Argentina

Tuesday 09.10.07

As the precipitation in Buenos Aires turned torrential (for not the first time since we arrived), we left the capital, en route to Cordoba in the heart of Argentina. On the same, apparently treacherous stretch of dead-straight highway where I had seen an accident while travelling toward the capital, we encountered yet another while heading the opposite way. This time it was an overturned hauler reposing obliquely in the median ditch amongst its spilled payload of perhaps a tonne or two of sand. All day and into the evening, we cruised across flat grassy heartland that seemed to go on forever, and when we finally arrived in the second-largest city in Argentina, all was quiet on the city's streets.

The same could not be said the next day when the inner city thoroughfares teemed with people, so Adam and I joined the throng and embarked on a tour of the local cathedrals. The first was a grand peach edifice with blue domes and a giant crowned statue of the Virgin Mary presiding over the interior; the second a gilded Baroque renovation of an ancient Jesuit structure. In South America's early colonial past the city was occupied by the Jesuits, a devout Roman Catholic order, before their expulsion from the continent in 1767. The missionaries for the Society of Jesus were particularly disliked by both the Spanish and Portuguese for their opposition to slavery of the native people.

We treated ourselves to a Parillada come evening, the famous Argentinean mixed grill, featuring such choice beef bits as ribs, intestines, stomach, kidneys and heart. It was a meaty assault on the senses, topped off with a 500gm, 4cm thick piece of prime beef that was undoubtedly the best we had ever had - a warm loaf of succulent delight that was not unlike a dessert in texture. We praised the creature that had previously nurtured this piece of flesh and tipped the staff handsomely, while keeping in mind the entire episode had set us back less than AUS$10 each. We stumbled across an ice cream parlour on the way home, and for a dollar more had steak-sized servings to top it all off.

We were on another bus on Thursday, bound for Argentina's Oktoberfest, held in Villa General Belgrano, a quaint (if a little contrived) town a couple of hours away. The town, celebrating its 75th anniversary, was settled partly by the survivors of a sunken German battle ship in the Battle of the River Plate in 1940, bringing German traditions, dancing, food and beer to the area. The southern part of South America, from Brasil to Chile is littered with Germanic settlers, most of whom arrived during or after World War II.

We spent the hours before the festival kick-off climbing a nearby hill, Cerro de la Virgin to look over the surrounding forested bits, represented by a profusion of classically European trees. In true Latin American style, there was further reward for our hard work - nestled amongst the rocks at the top was a white cage in which was locked a small Virgin Mary figurine and a plastic red rose. As day turned to night the German-style beer from the local microbreweries began to flow while the local schools and organisations strutted their stuff on the stage. Rain too began to fall in near-equal proportions, and with all hotel beds in the town already taken, we left for Cordoba again by bus; followed by another agonising bus journey through the Argentinean prairie back to Buenos Aires the next day.

Wednesday 03.10.07

I had been looking forward to my birthday all year, mostly because I had planned to celebrate it in Buenos Aires. I had made finally made it there the night before, and I couldn't have felt happier. The highlight of the day came in early afternoon, when we left on a bus for La Bombonera, the blue and yellow hued stadium of the Boca Juniors, the most famous football club in Buenos Aires. Adam, myself and the rest of the people on our tour were seated way up high in the steeply-tiered stadium, in seats affording a brilliant birds-eye view from near the halfway line. With over ninety minutes before kick-off the Boca supporters, well known for being the craziest in the world, were already singing, booing and cheering themselves into a lather.

Finally the match started and the Boca Juniors set to work on a depleted San Lorenzo team, while up in a far corner of the stadium a dedicated (and raucous) group of the away fans were making as much noise as they could. As the home team began to dominate, scoring off a brilliant header, the Boca chanting got more and more intense. The stadium, now a Roman coliseum, throbbed with frenetic singing and jumping. The increasingly rabid crowd screamed, cheered and cursed at every turn even when it became clear their team would win. Finally, when win they did, it was to rapturous applause and yet more chanting. As the away fans were quietly led away first by an entourage of police, we could reflect that many Argentinean men, especially the Boca fans, rate Diego Maradona (an-ex Boca player voted the best footballer of all time) above even their mothers, who they adore more than God Himself.

Thursday morning Adam and I caught a bus to Recoleta, an inner-city suburb and, upon finding ourselves standing outside one of the most lavish cemeteries in the world, decided to take a look. All available sites were taken by mausoleums made of expensive stone and stacked with caskets, flowers, candles and religious imagery. This cemetery stands as a who's who of Argentinian dead people, including that of Evita (Eva Perón), the famous philanthropist and former First Lady of Argentina.

It wasn't long before we were making preparations for our first clubbing experience in Buenos Aires, where it is quite normal to arrive at 2.30am or later. Club 69 occupied what appeared to be a converted theatre, with a sunken dancefloor overlooked by a huge stage. Performers emerged in front of us as the techno pulsed, featuring mirror ball helmeted go-go groovers, fat feathered transvestites, barely-clad females on mobile pole platforms and even a strip tease. We took to the podium in the name of hedonism, and partied until 7am, when we caught a taxi returning to destination reality.

It was with a little trepidation that I accepted an offer to play indoor soccer on Friday afternoon. I had barely slept and the only things I had eaten all day, a Quarter Pounder and large fries, were now churning uselessly within my guts. The eight of us playing on a field underneath an elevated highway were soon drenched in sweat, most of all Adam who didn't look very well at all. By the end of the match, I think most of us were happy it was over. Feeling that perhaps a healthy lifestyle could benefit me in some as yet unforeseen way, I swore off alcohol and junk food for the remainder of the day.

Saturday i spent watching sport instead, namely the Rugby World Cup and a cycling race up and down the 20-lane Avenida 9 Julio (The widest in the world) not far from our front door. Finally after a tactical nap, lots of water and perhaps a hint or two of alcohol, we left for Pacha, a world-famous club franchise. A huge white building stands north of the city centre on the banks of the Rio de la Plata, crowded with people, many dressed to impress and sporting sunglasses that are more trendy than yours. The music thumped inside, outside and in the various VIP areas, all of which I was refused entry to, possibly on irritatingly numerous occasions. It dawned on me, at the same time as the sun did over the water, looking around at the multitudes of trashed Argentineans around me, just why they were all wearing sunglasses in the first place.