Category Archives: Argentina

Argentina, Patagonia

Do Condors feel regret?

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Condoooooooooor. Only people over 55 will get this joke.

Being mistaken for an Argentinian at Buenos Aires airport is possibly one of the most thrilling things that’s happened to me so far on this trip. I’m usually met with a sweeping glance, the unspoken thought “pasty faced chubster = English,” game over. But Argentina has the most diverse population anywhere in the world, as we saw up in Salta, where the 500 year old children’s facial features exactly match those of the people wandering the streets, and now in Mendoza where there is a strong Italian thread running through it’s veins; we met two of them in an Artisanal beer bar – Mendoza’s that kind of place – who define themselves by their Italian roots, despite their family being here for 140 years. They also seemed to be very dubious about the upcoming elections, telling us that as Milei decided to run for president after seeing a psychic who told him one of his dead dogs wants him to do it, they fear he may not be entirely sane.

An artisanal beer bar
Note the ridiculously huge beer tankards the Italian/Argintinian lads are drinking from.

Staying with airports, at Heathrow security they insisted on dismantling Clive’s drug flask as thoroughly as an AK47, sniffing suspiciously at the freezer block in particular. Here, the Argentinians obsession with mate, which puts our tea habit into the shade, has meant that Clive’s experience taking his drugs in a flask through security has been entirely stress free, as they assume it is a flask of boiling water for his mate, just like every single Argentinian in the queue with us. I honestly think this stuff must be way more addictive than coffee, and the airport staff would rather wrestle with a terrorist than deal with a stream of wild eyed Argentinians withdrawing from their mate habit.

A common site in Argentina – a woman with her mate mug to which she just keeps adding water to the increasingly disgusting looking mush. Pat would approve I feel, Katy.
All things mate.

Mendoza is the biggest supplier of Malbec in the world. We visited several vineyards and an olive oil farm, where they make the most divine and delicious balsamic vinegar. Never again will I buy the cheap and nasty stuff, now I understand how much tastier the pure stuff is; it’s made from the grape skin mush left over from wine -making, mixed with white wine vinegar, heated up, left for 3-7 days depending on how sweet you want it to be, and bobs your uncle, Balsamic so moreish I could slurp it straight from the bottle.

What a terrible photo. Anyway, numnumnum.
My plant ap said this is called Golden Shower. No comment.
An old olive press.
More old olive making paraphernalia.
How they used to make olive oil – cold press.

We also took a trip into the Andes, as although that’s the way we’ll go to Chile today, we aren’t sure how much the bus will stop so we can properly see the Andes, and take photos. Mendoza is basically a desert oasis, fed by the snow from these mountains. It hardly ever rains, which Gisella, Clive’s Spanish teacher, told us last night that she sometimes yearns for, “to feel the unique misery that rain brings.” Yeah, been there, done that, got the t-shirt G.

The trip into the mountains we took yesterday.

The 1800’s bridge that took travellers across a now non-existent river, as they walked to Chile.
An old thermal spa, abandoned in 1982 when Chile tried encroaching into Argentinian land.
Spring arrives in the Andes.

The Andes on the Argentinian side are bleak, beautiful , and blooming cold. Condors circle high above us, and our guide tells us that Condors mate for life. If the female dies, whatever age the male is, he kills himself rather than live without her. I wonder if, as he soars downwards in ever decreasing cirlces towards the ground and an untimely death, he feels regret at what might have been? The females on the other hand, shed their feathers and beak, grow new ones, and find a new male. Pretty pragmatic, and a baffling decision from a genetic point of view for the male. No time to research this today.

Last night Giselle took us out for tapas, but we got to see her flat first. Clive wanted to see it so much, having had the same truncated laptop view of it for the last 2 years. She is a Portenas, born and bred in Buenos Aires, but the rent she gets for her tiny flat in BA buys her rent for this lovely, airy, light apartment she shares with her 11 year old son, who on hearing we support Arsenal, ignores us in disgust for the rest of our visit.

Gizella, who has italian roots, and moved her to be near her sister and mum.

Gizella chose this from a selection of a gazillion other Malbecs; very delicious and 7.50.

Disaster occured on our return to the hotel last night. Having washed three of my remaining six pairs of pants, one of them had blown off the window sill. I can’t find it in the hotel outdoor space and am too embarassed to ask if they have them at hotel reception. 2 down, 5 to go.

Argentina

The Salinas Grandes, Purmamarca and a last day in Salta.

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Standing on the 3,500 meters high salt flats I feel breathless and dizzy, but not as bad as I felt coming over the mountains at 4,500m. It’s reassuring to hear that the 30 year old girl sitting next to me on the bus feels the same and I’m not about to expire from altitude sickness, or at least if I go we’ll go together.

(bottom pic = wizard behind curtain)

Even down at 2,300 m in Purmacarma ( Ben Nevis, my go to bench mark, is 1300 m ) I keep getting sudden attacks of shorthness of breath as my lungs cast far and wide for more oxygen. Climbing up to a viewing platform feels like a HIT session, but once my breathing settles from imminent cardiac arrest to feeling slightly out of puff, the view is guess what? Breathtaking.

If you think 60 is old, try 600 million years, the age of the oldest green/grey tinged layer of rocks making up one of Purmamarca’s renowned hill of seven colours. The air is redolent of wood smoke and incense and muddy roads, which fills me with “the sense of something lost and nearly forgotten.” *

Having been way too hot and hindered by the trousers and jacket I didn’t need in Cafayate, I arrive in the mountains wearing skimpy shorts and a t-shirt. Clocking the ski jackets and long trousers the rest of our bus is wearing when we board in Salta, I should have seen it coming. Who knew it could be cold in the mountains? Everyone but us, clearly. Damn our weather ap.

(A cold me.)

Luckily there is a daily market in the square selling all things alpaca, and we jumper-up before dying of hypothermia.

(Pic – after years of being constrained by the need to dress conservatively for work, Clive pushes his retirement boundaries to the limit with his choice of jumper.)

Our charming Brazillian stallholder, who looks like a louche version of Clint Eastwood, (picture below, our friend, not Clint) invites us to listen to his band that night.

After lama disco (veggies look away now – not a shimmy on down with a lama, but a stew, delicious, tastes like very rich beef) we tip toe up to the the doorway of the bar but lose our nerve; but while scurrying back to our hostel we bump into Clint, who is definitely on something, if not things, and he lures us back to the bar. We pray this isn’t another Istanbul barber moment (long story, but it ended with us sprinting up side streets and wearing disguises for the rest of the holiday). The bar has its fair share of his disciples, all wearing his alpacan cardies, but there are locals here too. The place slowly filled with more and more people, musicians came and went, playing pipes, saxaphones, drums, while the central core of the band sang heavenly argentinian folk on guitars, and everyone except us joined in, and some people danced, in a joyous bubble of merriment and mountainous high jinks.

I just love the saxophonist’s unadulterated joy, and the stray dog wandering around. Yes, I finally worked out how to upload a video.

While up in the mountains we find out more about the Incas, who built an empire similar to the Romans in Europe. Unlike the Spanish who ruled South America through death, destruction and slavery, the Incas conquered through peaceful assimilation; they offered local men women, who would then teach these men their language, religion, culture, and of course, have their babies, so mixing the genes. Only if the locals turned down their offer did they get their heads chopped off. Seems fair.

In a local museum we witness the shocking site of a perfectly preserved, mummified child, buried alive as a sacrifice to their gods. Found by mountaineers in 1999, and initially taken to Cusco in Peru, these three children are now displayed in rotation in a cryofridge. If you’re interested here is a link:

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/culture/article/130729-inca-mummy-maiden-sacrifice-coca-alcohol-drug-mountain-andes-children

The freezing cold and low oxygen levels preserved their bodies, but together with high levels of alcohol and cocaine found in their hair, meant that they probably died quickly. Let’s hope so.

Tomorrow we are heading for Mendoze, where Clive’s Spanish teacher lives, and one of the main red wine growing regions of Argentina.

*Graham Greene.

Argentina, Empty nest, Fashion, Retirement

Wobbling towards freedom

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In 1993 we travelled for five months. Since then we have settled with one or two week long breaks taken from the six week holiday allowance that came with regular work, bringing up kids, paying mortgages, grown-up stuff, the stuff of life until now. Things have changed since then. Not just our being physically 30 years older, although that’s certainly a significant change. The logistics of carrying medication that needs to be kept at between 2-12 degrees, whether to risk getting this through security with a mini fridge buzzing away, or go for a freezer bag and hope the drugs survive. The letter from our GP explaining that we are not actually planning on drug dealing in Argentina but that the vast amount of pills falling out of our luggage are simply keeping us alive. Some of these – antibiotics for delhi-belly, cellulitis, and/or any other infection we might develop stranded up a Patagonian mountain, anti sickness patches, diarrhoea/constipation/allergy meds, may well keep a lot of people we meet alive on our travels alive too. Our entire first leg will take around 20 hours with a brief 2 hour  New York stop-over. Neither of us had a monday to sunday medication box back in the day, now we both neck at least 5 things daily. I didn’t have a supply of Naproxen at hand in case my hip/back/entire body aches too much. 

  But that’s why we’re here, doing this now. 30 years ago we were doing it pre-babies. Now, friends are dying, and it feels imperative that we do this soon. But the fearless 29 year old I was then no longer exists. I’m pretty scared to be honest. Of being robbed at knife point. Of falling over and not bouncing back up with nothing broken like I have the last  4/5  times I fell (another thing I never used to do – thanks to my right hip replacement not getting the memo about changes in levels when I am walking fast to whatever I am aiming for. I need to stop walking so fast, and perhaps look where I’m going would help?) More mundanely of staying in a series of low budget hotels eating junk food with chronic constipation. Yup, another thing I couldn’t care less about and is now a preoccupation.

  We have switched roles 180 degrees, and while I was the agitator in 1993, desperate to see some of the world before settling into domestic life, now it’s Clive blowing the trumpet for the road less travelled while I have at least one eye on the unplanted allium bulbs I have not had time to plan a place for  in my garden,  a yearning to pore over seed catalogues in front of a log fire, to book tickets for winter theatre, to sign up to singing classes.

My packing has changed too – 30 years ago I am pretty sure I just bunged in a pair of jeans, some shorts, maybe a few t-shirts, Now we have a 15kg limit on some legs of the journey, and the case weighs 3kg, so for simplicity I’m channelling a monochrome black, white and grey palette and plan to bring colour into the mix using jewellery. I have already googled “threading, Buenas Aires”. Tracy has ceremoniously stripped my fingernails bare of nail varnish, the first time I’ve not had varnish on in years. In the space of 30 years, I have become high maintenance, and hairier. Also unlike 30 years ago, I have chargers for my chargers, a crazy number of wires and plugs and devices, although we both still have books, just in case. 

We leave in a few days time.