The News From Paraguay

Asuncion, Paraguay
6 de abril de 2009

Lily Tuck won the 2004 National Book Award for her dark witted, lushly characterized novel, The News From Paraguay. It fictionalizes the life of the country´s founding father, Francisco Lopez and his Irish mistress, Ella Lynch. I´d saved the book until I got to Parguay; it´s been a great read. I recommend it.
The good news from Paraguay is that it´s been an abundant week full of surprises, warm people and great weather. It isn´t very often that countries spook me, but Paraguay caused some anxiety. I only remember Romania and India doing that to me, and it´s simply because I´d functioned on very little information. But...truth is Paraguay spooked me. I know of absolutely no one else who´s ever been here. Not a single person I´ve met this winter, even those traveling for a long time, entered the country nor intended to enter the country. Some people who asked where I was going would look at me in a funny way when I told them where I was going, then they´d change the subject. Needless to say I was a bit uneasy in the days and weeks leading up to my time in this interesting, unexplored corner of South America. Paraguay should give no one cause for alarm.
But...WOW! I arrived in a small city a week ago with the intention of using Encarnacion as a base to explore the Jesusit Missions on this side of the Parana River. After those days, I bussed north to the capital, Asuncion, and have been based here since then.

Paraguay is the Latin America I know and love. To be a bit honest, I was getting a bit bored in Argentina and Uruguay. They were settled by millions of Italians and one has the feeling he´s in Europe instead of South America. There´s no diversity and there´s very little evidence of indigenous culture. Paraguay, on the other hand, is full of non-Latino immigrants from Korea, Japan (like this couple seeing flowers at a street market), and the Middle East and it´s got a strong indigineous culture in the Guarani people who are Paraguay´s first people. The culture is so dominant that most everyone in the country speaks Guarani first and Spanish second. The government, in its respect for its indigenous, named its currency the Guarini. ($1.00 buys 5050 Guarinis. To be a millionaire costs less than $200.00 US.)

In Buenos Aires I´d met an Argentian who reduced all Paraguayans to coke-sniffing addicts. What I´ve found were incredibly nice people who went out of their way to help me when I appeared lost or confused, which is most of the time. :)

This is what I like:

In most of Latin America church and state and normal life blend together rather easily. It´s quite common to see stores and businesses having names that invoke religion. I have seen the Virgin of Pilar bus company, the Virgin of Fatima Pharmacy, and the Virgin of Caaupe grocery store. (So many virgins!) My favorite, though, is the Niño Jesus Peluqueria--the Baby Jesus Barber Shop. In our culture, the fundies would have a field day saying the church was being mocked, and the far left would tell the businesses to keep church out of public life. That´s just not the case in most of Latin America, and it´s kind of fun to see how shops and stores are named.

Most people do not have cars so public transportation is wide-spread, cheap and really efficient. It´s also a GREAT place to people watch. Yesterday, I spent two hours on two different buses. In the course of those two hours all sorts of people got off and on the buses selling all sorts of things: one guy had a basket of apples, pears and plums; another man was selling belts. A granddad and his grandson got on for a time. Grandad played the accordian and both of them sang. Another man played his guitar for ten minutes. All manner of kids sell candy, gum, dried bananas and papayas, batteries, potato chips and soft drinks. My favorite, after rattling along on Paraguay´s not-the-greatest-in-the-world roads was a Coca Cola vendor selling bottles of Coke that he´d pour in a glass for you. Right behind him was a young woman selling chipa, a yummy cheese bread that´s found all over Paraguay. Heck...no need to get off the bus to buy food. Local bus ride are never boring with this sort of on-going entertainment. 
 
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I’ve been reading Lily Tuck’s The News from Paraguay and liking it a lot.  It’s 1854 and the future dictator of Paraguay, Francisco Solano, begins his courtship of the young, beautiful Irish courtesan Ella Lynch. Ella follows Francisco to Asunción and reigns there as his mistress.   The books has been one of my left-handed guides  to the country, and especially to its capital, Asuncion.

But, as good as the book is, the country is even better.

I arrived in Asuncion shortly after the celebratory birthday and the city has been a delight, all due to some unexpected surprises.

 

On my first night in the city I was eating in a small restaurant and I overhead two young Americans.  American English was not something I was hearing a lot  of, so I finally interrupted their conversation to ask them a few questions, assuming that they were tourists. Far from it. They were in the Peace Corps and I think they needed to talk to another countryman just I needed to talk to them. We joined tables and chatted for over two hours.

 

Both Justin and Audrey had trained deep in the countryside outside of Asuncion, but were now stationed six hours away. The next day was Saturday and Justin was going to visit his host family. Would I like to join him? Well, dah! One of my primary travel philosophies is dropping Plan A when a better Plan B emerges.

      Saturday morning we met at 9:00 a.m., hopped on the first of three busses and rode two hours out of the city. I had no idea where I was, so it was very good to have a tour guide. From the bus stop, we walked another three kilometers down a red clay road, under a searing mid-day sun, past farms, past crops of sugar-cane, yucca and soy; past cows and horses and chickens and goats and pigs; past acres and acres and acres of coconut palms until, finally, he ducked down another dirt path which led us to a small family compound. What a wonderful opportunity Justin had given me.  We were way off the normal tourist track and I had a chance to spend time with Justin and his Paraguayan family.

 

 

 

 

     For me it was an opportunity to see how the majority of Paraguayan´s live, to see their pet monkey, to meet the aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews and grandparents, to share a simple meal that had been prepared in Justin´s honor; to see the garden that Justin helped plant. (He´s a bee keeper and agro-specialist, and had Justin not shown this family how to plant and maintain a small subsistence garden, they wouldn´t have one.) It was a wonderfully quiet visit, something no tour could ever have provided.

On the way back to Asuncion the hot, sunny day turned suddenly dark. The most powerful front I´ve ever seen pushed black, black clouds in coupled with a black rain. I later learned it had mixed with a volcano that had erupted earlier in Chile. It was so weird to have the gorgeous day turn into night time in a matter of minutes.

 But Paraguay hasn’t been bereft of problems.  Poverty has loomed about me in frightening ways.

This is the second poorest country in South America.  Children often get on busses and ask for money or food.  One boy, this evening, barefooted and dirty, passed out religious pictures then attempted to sing a song. Locals often hand out a few coins. I was left with a sadness in my stomach. Is this boy homeless? Is he choosing to do this as some kids do? What´s his family like?  Should I take him off the bus to buy him some food? In the end, I take my lead from locals and dig into my pockets.

 

Of course, not everyone who gets on the bus is begging. Vendors get on and sell everything imaginable.  My favorites are freshly poured glasses of Coca Cola and chipa—a uniquely Paraguayan cheese biscuit that is sold everywhere.  They’re addictive and I’ve been buying them at every turn.

 

As it´s been with all the places I´ve liked, I really didn´t want to leave Paraguay. There was still so much more to experience but, in truth, Paraguay is a place best visited in their winter. 95 degrees each day was growing a bit tedious. Easter beckoned in Bolivia and I had a flight that had to be kept, so I left Asuncion for Santa Cruz, Bolivia and an up-close-and-personal encounter with Semana Santa--Holy Week in Latin America.

Zero to Sixty in...60

Iguazu Falls, Argentina
On the tri-border of Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil
March 28, 2009

The summer I graduated from high school I went to New York City for the first time alone.  I'd been there many times before, but always with my family.  It was 1967--the "Summer of Love"--and hippies were everywhere.  While roaming around Washington Park in Greenwich Village I bought a pin that said, "Don't trust anyone over 30."  I was eighteen and thirty was, well...unimaginable.

That was 42 years ago.  In two days I turn 60.  Twice as old as that dreaded age I imagined in 1967.  What happened and how did I get this far so fast?  It truly does feel like "Zero to 60 in sixty seconds."  What do I do now?  Buy another pin that says "Don't trust anyone over 70?"

Last summer, while I was planning this trip, I knew I'd be away for this special day, and I knew I wanted to do something that neither my father nor grandfather had done on their 60th.  Where in this great, exceptional world of South America, would I really like to be on March 30th?

Iguazu Falls was the clear winner.

These are the biggest waterfalls in South America.  Indeed, they are the biggest in all of the Americas.

I have not looked forward to this birthday.  I know it's only a number, that all it means is that the earth has gone one more time around its orbit.

Still...60! But I am grateful, grateful beyond belief.  I think of all those who died prematurely, long before 20, 30, 40 or 50. I keep reminding myself that 60 is a gift.

"The gift of 60," I keep telling myself.

So, how will I spend the day.  I will wake to thanks, take a swim in the pool, eat breakfast and spend the day exploring the falls.  And, in keeping with my promise that I'm going to do something my father and grandfather didn't do.  I'm going to rappel down a waterfall, glide through the jungle on a cable, and ride some rapids--in other words, the "all inclusive Iguazu Adventure package."  And when the day is done, I'll eat a medium-rare Aregentinian steak, order a fine bottle of Diet Coke, and eat more dessert than I should.

And I will give thanks--again.

 

Cowboys and Palm Trees: Uruguay for the Unbeliever

Posadas, Argentina
March 26, 2009

I like small countries.  They're much easier to manage, which is why Uruguay was so appealing after the frenetic maelstrom of a month in Buenos Aires, a place I was more than ready to leave.

My first goal was the capital, Montevideo.  Geograpically, it's only three hours across the Rio Plata, but in other ways it's a world apart.  I boarded a fast boat on March 16th, crossed the river, met a bus that brough me the rest of the way then checked into a small hotel.

It always amazes me how neighboring countries can look and feel so different once a border is crossed.  Think of lovely downtown Mooers, NY and teh charming village of Hemmingford, Quebec.  It was a bit like that once I left Colonia, Uruguay and headed east to Montevideo.  Wha struck me immediately was the open space.  Uruguay is loaded with wide open speaces.  This was farm country.  Indeed, as I would come to see later, most of Uruguay is farm country.  I liiked it almost at once.

Montevideo was a delight.  It's not that Buenos Airest wasn't deglightful in its own way, but Montevideo was likeable for what it was not.  Unlike its neighboring city, Montevideo wasn't a city with attitude.  It wasn't diry.  The air wasn't full of carbon dioxide and cigarettes moke.  (Argentinian smokers are pigs who think nothing of smoking everywhere.  There wasn't caca de perro on the sidewalks.  In fact, I didn't see many dogs at all,  Maybe Uruguayans eat them.

It had a similar architecture, but it was much better maintained.  I love Art Deco, and Montevideo was loaded with beautiful examples of a `930's building spree.  And, unlike where Mexico City, where air quality has really taken a toll on this style of architecture, Montevideo's examples are in far better condition.

There were 25 kilometers of beaches in the city and, while the water quality wasn't the greatest, they're still wonderful. Unlike Buenos Aires which only had swimming pools, Montevideo's beaches were a wonderful way to wile away a day or two.

                                                                                                                                                                                   I spent five days in the city, and took two day trips out of it.  One trip was to Punta del Este, which is one  

of south America's premier beach towns. 

But it was early fall and much of the town had closed itself up for the season.  Still, our tour allowed three hours in the town and I spent most of it on its gorgous Atlantic beaches.  The water, which had traveled north from Antarctica, was too cold for my tastes. 

I wanted to explore more of rural Uruguay, plus I knew I had to head north to reenter Argentina later in the week to get to Iguazu Falls for the end of the month, so I chose the small border city of Salto, six hours north of Montevideo.  I'd chosen the place because it has so many hot springs nearby and i'd been told that the small resorts in the area are really pleasant.  How right they were.

                                                                              
As I headed north, the landscape began to change.  While Montevideo and Buenos Aires are on the edge of sub-tropical, the area I was traveling towards was definately sub-tropic.  Miiles and  miles of palms and eucalyptus and sycamores passed by window as  we travled north.  There were open prairies, grazing land, farms and small towns.  While coastal Uruguay is a bit hilly, the area north flattened ut.  I had the feeling I was entering big sky country.  It was sunny and clear and the horizon went on forever.

I spent four days outsdie of Salta as a spa/resort with three spring fed swimming pools.  It certainly wasn't cold in Salto, but I must that dipping into hot-thermal waters was mighty relazing.  The spa was wonderful, but I wanted to see more, so one day I rented a car and headed even further north.

One of the appealing things about Uruguay, at least for me, is its lack of population density.  From Salta I drove 100 miles north and only encounted two very small towns.  I would stop the car often to take pictures.  It was like being in Kansas, but Kansas with a twist.  The landscape was flat with rolling hills in every direction.  There'd be large stand of cattle and cowboys (gauchos) herding cattle.  Once I slammed on the brakes when I saw two emus at the top of a small hillock.  High prairie grasses glittered in the sun and goldenrod abounded along the sides of the road.  A dead armadillo gave me a clue to the ecosystem I was enjoying. 

By noon I wanted a bite toeat and especially to get something to drink.  There had been no stores along the road, so I was dependant on small towns where I knew I'd find small grocery stores.  Belem and Constitucion were delightful but, in truth, I'd go out of my mind if I had live in either of them.  Both were located on small lakes, both had a population of about 1,000 and borth were like stepping back in time.  I reallly needed to drink something at each town, but each town only had one store.  In belem, the store looked as if it hadn't been renovated since it openend in 1932.  The refrigerator coolers were ancient, the proprietor was ancient, the stores had shelves of old clothing, farm supplies and a small amount of foodstuffs.  The bus company that serviced the town used busses from the 1950's.  For a time, I thought I'd been time-warped..

It was a fun day, but the car rental was only for a day.  I would be quite content to spend the next day, my last, hanging out at the thermal fed swimming pool of my spa/resort

Salto and Uruguayan big sky country had seduced me with it all-day summer shimmer of brilliant sunlight and its long, bright, early autumn days.  It had seduced me with its prairies and small towns that stepped out of another world.  I could have stayed longer, but it was time to move on.  I had a date with destiny and destiny was not about to wait.

Cordoba, Argentina: Not the City--the Province

Salto, Uruguay
22 de Marzo de 2009


Once again solo in the city, it was to take a vacation from my vacation, get out of the city, and enjoy some of the good air of another part of the country.  I chose Cordoba because I'd heard nice things about the city, but I will admit I'd not done my homework.  I was totally unaware that that the city was located ten hours northwest of Buenos Aires, is not only a city but an Argentinian province as well.  ((t's a bit like "I live in New York.  No.  Not the city.  The state.")

 I reserved a seat on an overnight bus and it was my good fortuen to sit next to a young man who said to me, "You don't want the city of Cordoba.  You want the province."

OK.  As I said, I didn't do my homework and the more this guy told me of the state vs. the city, the more willing I was to let him make a few tweaks in my dismally laid plans.

The next morning we bypassed the city of Cordoba and disembarked in a much smaller city called Villa Carlos Paz.  Now, from what I could see, Villa Carlos Paz exists for reason, and one reason only--a city for tourists to hang their hats.  It's got great weather, lovely mountain vistas, three casinos and 250 hotles.  350!  It certainly wasn't hard to find a place to stay, especially since school had started the day before.

What it also had was a super network of tours that, for about $20.00, would whisk off the tourist on ten hour trips in multiple directions.  Not a bad deal at all!


CORDOBA, THE STATE, IS LOCATED ON A HIGH PLATEAU WITH THE SIERRA MOUNTAINS TO ITS WEST. THE SIERRAS, OF COURSE, ARE PART OF THE ANDES, BUT A MUCH SMALLER RANGE THAN THE ONES NEAR MENDOZA, WHICH ARE THE HIGHEST IN SOUTH AMERICA. CORDOBA WAS, IN A SENSE, THE ADIRONDACKS OF ARGENTINA, BUT THAT´S NOT A FAIR COMPARISON. THEY TOPPED OUT AT ABOUT 5,000 FEET, WERE COVERED IN VEGETATION AND INVITED HIKING. BUT THIS TRIP WAS ABOUT EXPLORING ITS MANY SMALL TOWNS AND ENJOYING THE VIEWS OF THE MOUNTAINS AND FROM THEIR SUMMITS.

A FEW HIGHLIGHTS: ON ONE OF THE TRIPS WE VISITED THE BOYHOOD HOME OF CHE GUEVARA AND TOURED A GORGEOUSLY RECONSTRUCTED JESUIT MISSION, NOW A UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE, IN THE PRETTY LITTLE TOWN OF ALTA GRACIA. ( JESUIT MISSIONS WILL PLACE A MORE SIGNIFICANT ROLE IN THIS TRIP WHEN I VISIT ANOTHER AREA OF ARGENTINA, PARAGUAY AND ONCE AGAIN IN BOLIVIA.)

SCHOOL HAD STARTED THAT WEEK AND, BECAUSE OF THE SLIGHT ALTITUDE, THERE WAS AN END-OF-SUMMER FEELING IN THE AIR. THE DAYS WERE GORGEOUS--A DAZZLE OF SUNLIGHT WHILE THE NIGHTS COOLED DOWN COMFORTABLY. AND BECAUSE KIDS WERE BACK IN SCHOOL, THERE WERE FAR FEWER PEOPLE ON THE ROAD.


ONE PLEASANT MEMORY IS A SHORT HIKE A TOOK WHEN THE BUS STOPPED FOR LUNCH--ALWAYS A LONG AFFAIR ON THESE BUS TRIPS. WE WERE AT 4,000 FEET AND I HIKED UP A ROAD FOR ABOUT TWO MILES THEN RETURNED TO THE RESTAURANT. GARDENS WERE FULL OF LATE SUMMER FLOWERS--ZINNIAS AND MARIGOLDS, COSMOS AND DAHILIAS. GOLDENROD GRACED THE SIDES OF THE ROAD. SEPTEMBER AT HOME, BUT MID MARCH IN ARGENTINA.

LOTS OF GERMANS AND SWISS EMIGRATED TO THIS PART OF ARGENTINA AND SEVERAL TOWNS REFLECT THIS HERITAGE. ONE TOWN, EL CUMBRE, IS A SPITTING IMAGE OF A SWISS HAMLET--COMPLETE WITH CHALETS, FONDUE, GERMAN/SWISS MENUS AND STORES SELLLING ALL SORTS OF GERMAN ALPINE GOODS. EL CUMBRE WAS THE HIGHEST POINT WE TRAVELLED TO AND BY THIS IN MARCH SOME TREES HAD LAREADY BEGUN TO CHANGE. IT WAS STILL SUMMER, BUT AT THIS ALTITUDE AUTUMN WAS BEGINNING TO EMERGE.

THE BEST TRIP I TOOK WAS TO A SMALL TOWN CALLED MINA CLAVERO, ABOUT 90 MINUTES OUT OF VILLA CARLOS PAZ. I WANTED A "TOUR FREE" DAY, SO I TOOK A LOCAL BUS, GOT TO MINA CLAVERA BY LATE MORNING, GOT MY BEARINGS AND WANDERED DOWN TO THE RIVER THAT CUT THROUGH THE TOWN. I SPENT A SUPERB AFTERNOON UNDER A WIDE ARC OF SKY, UNDER A BRILLIANT LATE SUMMER SUN, ON THE BEACH BANKS OF A CLEAR, CLEAR, COLD MOUNTAIN RIVER. IT WAS PERFECT. AS THE DAY WOUND DOWN, I REALIZED HOW LOW THE SUN WAS GETTING AND THAT I HAD TO FACE FURTHER NORTH TO GET THE FULL EFFECT OF ITS WARMTH.

CORDOBA WAS A DELIGHT. THIS IS PART OF ARGENTINA THAT I WOULD BE HIGH ON MY "PLACES TO RETURN" TO LIST. HOW NICE IT WOULD BE SPEND CHRISTMAS/NEW YEAR IN ONE OF THE SMALL MOUNTAIN TOWNS, ENJOYING THE LONGEST DAYS OF THE YEAR.

WE WILL SEE.

The Good Air of Buenos Aires, Argentina: Part II

All large cities, no matter how exotic they sound from a guidebook or armchair, share certain characgtferistics: they're big, often hot and dirty, noisy and crowded.  But some cities get classified as "wordl class"--like Buenas Aires, and when they get that classification, it's often easy to overlook some of their faults.  The good air of this crowded city provided me with more than ample opportunities.

Steve was here for a good chunk of the time. Together, we were turistas lunaticas--out of the apartment at noon and pounding the city's streets on foot, subte and taxi.  We'd arrive back home exhausted, but always satisfied.Buenos Aires has a museum for every day of the year.  There's even one dedicated to cheese, but we're only good for about 1.5 museums a week, so we'd spend most of our time ourxplorig the city's many parks and formal gardens--all of which are free and all of whice were in their full summer splendor. 

  The good air of Buenos Aires is a walker's dream.  We'd start twith "A" with "Z"in mind, then do an alphabetic meander, looking at everything there was to look at, to get to our destination.  Buenos Aires is well connected with an extensive bus system, so it was always easy to get from "Z" back home again.

What did we see in these meanderings?  The good air of Buenas Aires is loaded with lovely old 19th century Belle Epoque architecture blended in with great art deco architecture from the 1930's.  There were street markets and fantastic ice cream shops and restaurants all over the place.  It wasn't hard to spend a day just wandering.

Both of us like cemeteries, and the good air of Buenos Aires did not dissapoint.  Recoletta is the city's premier cemetary and major tourist site because it's where Eva Peron was laid to rest.  But it's packed with tourists, so we headed a bit out of town to Chacaritas, where thos less famous have been buried.  Well, buried isn't ther ight word.  There are literally streets and streets of mausoleums.  Porteno's--the residents of Buenos Aires--from the 19th century seemed to want to outdo each other.  What makes both of these cemeteries really interesting is that each mausoleum has a glass door and inside the mausoleum, for everyone to see, are stacks of coffins.  No where else in the world have I ever seen that.  It was almost as if the dead Portenos wanted to make a statement in the size and grandeur of their casket.  We even say workers inside mausoleums sweeping and polishing the brass.  All very cool.

About every fourth day we'd make an excursion out of the city.  One trip was north to the Uruguayan border town of Tigre.  It was a blistering hot day and we took advantage of an extended boat ride on the Parana Delta, hoping to see some of the wildlife our guidebook promised.  All we saw were other tourists.

Another day trip brought us to the serene littel town of San Antonia de Areca.  It was a Monday and very quiet, but a 19th century estancia--a large Argentnian ranch--was open for visiting.  Wealthy landowners from the 18th and 19th century built rambling estancias from which they governed their vast properites.  Today, many of these elegant old ranches have been converted to upscale boutique hotel or, in this case, mueums.  This one honored the life of the Argentinian writer Ricardo Guiraldes.  We spent a wonderfully quiet afternoon enjoying a long walk alone a quiet river's edge, sharing a meal in a small restaurant, only returning to the maelstrom of Buenos Aires late in the afternoon.

Our best day trip was to Colonia del Sacramento, in Uruguay, across the Rio Plate, about two hours from Buenos Aires.  The river is massively wide, and it's really not possible to see one side from the other.  A day trip to Colonia is popular and boats are full of people out for the day.  We toured the town, its old forst and visited a couple of museums and the lovingly restored church in the center of town.  Today, Colonia is a UNESO World Heritage site, but 350 years ago it was a Portugese settlement establisehed to make smuggling easier between Brazil and Argentinia.  It's a beautiful small city, lying on the wide, caramel-brown shores of the Rio Plata.  By early afternoon we'd had enough of touring and spent the rest of the day on one of the city's many beaches, only returning to the good air of Buenos Aires after dark.

The good air of Buenos Aires is loaded with street markets, especially on the weekend.  Two of the bst, but by no means the only two, are in the popular tourist centers of San Telmo and Recoletta.  Way too much money was spent at these markets, but let's just say that all of our Christmas shopping down for 2009! 

The good air of Buenos Aires has more than its fair share of theater, dance and music.  I was able to see a Spanish version of Hairspray, a musical about Eva Peron called "Eva," two tango shows and a whole lot of great jazz.  Plus, the streets, especially on the weekend, were were loaded with musicians playing for free and selling their CD's for about $5.00. It was also a lot of fun to watch really good tango dancers strut their stuff. 

It was always snice to come home to an apartment.  Last fall, I'd arranged to rent a place via a web page I'd learned about.  For $33.00 a night, we had a large, one bedroom apartment, albeit sparsely furnised, in a nice building in the upscale neighborhood of Palermo Viejo.  Best of all, it had a balcoy which did not get the morning sun.  It was a great place to spend the early part of the day and, after the sun dipped behind a neighboring high rise, to spend the late afternoon and evening.

By early March there was a definite feel of autumn in the air.  Days were noticeably shorter.  Kids had returned to school, and stores began advertising for Autumn/Winter 2009.  After Steve left, I lingered on two more weeks.  But solo in the city just wasn't the same.  Earlier, I'd connected with a small group of expats who live in Buenos Aires during the northern winter months, and I was grateful for the times I spent with them, enjoying evenings of music and late night dinners.

On the Saturday afternoon of my last full day in the city, the good air of Buenos Aires pushed in clouds and heavy rain.  It had been a lovely day, but by early evening the rain was steady and the winds so strong that they blew over a cabinet in the laundry room.  At midnight, my iPod went a little crazy; whenit settled down it was 11:00 pm.

By Sunday morning, the clouds and rain were gone.  Daylight was an hour earlier and the day was clear and absolutely autumnal.  My thermometer read 59 degrees--the coldest it had been since I left Plattsburgh two months earlier.  The front had blown out summer, blown Argentinians back and hour and blew in fall.

It blew me out as well.  Sunday I revisted a few favorite places, packed and cleaned the apartment.  Monday morning, march 16th, I caugght a fast boat across the River Plata and arrived in Montevideo a few hours later.

But the city has left its mark.  There were more tango steps to learn, more jazz to hear, and more milangas (tango clubs) to haunt.  As for its museums, I'd only seen a week's worth.  The good air of Buenos Aires stilll had more to offer, and even though i was leaving, I had a feeling the city had not seen the last of me.

The Good Air of Buenos Aires, Argentina--Part 1

Buenos Aires
March 10, 2009

Let me tell you something about the good air of Buenos Aires. When I arrived almost a month ago, the good air of Buenos Aires was rich and sweet with the dry heat of a mid-summer´s day. Ahh, I was told...do not be deceived. This is an aberration, not normal, not a typical summer´s day. Whoever told me that was right.Within a day the good air of Buenos Airs has turned thick with humidity; the temperatures soared into the low 90´s. The skies were still blue, but the ambient temperature was a force to reckon with. The good air of Buenos Aires had turned stifling--wet, breezeless and uncomfortable. Still, with shade and access to air conditioning, all things are possible. But then, there was the good air of Buenos Aires´ metro system, know locally as el subte. No air conditioning exists below the surface of the streets and no air conditioning could be found on any metro car. Trains were packed, standing room only, and easily 5-7 degrees hotter than outside. On really hot days the good air of the subte resulted in sweat pouring out of every gland, water beading on the skin, a bone drenching dehydration waiting to happen. Fortunately, rides were short.

It was my first Friday in Buenos Aires and I was enjoying the good air of the subte. It was the start of the line, the car began to fill. I was waiting on the subte´s A line--a classic, 1950´s line complete with old cars of a New York City vintage, circa 1955--all wooded interiors, windows that opened. It was hot. A group of rag-tag, Dickensian-type children were sprawled all over the seats, racing through the cars. It was still summer vacation and school was out of session. Barefooted and dirty, these urchins were the center of attention.

People gathered, the train took off. The children regrouped and the ragamuffin kids staged a mini-show of bottle and ball juggling, and a silly little dance routine. It was a great spectacle, a theater of poverty.  The young rascals had talent. were good. People applauded and little hands begged round for pesos. Then they were off to another car. I remember thinking I was glad they weren´t going to be in my classroom.

And that is when I came to love Buenos Aires. (A similar thing happened years ago in Mexico City when I walked out of the metro and watched a fire breather entertain drivers at a red light at rush hour. I always like the bizarre and that was when I fell in love with Mexico City.)

At times the good air of Buenos Aires was heavy with the smell of smoke--cigarettes and exhaust. Way too many people smoke and there are few laws that outlaw it, except in restaurants. But bus drivers smoke, the guy standing next to you waiting in line for something smokes, as does the woman next to you on a park bench.

Too, there´s the rich, wonderful smell of exhaust from the millions of cars and buses that don´t seem to have very strict emission standards. One afternoon, a rather hot one, I was standing on a corner waiting to cross the street. My eyes were watery from some allergic reaction to something. I could literally see carbon monoxide hovering in the air. Pull out the eye drops, hope for the best.

And then there is the good air of Buenos Aires´ dogs. There are leash laws, of course, but not poop laws. The good of air of Buenos Aires, at times, and dependent on location, could be filled with the aromatic aroma of caca de perro. Little landmines waited for discovery. Of course, the professional dog walkers who can lead up to ten or fifteen dogs at a time do pick up their clients´ caca, but they seem to be the only ones who do so.
The good air of Buenos Aires did not stay wet hot all the time. After a brutal three day period in mid to late February, when the temperature climbed to a 104, with a humidity to match, a front moved in that pushed out the deep heat. We woke that morning, opened the doors to the balcony, and were met with a cool, dry, late-August, "you-know-fall-is-in-the-air" sort of day. There was another week of summer vacation and it felt just like home in the days preceding Labor Day.

From then on the good air of Buenos Aires was fresh and pleasant and it´s been that way ever since.

Mendoza, Argentina--Beautiful Mendoza

Buenos Aires
March 9, 2009

Mendoza.  Even now the name Mendoza evokes strong images: long, eternally blue summer days; the rich, redolent smell of eucalyptus and the fresh summer-afternoon-smell of newly cut grass.  Wide, beautiful, tree-lined streets; an Andean backdrop of glaciers and 15,000+ foot mountains; the flat Argentinian pampas and a thousand vineyards surrounding the city.  A brilliant waxing moon seen "down-under", where the moon waxed from the left to right instead of right to left, then waned as my days in Mendoza dwindled down.

Mendoza.

I'd arrived early in February from Valparaiso, Chile.  After my return from Easter Island, I spent a few more days in Santiago, then went to Valparaiso--one of Chile's UNESCO World Heritage sites--on the Pacific Coast.

It's a bit difficult not to fall in love with Valpa.  It's directly on the ocean, rises up a series of ten hills, or cerros, and it's full of twisty, fun, colorful streets.  From everywhere there's a full view of the Pacific.  Of course, this was only after the early morning marine layer had burned off the clouds.  By noon, the sky was a deep, gorgeous blue and the temperatures were moderated by the sea.  Early February on the coast of Chile.

I'd been here before--in the form of San Francisco and Laguna Beach, in California, but this was more funky.  The streets were irregular and steep, and a series of funiculars could get you up the worst of the hills.  From there it was just fun to wander up and down the steep footpaths of the city's hills.


Pablo Neruda, Chile's Nobel Prize author, lived for a time in Valpa and his home is now a national treasure.  Built on five level, it's perched on one of the higher hills above the city.  It was all glass and vista--almost a bird house--and the views from the fifth floor studio were fabulous.  It would not be hard to call this home.

Unfortunately, my time in Valpa was short-lived. Perhaps that' sbest. All the more reason to return and hold up for a much longer visit. I'd booked myself into a laguage school in Mendoza, Argentina, and that forced my hand to exit Chile.

So early on a Sunday morning, I left Valparaiso on a Mendoza bound bus. Because I rarely create travel expectations, I was a bit unprepared for the amazing journey that would bring me out of Chile, up and and over the Andes, to Mendoza. We left sea level and within minutes started to climb away from the coast, into the Chilean foothills of the Andes. Within an hour or so, we were steadily climbing until we reached the Chilean/Argentinian border at 8,000 feet. We passed several significant ski centers--Portillo being one of them--all of which were summer-empty. Come June, though, they fill up with South Americans, ski teams from many northern countries and Americans and Europeans who just can't get enough of one ski season.

The mountains were polychromatic marvels, barren and free of vegetation.  The day was clear and blue which made the vistas from my bus window seat all the better.  At the border, the traffic was such that we had to wait three hours to clear customs.  This was all fine because it gave me an opportunity to do a bit of hiking which got me closer to the megaliths I was seeing.  I still marvel, whenever I'm at high altitudes, that.these mountains were all submerged at one time and had beed been pushed by unimaginable forces to elevations that exceeded 20,000 feet.

On the Argentinian side of the border, it was all downhill for the next three hours.  At one point, we passed Aconcagua, the highest peak in South America at about 21,000 feet.  It was clear, sunny and blue and we had a full panoramic view of the mountain.  What frustrated me, was not being able to stop.  Mountains became smaller until we entered the flat, dry Aregentine pampas and the lovely city of Mendoza.
My plan was to spend two weeks in Mendoza, live with a local family, go to school part of the day, and put my totally inadequate Spanish to use.  And that is exaclty what I did.

Again, it was my good fortune to live in the home of Malena, 60 something, divorced and a marvelous cook. Sharing the house was a young woman from Switzerland who spoke no Spanish and was just getting her feet wet in the language.  Malena would prepare us a light breakfast, then we'd set off for class.  I'd arranged for four hours a day of one-on-one work with a teacher who'd stretch my vocabulary and require me to read material I'd otherwise avoid. 

Classes finished at 1:00 pm and most of the students would gather in the school's garden to eat lunch.  What impressed me so about this school, and the student body, was that no one spoke English.  We were all in the same linguistic boat, and it was sink or swim, and most of us swam very well. 

By 2:00 p.m. there was always an afternoon outing--to a local museum or a hot springs. At least once a week the school went to a different vineyard for a personal tour. (Mendoza is Argentinia's premier wine growing area with over 1,000 vineyards, or bodegas, surrounding the city. This was also when I was introduced to tango.

By late afternoon, I'd return to Malena's, shower (it was always 90+ during the day), do a bit of homework, commit new vocabulary to memory

As is the habit of Argentinians, dinner was not served until 9:30 or 10:00 pm.  We'd sit on the patio of Malena's lovely back yard, enjoy her superb cooking, struggle on in Spanish and finally call it a night around 11:00 pm. 

In hindsight, I feel this was one of the best language environments I've ever been in.  Teachers were well trained, students were serious, and the course load was demanding yet reasonable.  And because Mendoza was such a likeable city, with wide streets, huge parks and a ton of natural wondes surrounding it,, I can see why students linger on for weeks.  It's certainly the only school I would ever consider returning to.  And I just might.

But all things must come to an end, and my my stay in Mendoza was running tight.  I'd scheduled an apartment in Buenos Aires for a month and on February 11th it was time to move on.

Easter Island/Rapa Nui/La Isla de Pascua

Mendoza, Argentina
February 5, 2009

For one delicious week I was on a tiny speck of spectacularly beautiful land, on a tiny volcanic island deep into the wide, open, blue Pacific. Easter Island, known locally at Rapa Nui, is the most isolated piece of inhabited real estate in the world. I was 2,400 miles from the South American mainland and 1,000 miles from tiny Pitcairn Island. If the whole of civilization had blow up, I´d have been
blissfully unaware.

Initially, I´d had the idea to navigate the 10 x15 square mile island on foot. Just how big can
10 x15 be, I thought? Well, it´s much bigger than I imagined, especially on rugged terrain without proper hiking boots and under a fiercely hot, summer sun. But, hike and tour I did. In my six full days there, three were done on foot and the other three were done on scooter, car or in a taxi.

I was staying in Hanga Roa, the only town on the island. It was my extraordinary good fortune to find, online, Las Cabanas Manteas. Carmen, the owner, met me at the airport and presented me with a lei of frangiopani, bougainvillea and hibiscus--my first introduction to the fact that, while Chile might own this tiny speck of land, it´s culturally and geographically part of Polynesia/Oceania. Las Cabanas was located just a bit out of town, 300 meters from the ocean, on a rise looking westward at the sea. I´d arrived at 8:00 p.m. By the time I got to the residencial the sun was setting--a fiery red ball dropping into the rugged blue Pacific. Almost immediately I met James and his partner, Jo, of the UK, and their two beautiful children, Henry and Mary, ages 4 and 2. We made fast friends of each other and my fondest moments involve this wonderful family. I miss them still.

James and I would sit outside long after dark trying to identify the constellations of the southern night sky. Venus was especially brilliant and we marveled at sitting right underneath Orion. Each night we´d look for the Southern Cross--the truest marker of being ¨down under.¨

The island was perfect for hiking--if one has the right hiking boots--which I didn´t have. That didn´t deter me in the least, but I did have very sore feet and a highly aggrevated knee at the end of each aggressive hiking day. The island is studded with extinct volcanoes and my first hike was to Orongo, a 12 km hike that brought be up and away from Hanga Roa to a 400 meter volcano with an impressive crater with a hiking trail all around it. I hugged the rocky coast a bit, then hiked up a lovely trail, slipping, every now and then, through groves of heady-scented eucalyptus. Orongo was the site of the Rapa Nuian Birdman Cult and the most impressive petroglyphs are in this location. That, coupled with the fact that it was the absolute end of the island with an impressive view of the sea, made for a fine day´s outing.
The sun, however, was incredibly strong and it was necessary to carry three or four liters of water on each hike. No supplies could be purchased anywhere on the island except in the main town. I did not know this on Day 1 and got seriously dehydrated. A lesson well learned.

I´d come to Easter Island for one reason, and that was to see the giant stone statues, the Maoi, that dot the island. Sadly, much is not known about the civilization that produced these giant statues. European intervention was a tragic encounter. After the Peruvian slave wars of the mid-1800´s, fewer than 100 Rapa Nuians were still alive. None of the story tellers, the ones who pass down indigenous history, were alive. Lost forever was the oral of history of how these people came to the island and why they built almost 1,000 statues.

It´s estimated that about 850 Maoi still exist. 400 of them are still in the quarry where they were carved; another 100 or so are at a point on the island where they were in transit; another 350 or so are on or around their ahus. Hundreds of these altars surround the island. Some of them were built to hold the Maoi, but most were used for ceremonial purposes. Early explorers indicated that most of the Maoi were still standing, but within a few years almost all of them had been toppled. Earthquakes? Tsunamis? Deliberately toppled? It´s still an open debate.

There were two ways to get around the

island: on foot or via scooter. A well-built road rings the island and most of the Maoi are a short hiking distance from either sea or road. One day, I chose the latter, and set out early to see as much of the island as possible. I say early, because, for some unknown reason, time is reckonded slightly differently on the island. The sun never really rose until 7:30 a.m. All of which was fine by me, because I rarely get moving early in the morning. Conversely, the summer sun sets around 10:00 p.m.--a perfect day.

I packed lots of liquid. For some weird reason nothing is sold outside of Honga Roa, and I did not want to run the risk of dehydration again. I was in absolutely no hurry. Within a very short time I´d left the village and found myself on the road that hugs the sea. I´d divert down all dirt tracks, up and over hills and would park the scooter whenever I saw a Maoi. Almost all the Maoi have been toppled, but they´re so huge that at scooter-speed it wasn´t difficult to spot one. Often, there would be several in a line. And always, with only a few exceptions, the Maoi were placed a short distance from the Pacific, with their backs to the sea. All along the coast there were reconstructed ahus, most of which were nothing more than a piles of rocks that had been used in past as ceremonial altars. I stopped at each site and would explore these archeological wonders for as long as they held my interst. I´d also stop my scooter for every WOW view of the ocean--and there seemed to be scores of WOW moments. My camera certainly got a lot of action and I´ve more photos of Maoi and seascapes than I´ll ever need.

Each Maoi had been quarried and moved an enormous distance from the site I was visiting. Some had been chiseled from a single pìece of stone and others had been quarried in pieces. None were standing; still, roaming around these sites gave me pause to think of the genius that created them. Mostly, it begged more questions than answers. Why were they built? How were they moved so far from their original source? What motivated their construction? So little is known that archeologists are still debating the answers.

One of my principal goals for the day was to explore the volcanic quarry from where the Maoi had been harvested. I really wasn´t prepared for what I saw. Up until then I´d only seen toppled Maoi along the coast. When I got to Rano Raraku it was raining and almost all tourists had left. I waited out the rain, which was an almost daily affair. (It would blow in and blow out with South Pacific regularity and would rarely amount to anything.) I parked the scooter and set off on foot. What I had not seen from a distance, and could only see when I got up close, was the sheer number of Maoi within the crater--over 150. Indeed, the majority of existing Maoi are located in this single spot. Some were standing and had been buried in soil. Some were fully erect, and some had tilted. To stand stand next to one of these wonders was absolute magic. Towards the top of the quarry were many more Maoi in one form or another of being quarried out. They were all unfinished and just lying there waiting to be finished. I had to wonder why so many were left undone and what island disruption terminated their completion. It was an hour or two of wonder and magic.

By now the weather had cleared, sort of,

and I was at the far eastern end of the island. From the top of the quarry I could see the classic photo-op on the island--a line of 15 erect Maoi, set again the dramatic backdrop of the ocean. I´d give the quarry a little more time and set off for my next adventure.

It was late afternoon and the sun was firmly behind these magnificent structures. Thor Heyerdahl, who, probably more than anyone, put Easter Island on the map in the 1950´s with his books Kon-Tiki and Ahu-Ahu, reconstructed them years ago. They are stunning to see and one of the true travel-wonders of the world. I stood in awe at 15 gigantic Maoi, backs against the ocean, standing testament to a lost civilization. I knew I would return again at dawn to watch the sun rise from this magical spot.

Two of my fondest days were spent with James, Jo and the kids. The children were hearty little explorers and never complained on our long days out and about. (Henry, at age 4, had already traveled to four of the seven continents.) Our first excursion was on foot out of Honga Roa. I´ve dubbed it the "agricultural" tour of the island because we spent so much time circumnavigating the many small farms on the island. Our first goal was Ahu Akivi, in the center of the island, and unusual for two reasons; the Maoi face the ocean and they´re located inland. Ahu Akivi is a fully reconstructed line of eight Maoi. Because of its isolation, we were the only tourists there for well over an hour. It was lunch time. We ate what we brought, relishing our solitude and enjoying the view as we looked out over a gently sloping, volcanic rock studded landscape to the sea, almost a kilometer away. We bought deliciously sweet wild pineapples from a couple of local venders. It was both a delicious time with wonderful people to share this marvelous place, and a delicious treat to eat wild pineapple.

James had been on the island before and was a perfect guide. From Ahu Akivi we set off for Puna Pao, the smaller volcanic crater from which the Pukaos oringinated. (The pukao are the ¨hats¨or head pieces that some, but not all, Maoi, wear.) This was our ¨agricultural¨ tour. We trekked past numerous small family fruit and vegetable farms and past a few smaller dairy farms. (Almost nothing is produced on the island and almost everything is transported in from the mainland, so fresh ¨anything¨ is highly valued, and expensive.) The island is studded with all sorts of dormant volcanoes--most of them not much bigger than small hills, so the landscape is quite dramatic. More than once rain sidetracked us, but nothing ruffled the gang of three adults and two tiny explorers.

Our goal was Puna Pau, the quarry where the red obsdian top-knots were dug out. Few Maoi on the island have these unique head pieces and few still had them when the island was at its height of civilization. Most scholars think they were purposely put on only a small percentage. We were fortunate to find a dig going on by a team of archeologists from the UK. They were more than happy to answer our many questions and explain their mission. The team was meticulously removing soil from the base of a still intact pukao. Their goal was to find some form of tool or wood from which they could conduct carbon dating.

By now all of us were tired, thirsty, dirty and hungry. We´d weathered three or four thunderbrts, hiked a good 12-14 kilometers, down winding country paths, and up and over numerous volcanitos to explore all the remaing pukao. It was time to return to Honga Roa. James led us down foot paths, past cows and horses, past larger family gardens, into the "suburbs" of town. We stoked up on groceries, made arrangements to rent a car the next day, returned home, and settled in early.

The next day, my last full one on the island, we all rose long before sunrise, drove off in the dark to the eastern end of the island so we could watch the sun rise over Tongariki, a line of 15 Maoi that had been re-erected in 1960. Few travel experiences in my life have equaled that morning. We settled in for a front row view, sharing the site with only a large handful of other tourists. The sun did rise, the line of Maoi stood impassively with their backs to the sea, cameras were frantic and I was in travel heaven. What a way to start the day.

From there, we headed back to the Maoi quarry where

we were the only tourists. It was still very early and we

had the site totally to ourselves. We hiked to the

summit, explored sites we really weren´t allowed into, then worked our way to the backside of the quarry to the crater itself. What a treat. Inside, all along the wide crater, were scores of smaller Maoi, waiting for the sun to splash them with light. We meandered along the path, shooed cows out of the way more than once, and only left when the first tourist appeared.

From there, we returned to town, and dropped Jo and Mary off at the hotel. James, Henry and I spent the rest of the wonderful day tracking down toppled Maoi, wandering off on trails to see rock-chisled petroglyphs, and finally spending the long, hot, summer afternoon at the beach.

My time on Easter Island came to end. I packed my bags and flew back to Santiago. A week was ample time, but a return visit would be nice. When the UN designated RapaNui as a National World Heritage site, they commented that the island´s treasures were "a masterpiece of human creative genius...and a unique testament to a civilization which has become vulnerable." I had to agree and was grateful for the opportunity to see them first hand.