Day 249 - New Years(h) and more in Ams(h)terdam

Look at that over there", says Iwan pointing out a reveler dressed all in orange, except for a sole, spangley, silver bow tie,¨That's typical Dutch¨

It´s a phrase Iwan has used a lot over the past few days. Again, he's right. It's amazing how such a diminutive country can claim so much that is distinctly unique. The food, the desserts, hugely popular trance DJs with egos to make a deity blush, dykes, windmills, tulips, splitting a bill, canals, wheels of cheese, that assured sense of confidence and a football team that would probably be the worlds´ best if only they could stop arguing amongst themselves.

Strangely though, Iwan had never heard of a Dutch oven. So, I explained it to him and suggested he give it a go with his wonderful girlfriend, Julia.

Rachel and I first met Iwan and Julia, in Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, many moons and a life time ago. We were like ships passing in the night, but all enjoyed each others´ company. Iwan owns a boat company in Amsterdam and Utrecht and, as most of his fleet would be out of the water during winter, he invited us to Amsterdam to be shown an oranje New Years´.

Amsterdam greeted us with the same wintry how-ya-doin' as England. It seemed the whole of Europe was locked in the same snowy embrace, though strangely the Netherlands seemed to be dealing with it somewhat better than most.

Customs was easy. Well, for me at least. Rachel, on the other hand, got a hard time from the uniformed officer for having a Dutch passport but not speaking Dutch. This was to become a recurring theme during the holiday.

"Do you speak Dutch?", says customs officer (or Dutch person who has just found out Rachel has Dutch nationality).
"No", says Rachel, knowing what's coming.
"But you have a Dutch passport?", says customs officer
"Yes", replies embarrassed-looking Rach.
"Terrible", replies unimpressed customs officer, indicating the encounter is now over.

We made our way quickly to the home of one of Rachel's old friends, Renae. Renae moved to the 'Dam seven years ago, where she met the love of her life. Her invitation to stay in her home, even whilst she headed north for New Year with her new family, was a god-send. Her spare room came equipped with a double bunk bed; and I mean a bunk bed which is a double bed. Brilliant!

We set about exploring Amsterdam, beginning with meeting Iwan not far from the central shopping district in Amsterdam, the Leidseplein. It was there my culinary education began.

"Try this", offered Mr de Ploeg that first day, handing me a length of harring (raw herring) doused in onions and pickles, "it's typical Dutch". Rachel declined, claiming (with some justification) she has been made to eat her lifetime fair share of harring already.

Foul as it may sounds, it's actually quite palatable. Kind of like a fishier, slimier version of sushi. Rachel relented and joined in, noting how much better it tasted now she was older. We both made a mental note to introduce harring to Taz and Nic they arrived a few days later (see here for Nics' classic reaction).

Amsterdam is one of those cities that is very easy to wander around. That's exactly what we did with the last two days of 2009. First with Iwan's help, then later solo. We bought things we really shouldn't have bought, ate food we really shouldn't have eaten (frites with thick mayonaisse, frikandel, croquettes and appelflop) and soaked up the ambience of one of the worlds' indisputably most beautiful cities.

Even in temperatures dipping below zero, it was impossible not to occasionally stare out the window of the latest cafe into which you have taken a hot-chocolaty refuge and think 'wow'.

So, things came to pass. Three days shopping, eating and drinking later, there we stood. Smack-bang in the middle of the dancefloor at Knalfuif, just one of the many NYE parties in Amsterdam, as the clock slowly approached midnight.

Then, as Iwan pointed out to me the many items of genuine Dutch-ness, I slowly and ominously became aware of one trait not so typically Dutch.

When it comes to parties, fancy dress in Australia tends to be more popular than Bob Hawke in an RSL. That night, it dawned on me that the same wasn't true of the Netherlands.

We had been told the theme was 'space'. We went at it with enthusiasm. We shopped for great costumes that would do us and Australia proud, in this city of 'crayshy' party-people.

However, as we stood in the middle of the packed dancefloor surrounded on all sides by fashionistas and beautiful people, we took a long hard look at ourselves. Rachel, dressed in a Virgin Galactic hostess outfit that wouldn't look out of place in a lingerie magazine. Myself dressed as Captain Kirk. You could say we felt a little out-of-place.

It's hard to look cool when you're the Star Trek geek in a nightclub. Even when you get to take the hot hostess girl home afterward.

2010. Live long and prosper.


The Amsterdam photos are here. Isn't that weird?

Day 241 - Christmas in Wales, and England

It's December 22nd, about 2:30am. Roughly four hours have passed since we phoned the hotel to tell them we were 10 miles away. Nick is driving extra-ordinarily well, given the slightest wrong move on the snow-covered roads would send us into a hedge. The mood in the car is flat. We have been driving for ten hours straight. We have traveled just 25 miles.

Today, it snowed in England. Quite a bit.

Rach and I have traveled dirt roads in Bolivia where you have to hold a hankie to your mouth simply to breath. We've held it together whilst our spines turned to jelly on chicken buses in Belize. We've spent two days becalmed in the Caribbean Sea and ridden out three metre waves in a storm to end all storms. We've walked the Inca Trail, hiked up a volcano and trapsed through insect-infested swamps.

None of this compares to the trials of a trip from Heathrow to High Wycombe.

It's all so very English. It's not clear why, but for some reason this extreme snowfall seems to have caught the country by surprise. Snow? In England? No! Surely not?

England has, quite literally, ground to a halt. Motorists sit immobile in traffic jams on snow-covered country lanes. Talk radio is alive with stories of 15 min journeys taking 7 hours. Sports centres and churches are converted into emergency shelters for those who can't get home. Ordinary folk come out of their homes to provide tea and chocolate to weary travelers. It's a big slice of Blitz spirit, Xmas 2009 version.

Then, shortly before 2:30am, we slide down a hill and power up the other side to see heaven emerge from behind a hedge. Bright, giant lights appear in the windshield, proclaiming we have reached 'The Crown Pub". We made it! A bed is ours for the night.

And not just any bed! Underfloor heating! Satellite television! A bar which is still open at this ungodly hour! Never in my life have I suffered so much yet been so happy to do so.

Welcome back to England.

Fast forward a day. We're in Wales. It's 10pm and cold. The snow crunches underfoot as we make our way slowly toward the farmhouse on the hill. My father's car has passed us twice already. Once, as it made it's way down to the main road to pick up Fran and Nick. Despite the impressive performance to date of the rental car, it simply couldn't make it up the final mile of ice-encrusted Welsh lane. We hid behind a tree as he sped past, oblivious.

On the way back, Dad drives a different route. We are caught in the headlights, no place to hide. We put our heads down and trudge on, pretending to be locals, walking like farmers. It works! He doesn't notice that it's us, 13,000 miles from where we should be.

Now, we're making our way toward the farmhouse door. Dad answers. Surprise! He looks shocked. What are you doing here?! We laugh, come inside and have a drink. Everyone is here. Nephew Phoinix and neice Jamzyn are bigger. My sister Tania and my Dad are smaller. I meet the new addition to the family; Zara, a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback. We all congratulate ourselves on pulling off the surprise. We 're together, in snowy Wales, for Christmas.

It's now the 25th December. It's Christmas Day.

The kids buzz around the tree like dragonflies in a swamp. They pluck presents from underneath the tree, handing them out to the lucky recipients one-by-one. Everyone has been so kind and generous. Zara inspects each piece of empty wrapping only when she is sure it contains no food. Then, she moves on to the next.

Yesterday evening, we phoned absent family and friends far across the seas. There were smiles, and there were tears. Speaking, as always, reminds you of what you are missing.

We gorge ourselves. Sian, my wonderful secret-keeping stepmother, has done the work of ten men (which converts to roughly three women). Turkey, ham, spuds with cranberry sauce, sprouts, honeyed carrots, stuffing and sweet potato. We pull crackers and talk too loudly. Chocolates and Welsh cheese follow as we watch the Doctor Who and Gavin and Stacey finales. Outside, the snow is no longer falling, but the hills remain dusted with a light covering. The air is cold, clear and crisp, and the Southern Cross is no-where to be seen.

This is Christmas, UK style.


All the trip from hell photos are here and the Xmas photos here

Day 232 - Rio de Janiero

"People," begins Elliot, swizzling his cocktail stick, "well, I say people, I mean four friends of mine..."

He pauses to note, as if for the first time, the garish pink drink in front of him, as well as an expectant Alex the barman.

On the TV, the latest unforgivable gaff by a quarterback named Fitzgerald is being broadcast to the world.

Elliot takes a moment to sample his drink from the straw, then nods to Alex to indicate the cocktail is good. Alex scuttles happily back to his cocktail mixing station.

"Ya, well that's about it really. My friends give me their money, and I come to Brazil and find ways of investing it". Then, as indicated, that's about it. Elliot leans back into his chair, brushes his fop of blond hair from his eyes and continues to drink.

Not a bad life. Very Rio de Janiero.

This bar, Blue Agave, is situated two blocks black from Ipanema Beach. It is small, but well set out. It has new fittings and fixtures and a giant plasma above the bar, showing pirate ESPN. It has a comfortable feel to it; part New York Tavern, part Miami tequila den. I have already decided I shall drink here all week long. I pick up a vibe that Rachel feels the same way.

It's a new bar. We know this because the owners have told us. They have told us many things. The history of their travels around the world, how they came to be in Brazil, why they decided to start the bar, why it's a Mexican bar; even why they think Rio needs this kind of bar. Even when I think the conversation is over - for example when they walk off in mid-conversation to deal with something more interesting than me - they invariably return minutes later to resume talking at me without missing a beat.

The best way of dealing with this, I have found, is to simply order another caiprinha, smile and be a CCC person (Cool, Calm and Collected). No siree! Bore or no bore, I will be friendly. I shall be polite.

In truth, I am having a Great Night, so I don't really mind too much.

My head is swimming with the warm fuzz of the greatest liquor known to man: cachaca. I am engulfed in a combined alcohol and sugar buzz that feels, I conclude without any accurate basis of comparison whatsoever, like being embraced in the bosom of a oversized pair of breasts sitting atop a warm tumble dryer in mid-spin.

Malik arrives a little later. We are yet to know it but Malik and us, we are going to have some fun over the next few days. He will introduce us to a whole group of Rio expats (including, quite coincidentally, Elliot once again, although they don't know each other at this point). They will lead us astray. Including into a favela at 3am. Anyway, I digress.

My tacos arrive. They are spicy and spartan. I am reminded of Mexico again. Malik is talking about Ipanema and DJs. Mexico loses out and I tune in to Malik.

"I love coming to Brazil," Malik says in his booming baritone. "Everytime I get a chance to bring a DJ out here, I jump at it. I mean; what about that beach! What about the food! What about the party to be had!"

As well as being a man with a fun job (DJ management), he's also right. Rio is fun. Rio is Sydney's older sister, but better looking and more of a handful. Same sea, harbour, sun & fun concept. Much, much bigger scale.

Like Sydney, Rio cares a lot about what she looks like. She is a proud independent (amicable divorce some years ago) woman of mixed heritage. Young, fun and easy on the eye.

Compared to her baby sister though, Rio is less neurotic. Far wilder. Untamed. A little dangerous, even. She lets it all hang out. Let her in to show you a good time and she'll send you home to Mama with an itch you'll never be able to scratch.

Meanwhile, Christ (the Redeemer) stands arms spread wide, watching over her from above. Rio denizens says that the day the city stops her wild and wicked ways, when she finally gets down to some good old fashioned hard work, the Redeemer will clap.

Malik and I start to talk football. He's a Liverpool fan, but we can't all be perfect. Rachel, meanwhile, talks to Malik's friend, Corrally. Corrally teaches water polo and has the scars to prove it. Alex begins to juggle bottles. Three big, blonde Swedish guys viking into the bar at 100mph. Rachel recommends they read Steig Larsson's books. They teach us how to pronounce Swedish names properly. Stuff happens and nothing happens. We drink and eat and smile. Rio buzzes on nicely in the background.

At 4am, we head on to fresh pastures. Still, Rio keeps on going. And going. And going. She's like an energizer bunny with a samba wiggle, draped in yellow, green and blue. Wiggle, wiggle. Drums, drums. You can sleep when you're dead.

Far up on the hill, JC looks on,
not a clap in sight.


Photos from Rio can be perused here. Todo bom :)

Day 226 - The rain in Brasil falls mainly on me (in Trindade)

My clothes are wet and refuse to dry. A faint smell of wet squats in our room, refusing to move out. The ' ' key no longer works on my com uter (I think it's the humidity), meaning I am facing writing an entire novel without it. uck it.

It has been raining for four days solid. Trindade ( rounced "Trin-da-jay) - this small Brazilian beach town four hours south of Rio - is in danger of being washed down the hill, over the beautiful sandy beaches and off into the angry surf beyond. The roads have turned into rivers of mud, and the heavens above form a gloomy barrier against the sun we are all willing to emerge.

Short-term holiday makers grumble, knowing every second lost to the deluge is a second closer to returning back to normal life. Long-termers like us scheme as to what to do. Should we head further north? Or stay here and wait it out? In the meantime, we make do with watching films, reading or considering the nature our navels.

It's not Trindades' fault. Our itinerary was good. It was true and righteous. In the uber-ranking of itineraries it shone brightly with a golden light and sweet, jangly music that indicated its' godliness and wonderful nature.

After the considerable hustle and bustle of Sao Paolo, we needed some beach time. Brazil's largest and most ethnically diverse city is a dizzying metro olis. The culinary collision of a hundred different cultures may have ensured a diversity of cuisine to make a steak-and-red-wine-weary mouth melt, but it has also created the worlds' largest 24-7 traffic jam. It's really a city to go to meet friends, or else best to move onward. Or, in our case northward. The town Of Paraty is only a single vowel from being the word Party; surely worth a visit on this fact alone?

One beach out of town - Jabaquala Beach - we found ourselves a small flatlet with a rickety old balcony overlooking the beach. One beach out of town and a world away from Paratys' colonial tourism. It's a cute little town, just twenty minutes walkover the hill, but we wanted a world away from restaurant hawkers, costly cai rinhas and men selling useless trinkets and other shiny things.

Our beach was somewhat more sedate. A one-mercado town, where horses wander around town and on the beach, and small kiosks selling fresh fish and cold beer do business seemingly whenever they feel like it. The kind of beachside town you know your Grandma would love.

In between cooking fabulous home meals in the tiny kitchenette, Rachel made secret lans. A boaty jaunt out to the many islands just off the coast. Eighty foot yacht, fresh fruit, secret beaches, BBQ lunch. A Friday to remember.

Then, that morning it started raining. We moved the boat 'til Saturday.The next day, it showed few signs of abating. We made a call. Nobody wants to cruise the islands on a rainy day. We would head 40 mins south to the tiny, wee hamlet of Trindade.

Trindade is the town where Brazilian travelers come to lie on the beach, eat acai and moqueca (coconut fish stew), drink fresh young coconuts and surf the monster waves. It feels like the end of the world, somewhere between the Caribbean and the Brazil of your dreams. Few locals are fluent in English, exce t for George, owner of Kaissara hostel.

All that was missing was the sun.

Day 1 wasn't all bad. Sure, it was cloudy, but it was warm. We had a frolic on the beach, marveling (well, I marveled) at the material differences between Aussie and Brazilian bikinis. In the evening, we had a BBQ, drank cacacha (sugar cane rum) and had a crack at the most dangerous drinking card game known to man. It lead to more cacacha, tri to a local bar, more cacacha, dancing and, finally, bedtime at 3am.

Next day, it rained. No matter! We ate moqueca, trawled for new swimwear (wife in Brazilian bikini; tick!) and watched the town go nuts as Flamengo clinched the Brazilian title on the last day of the football season.

Monday, still it rained. We began to run out of things to do, not to mention dry clothes. Holidaymakers began to drain out of town; some because the weekend was over, others because of the rain. Maybe it will clear tomorrow? Yeh! It'll clear tomorrow.

Tuesday was massage day. And read-your-book day. And write-a-novel-on-your-com uter with no ' ' day. News came that Sao P aolo was flooded. A river had burst it's banks. Still, the rain came drifting down.

It's now Wednesday. We've decided to stay here for the moment. One beach is the same as any other in a rainstorm. At least we've got the hostel to hang out in. And we have Anchorman to watch. And Rachel's halfway through her book.

I wonder when the rain will sto ?


Those images things (that start with that letter I don't have on my keyboard) are here: from Sao Paolo and from Parati and Trindade

Day 212 - A retrospective on two months in Buenos Aires

It's been a while since my last entry. The truth is until now, I haven't had much that I'd wanted to write about. It's not that there wasn't a lot to tell, more the feeling that doing so would have been like trying to write a movie review during the intermission. Or trying to write about Australia by describing each person who lives there.

Let me explain.

In my mind - and simplifying things in an unbearably one-dimension manner - there are roughly three types of travel.

You've got your Holiday. A joyously modern but often depressingly short jaunt into foreign climes. This involves doing your utmost to relax as much as possible as quickly as possible, then trying to do as much as possible whilst still retaining the newly-found relaxed state. People on Holiday don't have time to wander around a neighborhood wondering which restaurant is best or which bars to hang out in. They need it quick and they need it NOW. Which, given time constraints, is fair enough.

Then there is Traveling. Now, I'm not going to try and argue the difference between a bunch of trust-fund twenty-somethings going to countries based on how cheap the booze is vs people looking for something more. I'll leave that to those who care far more than I do. Let me instead offer the interpretation that Traveling is about a lack of concrete plans. About going to a place with no strict idea about when you're going to leave, then staying 'til you get bored or get wind of another place further along the track. Then repeating until you run out of money and/or planet.

Then there is what I'd label an Experience. It's something that seems to be very important to us Gen X and Gen Y lot, in perhaps the same way that Possessions used to be to the Boomers (less so these days, mind) and in the way I suspect Connections are to my younger brothers' generation.

Which brings me, in a very roundabout but hopefully clear manner, to the crux of my rant. When, back in another world and another time, Rachel and I sat planning our trip and decided to devote two whole months to Buenos Aires, we did it to have an Experience that would be greater than could be gained by spending simply a week or two.

I like to think we leave Buenos Aires with more than just a fleeting glimpse of a city. Instead, we've seen something far more interesting. We have, in a very small way, glimpsed the hidden underbelly otherwise known as day-to-day life.

Are you with me now? My lack of blog is because I didn't want to write one page entries on visiting Recoleta cemetery, or eating a fat steak, or watching a football game. What I wanted to write is about what it's like to live in a city like Buenos Aires.

Which is a bit like this.

Buenos Aires is a beautiful city. That fact is really quite undebatable. From the Old World charm of San Telmo, to the Old World money of Recoleta and the New World chic of Palermo, it oozes class. It is the bastard child of Paris and Barcelona spat out at the beginning of the end of the world.

It's also a complete pain in the arse to get around. The pavements are painfully narrow and you take your chances ducking and weaving between the considerable crowds of people in a similar predicament, desperately hoping the multi-coloured buses don't kill you first, either by mounting the curb at breakneck pace or with good old carbon monoxide poisoning. And don't even bother to try jogging here. BA is definitely not a city for the exercise nut.

It's also pretty poor. The contrast is enormous. I remember watching a Porsche pull up at a set of lights, next to the spot where a family were sorting through rubbish, feeding themselves as they did so.

What makes that even more surprising is the fact that, by Australian standards, Buenos Aires is cheap beyond belief. Sure, there are tourist traps in each neighbourhood (or barrio), but if you are shopping at your local supermarket, it is truly insane what things cost. A kilo of exquisite steak for AU$5. A bottle of great wine leaves you change for a tenner. Enough veggies to make a fat salad for less than a quarter of the price of an hours' parking in Sydney CBD.

If you should choose to venture out, there are some great restaurants. Standard in Palermo will forever be one of my favourite restaurants of all time. The 800g, oven roasted (in its' own juices) bife de chorizo is a meal that I recommend everyone takes their Dad/ Mum/ Best Friend all the way to BA simply to enjoy.

That said, there are some shockers too. There is a proud history of gaucho (cowboy) culture in Argentina, which seems to have given rise to the attitude that cooking steak is something that every Argentinian male innately knows how to do, rather than needs to learn. There is also a distinct lack of variety of cuisine, probably for the same reason. And for some strange reason, service standards in 99% of restaurants in Argentina simply don't exist

Buenos Aires is also world famous for its' nightlife. Well, I'm gonna piss on that parade a little and say; yes and no. Maybe my concept of nightlife is different. We tried, we really did. However, after tucking into a bottle of red wine and a steak at 11pm, I found it really hard to get into the concept of heading out to a bar that won't start filling til 1am, then onto a club that will be empty until 4am, to dance until sunrise.

There are some really fun bars. Dui Dui in Palermo was our favourite. We also went to some really beautiful ones, like Milion (which, for some strange reason, Melissa George was hanging around in) or Gran Bar Danzon, but the truth is I found them all a bit showy. Too much standing around sipping cocktails watching everyone watching everyone, and not enough c'mon-lets-ave-it. Oh, and Crobar, in contrast, is the worst excuse for an adult school disco I've ever been to. I've listened to longer and better quality mixes from Jive Bunny than at that travesty of a nightspot. Which all adds up the the conclusion that BA nightlife is more hit and miss than trying to pull at a Gay Mardi Gras after party.

And the portenos, as the denizens of BA call themselves? Generally, very stand-offish. Until, that is, you demonstrate that a) you are not from the USA, and, b) you speak Spanish. From that magic point onwards, they show themselves for what they are. Which is some of the warmest, most honest, straight-up, tolerant and friendly peoples I have met in South America.

I don't mean to be BA-centric. There is plenty on offer outside of the capital. Mendoza is a wine region to rival any picture postcard sent back from Bordeaux, with (red) wine that is $ for $ way ahead. Particularly the di Tomasso family and Tempus Alba in the Maipu region, for anyone who is keen on specifics. Iguazu is a natural spectacle that is not only awe-inspring, but must surely make anybody who has been to Niagara wonder why they bothered. I remember being there, watching the school excursions and thinking how pitiful in comparison a good old Aussie school trip to Jenolan Caves or Canberra truly is.

At the end of the day, what two months is Buenos Aires showed was simply that it is a Proper City. Huge, murky and a hard nut to crack. I am still nowhere near truly having its' measure.

At first, I wasn't sure. I'd read so much, built up so many hopes and ideas of what BA would be. The first week or two, I found myself wondering what the fuss was about. Everything seemed so hidden. Almost as if everyone else knew where to go and what to do, except me.

Then things began to change. I began to understand the heavily-accented Spanish a little more. A mental-map of the city started to take shape. I began to understand, still imperfectly but a little better, which bars or restaurants would be good to go to and when. Things started to click.

Friends from Australia made it all the more special. There is nothing like seeing a familiar face in a strange place Exploration is so much more fun when the blind wandering is shared. Steve, Jenni, Esther; seeing you and sharing the food, wine and conversation was a double whammy. I, we, both loved seeing friends again. However, it did remind us so terribly of your absence when you left. But in a good way :)

Wednesday, the day before Rach and I were set to leave, we went for another meal at Standard. We ate the 800g steak (again), drank red wine, then went to Dui Dui for cocktails. Then it hit us.

We may well be back here again. Hopefully, we'll have cause to pass a week or two immersing ourselves in this old, dirty, cheap, amazing city. We'll walk the streets and remind ourselves of the first time we came. We'll talk about the food we had, the places we visited and the conversations we had. Old memories will come flooding back.

However, it will be a holiday. At best, we may be traveling. It's very unlikely that we will ever Experience Buenos Aires again. That fact alone makes me very sad indeed.

However, as they say; don't frown because it's over, smile because it happened. And, for all it's faults, Buenos Aires is a city that made me, us, smile.




The photos from BA here ,here and here , Mendoza here and here, and Iguazu here.

In case anyone is interested, we rented this apartment in San Telmo for the two months. I'd recommend it as a good base if Palermo is out of your price range. Contact Martin at mbueno@allbuenosairesapartments.com. He is a fine host. Please be sure to mention my name.

Day 155 - Body clock reassignment in Buenos Aires

There are some things that you take for granted in this diverse world of ours. The sun comes up in the morning. You have breakfast, lunch then dinner. Then you go to bed. Except in Buenos Aires.

We found an apartment four days after we arrived. It was real shame to leave our pokey, cheaply renovated, situated-on-top-of-a-nightclub-that-didn't-close-until-6am hostel-pretending-to-be-a-BnB, but we dealt with it and moved on. We're resilient like that.

We both agreed that the apartment was a steal. It's a big, white open plan apartment that wouldn't look out of place in some Hollywood film, such as Basic Instinct or maybe even Flesh Gordon 6. It was also remarkably good value, as it happens to be located on the border between San Telmo and La Boca, the latter being one of the most notorious neighbourhoods (or barrios) in BA.

The truth is though that it really isn't that dangerous. San Telmo reminds me a bit of Newtown in Sydney. There are a few dodgy characters hanging around, but really nothing to be all that worried about. The history of it is that the citys' oldest barrio used to be home to the city's elite, until various epidemics sent them packing in the 19th century. Ownership then passed to newly arrived poor immigrant families, until it's recent resurgence. As a result, San Telmo has a certain run-down charm to it. It's main street, Defensa, is crowded with overpriced antique shops, similarly-priced designer boutiques and the odd quaint little bars.

It's a nice place to stay, with the benefit of being full of extraordinarily low-priced butchers, greengrocers and supermarkets. Hell, even the corner shops can sell you a freshly cut sirloin for the extortionate price of around AU$4 a kilo.

However, whilst a great place to hang, there's more to Buenos Aires than a single barrio. Which brings me to my first point.

Rach and I have become accustomed to waltzing into a city, quickly establishing the things to see and places to go and being out of there within a week, happy we've got what we came for. Buenos Aires is different.

It's a big place; a very vibrant city. We started our exploration in Palermo - which is a bit like the BA version of Paddington - and there it soon became clear how much there is to get through. Never mind the bars, cafes, restaurants and boutiques you can see, it's the ones hidden behind unmarked doors that you're really looking for.

I remember when I first came back to live in Sydney. I remember the day I came to the conclusion that Sydney was a city that takes at least a year to become acquainted with. Well, BA is the same.

But what makes it especially strange is the hours people keep. The phrase "city that never sleeps" gets banded about all too easily. I've been out in New York at ungodly hours and seen eveything positively closed. Try finding a restaurant open in Mexico City late on a Sunday evening. Realistically, there is nowhere you'd want to be drinking in Sydney after normal closing time. BA, however, turns things on it's head.

I'd read about BA's odd hours, but I didn't believe it. Until I saw it. You can be in a restaurant after midnight and catch people still coming in for dinner. Bars simply don't start to hum until after 1am. Nobody even bothers trying to get to a club before 3am.

It really does take some getting used to. The first few times, we headed out for a late dinner (steak, of course. You kind of feel you have to to begin with) and a bottle of red wine, and next thing you know it's 1am and you're ready for bed.

It's not easy. I'm not even sure I like it yet. I've always been a "safe-and-sound-back-home-before-the-sun-comes-up" kind of guy". As Lily Allen said, being out after sunrise just doesn't feel right.

However, we've slowly got increasingly (though not completely) used to it and discovered that the key lies in making two changes to the way you live.

First secret is; siesta. Now, if there is a practice I would like to bring back with me, it's the concept of getting your head down for three hours every afternoon. Sublime.

The second is a change of pace. The pace here seems a little slower. Sydney, in comparison, seems to embody a "lets race out and do everything as quickly as possible" philosophy. BA is more of a "what's the rush?" place.

No doubt, it would get annoying if you lived here for a while. However, in the here and now, where we don't need to be anywhere or do anything according to a schedule, I kind of like it.

Now, if you'll excuse me. It's time for my afternoon nap. I have a busy evening ahead of me. :)

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

Day 133 – Into the wilds of Bolivia

It's truly surprising how many songs lend themselves nicely to llama-risation.

For example, there's Llama-Mia (sung to the tune of Abba's Mamma-mia), Llama Poo (sung to the tune of Abba's Waterloo), Walk Like a Llama (sung to the tune of The Bangles' Walk Like an Egyptian) and Llamas a la Playa (sung to the tune of Righeira's Vamos a la Playa).

And that's before we even touch on cross-species hits like You Can Call Me Alpaca (sung to the tune of Paul Simon's You Can Call Me Al).

I think the real point here is that four days in a 4WD, traveling through some of Bolivia's most beautifully rugged and isolated terrain, is a long time. And the quality of your journey really does depend on who you share it with.

Most people choose to base themselves in the town of Uyuni when exploring the Salt Flats of Uyuni- it's the obvious choice. Although it's the cheapest way of doing it, there are one or two downsides to this option.

As Max (the all-knowing barman at Oliver's Travels in La Paz) explained; the problem is, Uyuni is a shithole. And because Uyuni is a shithole, the people who live in Uyuni, such as the guides who run the tours, tend to be somewhat unmotivated, uninterested, unscrupulous, unhappy and just plain drunk. Not really the most comforting ingredients for a great four day trip into a what is, for all intents and purposes, a huge and dangerous desert wasteland.

Instead, Max suggested, better to stay on the southbound train for another six hours and get off at the small town of Tupiza. Whilst we would probably pay more, we'd end up having a much better time, both in the Tupiza itself ('not a shithole') and on the tour.

Whilst he may look like Keith Richards' little brother, there can be no doubt Max is a wise, wise man. Tupiza is to Uyuni what Cameron Diaz is to the ugly guy out of the Goonies.

It's one of those small towns where everybody seems to be terminally happy. The sun always seems to be shining. People seem to be stopping in the street and having conversations. It's like the Bolivian version of Stepford, but without the eerie feeling something strange is going on.

We spent the night at the Hotel La Torre. It's a fantastic place, which at one time would have been an amazing home for someone. Again, Stepford style, everyone there was super-friendly and ready to bleed a stone to help.

Within an hour of arriving, we'd booked our excursion into the wilderness with the hotel's tour company, La Torre Tours. The next morning, we met our travel partners. Not for the first time this trip, we found ourselves partnered with Dutch travel companions; this time Yolanda and Sebastiaan. Making up our group, was our (yet again) two incredibly friendly guide and cook, Juan Carlos and his childhood friend/ lover/ girlfriend/ wife/ ? (we never did find out), Espernaza.

So, off we set into the wild. I'd love to tell you about all the landscape we passed along the way, but the truth is it would take up pages and pages and pages. Every valley was completely different from the last, ranging from rugged spaghetti-western terrain to desolate desert landscape to green mountain tundra. The only consistent throughout was the llamas and vicuñas (wild llamas that look a but like gazelles) that could frequently be seen on the roadside It was beautiful and really brought home how diverse Bolivia really is.

Juan Carlos kept us informed along the way in kindly basic Spanish, enabling us all to add Spanish-practice to the list of tour benefits. Esperanza kept us well fed. And we did the rest.

I can't recall a four day period when I have laughed so much. The kilometers – all 1000 of them – fell to the wayside like confetti. Seb and Yolandi were awesome travel companions and I was genuinely disappointed when we had to part ways at the end.

Then, on the final day, we arrived at the Salt Flats of Uyuni. They really are quite a site. Salt, salt everywhere and not a sight of green. 12,000km2 of brilliant white nothingness, stretching as far as the eye can see, and interrupted only by small islands inhabited by 12m tall cacti.

Scaling one of the islands before breakfast that morning, Rachel pointed out that the rocks we were walking on looked a lot like coral. She was right. It is spooky to think that the whole place used to be a great sea, and the spot we were stood in was previously meters underwater.

The truth is; little is known about this place, officially the worlds' largest salt lake. However, one interesting side effect of the lack of vegetation is the lack of perspective. As a result, photographers flock to the Salar de Uyuni to take trick photos. We spent a good hour and a half mucking around and coming up with ideas for photos, only interrupting events with the occasional game of football in the empty expanses of the Flats.

We arrived back in our little town in Tupiza at around 7:30pm, after a marathon drive from Uyuni, happy, tired and sated.

Funnily enough, its one of the few times I've ever seen Rachel not ask for salt with her dinner.


You can find all the photos from the Salt Flats here