big, but hilly. Walking around required quite a bit of effort but the views offered were usually impressive. I had almost covered every street on the LP map by afternoon.
For want of somewhere else to go, I took a local bus to Mariana, a town 12km away. It took me 35 minutes to get there. It was even more dead than Ouro Prêto. As it was not set up for tourists, absolutely nothing was open. The election fever there was more apparent here. Tiny campaign papers, printed with the numbers the politicians wanted them to punch in, were strewn all over the ground. Sweepers were busy today. It took me 20 minutes to decide this was a really boring town. But the bus back to Ouro Prêto came only after a 30-minute wait.
Yet another night-bus to Rio de Janeiro. It was almost three weeks already. I hope I sleep well tonight. I also hope I get my Bolivian visa.
Wednesday, October 2, 2002
14 - One Long Bus-Ride Too Many (Ilheus, Caravelas)
Ilhéus, BRAZIL - 28 september 2002
Again, another night-bus where I did not sleep well. I hopped onto a local bus marked CENTRO. The local buses in Brazil had a stupid turnstile for passengers to pass through after paying.
I had my backpack, so I could not pass through the turnstile. I wanted to sit where the unpaids were sitting (the old folks and those with special passes and very fat people, I supposed) and simply turned the turnstile to increment the passenger count, but the inflexible fare-collector disallowed it. He rather peeled himself off his seat and helped carry my backpack across.
Still, he was very nice to ask me where I was heading, attempt to study my LP map, discuss with another passenger and decide I should be getting off right about here. This kind of helpfulness was deeply appreciated, especially since we could not speak each other’s languages.
I had long f-ed my Portuguese phrasebook, buried it deep in my backpack. I simply added a Portuguese twang to my Spanish, substituting the odd word in Portuguese if I knew them. When I spoke, most of the time, they seemed to know what I wanted. When they spoke, I usually was quite clueless, although I was improving in this area.
I recalled the time when I got off the train in Vienna, Austria and wanted to find out if a particular tram went to Westbahnhof. I asked two guys, “Er… tram… Westbahnhof?” At once, one guy pulled his friend away as if I was a leper and waved me away, “No English”. Well, I did not ask if you spoke English, idiots. ‘Westbahnhof’ was in German after all.
I found my pousada after a short wander around town in the drizzle. I was the only one in the whole pousada. I collapsed onto my bed and snoozed until after 1pm.
Night buses did not appear to be working for me. I seemed to require about half a day of catching up on my sleep when I arrived. But, it was alright today as Saturdays here in Ilhéus appeared to be as dead as Sundays. No shops were opened. No activities were spotted.
At a small restaurant, again, I was met with kindness and friendliness. The unassuming town of Ilhéus was really warming up to me. The owner attempted to explain to me what the food was, although I had not asked him to do so. A lady devouring her lunch nearby, kept poking me and asking me if the food was ‘bom’ [good]. A pretty little girl, whose mother popped in to buy a snack, sat at my table and greeted me nonchalantly, “Oi” [Hi].
As I walked around the quiet town around the peninsula, I heard blasts of fireworks and loud music from cars. These cars were running campaigns for the upcoming VOTA BRASIL election on 6 October. They were playing catchy jingles and blaring political messages. Perhaps the politician with the best jingle wins.
There had been numerous billboards, posters, flyers, flags put up and distributed by the campaigners to promote the politicians’ names and numbers. Brazil used numbers for electronic voting. So, besides the jingles, politicians with the most memorable set of numbers might just win, those with ‘1234’, ‘1111’, etc…
They did not stop at billboards, posters, flyers. They painted on walls, pasted behind road signs, everywhere with a space. To me, the campaigners were the worst vandals. And I bet, after the election, they would just leave them there.
Itacare, BRAZIL - 29 september 2002
I had heard high praises for the beaches in Itacare. It was about 2 hours by bus from Ilhéus. I had no clue that the best beaches were actually along the way to the town of Itacare.
Once I arrived, I followed the crowd and ended up on a crowded beach which was lined with restaurants and bars and packed with people. OK, this was not quite what I had expected but I was too lazy to go hunt for the perfect beach and simply made myself comfortable on a spot, lay down and slept.
That evening, before I ordered dinner, I gingerly asked for the price. “R$7”, the lady replied. I did not bring too much money along because I was spending the day at the beach but R$7 I had. I ordered ‘peixe, por favor’ [fish, please].
What was served to me was HUGE. I was so hungry, I tucked into the food at once before it dawned on me that there was no way this huge portion (perhaps, once again for two persons) cost a mere R$7. I now asked the old man who had served me how much the dish cost. “R$12”, he smiled. “R$12?????” Gosh, the worst nightmare of a diner… I did not have enough money with me. I explained to him I thought it was R$7. He said everything was R$7, except the fish.
Argh… I sat there, stunned. I even asked him sheepishly if I could just eat up half of the fish and pay R$6. Hahaaa… dream on. He looked at me with pity for a moment, then he simply smiled and said, “Coma… coma…” [Eat, eat] Gosh, they were SO NICE!
I ate with a heavy heart until I remembered I had brought my VISA card along. This morning, I had decided at the very last minute to bring it along. I had actually forgotten about it for a moment. After food, I asked if I could leave my bag here as a deposit for him, while I hurried to the cash machine. He insisted it was not necessary and let me go retrieve the cash. Brazilians are fantastic!!
When I returned to my pousada in Ilhéus, I chatted a little with the owner of the pousada. He was also very nice. I then regretted having bought the bus ticket out of Ilhéus for tomorrow. There was no one in the pousada except me and it seemed, the owner felt a sense of pity to see me go so soon. Yeah, perhaps I should have stayed longer to get to know Ilhéus a little better.
The only thing I knew about Ilhéus was that it is the home-town of one of Brazil’s most famous writers - Jorge Amado, and I had walked past the ‘rua’ [road] named after him many times.
Ilhéus to Caravelas, BRAZIL - 30 september 2002
I was heading south to Caravelas which was the jumping-off point to Parque Nacional de Abrolhas for some whale-watching. It apparently was the right season for whales to pop by.
It was an 8-hour ride to Teixeira de Fretas. I finished 100 Years of Solitude in two bus-rides. It is a fantastic book. I was totally in awe. Márquez might have just earned himself a new fan.
I arrived, had a late lunch and had to wait about 2 hours for the next and last bus to the coastal town of Caravelas.
The bus drove through the total darkness. Yet, despite the speed and the blackness of the surroundings and the people, the driver managed to spot the odd persons here and there along the road and regularly stopped and picked them up. It took 2½ hours to get to Caravelas.
What a long day of travel today. I flung myself onto my bed after a quick shower and plunged into a deep sleep. Best deal so far, R$15 (US$5) with private bathroom, TV and breakfast.
Caravelas, BRAZIL - 01 october 2002
And there was even an attached balcony which I only noticed when I awoke this morning.
Caravelas is a much smaller town than Ilhéus. I meandered around. An old lady, sitting by the doorway, smiled at me. She called out, “Japão? [Japan?]”. I shook my head, não. Nevertheless, she extended her hand, shook mine, stroked my arm, hugged me and kept repeating, “Qué linda, qué linda”. Err… loosely translated as “How pretty, how pretty”. Ahem.
More people passed by me with greetings and huge smiles. Caravelas was as friendly as Ilhéus.
After booking myself on a tour to the Parque Nacional de Abrolhas for whale-watching tomorrow, I went to the beach in the next town.
A typical Brazilian gesture I noticed is the thumbs-up sign. The Brazilians used that to say ‘all is cool’, ‘no problem’, ‘hey, I’m fine, how are you doing?’, etc… That was the sign given to me by the bus-conductor when I asked him to tell me where to get off.
Beach was not the prettiest but it was quiet. There were only a handful of people. I was practically alone. Perfect.
Parque Nacional de Abrolhas, BRAZIL - 02 october 2002
We left on the speedboat at around 8am. Most of us sat on the front part of the boat. As the boat sped through the waters, the waves got choppier and choppier and the ride got rougher. The boat flew sometimes and upon landing, huge splashes engulfed us. Soon, we were thoroughly soaked, our eyes stinging with salt-water. I had to wrap my camera inside my waterproof jacket to protect it.
We slowed down. Someone spotted a whale or two. Yeah, right over there. They surfaced just a notch and then, the tail flipped up and went silently down. Wow… I tried to imagine the sheer size of the mammal under our boat. It must be huge. And so gentle and elegant too… I was totally awed.
Before we arrived at the islands 3 hours away, we came upon more pairs of whales, usually mommy and baby. Some squirted water from their blow-holes. Some did little waves with their fins. I was waiting for breaching – that is when they jump out of the water and slam down. It would be awesome to see that.
We were paddled to an island which had colonies of birds which, unfortunately, due to ‘não compreendo o português’ [I do not understand Portuguese], I never found out the name of the birds. They were sitting there in their nests, brazenly staring at us. Some even tried to chase us away. Many had fledgings which were molting their baby feathers. They were nearly the size of their parents. It was fantastic to be so close to these birds. Frigate birds and vultures were flying above us as well.
Thereafter, the boat took us to another island and we went snorkelling or scuba-diving. Brazil is not famous for their reefs. If one had seen the reefs in the Red Sea or the Carribean, one would not be impressed here. But, let's not compare.
We returned at 5pm and I hurried back to my pousada as the last bus back to Teixeira de Freitas was at 6pm and I wanted to catch that to catch the 9pm bus to Belo Horizonte. I returned and showered hurriedly. When I was ready to leave, the pousada staff informed me that my small bag was kept in a safe and the elderly owner was the only one with the key and SHE had gone to Teixeira de Freitas. Huh?? Oh no… I had informed her I was returning at 5pm for my baggage.
We waited anxiously for her at the door-step. Then, I saw the 6pm bus pull away from the Rodoviária. Sigh… I waited til 7pm, before I decided that I just had to leave things as they were and not push it. I checked back into my room and stayed another night.
When I was having my dinner at a restaurant, the elderly lady came looking for me, gushing with apologies. I was with some German friends whom I met on the boat-ride today and they could speak Portuguese. They explained that the lady would not charge me for my room tonight as it was her fault I could not leave. Awww… that was so sweet. I told her not to worry as I did not buy any bus-ticket. She was finally pacified.
I was glad I stayed one more night and had a good rest. My skin was burning up with all the sun today and I was also thoroughly exhausted.
Again, another night-bus where I did not sleep well. I hopped onto a local bus marked CENTRO. The local buses in Brazil had a stupid turnstile for passengers to pass through after paying.
I had my backpack, so I could not pass through the turnstile. I wanted to sit where the unpaids were sitting (the old folks and those with special passes and very fat people, I supposed) and simply turned the turnstile to increment the passenger count, but the inflexible fare-collector disallowed it. He rather peeled himself off his seat and helped carry my backpack across.
Still, he was very nice to ask me where I was heading, attempt to study my LP map, discuss with another passenger and decide I should be getting off right about here. This kind of helpfulness was deeply appreciated, especially since we could not speak each other’s languages.
I had long f-ed my Portuguese phrasebook, buried it deep in my backpack. I simply added a Portuguese twang to my Spanish, substituting the odd word in Portuguese if I knew them. When I spoke, most of the time, they seemed to know what I wanted. When they spoke, I usually was quite clueless, although I was improving in this area.
I recalled the time when I got off the train in Vienna, Austria and wanted to find out if a particular tram went to Westbahnhof. I asked two guys, “Er… tram… Westbahnhof?” At once, one guy pulled his friend away as if I was a leper and waved me away, “No English”. Well, I did not ask if you spoke English, idiots. ‘Westbahnhof’ was in German after all.
I found my pousada after a short wander around town in the drizzle. I was the only one in the whole pousada. I collapsed onto my bed and snoozed until after 1pm.
Night buses did not appear to be working for me. I seemed to require about half a day of catching up on my sleep when I arrived. But, it was alright today as Saturdays here in Ilhéus appeared to be as dead as Sundays. No shops were opened. No activities were spotted.
At a small restaurant, again, I was met with kindness and friendliness. The unassuming town of Ilhéus was really warming up to me. The owner attempted to explain to me what the food was, although I had not asked him to do so. A lady devouring her lunch nearby, kept poking me and asking me if the food was ‘bom’ [good]. A pretty little girl, whose mother popped in to buy a snack, sat at my table and greeted me nonchalantly, “Oi” [Hi].
As I walked around the quiet town around the peninsula, I heard blasts of fireworks and loud music from cars. These cars were running campaigns for the upcoming VOTA BRASIL election on 6 October. They were playing catchy jingles and blaring political messages. Perhaps the politician with the best jingle wins.
There had been numerous billboards, posters, flyers, flags put up and distributed by the campaigners to promote the politicians’ names and numbers. Brazil used numbers for electronic voting. So, besides the jingles, politicians with the most memorable set of numbers might just win, those with ‘1234’, ‘1111’, etc…
They did not stop at billboards, posters, flyers. They painted on walls, pasted behind road signs, everywhere with a space. To me, the campaigners were the worst vandals. And I bet, after the election, they would just leave them there.
Itacare, BRAZIL - 29 september 2002
I had heard high praises for the beaches in Itacare. It was about 2 hours by bus from Ilhéus. I had no clue that the best beaches were actually along the way to the town of Itacare.
Once I arrived, I followed the crowd and ended up on a crowded beach which was lined with restaurants and bars and packed with people. OK, this was not quite what I had expected but I was too lazy to go hunt for the perfect beach and simply made myself comfortable on a spot, lay down and slept.
That evening, before I ordered dinner, I gingerly asked for the price. “R$7”, the lady replied. I did not bring too much money along because I was spending the day at the beach but R$7 I had. I ordered ‘peixe, por favor’ [fish, please].
What was served to me was HUGE. I was so hungry, I tucked into the food at once before it dawned on me that there was no way this huge portion (perhaps, once again for two persons) cost a mere R$7. I now asked the old man who had served me how much the dish cost. “R$12”, he smiled. “R$12?????” Gosh, the worst nightmare of a diner… I did not have enough money with me. I explained to him I thought it was R$7. He said everything was R$7, except the fish.
Argh… I sat there, stunned. I even asked him sheepishly if I could just eat up half of the fish and pay R$6. Hahaaa… dream on. He looked at me with pity for a moment, then he simply smiled and said, “Coma… coma…” [Eat, eat] Gosh, they were SO NICE!
I ate with a heavy heart until I remembered I had brought my VISA card along. This morning, I had decided at the very last minute to bring it along. I had actually forgotten about it for a moment. After food, I asked if I could leave my bag here as a deposit for him, while I hurried to the cash machine. He insisted it was not necessary and let me go retrieve the cash. Brazilians are fantastic!!
When I returned to my pousada in Ilhéus, I chatted a little with the owner of the pousada. He was also very nice. I then regretted having bought the bus ticket out of Ilhéus for tomorrow. There was no one in the pousada except me and it seemed, the owner felt a sense of pity to see me go so soon. Yeah, perhaps I should have stayed longer to get to know Ilhéus a little better.
The only thing I knew about Ilhéus was that it is the home-town of one of Brazil’s most famous writers - Jorge Amado, and I had walked past the ‘rua’ [road] named after him many times.
Ilhéus to Caravelas, BRAZIL - 30 september 2002
I was heading south to Caravelas which was the jumping-off point to Parque Nacional de Abrolhas for some whale-watching. It apparently was the right season for whales to pop by.
It was an 8-hour ride to Teixeira de Fretas. I finished 100 Years of Solitude in two bus-rides. It is a fantastic book. I was totally in awe. Márquez might have just earned himself a new fan.
I arrived, had a late lunch and had to wait about 2 hours for the next and last bus to the coastal town of Caravelas.
The bus drove through the total darkness. Yet, despite the speed and the blackness of the surroundings and the people, the driver managed to spot the odd persons here and there along the road and regularly stopped and picked them up. It took 2½ hours to get to Caravelas.
What a long day of travel today. I flung myself onto my bed after a quick shower and plunged into a deep sleep. Best deal so far, R$15 (US$5) with private bathroom, TV and breakfast.
Caravelas, BRAZIL - 01 october 2002
And there was even an attached balcony which I only noticed when I awoke this morning.
Caravelas is a much smaller town than Ilhéus. I meandered around. An old lady, sitting by the doorway, smiled at me. She called out, “Japão? [Japan?]”. I shook my head, não. Nevertheless, she extended her hand, shook mine, stroked my arm, hugged me and kept repeating, “Qué linda, qué linda”. Err… loosely translated as “How pretty, how pretty”. Ahem.
More people passed by me with greetings and huge smiles. Caravelas was as friendly as Ilhéus.
After booking myself on a tour to the Parque Nacional de Abrolhas for whale-watching tomorrow, I went to the beach in the next town.
A typical Brazilian gesture I noticed is the thumbs-up sign. The Brazilians used that to say ‘all is cool’, ‘no problem’, ‘hey, I’m fine, how are you doing?’, etc… That was the sign given to me by the bus-conductor when I asked him to tell me where to get off.
Beach was not the prettiest but it was quiet. There were only a handful of people. I was practically alone. Perfect.
Parque Nacional de Abrolhas, BRAZIL - 02 october 2002
We left on the speedboat at around 8am. Most of us sat on the front part of the boat. As the boat sped through the waters, the waves got choppier and choppier and the ride got rougher. The boat flew sometimes and upon landing, huge splashes engulfed us. Soon, we were thoroughly soaked, our eyes stinging with salt-water. I had to wrap my camera inside my waterproof jacket to protect it.
We slowed down. Someone spotted a whale or two. Yeah, right over there. They surfaced just a notch and then, the tail flipped up and went silently down. Wow… I tried to imagine the sheer size of the mammal under our boat. It must be huge. And so gentle and elegant too… I was totally awed.
Before we arrived at the islands 3 hours away, we came upon more pairs of whales, usually mommy and baby. Some squirted water from their blow-holes. Some did little waves with their fins. I was waiting for breaching – that is when they jump out of the water and slam down. It would be awesome to see that.
We were paddled to an island which had colonies of birds which, unfortunately, due to ‘não compreendo o português’ [I do not understand Portuguese], I never found out the name of the birds. They were sitting there in their nests, brazenly staring at us. Some even tried to chase us away. Many had fledgings which were molting their baby feathers. They were nearly the size of their parents. It was fantastic to be so close to these birds. Frigate birds and vultures were flying above us as well.
Thereafter, the boat took us to another island and we went snorkelling or scuba-diving. Brazil is not famous for their reefs. If one had seen the reefs in the Red Sea or the Carribean, one would not be impressed here. But, let's not compare.
We returned at 5pm and I hurried back to my pousada as the last bus back to Teixeira de Freitas was at 6pm and I wanted to catch that to catch the 9pm bus to Belo Horizonte. I returned and showered hurriedly. When I was ready to leave, the pousada staff informed me that my small bag was kept in a safe and the elderly owner was the only one with the key and SHE had gone to Teixeira de Freitas. Huh?? Oh no… I had informed her I was returning at 5pm for my baggage.
We waited anxiously for her at the door-step. Then, I saw the 6pm bus pull away from the Rodoviária. Sigh… I waited til 7pm, before I decided that I just had to leave things as they were and not push it. I checked back into my room and stayed another night.
When I was having my dinner at a restaurant, the elderly lady came looking for me, gushing with apologies. I was with some German friends whom I met on the boat-ride today and they could speak Portuguese. They explained that the lady would not charge me for my room tonight as it was her fault I could not leave. Awww… that was so sweet. I told her not to worry as I did not buy any bus-ticket. She was finally pacified.
I was glad I stayed one more night and had a good rest. My skin was burning up with all the sun today and I was also thoroughly exhausted.
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