Riding the Buenos Aires rollarcoaster: hold on, or get the hell off.
Miguel reclines idly on the Sunday morning sofa, smoke falling from his lips. Sunday is San Telmo´s day. The day when the whole of Avenida Dispensa brims with market traders, musicians, tango dancers, BA´s feather and leather crew. The sun shines on the busy cobbled streets which cobweb away from Plaza Dorrego. The vibe is ostensibly chilled. Over in Palermo it´s much the same thing. Market buzz, yuppies drinking Quilmes and cafe con leche, shopping, flirting. It´s very ´Brick Lane on a Sunday´ over there.
Miguel has been our nominal party catalyst during our week long stay at Hostel Tango. The first thing we did when we arrived in Buenos Aires was get robbed. The fury is dispersing, evaporating, leaving nothing but a bitter smile and a pile of fresh lessons to sift through. Everything of value was taken. Including our passports. It has taught us many things. The umimportance of possessions, the vitality of love. Resiliance and positivity are more valuable than MP3 players and laptops, travel light - or it will be forced upon you. (The first lesson was that if you get covered in white paint in South America, DO NOT STOP.) So, with only our clothes and our marbles, we have taken the Buenos Aires bull by the horns and given it a shake down.
The way of things here is to eat at midnight. Don´t even think of going to a club until 2am. Club 69 may well be perfect(except, of course, the name). Not too hot, not too cold, the beats massage your ribcage at just the right volume. It is, to me, what a movie club scene would look like when the hero wants to let loose. These heroes need to let their hair down. The boys spinning and flipping on stage are hot, the girls shaking their asses at them are hot. Everyone is hot and happy and drinking well-made 25 pesos cocktails. Miguel - a random Spaniard who has made it his mission to provide us night-life assistance - pushes us towards the VIP area, bottle of champagne in hand. The broad-shouldered bouncer nods sternly. ´Buenos chica´. The guys here look at me like they´ve never seen freckles before. One of the first phrases i have learnt is ´el esta mi novio´. That is my boyfriend. This doesn´t actually deter any of them.
Tango, the most smouldering, romantic dance I have ever seen, is everywhere. We see a 16 strong troup in a posh part of town. They finish the show by singing ´Don´t cry for me Argentina´. Cheesy and perfect. We went to the Recoleta Cemetary. We saw the crowds by Evita´s grave and sang her songs all the way round the labyrinth of spires and mausoleums.
We have learnt to love Buenos Aires again, despite her flaws. Maybe the flaws were ours, and we were being rough-hewed, moulded so that we fit rather than sticking out like the sore thumbs we really are. Today we cut loose the bowlines and head to Patagonia. Breeding whales and welsh speakers await us. Da Iawn.
Onwards and upwards.
Tuesday 28 September 2010
High Class
The bus we board is more than posh, a virtual airship. More legroom than I know what to do with, seats wider than most arm chairs. Movie screens. Food. Booze.
Prompted by the news from Konar that he was getting food and drink forced upon him by the good people of Thailand on their buses, I thought it only proper to document the luxury we found here.
There has been talk of champagne. There has been talk of nothing but the free food and booze that is to be lavished upon us. Two hours in to the 18 hourdrive to Buenos Aires, we watch with eyes like puppies, following every move made by our driver-waiter as he prepares our trays. Dinner is placed in my lap, a beer in my hand, swaying slightly with the undulation of the bus as it cruises towards BA.
The wait has made us hungry. The food comes in airline style sachets and packets. The message is to devour everything in front of you. We methodically knock back the small burger (the presence of the naked burger threw me - a lone burger as a starter?), chew thoughtfully on the roll of ham and cheese on a cocktail stick - plus olive and stone. Dig the last of the cream cheese from its casing - plus crackers - and then start on the mystery cross-section of meat with ham and a boiled egg at its centre. The bed of mash swiftly follows, plus sachet of salt, paper napkin and the coffee creamer. The waiter arrives in time to stop us eating the tray itself.
Prompted by the news from Konar that he was getting food and drink forced upon him by the good people of Thailand on their buses, I thought it only proper to document the luxury we found here.
There has been talk of champagne. There has been talk of nothing but the free food and booze that is to be lavished upon us. Two hours in to the 18 hourdrive to Buenos Aires, we watch with eyes like puppies, following every move made by our driver-waiter as he prepares our trays. Dinner is placed in my lap, a beer in my hand, swaying slightly with the undulation of the bus as it cruises towards BA.
The wait has made us hungry. The food comes in airline style sachets and packets. The message is to devour everything in front of you. We methodically knock back the small burger (the presence of the naked burger threw me - a lone burger as a starter?), chew thoughtfully on the roll of ham and cheese on a cocktail stick - plus olive and stone. Dig the last of the cream cheese from its casing - plus crackers - and then start on the mystery cross-section of meat with ham and a boiled egg at its centre. The bed of mash swiftly follows, plus sachet of salt, paper napkin and the coffee creamer. The waiter arrives in time to stop us eating the tray itself.
Foz Do Iguazu
Straddling Brazil and Argentina is a stretch of river. A massive one. Its waters pour over several giant steps of magma before tumbling thousands of feet into the ever deepening valley below. Like any natural wonder of the modern world, The Igauzu Falls have of course become a major tourist attraction - with all the trappings that entails. To view the whole lot takes two days - such is the velocity of the water.
The two countries are somewhat competitive about their ´ownership´ of the falls. ´Look what we have!´ shout the Brazilians on their side, while the Argentinians - boasting, as they do, the lions share of the banks, display their ownership via the efficacy of their viewing platforms - which dangle you over the edge of the falls so you feel the spray on your face.
Watch the water until you see a circular rainbow appear, the sun catching the endless fall of fine mist. Birds plunge in and out, to and from the rock face behind the colossal sheet of water. They drop away from the rock, falling towards the cauldron below before soaring upwards, in pairs, diving and swooping through the rainbow. It´s like watching a Disney film. Butterflies swirl idiotically close to the spray, some of them clipped unluckily by a droplet and being torn down by the force, others circle lazily, their wings getting wetter and wetter, their flight lower until they are taken by the water - or else perform some incredible feat and power out of the cavern.
The trees and vegetation are so absolutely green they almost hurt your eyes. Getting bathed in a constant fine mist must be the most luxury life for a plant.
Admiring another country from the top of a waterfall, you can see the tiny figures doing the same from across the river. We stand there feeling the spray, hearing the thunder for a very long time. I faze out the American tourists around me, ignore the shouts of the photographers desperate to sell you back your image. Dizzy with vertigo, watching the incessant tumble of the water, feeling the vital force.
The two countries are somewhat competitive about their ´ownership´ of the falls. ´Look what we have!´ shout the Brazilians on their side, while the Argentinians - boasting, as they do, the lions share of the banks, display their ownership via the efficacy of their viewing platforms - which dangle you over the edge of the falls so you feel the spray on your face.
Watch the water until you see a circular rainbow appear, the sun catching the endless fall of fine mist. Birds plunge in and out, to and from the rock face behind the colossal sheet of water. They drop away from the rock, falling towards the cauldron below before soaring upwards, in pairs, diving and swooping through the rainbow. It´s like watching a Disney film. Butterflies swirl idiotically close to the spray, some of them clipped unluckily by a droplet and being torn down by the force, others circle lazily, their wings getting wetter and wetter, their flight lower until they are taken by the water - or else perform some incredible feat and power out of the cavern.
The trees and vegetation are so absolutely green they almost hurt your eyes. Getting bathed in a constant fine mist must be the most luxury life for a plant.
Admiring another country from the top of a waterfall, you can see the tiny figures doing the same from across the river. We stand there feeling the spray, hearing the thunder for a very long time. I faze out the American tourists around me, ignore the shouts of the photographers desperate to sell you back your image. Dizzy with vertigo, watching the incessant tumble of the water, feeling the vital force.
Friday 17 September 2010
Favela Chic
Favela. Somewhere cool and gritty you tell people back home you have been hanging in. A bar in Shoreditch full of hipsters drinking Caipirinhas. A place where 20% of Rio call home.
It is cold as we zoom up the rock, along a winding path, where houses are piled one on one and all the doors are open. We are riding through the clouds, on the back of a motorbike and my rider can feel the keenness of my fear as i squeeze his shoulders terrified with every wet curve of the road.
`No photos` says Daniel - our guide. A top dog from the Flamengo Football team, he greets everyone he sees like an old friend - and his presence is the only guarentee of our safety. Highly regarded and mammothly tattooed, it´s a fable: footballer in the favela. With the gringos. We have just ridden into Rocinha Favela - the biggest in Rio De Janeiro and home to 200,000 people. Cobwebs of wires are jacked into the mains; the electricity companies rarely come up here to disconnect - preferring to take the bill dodgers where they can get them on safer ground.
No one official comes up here unless they are asked to. The Government have made steps to try and ´reclaim´ the favela by force but they never stay. They make arrests, remove some of the dealers, fill the gap they leave and then recede again, unsafe on territory which is absolutely not their own. It is very clear that we are here because we are allowed to be here. Climbing off the bikes i feel unseen eyes on us. `No photos` Daniel says again.
We are all conciously making obvious ´non-shop lifter´ gestures. No sudden moves for the cameras or anything else. The truth is the population of the favelas - and the drug dealers who control them - like tourists to come here. They badly need attention and the eyes of the world to be on these places. And, as dangerous as it may be here were i alone, i am struck by how overwhelmingly normal it is. Life goes on.
We bump into a chap taking a census. There are political posters littering the alleys. Children scurry to school, we pass open doors, clean houses, made beds, shop fronts, barbers, bakeries. People taking out the trash. There´s a woman getting her eyebrows plucked by her mate as we pass her door, plucked chickens lined up and spread-eagled in a butchers window. I spot a flash of a Rooney shirt under a toothy grin. This is just life in a poor estate. The drug barons are here somewhere but mainly it´s families, kids. The average birth rate here is 5-6 children so contreception and education are what they need.
The houses stretch all the way up the rock face, right on top of the luxury Copacabana hotels and beach-side apartments. Juxtaposition, a satisfying contrast which must irk the powers that be no end. There are no taxes paid by these people. No bills - at least not once you get up the hill. All building is done by the people who live here and it´s completely unregulated, climbing ever higher into the jungle, eating the greenery, landscaping the horizon with overcrowded, buzzing life.
The Gov are talking about building a wall around this favela to stop the spread. You can see why they think it´s a good idea. Soon, the rock will be just a favela.
A month ago there was a shoot out at a hotel. Nine dealers - including the top guy - a 34 year old called Nam (what must his life be like?????) were ambushed on their way back from a party and took some hostages in a hotel. People died. The dealers fled back to the warren. They make millions and millions but must live their lives in these places, always hiding, buying guns, protecting themselves. ANOTHER WORLD. The people in charge here are one of three gangs in Rio - Amigos Des Amigos - Friends of Friends.
We visit an art gallery and meet one of the artists. On his wall, painted beautifully, is a self-portrait. Above it, he has written;
´I arte imita vida. I vida imita arte´. Art imitates life, life imitates art. Looking around this sprawling, crawling estate, alive with smiles and ´ois´ and ´holas´, chickens, lizards, kids, trees and, invisibly but undenaibly, cocaine, i really don´t agree with his assertion. This is not art. This is merely life.
It is cold as we zoom up the rock, along a winding path, where houses are piled one on one and all the doors are open. We are riding through the clouds, on the back of a motorbike and my rider can feel the keenness of my fear as i squeeze his shoulders terrified with every wet curve of the road.
`No photos` says Daniel - our guide. A top dog from the Flamengo Football team, he greets everyone he sees like an old friend - and his presence is the only guarentee of our safety. Highly regarded and mammothly tattooed, it´s a fable: footballer in the favela. With the gringos. We have just ridden into Rocinha Favela - the biggest in Rio De Janeiro and home to 200,000 people. Cobwebs of wires are jacked into the mains; the electricity companies rarely come up here to disconnect - preferring to take the bill dodgers where they can get them on safer ground.
No one official comes up here unless they are asked to. The Government have made steps to try and ´reclaim´ the favela by force but they never stay. They make arrests, remove some of the dealers, fill the gap they leave and then recede again, unsafe on territory which is absolutely not their own. It is very clear that we are here because we are allowed to be here. Climbing off the bikes i feel unseen eyes on us. `No photos` Daniel says again.
We are all conciously making obvious ´non-shop lifter´ gestures. No sudden moves for the cameras or anything else. The truth is the population of the favelas - and the drug dealers who control them - like tourists to come here. They badly need attention and the eyes of the world to be on these places. And, as dangerous as it may be here were i alone, i am struck by how overwhelmingly normal it is. Life goes on.
We bump into a chap taking a census. There are political posters littering the alleys. Children scurry to school, we pass open doors, clean houses, made beds, shop fronts, barbers, bakeries. People taking out the trash. There´s a woman getting her eyebrows plucked by her mate as we pass her door, plucked chickens lined up and spread-eagled in a butchers window. I spot a flash of a Rooney shirt under a toothy grin. This is just life in a poor estate. The drug barons are here somewhere but mainly it´s families, kids. The average birth rate here is 5-6 children so contreception and education are what they need.
The houses stretch all the way up the rock face, right on top of the luxury Copacabana hotels and beach-side apartments. Juxtaposition, a satisfying contrast which must irk the powers that be no end. There are no taxes paid by these people. No bills - at least not once you get up the hill. All building is done by the people who live here and it´s completely unregulated, climbing ever higher into the jungle, eating the greenery, landscaping the horizon with overcrowded, buzzing life.
The Gov are talking about building a wall around this favela to stop the spread. You can see why they think it´s a good idea. Soon, the rock will be just a favela.
A month ago there was a shoot out at a hotel. Nine dealers - including the top guy - a 34 year old called Nam (what must his life be like?????) were ambushed on their way back from a party and took some hostages in a hotel. People died. The dealers fled back to the warren. They make millions and millions but must live their lives in these places, always hiding, buying guns, protecting themselves. ANOTHER WORLD. The people in charge here are one of three gangs in Rio - Amigos Des Amigos - Friends of Friends.
We visit an art gallery and meet one of the artists. On his wall, painted beautifully, is a self-portrait. Above it, he has written;
´I arte imita vida. I vida imita arte´. Art imitates life, life imitates art. Looking around this sprawling, crawling estate, alive with smiles and ´ois´ and ´holas´, chickens, lizards, kids, trees and, invisibly but undenaibly, cocaine, i really don´t agree with his assertion. This is not art. This is merely life.
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