Channelling the Cane Spirits

Monday 10.12.07

Every working day in Buenos Aires brings a new protest, rally or call to arms, and more often than not, the parades thrust towards 20-lane Avenida 9 Julio to cause as much upheaval as possible. A yawning chasm splitting the city's skyline down the middle, the world's widest street requires two light changes to span its immense girth on foot. An entire north/south column of city blocks was put to the floor in its conception, and the resplendently phallic Obelisco erected in the middle of its three-way intercourse with Avenida Corrientes and Avenida Roque Saenz Peña.

Along with the cloth banners and chanting of the typical protest comes the drum beating, snare rolling, whistle blowing and exploding firecrackers. I initially believed it all to be just pre-election ranting, but even after Cristina Kirchner succeeded her husband to the presidency, the streets of the Microcentro continue to be blocked periodically by taxis, sanitation trucks or throngs of labourers, construction workers and university students. One day I had the privilege of witnessing a protest traffic-jam at the obelisk, where a two-tone blue 9 Julio rally yielded to an angry red and white Corrientes mob marching perpendicular to their forward motion.

Today's rally took the proverbial cracker as almost half a million people lined up for the whole day along Avenida Mayo to watch 'La Presidenta' Cristina pass after her inauguration in the late afternoon. For its entire length from Plaza de Mayo to Congreso (just over one kilometre), the avenue was blocked by metal barricades with only two places to cross. In the end, I had to cross 9 Julio up and back at the junction of the two super-roads to find the crossing heading in the right direction, and even that required becoming an honorary member of a frenetically-drumming group known as the Octubre Movimiento. In fact, every person watching the parade seemed to be part of a political organisation or lobby group, often with the words nacional, liberación or frente planted somewhere on their movement's banner.

A spare change funded circus of sorts thrives outside the cinema centre in cash-riddled Recoleta. With an auspicious location across the road from one of planet earth's most glamorous cemeteries and only a coin's flip from the restaurant strip, the complex draws a significant amount of prestige foot traffic every night. Attracted to this jingle-jangle of foreign and local plata comes the street performers, grubby children selling roses for "One money please" and a blob-like character lying on a rug who bawls at passers-by in the hope they drop a couple of monedas into his Itty Bitty Bin.

Friday 23.11.07

In the evening I took a friend, Mash out dancing to a club named Crobar within one of the huge parks of Palermo. It seemed every second transvestite in the Capital Federal also had flocked to the same area, and in the resultant barfed-up cultural soup of street walkers, taxis, vendors, nightclub patrons, bouncers and pimps, it was hard to tell whose turf it had been to begin with.

With an entry queue out front reminiscent of that at the gates of Gene Wilder's Chocolate Factory, I squeezed past the jumble of waving ticket holders and guest-listers like I was Charlie Bucket and even scored a couple of discount entries to boot! Inside the gorgeously laid-out club and flitting in and out of more VIP areas than you could pout your lips at was a crowd of twenty-something socialites, anorexic models in full frown, resplendent promo girls and trashed types wearing two hundred dollar t-shirts. We sauntered through the crowd as they did, scrutinised everyone the way they were, but of course maintained a composure as marvellously indifferent as the next person.

The clubs in Buenos Aires are seemingly funded in entirety by Camel Cigarettes. Everywhere you turn there are Camel disco balls, indented metal Camel decor, soft blue Camel lighting and even the strobes are tuned to the frequency of Camels, so if you dart your eyes back and forth they appear to walk out of the walls. For a time the DJs at Crobar, hailing from Ibiza, fed us quality techno in generous helpings, but by half past four I'd had my fill of the one-upmanship from the crowd and we left for home.

On the spur of the moment on Saturday, a few friends and I decided to go see a horse race at the Hippodromo in Palermo. It wasn't until we got there that we discovered no horses were actually racing, aside from one trotting in the wrong direction in the infield and a water truck dutifully spraying the track surface. The action appeared instead to be across the road at the Polo ground, so we cantered across the eight lane thoroughfare to take a gander. Not particularly thrilled with the $75 Peso entry fee, we were content with watching the action between the green bars of the spiked perimeter fence. As the grandstands began filling up, the stewards were busy preparing the horses, which seemed to involve a full roll of duct tape and several varieties of common garden sponge. Polo, for those of us not brought up on the well-heeled estancias on which it is so often played, is a sport where two teams of four try to whack a hard ball with a mallet through their opposition's goal, all whilst mounted on horseback. The game is separated into six or more chukkas, each being a seven-minute period of play. The standard of Argentine polo is among the highest in the world, but that didn't prevent us from losing interest in the game before long.

The following day I safaried south toward San Telmo's famous Sunday market. Herds of people congregate there every weekend like an oasis in the city centre's cement and bitumen desert. Tango is naturally the theme here, fronted by the Orquestas Tipicas and dancing demonstrations for donations. A notable puppeteer can always be seen halfway down Calle Defensa, his heavy-drinking alter ego stumbling about in anguish for a lost love as a scratchy tango recording plays from an old suitcase. Further down the street, a character dressed in an ugly grey suit dances romantically with a mobile mannequin while making eyes at the passing pedestrians. Keeping with local tradition, the market starts late and ends late, and the festivities and Tango dancing in Plaza Dorrego continue well into the night.

Thursday 15.11.07

I joined a fellow traveller Corinda, for what was initially a walk north to Retiro and Plaza San Martin. Corinda is a little bundle of boundless energy from the Netherlands, and the kind of traveller that feels most at home trekking in the wilderness far away from big cities. As I write this she has recently returned from a few weeks doing just that in Patagonia. If i had have known this when we first departed, I probably would have brought my hiking books, walking stick, mallet, cup, rucksack, binoculars, snorkel, shovel and striped beanie. If I did though, I may well have ended up leaving one of these items scattered about each significant place I visited....

First stop was the Torre Monumental, a stately clock tower in the middle of the gardens north of the city. Originally called the Torre de los Ingleses and built by the English community in Buenos Aires almost one hundred years ago, its name was changed after the Falklands War (Guerra de las Malvinas) of 1982. From across the street it is now solemnly opposed by a red-hued monument honouring the Argentine casualties. From there we turned southeast through Puerto Madero to Parque Costanera, an ecological reserve east of the centre of the city. It was kept as a flat wetlands by the government of Buenos Aires, and is home to a variety of waterbirds and frequented by flocks of fitness types in running shoes and short shorts. By the time the afternoon was over we were at the Caminito in La Boca and had walked a little under ten kilometres.

On Friday we departed again on foot, this time to the gorgeous suburb of Palermo Viejo and Plaza Serrano, a leafy roundabout lined with bars, cafes and designer stores that would look just as happy nestled together on a street in France or Italy. We made our way past the zoo to the Jardin Botanico with its huge families of stray cats but by 6pm when we reached Parque Tres de Febrero, a huge green zone between Palermo and the Rio de la Plata, my legs had given out sufficiently to make an excuse to depart by bus.

I woke a little late from an evening nap and hurried to meet Anahí, an Argentinean girl i had met with Adam while purchasing clothes from her workplace in October. After familiarising her with both Sushi and chopsticks for the first time, we left via some bars for San Telmo and she took me to my first local party, held on the roof of a building. While her friends played Drum 'n' Bass and Hip Hop I drunk enough free alcohol to pass out on the roof with her and seemingly half of the people at the party.

It was with a little annoyance I observed a steady stream of rain falling from the sky on Saturday, so I packed my rain jacket and left for a friend's flat in Belgrano, past Palermo in the city's northwest. The only steady stream I would encounter the rest of the afternoon was that of people, all walking together in the direction of the River Stadium where we were going to see Argentina play Bolivia in fútbol. In reality, Bolivia didn't stand a chance, but that failed to stop a sizeable group of their fans from waving their red, yellow and green flags and chanting like a bunch of possessed seagulls.

In a way I felt sorry for Bolivia, slowly but surely being outplayed by Argentina, especially by Lionel Messi, who seemed to elude every single tackle by the Bolivian defence with incredible displays of footwork and ball control. The Bolivians were only one goal down at half time, and while gunshots from high-powered rifles at a neighbouring range reverberated around the stadium, I hoped for more goals to liven up the match. The afternoon became so hot that firemen emerged with high-pressure hoses and began spraying the upper terraces. The chanting grew to fever pitch as the crowd became drenched and when Juan Roman Riquelme stepped up for a free kick just outside the box, the screaming majority got what they wanted. From there, the game was Argentina's and soon enough, some final Messi and Riquelme magic sealed the game at 3-0.

Thursday 16.08.07

On the 30th anniversary of Elvis Presley having left the earth, me and a Brasilian friend Raquel celebrated at night (without pharmaceuticals) at a bar playing his greatest hits and, when we tired of that, at another playing bad 80's ballad clips on Rua Augosta, a famous 'nightlife' strip in São Paulo. Walking down the hill, away from its intersection with proud Avenida Paulista, Rua Augosta gradually takes on a more seedy atmosphere. Eventually the reputable bars and restaurants give way to pink neon lit strip clubs and brothels. A couple of kids, with faces far more weathered than their height would suggest, were chroming on the footpath in front of one such place. The two security guards standing by the entrance did only that as the kids took another hit and pressed their grubby faces to the neon-framed front window. Further along, prostitutes in various states of disrepair walked the streets, and finally, in the Republica area, both club and street walker wavered in gender until it all became a blur of fake breasts, platform heels, deep voices and heavy jawlines. I heard stories of men, so desperate to become more feminine they give themselves D.I.Y cheek implants using a glass plate held against the face and a syringe full of industrial silicone. Naturally, this risky process sometimes results in permanent disfigurement.

Saturday morning the two of us went around the corner to Praça Republica, a nice-looking park (during daylight hours) dotted with rubber trees. A small street market is here, featuring crafts made by hippies locked in somewhat of a turf war for rug space. We made the long trip back to Kyle's apartment to gather my belongings, and then headed with him to Barra Funda, in the west end of the city to help paint a wall that several artists had been working on all day. From there, i said goodbye to my friends old and new and boarded a bus heading to Foz do Iguaçu, on the border of Argentina and Paraguay.

Waking up still aboard the bus on Sunday, I looked through the window and the scenery outside was changing. The landscape now was dead flat, and abound were farms and farming equipment, rodeos and ranches, sugar cane and corn, punctuated all over by monkey-puzzle trees. After lunch, I finally arrived in a cold and clouded-over Foz do Iguaçu, a phenomenon I wasn't entirely equipped for.

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

Out of town, in the middle of farming land stands the hostel I stayed in. The land a far cry from everywhere else i have visited in Brasil, and a fresh (if somewhat chilly) change to almost tree-less São Paulo. The first thing was to go for a walk amongst the nature, along red dirt roads, splitting fields of green-grey grass, with cows and sheep grazing amongst lichen-covered and leafless trees, yet to embrace the approach of spring. As night fell, an incredible chill settled over the area, and I equipped myself with several layers of winter clothes I had so far not needed during my travels. It appeared winter had finally caught up with me a few hundred metres from the edge of Brasil.