Díaz de Solís

(Belated) Goodbye to Buenos Aires

2008-07-28T12:54:00.000-07:00

VOLVERÉ Y SERÉ MILLONES

It's all over, man. GOODBYE BUENOS AIRES.

LAST WEEK PHOTO ROUNDUP PART #1

2008-06-24T17:33:00.000-07:00

LOOKING BACK AT ALL THE GOOD TIMES

You may have noticed I've been less than attentive to the old blog, lately, and I suppose the project has gotten a little out of hand. I'll be back home by the 30th, and by then it will be too late to keep updating a blog about my life in this hemisphere. I've decided to run a two part photo special with all my pictures since my last update and some special never before seen material from a friend. I'll try to put part one in something approaching chronological order.

RETURN TO RECOLETA CEMETERY

Far and away the creepiest place I've seen in this country so far, I jumped at the chance to go back with a friend of a friend visiting from New York. We went on a perfectly spooky day.

Here's something that would never happen in America; somebody could fall down there and sue.

Note the torn security seals on the doorframe, indicating that this tomb has recently been broken open with intent either to rob or to smoke joints (a pastime popular with the younger generations of great families).

The most horrible thing that's ever been on my blog. It had rained the day before, leading me to believe that the horrible stain on this mausoleum is probably the flushed out putrescence of somebody's grandpa.

Your correspondent at the tomb of the "Wild Bull of the Pampas" himself, Luis Angel Firpo.

My good friend Natasha Magariel and myself pictured in front of a mausoleum.

Life goes on, even if that means nobody's going to be able to see your statue.

Here I am at the grave of the famous "Lady in White" of Recoleta Cemetery, Rufina Cambaceres. The daughter of a cattle baron, she lived all her 19 years in the lap of luxury until her mother walked in and discovered her cold dead on the floor of her room. Three of the finest doctors in the country confirmed the death, and she was buried some days later in the family's mausoleum. When the caretakers came to clean the next week the found her casket had moved. When the family arrived to investigate they discovered, to their utter horror, that Rufina's fingertips were bloody and worn to the bone, and that the silk lining of the casket had been torn to shreds. Legend has it that her ghost now haunts the cemetery, dressed in the wedding dress she was destined never to wear.

RANDOM

Here's Matthew Fox of Baltimore and our trusty GSE program director Luis Alfredo Martinez Braunschweig, of Venezuela.

Upstairs at Milion.

MIKE VAN BEEKHAM'S BIRTHDAY

Some shots of the night of my good buddy Mike from Wisconsin's birthday party.

These guys are a real barrel of laughs. The guy in the middle gets bracelets for all the finest boliches in Buenos Aires because I speculate that he sells drugs to the children of very powerful people.

On the right in the white shirt is Phil, from England. I don't really know how we started hanging with Phil, but the guy knows how to have a good time. He also knows how to stay up doing cocaine for three days straight, get thrown out of his apartment, and then spend the next three sleeping on the couch.

Finally here's me with Mike himself. Mike is wearing that shirt because he plays trumpet in a Salsa combo.

FRANJOAN AND THE MUTANTS

Our friend Juani and his brother Tony have a little rock and roll group. Here's a few shots from the night of one of their shows.

GOING AWAY ESTILO CAMPO

These last few shots are from our big GSE going away dinner at Estilo Campo in Puerto Madero. Because GSE was picking up the bill, everyone had the most expensive thing on the menu. I'm sure the manager was very pleased with himself when he got eleven orders for the wild boar.

SPECIAL PHOTO UPDATE

2008-06-22T15:28:00.000-07:00

SIGHTED ALIVE

ROUTES TO CLOSE? COULDN'T CARE LESS -

2008-05-16T17:10:00.000-07:00

BAD CHORIPAN IS THE WORST KIND

Government enforcer Luis D'Elia has been making some noise about taking back the routes by force if the countryside decides to shut down again, which possibility seems entirely possible at the moment. At least the smoke has stopped. Things are great here in Buenos Aires, even though I have been temporarily immobilized by a less than positive chorizo experience.

I once had such a terrible case of food poisoning from a Bay Cities Deli sandwich that I hallucinated I was in the Mexican American war. That is to say I suffered from a feverish delusion that I was not a 21st century anglophone, but a the commander of an isolated Mexican cavalry brigade in the 1840's. You see, I thought I was so sick because the Gringos - naturally inclined to cowardice and generally unaware of the principles of gentlemanly warfare - had poisoned our well. I passed the night unable to sleep, tormented by the thought that I would die of some womanly poison and not in a flash of Latin heroism.

This time isn't so bad. Took a nap - dreamed about the White House renovation of the Truman administration.

http://www.larazon.com.ar/notas/2008/05/13/01671381.html

SPECIAL UPDATE - DON'T TALK ABOUT THE WAR

2008-05-16T17:04:00.000-07:00

GERMAN TOURISTS: WORSE THAN US?

Photo courtesy of Anastasia Ehrich

SOME MORE PICTURES

2008-05-12T18:22:00.000-07:00

BUENOS AIRES

IGUAZU

A JOURNEY INTO THE MALARIAL JUNGLES OF MISIONES

2008-05-12T15:46:00.000-07:00

THE LAST FERRY TO PARAGUAY, ROTISSEUR GAUCHESQUE, A WATERFALL ON THE IGUAZU AND OTHER OCCURRENCES

What did you do this weekend?

Gentle reader, I write to you now through the thick fog of the last stages of a very nasty reaction to a completely unnecessary vaccination against the jungle malady known as yellow fever. The reason for this unpleasant adventure in prophylactic medicine? A direct order from Global Student Experiences HQ in Irvine, California, where the dope smokers and hacky-sack champions turned millionaires organizing my exchange decided that no students would be allowed to Iguazu Falls without the vaccine. Never mind, of course, that there hasn't been a single confirmed case anywhere near Iguazu in years, the almost complete absence of the mosquitos that spread the disease at this time of year, and the near impossibility of healthy white people with health insurance dying from the disease. Anyway, I guard the bastards no rancor; Iguazu was the most amazing place I've been in years and a little yellow fever is just the price I'll have to pay.

Ready to leave civilization behind - Jorge Newberry Departure Lounge

Before leaving, I was overcome by the desire to take advantage of the fact that Iguazu lies at what is known as "la triple frontera," where Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay meet at the confluence of the Parana and Iguazu rivers. The region is as famous for its lawlessness than it is for the striking beauty of the waterfalls straddling the Argentina/Brazil border. For comparison, it is estimated that 1 million tourists visited the national parks in Brazil and Argentina last year, and I personally estimate that 1 million pirated DVD players were sold in Paraguay in the same period. I wanted a slice of the pie. I wanted to buy stolen goods in Paraguay. Americans cannot legally enter Brazil without a consular visa, so I had decided to leave that for some other time and head to "Latin America's Mexico," Paraguay. I became obsessed with Paraguay, and if I had to get some pointless vaccine on the whims of some birkenstock wearing post-feminists back in California, so be it.

The people behind the organization of my exchange down here, to be fair, are giving me a lot more than the other programs with students at Belgrano, but all the same they tend to try to keep us in a very touristy sort of bubble. Iguazu, granted, is one of the biggest tourist destinations in the world. Really, people only go there to see the waterfalls, and the national parks very complete network of Jungle catwalks and narrow gauge railways do most of the work in taking some of the adventure out of seeing the waterfalls. The thing about the falls, of course, is that they are too magnificent to really diminish with a few catwalks, or the presence of a few other gawking tourists.

I wasn't going to let GSE screw up the rest of my time at the Tri-Frontier, though, so I decided to get straight to Paraguay where no tour groups dare to go. I didn't want a regular tourist experience with a bunch of clueless Americans being lead by the nose by our program director to pre-approved frippery (It took something of a revolt, for example, to keep Alfredo from taking us to an American chain restaurant in Mar del Plata). Everyone I asked told me the same thing, though.

"It is impossible for you to go to Paraguay."

I had arrived on a Friday. To go to Paraguay by Taxi, you need to cross though Brazil and it was already too late in the afternoon to catch the last ferry back until Tuesday.

I was despondent. I was outraged. Upper middle class young white men like me are not used to having the law apply to us, and this rude assertion of Brazilian sovereignty was killing me. There was no Paraguay in the cards for me, it seemed. I resigned to do what the tourists do. I hopped into a cab with a few friends whom I had severely let down after talking up Paraguay to them the whole week before, and asked the driver to take us to see the three frontiers.

On the way to the river port he put on a DVD in a little flip down screen about the history of some hydroelectric dam. I asked him for some local music instead. This seemed to spike his interest somewhat. I confessed to him that Americans of a certain class and disposition have an obsession with authenticity. He looked authentic enough to me, and I wanted to get as much about the reality of the region out of him as possible in three days.

My fried Anastasia put to him that instead of the port, he should take us to some kind of bar where the locals would be eating. He thought it over, and then he asked the question that made the weekend.

"How about a an asado in the jungle tonight?"

Matt Fox of Baltimore and our driver, Miguel, at dinner later that night.

Miguel, our driver, it turns out, is part of a smaller, weirder and better tourist industry in Iguazu. He took us to the port all the same, and while we waited for a futuristic catamaran tour down the Parana, he went off to talk to a friend of his. That's how we met Fabricio. Anastasia and her friend Natasha thought he was dreamy. Matt and I thought he was awesome. In short, Fabricio is a gaucho, and he was going to host us at his humble home in the Jungle after our catamaran cruise returned.

Fabricio and I talked a little about literature, which he used to study before he became a gaucho/tree husbander. We made a deal for the dinner, and he went off to prepare while we watched the sun go down over the confluence of the rivers and the triple frontier. The last ferry to Paraguay, loaded with the boxy vans that move the third world, set steam without us, but I didn't mind so much anymore.

The catamaran tour was strange. We cruised down the river aways in this very futuristic boat (if the future hadn't been properly serviced in a few years, anyway) until we came to this beach on the Paraguayan side of the river. We beached. Finally I was in Paraguay, even if it was just for a few minutes. What were we doing here in Paraguay? We had come to observe an ancient Guarani ritual, carried out twice a day on the banks of the river in exchange for bags of food and medical aid from the catamaran company. Everyone went out to the front of the boat to watch the dancing of the indians, which was, to say the least, somewhat uninspired. The scene was starting to give me a bad feeling. Tourists from all over (mostly from Spain and Buenos Aires) were staring wide eyed. It was as if space aliens paid me to go back to church so they could observe homo sapiens' capacity for spiritual feeling. We left the Guarani behind to be treated to a selection of everyone's favorite songs from all over the Spanish speaking world.

Miguel came to get us at the hotel that night, and we set off into the jungle for the most delicious barbecue that I've ever had. We left the town behind, passing some indigenous houses, a half built schoolhouse, the carwash and then we were in the jungle, going up a mountain. Miguel played with us once we were out of town, shutting off the lights and showing us how pitch black it was out there. Then we got lost. We stopped to get our bearings for a minute.

Then we saw a lantern light coming out of the Jungle. Fabricio had seen the lights from the car and come out to find us. We followed him on foot back to his place, a patch of land with a small shack for sleeping, a lean-too for cooking and a bunch of seedlings growing out of cut up soda bottles.

Mostly, when we got there, we were speechless (unusual for me). Fabricio had set up everything beautifully. He told us all about his home, what he did out there, living in the Jungle. It was wonderful. Fabricio had been a literature student before he ran off to become a gaucho. He had worked a few years artificially inseminating pigs and cows before he visited Iguazu on a vacation five years ago. He fell in love with the place, and decided to stay.

The dinner he made us was fantastic. We ate like kings out under the stars. Everything was perfect. The meat of Argentina is known to be the best, and the meat in the countryside is even better. Meat cooked over a wood fire is better than charcoal, and the meat of Misiones grows out the famous red soil of the province, giving everything a special flavor. Fabricio had arranged everything wonderfully. For desert we had fresh bananas, straight from the jungle, and special hand rolled gaucho cigars from Paraguay.

Of course, our authentic Jungle barbecue is only so different from paying Guarani to come out and dance. That was an authentic Guarani dance, after all. What does it mean to be a tourist? Does paying to see a waterfall make it less of a waterfall? Who knows, really. I like to think Miguel, Fabricio and I got on well, but the truth is that I still paid them. I got what I wanted, I got to get away from my program, hang out with a gaucho, smoke paraguayan cigars and eat a ton the best meat I've ever had in my life. They got what they wanted, and it's too base to say that they just wanted to make money. Fabricio is digging another well, and trying to start a business raising indigenous trees. Was I saving the rain-forest? Maybe. My point is this - you can only get so authentic in one afternoon.

A TRIP TO THE FALLS

They've got all these catwalks set up that take you through the jungles and over the rivers so you can get to the falls without damaging the rain-forest ecosystem.

This is called the "Devil's Throat" waterfall. It's biggest one of the falls at Iguazu. Everybody in the crowd here was talking about death. This photo does not capture how epic it is to look down into the Devil's Throat. No joke, everybody was talking about death. So many people probably kill themselves here.

There are a million rainbows all over the place.

This boat took us right underneath the falls. Like, they just drove the boat straight into the waterfall. It was awesome. Everyone got so soaked, and everyone else was wearing jeans. The fools.

My mom just came back from Egypt. A lot of her pictures from the temples have "orbs" in them, that are allegedly the spirits of the Pharaohs or something. The spots in this picture are drops of water.

Some photos come courtesy of Traci Fortier.

SPRING BREAK!!!!!

2008-04-13T00:10:00.000-07:00

As a respite from the gloomy subject matter of my last post, here are some pictures of my big trip to Mar del Plata. I went with the company that arranged my enrollment in the university, so it was a pretty big America party the whole time.

THE COST OF SACRILEGE

2008-04-12T17:50:00.000-07:00

20 PESOS

The North American traveller visiting this Buenos Aires landmark will promptly realize that the Recoleta Cemetery is not so much a cemetery in the sense that we understand the word in our own Protestant Republic, but rather necropolis built according to the baroque tastes typical of the Catholic oligarchies of the south. Even more valuable than the real estate in Buenos Aires' Recoleta barrio - where the gente decente live in conformity with Baron Haussmann's ideals of urban planning - is the right to be buried alongside the father's of the nation and their legion ne'erdowell offspring. The names on the mausoleums read like the index of streets at the back of a city map. Mitre, Lavalle, Sarmiento and Pueyrredón all lie in Recoleta; their tombs maintained at public expense and largely ignored by the tourists who want to see Evita.

The government of Argentina, although at times prone to fruitless expenses, cannot afford to maintain all of the tombs in Recoleta, and the vast majority are the responsibility of the surviving family. It is the unfortunate tendency of oligarchies, however, to shrink with the passage of time. As more of the nation's great families disappear, their mausoleums in Recoleta fall into utter disrepair. The directors of the cemetery, in a fine display of Christian charity, take it upon themselves to close the doors that fall open with padlocks or zip ties, but little more. It is a wonder that the place doesn't completely reek of putrefaction (more on this later), but this unstoppable decay somehow suits the aesthetic of Recoleta. It reflects the encroachment of bourgeois pragmatism into traditional feudal superstition (or perhaps the manifestation of a latent infection - Buenos Aires having been a smugglers port long before it became a viceregal capital).

But what of the families whose resources remain such that they are able to care for the final (or at least, current) resting place of their antecedents? The task falls to a special group of men, who ensure that the cobwebs are brushed out of the corners, the handles of the coffins stay shiny, the priceless Byzantine mosaics are intact, the stray cats don't shit all over the place, and the hundreds of other jobs that maintain the crypt as a symbol of the family's eternal prestige get done. Much as so many of the cemetery's residents were no doubt used to a complete complement of domestic servants in life, they are looked after in death for however long the family fortune lasts. The families do not tend to pay these workers well, but somehow, I do not think that many visitors to Recoleta are offered the same special tour that it was my pleasure to enjoy today.

I was wandering the cemetery today, you see, when I saw a very singular looking man emerge from one of the tombs. I was quite surprised to see someone coming out of a crypt, especially, to be perfectly frank, someone with such an indian aspect about him that I didn't imagine very many relatives were buried in Recoleta. He caught me looking at him, and made a face that suggested a certain displeasure at the fact. I decided to play dumb, and I asked him what was down there (obviously, the only answer is "a bunch of dead people"). He motioned over to a worker in blue coveralls, and then asked me if I wanted to find out for myself. I took another look at the man. He had gold jewelry, big shades, American jeans, and a big mustache. I had met the godfather of the crypt-keepers. He was very clearly relishing my hesitation in answering.

He took me aside -

"Make sure you give a nice tip so this guy can get a sandwich. Nobody's responsible for what happens to you when you're down there."

Now, I know certain of my relatives have read this blog and charged me with a certain naïveté, that perhaps I've gotten myself into things better left alone. To them I say this: accepting this offer might have been the closest I'd ever get to meeting Nicolás Francomano, and I was not about to let the opportunity pass me by.

The man in the blue overalls was a friendly enough sort, considering he spends most of his time with dead people and stray cats. He told me to follow him, because he wanted to show me a nice one. We walked down the alleys of the cemetery until we came to a white marble mausoleum. He unlocked the doors and motioned for me to follow him down into the first level of the crypt. There were sixteen coffins in all, in niches in the walls.

Each coffin is lined with steel, my guide explained, with two valves that prevent the accumulation of gasses from causing an explosion. These valves have some sort of chemical filter, that neutralizes the odor of decomposition and by the time they no longer function, the body doesn't really smell that bad anyway. He also told me that as more and more members of the family die, they make room in the crypt by taking out some of the older ones and cremating them, or putting the bones in an ossuary. Thank god that he didn't take me to see the ossuary, located underneath the floor of the lowest level of the crypt.

As my guide took me down into the bottom level, we had to light a candle to see. The bottom of the crypt is practically identical to the upper, but creepier because of the darkness. I hesitated on the last few steps down into the crypt.

"Don't be a coward. They're not going to bite."

He showed me a picture of Jesus at the back of the tomb, and explained to me that recently the painting had needed restoration. The family had had it flown to England to have the work done, and only recently returned it to it's place in the dark where only he would see it once a week. I felt sorry for the painter, but, fortunately, he's probably dead too. I asked him how often people from the family came to visit, and the answer was hardly ever. Looking around at the marble floors and the paintings on the walls, it wasn't that hard to imagine that their house looks fairly similar, anyway.

I was somewhat relieved when he offered to take me up to the chapel. Fascinating as the crypt may have been, I was ready to see sunshine. It was a wonderful feeling walking back up and out of the tomb, considering that a lot of people don't get to come back out once they go in. Since the place was designed for people of average height 200 years ago, the ceilings are a little low. My guide warned me not to bump my head and fall, because they'd put him in prison if I did. Naturally, I obliged his request.

He showed me the chapel, which was lovely, but which doesn't really stick in my memory, probably because it wasn't full of the deafening silence of hundreds of dead bodies slowly moldering for all eternity.

I slipped the guy a 20 peso note, and high-tailed it back into the world of the living as fast as I could. I can go back and see Evita some other time.

SOME PHOTOS FROM THE FOOTHILLS OF THE ANDES

2008-04-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

I've finally got around to having this pictures developed onto a CD. I took them on my trip to Salta before the start of this semester.

I really wish you all could have seen what's in the left quarter of this picture. You wouldn't even believe it if I tried to describe it. It was so cool. The coolest thing I've ever seen, ever.

This is the boarding area for the cable car to the top of the mountain in the city of Salta, Cerro San Bernardo. Keep your eye on the married couple buying tickets.

Here they are again! A lovely French couple from the city of LeMans. They spoke neither English nor Spanish, and I relished this opportunity to be more cultured than a couple of snooty French people. Where do they get off, anyway?

Anyway, I was nice enough to them long enough for them to take my picture.

Do you see the cloud in this picture? That's how high up this cable car goes. I would have been terrified, but I saw a plaque that said the thing was made in Switzerland.

There it is, the city of Salta, Argentina. It's a nice town. The people are friendly, the streets are pretty convincingly paved (downtown), and they've got some beautiful colonial buildings (not pictured). The top of this mountain turned out to be kind of a bust, though. There were lots of bees, and some people selling the same Artesanal bric-a-brac available in tourist traps the length of the continent. Also, they had stopped making lunch by the time I got up there. I was starving. The lemonade was good, but a bee flew into it.

Anyway, this is Stan, from Hong Kong. He was staying in my Hostel, and we decided to hit up the tour to the mystic city of Cachi. This tour was definitely the highlight of my trip to Salta. Stan and I were laughing it up in the back of the bus, because he's a pretty rad guy. He doesn't speak Spanish, he barely speaks English, and he decided to quit his job as an electrical engineer to travel all over South America doing landscape photography.

This was our tour guide (Check out the super-official khaki outfit). Once these two old ladies stopped paying attention he started hitting on the two girls from Buenos Aires in the front. I took this picture right after he said, "The Black Widow is a small spider, but so dangerous."

We'd stop every once and a while to hop out and take pictures. Some of the road was flooded out from the rains the night before, so every time I got out of the van alive I felt like I had accomplished something. This is another friend of mine from the Hostel.

Here's a little cemetery we passed on the way up the valley.

That sign says "Put your batteries in me," which is a play on words in Spanish. It doesn't mean what you think it does. Also, when we were having coffee here the tour guide and I got to talking about studying German. When it turned out that we had both taken it in high school he said to me (not about the woman in the picture), "This chick has a totally nice ass."

This is a FUCKING GAUCHO. This photograph is not staged. That's how much I keep it real.

The road in the background is called "La Cuesta del Obispo." It was built by Indian slaves in order for an extremely fat Bishop to cross the hills and proselytize to the people on the other side. In addition to having to build the road, they had to carry the Bishop, who couldn't walk too far because of his gout.

Here's a monument to the simple faith of these decent country people. Painstakingly constructed on the top of this mountain. Note the clouds are actually lower than the chapel. Nobody lives up here.

Anyway, we finally made it up the valley and into the high deserts of Salta. I bought a bottle of wine on the side of the road, guaranteed to have been stamped by genuine artesanal peasants. This is me with Argentina's national cactus, the Cardon.

Cachi, principal street, noon.

Llama.

BREAKING NEWS

2008-04-03T18:44:00.000-07:00

STRIKE IS TEMPORARILY LIFTED FOR "NEGOTIATIONS"

ARGENTINE STRIKE ENDS, SHORTAGES PERSIST

ARGENTINA FARMERS SUSPEND STRIKE

More Falkland Islands Fun!

2008-04-03T17:41:00.000-07:00

YOUR CORRESPONDENT DOES THE WRONG THING:

WHY DOES IT FEEL SO GOOD TO BE AN IMPERIALIST?

Answer: Because you get to live here.

Being the insensitive type that I am, I may have posted some things in this blog that shed a less than charitable light on Argentina's obsession with the Falklands. I'd like to point out that I wrote all those things before I got invited to spend a little time last night over at the British embassy here in Buenos Aires.

The tiny shred of decency left to me prevents me from describing the wild party we had on Argentina's big day of mourning, but I will say it was a good time had by all (except the riot police out front protecting the building). The house is beautiful, and apparently the most secure building in the entire country. I imagine that our embassy is more secure, or at least uglier, but the fact was recounted to me with such pride, that I'll simply have to agree.

I didn't really see any security guards, but walking through the house I was always nervous that some SAS types might jump out and mistake me for some kind of SPECTRE goon. The house is full of antiques and fine art, but what really jumped out at me were all the pictures of the Queen. I suppose I would have expected a little variety, but they were all pictures of the reigning monarch. There is one spot I noticed where I could see at least four pictures of Her Majesty (three paintings and a coronation photograph). The picture that confronts you going up the main stairs of a slightly larger than life Queen Elizabeth II is particularly impressive.

ASIDE: How much of the Queen's time is taken up by having her portraits painted ad nauseam for all the embassies around the world? Judging by this place, it's probably a lot. It's good to stay busy.

When I got the invitation I couldn't say no. Not just because it was the most cruelly ironic way to have a good time, but because I'd finally have the chance to see up close something that I'd only read about in books: blue-blooded English people. It was certainly a good time, but things have come a long way from the Bertie Wooster days.

Dramatization: Your correspondent enjoying a postprandial Turkish at the Embassy.

The girls certainly looked a bit thin, anyway. I think they must have been on some special diet. Maybe they'd all just been sick, as they seemed to be disappearing off to the bathroom and sniffling all night. Poor creatures; I wish them a speedy recovery.

All the Englishmen I met there seemed interested in telling me all about their "Gap Year," some kind of rite of passage for the young and upwardly mobile over in their country. All of them seemed to be traveling straight across the southern half of the planet: Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Fiji, New Zealand, Indonesia, Thailand, Goa, et cetera. Sounds like a nice way to pass the time, but my life is enough of a Gap Year already, so I'll stay in Buenos Aires for now.

Most of them seemed pretty surprised to discover that it was the worst day of the year to be English in Argentina, even though there was also a good splattering of Argentines at the party as well. To most of them, Buenos Aires was just one stop on their world party tours. The club going enthusiasts seemed to think that Buenos Aires is the best city in the world for that sort of thing, and a few had decided to extended their stays for a few weeks (just skip Patagonia or Bolivia). By and large, though, I didn't really get the impression from the ones who planned on staying that they knew what the holiday was about. Having found the most English-friendly party in town, I doubt they cared too much.

I wish I could provide some profound insight about how this most sacrilegious of parties is a perfect demonstration of the way money and first world privilege insulate people from reality. Unfortunately, I was just as separated from reality by the ambassador's wet bar as I was by money, privilege or federal riot police, so the story will just have to wait.

FUN FACTS ABOUT THE FALKLANDS - SPECIAL MALVINAS DAY EXTRA

2008-04-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

Today as Argentine's celebrate Malvinas Argentinas day, I thought I'd like to share with you some fun facts about the reason everything in the country is closed today and about the cold political (mis)calculations that led up to Argentina deciding to exercise its claims to sovereignty over the islands.

Did you know?

That the Falkland Islands number one export is soul crushing boredom?
That in only 90 hours you too could visit the Falklands from anywhere in the world (except Argentina)?
That the the Falkland Islands are actually the secret island headquarters of the Legion of Doom?
That the Falkland Islands are the most politically expedient place in Argentina?

The war for the Falklands was one of the largest blunders in history. The Junta thought that an easy victory in the largely undefended islands would distract the population from their gross incompetence and their atrocious human rights abuses. They failed to take into account that Baroness Thatcher had the same problems and bigger balls.

It takes a man to wear pink. Happy Malvinas Argentinas Day!

"I HAVE ANOTHER SIN - BEING A WOMAN" - C. F. de K.

2008-04-02T15:35:00.000-07:00

MEAT STRIKE: DAY 21

"To the client: We inform you that for reasons beyond the control of this business, we find ourselves with a deficiency of meat products"

First off, allow me to wish all my readers a very happy Argentine Malvinas Islands day. In the grand tradition of politics in this country, yesterday President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner reaffirmed Argentina's inalienable sovereignty over the tiny, sheep-rich islands just as she managed to send the country straight to hell with a 40 percent tax increase on soy exports. Although global prices for agrarian exports are at their highest level in years in years, La Presidenta's glorious leadership has resulted in a general strike across the farm industry. Gauchos are burning bails of hay on the highways at roadblocks every few miles to prevent any agrarian products from going anywhere, and millions of cows, pigs, sheep and chicken are enjoying a stay of execution. Instead of enjoying an enormous influx of foreign currency, the country is at a complete standstill.

Why are these Gauchos enjoying an afternoon drive instead of killing me some steaks?

More pressing to me than the fate of the country, though, is that there is no meat anywhere. I don't want to say that I came here to eat steak, but I certainly didn't come here to not eat steak. Rather large numbers of the locals seem upset as well, and protests have taken place all over the city. Unfortunately, these protests have gone from extremely annoying to violent in a rather short span of time. It began with large middle class protests against the government that saw thousands taking to the street (or simply hanging out the windows) banging pots and pans. I was willing to endure this cacophonic outburst of popular sentiment as I thought that the nonstop clanking might encourage the government to reconsider is position. The Peronists, however, already know that they do not enjoy major support in the capital, and have decided to play to their base by not appearing weak in front of the effete citizens of Buenos Aires. Instead, Kirchner's government has brought in the nations number one rabble-rouser to create the appearance of grassroots support by whipping up a mob. Some of the counter demonstrations organized by Luis D'Elía (pictured below) have already erupted into brawls, largely ignored by the federal police.

Mr. D'Elía supplies thoughtful commentary to representatives of the fourth estate.

To a crowd of thousands bused in from the slums and suburbs of the city, La Presidenta delivered an impassioned speech about how the nebulous and fascistic powers behind the current strike have conspired to undermine her government because they fear the mob (not Cristina's words) and because she is a woman. Then, in a masterstroke of political double or triplethink, she changed the topic from the present situation paralyzing the country to the 1976 military coup and then on to Argentina's specious claim to the windswept Falkland Islands.

La Presidenta opens the roads with ruthless efficiency.

Allow me to attempt to enter the mind of her excellency: This strike is being perpetrated against me by fascists because I am a woman, these same fascists are responsible for the last coup, the fascists want to keep the country weak, the country needs the Falkland Islands, do not look at the man behind the curtain. That the 1976 coup just so happened to oust the other woman president to occupy the Pink House allows Cristina to distract the audience from the issue of the unjust tax increase and create sympathy for herself by portraying herself not only as the victim of sexism, but also by assuming the unassailable mantle of a martyr of the dictatorship.

Instead of focusing on the government's exorbitant tax hike on small farmers, the audience is left with the impression that Cristina - sanctified by the blood shed in the dirty war - is defending the country from the criminals of the oligarchy. That the claim to the Falklands was by and large manufactured by these same criminals (Nicolás Francomano himself, probably) when their own incompetence was becoming readily apparent matters little. Even though it was the fascists whom Kirchner decries that had the idea to invade the Falklands in the first place, the president seems content to manipulate the mob with the feverish sloganeering of irredentism rather than addressing the problems she has created.

All things being equal, I suppose that this sort of political duplicity exists in every country of the world (except in Scandinavia), and that Argentina is still better off with Peronism's duplicity than Bolivarian Socialism's totalitarian inclinations. Maybe someday they will get the Falkland's back, but until then I'd like somebody to do something about the steak situation.

NICOLAS FRANCOMANO ESTA MUERTO

2008-03-26T12:40:00.000-07:00

I am still quite alive (I even had my hair cut to celebrate), but Nicolás Francomano, my Argentine doppelgänger, may have suffered some unspeakable fate. You see, recently I took it upon myself to locate whatever distant relations I may have in this country. There are several Francomanos listed in the Buenos Aires white pages, a few of whom received unexpected calls from yours truly this monday past. Alberto J. and Alfredo M. Francomano no longer reside at the listed numbers, so the first person with whom I managed to speak was a Señor Francisco Francomano.

Imagine my surprise to discover that in this city there is a man with nearly the exact same name as my own father. One discovers that the farther he travels, the world only seems to grow smaller and smaller. This Francisco Francomano was a very nice sort of man, and he gave a nice little laugh when I told him that I believe myself to be his very distant cousin from America. He was quite surprised as well to discover that he and my father share a name, by the way. I left him with my number, not to push the point about making contact with me, to call at his discretion about any possible meeting (or reunion, as I like to think of it). I am, as it were, a complete stranger to this end of the gene pool.

Being a stranger, I was made to feel somewhat strange by the other Francomanos with whom I spoke that monday. The next number I called belongs to a Monica B. Francomano, a woman whom I presume to be of a certain caducity. I informed her, as I had informed Francisco, that I was Nicolás Francomano, her cousin from America. I generally introduce myself this way in Spanish, as I find the Spanish "Nicolás" close enough to our own Anglo "Nicholas" that the same understanding is preserved (no so in the case of a William/Guillermo, for example), and native speakers are not inconvenienced by pronouncing my English name. The confusion that ensued in this instance, however, was brief but remarkable.

"Don't lie. You are not Nicolás Francomano!" A point I might have justly conceded, in hindsight.

"I am, I think I am your cousin from America."

"Must you invent such things?"

"I invent nothing, ma'am."

A profound silence met this remark. Then, Daniel O. Francomano picked up the phone. I decided not to ask his relation to Monica. According to what he told me, he has several older cousins. He made no mention of a younger generation of Argentine Francomanos, and seemed somewhat surprised by my own relative youth. Also, he claimed not to know Francisco. Otherwise he seemed pleasant. I gave him my number, and he said that he would call me in order to meet this week. He has not called me yet.

The last one of my list that I was able to reach over the telephone was Martha J. Francomano. Martha received news of her distant relation's appearance rather coldly, to say the least. Interestingly, though, when I told her that I was Nicolás Francomano she too seemed perplexed. She asked me, after a short pause, whether I meant to say that I was Nicolás Francomano's son. When I explained to her that I was he himself, and that I was from the United States, she was nonplussed. She regarded me with a very obvious species of mistrust, as if I were calling her in order to initiate some elaborate swindle. In the middle of me trying to explain that I merely wanted to contact her out of curiosity, she told me that she did not have what I was looking for and hung up.

Needless to say, this frustrated me inestimably. I was left, however, with more to the mystery of my doppelgänger. In my idle moments, I developed a few theories concerning this mysterious man.

WHO IS NICOLAS FRANCOMANO?

Nicolás Francomano is dead. The Argentine Francomanos want nothing to do with me because my appearance in their lives will spur the resurfacing of terrible, terrible memories.
Nicolás Francomano is (or was) in prison for Crimes Against Humanity. He is a pariah because the family cannot bear the shame of having their illustrious name associated with his despicable crimes.
Nicolás Francomano became involved in organized crime outside of the country. This explains how Martha didn't seem surprised when I said I was from America; she merely assumed that I had been born there and raised on the spoils of Nicolás Francomano Sr.'s criminal empire.
All of the above. Martha never expressly mentioned that she was related to Daniel and Monica, and therefore Nicolás Francomano may in fact be two (three counting myself) people. Also, 2 and 3 do not exclude option 1, and do not in fact even exclude each other.

LIFE IS A MYSTERY

SOME MORE PHOTOGRAPHS

2008-03-23T18:35:00.001-07:00

More photographs, these taken around the barrio of Palermo.

Suggestive ice-pop, traditional mansion.

Organic pizza - it's delicious.

I'll have another slice, please.

Tayler at the Oldest House in Palermo.

Running is a wonderful way to stay healthy.

Street art.

New neighbors.

Participating in global culture.

Nighttime.

More street art.

Hardware store.

WHO IS GAUCHITO GIL?

2008-03-23T16:35:00.000-07:00

Your correspondent at a shrine to the popular saint known as Gauchito Gil

The altars to the folk hero and popular saint known as Gauchito Gil are hard to miss. The faithful paint them bright red, fly red flags, leave red wine, marlboros and roses. A shrine to Gil on the Pampa is a bright spot on the immense open plain. But who is Gauchito Gil? How did a simple Gaucho come to be venerated as a saint across the entire country?

Gauchito Gil is, of course, first and foremost a gaucho. It is not difficult for me to imagine a doctoral thesis gathering dust in the library of the University of Buenos Aires, "Gauchito Gil as Homo Faber: Proletarian Ideology in Argentine Popular Religion." He was a simple countryman from the province of Corrientes, though, and most likely never got around to reading Arendt or Frisch. He most likely would have received his education from the fiery songs of the traveling payador (traditional Gaucho minstrel). Given this upbringing in the folklore of love, loss, betrayal and bloodshed, it seems appropriate that the story of Gauchito Gil's life begins with a star crossed love between the humble Gaucho and a beautiful widow.

The widow's brothers, little pleased with the rumors circulating in the small town of Pay Ubre regarding late night serenades and other such latin follies, decided that Gauchito Gil had become an unacceptable nuisance. The brothers gathered up the decent citizens of the town and put Gauchito Gil to the chase. He escaped by the skin of his teeth, disguising himself in the rawhide of a young calf and roaming out of town after dark.

Gauchito Gil serves with distinction (bottom right)

Unable to return to his natal lands, he decided to join the Army of the republic and fight in the wars against the Paraguayans. Gauchos take naturally to warfare, given their hearty constitutions and penchant for violence, and Gil served with distinction in a Gaucho army. At the battle of Tuyutí, Gil's battalion was ambushed by a group of elite Paraguayan indian scouts. As the other soldiers in of the unit were on the point of turning and running in the face of Paraguayan savagery, Gauchito Gil wiped the blood from the blade of his dagger and used it to signal General Mitre that the flank was about to crumble. He then animated the retreating soldiers to stand and fight until the reinforcements arrived. Thirteen thousand Paraguayans died at Tuyutí.

Needless to say, Gauchito Gil returned to the village in triumph, the opinion of the townsfolk regarding him being considerably swayed by the row of medals across his chest. He was able to resume his affair with the lovely widow, but their affair was cut short again by the scheming of the brothers. In spite of Gauchito Gil's exemplary conduct on the field of battle, and the inestimable service he had rendered to the fatherland, the brothers could not bear the sight of the peasant with their widowed sister. They conspired to have Gil drafted into service again, this time in the Federalist Army of the future dictator Rosas.

Note the red sash - the color of the federalists would become part of the symbolism of Gauchito Gil

Gauchito Gil was no stranger to bloodshed after his service in the Paraguayan War, but the violence of the civil war was simply too much for him. After months of constant bloody skirmishes, Gauchito Gil had had enough. He had reached the breaking point, and when pushed to fight again he just snapped. Versions of the story differ, but all agree that Gauchito Gil stripped all his clothes, killed his horse and anointed himself in the blood, covering himself from head to foot. "Here is your federalist uniform!" he is reported to have screamed before running off onto the Pampa.

No one knows what happened to Gauchito Gil during the months that he was pursued across the countryside. When they found him the horse's blood had dried onto his skin. He had tamed a wild stallion and rode him without saddle or tack. The Federalistas chased him into the desert until he collapsed from the exhaustion of riding naked without food or drink under the hot sun of the blazing Chaco. As they hanged him by his ankles from the branches of the only tree around for miles, Gil began to speak to one of his tormentors.

"You do not know, but your only son is very sick. If you bring me to him, I will heal him."

"Your fate is to die a traitor's death here, Gil," the Federalista replied.

"Very well, but when I am dead, pray to me that the boy might live."

They left him there to die, but that Federalista did discover his child to be sick. He prayed as Gauchito Gil had instructed, and surely enough the boy was healed. The body of Gauchito Gil was cut down and properly entombed, and the story of his miracle spread across the country. Today, the devoted travel from shrine to shrine, carrying some red object as a symbol of their promises to god.

Unofficial Hiatus Now Over

2008-03-17T16:02:00.000-07:00

YOUR HUMBLE CORRESPONDENT OFFERS HIS APOLOGIES:

My faithful readers will no doubt have noticed that it has been some time since I attended to this blog. In the hopes that they can forgive this prolonged absence I offer up the excuse of having been torn away from the maintenance of my travelogue by the distractions of domestic companionship. What of these lost weeks, though? When last I left you, gentle reader, Tayler and I had only just arrived in this large and strange country. Surely, you must imagine, that in a land so fruitful with opportunity as Argentina, I would have engaged in gripping adventures. Is it not for first hand accounts of my sojourns in foreign lands that you even seek to turn to my words?

I can offer you only so many words. Shamefully I allowed the time to pass me by, and now I have only the most fleeting recollections of my stay here up to this point. I will attempt to provide some background on the photos that I am able to supply to this website, otherwise I should let the images speak for themselves.

COLONIA DEL SACRAMENTO, MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY:

Our lodging in Colonia was more than adequate. We stayed in two different places, because the website I used to book my reservation did not send it through to the hotel pictured above. They only had a room free for one night. There are no pictures of the other hotel, but I assure you it was very nice. Please note that in the second picture you see me pricking my finger on an extremely rare species of cactus, native to the River Plate area.

Colonia is famous for its perfectly preserved colonial old town. Founded by the Portuguese in the early 16th century, it is one of the oldest European settlements on the entire continent. The ghosts of yesterday haunt the quaint cobblestone streets of the town, the erie still of the dilapidated city is pregnant with the hushed voices of countless past generations. Naturally the optimum means of conveyance in such an atmosphere of living history is the "Go-Kart" or "Buggy," which can be rented for very economical prices from many reputable local businesses. These thrifty gentlemen pass the savings on to the customer by avoiding unnecessary frills (which have, inexplicably, become the fashion in our own country) such as seat-belts or wind-screens.

Behind me in this photograph one sees the old Plaza de Toros, now abandoned. The Uruguayans, being a fairly civilized bunch, no longer practice the ancient sport of Bullfighting. On occasion the locals are known to get their blood up (being so disposed by their largely Iberian background) over matters of the heart, and the sand of the arena is considered the ideal stage for these personal dramas to conclude in bloodshed.

Colonia and it's surroundings have fantastic charm, although it can often prove quite difficult to discern where one is ever actually going. Here Tayler decides against asking the local in the background for directions and consults her map instead.

Eventually, of course, we did arrive at the magnificent Playa Ferranda, on the River Plate. This humble establishment serves a very fine array of barbecued items and beverages of both local and international provenance.

Here I, taking my inspiration from the great Díaz de Solís himself, claim the beach, much as that illustrious Spaniard must have done before being savagely consumed alive by the locals.

I am pointing towards Buenos Aires, 220 kilometers away in this picture, on the other side of the river. I should at this point note that Tayler has elected not to have any of her swimsuit shots appear on this portion of the website.

How sad we were to be leaving beautiful Colonia, Uruguay, back to the hustle and Bustle of Buenos Aires. I see now that this entry has grown long and ungainly, and I will be sure to make another soon. Eventually I plan to actually bring the blog up to date, nearly in synch with the present moment at every moment.

Arrival by Night in the Paris of the South

2008-02-01T13:48:00.000-08:00

Tayler and I have successfully made it to our apartment in leafy Belgrano, Buenos Aires. It is a cozy little place, decorated in the modern style.

We departed from the glamorous Kempenski Park Hotel this morning, and took in some of the principle sights from our taxi cab. Our driver, was a Skynyrd fan. His outward appearance was that of a typical Porteño cabman -- richly tanned dome over stately Italian features -- but only the slightest talk revealed that he was a passionate fan of the southern rock giants. With considerable pride he told us that his son had formed a Skynyrd cover group. Apparently the boy had also taught him to use the internet to download Skynyrd concert videos. Later, after unloading the luggage at the apartment, he kissed me on the cheek. I was stunned.

Everything appears to be going well so far. Our apartment is convenient to many shops and cafés, and I think we may be close to Chinatown. Tayler thinks I am completely unfounded in thinking so, but one must admit that the idea has a certain appeal.