Day 140 - A big trip from Tupiza to Salta to Buenos Aires

Big. Even the word itself bulges as it exits your mouth. It may not be long, but it sounds phatter than Barry White in a sumo suit.

The city we are in now - Buenos Aires - is big. However, everything has been big for a while now; all the way down from Tupiza. Big, big, big.

Tupiza, as you'll know was like Happy Stepford. Big smiles, big sun and big red wines with more body than a BBW meeting. We weren't far from the Argentine border and the influence was showing.

I never did see the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (then again, Sebastiaan and Yolande had never seen Star Wars, so I'm least to blame), but apparently they died near Tupiza (that's Butch and Sundance, not Sebastiaan and Yolande). They tried to rob a donkey stagecoach carrying money, only it wasn't. Like, dur. Doesn't really seem worthy of a film.

Tupiza is definitely cowboy country. We took a couple of small but very feisty stock horses out for a day. Most of the time, with trail horses, you spend all your time trying to get them to go. We spent most of our time trying to get them to stop. Mine refused to travel at any speed less than a giddy prance (yes, a prance!). Its quite important not to go too fast when you're traveling along train tracks, or so I'm told.

The area around Tupiza is what I imagined Mexico would be like. It's lots of sandstone canyons, windblown arches and dry river beds. Galloping down a river bank on the back of horse with a gallop that sounds like a misfiring machine gun is awesome. More fun than a bum full of smarties.

The Argentine border took a while to get across a few days later. We waited in line for an hour to get our bags checked - missing our bus to Salta in the process - only to have the customs man wave us through without a search when we said we were Australian. Why? Can't Australians be criminals too?

Seven hours later, in the dead of night, we crash landed in Salta at the best hostel so far; Hostel Inti Huasi. It's more friendly than Peruvian trying to sell you something, only without the nasty aftertaste.

It was here, in this small colonial town that we undertook the operation formerly named "First Steak in Argentina". You see, according to everyone, Argentina has the best beef in the world. Depending on exactly who you ask, it lies somewhere between what happened to Buddha when he went into the forest, and dying of a heart attack whilst bedding with the San Fransisco 49ers cheer squad. And they're not wrong.

Juicy. Succulent. And did I mention big? This is a country with more pastureland than it knows what to do with. Argentinian beef doesn't just melt in your mouth. It tickles your tonsils with crafty fingers, whispers sweet nothings into your ears and slides down your throat like a gravy over baked potatoes. But wait! There's more! Tasty red wines of bloody brilliant quality to accompany. And all for the bargain basement price of $9.99.

No. I'm serious.

The best steak? Awesome wine? Cheap as a box full of baby chickens? I think it was at that point I decided that Argentina and I, we might have a future together.

But we weren't there yet. Onto a big arse bus we went, reclined into our sofa-sized leather armchairs and sat out the 21 hours to make it to Argentina's capital federal.

And now, here we are. And it couldn't be more different from Bolivia if it tried. BA is like Paris, inhabited by Italians, who speak Spanish.

It's all cafes and boutiques and pavement eateries and bakeries and trattorias and Peugeots and Gothic architecture and honking horns and grand parks and people talking at each other using their hands.

Tomorrow, we start looking for an apartment. However, right now, I'm hungry. Hungry to bask in the glow of a dirty, beautiful, big city again. Especially one which looks as big and beautiful as BA does in the evening light.

Might have a big steak and a big red wine too. In fact, it could be a big night.


Photos from Tupiza are here