Arrival in Buenos Aires

Bridge approaching Buenos Aires

Traffic into town - 7:30 a.m.

Our hotel: Mundial

The open arium from the seventh floor until the first.


Banners in memorial for Nestor Kirchner.

Great pizzas on Av. de Mayo, at the next corner.

Friday, Oct. 29

The morning comes quickly, so I have obviously have had a good sleep. We are now in the river delta and is much like approaching Vancouver from Chilliwack.
We cross a bridge and from the time we reach the outskirts until we reach the terminal is well over an hour. As the autopisto (highway) widens, the speeds increase. When there are five lanes in each direction, it is posted overhead, above each lane - 130 - 120 - 110- 100 - 90/60! Of course, there is the two-lane service road to the side. With an area population of 11 million, there are a lot of cars to move. That is, 1/3 of Canada’s population in the vicinity of the city! The highway extends right into the heart of the city.
As the bus approaches the port area, you travel between two mountains of containers! It is obvious that this is the major shipping port of Argentina.
Our hotel, Hotel Mundial, is on Av. de Mayo, just off Av. 9 de Julio, which is one of the biggest streets in the world. The autopisto feeds into it. It is seven lanes in each direction with two-lane side streets parallel for local traffic. When you cross this street, unless you at a full gallop, you get to the half-way point where you must wait for the next light. It is quite intimidating crossing in front of seven cars lined-up appearing to be waiting for the starting pistol to start a race. We are half-way between the Congress building (and plaza) and the Presidential Palace. We are an easy walk to all the downtown core. The hotel is 100 years old. Of course, it has been refurbished. The elevator works smoothly, but, again, is 100 years old. You work it manually, by opening the outside and then the inside doors, then closing them. Only four fat people can be on the elevator at once, although I notice that with even thin riders, nobody goes beyond the four-passenger limit.
The Friday is a rainy day, but we decide to walk to the downtown area, through the Plaza de Mayo by the Presidential Palace. What we had not realized was that it was ex-president, Nestor Kitchener who had died on Wednesday. His wife, Christina, is now president. The square was filled with mourners and mourning messages. The signs mostly read (in Spanish of course) Nestor, Eva, & Peron together (in heaven). Also, Fuerta Christina - Christina, be strong. The place is a mess with garbage and such, but we realize the next day that all government & municipal workers were given the days off for mourning.
I indulge in an ice-cream cone which we were told are exceptional in Argentina. We happen to pass a parlour with more than fifty years in business. I get a “super” dulce de leche - which means, not only is the ice-cream made with the sauce, there is a gollop of the sauce on top and it is scooped-up into the cone. I plan to have one more before leaving next Friday. Dulce de leche is the sweet of choice in Argentina - like cajeta in Mexico or maple syrup in Canada.
We have a siesta before going down the street to a pizza parlour for dinner - after all it is Friday. La Continental is super. We finally get a good pizza in South America. The place is hopping with table service, stand-up, and take-out equally busy. We will not be here next Friday evening, so we may need to revisit this joint next Thursday.

Leaving Heaven - Puento Iguazu

The view from our hostel window.
El Pratico, local bus.

Overnight bus, transportation, dinner & breakfast, and hotel.
Peter tries his bed.
Last look at Hostel Inn from the bus out of town.

Thursday, Oct. 28

Our last day in Puerto Iguazu, and we awaken to birds singing and the sun shining. We are all packed, so just have breakfast and spend the morning by the pool. We have a cheese and cracker lunch, I change into what I call my elephant-leg pants, rolled-up for the hot day, and it is off to the Omnibus terminal on el Practico, the Pt. Iguazu version of El Urbano. The bus takes us right to the terminal. I buy stamps and send the post cards from the station. This place is set-up for tourists.
The full-cama, Viva Barraloche bus pulls in right on time and we are off to Buenos Aires, top floor, front seats. Peter tries out his seat to make sure it goes all the way back and the foot-rest comes all the way up. Add a pillow and warm blanket, and all is well for the 17-hour, over-night trip. Food, lodging, and transportation all rolled into one!
The countryside is wooded with tree farms and fields of some kind of nut or fruit bushes. Some houses are red brick construction, but more are very small, raised on stilts, rough-wood places with only shutters in place of glass windows. Reminds me of the places in Dominica.
As we leave we are served Sprite and a biscuit. Later, a coffee and another biscuit. I have guessed correctly and the dinner is served after we leave Posada at around 8 p.m. The trays are served with a hunk of some kind of puff-pastry filled pie, a half tomato filled with rice and peas, something else cold I can’t remember, and a bun. I figure that was it when the “server” brings a hot dish with a baked-¼ chicken, very flavourful, and some potato balls. There is canned, fruit salad for dessert. After the stuff is cleared away, he returns to ask if we prefer champagne or “whiskey”. When Peter declines and I request a whiskey, he is a little taken aback. Maybe I am his first scotch-drinking old lady. It is quite smooth. Nice touch.

Iguazu Falls

Sorry about the mess of the last post, as I attempted to edit after the pictures were uplaoded and it all went to heel. Hope you struggled through anyway. Marilyn

Cataratas del Iguazu

I will simply post a mess of photos so you get the idea. My friend, the coati, is in some. If you ge doubles, it is because the computer has not shown me what is downloaded. Sorry.

Tuesday, Oct. 26.

We are right into the Argentinean pace of life - even slower than the Mexican. After a lazy breakfast, and I put together a sandwich for Peter and left-overs for me (from last night’s dinner) and a couple of little bananas from breakfast, we are off the visit the world-famous (outside of Canada) Iguazu Falls.
It is standing room only on El Practico, so the young Japanese girl standing beside me strikes-up a conversation in Spanish! Wow - life is full of surprises. It turns out that she and her friend are volunteering in Bolivia and have just come on a trip to visit the falls. I tell her about the Japanese students who come to Castlegar to study English and how we have a “sister” town in Japan. We wish each other good travels as we depart from the bus.
We begin our tour by taking the train (a little like the train at West Edmonton Mall, only longer cars.) to the Saltos Argentinos, to follow the upper path. The pathways are grated-steel so the water passes through and they don’t get slippery. At times, you are walking over rushing rivers, which we try to visualize Ruth doing - or anyone who doesn’t like our spiral staircase.
The roar and the spray from the falls greet you long before the vision. I cannot explain the first view except to take it was rapturous! It simply takes ones breath away. It seems like the river has spread out for half a mile and then, finding the low-spots, tumbles hundreds of feet to a constant cloud at the base. You almost forget you are encircled by hoards of people. We take lots of pictures and drink-in the atmosphere. It is hard to pull oneself away, but there is more to see.
We backtrack to the train, and go to the next station which goes to Garganta del Diablo. Do I need to translate? On the way, I simply must remove myself from the waves of tourists, mostly all in groups with their guide’s name on a tag aroung their neck or their own name, as Peter says - in case they forget it! I go into my own space, slow my walk to a crawl, look into the trees, into the water, and into the undergrowth so I can discover the source of the unusual calls and the movements of the creatures. The falls will not go away if it takes me time to get there. Poor Peter, he never complains, but just moves with the flow and then stops and waits while I catch up. I point out a fish, bottom-feeding by a big rock above the falls. Then there is a lazy turtle, just moving enough to remain stationary by a bridge. There are brilliant butterflies to examine. I see a toucan, but it is flying and I don’t get a picture. At one point, I see a giant Tegu lizard that is shedding its coat - just like its cousin the snake. There are many brightly-coloured birds I cannot identify. Later we see a plush-crested jay, but is seems a false sighting because a young boy is putting out peanuts to lour it down from the tree.
While we take a short water break in a shady area, I place my backpack on the wall beside me. Within a minute, a coati (look it up on Google) is up on the seat sniffing at my pack. I’m about to get up and put my pack back on as I don’t want it digging in my pack when a stupid woman distracts the animal. She is opening a package of sweet cookies to give one to the coati. Snatch! Within an instant, the creature has the whole package. Now the stupid lady, who is not supposed to feed the animals, tries to retrieve her package. Wrong choice! We see the vicious fangs displayed as the animal defends her fairly-stolen lunch. She tears at the package, but when threatened with a rolled-up paper by the stupid lady’s partner, she grabs what is left of the package of cookies and flees into the undergrowth. Good for her! She is way brighter than the stupid lady.
It is a fairly long walk from the train stop to the Garganta, mostly walking over the expanse of water moving quickly to the precipice. Devil’s Giant is as described. We Canadians think Niagara falls is something. No way. It is but a tacky, tourist trap beside a truly well-preserved wonder of the world. Yes, there are lots of people, mostly pushy and without manners, but the falls themselves truly do hold you spellbound. You wish you could have been here before the Spanish and seen this wonder when the Indigenous peoples marvelled at it. All I can say is, if and when you get a chance, do not visit this part of South America without taking the time to visit Cataratas del Iguazu.
The return trip to town gives us an opportunity to come down off the natural high of the day. I find my needles and thread, we pick up some more wine and cheese, collect our neatly folded washing and have a ride on a different ruta of El Practico through a regular neighbourhood of Puerto Iguazu, the real world of Argentine - not the tourist district.
Our bus to Buenos Aires leaves on Thursday afternoon and, until then, we have nothing to do but enjoy the sunshine and the pool . No more posts until we reach the big city and I experience a seventeen-hour trip on a champagne-serving, full-cama (bed) bus. Chow.

Puerto Iguazu

Peter at the confluence of the Parana & the Iguazu.

Paraguay's monument. Brazil's upside down.

Argentina's blue & white.

Monday, Oct. 25

Two months until Christmas, and we will be in New Zealand then. As Maggie Muggins used to say, “I wonder what will happen tomorrow?” Anyone younger than 65 will have to look that up in the CBC Radio archives.
I cook eggs with slightly-toasted bread for breakfast. It seems more substantial than just the bread, cereal, and jelly you get as the usual fair in Argentina. Wonderfully-sweet orange wedges finishes this lavish meal. Peter drinks the Tang they serve as juice here, but the fresh fruit is always an option.
We gather our dirty clothes and our package for home (nicely wrapped in brown paper and secured with tape),and catch El Practico (the local bus) into town. The washing fits easily into the 15 pesos bag and we are off to the post office. A lovely, patient young lady serves us. She has a little English which she says she has taught herself, so she efficiently takes us through the steps, one-by-one, to successfully mail our parcel. Of course, the brown paper will have to come off so the immigration guy can inspect and clear the contents. No problem, she will give us a more official-looking box to use. Peter fills-out one of many different forms which she does not overwhelm us with, but just keeps handing a new one as Peter finishes the previous! Finally, thirty minutes later, we are ready for the immigration. Peter has his photocopy of his passport ready, and we are led through a maze of offices to a pleasant-looking, middle-aged guy who appears as though he is happy to have something different to enlighten his otherwise mundane workday. He asks what is in the box. I answer in my motley Spanish. Oh, canadienses he says with a smile, he tells us either that his wife of twenty-four years is Canadian or that he was married in Canada twenty-four years ago. As you can tell, my comprehension is not perfect! Anyway, we are now buds, and we are quickly cleared.
The nice young lady at the desk tapes our package, takes our money, and we are on our way. We find the store for the needles and thread I need, but it is now after 1 p.m. and it is closed for siesta. We will return tomorrow when we pick-up our laundry.
We walk to the three-corners’ monument, from which point you can see a monument in Paraguay and another in Brazil. It is like standing in Millennium park as Argentina and viewing Brilliant as Paraguay and Selkirk college as Brazil. Now everyone know exactly where we are - right?
On the way back to town I buy a key chain with a crystal inside a rock the guy says is volcanic. Patrick, was he giving me a line or is this possible? Anyway, it is pretty. Also, I buy a t-shirt with hand-printed hummingbirds on it. Everything is inexpensive by our standards.
For dinner tonight, we go again with the house special, a breaded-beef with cheese. There is so much that neither of us finish, so we have lunch for our trip to the falls tomorrow. Chow.

Parcel post and Paradise

Photos:

A triple straight line means you definitely don't pass!

The rock formaiton between La Quiaca & Salta.

Searcing the bus and the passengers.

The South Americans love statues, even a hard hat becomes one in a mining town.

A specialty decadent dessert fron Salta.


Sunset in Salta - memories of the red sun in Montreal.

The pool at our hostel in Puerto Iguazu.

The pool deck.

I'm warm & I'm happy!

Sunday, Oct. 24

Pictures and the package to post story.

Peter is not feeling well, but we have packed up another box of extras and are to send it home - well to Cathy’s.

We get a box at the Super Mercado and get some tape from the gum-chewing, computer-game playing, watching television or chatting with her friends young woman who is “working” at the front desk. We get it all nicely packed and begin the walk downtown to mail it. But Peter needs to find a bank before we go to the post office. By the time we get to the main square where the banks supposedly are situated, Peter is feeling quite weak and has to sit and rest on a bench. He watches the parcel while I scout around to find a bank. I enter an extremely upscale shopping mall on the other side of the park and ask at a store where I can find a bank. As it turns out, the next street is the bank street with at least eight of them in a one-block area.
I return to Peter with the good news and he is still looking ashen. He goes across the pedestrian street to get a coke. It comes back up way faster then he drank it! We still don’t have money and have not been to the post office.
Now he is feeling a little better, so we walk slowly to the bank street and get some money. It is only two blocks to the post office, so we continue.
We arrive in the building looking as bewildered as foreigners usually do, especially when one of them just wants to lay down and sleep. A nice gentleman rushes out of his office and directs us to the counter where you can send parcels.
A portly mature lady comes to “help” us. There is a small problem. Well, more than one. First, our parcel must be wrapped in brown paper as are the others behind the counter. Also, it is .35 kg over the 5 kg wight, so we would have to pay for 10 kg. We also forgot that we need a photocopy of a passport! Silly us. Finally, they can not deal with our parcel until Monday, because they are closed tomorrow - Saturday - like all good postal workers worldwide, and they only take parcels from 8:30 a.m. until 12:30 p.m. and it is now after 1 o’clock.
Peter is feeling too sick to even be upset. We walk to the corner, hop in a cab, go past our hostel and get a grand tour of the neighbourhood before finding it, and Peter finally gets to go to bed and sleep the afternoon away.
Now for the good news. We flew from Salta to Puerto Iguazu with no hitches and we are now in paradise. We have decided to just chill-out here for about five days, maybe more. We will go see the falls, but not until Tuesday. Our plan is to go on two different days so we can walk slowly and just soak in the atmosphere.

Chow for now.

La Quiaca to Salta

Thursday, Oct.21.

Peter is certain he has read on the Internet that there is an express bus from La Quiaca to Salta and it should take four hours which, for the distance, is logical. We decide to attempt to cancel our tickets and take either an express or an earlier bus. We can get a bus at 11:30 which takes the same seven hours for the trip. Unfortunately, we can get only 50% back on our cancellation. We decide to bite the bullet. It is a good investment, as Peter is still not feeling well and we don’t need to be arriving at 9:30 or later in Salta.

There are a few inconveniences in Argentina that one must get used to. You pay to have your bags stored in the luggage space of the bus and you pay again to retrieve it. Also, the Gendarmerias stop the bus often, Probably eight times in our trip. Once on the trip, everyone had to get off, take all their luggage and have it searched. A sniffer-dog and three or four guards searched the bus meticulously. I felt sorry as we watched the bus in front of us, as the guards pulled and scattered the clothing of the ladies who had those big, plastic bags that are so popular in Latin America. The ladies had to repack the stuff as best they could. As foreigners, the guard does a quick look at Peter’s stuff, but disturbs nothing. I am in the lady’s line, about fourth or fifth, but within no time, I and a nice elderly Argentinian are at the back of the pack! We smile and talk about casual things. As the men finish, a guard comes over and takes the last lady to bench behind us and quickly deals with her, while the guard at the men’s table motions that I should come to his station. He views my passport, looks in my Peruvian day bag - that big thing I have found so handy for day trips - asks me what is in it. I answer in Spanish and he moves me on without even opening my Switchback luggage I have zipped together.

At another stop, a young guard gets on the bus, sees us as foreigners and asks us some questions in English. When he is finished, I ask him in Spanish if he is practicing his English. He says yes, he is studying English. I say that I am studying Spanish as well. We get a beautiful smile.

The topography along the way is extremely varied. We begin in the Pampa, wide, flat desert. The first hills we see appear like a beach washed by surf. I took a picture so maybe Patrick and Antigone can let us know what it is. We come to a pass called the Valle Azul, as there is some green here and many dry arroyos coming from the tall mountains to the west. There is a town called Volcan, so I figure there should be a volcano somewhere around, but can’t distinguish one. There are stone walls built in the arroyos at about a forty-five degrees from the edge of the “river”. We wonder if this is to direct the water coming from the mountains or to slow the speed of the water as it rushes downhill. Finally, we end in a lush valley of rich farmland.

On the outskirts of both Jujuy and Salta, there are tracks of land with extremely upscale housing, mostly all fairly new in style. More so by Salta, these are located within a gated, but not walled, community. Finally, we arrive in Salta an hour and a half later than scheduled. We have had fabulous seats, top-level, at the front, so although long, the trip has been pleasant. Only one identification foreigner was ever on the bus!

Our hostel is the most dilapidated to date, but the night-man is helpful, cheerful, and very handsome! He shows us around, somewhat apologetically, I detected. It turns out the bed is comfortable, and we have a fan to help with the heat. HEAT!!!! I pack up a bag to send home tomorrow, but that is a whole other story. I’ll save it to the next blog. Chow!
Yes, Henry, they do use “vos” for “usted” here. I saw it in an ad. Also, I find "con permiso" seems to work well when someone is blocking the way.
p.s. Also will post later the pictures to go with this post as they did not download from my camera. Another Johnstone glitch.