Monday, June 20, 2011

Cafayate (May 23–26)

I arrived there in sufficiently bad mood due to what happened previously in Salta (canceled tours etc.)  The bus trip was spectacular but not especially comfortable.  On the bright side, I was sitting on top of the double-decker bus, and right in front at the panorama window.  On the negative side, I was pushed into the corner.  On the way there, I had seat 3, on the way back seat 4, but my local neighbor always decided that I belong into the corner and she deserves the wider aisle seat.  But I still had the wide-angle view of the rock formations….
It was a different bus company than before, and I read somewhere (probably on the Thorn Tree) that it sucks – I can’t vote on that, it got me there on time – but it definitely stinks.  There was an undefined mixture of smells all the way, gasoline, toilet, body odor etc. 
The bus station of Cafayate was very small, and there were no taxis, but I managed to find the hostel on foot, it wasn’t far.  It’s a small town after all.
The hostel was charmingly friendly, a young guy helped me to drag the luggage upstairs and was surprised that I’m alone for the big room.  It was advertised as double room, and true, it was a big room with a really big bed (maybe queen or king size) and two nightstands with lights.  There was a small chair (as if from a kindergarten) at the entrance, holding a fallen curtain.  I removed the latter and used the chair to its original purpose.  Curiously, there was a playpen (travel cot for a baby) in one corner.  And nothing else.  Not even a nail in the wall, to hang up a towel.  Never mind a jacket.  Thus I stored my things in the crib, hanging the towels on the side.  To work on the computer, I sat on the toddler chair and used the bed as a desk, or vice versa.
The young guy proved to be the guide of the hikes.  However, he didn’t foresee any for the next day.  I walked out to the tourist office that provided me with a city map, and pointed out two tour agencies across each other on the main square.  One didn’t have any guaranteed departures, and the other one was closed.  I was starving and went to eat (pasta for a change), and as I walked home, I noticed that the second agency has opened.  And they had a tour for the next afternoon, to the Quebrada de las Conchas (Gorge of Shells – supposedly it was a sea once and shells can be found, but I didn’t see any).  It’s a deep rocky valley with erosion-induced rock formations similar to Monument Valley in Colorado, albeit a lot more colorful.  I immediately signed up and paid.  “Come back in the morning,” he said, “we might have a tour to Quilmes.”  That’s an area with pre-Inca ruins. 

Day 2
It wasn’t quite easy to go back.  Around the hostel, there were English and Spanish signs all over the walls, saying “Breakfast 8:30 to 10:30, no exception.”  The Quilmes tour, if any, was supposed to start at 9:30, thus I showed up for breakfast at 8:35.  Fellow backpackers pointed out an empty crock that might’ve contained flavored yogurt based on the pink droplets at the bottom; some frosted corn flakes, but no coffee and no bread.  It is genuinely infuriating if those who make the rule are the first ones to violate it.  Fellow backpackers were similarly mad/hungry/caffeine-deficient.
I managed to acquire some hot water and made coffee with my own supplies.  By 9 am the bread (in the form of little round pastilles) also showed up, I pocketed a few and I managed to make it to the tour agency by 9:30.  It was in the process of opening – but they had the tour.  Thus it was worth the rush.  Incredibly, little Cafayate proved to be more organized and reliable than big famous Salta.
The ruins were about an hour by bus (actually a minivan), and we had over an hour free time there.  It was quite a large area – but not much left from the structures.  The Quilmes resisted the Spanish longer than the Incas.  The local guide pointed out places where they were grinding the seeds – otherwise only low walls are left.  With more time a long hike would’ve been possible, along the ridge of the mountain that surrounds the area.  This way I hiked up as far as I could in the given timeframe.  The view was great, and the distance gave a better idea about the size of the settlement.  There were more ruins, probably guard points, along the ridge that couldn’t be seen from the bottom. 
We got back to the village just half an hour before the next tour.  The driver recommended a restaurant and I pressured them to prepare lunch for me fast.  It was the crepe type cannelloni, one of the best dishes I ate along the trip.  I also rushed, skipped the coffee (save the disappointment) and made it to the tour’s starting point exactly by two.  To no avail: the driver (not the same as in the morning) didn’t show up until 2:10, and by the time we left, it was close to 2:20.
But this trip was worth all the trouble.  We stopped at all famous rock formations (e. g. the Locomotive, Turtle, Obelisk, Amphitheater, The Devil’s Throat), plus drove deeper into the valley on dirt roads and walked loops to viewpoints.  The layered, eroded rocks were incredibly colorful: red, purple, green, gray, depending on the minerals present.  The Devil’s Throat required a bit of scrambling, everybody helping me, the old one…  For a while I was glad to stay behind, as I had to pee, desperately. 
We saw not only nature’s wonders, but nature’s power as well.  There was a long section where a rough dirt road replaced the otherwise good paved road.  The driver showed us why.  He continued on the paved road, and suddenly there was none.  Just the river, a steep few meters below.  He said that after the summer rains (I was there at Fall, late May, although it was still quite warm and sunny during the day) the river changed its course, and took the road with it.
It was dark by the time we arrived back to the hostel.  There were no hikes for the last day, and I decided to visit the Bodegas (wineries) after breakfast.  This is the highest altitude wine-growing region on Earth.  We already saw a few wineries from the bus; they were just as elegant as in California or maybe even more.  I was curious what they might be like in the inside.  In California (in my limited experience) the winery is about wine tasting and wine buying.  Plus there is usually a deli store, where you can buy stuff for picnic, to be eaten on the manicured grounds or taken further on the trip.  The first winery I visited, Bodega Nanni, was different.  Of course, you could buy wine.  But there was no deli store.  The visit started inside, where my guide (in that group I was alone) explained the wine making process and machinery (I learned that the white wine ages in steel containers, the red wine in oak barrels, and contains the skin of the grape in the first step).  We visited the cellars too.  In the end I could taste 5 wines for 5 pesos.  They were all very good wines.  I didn’t feel tipsy, although drinking after breakfast isn’t my regular habit, and there were no after-effects either.  The guide pointed out few other wineries, and the fields where the grapes are grown.  I found only one of the wineries, and that one was only a “technical” visit without tasting.  When walking back from the fields, I visited the Wine Museum, although the guidebook labeled it as “small and insignificant.”  It was neither.  It was quite big, on the grounds of a former winery, and it explained all aspects of wine-making (incl. the effect of the climate and the soil; the warm sunny days and cool nights of the area are especially advantageous for the grapes, by locking-in the nutrients), the history of wine in the area, the types of grapes etc. – while Carmina Burana softly played in the background.  The only drawback:  it was expensive, about 7.50$.
In the afternoon I tried to climb to a viewpoint (Mirador Cerro Santa TERESITA) that looked promising from a distance – it was promising up close too, but there was a fence in my way, and the locals said that it was private property that couldn’t be visited.  There were holes in the fence, but I didn’t have the courage to take advantage of them.
There was a big local soccer game in a sports complex along the way, and I saw a sad horse among the parked cars. 
In the evening I bought “grape honey” – I guess it was concentrated grape sugar; it tasted like wine, but it didn’t cure my cold as they promised.  In Tilcara I had to give it away, as no food product could be taken to Chile and it was too much to be eaten on the spot.

Buenos Aires (May 12 - 15)

Finally, the plane arrived, albeit an hour late.  I paid my welcome tax (USD55.00).  Officially it’s called reciprocity fee – the amount a citizen of Argentina pays for a Canadian visa.  I understand the reason, maybe it’s even fair, but tourists shouldn’t be penalized for government policies.  It feels like communism, when Western tourists were hit by a compulsory exchange.
Thereafter I went through passport control, retrieved my checked-in bag and was finally out at large.  I reserved an airbnb room in central Buenos Aires, and the Manuel Tienda bus was willing to take me there all the way, although not in the same vehicle.  First a bus took everybody to the city terminal, and then smaller cars went to the individual addresses.  It took quite a while, my host was already very nervous.  I was her first airbnb guest, and it showed.  It might be a good idea to look for an experienced host, but then everybody was inexperienced once upon a time.  If I try to become an airbnb host (plan to), I will be inexperienced as well.
The room was actually beautiful and quite comfortable with lots of storage place.  It wasn’t in the most charming part of Buenos Aires, but it was close to the metro and many sights were within walking distance. 
I asked my host where to buy groceries; she directed me to a “supermarket” (her words) – that was about the size of a Montreal depanneur (corner store).  To my grief, it had neither brown bread nor natural, white, unsweetened yogurt.  But larger stores, real supermarkets had the same deficiency. 
For dinner I found only pizza (not my favorite food), and to add to the misery, only the American style.  It was drowned in cheese.  I scraped off what I could; a pizzeria in Rome would’ve used that amount for quite a while.
***
Day one in Buenos Aires
My room was downtown, on the corner of Pasteur and Corrientes.  That day I only walked.  Along Corrientes to 9 de Julio (Plaza de la Republica with the Obelisk).  As I passed Teatro San Martin on Corrientes, I saw a contemporary ballet advertised.  I went in and bought a ticket for the next day, for 40 pesos (about 10 USD), for a perfect seat in the 9th row.  Then I continued all the way to N. Alem.  From there to Plaza de Mayo, to look at the Casa de Gobierno.  I visited the Jesuit churches in the area.  Then I walked along the pedestrian Florida Street to Plaza San Martin.  And it happened there that my Spanish failed me (not for the last time along the trip).  On the Plaza there was a multilevel, tower-like structure covered with books.  It was part of an exhibit.  I saw people on top, and immediately wanted to go up as well.  But a guard pointed to a desk and said that I had to get a free pass first.  At the desk a girl explained that she needed my passport number, and that I couldn’t go until 5 pm.  I had a copy of my passport and it would’ve done, but I interpreted the 5 pm as the opening hour of the thing.  It wasn’t like that.  Signing up at that moment (about 3 pm) would’ve granted me rights to go up at 5 pm…).  But I missed the point and went into Museo Arte HispanoAmericano Isaac Fernandez Blanco until 5 pm – when visiting rights were granted for 7 pm…  The museum was a delight (Cusco school paintings!), especially its quite garden with colorful fall leaves.  After going through the exhibits on the ground floor, I found myself out in the garden again and noted that the building had a second floor.  A girl was sitting on a bench, reading Lonely Planet’s Argentina in English.  I asked whether she saw the second floor.  She did, but didn’t remember what it was, and suggested that we go to eat ice cream instead.  I would’ve liked the company, but I couldn’t bear the idea of eating.  I had a big, fat-drowned Spanish tortilla (thick omelet) for lunch.  Plus, it was time to go back to the tower, to the misinterpreted 5 pm show.  As it didn’t work, I headed home to work.  The disadvantage of a portable job. 
On the way I walked along 9 Julio (the widest avenue in the world) and located Teatro Colon, to be visited the following day.
At home, I looked at the camera, and noticed that I barely photographed anything.  In Cusco, I filled a memory card in a blink.  True, Buenos Aires is not easy to photograph.  Buildings are either too big or too confined, the traffic interferes etc.  But most big cities are like that.  I can’t explain why I wasn’t more impressed. 
Second day
I was too tired to start out right in the morning.  The first day I must’ve covered at least 12 km on foot. That’s a lot on pavement. 
Instead, I continued working.  The job in question should’ve been finished by the time I left, but of course it arrived late, and I was stuck with it for quite a while along the way.  I couldn’t afford to turn it down.  But this job was the reason that I started the blog halfway the trip.  If I would once write a list about things that I hate about my job that would be one:  the deadlines for me are written in stone, but for them, never. 
Thereafter I started the sightseeing day at Teatro Colon.  Now I took the subway (“Subte”) and as I emerged, walked in the opposite direction by mistake.  Lost quite some time in the process.
But Teatro Colon was splendid.  I took a guided tour (in Spanish, -- the guide was surprised to have a Canadian in the group) to see the inside; it’s an incredible achievement.  I especially admired the glass ceiling.  The dress rehearsal of Zauberflöte was in progress on the stage; we could watch it for about ten minutes.  Beyond the music, and the perfect acoustics, it looked a lot more spectacular than I remembered from the Hungarian performance I saw. 
But the guide was cruel and kicked us out.  I considered buying a ticket, but the line was too long – I gave up. 
Thereafter I had coffee from a coin machine and a cookie; I didn’t have more money left.  The theatre tour was 60 pesos, and I had to buy a lens cover for the camera, I keep losing them.  This Argentinean one has a strap that attaches the body of the lens; maybe this one won’t be lost so soon.
Thus I went home for money, then decided to see Museo de Arte Latinamericano de Buenos Aires.  The best museum in Buenos Aires according to the guide-book.  It is a new museum, opened in 2001, and it’s about modern art (starting with the XX. century), that the name doesn’t reveal.  As my seat neighbors in Teatro San Martin explained, there was a significant resistance to its opening.  It’s a residential area, and they didn’t want a public institution nearby.  I can’t really understand why.  It’s a museum, not a bar or a disco or an airport. 
As a fact, it’s quite far from the subway; a lot farther than it looks on the schematic city map.  And it’s relatively small for the 20 pesos.  But the building itself is impressing with the very high ceiling on one side.  The benches in the hallway are artwork as well; they resemble overgrowing trees. 
There is one Frida Kahlo painting.  One artist (Gyula Kósice) is definitely of Hungarian origin.  He has constructions with water flowing or dripping.  I noted on the museum’s flyer a few interesting works: Maria Martins: The impossible (seems like nails or beaks kissing) and Antonio Berni: Manifestación.  In general, I found more likeable objects than in similar museums elsewhere. 
There is no time for dinner after the exhibit.  I decide for a cappuccino and a cake in the museum’s café.  Some great museums have a good café.  This one is not among them.  First I have to move to a different table.  Then it’s shamelessly expensive.  In my memories, similar establishments in New York or London cost less.  And the coffee is better.  The service faster.
I’m really short on time when I finish.  The receptionist gives hard-to-follow directions to the bus that would take me straight to the obelisk, near Teatro San Martin.  I can’t find it, and a woman whom I ask for directions refuses to listen, like it happens in New York.  Did she think I’m panhandling?
Thus I make the trek back to the Subte with record speed, then continue with a similar speed to the theater and I get there in time, albeit somewhat perspirated.  Seeing my guidebook, my seat neighbors address me in German – or maybe my look was German?  Then we switch to English.  The performance is great.  All three choreographers are women.  The first piece, entitled Gershwin, is modern dance for Gershwin music.  The second, Como el agua que fluye (As the water flows), is Chinese style dance.  The third one, Beethoven B isn’t classical ballet as I had expected, but I liked it anyway.  I can’t remember whether it was live orchestra or soundtrack.  The program lists pianists for the first one, thus it must’ve been live. 
I walked home after the performance.  The advantage of a central accommodation.
Day three
I wanted to spend this day in Palermo’s parks.  Palermo is an older, residential park of Buenos Aires.  I like parks, and the guidebook really recommended them.  That’s again the effect of relativity.  It could’ve said: but don’t go there if you’ve already seen well-designed city parks.  The first one, the Botanical Garden, closest to the Subway, was quite small, seemed neglected and overrun by stray cats.  Anyway, it’s hard for any park to compete with the Montreal Botanical Garden. 
In Parque Tres Febrero a preparation for a Marathon was on its way, thus it was too crowded with trucks to be enjoyable; the Japanese Garden seemed neglected and didn’t feel quite safe, I was asked for money by a gruff couple. 
For a moment I’m tempted to visit the Zoo – maybe I could make a few interesting photos for my grandchildren – but then the dirty streets around it discouraged the idea.
Thus I got back on the subway and went to station Juramento, in search of the bus 29, that, according to the guidebook, would give a trip equivalent to sightseeing tour. 
On the bright side, near the metro stop I found a store with organic coffee (unfortunately only grains, no drink), and good dulce de leche cookies.  But I didn’t find bus 29.  There were at least a dozen bus stops along the street; each listing several bus numbers, but 29 wasn’t among them.  I asked a few people, nobody knew, or suggested that it was at the Subte stop where I just came from, Plaza Italia.  True, I’ve seen a bus there passing by, but couldn’t figure out where the stop was.  Thus I went home, somewhat disappointed.
That evening I went out with Cathleen for a steak dinner, and that was no disappointment.  The steak in Argentina really tastes better than anywhere else I tried.  
Day four (last)
It was Sunday, and I decided to see the antique and bric-a-brac market in San Telmo, another old part of Buenos Aires.  The guidebook promised tango shows as well.  Well, the latter was quite limited.  There was an old guy, dressed sort of antique elegance (shirt and tie, hat) that offered to teach the audience to tango.  The market was extremely crowded – beyond enjoyable.  There was no space to photograph or even look at anything.  The similar market in Otavalo is definitely bigger with more breathing space. 
In the end I bought some leather bracelets for the grandsons.  And got spray-painted in the process.  I was wearing the photo vest and that got most of the paint, my baseball hat some.  The weird thing is, they apply this trick to rob you.  One sprays, another offers help, and while you are distracted, they either run away with the sprayed coat or with your other belongings or both.  But nobody offered help to me.  Probably they thought that I was a wrong target with nothing to steal…  I had everything in the pockets of the photographic vest, and only an umbrella in a small bag.  The bag might’ve looked too small and the vest too worn to be stolen.  If they only knew that I had all my photographic equipment inside the pockets.  But I would’ve refused the help anyway. 
The paint itself wasn’t a major problem; the dry-cleaner in Montevideo managed to remove all the stains from the vest and most of it from the hat.
It was an indoor fruit market that I liked the most in San Telmo.  I bought quite wonderful pears and oranges for dinner.  And in front of that market I finally encountered bus 29.  I boarded without a second thought.  I had cards from the metro, valid for multiple trips.  The girl at the tourist office said that they would work in the bus too.  Well, they didn’t.  In Buenos Aires, the metro and the bus aren’t run by the same company.  And the bus only takes exact change.  Multiple ticket cards exist, but Cathleen, who has lived there for four months, hasn’t seen them yet. 
I had no change at all.  Only a five pesos bill, as the smallest denomination.  Nobody on the bus could change it.  Finally the driver gave up, and pointed to a seat.  He would take me for free.  Later on, a young Brazilian couple, under the same predicament (no exact change, no ticket) joined in. 
The bus was heading to La Boca, an interesting suburb.  After a while I asked the driver where was El Caminito, the stop the guidebook recommended.  He engaged in a long explanation; I only understood that he wouldn’t let me getting off there.  Dangerous? I asked.  Yes, he said.  Thus I continued to the last stop.  He said that me and the Brazilian couple should travel back with him downtown.  I tried to buy a ticket at the counter there, but they had no change either.  Again, nobody could change the 5 pesos bill.  No choice, I waited for the miracle driver and the free ride.
The station was a very photogenic place, with a large number (about a dozen or more) of colorful buses standing around in a half circle.  But something told me that it wouldn’t be a good idea to pull the camera out.  After a few minutes our driver emerged from the building, and asked another bus to take us (me and the Brazilian couple) back to the city, for free.  He was incredibly nice and responsible. 
By then quite a few people collected, who were all advised not to leave the bus station.  On the bus then an English-speaking local finally explained that there was a soccer game that day, where the local La Boca team was playing. As soccer games often ended in violence, they wanted to keep outsiders away. 
After the sightseeing adventure, I got off the bus on Plaza de Mayo and took the Subte to Recoleta, a part of the city I didn’t see before.  This one proved to be the most beautiful.  It’s a wealthy area with palaces and elegant parks.
I visited the Fine Arts Museum, where I liked most the “Tablas de la Conquista de Mexico.” 
I had dinner in the Buenos Aires Design Center that proved to be an expensive mall.  I ordered cannelloni with spinach and it wasn’t pasta, but rolled-up crepes filled with spinach, and covered with pasta sauce (made with eggplant, I guess).  It was good, but not very filling.  But I will adapt the idea at home.
In the park above the shopping center I saw more tango demonstrations, then walked to the metro and went home to pack.  I felt I already spent too much time in Buenos Aires.

The flight to Buenos Aires (May 10/11)

Not much happened during the flight.  Except, that we left Toronto an hour late (without any explanation) and had dinner at 12:30 am.  Except, that my beloved Air Canada wasn’t quite straightforward about the nature of the stopover in Santiago.  In my restricted passenger mind, a “stopover” on a flight would mean that the plane lands at some place between the initial and final points; those who reached their destination, deplane, those, who continue stay put, the new ones board, then the plane takes off.  That’s how budget carrier Southwest does it.  Unfortunately, they don’t fly to South-America, because this isn’t what happened.  After the plane landed in Santiago, we were told to deplane with our entire carry-on luggage and walk to gate 10.  I think we landed at gate 80 or so.  On the bright side, Buenos Aires passengers didn’t have to go through Chilean immigration.  However, it was a long walk.  There were two closed doors (so called checkpoints), if I remember well, that needed the passport and the boarding pass to get through.  Then we arrived to a third door, and behind it, a full security inspection.  I wanted to throw myself on the floor, and kick and scream:  I JUST SPENT 11 HOURS ON A PLANE!  I GOT ON THAT PLANE AFTER A SECURITY INSPECTION!!!  WHY AGAIN?
But I didn’t.  Passengers don’t have the right to ask questions or to throw tantrums.  We only have one choice: to comply.  Thus I obediently removed my jacket, emptied my pockets, discarded the Air Canada water bottle, took the laptop out of the backpack and pushed all that through the tunnel, then myself through the gate.  To their credit, the shoes could stay on.  To their credit, there was no full body search.  Maybe they don’t have the machine.  If there is a machine, I’m tested, eight times out of ten.  Last time in San Francisco the machine was followed by a female agent who performed a throughout manual mammography exam and in the end even pulled down the zip on my sweatshirt and checked that there was only a bra underneath – in full sight of everybody who cared to look.  I am a Grandmother, a 66-year old petite.  Do I really appear that dangerous?  (Look at my photo and verify.)  Or am I the tool to prove that there is no profiling?  That everybody is suspect to the same extent?  Or is it just that it’s easier to fill the quota with grannies as they are less likely to fight back? 
I used to love to fly.  I still love the flight part, when the pilot says “Cabin crew, prepare for takeoff” (or something along that line) and the plane starts to roll, faster and faster, then breaks away from the ground and becomes air-borne.  But the torture to get there overshadows the joy.  Next time to San Francisco, I consider taking Amtrak.
Back to the subject, the flight to Buenos Aires.  In Santiago there was really a “stopover” in the sense that after all the torture we could board the same plane with the same boarding pass.  Not that it mattered.  The procedure bore all the characteristics of a plane and terminal change.  Had I known this in advance, I had flown Delta.  In that case, each way I would’ve needed only one (real) plane change in Atlanta. 

Saturday, June 11, 2011

The long way home (June 8/9)

I’m sitting on a bench outside SCL Airport, waiting for Air Canada to finally accept the luggage.  According to an airport worker that won’t happen until 3:30.  So much about arriving at the airport in time.  I wanted to be outside as once I went in, I will be inside for quite some time, but being outside isn’t a blessing either, as I immediately received a smoking neighbor, and she didn’t get the message when I pulled to the opposite end of the bench. 
My last stop, Valparaiso, was really great; I wish I had budgeted more time on it.  I skipped Santiago because of the supposed smog, but I don’t feel that either (except the smoke from the neighbor), the weather is sunny and not too cold.  In Valparaiso it was warm.
The hotel, which was again very nice, provided good directions to the airport, as a result it cost a lot less than I budgeted.  I took first the public city bus to the long distance bus station.  That cost 250 pesos total.  The driver and the conductor found the old backpacking gringo very amusing, but were very friendly nonetheless, and pointed out where to get off and into which direction to walk.  The next step was Tur Bus to Santiago, 2,800 peso and about 1.5 hours.  Again, I got off at a metro station upon the hotel’s instructions, and took the public bus to the airport.  The only exciting event was that the trolley on which I was pulling the camera/computer backpack suddenly died, letting all its parts falling out and away.  I removed the backpack and threw it in the trash when I got out from Tur Bus, now I have one backpack on my back and one front, and a small “personal item” with some extra clothing and food on my shoulder.  After a cappuccino I’m still left with 6,000 pesos, that I will try to spend it inside, either on food or on books. 
Another smoker, I have to go in.
I spent the leftover money on food and that was a mistake.  Even a bottle of Pisco Sour would’ve been a better bet.  A soup, a small bottle of carbonated water and a stone-hard roll cost over 5,000 pesos – and the soup originated in a bag (e.g. cup-a-soup), not even properly dissolved, the bottom was full of undissolved clumps, it all tasted like preservative, you couldn’t tell what you were eating if not reading it on the menu.  This one was supposedly corn soup -- true, it was yellow.  I never believed that even an airport restaurant could get that low as to prepare soups from powder, but one always learns something new.  On top it was called “Sebastiana” – like Pablo Neruda’s Valparaiso house, and I don’t think Pablo Neruda (a gourmet) would’ve ever eaten such an artificial thing.  Thus a double shame.
***
The flight was a really long one to Toronto.  Where we had to go through Customs and Immigration.  Which, in itself would’ve been OK.  Immigration was a lot less hassle than in Montreal, with no questions asked.  But then followed another security inspection, and surprise, surprise, I was selected for full body search again.  Although only of the machine kind, without manual addition.  Supposedly it’s a random selection, but they should tell that to somebody else.  I learned probability theory, and a random selection should show a Gauss distribution, and this is anything but.  There were signs all around that verbal abuse would result in denied boarding thus I complied and didn’t ask for explanation.  Who knows, even a question might qualify as verbal abuse.
In Montreal, in my half asleep state, I only noticed that I walked past the carousels when I already passed the “Do not enter” sign.  I turned and walked back and wasn’t stopped.  I could’ve walked all over to the gates and got on a plane without inspection.  So much about security. 
I got on the 747 bus.  By the time it arrived to Lionel Groulx, it was raining, and the downhill section of the escalator didn’t work.  Great, I’m home!
But for a few days I will still add to the blog, filling the gaps....

Valparaiso, June 7 and 8.

Another early morning arrival. Valparaiso was impressive in the dark, with the lights all over the on the mountain.  It’s a two-level city, the smaller part on a plane along the sea, the rest up on a steep mountain.  The upper and lower parts are connected with stairs and 13 cable-car lines (like the one to the Budapest Castle, or in Quebec City between the upper lower town).  They were built at the beginning of the last century, and still function…  Unfortunately, I only had time to try 3 of them. 
This hotel was an angel too; let me check in at 7 am.  I spent for nights on the bus, thus arrived early four times, and out of four times, it happened three times that they allowed me to check-in.  Once not, guess what, in Salta…
That first day I walked to Pablo Neruda’s house in Valparaiso.  It was a very spectacular walk, as it is quite high on the mountain, almost at the top, and there are several miradors along the way.  I could see it at the “retired” rate – which was nice and sort of controversial.  Some places charge higher rates to foreigners, and others honor retired discount, when it would be OK to say that it only applies to Chileans.  Although that might be perceived as unfair as well.  In Guanajuato (Mexico), where the discount only applies to Mexicans, I had a large group of locals arguing on my behalf…to no avail.
Pablo Neruda’s house reveals that he wasn’t a starving poet, had good taste, and knew how to live.  I regretted that I had no time to visit his other houses (one in Santiago, the other in Isla Negra, further out on the coast).  The way down was adventurous.  I thought that just following gravitation would lead me back to the center of town.  It sort of did, but when I was almost there, I always arrived at stairs that looked uninviting, to put it mildly.  I had to climb back quite a stretch, and take a busier street down.  I bought empanadas an ischler-like cookie for lunch, then an apple at a different store.  The girl there washed the apple for me without even asking. 
In the afternoon I took another cable car up to the Naval Museum, where I found the building and the view more interesting than the museum itself – although I increased my knowledge about the Pacific War (Chile vs. Peru and Bolivia).  By then I was falling asleep on my feet, thus I went back to the hotel.
The last day I only had a few hours before having to take off for the airport, thus I only walked in another part of the town (at the top of another cable-car).  This was an elegant part of the town – most building well maintained and beautiful.  Plus, good views on the sea all the time.  I even found the port spectacular, with the cranes, the colorful containers and the large ships…  It’s smelly though; I tried to walk along the coastline, but didn’t last long.  Regardless, I would like to return there.

Copiapo, June 5 and 6.

I stopped there because I wanted to break up the 24-hour journey to Valparaiso and that was exactly in the middle.  Many people told me that there is nothing there and that’s sort of true; what is there is far out (several National Parks) and not quite easy to get to, especially not in the low season.  I arrived brutally early, before 7 am; I wished I could sleep more, when the conductor woke me up.
The hotel was an angel, they let me check in immediately (whoever spent a night on a bus – or on a plane for that matter) knows the ultimate need for a shower.  Then they offered a good American breakfast (eggs!!!) for about 6 dollars. 
It was Sunday and I took the public bus to Caldera, a small and neglected looking port town, then a collectivo (fixed-route, fixed price taxi) to Bahia Inglese. The latter is supposedly the most photographed coastline of Chile.  It’s again relativity; must look very scenic to those who haven’t seen e.g. the California Coast.  It was interesting in the sense that the desert reached down all the way to the water; there was no green in-between.  There were small sandy beaches separated by black rocks.  It’s a nice place because it kept the small village look, no high-rise hotels, no golf courses.
I found a bike trail and walked back to Caldera; about halfway a car stopped and insisted that I go with him.  I insisted on walking and he finally gave up. 
I bought dinner at a gigantic supermarket in Copiapo, and hold up the cashier line, because I didn’t know that rolls are also sold by weight and had to go back to let them weighed.  They were not mad though, more like amused at the stupid foreigner, who assumed that rolls are priced by piece.
By coincidence, these were the best rolls I had in entire Argentina and Chile.  Whole-wheat and no sugar.  I had a feast with avocado sandwiches and fruits (oranges and apples.)
After the two short nights I went to bed at before nine and woke up after nine the next day.  My plan was to walk up to the “Mirador” (Viewpoint), a bald mountain with a cross on top.  The personnel in the hotel encouraged the plan, and explained the directions more or less.  But when I reached the foot of the mountain and didn’t see the stairs anywhere, thus I asked to corporate types who just emerged from a car.  They sadly shook their head and said that it wasn’t advisable to go there alone.  I asked why.  Steep, rocky?  I can handle that.  “No,” said the man, “it’s the people.”  I looked up and saw picturesque crumbling houses along the foot of the mountain.  It was the same ambiance as La Boca in Buenos Aires, where the bus driver didn’t let me out.  So much about the mirador.  I opted for the Mineral Museum.  According to the guidebook, it’s “poorly presented,” but that isn’t strictly true.  It’s not popularly presented.  They designed it probably with mineralogy students in mind, because it’s organized along crystalline systems and compositions, some compounds thus appearing twice.  The stones aren’t cut and polished; they are in their natural state.  Some among them were very big, with large crystallites; and the same compound (e.g. quartz) appeared several times, with fine or really large crystallites and different colors.
I ate grilled salmon for lunch at a restaurant named Bavaria – they had no really vegetarian option.  I opted for sauerkraut as side dish that must’ve been a very usual combination, because the waiter looked shocked and I had to confirm twice that I really meant it.  In the end they were a good match. The salmon wasn’t the best fish of my life though, albeit among the more expensive ones.  It seems that San Pedro wasn’t a true representative of Chilean food.  The great vegetarian empanada doesn’t exist here; the cheese filled is overcheesed.  I bought a cheese empanada in Caldera just before I got into the collectivo.  Unfortunately, I was holding it in vertical position.  By the time I arrived to Bahia Inglese, all the molten cheese collected on the bottom.  The top tasted a lot better.
The food on the bus is totally random.  From San Pedro to Copiapo, a large, albeit stone-hard chocolate-chip cookie was offered, plus a small bag of nuts, and there were soft drinks for purchase.  On the Copiapo – Valparaiso bus there was a good salami sandwich + nuts and fruit salad at night in the evening and an n apple-oatmeal cookie and fruit salad in the morning.  You always have to keep water and some food at hand, because the offerings on the bus cannot be taken for granted.  The fruit salad wasn’t the most compatible meal for bus travel; I saved it for later, to be eaten on static ground, after I watched as my fellow travelers spilled the content of the small plastic container all over the place. It gave a good addition to dinner the next day!

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Salta, May 22.

The tour was announced for start at 7:15.  “But be ready for 7:00,” said the tour operator.  I was.  Most of the tours started around 7:00, thus the hotel sort of served breakfast at 6:30.  The coffee wasn’t really ready, thus I used my Nescafe – it was better anyways.  I booked with an operator named “Mares del Sur Turismo” (Calle Buenos Aires 84, Loc 4).  Supposedly, they do 4x4 tours.  More personal, more flexible.  I waited for the 4x4, and a fairly large bus named Silvia Magno showed up.  I asked the driver about the viaduct.  He shook his head.  This tour only goes to San Antonio de los Cobres.  That’s 27 km short of the original promise.  “Look, you can take this one, or stay at home,” he says.  I compromise and go; he makes me a copy that I can take up the case with the original company.  I’m stupid and don’t ask about the ruins.  It seems obvious that we go; that’s along the road.
The tourism industry is unpredictable; cancellations do happen. It happened both in Australia and Iceland. And in both cases I got a more valuable tour as replacement than I originally paid for.  Iceland even threw in a free airport transfer.  This tour is shorter than I originally paid for.  And then I notice that I’m about the youngest on the bus.  Several of my fellow travelers never get out at the stops.  Some walk with difficulties.  I’ve never seen a similar age-homogeneous group.  Most tour operators are proud to have an age distribution between 18 and 100.  Even on tours that require a high level of fitness –ability counts, not age. 
We reach Santa Rosa de Tastil, stop next to an indigena market and the guide points out a small museum that displays a mummy.  I buy three stones for my grandchildren, visit the museum and wait for an announcement about the ruins, but there is none.  I asked one of the others; they never heard about the ruins, but one woman asks in the museum.  “They are by the cemetery,” says the museum guide.  “Our driver will know,” says my fellow traveler assuringly.  After an hour of shopping, we get back on the bus and continue.  The ruins aren’t mentioned.  We continue to San Antonio de los Cobres, where the others go to lunch in the tourist restaurant.  It’s not included in the price.  I skip it; I rather buy bread and fruit and eat it outside in the sun.  The restaurant is dark and the smoke from the open fire would irritate my throat.  Another our passes by; I meet on the bench two young Canadian woman; they are on another tour, similarly bored and disappointed.  They didn’t see the ruins either.  It seems the tourist industry eradicated them, for the sake and comfort of the drivers.  Before we finally start down, I ask the driver about the ruins.  “We don’t go there,” he says, “because these invalids couldn’t walk there.”  I have been traveling intensively since I turned 60, but I never encountered age discrimination like this one.  First of all, we aren’t all invalids.  Some of them are on walkers or canes, but the others (including me) are perfectly able to walk.  Maybe even those who can’t walk would like to get a glimpse of the ruins from a distance.  Why deprive all of us automatically?  Even without asking?  And guess what, on the way down, we stop again at the indigena market.  I assume the driver gets a share from the sales.  I ask where the ruins are; he vaguely points towards the rocks.  “Down there,” he says.  I find the cemetery the museum guide mentioned; there is a sign for the archeological park.  I start to walk, but there is no time to walk far enough to get glimpse.  I’m disciplined and return to the bus by the announced time, when the others are of course still shopping.  We return to Salta by darkness. This was the most boring trip of my life.  The others – mostly from Buenos Aires – completely ignored me, except for one old guy who made a few patronizing comments, like the guide in the folklore museum.  And I didn’t see anything I really wanted to see. 
Thus I walk back to Mares del Sur Turismo, while my anger is still red hot.  They immediately make the promise of another tour, a real one, instead of a refund.  In Iceland, I would get a full refund, not questions asked.  But this is not Iceland; this is Salta, Argentina.  They look for fast profit and forget about the word of mouth.
I would’ve considered the replacement tour, although it would’ve screwed my schedule totally, if only they hadn’t canceled the second tour at 10 pm in the evening.  But after that, why to believe that it would work on the third occasion?
And I can’t even leave the first thing in the morning, I have to go and get the refund the second tour, and at least a partial refund for the first one.  With the second one they have no choice, although he seemed to think hard; with the first one he offers the replacement again.  Anything but parting with the money.  I refuse, and get a 15% refund.  I try to argue, that I could’ve seen as much from the public bus, for a fraction of the cost; he says that here I got the explanation.  Now let’s not go into the quality of the explanation.  He hands me the 15% (actually rounding the amount down), and from his part the transaction is finished.  “I will post this to the Lonely Planet forum,” I say.  I don’t quite catch his Spanish response, but it sounds like who gives a damn or a little ruder.
Thus here is my advice about tours from Salta:
1)      Unless you are desperately short of time (like only a weekend there), don’t book tours.  Check the public buses, go out to the villages (Cachi, Cafayate, Purmamarca, Tilcara etc.) spend time there and go on local trips or walks.  You will see more for a lot less.
2)      Book at your hostel/hotel, not randomly.  If anything goes wrong, it’s a lot easier to complain about a hostel/hotel, any booking site will ask for your experience.
3)      Don’t listen to the sirens on the street.  Book with tour operators that sit at their desk.
4)      Don’t offer speaking Spanish to them, unless it’s your first language or you speak the local dialect with an equivalent fluency.  If it’s a second language, and it comes to an argument, you will be at disadvantage and they won’t hesitate to use it.