Seven Days Seven Nights

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.

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.

Sing Your Stupid Head Off To The One's Who Are Not Listening

The displacement of one’s true self after your home has been removed, or destroyed, is an odd, light feeling.

I packed up my life, kicked the struts out from under it, and it collapsed as i ran away with my hands over my ears. The pieces floated to earth, were blown far and wide. The force of the blast also scattered the family at the beating heart of Bow. And now we are cast adrift in a sea of doubt and uncertainty.

Tonight I return to the scene of my former life to sift through the debris. We plan our attack at 2200 hours. Tomorrow we hand over the keys. On Thursday we return, with backup.

Wish Us Luck.

This Is It

Chewing over the spoils of the last 3 days, and indeed the last 3 years in the best living room in the world. The shake up, or metaphysical fuck up which culminated this weekend, also included the power to the kitchen getting fatally blown, the boiler fucking up and the washing machine giving up the ghost against a backdrop of a warehouse full of people who cared not, having been on a 48 hour party tour of Bow, the very last one. So, utter destruction all around, badminton and pool played feverishly, a continual stream of the same questions: 'When are you moving out? Where are you gonna go? Do you need a hand?' and I finally feel as if we have put the old place to bed. The people who have made the family what it is, and the bonds that have been forged in these walls, will live on forever.

This is it.

One story ends, another begins.