Flip Flop Flying

Goodbye Brazil

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Fri, 16 May 2008 11:05:00 +0000

Apart from the UK, Germany, and the US, I've spent more of my life in Brazil than any other country. I'm glad about that. I'm leaving tonight, but I hope, one day, to come back and spend a lot more time here. It's a magic place. I'm gonna miss it.

A little bit more Oscar

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Fri, 16 May 2008 11:01:00 +0000

Had to get some photos of Oscar's work in Parque do Ibirapuera before I leave Brasil this evening. Here's a Google Earth screenshot showing the whole area.

The fluid grey shape is the roof of this covered area, connecting three buildings. This is what it looks like underneath.

This is the Oca (hut). Not sure if that's its real name, but that's what I was told it was called.

And finally, here's the Auditório Ibirapuera (Ibirapuera Auditorium).

Don't keep your hamster in the safe

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Fri, 16 May 2008 07:28:00 +0000

Back in São Paulo. I've got a nice hotel room; it's on a corner (thus two views) on the 24th floor. The view last night and this morning.

The safe in the room has a warning on it. Look at the size of the safe...

...and now look at the warning.

Some pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Wed, 14 May 2008 22:36:00 +0000

My last day in Rio de Janeiro, here's some pictures. The first bunch taken wandering around the Santa Teresa area.

The tram viaduct.

The cathedral.

A pigeon.

And Ipanema beach.

Six days ago I arrived in Rio de Janeiro, a bit nervous about the tales of danger on the streets and beaches here. And while I'm still a bit wary, I've gone from someone who forced himself to come here out of duty to see the city, into someone who loves it here. It's such a beautiful city. Walking around, taking the bus, or in a cab. All fantastic. And it's impossible for me to put my finger on what it is about the place. It's a stunning landscape, of course, and there are beautiful people everywhere, and the weather makes things agreeable; but that's not it. I'm not sure I want to be able to put my finger on it, but whatever it is, Rio is great. Really, really great. I've still got some grains of sand on my flip flops, and I don't wanna brush them off.

The girls from Ipanema

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Wed, 14 May 2008 17:23:00 +0000

After several days of meticulous observation, I have completed my research.

Postcard

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Wed, 14 May 2008 06:55:00 +0000

The Big Jesus Thingy has been Photoshopped so that we can see his face and Sugar Loaf in the background; rather than the reality which would show us the back of Jesus' head from this angle.

Museu Naïf

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Wed, 14 May 2008 06:54:00 +0000

I wanted to go and visit the Museu Internacional de Arte Naïf do Brasil at the weekend, but, well, it's a bit of a palaver to actually get there. Not its location - it's right next to the little choo-choo train that takes you up to Big Jesus Thingy - but actually getting in. The website has no opening times on it; the booklet that the hotel has about galleries has no opening times; and when I called the number, there was no answer. Hmmm. So I sent them an email, which prompted a strange exchange, asking if I could come between 2pm and 5pm on Tuesday. Yes, I can. What time exactly? 3pm would be great. Okay, see you then.

I didn't have my watch with me, and I arrived half an hour early. The gate was padlocked shut, and after several rings of the buzzer, it seemed like nobody was going to come and open. So I had a coffeee nearby, waited 'til 3pm, and went back. This time, someone came out and let me in. Not really sure that this place is gonna get many passers-by dropping in for a look. Which is a real shame, because it's a magnificent place. Three floors with small-ish rooms crammed with great Brazilian and (mostly) Latin American naive art.

Here's some details of a few of the paintings rather than whole paintings, cos, well, the detail photos turned out better. Like an idiot, I forgot to jot down all of the names of the artists and titles. Sorry. I do know, though, that the one above and the next five pictures are details of a massive painting (4 x 7 metres) of the city of Rio de Janeiro by Lia Mittarakis called "Rio De Janeiro, Gosto De Você, Gosto Desta Gente Feliz" ("Rio De Janiero, I Love You, I Love Such Happy People")

This was by someone from Ecuador...

... and this was by someone from Mexico.

The rest are all Brazilian if I remember correctly.

I ♥ Oscar

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Tue, 13 May 2008 18:32:00 +0000

Across Guanabara Bay, in the city of Niterói, there's this Oscar Niemeyer-designed slice of magnificence, the Museu de Arte Contemporânea de Niterói. There was some art inside, but virtually anything that they put in there is gonna be fighting a losing battle with the building itself.

Sightseeing

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Tue, 13 May 2008 07:07:00 +0000

I did some sightseeing. First stop, getting the little train up Corcovado hill to see the Big Jesus Thingy. That's not it's proper name, you'll be astounded to learn. Whatever's Portuguese for "Christ the Redeemer"; that's its name. If Jesus Christ is planning to come back one day, I really hope it isn't his ego that is holding him off from doing it before now; because if it is, then we're buggered when he does come back. A thirty-metre-high statue not enough, Jesus? Not being a religious type, I did find myself thinking of chuckles the whole time when I was up there. Like, for example, the other hills having different Christs on top: Christ the Not-that-arsed-about-redeeming, Christ the Short-order Cook, Christ the Huckster. Etcetera and etcetera until it got really quite saucy and inappropriate, and his outstretched arms were showing us how big his wang is. Still, nice statue. Here's some photos that look exactly the same as every photo taken by every tourist. First some snaps of the view.

Now some more of the big fella.

Here's some dead moths that have gathered in one of the floodlights.

And some pretend Jesuses.

After praising the Lord, I got a cab to Pão de Açúcar, Sugar Loaf Mountain. A couple of cable cars and you're up there with a different view over the city. The view from Jesus was looking out to sea, the view from Pão de Açúcar was better; you get a right good view over a massive amount of Rio. And from up there, it looks fantastic. All the buildings squished in-between the hills and the beaches. Magic stuff.

My sightseeing day was topped off nicely by a cab driver who showed me a laminated flyer for a strip club and telling me they did good massages "and a bit more... if you want!" And then spent the rest of the journey honking his horn at girls walking by, and turning around to look at me every time to make an "ooh she was nice!" face.

Football and backpackers

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Mon, 12 May 2008 16:54:00 +0000

On Sunday, I went to see a football match. I wanted to go to the Maracaná to see Flamengo v Santos but, due to something or other, they were being penalised by having to play the game behind closed doors. So, it had to be Botafogo against the rather vaguely-named Sport (from Recife) at the Engenhão stadium. Like the favela tour I took on Saturday, the trip to the stadium was organised by Be A Local.

The mini bus was full of other backpackers. When I got in, they were already in full backpacker flow, telling each other where they'd been, where they were going, how they'd had an amaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing experience in Blah de Blah; all one-upping each other with tales of better, more "real" experiences, longer bus journeys, etc. You get the feeling none of them are interested in what the others are saying, they just wanna tell others how their trip has been more awesome. I kept my mouth shut and just listened. But, I think I've got one of those faces that says "don't talk to me," anyway, so it was never a problem.

There was one American woman in purple trousers who was particularly annoying. And she, back home, is a teacher. Poor kids. Anyway, I'd seen her on the favela tour, and on the way to the stadium, I heard he saying that it was too expensive, and that it wasn't "vibrant enough." If this was a Itchy and Scratchy cartoon, I'd be boring a hole in the back of her head, pushing a horse's leg through the hole, and climbing on the horse and going for a nice long ride across some fields with her body flapping along behind.

But, a short while later, when we arrived at the stadium and we were handed our tickets, I did begin to wonder if she was right about the price of the favela tour; well not so much the price, just about how much money was trickling down because, for the football trip, we each paid R$70, and the face value of the ticket was R$20. Hmmmm, that's quite a chunk of money they're taking for ferrying us to the stadium. Still, it didn't stop me loathing Purple Trousers Woman (more of which later).

The stadium itself seemed fairly average. Pretty new, and, err, virtually empty. I thought it was the other game that was behind closed doors, not this one...? Where the heck are Botafogo's fans? The stadium was probably 10% full tops.

So, the Rio de Janeiro football experience was kind of a let down. The game itself was fairly run-of-the-mill, but it was good to see how comfortable Brazilian players are with the ball. The home side won 2-0, but only after we'd had a 20 minute floodlight failure.

The lack of atmosphere, the pedestrian game, the mind-numbing idiots sat around me, and I was kinda just ready to get out of there and get something to eat. I wasn't really tempted by the hot dogs in plastic bags on sale in the stadium, but it was fun to hear the Brazilian way that "hot dog" is pronounced, like "hotchy doggy."

The mini bus drooped off a bunch of people at one hostel, and then Purple Trousers Woman commandeered the vehicle as her own personal taxi, asking, rather impolitely and in Spanish, that the driver take her and her drippy boyfriend to a specific part of town. It wasn't too far away, but the driver didn't know where they wanted to go, and neither did they. They just wanted to find "some restaurants." After 10 minutes of to-ing and fro-ing, she deigned to offer an apology to the six of us sat in the back of the bus: "Sorry, you guys!" None of us replied. but the girls who were left in the bus did spend the rest of the journey being nice and bitchy about her once she'd got out.

There are a few strange things I've noticed about backpackers. Firstly, they are almost exclusively white. I've not seen a single black backpacker on my travels. A handful of British Indians, but that's about it. And as for the other Brits one encounters, they are almost exclusively southern, with a high proportion of plummy accents. So, okay, you're in your late teens, it's probably a lot easier to do this kind of thing if you've got rich parents; but it's odd to me that one hears very few northern, Welsh, Scottish, or Northern Irish accents.

I did manage to talk to one dude, though, on the journey back. A friendly Australian from Sydney who turned to me and said, "Not really that good a game was it?" I agreed. And that was that.

Rocinha

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Sat, 10 May 2008 18:41:00 +0000

In that English, middle-class way (not that I really consider myself middle-class; I was brought up in a working-class family, but I guess my poncey job drawing for a living kinda makes me more middle than working these days), it didn't feel entirely right to be doing what I did earlier today. But I've done worse things on this trip; like going to a bullfight, or eating veal and foie gras. Yes, I'm trying to justify the slightly morally-dodgy tourist experience of visiting a favela.

I wouldn't have even known about this type of tourist trip had I not bumped into Brendan and Mel in Buenos Aires. They gave me the URL of a company called Be A Local that organised tours of Rocinha; a favela that is home to 200,000 people. This, it should be noted, is not the tour operator who did silly stuff.

The guide, Marcio, picked me and a bunch of other young, white Europeans up and we trundled off in the minibus. We were told the plan, and that we shouldn't take photographs if we saw men with walkie-talkies, machine guns, or hand grenades. Errr, hand grenades!? These people would be drug dealers.

We parked up at the bottom of the hill, where Rocinha begins, then Marcio gave a bunch of moto taxi dudes two reais apiece, and we were off, each of us helmetlessly clinging onto the back of a motorbike going up, up, up, weaving in-between buses and other motorbikes. The road, as you may well be able to imagine, wasn't in the best condition; so it was the kind of ride where, being a man riding pillion, you occasionally feel your nuts being squished a bit when you hit a pothole or something. It was five minutes or so to the top, and we were there, right in the middle of a bloody favela. And, well, it wasn't scary in the slightest. Like a dog that can smell fear, the relaxedness of Marcio really rubbed off, and I felt totally at ease there.

That main road into the favela seemed fairly developed. There was a Bob's fast food place, a post office, banks. A lot of the local people greeted Marcio like seeing a friend, so that kind of eased my worries a touch that we weren't welcome. But, the 65 reais (about 25 euros) we each paid to take the trip helped fund a daycare centre for children, so we were at least contributing, not just walking around a human zoo. Along the route that we took, we called in at an artist's studio, stopped to listen to kids playing drums, paused in a shop to buy some food, and were offered bracelets and necklaces along the way.

Virtually all the children along the way smiled or said hello. One lad even high-fived us all as we walked along the narrow alley one-by-one. Now and again, you'd see an adult who seemed less than impressed that we were there, but I'd be pissed off if I had a crate of water on my shoulder and I was having to weave in and out a bunch of Westerners like us.

The alley we walked down had a fair amount of open sewers. There was the odd dude with a walkie-talkie, and blokes here and there smoking marijuana. Plenty of scavenging dogs, hundreds of electricity cables coming from each pylon, and hillsides where it's impossible to tell if it's trash covering a hillside or just a hillside of trash. We were told that this was an alley where there are often shootouts between drug dealers and the police.

It would come back now and again: why am I here, taking photographs of how people far less fortunate than me live? Then I'd make eye contact with someone, they'd mime taking a photograph, and then pose. And then it hits you. These people living their lives here have to cope with gun battles on their street all the time. Fuck.

I'm really glad I went on the tour of Rocinha, though. It's fucked-up that this is tourism, and I've criticised myself in my head after writing every one of these sentences, but, sincerely, it's good for "favela" to not just be a word now. I will never know what it is like to live here, I'm not sure that I want to either, but it was good to see some faces.

Large version of the last photo here.

Rio

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Fri, 09 May 2008 21:44:00 +0000

So, despite the paranoid person that lives inside my head doing everything he could to stop me coming here, I'm in Rio de Janeiro. A city that has one of the most lazy names ever.

"What's that blue watery thing?"
"A river."
"What month is it?"
"January."
"Shall we make a town here?"
"Yeh, I guess."
"What shall we call it?"
"Dunno... River of January?"
"That'll do."

I know that deep down I was procrastinating in Curitiba. I could've travelled here directly from Foz do Iguaçu, but it was convenient to stop there and convinced myself that I was just doing it to avoid a nigh-on 24-hour bus journey. But really, I know that I was just avoiding coming here for another day or two. And on Thursday night, when I began the 13-hour journey from Curitiba, I was weirdly happy ever time I looked at my watch to see it was earlier than I thought it was. Stupid, really. If I didn't want to come here, I shouldn't have bothered. But, fuck, it's Rio; I couldn't not visit Rio while I'm down here, could I?

I got a cab from the bus station, through the outskirts of the city in the morning rush hour (or, if this is like other big South American cities, the constantly busy roads), and, well, it doesn't look like Rio. But then we went through a long tunnel, and suddenly, things seemed a bit nicer. A decent-sized lagoon with people jogging around it, and oh! there's Jesus on top of a hill.

A good amount of sleep at the hotel later, and it's late afternoon, and I'm ready for my first steps on the pavements of Rio. Wallet, camera, and watch all safely back at the hotel, I walked the two blocks to Ipanema beach. It was cloudy, so, not much to see down there, really. I bought some Havaianas to replace my on-their-last-legs Muji flip flops. Very comfy they are too.

Anyway. Tomorrow I'll do something more interesting hopefully, and in lieu of any interesting words in this blog post, I'll leave you with this wonderful song by Michael Nesmith.

Another day in Curitiba

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Wed, 07 May 2008 18:15:00 +0000

Aaah, it's lovely to be back in Brasil. Nothing against Uruguay or Argentina, but there's something in the air here that makes me happy. It's great to be eating pão de queijo and drinking guaraná again, too.

Another thing I've enjoyed is knowing my way around somewhere. This isn't the first time I've been back to a place on my trip, but São Paulo is a headfuck of a city, and I never quite got my bearings in Buenos Aires. Here, though, it felt great to get in a cab at the bus station and know that I was being taken the shortest route. It was great to know where to go for stamps or to get my laundry done. And it was great to meet up with Ozorio again, too, and have another night of alcohol-fuelled fun.

Today, after a dream that I had a massive goiter on my head - about the size of Mr. Topsy-Turvy's hat - and a bit of loafing around, I went to visit the Museu Oscar Niemeyer again. The website indicated there were some new exhibits, so, la la la, I went. And nice stuff there was too. Some Francis Bacon, Lucien Freud, and Henry Moore prints; some nice big sculptures by Eduardo Frota, and a whole bunch of work by Cildo Meireles, which I enjoyed a lot. and I got a couple of snaps of the J.Borges stuff I was talking about last time.

But, to my surprise, there was an even better retrospective of Niemeyer's work than when I was here last time. Loads more info, drawings, and models. Me a happy bunny.

On my way to the museum, I didn't notice an extra step on a bit of pavement and managed to not fall over, but I did hurt my hip a little bit, thus the slightly jerky, limpy walk down this tunnel at the museum. I love this tunnel, cos it makes me feel like I'm on a spaceship.

My hip's fine now, by the way.

Yellow stripe

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Tue, 06 May 2008 15:15:00 +0000

Nine weeks ago, when I was last in Curitiba, this guy was painting this wall...

It's nice to see the finished result:

Long post

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Tue, 06 May 2008 11:04:00 +0000

No Internet for a few days, so one big post about the weekend. Pop the kettle on, grab a cushion, we might be here for a while.

Friday morning, Posadas bus terminal. Window seat, headphones on, guide book out, and an empty seat next to me. ¡Qué bueno! The bus started filling up, and a young woman who kinda looked like dark-haired, Latina version of Chloe Sevigny asked if the seat was free. That's what I assumed she asked anyway; I half removed my headphones and told her "yes." She had, though, it seems, asked if the seat was occupied and she began to look for another seat. I searched for the Spanish words, but they wouldn't come, so I just said, "no, no, no; it's free." I put my headphones back on, cracked open the book, and settled back down. She sat down and sat there with her bag on her lap for a couple of minutes, then said something.

I'm amazed sometimes that people can be so free and open and friendly. I wish I had it in me to do that sort of thing. I wouldn't really make too much effort to talk to the person next to me if they were sat there without headphones on, let alone with them, but that's what she did. She asked if I was going to Iguazú, and that was it, we got chatting. With the aid of my little English/Spanish dictionary, Yamila and I managed to muddle through all sorts of topics. I'm not sure how it came up, but at some point I had to try and explain what "cunt" meant. I sheepishly pointed to "vagina" in the dictionary. After a couple of hours, she got off the bus at a small town called Puerto Rico where her father ran a disco where she worked at weekends to help pay for her psychology studies. We hugged goodbye as she got her bag and I had a quick smoke at the station, and I returned to my seat to soon find myself sat next to an old battleaxe with insistent elbows.

With nowhere to stay in Puerto Iguazú, I spoke to a tour operator at the bus station. He told me about a few tours they do, then recommended a hotel that was super cheap. That'll do, thanks. The whole time he never looked at me once. His gaze was always off somewhere else in the room. Quite unnerving.

The hotel room I was given had three single beds in it. I stayed in Puerto Iguazú for three nights. Can you guess what I did? Yep, I slept in a different one each night. For some reason, it gave me a stupendous amount of silly pleasure to do this.

One of the tours that Diverted Gaze Guy had mentioned was one where you go to Paraguay in the morning and see the Brazilian side of Iguazú Falls in the afternoon. Because it set off from the Argentina side, it was touted as "three countries in one day." Once I'd checked in, I asked the guy at the hotel to make a reservation for me to go the next day. "Sí, no problem." Splendid. I went out, got a steak, a few beers, and had an early night.

Saturday morning, I was up early, ready for the 8.00am tour start. Except, err, it didn't happen. After standing and waiting in the hotel car park for twenty minutes, I told the guy in the reception that his colleague last night had booked me on the tour. He made a couple of phone calls and it turns out he hadn't done it. Thanks, dude. Not a big hassle, really, I just had to switch my days around and go to the see the waterfalls from the Argentinian side instead.

It costs AR$40 to get in if you're a foreigner. They give you money to go if you're from Argentina. Not really; that was one of my slightly bitter jokes. I know I should just shrug it off that Argentinians, Paraguayans and Brazilians pay less than half, but I can't. Anyway, the map showed many many places to walk and view the waterfalls from. And, rather systematically, I went through all of them. Nicely done, they were, too. There's no good viewing angle that they missed with the series of walkways.

Just so you can see the wacky poses properly, here's a bigger version of what was in the bottom right corner of the last photo:

I went on a speedboat that takes you whizzing around all fast and stuff. You get pretty close to a couple of the waterfalls, too; so, unsurprisingly, one gets rather wet.

After having a good walk around looking, I then got on the little train that takes you right around to the the bit of Iguazú called the Devil's Throat. You will notice that there's a woman in disguise on the train, too.

Once the train stops, there's a good old walk across this footbridge which crosses the big flat top bit of the river before it goes tumbling down. (Notice my stunning knowledge of the correct terms.) It will never fail to amuse me at how a decent-sized proportion of human beings have no idea how to behave in public. The signs say "keep right" in Spanish and English. Do people keep right? You know the answer to that, don't you? I'm sorry to generalise about this, Argentina, but this is something I've noticed a lot here: old women do not give a shit about holding up a queue of people. Yes, I appreciate that you're not as nimble as you once were, but if you actually look behind you and notice that there's quite a build-up of people who have slowed down because you are walking three abreast, it's not a sign that we think you are all queens, and that we are loyal, loving procession behind you. It's a sign that you might wanna move aside for a moment or two.

Be that as it may, the couple in this photo are walking on the right, and the guy seemed to enjoy that he'd be in my photo; he gave me a thumbs-up as he passed me. Not that you can see it in the photo, you'll just have to take my word for it.

It was really magic up there looking down over the edge of the Devil's Throat. Thunderously loud, with spray blowing all over the place. Fantastic.

This guy was a tit. As you can probably tell from his combination of silver satin and camouflage shorts.

But let's not dwell on him, just look at how cool this waterfall is.

On the way back out to the car park to get the bus back to town, there was a little group of (what I'm assuming were) Guaraní people busking. This little clip is kinda like the music I listened to the other day at San Ignacio Miní. There's something very lovely about it, I think, not least that the guy playing the guitar isn't playing any chords with his left hand. That rules. What doesn't rule, I'm afraid, is the fact that my little movie also recorded some brat whining to his parents in the background.

Brilliant: that's what it was. Just a really great day. Sunday was ace, too. I got myself on the "three countries" tour, and after forcing down the hotel's dismal coffee, I was in a minibus with a couple of Italian chaps (Massimo and Andrea), and a couple of Brits (Simon and Cleo), and we were on our way to Paraguay. We get our passports stamped as we leave Argentina. A couple of minutes later, we get entry stamps in Brazil, then we cross over into Paraguay, and, err, just drive straight in.

First stop was some museum which wasn't very good. Then we went to see Itaipu dam, which, could I be bothered to root through my backpack and find the little booklet thingy, I could tell you was X amount of times bigger than every other dam you've ever seen. It was built by Paraguay and Brazil, the video told us, and was a shining example of two countries working together. "Shall we build a dam, Brazil?" "Yeh, alright then, Paraguay."

It was pretty damn (wahey!) impressive. The tour itself was a bit cruddy, though. We got out the bus once to have a look at it from one side, then just kinda whizzed around the rest of it in the bus.

It makes a massive proportion of Paraguay's electricity, and a shed-load of southern Brazil's too. Here's proof:

And here's the reservoir formed by the dam.

After the dam, we went across the road to the little zoo. Quite a pathetic zoo, really, but, y'know, a fine place to take some melancholy pictures of animals.

Here's some turtles or terrapins dry-humping.

Oh, how fortunate I was that the blue parrot was next to the blue metal thingy.

This toucan was ace. Very inquisitive.

An anthill.

In the background here, you can see two bunnies. If you look in the bottom left corner, you'll see a big big big snake. Can you guess what he'll be having for lunch?

(Sorry, I'm not writing very well today. But at least there's a bunch of pictures to distract you, right?)

Next stop, Ciudad del Este. A town right on the border inside Paraguay, famous (in my life, anyway) for being the place where a scene was filmed in the Miami Vice film, which - I know you'll disagree - I think is quite good. Mainly, though, because I find it tough to dislike anything related to the TV series. Mainly, it's a place to buy cheap stuff. Between us we bought some jeans, an iPod, and a memory stick for lots less than they cost in the real world.

These were the kids who the tour driver paid to look after the minibus. I like how the lad on the left is trying to get out of the way of my photo, oblivious to the fact that I was actually trying to take a photo of him and his chums.

We left Paraguay, and went to an all-you-can-eat buffet thingy in Foz do Iguaçu, the town on the Brazilian side. As did these nuns.

The last stop of the day was at Cataratas do Iguaçu, the Brazilian side of the waterfalls. Not as much fun as yesterday, but there was a nicer, more panoramic view. And one good bit where you can get up close to some falls. First, though, a picture of the lovely logo they have.

Here's a photo of Simon...

...doing what I am doing here. Note how ecstatic I am.

All around the cafe areas on both side of the falls there are lots of these creatures (above). Not sure what they are called. Not sure what that thing on the table is either. Wahey! Thank you, I'll be here all week at the Chuckle Palace.

Back at the hotel, I had dinner with Massimo and Andrea, then we went to a casino. First time I've ever been in one. Not sure that I've ever seen so many CCTV camera in one place in my life. I played some roulette. First go, number 11: get in! I won! Started off with 20 pesos worth of chips; got as high as 35; ended up with 20 pesos and 75 centavos. I won! I beat the system! Seventy five centavos! Woo hoo!

A bit drunk, I fell into bed. This is how I spent my day in the three countries in the form of a pie chart.

And, finally, on Monday morning, I packed my bag, and bid farewell to Argentina.

I'm back in Brazil. Back in Curitiba, in fact. I spent ten hours on a bus getting here, and very very little of interest occurred. After this mammoth post, I'm sure you'll be feeling quite relieved about that, though.

Jesuit ruins

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Thu, 01 May 2008 19:57:00 +0000

This morning I went on a little tour. Organised by the hotel, not too expensive; so, sí Señor, I'll go on your tour. So I go down to the lobby at 9.00 a.m. as instructed, and there's the guy, and... err, no-one else. And we go out to... his little Peugeot. It's just me and him in his car. Hmmm, how weird? This isn't a tour as such, is it? It's just one of the employees ferrying me to a couple of ruins. I forget his name, let's call him Julio. We set off, and we muddled through with my vague understanding of Spanish. He put a Coldplay CD on, and we were on the road. Oh yeh, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, that's us; heading off to see what was left of the little Jesuit villages about 60 kilometres away.

Jesuits (the word is a portmanteau of Jesus and biscuits, two things these dudes loved a lot) came here in the 17th century and set up a load of little villages in this part of the world, spread over what is now a small part of Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay. They converted some of the local chaps with their crucifix-shaped chocolate chip cookies. Or something.

First stop, Santa Ana. Julio sat in the car while I went off. A very friendly fellow offered to show me around. He spoke no English, but took great pains in making sure that I was following what he said. Really nice of him, that, I thought; thinking of different ways to phrase things so I could grab hold of a few of the words that I do know and kinda form an idea of what he was on about. That's where the folks lived, that's the workshop area, this is the cemetery, etc. The site at Santa Ana hasn't been restored, so it's quite crumbly, but in a way, I prefer seeing that kinda stuff.

Back in the car, Coldplay back on, and we're rocking our way to San Ignacio Miní. Apparently, this is the best example of what the Jesuits got up to down here. It has been restored and it does look pretty good. As with other things in Argentina, entry prices vary (Argentinians AR$10, Latin Americans AR$12, Fancy-pants tourists from elsewhere AR$15). Bit of a rainy day by this point. I didn't have a coat, either. I had a good look around though. Yep, it's nice there. There was a little museum next to it, and they had some music on headphones. I really enjoyed some the Guaraní songs (the indigenous people from these parts), but there was, sadly, no CDs or anything. No gift shop at all, in fact. Sod's Law, really. The first time I've wanted a gift shop on my whole trip, and there isn't one.

Back in the car, and we're listening to "A Rush Of Blood To The Head" again and bombing along heading back to Posadas, which, being 1° de Mayo, is virtually entirely close for the day. Rain and nothing open. Well, looks like today will be a holiday for me too, so, I plumped up the pillows, and watched some telly. I didn't take my dirty shoes off while I was on the bed. How's that for rebellion!?

Now, the 14-year-old Craig's version of the day:
The 37-year-old Craig dragged me along with this boring guy who listened to bloody Coldplay ALL the time. Went to some ruined rubbish. Boring. Had to stand around in the rain while this fat guy talked to the 37-year-old Craig about where the drainage from the workshops went. Jesus Christ! How bloody boring? THEN we had to go to another place that looked virtually the same. God, I hate the 37-year-old Craig. Then we came home and had to listen to Coldplay again. When we got back to the hotel, we watched an episode of "24" on TV. It was so ace, there was a nuclear bomb in Los Angeles and Jack Bauer was released from a Chinese prison and he's got a big beard and everything! It was skill! Then I drank some Coke, and ate some chocolate.

The real Paraguay

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Thu, 01 May 2008 05:44:00 +0000

Some day I'd love to see a border that lived up to the childish fantasy I have. Not that I don't get a frisson whenever I see the borders of countries, but there's still a tiny bit of me that is slightly disappointed that the other country doesn't look completely different and awesome.

Until that day occurs, though, I'll have to keep on inventing how countries might look. Like how Paraguay looks when I look over from the Argentinian bank of the Paraná river...

Click image to see full-size version.

Flip Flop Flying podcast No.6

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 19:32:00 +0000

A bit more "up" this time. Hope you enjoy it.

Flip Flop Flying podcast No.6 2008/04/30

Bus to Posadas

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 16:31:00 +0000

A couple more pictures from Rosario: a sleepy dog and proof that Val Kilmer's been out with his spray can.

The bus journey up here to Posadas in the state of Misiones was actually rather good. The cama seats in the swanky-ish part of the bus are v. comfy, I got a glass of bubbly wine, some passable food, and they showed No Country For Old Men (in English with Spanish subtitles) on the TV. Weird, though, that a proper bus company is quite obviously broadcasting pirate DVDs on their coaches.

Arrived here at 6.30am, and with nothing at all about the town in my guide book, I asked a cab driver to take me to a hotel in the centre of town. This is the view that was awaiting me once I'd checked in: the cathedral, the Paraná river, and Encarnación in Paraguay on the far bank.

Loath as I am to say it, best of luck to Chelsea in the final.

Rosario

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 12:29:00 +0000

I'm typing this sat in a cafe in Rosario, Santa Fe, Argentina. The sound system in here is playing "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" by Elton John. In fact, the Academy Award-winning "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" by Elton John. I quite like this song. I know it's wrong, but I do, so shut up.

There's no Wi-Fi, so shortly I will go and sit in the lobby of the hotel I checked out of this morning and put this online. See my unswerving dedication to bloggery? It's not really dedication to you, so don't go around feeling all special or owt; it's just that I've got a bit of time to kill, and I'm not feeling very well, so I'm not particularly up for museums and stuff.

Seems like a fairly nice little city, this. Reminds me a bit of Curitiba in Brazil, in the sense that you get the feeling that it is quite a groovy place for a provincial city. And it's the home town of Lionel Messi. And some bloke called Che Something-or-other. Not that you'd know it, I've not even seen a postcard with his face on it. There seem to be no statues or anything; even the house where he was born has no mention of it on a plaque:

Update 4.45pm: Actually, that's rubbish; I just went past the house in a taxi and noticed there was a sign saying Casa natal "Che" Guevara right next to the house. It was early, I wasn't looking properly, so I apologise for the incorrect information. Looking at my photos, I've even got one where you can see the sign. Look:

While we're doing show-and-tell, here's a picture of a dog bathing himself.

And here's one of a naked bint using a fish as a loofah.

And here's a photograph showing that nine preppy cunts could walk into this shop and all walk away wearing different outfits.

Anyway, last night I stayed in a nice hotel. Still fairly cheap, but it was nice. A good mattress, space to spread out, multiple towels in the bathroom, complementary shampoo and conditioner (two separate bottles!) and Wi-Fi. It's the first hotel I've stayed in on this trip which came close to looking like the sort of hotel I'd choose to stay in on a business trip, and after ten days in a very basic hotel in Buenos Aires, I felt justified in spoiling myself for a night, especially considering I'll be taking a 13-hour bus journey later today. (Extra justification is that I'm essentially getting "free" accommodation tonight, sleeping on the bus.) but, as I inferred above, I've got the shits, so I'm not particularly up for much sight-seeing. If it wasn't for the fact that the same bus is fully-booked tomorrow, I would've delayed my journey by 24 hours and stayed here an extra night.

I hate checking-out of nice hotels. It's always tinged with a touch of sadness that the pristine world is being left behind when you loft your backpack on again and are reminded that you're a backpacking knob-end, not a swanky business man. And there's always the nagging doubt that I will have left something behind in the room, even though I check the room twice over; I still feel that it's totally possible for my eyes to somehow block out seeing my iPod on the pillow or something.

As it is, though, aside from the potentially grim prospect of using a bus toilet a lot on my journey up to Posadas, I'm looking forward to being on the bus. I coughed up the extra 60 pesos (about 12 euros) to go in the swanky bit where the seats are bigger and recline virtually completely. Plus, I'm on a solo seat, not one that has a neighbour which is flipping ace, frankly. On my journey from Buenos Aires to Rosario, I had the aisle seat, and was sitting next to a young fellow with unfortunate jeans.

He reclined his seat quite soon in the journey. And when I felt like doing so, I found that something inside me wouldn't let me do it. My long-term loathing of aeroplane-seat-reclining-people aside, it just feels weird to be reclined next to a stranger. I'm fine sitting next to a stranger, it's something most of us do on many occasions during a week. But to be reclined, almost lying down! Next to a stranger!? That's just plain weird. Somehow the reclining turns being "next to" someone into "with" someone. You are lying down with them. Next stop hand shandies? I reclined about three inches less than him to keep things civil. At one point in the journey, while he was napping, he turned and he was facing me. Now, imagine I'd reclined fully, and I'd also fallen asleep, and was facing him, too. You wake up and you can feel the breath coming out of their nostrils on your face. And how awkward would that be if we both woke up at the same time? And it's not a gay thing; it'd be awkward if it was a woman, too... I think too much about these things. Cogito, ergo sum. For me, though, that would be "I think, therefore I can't ever relax properly." Which, sadly, I don't know how to say in Latin.

Snooze

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 07:06:00 +0000

I know not many of you reading this care about the sports statistics stuff that I do, but I enjoy it, so here's some more. This one relates to a previous post about how many of the Brazilian World Cup squad players played their club football at home. Here's a similar chart looking at the same stat for Argentinian players.

And, looking at the 2006 World Cup in particular, here's the same statistic for every nation that competed. Not sure that it tells you anything that you probably didn't already know: three or four rich European leagues attract all the best players and keep most of their own; the five Spanish players who didn't play in Spain all played in England, for example.

Germany watches

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 15:44:00 +0000

...and what? Germany watches, looks for your weaknesses, and then pounces?

Baños

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 15:42:00 +0000

I find it interesting that things that naturally come out of our bodies are viewed as "disgusting." Faeces, urine, vomit, sweat, nasal mucus, phlegm, blood; all of them, at some point or other, make a lot of us go "eeeeuuww!" And aside from hamsters and syringes full of heroin, we're not that bothered about talking about the things we put into our bodies. Which, is a rather ponderous way of getting to the topic of toilets.

Argentinian and Uruguayan hotels and hostels seem to be almost uniformly rocking the one-ply toilet paper. It's like being back in the 1970s. I almost feel like calling for my mummy to come and wipe my bottom, it's such a throwback to my childhood. But the hotel I'm currently staying in takes it to a new level. They are supplying something that seems to be ¾-ply toilet tissue. (I do like the phrase "toilet tissue," especially when the "ss" is said in a really sibilant way.) It has plenty of holes in it, but it has no perforations to create individual sheets, either. Look.

Yes, toilets here are always accompanied by their bidet brothers, but you've still gotta dry your botty, right? And while we're discussing toilets, here's some rather pretty urinal cake-type things that are nice pastel-coloured balls.

And finally, in a cinema here in Buenos Aires (I went to see "Untraceable." Despite have Diane Lane to look at for an hour and a half; it's not great), there's a hand dryer in its own little cage. Not sure why they would feel the need to do this, but they have.

More Bs As

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 09:07:00 +0000

I've got blisters on seven of my toes. I, like some of you, have ten toes, so those three blister-free piggies are taking a lot of the strain of my hobbling at the moment; and I assume they will soon have blisters, too. It hasn't really stopped me doing stuff, but it has slowed me down a bit. On Friday I went for a walk around the Reserva Ecológica, which is, as the name suggests, an ecological reserve. It sits between the blandly renovated Puerto Madero former dock area and the Rio de la Plata, and it's kinda strange to be somewhere so countryside-y yet be so close to the throbbing city. Pleasant walk, though. Lots of birds that I don't know the names of flapping around.

Then I saw a guy who seems to be a chair short of a wheelchair.

And to make the blisters worse, I had a good traipse around the rather wonderful Chacarita cemetery. The strange thing about this place is that there are little roads, and you occasionally see cars moving around, so it does feel a bit like you're in a village of dead people, all living in ornate house with plaques on the front.

It has some underground areas, too (I don't know the proper term, sorry); but it's quite lovely down there.

Argentina's favourite tango fellow, Carlos Gardel is buried here.

A few more random photos of the place...

And, tucked in neatly at the end, here's ~~april2008mix.mp3~~ (44.4MB, 38m39s, available for a week)

Flip Flop Flying podcast no.5

noreply@blogger.com (Craig) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 08:16:00 +0000

Yep, those of you who fancy listening to me ramble on for bloody ages about virtually nothing, then clicky downloady the link below. Have a good weekend.

Flip Flop Flying podcast no.5 2008/04/25