Patagonian dreaming

Buenos Aires is addictive but a wee break to the South of Argentina comes as a welcome relief. Things I don’t like about Buenos Aires: you can drink the tap water but it tastes like bleach; it is situated right by the sea but you can’t swim in it (such a torture!); and then all the unoriginal city gripes: the traffic, the pollution, the poverty, the dangers (see previous blog entry about that). A relatively small list for such an overwhelmingly large city.

So, a holiday within a holiday with madre and madre’s other half.

Two days in El Calafate (trekking on the Perito Moreno glacier is stunning), two days in El Chalten for some lightweight trekking (for which I have put aside vanity and bought my first ever trekking shoes) and then two days on a bus heading north to Bariloche on Ruta 40. The name sounds grand, but the road most certainly is not. Mostly gravel, it means the drivers can go at the average speed of a milk float, slowing further at one point to allow an armadillo to bravely cross the road in front of us.

As we lurch up the highway on day one I wonder when the next food and toilet stop will be, the only respite from the relentlessly grinding open road. We eventually pull into the aptly named ‘Siberia’ cafe and toilet stop around lunchtime. Hunger draws us into the restaurant area where we are met with a groaning pile of fried meat empanadas, ham and cheese wedge-like sandwiches and cubes of cake. Fruit and vegetables have clearly not reached this remote back of beyond place. Ok, ham and cheese sandwiches all round then. Madre lifts the top slice of bread looking inside hopefully, willing there to be lettuce, tomato, mayo, butter, something. Nope this is minimalism incarnate, albeit with food.

We arrive in Bariloche late on day two (narrowly escaping scurvy) and drive around the lakes for the next two days. Sadly the sky is crowded with clouds and drizzle falls from the sky on both days. Well this is the Lake District and so it fittingly resembles my childhood memories of the Lake District in England. Just bigger: the roads, the mountains, the towns, the cars, the clouds, all magnified.

Now alone in a new city, a new country: Montevideo, Uruguay. Keeping my fingers crossed the sun will shine enough for me to enjoy the beaches further north.

Los ladrones

'Does this train stop at Tribunales?' a young local asks me in Spanish as I mind my own business on the station platform. At first I don't understand what he has said through a combination of my mediocre spanish ability and my mind being elsewhere. I tell him yes, then we squeeze onto the commuter-full train while he runs through the usual script: where am I from, what am I doing here, how long am I staying. Two stops later I force my way through the crowded train to exit on the other side. The stop is Callao and I am here on a mission to find the magical Citibank cash machine my classmate has told me about that allows you to withdraw 2500 pesos a go, much more than the usual 1000 peso limit, thus saving on withdrawal fees. I need to pay my rent the following day and my school fees in a few days so the rumour is worth verifying.

Reach into my handbag for my purse to swipe the door with my bank card and am met with a gaping emptiness. Nothing. I suddenly notice how light my bag feels. Wallet is gone. Must. Think.

The subte was crowded. The guy asking me questions. Can it be a coincidence? But he seemed so nice. Seemed normal. Was there an accomplice reaching his dishonest hand into my bag as I read the gringo script to the guy.

Then a mixture of feelings: anger, shame (how could I be so naive, stupid, careless?). Then trying to think of the positives: at least it happened before I withdrew £500 worth of pesos. At least they did not take my camera, my phone which were nestled cosily next to my wallet. At least there was no violence or attack; a shamefully silent, unguessable moment.

'Rule one ..... dont panic. Rule two ..... have a drink'. The advice of a comiserating friend from home when I tell him the news. Well, if you say so... I take his good advice.

Two months later and with the help of kind friends here who help me out with money (you know who you are!) all is okay and all is (almost) forgotten. I am walking in San Telmo with my new, more vigilant, grasp of my handbag and in search of a cafe for my daily dose of caffeine (although I know that the coffee is generally appalling here I still enjoy the ritual of sipping from a cup of bitterness while people-watching or writing emails. As with so many things, the idea overshadows the reality but I still cling to the idea as if I am living life through a film).

Suddenly, white foam on my bag, on the back of my dress, and a tiny woman as if from nowhere brandishing a tissue, wiping the mess one minute, pointing into the sky the next attempting to communicate to me what has happened. 'Gracias, gracias' I say, a little dazed. Then another small woman appears, also waving a wad of tissues and pointing at my handbag, at my hair which I realise has also been hit by the foam. I feel like a giant amid these two petit women and their onslaught of espanol and tissues. Suddenly it dawns on me. This could be a premeditated plot. I've heard about these kinds of gringo attacks and it seems a little odd that these two midgets appeared at my side so promptly. I take a firmer hold of my handbag, shake off the two women with one last dismissive 'gracias' and walk off decisively without turning back. 

Paranoia or carefulness? It's a fine line we gringos walk...

Intercambio exchange (or online dating by another name?)

Two weeks into Spanish classes and I am determined to practice speaking as much as I can. So what else can I do to improve my grasp of this language they call Castellano (charmingly pronounced 'Casteshano' in Argentina)?. One morning before class I decide to set up a profile on an intercambio exchange website entering my name, age, nationality, languages spoken, and a brief blurb about myself, then off I go to school. On returning home a few hours later I am met with eight emails: 'You have a message from Luciano', 'You have a message from Alejandro', 'You have a message from Carlos', etc - I think, dear reader, you see a pattern emerging (my favourite was without a doubt 'You have a message from Jesus' - how many people can say they have received that in their inbox?).

I don't know how else to choose except to write to the first couple that are a similar age to me. The following day, several more emails: 'You have a message from Pablo', 'You have a message from Santiago', 'You have a message from Joaquin'. I start to panic. How am I supposed to email all these people?? I don't want to be rude but I don't have time for this! The following day after that I realise I can hide my profile and still be able to use it to communicate with my existing contacts. At this point the email count is in the twenties, with a grand total of two from women...hmmm.

The next Monday I have my first intercambio meeting. As I am sat waiting on the corner of Armenia and Guatemala (road names here tend to be after countries or people) in the Palermo neighbourhood I feel very much like I am lacking a red rose or some such accessory for my partner to recognise me. I have already told him I have red hair and white skin so he shouldn't have trouble finding me amid the sea of bronzed brunettes in Buenos Aires. Yep, he spots me straight away.

Two beers later we are chattering away: he in English, me in (bad) Spanish and the time flies by. He is interested to know about London because he is hoping to visit later in the year and I ask for tips on Buenos Aires. At the end he insists on paying, reminding me firmly but with a touch of irony that this is a macho society, and walks me to my subte station like a true caballero (gentleman). I am glowing. It couldn't have gone better and I feel like it was great practise. Next day we email each other agreeing to meet again some time.

Carlos, is my next potential intercambio partner. We have been emailing back and forth a few times trying to arrange a meeting. Finally we settle on coffee one afternoon. That morning he confirms the location to meet and I also tell him that I have red hair and 'look like a gringa'. His response: he sends a photo of himself. Looking typically latino, the photo is so posed a catalogue model would be jealous. Back facing the camera, head turned to look wistfully over his left shoulder with an attempt at smouldering eyes. This is too much! I cancel, feigning illness, much to my housemate's amusement.

Number three is Luciano who I am a little dubious of before we meet. We have chatted a few times via msn messenger and his sentiments have been decidedly forward. Again I describe my hair colour and that I am quite tall, 'red hair and long legs: a dangerous combination for men' comes the reply. I almost cancel again but decide to see what happens. We are meeting in San Telmo, my favourite neighbourhood in BA, so I am keen to encounter some new hang-outs. When we meet to chat over a class of Malbec I am pleasantly surprised. He is much shyer than his msn-alter-ego and I begin to wonder if I have met up with the right person. He tells me about the time he spent living in London working in an exclusive gentlemans club which explains his delightfully posh english accent. A pleasant evening but neither of us suggest meeting again.

Number four is a journalist writing for an underground cultural magazine, interested in live music and wine. We meet for coffee and again a perfect gent, he walks me to my next appointment, a party at a friend's house, which is decidedly out of his way.

While all this is happening I am feeling a growing sense of uncertainty. What is the 'proper' etiquette for intercambio exchanges? Am I 'cheating' on number one (who I am still meeting up with) by meeting with successive partners? Should I stay faithful to one intercambio partner? And how would I feel if I knew they were meeting others? Ok, so yes, I am starting to sound like the paranoid hysteric that is Carrie Bradshaw but it has got me thinking....call me old-fashioned but I think I only have space (and time!) for one intercambio partner at a time.

The subject that cannot be ignored

Tango is the perfect metaphor for the relationship between men and women in Argentina, so says my Spanish teacher. The man leads and the woman must follow his cue while playing a game, alternately showing interest one second, turning her face away the next. So it is in romantic relationships, according to several men I speak to who have dated Argentine women (both Argentine men and foreigners). Argentine women are 'more complicated', 'difficult' and 'indecisive' so they assure me, but it undoubtedly begs the question of context: historical and cultural. Surely Argentine women are not inherently different from women the world over. What has happened to create this pattern of machismo, these starkly contrasting gender roles?

It is unheard of (nigh on illegal) for a woman to pursue a man in this country. And going back to the tango analogy I can recall my first tango lesson in Buenos Aires almost three years ago in which I made the apparently-reprehensible mistake of pre-empting my partners moves having just learned an eight-step sequence which we were practicing. He, a sixty-plus porteño (a BsAs local), was, to put it mildly, not best pleased with my efforts.  

The history is a long and complex one, but Argentina is strongly influenced by its Italian and Spanish heritage. On first arrival to the Americas, Roman law ruled and this meant that women were ultimately the property of men; their fathers and then their husbands. It wasn't until 1905 that women first had the opportunity to go to university in Argentina and 1947 was the year women won the right to vote, largely thanks to Evita Peron's prominent efforts. So yes, things have evolved as they have the world over, but Argentina today remains a firmly patriarchal society.

In a country that has a female president; where the law dictates that 30% of ministers that sit in congress must be women and where the most celebrated human-rights campaigners are women (the mothers and grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mothers_of_the_Plaza_de_Mayo) all is not as it seems. There are not many policies that reflect the relatively strong female presence in Parliament. Abortion is still illegal here, as it is in most of Latin America, and proposals for equal pay have not gotten anywhere. A case of token gestures but no substance perhaps?

On an everyday level, the machismo is manifest in fleeting moments. In the lack of attention I get when trying to get a waiter's attention in contrast to my male companions; in the proprietorial manner I see a man handle his girlfriend and in the not-so-subtle predatory stare of the porteño sat opposite me on the underground. In a strong imitation of their Italian heritage, men here tend to have very close relationships with their mothers and it is not uncommon for a man to visit his mother for lunch every Sunday, I am told. That said, in contrast to other South American countries such as Brazil, there seems to be less of a stigma attached to people moving out of their parents' homes before marriage.

Interestingly, we discussed these issues in one of my spanish classes (in spanish of course). The teacher asked us what we thought the situation was like for women in each of our own respective countries. I was astounded to hear that all seemed to think that women were treated equally to men in Australia, France, Austria, the U.K etc. Easier to point the finger at 'macho Latin America' than to think reflexively I suppose...

Una tipica noche de sabado en BsAs

Saturday night in Buenos Aires and what to do? Go out for dinner and go to a boliche (club) of course. So, me and three of my flatmates decide to head out on the town in Palermo Soho. After some research we decide on a highly recommended restaurant: 'Club Eros warrants a write-up and a pin on the map for being the single most UN-Palermo eatery in Palermo'. In an area known for being more than a little pretentious this sounds promising. On arrival, however, my flatmates are not so keen: 'it looks like a Cuban restaurant' comes the response. And yes, the blinding strip lights and peeling paint do not lend anything to the atmosphere but it does have that elusive authentic feel. Sadly I am outvoted and we go in search of another option (and I vow to return to El Eros another day...). It's 10:30pm and we find a table at a Mexican restaurant. We are doing well with time, successfully assimilated to Porteño life. If you eat before 10pm here you may as well be wearing a badge with the words 'soy un gringo'....

Guacamole, tortilla chips, burritos, salsa and what's this? This red flavoursome delight I see, something I feel like I haven't seen for months and barely even recognise......red hot chilli peppers! How I have missed thee! One of my few complaints about BA is the lack of flavour and spice in the food. And no, if you drown something in salt that does not count I'm afraid.

Fully sated and two cocktails later we are entering Club 69 which to our surprise is possibly the gayest straight club known to man. Drag queens cavort with each other at the back of the stage while rude boys show off their break-dancing moves at centre stage making for a wholley incongruous spectacle. We have never seen anything like it but all conclude that it is highly entertaining.

And so we dance well into the early hours until we can dance no more....

Adventures in finding a hairdresser (in the land that hairdressing forgot)…

I need to get a haircut so I do the only sensible thing and post onto the Lonely Planet thorntree forum:

I am living in Buenos Aires and will be staying for several weeks/months. I just wondered if anyone has any recommendations of good hairdressers in the city? If they speak some english even better as my Spanish is very basic.

The responses are a little unexpected:

RESPONDENT #1:

The locals have probably been asking the same question for years. Have you ever seen the typical porteño haircut? Argentina is the land that hairdressing forgot.

RESPONDENT #2:

"typical porteño haircut"

I was not aware that there is a typical porteño haircut and then you can definetely not mix up porteños with the rest of Argentina. I am curious. Why do you think that Argentina is a land that forgot hairdressing? What would be a typical brasilian or chilean haircut for example? Also, there are plenty of hairdresser all over Argentina and a lot in Buenos Aires. People, especially the ladies spend a huge amount of money and a considerable time in these places. Must be pretty stupid all these people to waste their time and money, according to your observations! Bear in mind that all these people have access to internet and TV and see haircuts and the latest devolpments of fashion from all over the world, including haircuts, all the time

I am curious. Why do you think that Argentina is a land that forgot hairdressing?

RESPONDENT #1:

I made a mental note of the various types of haircut I saw in BsAs. Prevalent were the following.

1) 'I just got out of bed', with or without the cut on the bias. Common and quite ghastly.

2) The mullet, the femullet, the German heavy metal fan mullet. Popular.

3) The 'I think I would look like Gael Garcia Bernal' if I was only twenty years younger' look, a sort of subset of (1). Scary.

4) The bad 1970s TV detective show cut, with or without drifts of dandruff and usually with sideburns. Nostalgia for the era of the junta maybe? Or maybe Carlos Menem should be regarded as a more influential figure than is popularly recognised. Sad.

Now these observations were made about three years ago so who knows, maybe all that TV and internet viewing has changed things. Judging by what I saw you could have been forgiven for believing that a substantial part of that TV diet consisted of re-runs of the Rockford Files.

What would be a typical brasilian or chilean haircut for example?

I can't say that the coiffures sported by Chilenos stuck in my mind. Unremarkable, most likely quite conservative on the whole, like the wearers tend to be.

The general tendency in Brazil, at least for men is short and neat. I can get a decent haircut for as little as R$8,00 without fear of ridicule. My wife spends maybe four to five times that amount and as a whole Brazilian women tend to be rather particular about their appearance. SP seems to be a magnet for bad hairdos, the exception that proves the rule.

Must be pretty stupid all these people to waste their time and money, according to your observations!

I couldn't agree more.

All very amusing but not very helpful for my enquiry. Anyway, luckily the story has a happy ending and I find someone on an expats forum who cuts peoples’ hair in her apartment. She also has her own horror stories about hairdressers in BA and recalls one incident which ended with her in tears. Looks like I had a lucky escape...

Adventures in finding a swimming pool…

The first day is for jet-lag recovery and nada mas. Next day, I go in search of a swimming pool. Sadly Buenos Aires does not have any beaches as the sea is not clean enough to swim in near the city, but luckily there are enough gyms in BA to satisfy anyone. I find one near my hostel, a huge complex with seven or eight floors and pay the entry fee for one day. The swimming pool is on the top floor so I walk the many flights to the top, find somewhere to get changed and head towel-clad to the pool. I am immediately accosted by the attendant who launches a sea of Spanish at me. After some sign language, spanglish and more than a little time, I ascertain that I need to go the ‘medico’. I take the lift back to the first floor, the lift attendant also talking at me about ‘medico’, ‘examen’ etc. In the sparse medical room I get sudden flashbacks of primary school, half expecting to have a hearing test or be told to say ‘ahh’. Disappointingly, the doctor only asks to look between my toes and under my armpits. Thankfully I seem to pass the thorough examination with flying colours and am handed a certificate confirming this. When I say a certificate, it is more like a receipt the size of two postage stamps….most importantly I can finally have my long-awaited swim.

A few days later I have a look at another gym having decided I want to get a months membership while I rent a room in the city. This gym is much nicer and cleaner than the first so bracing myself for another ‘examen’ I decide to join. To my surprise, the second medico test is a little more thorough than the first. Not only does she take my pulse and my blood pressure but puts some kind of electro-cardio sensors on my body; on my legs, my arms, my chest and stomach. As I lie there I wonder if this is a special treatment for gringos who don’t know any better….ho hum.