San Pedro de Atacama, May 31

The flashpacker breakfast was good, four slices of toast (true, of the white variety, but I shouldn’t be too critical), butter, cheese, ham and jam.  Tea or coffee, or both.  I took both.  They use Nescafe here, thus the coffee is drinkable.

I didn’t do too much today morning; just walked to the Tur Bus terminal and bought my tickets from here to Copiapo that’s is exactly halfway and then from Copiapo to Valparaiso.  Each cost less than a night in a hotel, and I even get the transport and dinner, although who knows how edible that might be.

Then visited the local church and reserved the astronomy night for Thursday, although I mightn’t get back in time from a tour.  Today e.g. wouldn’t be a good time as the sky is cloudy.  Yesterday would’ve been, but who knew then where to reserve.

I a store where I bought oranges and water a little girl (about 3 years old) started to talk to me, and asked my name.  When I said, Maria, she stared and asked me “You are a girl?”  Thus maybe with my short hair, baseball hat and photo vest I don’t look that feminine…

I ate a fast lunch (spinach soup and crepes; the latter was a mistake, far too sweet) – the free appetizer named “peve” (if I got the spelling right, of course not in the dictionary) was so good that I will go back there and beg for the recipe.  Thus far the food in Chile is costly (this one close to 20 USD), but very good.

In the afternoon I went for a tour organized by the hotel.  It went to the Ojos del Salar and to three lagoons (Cejar, Piedra and Tebenquiche).  In Piedra we could swim (after changing in the bus). Supposedly it’s as salty as the Dead Sea, and I can believe it, as it was burning my skin.  Only that the Dead Sea is probably warm and this one wasn’t. 

“This is a salt lake, not a volcanic lake,” said the guide, as we complained.  But there might be some volcanic effect too, as the bottom of the lake was warm at places (floor heating, like in Iceland), and the water in the bottom was warmer than on top.  Warm water dissolves more salt, and gets heavier and sinks, I guess.  An Australian fellow traveler pointed out a spot where the water was deep enough – thus sufficient warm layer – to take a dip.  I didn’t test whether I float or not like in the Dead Sea, because that would’ve been in the icy upper layer.  Laguna Cejar was nearby and looked about the same, minus the swimming.

Ojos del Salar (cca. Eyes of the Salt Flats) are small round lakes, actually sinkholes.  The plains between the two chains of the Andes are formed by sediments with high mineral content. Water dissolves the minerals, forming underground lakes until there is not enough soil to support the upper layer that collapses and forms the sinkhole.  Essentially a karst phenomenon, just in a totally flat area. 

From there I could photograph Vulcan Lascar that I will supposedly climb tomorrow – for an enormous fee.  Hopefully it will be worth.

We reached the last lagoon at sunset.  It was perfectly quiet, like a mirror.  Then some kids started to run around in the shallow water and destroyed the miracle.  I met the British girls and the Dutch boys from the Andesmar bus. 

Most people on the tour were my children’s age or less, but they were a lot friendlier than the retired group in Salta.

The guide served us crackers, tea and juices and Pisco Sour, but I opted out of the latter, with respect to the volcano.  The sunset was fantastic.  First it painted pink stripes to the volcanoes to the East, then the entire mountain range turned red and finally all that became dark and only the Western sky was flaming red.

Arrival to Chile

The arrival to Chile started with the usual hostel hassle in Argentina: the late and slow breakfast.  Although I found this hostel (Pequeno Inti) otherwise perfect, the breakfast subtracted some points. At most other hostels it was self-service.  Here it was not, and they warmed the water for coffee and tea one-by-one in a microwave.  I wouldn’t have been that impatient, if I hadn’t been rushed.  Breakfast started at 8:30 and I had to be at the bus station at 9:15 and it was quite a trek away.  The breakfast room was full with others of my about my age.  They looked at my photographic vest as if I would be just out from a UFO.  I would’ve liked to stick my tongue out, but didn’t.  Finally I got my tea and 3 crackers, ate 2 of them, pocketed the third.  I drank the mate and was ready to go.  To his credit, this guy was willing to call a taxi. 

On my ticket, the bus was leaving at 9:40.  According to the tourist office that pointed out the section along the highway where it would stop it was 9:15.  The bus showed up at 10:30.  I put on everything I had, it was freezing in the shadow, the sun reached the place only a few minutes before the bus, which as it turned out, came from Salta.  The conductor checked my passport on the spot, and provided the Chile immigration forms.  I had again the panoramic seat at the front of the top level (all these buses are double-deckers), it was great for the view, but completely exposed to the sun and to the glasshouse-effect; by the end I took off everything I could without being indecent.  We crossed again Las Salinas Grandes, in about 10 minutes, thus I overestimated the width, it can’t be more than about 10 km.  The flat valley itself is a lot wider, might have been 1 hour to traverse it.  We saw may animals, mostly llamas and vicunas, they were standing along the road and didn’t get exited by the bus.  The there were goats and burros. 

The Argentinean immigration was at Paso de Jama at 4400 meters, where they removed the tourist form from the passport and stamped the exit.  There were fellow passenger (Dutch boys) with extra apples; I helped to eat them. You can’t take any fruit into Chile. Thereafter the bus climbed another pass and the conductor distributed lunch – the usual ham and cheese sandwich on white bread – with the warning to eat it right away, because it can’t be taken to Chile.

The Chile immigration is in San Pedro de Atacama, in my destination, in a building along a dusty road, a line for the passport, and another for customs.  I declare the coffee and the chocolate, and get green light.  I’m out on the dusty road, and the bus doesn’t take us to the center of the village.  It goes straight on to Calama.  Thus I take off along a dusty road, no fun to pull the backpack, and nobody knows where my Hostel, Casa don Esteban, might be.  Finally I see a hostel named Annex don Esteban, but that’s not it.  However, they are extremely kind, call my hostel, figure out the directions, and then get a taxi for me – after slight pressure to take a room there.

The taxi accepts dollars and I think gives more change back than the value of the dollar was.  Casa don Esteban is a real flashpacker place, big room, desk, real desk chair, lots of lights.  The same price as the hostel in Purmamarca. 

I go to town to exchange money and to buy food.  The sky is pink; the sun just goes down.  The first man, whom I ask to confirm directions, offers me a ride.  Which is kind, but not optimal, it’s a lot harder to memorize a route when driven.  When I finish dinner (which was sort of expensive, goat cheese quesadillas for 10 $), it’s pitch dark.  I find the street leading to the hotel, but after a while the lights run out and it looks totally strange in the dark.  I stop a biker and ask for directions.  He looks at the map and calls the hotel.  After getting the directions, he decides to walk with me.  It turns out that I was on the right track, and after a few minutes recognize the hotel’s lights.  But now they must think – this stupid old woman always gets lost…

Now I go and check out the flashpacker breakfast – then Granny does Chile.  

Purmamarca, May 29

Another case of guidebook misinformation.  I opted for Tilcara instead of Purmamarca, because according to the guidebook, it was overpriced.  I didn’t want to stop here, but the bus to Chile is one day later than I had calculated, and it starts here, not in Tilcara, thus I decided to spend the last Argentine night here, instead of extending the stay in Tipcart then taking an expensive taxi to catch the bus.  It was an extremely wise decision.  I found this room on some Argentine booking site that just forwarded my inquiry to the hotel. After lengthy correspondence in which I had to assure the owner multiple times that I really intend to come and won’t set her up (she is not equipped to take a deposit), here I am, in the second nicest room of the trip (on par with Cordóba).  It only costs 20 pesos (5 dollars) more than the room in Tilcara, but as compared, that one qualifies as unarmed robbery.  This room is in a real house (the other one felt like a mud hut), with high ceilings, has a night lamp, an armoire to hang my clothes and place for the towel and toilet paper in the bathroom.  In Tilcara I kept the toilet paper in the curiously present bidet – there was no other place to put it.  Although officially the hostel has no WiFi, I managed to connect to the city’s free network, thus I’m not cut off the world.  The Waira’s owner refused to call a taxi, saying that this is a village and taxis don’t operate like that.  Fortunately the bus station wasn’t far, I could drag along everything, including the large bag of wet cloths.  They allowed me here to use the clotheslines in the sun, it’s still not quite dry, but I turned on the heating and that hopefully will help.  Yes, the room is even equipped with an electric heater, and a number of blankets, will come handy at night at 2200 m.

They let me into the room immediately after arrival.  I went out to walk around the seven-colored mountain, for which Purmamarca is famous and met a Polish priest living in Cordóba.  In the afternoon I run into Antonio from the previous hostel, and we went to the Salinas Grandes (75 km from here) by “remiss” – that’s sort of a taxi that only goes when it’s full.  It costs 50 peso per person, and I invited him as he is young and short on money – I hope one day somebody will invite my children or grandchildren.  The Salinas Grandes is the most spectacular thing I have seen so far, and ranks high on the world list as well.  It’s a wide, totally flat valley, some 150 km long and where we stopped about 50 km wide in my guess – covered with dazzling white salt.  NaCl.  It looks like snow, but it’s salt.  I tasted it.  I pulled out my boots and walked barefoot for a while.  The surface was cold (the salt flats lie at 3400 m), and very rough, like walking on sharp pebbles or unfinished cement surface.  At the same time it felt sticky, probably the perspiration/body heat dissolved some salt.  Not enough to feel soft.  I tried to break off some crystals, I couldn’t, its too hard.  For mining they prepare small pools with water, the water evaporates and the salt recrystallizes in powder form.  The air is saturated with salt too, my lips tasted salty.  The crystals on the surface have all kinds or irregular shapes, like pavement from salt; I wonder how the photos will work out.

The road there is spectacular too, it goes over a 4170 m pass with many hairpin turns on both sides.  The bus to Chile will take the same way, but you can’t touch the salt from the bus, and it’s not pro to take photos through the bus window.

Cordóba, May 18-19

May 18

I got to Cordóba by coincidence.  I didn’t want to return to Buenos Aires from Montevideo, I didn’t want to fly (not because I’m scared – I love the planes and I love flying, but I hate the procedure required to get on the plane).  Cordóba was the only place where a direct bus went from Montevideo and where the trip lasted exactly one night.  I looked up in the guidebook and on the Thorn Tree; it looked interesting.  Thus I bought the ticket on EGA bus.  It was a “cama ejecutivo” ticket, which meant only 3 seats in a row, and mine was the one without a neighbor.  We were only 6 in the entire compartment, like a couchette in a European train.  Just we were all on the same level.  The seats reclined to about 75 degrees, only 15 degrees away from fully horizontal, and there was a footrest, too.  We got a blanket and a pillow as well.  The bus started to board on time and left on time.  As soon as we left the lights of Montevideo, the conductor (? is this the word? or should it be “bus attendant”? offered drinks.  I opted for a martini.  I got it.  Dinner that followed didn’t seemed too trustworthy (ham and cheese sandwiches and a lasagna of undefined content and consistency), thus I passed on it.  I stuck up on empanadas in Uruguay; I knew I would survive.  The conductor collected the passports, just like in the sleeping car, thus I assumed that we would sleep over the border undisturbed.  It was not what happened.  We reached the border around 10 pm, and had to get off and wait outside for about an hour.  We didn’t have to see the border guards, that part was done by the conductor.  It was a beautiful night with full moon, I didn’t mind being outside.  This was the friendliest crowd; they took great interest in me. 

After the border the lights were turned off, and we could sleep undisturbed until Rosario, where all my fellow travelers left the bus and I remained alone.  For a while the driver (or the conductor) slept in there.  The sleeping compartment was separated by a door from the rest of the bus; neither smells nor noises entered.

We arrived to Cordóba on time, at 8 am.  I felt rested, but extremely dirty.  It was hot on the bus, and I felt perspired and sticky.  My hotel, named Alex, was close to the terminal.  “You can’t take a taxi,” said the information girl at the bus station, it’s too close.”  Actually, it was almost across the street.  I crossed the walked in the indicated direction.  The sidewalk ended in a screen door, and that was the entrance of the hotel.  For a moment I believed I reserved a cave below the highway.  But the screen door led to a very nice small hotel, my best accommodation so far.  Of course, it was well before the official check-in time, but the receptionist made me wait for only 10 minutes.  Then I got my magnetic key, and could enter the room.   It was a small room, but it had everything.  I could hang up my clothes; there was a desk for the computer, a real bathroom with soap, shampoo and hairdryer.  I immediately took a shower and washed my hair, then took everything I wore on the bus to the cleaner.  Cordóba was the town where the Jesuits founded the first university of Argentina.  In Europe they have a bad reputation, but here they seem to have done good.  They had several estates around Cordóba, where they grew grapes to support the educational activities.  Their original building is still part of the university, it can only be seen by guided tour, and only in the afternoon.  As I stand there, trying to decide what to do, several faculty members stop and offer help.  I was just embarrassed, did I look that helpless?  But they were probably just nice.  I wish I had been more proactive; maybe I could’ve visited the working part of the university. 

Thus I started to walk towards the downtown bus station.  I will visit that estate where the first bus goes from there, I decide.  As I walk, I see a bus at the red light, with “Jesus Maria” – one of the estates – on its header.  I knock the window; the driver scrolls it down.  Yes, he goes to Jesus Maria, and opens the door for me.  He goes to the village though, not to the Estate, but points out where to walk.  The sun shines, finally it’s warm, and I’m out in the countryside…  From this estate it’s a 2 km walk to the next that acted like a resort for the students.  Too bad photography is forbidden inside. 

On the dark side, I don’t find anything to eat and the two apples I bought in Cordóba don’t go far.  By the time I get back to town, I’m starved.  I want food, not a sandwich.  But by Spanish standards (7 pm), it’s too early for dinner.  Restaurants don’t have their kitchen open yet. Finally I find a store that sells gourmet pasta pre-cooked and frozen, the girl takes pity on my starved state and cooks cannelloni for me in the store’s microwave.  I take it to the hotel; it’s delicious.  Maybe anything would be. 

May 19

It was a less exiting day than the previous.  I have to finish jobs, and a nagging client can’t stop asking questions.  Portable jobs have their distinct disadvantages.  I can barely finish by checkout time.  My main goal for the day to see the Manzana Jesuitica, a Unesco Heritage Site.  It can be seen only as a guided tour, and seeing the library full of old codices, I can understand it.  It was a joy to see that old library.  The cathedral of the complex (Iglesia de la Compania) has a vaulted ceiling that was built like a ship’s hull upside down.

After lunch I was sitting in park, eating an orange, when an old guy walks up to me and asks whether I’m also traveling the world.  As it turns out he is a retired professor from the university of Calgary, and travels with three friends from college.  He suspected from my outfit that I’m doing the same.  They stayed in a hostel and cooked for themselves, and in retrospect that was a right decision.  They went in totally different directions thus we departed, but I envied him for the friends who are willing to travel.

After visiting the Buen Pastor Park and the neo-gothic Iglesia de los Capuchinos, I went to the Museo Municipal de Bellas Artes that I could visit for free as a retired one and where the building was more amazing than the paintings, although there were quite a few that I liked.

Thereafter I picked up my bags at the hotel and was off to Salta on the night bus.

Tilcara, May 27-28

Between the rough start and the bitter end, Tilcara proved to be a delight.  The Waira hostel isn’t the Hilton, to put it mildly, but who would expect the Hilton for a hostel rate?  I have read some reviews whose writers obviously did.  Still, I wouldn’t mind a bit more luxury, like a hook in the wall to hang up the wet towel, or a night lamp (or at least the ability to trun off the light from the bed) – but fortunately I have a headlight thus don’t have to bed down in pitch dark.  The shower is really hot and I must be fast, as nothing separates the water from the rest of the bathroom. But what it lacks in facilites, the manager and his wife make up with heart.  They are really caring.  Or maybe not. The hostel feels like home. Or maybe it doesn't. Read on.

****

May 27

It starts well.  Clean underwear day, clean everything day.  On the road, it’s a big deal.  I wash the underwear in the shower (if there are hooks to hang them) and take the rest to the cleaners, if I find any.  It’s like a laundromat, but I don’t have to operate the machines.  I leave the package, and pick it up later, usually after 24 hours, clean, dry, ironed, folded.  It costs one peso a piece, not a big investment.  If I don’t find any, I just recycle.  I didn’t come across any laundromat in Buenos Aires, thus was quite desperate by the time I got to Montevideo.  There I found one just across the hotel.  Here in Tilcara the hostel offered to do it, unlike in Salta, where it was bluntly refused.

Breakfast here is early, the continental part is good, the coffee undrinkable, like everywhere.  There is a sign that a second cup costs 5 pesos.  I would think twice about drinking a second cup even if somebody would pay me 5 pesos.  I just use the hot water and my dwindling supply of Nescafe.  Then I drink tea.  There is nothing better than good honest black tea. It can’t be ruined.

Upon the advice of the manager, I walk up the Pucara (fortress) and finally see Pre-Inca ruins.  It’s on a mountaintop, with a 360º panorama.  The ticket is also valid to the Archeology Museum, thus I walk down to the town.  A gate along the way displays “Grapes for sale”, I buy some for dinner.  The farmer’s market is more exciting, than the museum.

I decide for the same restaurant like the day before.  The ravioli seems quite attractive retroactively.  It was a filling portion with freshly grated parmesen.  Today the manager recommends Spanish lentils.  I take my chances.  It’s a stew made of lentils, carrots and potatoes, with some meat and sausage.  A bit more salty than my taste, but still very good and filling.  I will try to copy it at home.

In the afternoon we walk to the Devil’s Throat gorge/waterfall with Antonio, a young Italian guy.  The day before, when I was at the deepest point of despair, he appeared out of nowhere and offered me a shockingly bitter, traditional mate tea. 

On the way back, we descend on all five.  So much about the clean pants.

Antonio is a chef, and makes tiramisu for the entire hostel after dinner.  I bake sweet potatoes, but just for myself.  On the way down from the hill we discovered organic yogurt, it’s heavenly.  First yogurt in Argentina without sugar and additives.

May 28

At  breakfast I meet an old French guy with a really impressive moustache.  He is travelling since March, and laid back 6,000 km in Argentina.  And all that speaking only French. 

He goes on to Chile as well, thus I might see him again in San Pedro.  He makes no firm plans and no reservations.  Maybe I should travel like that next time.  But for that, I should leave the work computer at home.

We try to make it to the Waira Caves with Antonio.  This trail isn’t marked, you should go with a guide.  The manager explains the path  in detail, to no avail.  At one point the trail turns too dangerous to continue.  We walk between sandstone cliffs in steep, increasingly narrow riverbeds.  Where we turn back, it becomes too steep, too narrow, too unstable.  But we have an incredible view of Tilcara and the mountains. 

As we walked up, two cows were just killed and four men just started to skin them.  On the way back, they they are still working, now inside and taking gthe cows apart. 

“I have to see that,” says Antonio.  “It’s my job.  I’m a chef.”

I definitely don’t want to see it, I'm just a part-time vegetarian, thus continue walking toward town. 

Life is never simple.  The employee of the manager washed my clothes, and neatly folded them into a bag.  It was sitting on the table, ready.  The manager told his wife to count it  (as I didn’t before).  Thus we counted together, I paid the ten pesos and she took the bag away.  I thought she wanted to fold them again, as the counting destroyed the order.  But no, she took them right into the washing machine.  Of course, there is no dryer.  Only the sun.  And that doesn’t shine at night.

“It will dry,” says the manager, but he knows just as well as I do that it won’t.  I’m leaving tomorrow at 9:45.  Not only I won’t have clean pants, but I will have to drag a wet bag along.  I would like to cry.  Of course, no refund, no remorse, no consolation.  Maybe they aren’t that caring after all.  I wish I had taken it to the professionals in the village.  I don’t know how the hostel in Cusco did it.  Perfect service, full breakfast, for half the price.  On top, I hung out my towel on the clothesline – as there is no place to hang it in the room --  and it disappeared by now.  I’m left with the two tiny camping towels of my own. Those won’t dry either overnight, thus I have to skip the shower either in the morning or at night.  Or maybe I will use the sheet in the morning.  That way it will be washed after me definitely

I’m glad I will be in Chile in two days.  Maybe that country takes tourism seriously, not just wants to milk the money.  

Montevideo on a Mission (May 17)

I start out as a tourist and photograph the colorful fruit stands of the pedestrian street.  I can do it without risk; the sellers don’t mind it, unlike at the markets of Ecuador.  The tourist office is really helpful and diligently point out all sights on the map, even a city bus that would take me to the beach.  I won’t have time for all that, thus ask the direct question about WWII history.  She shakes her head.  No museum, no archives.  “But you can see the Holocaust Monument,” she says and marks it on the map.  It’s on the sea, not far from the bus she suggested me to take for sightseeing.  I can do at least that much for them.  Would they really want me to do that?  That’s a mystery.  They never told us we were Jews.  Controversially, we grew up in our father’s religion (Catholic) that he never practiced, and that we (my sister and me) didn’t practice, either, as soon as we reached adulthood.  My grandparents’ marriage certificate, performed by a rabbi and the aunts and uncles birth certificates with the “Israelite” entry were found by accident, when we were past middle age.  I knew I had an uncle whose family died in Auschwitz, but learned that from my father, and he was told that only the wife was Jewish. 

We grew up overprotected and by the time we were teens, our efforts were directed at getting rid of the control.  We didn’t watch for signs and reasons, and didn’t ask questions anymore.  Now we would, but there is nobody to ask. We can only guess.  Why did they deny us the truth?  Our roots?

I reach the see at a beach.  Maybe this is the one they talked about.  This new part of Montevideo looks great, modern high-rises overlook the sea.  I walk along the Rambla, the avenue between the sea and the city.  At one point I try to make a shortcut and walk through a residential area, with elegant villas like in the California Coast.  I ask for directions, and surprisingly, both persons I ask, know the place.  I walk, the buildings disappear, the traffic is light, and I see mostly runners, roller skaters and bikers on Rambla’s sidewalks.  I must be there, and don’t see the Memorial.  I ask once more, this time without luck.  It’s another tourist, who doesn’t even speak Spanish.  Then I discover.  I’m standing almost on top of it.  It’s a low wall, almost invisible from the city side.  There are two memorial plates towards the sea, with almost illegible text.  For a moment I blame it on neglect, but then realize that it might be intentional.  Memory is fading.  I find plates with legible text towards the city.  A bit further there is a train track, just a segment, not leading anywhere.  At the end there is a symbolic grave, of a girl who returned to Hungary just before the war and died in Auschwitz.  Thus not only my relatives did the unthinkable.  I wonder whether they knew each other. 

I wonder what would they say now, seeing me at that remote Montevideo beach with black rocky shore in the background?  I cry for them there, as I never did before.  We were alienated in my teen/young adult years; I couldn’t handle their wish that they expected us to make sense of their life.  Nobody can make sense of another person’s life.  It’s already an achievement to make sense of your own.

It’s getting late.  I have to make a mad dash back for my luggage.  EGA bus is already boarding by the time I get to the Tres Cruces terminal.  Why didn’t I opt for two more days??  

Montevideo as a tourist (May 16)

 One reason – or motivation – to do this trip and starting in Buenos Aires was the desire to visit Montevideo.  Two sisters and two brothers of my mother lived in Montevideo sometimes between the Great Depression and WWII.  When the war was imminent, they returned the Europe, in order to have the family together. 

As a young child I was fascinated by their tales about the boat trip from Geneva, the crossing of the Equator, the ports they called in…  As I grew, tales became less and less frequent and finally one of my aunts just snapped: “I wish that boat would’ve capsized with me…” and that killed the motivation of asking more questions.  At that time I was too young to ask any particular question beyond the fairy tale/adventure component. 

I sort of know why they went.  At least the basic points.  It was the great depression.  South-America did better than Europe and had a more open immigration policy than the US or maybe even Canada.  But I don’t know why those four went.  My mother had ten sisters and brothers at that time.  I don’t know what they made for a living.  I don’t know at which part of the city they lived.  I don’t know how interested they were in their new environment.  No other place figured in the tales, not Buenos Aires, not Colonia.  They talked about the beach and said that it was weird to go there at Christmas.  That shows how victimized they must’ve felt and how they lacked any motivation to adapt.

“Why do you go?” asked my friends.  “They are no longer there.”  But I wanted to see the place for myself.  In advance, I didn’t have the ambition to reveal any part of the past.  Just to see the scene.  As the date grew closer and closer, I started to hope a History Museum.  Or an Immigration Museum.  That might direct me to some archives with immigration records.  I didn’t even know the dates of their arrival and departure.  It was a naïve hope.  From all the cities I visited, Melbourne is the only one with a formal Immigration Museum.  Why did I hope one in Uruguay?

Immediately at the beginning I had to compromise – the bus I was taking out of Montevideo didn’t run every day, thus I had to shorten my stay to one night and skip Colonia.  Thus I arrived directly to Montevideo on Buquebus. That’s a ferry operated like an airplane, minus the security inspection.  But you check in, get a boarding pass etc.  It’s a very professional operation. 

The sea was quite, the crossing eventless.  There was no sign of the mountain the city supposedly got its name of. 

But there were signs in the port that it’s forbidden to import food and I was determined to fight for my Lindt chocolate with all my might – it wasn’t necessary.  The customs woman only confiscated my forgotten Buenos Aires tomato.  Unlike at airports, there were no hard feelings.  She threw it into the trash and wished me a good stay in Montevideo. 

I had no Uruguay peso.  There was no “Cambio” at the port.  According to the Buquebus guy, the taxi would take USD.  According to those in the line, it wouldn’t.  And they looked at me with open schadenfreude.  For the uninitiated, my luggage looked like unmanageable without taxi.  I had a bag and a backpack on rollers.  But the bag hid another backpack.  All I had to do to unearth it from the shell put it on my back and I was as mobile as a camel with its hump.  The hostel was so close; it would’ve been a shame to take a taxi.  On top, it was on a pedestrian street.  It was crumbling, with only two stamp-sized sticker indicating the B&B inside.  But don’t judge the book by its cover: it was really nice inside, with high ceiling and the owner’s paintings all over the walls. 

I deposited my bags and went out to eat at the harbor’s market, as this is a basic Montevideo thing to do.  And although it’s the port, you eat beef, not fish.  And the beef is heavenly, and the portions far beyond my capacity.

I was in the old town, and it didn’t look very exciting.  Maybe the aunts and uncles didn’t like it and that’s why opted to go home.  What shall I do here for another day?  For a moment I was glad that the bus schedule shortened my stay. 

In the afternoon I stroll around, find the main square with a high-rise that looks like the carbon copy of the Empire State Building, without the viewing platform, then buy a map, and see the Pre-Columbian Museum.  Where the most interesting items are woven portraits form the recent past.  On the way back to the hotel I miss the other pedestrian street leading down to the sea, but discover an already closed tourist office.  Buquebus required an early start, I fall asleep during the tango lesson, and opt for an early bedtime.

The long way to Tilcara

Thus I promised the itinerary for today.  I flew from Montreal to Buenos Aires, and that's a story in itself.  After 5 days there, moved on to Montevideo, on personal motivation. Maybe that will be the next blog.  On to Cordoba (in a cama ejecutivo bus -- that deserves its own chapter).  After just one day in Cordoba, went to Salta on another night bus, where I spent 3 nights, and that was about 2 nights too long. The best thing that happened to me in Salta was a flu shot, more precisely, a shot to treat the flu -- and that tells a lot about Salta. The next stop was charming Cafayate and its wineries.  Then, onto Tilcara.  On Flecha Bus back to Salta, then on Balut Bus onto Tilcara. I ate lunch at the bus station.  Ordered two cheese empanadas. On a plate similar to those used under espresso cups, two tiny things arrived.  Even 14-month old Barnabas (my youngest grandchild) would've considered them an insult. They looked so fragile, I didn't dare to touch them, I feared they would just crumble and evaporate, and I would be left with an empty plate. Thus I asked for fork and knife. Then came the next assault. They were filled with cheese whiz. That yellow thing from the bottle. I remember the empanadas of Peru and Ecuador, filled with sweet or savoury cottage cheese.  Or the pastel from Pachuca, filled with rice pudding, spicy potatoes, you name it. Wake up Granny, you aren't in Mexico, and you are still hungry.  I opt for a postre, dessert. This is a bit bigger than the empanada, but is filled with a marmelade that my late grandmother nicknamed "Hitler's bacon" -- it was sold in blocks, like bacon, and I guess replaced the latter during the war and the years after. When I knew it the name could've been Stalin's bacon already, but somehow that one didn't take root.
I was looking forward to Tilcara, until yesterday. As I knew that I would be arriving late, I sent a courtesy e-mail to the hostel, telling them the exact time and the exact bus.  I did the same in Cafayate, and got a charming response, thanking for my thoughtfulness.  From Tilcara, I got a response, telling me that HostelWorld cancelled the reservation. Letter the Hostelworld, what the hell?  Letter to the hostel, what the hell? I didn't cancel, why would Hostelworld? True, the reservation is still there, in HW's records.  Don't worry, go, they tell me, your reservation is confirmed.
I arrive, find the hostel in the pitch dark -- and there is no room. They repeat the story, that HostelWorld cancelled it.  Then the story changes to "We never received it" and "Hostelworld made a mistake".  And it turns out that a group from Buenos Aires rented the entire hostel.  Just they probably forgot to tell it to Hostelworld. I have been using these booking services a lot, they don't make mistakes that frequently.  Actually, I don't remember any other case.  And it's quite clear that the hostel people are lying.  If true, why does the story change at every turn?
When I insist, they show me a room. It has 3 beds, no private bathroom.  The shared bathroom is so disgusting that I rather turn on the camel factor and decide not even to pee there. Never mind a shower. In the room there are paper thin blankets, and no sheets.  The receptionist can't give more blankets. "But you can use all three," she says, encouragingly.  She promises a discount, but wouldn't quantify it. A peanut, probably, like in Salta after the re-routed trip. I don't want to stay in that shithole, not even for free. I will freeze to death, even if wearing everything I have.
I go out to eat -- I can finally use the bathroom in the restaurant. The ravioli is great, although it tastes like coming straight from Presidents' Choice, but at least well prepared.  The waiter is friendly.
I walk back to the shithole, by an open bookstore. In despair, I go in, and ask for advice.  Is there a better place in town, than my reserved hostel, Pucara? The owner nods. "Go to Waira, across the street."
I do. It's essentially empty. They have a private room, with bathroom, for not significantly more than the Pucara. I will loose the Hostelworld deposit, that I don't care, although if HW would be totally fair, they would reimburse it, but if they charge the card, I will go and kill them.  It wasn't me who broke the contract.
So much whining for today.  Tomorrow I will enjoy the landscape, hopefully.
The roving granny    

Disappointments first: Food and Coffee (Rowing Granny is picky)

In summary, food in Argentina was thus far hit or miss. Coffee was only miss.  To the extent that I switched to coca tea now.

Thus let’s start with coffee.

I’m an old woman addicted to caffeine.  I can’t go on without coffee.  That’s the first thing in the morning and I’m like a zombie until I get it.  But I’m not especially picky.  I can drink Nescafe and even like it.  But I have one more peculiar habit. While at home I’m fine with Nescafe, if I’m eating out I need a cappuccino.  And that’s where Argentina was a total miss.  The first cappuccino I had was topped with whipped cream (oh, horror, and it was even sweet…). In Buenos Aires, I had one that tasted like the real thing, in the very atmospheric Gato Negro café, but then it did cost 20 pesos, close to 5 USD.  That’s about the going rate in London, I guess.  The next best came from a Nestle machine (just imagine…).  Montevideo did well.  The cappuccino in the café near the port was drinkable.

But the worst disappointment came in otherwise very nice Cordoba.  I ordered a cappuccino.  There came a liquid in an elegant goblet.  Not even the color and the consistency looked right.  It was topped with sweet whipped cream and there was a cherry on a toothpick across.  I asked the waitress what this was, and she said it was a cappuccino.  I switched to tea thereafter (that was almost a week ago) and by now recovered from the caffeine withdrawal.

The food?  I sort of knew that I wasn’t going to Mexico and was prepared to compromise.  Oh well, it won't be hot and spicy.  But it will be tasty, like in Peru and Ecuador.  Well, sometimes.  The beef is definitely a hit.  It tastes a lot better than at home.  So does potato.  But you can’t eat beef for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  So far, chicken was a miss.  Either undercooked or so hard, that I couldn’t even cut it.  The absolute hit:  the fruits and the tomato.  The avocado, that’s large and black here, but tastes the same.  Among the fruits, especially the pear.  Large, golden, sweet.  Tomatoes are large, round or oval, but all taste heavenly.  Today I had a salad for dinner that I concocted from an avocado and a tomato and applied a grapefruit that resisted being eaten with all its might as dressing.

Among the pastas, the vegetable cannelloni is a hit. Actually it’s  not even pasta, although it’s listed like that on the menu.  It consists of rolled thin crepes, filled with a spinach mixture.  Spanish tortillas (omelet-like egg dish) are about as good as in Spain.  And thus far, that’s about it. 

Breakfast in the hostels is continental, at the low end of the filling scale. I add tomato and avocado to it, to give myself the impression that I've eaten.

On the sweet side, I discovered a very good cookie.  It’s called Alfajores (not in the dictionary).  It resembles a Vienna Ischler, but it’s filled with dulce de leche, a caramel derived from milk sugar.

In the next blog, time for a detailed itinerary.

Getting the general idea...

Just to start, why do I travel at all?  I just have to.  If I am at home for a longer while, I just keep looking at the airport bus; why does it leave without me?
Maybe I do travel now because it was forbidden when I was young.  I grew up in communist Hungary.
Then, why alone? People stare at me and ask, You alone? Not scared? Well, my children grew up, my friends are either a lot more ambitious or not at all, and organized group travel isn't for me. I would feel like a square peg in a round hole.
I traveled a lot since I turned 60 and even my youngest moved away.

But I never blogged before and don't quite know what to write now. But my daughter now insisted that I blog, thus I do.  I'm also a bit cheating, as I left home a bit more than two weeks ago and I have less than two weeks to go.  Thus I will have to jump back and forth within the story and the geography.  

This link might help to follow me on the road:
http://www.freeworldmaps.net/southamerica/argentina/map.html
Thus far: Buenos Aires, Montevideo (that's a side-step to Uruguay), Cordoba, Salta, Cafayate.
Why Argentina? No rational explanation. I did Peru and Ecuador before, going further South was sort of a logical step. It was an added motivation that one of my friends decided to live in Buenos Aires for a while.
Why North of Argentina?  That has a logical reason. I couldn't fit the trip during the Argentinian summer into my schedule. It was too late then to go South, to Bariloche and Patagonia. After all the spring rains in Montreal (that's where I live, when I'm at home), I deeply wished to be out of it. The desert seemed like an excellent idea.
And as we are out of chronology, in the next segment let's get down to food and coffee...