Channelling the Cane Spirits

Monday 31.12.07

It was a relief to leave the claustrophobic confines of Buenos Aires and head south toward bluer waters. We left for Mar del Plata in the morning, and though we were able to escape Latin America's third largest city, we still found ourselves well within the boundaries of the Argentinean province of the same name. The inter-city coaches in this country are among the finest in the world, and we opted for Cama class, best described as 'fully reclining all-cow comfort'; as an added bonus coming garnished with free Havanna Alfajores. Mar del Plata (meaning Silver Sea) was just five hours away, merely a trip around the block by South American standards, and not a long time after the little hand ambled past the upright position we were aboard a local bus heading out along the southern Atlantic coast to where we'd be staying.

Anahí's friend Elisa lives with her family in the northern and more tranquilo part of the city, and I have to say we received a red-carpet foreign diplomat's reception, complete with free bicycle rental (pre-puncture only), all the 1kbps internet we could handle and the promise of a mutually beneficial Mar del Plata/Melbourne free-trade agreement at the end of it. We would have the bungalow to ourselves, and our every need pandered to by Elisa's mother. But the best was yet to come, as the smell from the approaching New Year's feast began to waft seemingly halfway across the neighbourhood. After darkness had fallen on the last day of 2007, the feast, big enough to feed a stable of starving greyhounds, began featuring at least four varieties of stuffed whole chicken and naturally plenty of other meaty offerings. Enormous too was the variety of alcohol on offer, with cratefuls of beer and wine and enough bubbly sidra (cider) to propel oneself to the upper reaches of Willy Wonka's fizzy-lifting room. Explosions overhead heralded the approach of midnight, and we all ran out to the street to get a better look. The suburban fireworks display is not a part of Australian tradition, mostly because of the impossibility of attaining the equipment, but Latin Americans will find any excuse to make a loud noise and some pretty colours.

Having spent many a holiday on Australia's fine stretches of sand, I was a smidgeon disappointed when I first laid eyes on the beaches of Mar del Plata. The northern beaches are all tiny half-moon shapes, strung together by a series of breakwaters and looking like they had spent time on the Atlantic continental shelf before being hauled to the shore for human enjoyment. From the colour of the city's main beaches fronting the boardwalks and ice-cream parlours, they could've been dredged from the asteroid belt. Whatever sand is left on these weathered shores is obscured by rows upon rows upon rows of beach huts for rent and the remainder covered bumper to bumper by the sunbathing masses. Hundreds of thousands of Argentineans make the journey in summer to get away, though when every second porteño from Buenos Aires is breathing over your shoulder, you may wonder exactly what they are escaping from. In fact the climate in the capital over January becomes unbearable, and for someone that has spent even a single summer there, it's really no surprise why everyone wants to leave.

Capitalism comes snapping at the heels of all these beach-goers, a fact which cannot be escaped unless one flies a couple of parsecs away from the popular zones. While all points of sale downtown - including pharmacies - are almost entirely cloaked in Coke Zero or other fizzy beverage signs (one even cheekily named Farmacia Zero), aeroplanes promote hygiene products by buzzing overhead the beaches, which themselves are often named after various local and international corporations. The town is slowly disappearing under the waves of its own national popularity, though because of stiff competition from the more famous beaches in Uruguay and Brasil, it is fairly unknown to foreigners. In spite of all this, Mar del Plata is a relaxing place to visit, helped in volumes by the locals, who are a helpful and friendly bunch.

Perhaps sporting hang-overs (or is that hangs-over?) from the previous year's excesses, we took turns at being ill the first couple of days into the new year, but were ready to party by the fourth. Good timing too, as a Japanese DJ named Satoshi Tomeii was billed to play at a venue on one of the city's more beautiful southern beaches. The best of the night was saved until last, when we spilled out onto the balcony for the final two hours of his marathon set. The solar system's most-favouritest ball of superheated gasses rose over the sea as the bacchan boogying continued, this time with forward rolls, comet tails streaming from the tips of my fingers and fancy but sometimes disastrous footwork from some of the local lads on the dew-soaked deck. The vibe and music of the party left us with a nebular afterglow that shone as bright as the morning sun, or maybe it was just wonderfully blissful to be breathing at that point in time.

After a week relaxing on the coast, it was time for me to leave on the seventh, to make my way back to the helter-swelter of Buenos Aires in January. For want of hard currency, future mentionable moments would be fewer and farer between than ever before, and I would have to sit patiently, often for hours on end trying to find them. Or myself.

Sunday 14.10.07

My mother Sally and two of her close friends were in Buenos Aires at the tail end of a month-long tour of South America. With fortunate timing and just a little planning, we were able to meet up twice in the city during the duration of her trip. This time we left together for the Tigre Delta on a clear, windless morning. The delta area sits north of Buenos Aires, where the Rio Parana meets the Rio Uruguay to form the Rio de la Plata, a huge estuary on which both Buenos Aires and Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay sit. The delta accumulated from sediments carried down the Rio Paraná, gathered from places such as Iguazu Falls, Itaipu Dam, the Pantanal wetlands in Brasil, the Rio Paraguay and from the Chaco region. We caught three separate trains to reach Tigre, the town on the southern limit of the delta.

Being a Sunday, it was market day and the streets by the docks were packed with people. We boarded a boat for a tour of the delta, which left the docks promptly, heading towards the maze of channels. The banks of the various islands between are lined with pretty houses, all complete with their own docks and manicured gardens, while side channels branch out, overlooked by willow trees or spanned by quaint bridges. The entire area seemed devoted to relaxation and recreation, with resorts, parks and holiday homes watching the steady stream of launches, million-dollar yachts and tourist-filled catamarans go by. Back on dry land later, we had the opportunity to try one of Argentina's most bizarre treats - popcorn covered, toffeed fruit, with the choice of either apple, strawberry or fig. The flavour, somewhere between sickly sweet, sticky and savoury - was confusing on the palette to say the least. I farewelled my mother and her friends after nightfall, who were heading back to Australia later that evening.

I joined a bunch of other eager tourists on Tuesday for a walking tour of La Boca, the most famous area of Buenos Aires. The bus dropped us at the spot which gave the area it's name - the mouth of a river, and the city's first port. It was here on the promenade overlooking a now very polluted dock that the sailors of old danced the tango with prostitutes in the night. The cultural heart of La Boca would have to be the Caminito (little way), a brilliantly painted street even by Latin American standards. La Boca has always been a poor neighbourhood, and the buildings of the Caminito, each previously inhabited by several families at once, were constructed from a hodgepodge of materials scrounged from the area, and painted with whatever colours were available at the time. Although artists inhabit the streets and tourists wander around posing with tango dancers during the day, at night the area is too dangerous to visit.

From the cultural heart of Boca, we left for its spiritual one, La Bombonera - the Boca Juniors' stadium. Underneath the stadium is a museum, showcasing the club's numerous victories while attempting to describe 'La Pasión', apparently a feverish disease that Boca supporters and players are afflicted with for life. I learned the basic steps of the tango in the evening before heading out to Café Tortoni to watch the real thing being performed. Far from just a demonstration, the show featured two singers, live piano and accordion, and two couples whirling and stepping with a depth of passion that enthralled and excited, and left a roomful of people almost breathless.

Monday 20.08.07

While trying to get a visa sorted to visit Paraguay, i discovered that this was the final day i was allowed to stay in Brasil. Facing a fine somewhere around AUS$900 if the visa lapsed, i quickly extended my Brasilian visa for AUS$40 with about fifteen minutes to spare before the Federal Police closed for the day. Finding myself once again donating money to bureaucracy in South America, I'll take this opportunity to tell the tale of this country's currency.

Brasil's currency story reminds us that big does not always mean better, less is more and perhaps, the original is often the best. When the long-standing Real, the country's official currency from 1690 to 1942 was hit by inflation severely toward the end of its lifespan, the Cruzeiro - Brasil's new currency was issued at a rate of 1000 Réis to 1 Cruzeiro. Following a brief flirtation with aluminium coins, the value of the Cruzeiro plummeted, and the Cruzeiro Novo started in 1967. This in turn fell to the ill-fated Cruzado in 1986 which was closely followed by the Cruzado Novo in 1989, all valued at a ratio of 1:1000 units of the former. The currency was renamed the Cruzeiro again in 1990, but with inflation at a runaway rate and perhaps a bad choice of name, it was succeeded by the Cruzeiro Real in 1993. This monetary unit lasted just one year and by mid-1994, the original unit of currency - the Real, was implemented and exchanged at a rate of 1 Real to 2750 Cruzeiro Reais. The Real has stayed relatively stable since. Bringing up the subject in Brasil brings forth all kinds of personal stories. People recount the day the President decided that the Brasilian government needed money, and emptied the citizens' bank accounts into their coffers, and tell tales of supermarket prices changing every day to keep up with the devaluation.

Foz do Iguaçu is the largest of the three towns that make up the tri-border area, serving the mighty Iguazu Falls, the second greatest waterfall by volume in the world. The falls are shared by Brasil and Argentina, and by early afternoon on Tuesday, i had arrived at the Brasilian park. My first encounter with the local wildlife was to see a few Coatis rummaging through bins. So much for unspoiled wilderness.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coati

My first sight of the falls at Iguazu was the secondary set, a nevertheless grand set of falls centred around Isla San Martin in the middle. As the track progressed, more waterfalls came into view, dropping in one or two steps from the relative calm of the plateau above into a raging torrent below. The climax of the journey was soon upon me - the Garganta del Diablo (Devil's Throat), an incredible horseshoe-shaped crevice with unfathomable volumes of water pouring down from all angles. It is one of the Earth's great natural wonders, and when a Brasilian man exclaimed to me "Look at what God gave us!", despite not being a religious man, i could hardly disagree.

I spent the next hour exploring the Parque dos Aves next door to the national park. Seeing majestic birds in cages really isn't the best way to appreciate them, but it is probably the only chance i will get to observe (and interact with) creatures such as the endangered Harpy Eagle and Hyacinith Macaw.

I crossed the border to Puerto Iguazu in Argentina the next morning, and checked in at a youth hostel recommended by several people I had bumped into. What i didn't expect was it to have the appearance of a grand country club, even sporting a swimming pool out the front. Tourism took a turn for the bizarre at night when i looked up and saw in excess of one hundred people sitting at tables eating, as if they had all been recruited into Backpackers Boot Camp, ready to invade, photograph and drink everything that was in their path. It got stranger still when a Carnaval Samba show began, featuring Brasilian dancers and possibly the world's biggest Caipirinha in a giant plastic tub. The dancing and debauchery continued in a fashion only gap-year tourists can keep up, and i slunk off to the corner to play pool with the remainder of the over-19s.

Once inside the Argentinean side of the national park on Thursday, we jumped aboard an old army truck to reach the Rio Iguazu about six kilometres downstream from the falls. Once there, we transferred into a motorboat powered by two 250hp outboards, and made a beeline for the falls. The river, seemingly benign in these reaches, soon showed signs of turbulence, and within minutes were were lurching through rapids. Once at the foot of the secondary set of falls, the driver applied the throttle, driving us toward the deluge and drenching us in the blinding spray, then spinning the boat around and going back for more.

We soon got a chance to dry off and explore the Argentinean side on foot, along trails that afforded us all possible views of the many separate waterfalls around. Rainbows sprouted out of everywhere, while two opposite symbols of nature - the raw potential of flowing water and the fragile flutter of tiny butterflies were seen together in abundance. All around was fresh and beautiful and full of life.

The experience on the Argentinean side culminates once again at the Garganta del Diablo, this time observed from much closer and from above, and to a roar of pure white noise. The water flowing over the precipice at the top seems to keep its cohesion for some metres before gravity tears at its bonds. There in this region, the flow shatters utterly into droplets and mist, while the reflected colour, originally blue-green, turns to white in the free-fall. The falling water, many hundreds of tonnes per second, then completely vanishes from view into a great white unknown - a turbulent realm of mystery at the foot of the falls where air and water become one, pierced delicately by that most transient of sights - a rainbow.

Sunday 08/07/07

The day after Live Earth, i had to work for 10 hours straight from 8am. When I finally finished, we hit Lapa for pizza, and then went searching for more fun. On a street corner up a hill, almost in the shadow of the Arcos, we found a place overflowing with locals and live samba. Drinking, dancing and the odd beer or two spilled out all over the place, yielding to nothing but the occasional taxi or police call filled with M16-wielding cops. After midnight, we browsed the district for an open venue, and during the course of not finding one, encountered a brood of penis-flashing shemales walking the streets. This not being the type of entertainment we were looking for, we left them to their own devices for Copacabana Beach for more liquor and laughs.

The Brasilian health system is itself a little ill, with the cost of seeing a doctor prohibitively expensive for most. Those that can afford private health insurance can even expect to be misdiagnosed or sometimes have needless tests performed such as MRI's. There is widespread corruption amongst doctors in this regard, and now insurance companies have leagues of doctors employed to investigate misdiagnosis issues, sending the private health insurance premiums to somewhere past the moon. This has resulted in many little clinics, called Centros de Saúde, springing up to offer advice and recommend medication cheaply for sick people.

Our destination on Thursday was the world-famous Selaron Stairway, possibly the biggest sculpture in the world made by a single individual. 215 tiled steps stretch skyward, the result of 17 years hard work and over 2000 different tiles, many from other parts of the world. The dedication Selaron has put into his masterpiece earned him world-wide respect, and his work features in commercials, magazines and the music videos of U2 and Snoop Dogg. Later that night, we headed to Fosfobox, a club in Copacabana. The speakers blasted an organ-rearranging mix of acid and electro, and equally damaging were the cocktails, containing Cognac, Whiskey, Vodka, Contreau and passion fruit juice. Now arms begin waving in the air, dancing becomes a blur dispersed amongst crazy photo shoots and other mad events and the night closes with the eventual (and almost unrecallable) stumbling home at a time unknown.

Monday 04.06.07

I've settled now into my job, though it's hardly demanding at the moment. Working behind the bar, i can now make Capirinhas and the other drinks people regularly order. I cook dinner or lunch once every few days, I'm learning some traditional dishes, and just help out wherever needed. It's funny how the times I think of home is while I'm doing really mundane things, such as washing the dishes at 11pm. Of course, during that exact time, everyone back in Melbourne is at work (on the following day). Later, our attempt to hit the night-life in Copacabana ended in failure as the only place open was La Girl, a lesbian bar, and the beefcakes at the door wouldn't let us in. Once again, we found ourselves at a beach side stall downing Capirinhas during the silly hours of the morning. I hit Rio Centro the next day and tried to find a sneaky back entrance to the local airport to watch planes fly overhead, but instead found myself wandering almost into a military area. Common sense took over, and i fled the scene....

Gorgeous weather outside on Wednesday meant it would be a great opportunity to visit two of Rio's main attractions - Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer) and Pão de Açucar (Sugar Loaf). The mountain Corcovado, named after the Hunchback of Notre Dame, towers over Rio and the other volcanic mounds that surround it. A statue had been planned for the granite peak long before Cristo Redentor was built in 1931.

Some of the most expensive estate in the whole city lies on the foothills of the mountain, yet just across the road sprawls yet another favela on the slopes. Turrets and ornate façades poke out of the trees, as does unfinished concrete and bare brick, side by side under the gaze of Christ the Redeemer. Yet another typical symbol of Latin America greeted us further up the road. A tourism group had hijacked the last kilometre or so of the climb, and we were forced to transfer into their vans, an occurrence that was already factored into the tour price.

There is a buzz around Brasil at the moment to vote for the statue to become one of the 'new' seven wonders of the world. My thoughts on whether the statue deserves the accolade will not be published here, but the view of the city of Rio de Janeiro from the top of Corcovado certainly qualifies for one of the finest sights imaginable. The city extends a full 270° around the mountain, from the airport in the north, Pão de Açucar to the south-east, and west toward the beach at Barra Tijuca. The remaining 90° behind the statue houses a huge mountainous forest, with even more bairros (neighbourhoods) of Rio behind it. Above all this, 38 metres of 100% pure Christ, arms outstretched, watches over the city day and night.

The way to Pão de Açucar cuts across swathes of traffic, through a maze of streets and past a massive cemetery in Botafogo packed with huge concrete angels perched on a metropolis of concrete headstones, like a swarm of winged King Kongs descending on New York. It is a concrete playground of the bodies of the once rich and famous in Brasil, including the grave of Carmen Miranda, which I'd imagine is adorned with a bunch of concrete fruit.

The only way to summit Sugar Loaf (except by rock climbing) is via two cable-cars, the first to a hill overlooking the wealthy bairro of Urca, the second spanning a huge gap to the top of the almost-bare volcanic mound. As the sun fled from sight, the sky flared up like Michael Jackson's hair during a Pepsi commercial into gorgeous reds and oranges, and the lights of the city below came to life, reflecting off the water, creating a scene of tranquillity which belied the bustling chaos of the city below.

.........I went to Rio!

Now you should too.