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Flag waving
Our final night of travelling happens to coincide with Argentina’s Bicentenntial Independence Day Celebrations. On this day in 1810 the First Junta was created, a local authority that took over governance of Buenos Aires from the Spanish Viceroyalty.
Obelisco Party Central
Six million people, including superstar Venezuelan President Hugo Chávez, and approaching twelve million flags and thousands of drums joined us for the party, which unbeknown to us was to occur on our hostel street. Never have I been so near, yet so far from bed.
At 2am celebrations climaxed with the biggest firework display I have ever seen (or heard).
What a way to finish our holiday – out with a bang!
Jesus Christ: The Resurrection
Back in Argentina, we’ve stumbled upon God. In a theme park. Seriously. Buenos Aires is home to Tierra Santa (Holy Land), the most unusual – and ambitious – theme park project ever attempted. And it is magnificent: a triumph of fibreglass, hundreds of life-sized animatronic puppets and five or six manic actors.
In the Beginning: Wonder at the miracle of creation every hour on the hour as God creates heaven and earth. An opportunity maximised by the set designer who leads us seamlessly from laser show, through fake jungle replete with thousands of litres of cascading water, to enormous moving plastic animals (only african), finishing with Adam and a rather bootylicious Eve.
The Nativity: Be there every half an hour as shepherds, wise men, assorted cattle and some frightening angels celebrate the birth of Christ in a cattle shed.
This is My Body: Be moved by the Last Supper as an extremely life-like puppet Jesus shares bread and wine with the apostles. Notice sly Judas moving his eyes from side to side, an indication of the betrayal to come.
Hallelujah: Marvel as a 30ft Jesus rises from the mountain. Arms outstretched, he closes his eyes and raises face and palms to heaven. Accompanied by Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus. Hourly.
And, when it all gets too much, be served cappuccino and cake by a Mary-alike in the Bethlehem cafe.
Park open till midnight every day. Emma and Neil officially gobsmacked.
Fact of the Day: In arabic, Bethlehem, Bayt Lahm, literally translates as ‘House of Meat’, which given we are in Argentina, suggests that the cafe should serve up huge slabs of local cow. Sadly it doesn’t.
Colonia or Bath?
Our brief stop in Uruguay has been the tonic we needed, both as welcoming and relaxing as we had hoped. It also looks a bit like home, with very familiar architecture, but missing the modern, producing something akin to Britain in the 1950’s. Except of course for the weapons shops. And the mate drug thing.
Holiday time is now running very short, so back to Argentina we go for the final fling!
Yerba mate paraphernalia
What? Mate is a tea-like infusion made with dried yerba, a kind of holly. Mate is actually the name of the gourd that the tea is drunk from.
Who cares? Everyone in Uruguay. This is a national obsession which beats us Brits and our tea hands down. Children on bikes, old people window shopping, trendy teens, and hassled mothers with babies are all cradling their thermos of hot water and sucking mate through a metal straw. Independent surveys (ie ours from the comfort of a street-level cafe) have revealed that at any one time a fifth of Uruguayans are drinking the stuff. Seriously, it’s ridiculous. The Argentinians and Chileans also drink it, but per capita Uruguay is by far the largest consumer.
Mate fans injest too much caffeine
What’s it like? Nasty. Taste is like very strong green tea, but more bitter and with a generous dose of tobacco (has been linked to throat cancer..). Contains the same amount of caffeine as coffee.
Anything else? Yes actually. Sharing mate is ritualistic and has its own set of rules. Usually, whoever brought the mate always prepares the drink and refills the gourd with hot water. The gourd is passed around in a clockwise direction, each person finishing the gourd before giving it back to the brewer. When a person no longer wants to take mate, they say thank you to the brewer when returning the gourd to indicate they don’t want any more.
Shopping in Uruguay is brilliant. Casa del Policia (downtown Montevideo, superbly positioned next door to the Uruguayan version of Clinton cards) has all kinds of tempting offers like the one above. And they have guns. Lots and lots of guns. Frightening stuff.
The healthy option (single portion size)
Uruguay dishes up typical South America junk food, which is either heaven or hell, depending on your point of view. Street bites are the worst ‘yellow food’ imaginable ie chips, cheese, white bread. It’s fun for a while, but after three months my guts are waving the white flag and may commit harikari unless they see vegetables pronto. It doesn’t matter what you order – chivitos, completos, lomitos, or the ominously named finito (chicken and chips to you), it’s all high cholesterol fodder, and always, always comes with fried potato, fried meat, and cheese. Right, I’m off to track an apple, there must be one here somewhere..
By the way, a chivito like the one above doesn’t exist. It never ever has this much salad.
Population: 3.5 million
Size: 176,220 sqkm (England + Wales)
Other: Life expectancy 75 yrs, literacy 98%
Tiny Uruguay, squashed between gargantuan Argentina and Brazil deserved a side trip. With a reputation for relaxed hospitality, some time out here sounds like the ideal antidote to Argentina’s occasionally arrogant confidence. So, here we are for some holiday rest and relaxation before we conclude our trip with Argentina’s rock and roll.
Fact of the Day: Uruguay has won the world cup twice – in 1930 at the very first tournament, again 1950.
* Due to lack of camera, and the optimistic pricing of them in South America, all photos from now on are stolen.
Well, it did hurt, but more than we expected.
Not the best thirtysix hours of our holiday:
Three hours sleep, hungover.
Twentysix hours on two freezing chicken buses crossing the Andes which had such deep snow and ice that the pass was closed for several hours.
Arrive at Buenos Aires bus station frazzled, EW nips to the loo.
ND, sitting with bags, is approached stage right by a well-dressed stranger who points out that ND has dropped (as is usual) some money from his pocket behind his seat.
ND and man engage in very short discussion of the `this time I don`t think it`s mine, oh maybe it is, I don`t know`, during which the man`s two accomplices enter stage left and take EWs rucksack and the day sack, leaving ND`s.
EW returns from the loo to discover she has no clothes, no computer, no camera, no credit card, no holiday pressies – and the list goes on..
Ooops.
Four hours in Buenos Aires police station.
One hour finding hostel without map (yup, that´s gone too) or memory of address.
Check in and EW takes shower, completing with egg-sized welt from wet bathroom floor incident.
Finally to bed thirtysix hours later. Exhausted.
* On losing rucksack my first thought was, `oh well, at least I don`t have to carry it now`. Is there something wrong with this picture?
Beginning to lose count of the number of times we`ve pitched up in Santiago, but we`re here again to engage in some serious libation. The drill: dinner at 10pm, drinks from midnight. For the average Santiagoan, its not a night out unless it finishes at dawn (they`d never meet the early-to-bed Australians). Any day of the week bars are fit to burst at 4am with punters across generations. Heaven knows how any work happens, but they seem to have a lovely time.
Tonight is memorable as we went out on the town with a large group of locals to see how partying is done properly. Arrived at Ernesto`s flat to see a scantily clad woman having make-up applied by three frenzied make-up artists, accompanied by the click/whirr of a camera, and all watched by a nervous dressmaker and assorted `helpers`. Everyone is animated and in excellent spirits as we speak dreadful pidgin Spanish (us) and excellent English (them) to share jokes.
Several hours and beers later, we meet everyone at an underground club where our diva is performing. Predictably, it`s packed to the rafters. She goes on to perform a very competent set of 1920s-1940s cabaret classics of the `ahh, I know that one` ilk. Apparently here in Chile this is cutting edge stuff, and we certainly seem to be surrounded by the cool kids who are enraptured. Although we agree that the performance is good, to be honest, it`s no better than you`d find in any Brighton club, and certainly not new. Also, curiously, it lacks the self-aware humour of its western counterpart, and arguably of the music to which it pays homage. Strange given the temperament of our hosts. Still, you`ll be pleased to hear that us Brits did the nation proud, throwing shapes on the dancefloor and singing along (rarely with correct lyrics or tune).
In bed early by local standards at 5am, happy, but with the beginnings of sore throats (maybe we were shouting a little rather than singing..). We`ve got a bus to catch early tomorrow and know already that this is gonna hurt.
but sadly we have to leave.
Enormous mysterious moai; crazy birdmen; friendly locals (no driving licence for the hire car, no problem); gorgeous beaches (inc. equestrian interest); and year-round weather reliably sunny 25C ish (a good thing as we pitched the tent by the sea).
Wow, what a place.
We gotta get out of this place... 