The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 3,200 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 53 trips to carry that many people.
Marburg is an old German university city north of Frankfurt am Main. Two of its most famous residents were the Brothers Grimm, who studied law in this town in the early 19th century. Their legacy is manyfold. They left the world a plethora of German fairy tales and compiled the first German dictionary. The city looks like a fairy tale too. Its centre consists of an amalgam of timberframe houses that abut cobblestoned streets. Sturdy university faculties sit astride tree-lined squares. Gothic church towers rise above the pantiled roofs, and overlooking this medieval salmagundi is the impressive Marburg Castle. Worldly power, as we know, ruled all too often over ecclesiastic, and, alas, academic prowess as well in Germany. But those days are long gone, and if you fancy seeing a quintessentially German city, without the Heidelberg crowds, go to Marburg. You will love it.
Back on European soil.
I got back to Europe, courtesy of British Airways, on Friday, 18 November. I had spent a few nice days in New York City. The weather had been mostly balmy. As I am wont, when in NYC, I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This seven-months long journey had started in Egypt, in what now seemed ages ago, and that is where I wanted it to end. So I visited the exquisite Egyptian department of that museum, before paying homage to the cultural legacy of the mediterranean island of Cyprus. How I had loved Cyprus! I had felt like Odysseus on Aeaea, not being able to leave it. I then went to pay homage to the Big Apple and walked the whole way from the Met to the subway station of W14th Street, first along Madison and then Fifth Avenue. I got there just in time to get a whiff of Occupy Wall Street, and the tear gas accompanying its movements.
Marburg, home town of the Brothers Grimm.
I got to London Heathrow on time and was in Frankfurt Airport a few hours later. It took about half an hour to be reunited with my backpack. Thereafter I went to the airport’s railway station. Before long I was in Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, the very impressive and massive rail terminus of the German capital of finance. It is a mere 40 minutes from there to Marburg, where I was awaited by Roman. This 26-year old medicine student and I had met on the train in Bosnia and Herzegovina three months before. He was then travelling with a friend of his, Christian. We had a great time in Sarajevo. Christian was now off to California, and had ceded his apartment to be my lodgings in town. How nice and what a prime example of the virtues and merits of the travel scene! One hardly knows one and other, but yet there is trust, infinitely so. Few things unite more than a grubby and overpacked rucksack. Roman and I were delighted to see each other and had a few wonderful days in Marburg. He lives in a beautiful old house in the centre of town, a timber-framed one of course. To further enhance his living standard he works as a pizza deliverer and had to work on Saturday. That meant I would be on my own that day. I sent Josh Bechtold, a 26-year old geography student, a message via Facebook. It was a lucky shot, that got immediately answered. Josh was in town, and yep, we could meet that Saturday. In fact, he was quite astounded to find me in town.
The last time Josh and I met was in Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia.
Josh hails from Luxembourg, but has lived in Germany as a student at Marburg University for the past six, seven years. We had met in September 2010 in a hostel in the capital of Georgia, Tbilisi. We had visited Stalin’s birthplace, Gori, and the botanic gardens of Tbilisi together with two half brothers from Olzstyn, Poland. It was nice to meet again and exchange travel experiences. Josh had spent a few months in Senegal, and, like me, had been in Ukraine a few months ago. We walked Marburg, had lunch, and then parted. Josh is a semi-pro in frisbee and will be in Amsterdam next June, so who knows we might meet again. That evening I went to accompany Roman on his pizza errands.
Roman is a big fan of Apple and Keith Haring.
Sunday, 20 November, started as a bright day. After breakfast Roman and I went out for a long walk in the hills and forests that surround the city of Marburg. It is not very difficult to see where the Brothers Grimm got their inspiration from. The big oak and beech trees, the small cottages that are scattered throughout the forests and the big castle overlooking the area lend a fairy-tale quality to the scenery. The autumn colours and odours that herald the end of the cycle of nature added to my general feeling of sadness and loss to be at the end of my Odyssey. My journey had started with the green vigour of spring and was now terminating in the hazy light of a damp, and rather chilly, autumn afternoon. Gone was the perfume-like scent of trees blossoming and fresh fruits on sale. Instead there was the stench of decaying leaves, and the smell of burning wood emitted by chimneys.
The home-bound train pulls in at Hannover Hauptbahnhof.
Roman and I parted the next morning, Monday, 21 November. I caught the 9.27 AM train from Marburg to Hannover. From there the Schiphol-bound intercity from Berlin saw to it that I arrived in my hometown at 5 PM. A mere 15 minutes later I stood, rather forlornly, in the living room of my apartment. I was back in my own house, but not at home, since all things that reminded me thereof had been vacated. All those small, often worthless, but not priceless things that turns a dwelling into one’s castle were still stored in a self-storage box less than ten miles away. I dropped my backpack, unfurled my sleeping bag, went to the supermarket and then walked into town to visit my good friend Anke. She welcomed me back home with a bottle of champagne and a sturdy all-Dutch meal.
Anke sets off a champagne campaign...........
In the two days thereafter Philip and I had a relay run to the self storage, City Box, and got all my belongings back into the apartment. Unpacking and rediscovering my worldly possessions -and stowing them away- meant that I reconquered my apartment in a brisk tempo. How nice it was to be able to wear something different after all those months of walking around in the same washed-out T-shirts and worn-out trousers.
....whereas Philip prefers a relay run to City Box.
It took about half a day to get the computer going again. While rearranging the kitchen I ran back and forth to the laptop in order to download, update, validate, or what have you, all the software my HP was yearning for after seven months of idleness. Before long the first issue of The Economist dropped on the doormat. Then there were the laundry and the first tentative telephone calls to friends and family.
Reunited with my worldly goods.
Last Monday Charlotte came back from the US after a visit to her mother-in law in Albuquerque, NM. Charlotte had looked after my affairs and handed me backed the results thereof. Fortunately there were no surprises. We then went out for lunch.
So glad to hand you back your administrative affairs.
I paid my former colleagues a visit the day thereafter. Meanwhile reports and messages from my travel companions keep coming in. They are still all about in South America. I wish I were there still too. Somehow this time, unlike the last one, I feel as if I could have travelled on a lot longer. On the other hand, what have I to complain about? Everything went wonderfully well. There were no problems with the tenants, nor sudden surprises, neither accidents, nor illnesses, nor attacks on my physical -or monetary- well-being. I certainly owe the goddess Fortuna a big hug for taking care of me, as I do Saint Christopher. Thanks to both of you!
How nice to see the girls of the pension desk again.
No matter what Fortuna and St. Christopher concoct, in the end the co-travellers are the ones who make the journey. As always I was very fortunate this time round. I met fantastic people throughout the voyage. As always I kept track. I met fellow travellers from 44 different nations, as diffuse as Syria and Chile, Russia and Bahama’s and Taiwan and El Salvador. Some were ships that pass in the night, others were people I will probably never forget -and hopefully see again-, like the Petra Troopers, the Pigeon Valley Gang, les Montréalais, the Doctors from Marburg, the lads from Schleswig-Holstein et cetera.
What a wonderful journey it has been. I travelled through 25 countries on five continents and three seasons. In the end I spent € 45 more than budgetted. It has been an extraordinary succes, and one to be repeated.
And how nice to see these guys again!
The province of Córdoba lies in Argentina´s mediterraneo, its heartland. It is the fifth largest and the second-most populous province of the country. It equals Wisconsin, or nearly half of Germany, in size, but with its 3.3 million people it is much less crowded than either of them. Most of its inhabitants are of Italian descent. There is one exception to this rule: Villa General Belgrano. This town, in the valley of Calamuchita, was established by pioneers of Germanic stock, Swiss and later Austrians and Germans. In the 1940s they were joined by sailors from the Graf Spee, the German cruiser that was scuttled off the coast of Montevideo. They had not been able to go back to Germany during the war. Thereafter there was not much of a Germany left to return to so they stayed.
On my way to Villa General Belgrano in Cordoba Province.
Villa General Belgrano has an Oktoberfest, restaurants where all-German delicacies as rostbraten and sauerkraut are on offer, and quite a few youngsters that speak German. VGB, as it is known by its acronym, has also a wonderful hostel-annex-camping site, called El Rincon. It is owned and run by John Vinks, a 60-year old from Rotterdam. El Rincon is vast. It has a well, from which it draws its water. It has a forest that supplies wood for heating. It has cows, chicken, ducks and geese that supply the necessary dairy and eggs and it has horses. It has a swimming pool too. It has therefore also an incessant amount of work on offer. When I got there on Sunday afternoon, 6 November, the first one I met was 20-year old Lasse. He hails from Eckernförde, a seaside resort in the German Land of Schleswig-Holstein. I smiled. One never meets anyone from that Land and see here: Lasse was my third Schleswig-Holsteiner in a row in less than two weeks time. It was also my third time in El Rincon and John recognised me immediately when we met.
El Rincon Hostel ranks among the nicest places in the world.
I know VGB quite well and had been to most of its places of interest. So when Lasse told me that he would be working the next day I decided to join him. We first cleaned one dormitory and then another one. We took the mattresses out, we shook countless bedcovers and quilts and checked every bed on the presence of bugs, and chewing gum. Rather reassuringly of the former we found none, but of the latter quite a bit. With the help of potato knives we scraped the sticky remnants from the bunk beds. Later that afternoon Lasse and I hauled an impressive amount of firewood from the roadside to the backyard. John repaid us in kind: we got excellent breakfasts for free. After work we went for a dive in the pool. It felt a bit like ages ago in the kibbutz.
I had my work cut out in El Rincon.
El Rincon has a very relaxed atmosphere about it, which causes me to never want to leave it. So, instead of two nights, I stayed five. Lasse and I went to work in the woods again on Thursday, 10 November. He had been in VGB for two months with a family before moving to El Rincon and knew quite a few people of his age in town. That evening we would meet Bernardo and Adrian and have an assado, the Argentine for BBQ. Lasse would see to the shopping arrangements, whereas I would take care of wine supplies. I also finished the latest blog post, which I dedicated to Jonas, my wonderful travel companion who had gone to pay his little sister a surprise visit in the city of Córdoba. On my way back to the hostel I was reminiscing our journeys. As I climbed the hill I discerned two figures descending; a small one and a much taller one in a red T-shirt. As we approached one another I started to grin, as did the red T-shirt wearing guy. Jonas and his sister Jule had just arrived in El Rincon and were on their way to some shopping. We hugged. What a merry reunion! We had a wonderful assado that night, with lots of food, wine and fun, and a full moon as decor. I did not want to leave the place at all.
We prefer freshly squeezed orange juice.
All good things come to an end, they say, and sadly so. Not only had my stay in VGB come to an end, but this whole journey was rapidly drawing to a close. Last time in 2008, at the end of the year-long trip around the world, I had been counting the days. Not because I had wanted to go home, but because I had simply been fed up with travelling, especially through South-East Asia. That part of the world held no charms for me. South America is altogether different stuff and I could easily have travelled for two more months. Lasse and Jonas are on their way to Bolivia and Chile, and further afield. How I had wanted to join them! Next time round. That day, Friday 11 November, I bid everyone in El Rincon goodbye and left VGB for Rosario, in Santa Fé province. I was loth to leave my German travel companions, but as I told John: Today I am going back to Argentina. I was leaving the Dutch-German travel scene in order to catch up with the quintessentially-Argentine Clerico family of Rosario.
Kayaking across the mighty Parana.
Rosario is Argentina´s third-largest city. It is situated 400 km southeast of Córdoba and 300 km northwest of Buenos Aires. Unlike these two, it has no Spanish colonial background or heritage. Dubbed Argentina´s Chicago, its trade is grain and cattle. It was settled in the 1850s, but grew mightily after the advent of the railways and refrigerator ships. With these in place Rosario started to supply the world with grains, beef and dairy. The city grew incredibly fast. Its merchants established many a neoclassical building, thus giving the city centre a very elegant appearance. Lack of space is, and never was, one of Argentina´s more-pressing problems, and that sees to it that Rosario is a vast place. It stretches for miles on end along the banks of the Paraná river. Of course, like so many Argentine cities, Rosario boasts a vastly-improved bus network spanning this urban sprawl, but I do not have to make use of that for I always have a bike at my disposal, courtesy of Sebastian Clerico.
Frederico and mom are enjoying Sunday lunch.
Sebastian and I met during my first visit to Rosario in 2006. He is a former member of Argentina´s national kayak team and organises kayak outings on the Paraná river and beyond. He also has bikes for rent. Business is booming, since more and more tourists, both Argentine and foreign, discover the charms of this riparian city. His mom helps him out in the bike business and occasionally his youngest brother, Frederico, comes to the rescue when it comes to fishing outings. (These days Sebastian has a motorboat as well.)
Heading out for the beach of the Parana.
We met on Saturday morning for coffee. Then he went to pick up a kayaking guest by moped, whereas I cycled the 11 kilometres to the kayak club in the north of town. I know my way through town, but had not been here since 2007. I was astonished by the amount of new buildings going up and recently-finished ones. Rosario is booming. That much is clear. New streets are being constructed, old warehouses are converted into dwellings and shops, old factories have made room for shiny offices and the costanera, the river walk so beloved of the Argentine cities, has been expanded. The kayaking guest turned out to be a 45-year old madrileña, called Carolina. I was sat in the rear and had to steer the kayak, a first time. Let me tell you this: that is quite difficult. The Paraná is a fast-flowing river, so one has to tackle the current. Then there are the waves -every second rosarino has a motorboat these days, or so it seems. Then there are the huge sea-going ships that ply this river and have no time for kayak novices. But we managed and crossed the river. At the other side there are all sorts of beaches and hip bars, where we had a cerveza. It seems the Spaniards -like the Italians and the French- can´t get enough of the stuff, whereas the north of Europe has switched to wine, and can´t get enough of that either!
That evening Carolina and I had dinner in a swish place, called El Cairo. I know of no city, beyond Amsterdam, that has such nice bars and restaurants as Rosario. When in Argentina, go to there. You will like it. Not for nothing its Argentine moniker is la Movida. And, unlike in Amsterdam, you can still go out and eat at 1 AM if you want.
A view of boom town Rosario.
Sebastian and I met again at 1 PM on Sunday, 13 November. We had Sunday lunch with the family and then went out by motorboat. It was still hot, but the sun had gone. Was Fortuna, my eternal travel mate who sees to it that the weather is always gorgeous wherever I go, starting to wean me off it in order to get me ready for New York´s autumn? Who knows. By the time we got back to town and parted it became chilly.
The last coach of this journey got me from Rosario to Buenos Aires.
Monday, 14 November, was a travel day. I had a coach ride to Buenos Aires -the last one of this journey. Once there I did the sums and concluded that I had travelled about nine thousand kilometres through this vast country in six weeks time. I then went to Ezeiza, the country´s international airport, situated on the outskirts of Gran Buenos Aires. That is a long way out. Given the fact that this blog has received all but 3.000 hits, and quite a few of those via search engines -fellow travellers, no doubt-, I will explain how to get to -and from- the airport for next to nothing. From the massive coach terminus in Retiro I took the subte, the bonarense metro, to Avenida de Mayo station. There I hopped on linea A to Congreso. A metro ticket costs a ridiculous A$ 1.10, or 20 eurocents. On the Plaza de Congreso I took bus # 8. Make sure it goes to the aeropuerto. Not all do. Once on it, go to the rear and wait for Fortuna to appear to get you a seat, for it takes nearly two hours to get to your destination. This ride sets you back A$ 2, say, 35 eurocents. Have coins ready because the ticket machine does not takes notes. Long live subsidised Argentine public transport, as long as it lasts!
The nicest airline in the world certainly has the most wonderful corporate logo.
The plane was on time when we left at 9.40 PM. This being American Airlines everything went smoothly. It is more than ten hours flying to JFK. Most of those I spent sleeping. The rest of the time I spent, well, mourning my loss. Six weeks in the nicest country in the world were suddenly over. The travel scene, the scenery, the wildlife, my newspaper La Nacion, el castellano as the language is known in Argentina, the coffee, the steaks and those wonderful, outgoing, friendly, but ever-courteous, people, called Argentines, with their wicked sense of humour, suddenly it was all over. How can one not cry for Argentina? I had not managed to go the northwest. There had been no time, since Argentina is too large for a mere six weeks. So I´ll have to go back, and back, and back. Argentina is forever carved on my heart. I take it my readers have already booked their tickets through iberia.com, or are about to do so via aa.com. Not to go to Argentina is one of the silliest mistakes one can make in life.
Another city, another newspaper.
New York City is the self-acclaimed capital of the world and is the biggest city in the equally self-styled greatest nation of the world. I do go along with those statements for most of the way, but could not suppress a massive grin on my face when I learned that the world´s superpower does not open for business until 6 AM. Since we arrived at 5.45 AM we had to wait in a stationary plane for fifteen minutes until Uncle Sam opened his door. By then two more planes had arrived, so it took more than an hour before I was through customs and immigration. It is a quick hop on the Air Train unto Howard Beach Station. That rides costs U$ 5, to be paid at the end of the journey in that station. There you can purchase a subway ticket into town for U$ 2.25. If one should so wish one can remain underground for the rest of one´s life for that sum. I chose to get off a bit earlier than that and went back to Vanderbilt Street. At 8.50 AM I rang the doorbell and received a cordial welcome. Granny was delighted to see me and had her shopping list ready. Before long I was off to Key Food. It was a homecoming. That evening I saw how Ricky Lake is taking Dancing with the Stars by storm. She is now leading the pack. Come Sunday, 2o November, and the world will know that a true star is (re)born! In America nothing is about age; all is about attitude. If only the same were true in Europe. Pity poor Europe, written off and eulogised by the South-American press as a hopeless case of 40-some quarrelling, measly little countries, derided by its American peers, and deemed totally irrelevant by the American president, who goes Asia these days. Just a few more days and I will be back in the Old World, as it is known in the Americas. What will it bring?
Ricky Lake goes for glory on DWTS.
One of the great things about travelling is meeting other, wonderful people. By default one of the saddest things about it is having to say goodbye. When I got to San Martin de los Andes I met 20-year old Joshua. He hailed from a small town north of Hamburg in an area, called Schleswig-Holstein, one of Germany´s smallest Länder. One always meets Germans, for there are many of them and they like to travel, but almost always they are from the -more prosperous- south of the country, from Länder, like Bavaria and Hesse. There was an instantaneous click between this young guy who had spent a year as a volunteer in Peru and me. Joshua was witty, well-spoken and gifted with a warm personality. He was also slightly naughty for he had baked space cakes, but felt uneasy travelling with them. We spent 24 hours together, chatted, and drank a fair bit of red wine. We had breakfast and lunch and walked along the lake´s shore. When he left for Buenos Aires I felt sad and bereft, but to soften the blow was left with three pieces of wicked German pastry.
San Martin de los Andes, the pearl of the Lake District.
San Martin is a beautiful spot in Neuquén province. It is a prosperous town that caters for tourists. Its streets are filled with outdoor shops, restaurants and cafés, and bakeries that sell pastry of the more innocent variety. I had been here before and really liked it. The hostel, called Puma, is one of the best in the country. It is well-run, boasts a well-equipped kitchen and a nice communal room. After Joshua and I parted I went for a long walk in the woods, did some shopping afterwards and once back in the hostel got ready to cook dinner. Meanwhile another guy had checked into the dorm, but he was glued to his computer and barely managed to utter an ¡Hola!, when I greeted him. Probably another one of those on-line travellers who are more involved with the digital world than the one around them, I thought. But then, he also might have been exhausted by a 30-hour long journey and simply wanted to be left alone. Who am I to judge? I did not give it much of a thought and went back to the communal room. Two guys from Stuttgart, Germany, and two hip girls from Switzerland had arrived. Before long we were merrily chatting away, whilst having dinner and a drink. Tongue-in-cheek I suggested we´d have some pastry for desserts. My Germanic companions were not in the least surprised that I had such cakes on me. After all, we all know what Amsterdam stands for, don´t we? I objected and explained that I had merely inherited it from a North-German. We got elegantly stoned and had a great evening.
I am in Argentina. At the far end of the lake is Chile.
The next day I met my digital roommate. Incredibly, he hailed from practically the same spot in Germany as Joshua. Equally incredible he carried a Biblical name too, Jonas. We went out for a walk, which turned into quite a hike. By unbelievable coincidence we came across Bettina and Karsten, whom I had met two weeks and 3.500 km before. Occasionally travelling springs some remarkable encounters. That evening Jonas and I went to the nearby supermarket, stocked up on food and drinks and cooked dinner. That kicked off a series of culinary events that would span nine days and thousands of kilometres across Patagonia. I wanted to go to another gem in that area. It is called El Bolson. Jonas decided to join me.
Volcanic ash covers part of the Bariloche area.
We left San Martin de los Andes on Saturday, 29 October. El Bolson lies 310 km to the south, a short hop by Argentine standards. Normally the route through the Lake District is of outstanding beauty. In essence it resembles a very Alpine landscape, without the lorry-filled motorways. But, sadly, the route to Bariloche, the main hub of the area, has become ash-filled. The nearby Puyehue volcano has been spewing out ash for more than a year, laying waste to local tourism and severely delaying flights throughout Argentina on several occasions. People wear masks and face a losing battle cleaning up their houses, cars and streets. Alongside the roads one sees huge heaps of ash. Fortunately this area gets a lot of snow during winter and has therefore plenty of snowploughs, but is an unequal struggle and wherever you look you see ash-covered houses and trees. Even the lakes carry a layer of the stuff. Once past Bariloche the skies become clear again. But such has been the publicity that not many people venture out to this part of Patagonia, the result of which was that Jonas and I had the hostel in El Bolson practically to ourselves.
Preparing breakfast.
El Bolson is one of those towns that make you feel you are at the end of the world. Central authority is far away, people are left to fend for themselves -most of them by choice- and that attracts quite a few from beyond Patagonia. It is sometimes referred to as the hippy capital of Argentina, although that is a bit far-fetched. Still, it manages to make you feel away from it all. And that draws quite a crowd in non-volcanic times. The weather was wonderful. Spring had arrived. Trees are blossoming, as are the wild flowers. The forests are bucolic, their verdancy set sharply against dramatic, barren, snow-capped mountains. Hiking is called for in these lands and that is what we did. There is a waterfall, a cascade really, called la Escondida. That means the hidden one. It had lived up to its name when Peter and I were here in April 2007, for we had not found it. This time, though, Jonas and I managed to discover it. One talks when one hikes, and this 22-year old student at Hamburg´s Technical University turned out to be a very pleasant person to converse with. His girlfriend of sorts studies Japanese and had gone to Tokyo for a year. In a sudden yearning for a bit of adventure he had surprised her by visiting her in the Japanese capital. They had spent two weeks together until he had gone to South America. Jonas was on his way to Cordoba, where his youngest sister was spending a year at school. He wanted to surprise her on her 16th birthday. Meanwhile he had been to South Chile, where he had climbed the Pucan volcano -very impressive pictures he had of that venture-, crossed the Andes to San Martin, and had been exhausted when I first saw him. As befits a 22-year old he was full of energy now, so we embarked on quite a few activities. One of those would be whale-watching in Puerto Madryn, 800 km to the east, at the opposite side of Patagonia, on the Atlantic coast.
El Bolson, where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid once roamed.
We took a direct coach from El Bolson to Puerto Madryn on Monday evening, 31 October. That journey takes about thirteen hours. As always, when I travel overnight, I had a seat upstairs in the rear; and then, preferably, on the right-hand side. That way you are not blinded by oncoming traffic, you do not have people passing your seat on their way to the loo, and more importantly, those seats recline better than the ones further down the aisle. (I have learnt a thing or two about travelling on coaches.) All was quiet on the coach and I slept reasonably well. One does not miss out on the scenery, since the road that leads straight across the province of Chubút offers nothing but views of barren, arid steppe. Patagonia, as the southern half of Argentina is called, may conjure up romantic, nay, adventurous pictures, but contains mainly very boring countryside. As to adventure, well, with the demise of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid that went as well. These days it counts as a well-organised and prosperous area of the country. It is still empty, though. Less than two million people live in this area the size of Spain and Italy combined.
It was quite exciting to see the first whale.
Puerto Madryn has a wonderful hostel, called el Qualicho, and that is where we checked in. Since it was too early to take possession of our dorm we went back to the coach terminus and took a local bus to Trelew, 55 km to the south. That city has one of the world´s greatest paleontological museums. Patagonia is a paradise for lovers of dinosaurs and boasts many a find. There is an excellent documentary on these beasts, but having spent so many hours on the road both Jonas and I had a bit of a problem keeping our eyes open while watching it. We then went to another must-see in Trelew, a hotel-annex-bar, called Touring Club. It has an amazing bar that looks as if John Wayne could be one of its patrons. In fact, the above-mentioned bank robbers, who were immortalised by Paul Newman and Robert Redford in the eponymous 1969 movie, frequented the premises. They would stand no chance these days, though, since the owner, doña Fernandez, would chase them out of her property, guns blazing. I was delighted to see she is still around. Probably in her late 80s now, she still sits behind the counter and keeps a tight look of everybody´s moves. When in Trelew, go and have a drink there. Unfortunately, they don´t do lunch, so we went somewhere else.
It is even more exciting when the leviathan gets very close.
Wednesday, 2 November, was not only the most expensive day of the whole journey, but also, certainly, one of the best. Puerto Madryn is one of Argentina´s boom towns. In 1970 it boasted five thousand inhabitants. These days it has more than twenty-fold. One of the reasons behind this phenomenal growth is the huge aluminium smelter -one of the world´s largest- out-of-town, and the rich fishing grounds of the South Atlantic Ocean. Another one is its vicinity to the Valdez Peninsula. 3,600 square km in size and practically cut off from mainland Argentina by two gulfs it boasts some of the world´s richest marine life and one the largest penguin colonies. I had been here in April 2009 and witnessed the tens of thousands of penguins getting ready for the great trek towards the Brazilian coast. This time, though, I had come for animals somewhat larger in size, leviathans in Biblical terms, better known as whales. To be more specific, Southern right whales. The two gulfs near Puerto Madryn offer these mammals protection to train their calves, before setting out for Antarctica. We were a group of more than twenty, quite a few of those from Spain, and -lo and behold- a few from the Dutch-speaking world. (Belgians come aplenty, whereas the Dutch, although richer and more numerous, are mostly thin on the ground when it comes to the travel scene.)
When Moby Dick gets very close it becomes a bit eerie.
The excursion took the whole day, with 90 minutes spent on the water. Whence the name southern right whale, I wondered. As our guide explained these mammals are curious, sociable and like to float in the water. They were therefore considered as the right whales to hunt. And hunted they were. By 1900 there had been some 150 thousand of them. Some 70 years later only one thousand, or so, remained. That number has risen to roughly five thousand, with half of them calling Argentina their favourite destination to raise the kids.
Maghellanic penguins are proud of the black stripe on their chest.
The rest of the trip was spent on land, where we witnessed guanacos, llama look-alike descendants from camels, frolicking about. We spotted maras, the ubiquitous Patagonian hares. We saw sea elephants, sea lions and a few seals, as well as some Magellanic penguins. Rich fishing grounds bring about rich bird life, and we saw quite a bit of that too. The Valdez peninsula truly is one Argentina´s highlights. Needless to say one of my best travel mates, Poseidon, saw to it that the seas were calm, when I boarded the vessel.
This sea elephant is having a whale of a time on the beach.
Another of my best travel mates, the French supermarket chain Carrefour, has an outlet close to the hostel. We went there every night to get the necessary items for good dinners. (Jonas certainly is a proficient cook.) One of the elderly Spanish ladies, of a group of seven, was quite taken in by the sight of this father-and-son culinary cooperation. She was dumbstruck when I told her that Jonas was not my son, but a travel companion thirty years younger than me.
A very cool kid from Hamburg tackles the sands of Puerto Madryn.
Travel companions thirty years younger also see to it that you rent a mountain bike and go out for a cycle trip. The weather was wonderful, but unfortunately Jonas´bike showed some signs of metal fatigue -the bike´s gears did not perform too well- so we never got to Punta Loma, which houses a sea-lion colony. But then, who cares? We had seen quite a few of those the day before. Instead, we sat on the beach, had our sandwiches and pondered our next moves. Some of those were rather silly, as the next picture clearly shows.
The things one does when one travels with a 22-year old.
Another move I was pondering involved going to the province of Cordoba. This trip through Argentina is all about going back to places I have always liked. One of them stands out. On my ladder of most favourite spots it sits not very far from Mar del Plata. It is a small town, called Villa General Belgrano, and is situated 75 km south of the city of Cordoba. Jonas wanted to head there as well to visit his sister, so we joined forces one more time. We embarked on a 1300 km, 21-hour long voyage northwards, from Patagonia to the mediterraneo, Argentina´s heartland, on Friday noon, 4 November.
Oh bitte, sit down. Everything is getting cold!
Long-distance travelling demands a certain mindset. One thing one should never do is to look at the clock. Time becomes irrelevant at best, and annoying at worst. Try to switch off thinking and enjoy the countryside, or have a snooze, or both. In Argentina they always show movies on coaches, some of them good, most of them pulp. Sometimes they keep you vexed, and at other times they are a nuisance. When you travel together, though, you do games, like the ones you played during the road trips of your youth. Animals starting with B, for example, or the last letter of a German town is the first letter of the next one. Sometimes one becomes earnest. I received a discourse on electricity by Jonas, who is a future electrical engineer. In return, I gave Spanish lessons. When you travel for a while with someone you create bonds that tie. It also makes parting a dreadful thought.
Leaving Patagonia and heading for Cordoba.
We got to Cordoba´s huge coach terminus the next morning, at 9.40 AM, and had breakfast there. The area around it abounds in hotels, hostels and the like. Before long I had a somewhat dilapidated room in a hotel I had stayed before. We then walked into town. It was Saturday and the streets of this big city were teeming with shoppers. At the corner of two major thoroughfares we bid goodbye, and I went back to the hotel for a shower and a shave. I had mightily enjoyed the company of Jonas, this energetic guy from Schleswig-Holstein.
I took the bus to Villa General Belgrano the next day and immediately went to hostel, El Rincon, where I had been twice before. It is paradise there. The first one I met was Lasse, a 20-year old German guy from Eckernförde, a town in Schleswig-Holstein.
San Martin de los Andes is a holiday resort in Argentina´s lake district. It is situated in the far southern corner of the province of Neuquén. I had been here before, four-and-a-half years ago, and had really liked it then. To get here this time, though, I had to do a bit of travelling. In fact, it took me nearly two weeks and 4,830 kilometres to get here. In the process I saw a lot of wildlife, a huge change in the scenery and the re-election of Christina Fernandez de Kirchner as Argentina´s president. I spent a few delightful days in that most wonderful of places, Mar del Plata. I also met a lot of cool, adventurous and pleasant people. Two guys stand out, though, Lucas and Matthieu. Two brothers from Brussels, Belgium, in their 20s, both fluent in Dutch and French, who are on a cycling tour around the world, covering a mere 30 thousand kilometres. I met them in the hostel as they were preparing their bicycles. They had arrived from Sao Paulo, Brazil, and were on their way to Ushuaia, the world´s southern-most town, some five thousand kilometres down the road. I saw them a week later again south of Concordia from the coach I was in. That meant they had covered one thousand kilometres since our meeting in Puerto Iguazu the week before.
Lucas and Matthieu: heroes made in Belgium.
I was extremely lucky with the weather when I went to visit the Iguazu waterfalls. The sun was out and it was pleasantly warm. That Tuesday night, 11 October, it started to rain. It did not stop until the Friday morning, 14 October. Rain forest may be a wonderful and exciting place to visit, but it comes with a lot of rain! That is when I wrote the last blog post. On Thursday there was a slight lull in the downpour. I decided to make use of it and went to visit the promontory overlooking the confluence of the Iguazu and Paraná rivers. One has a view of both Brazil and Paraguay from there. When I got there I was approached by a young kid who wanted to have me take a picture of him. He spoke a different kind of Spanish. I quickly established the fact that he hailed from Bogotá, Colombia. Alejandro of 23 years of age was on a short holiday to Argentina and had come to visit to waterfalls of Iguazu. As we talked we saw a small ferry, carrying a couple of vans and a few cars, crossing the Iguazu River and heading for the mighty Paraná. We went to check out its destination and as we noticed it was heading for Paraguay we decided to make a short hop to that country. It was of course a ridiculous endeavour, since the passport formalities take up more time than the trip. And on the other side there is nothing but a border post, which offers a nice view of Brazil and Argentina, but not much more.
The view from Paraguay was just as rainy.
On Friday morning I took the bus to San Ignacio Miní. The Jesuits established a colony in that spot in the 17th century the remains of which are still there. It is quite an impressive site, where the ruins of red-stone churches and dwellings are fighting for survival against the encroaching rain forest. But thanks to Argentina´s Department of Culture the man-made structures are winning that battle. All is well-kept, well-restored and made wheelchair accessible. That is of course a wonderful thing and comes as part of the government´s efforts to get all segments of Argentine society involved and integrated. But, when it comes to 17th century ruins I found the presence of metal ramps and gangways slightly distorting the general picture.
Nothing but girl power in the province of Misiones.
I continued my journey along the Paraná the next day, Saturday, and went to the city of Corrientes, capital of the eponymous province. The centre of town is quite nice with Spanish-colonial buildings. It is also very lively and has a wonderful costanera along the river. Here the Paraná shows its true might. It is very wide here. A huge bridge spans it and links Corrientes with Résistencia. In fact, the Paraná is one of the world´s largest rivers. Four times longer than Europe´s most famous waterway, the Rhine, it contains a vast basin, the size of West-Europe. Sea-going vessels sail as far as here, and beyond, to the city of Formosa. Its depths of up to 65 metres allow it to carry huge amounts of water. That in turn allowed the bordering countries to build two of the largest dams in the world. They see to it that Paraguay has become a very large electricity exporter to both Argentina and Brazil.
The sun sets over the mighty rio Paraná.
I left Corrientes the next morning and went to a market town, called Mercedes. I had wanted to continue to my ultimate goal, Colonia Carlos Pellegrini, but got stuck. There is no on-going traffic to that village on a Sunday. Europeans are used to the availability of public transport wherever they are. But then, that continent is awash with people. Argentina is not. The world´s eight largest country has only 40 million inhabitants, a third of whom live in the Greater Buenos Aires area. That sees to it that Argentina is empty. Pellegrini has 500 inhabitants and is the sole village in an area of 13 thousand square kilometres, roughly a third of the Netherlands. So I spent the day in Mercedes, watched Andy Murray defeat my hero, David Ferrer, in the finals of the Shanghai Masters, and had a fantastic steak in the evening. Beef does not come better than in Argentina, and Corrientes has the best of it.
Things in Pellegrini get busy at 5 PM.
Two buses a day link Mercedes with Pellegrini. They leave in the early afternoon and cater for the locals, who spend the morning in town visiting the hospital, bank, lawyer, or what have you. They also cater for those few travellers who do not mind to go out of their way, and endure a bone-rattling, three-hour ride along the dirt road to the village. One of those was me, with Karsten and Bettina being some of the other ones. They hail from Kempten, Bavaria, and are among the nicest people I have met during this journey. Karsten and I chatted the whole way, mostly nonsense. We spent the next 48 hours together and had a great time. Pellegrini is situated in the wetlands of the Ibéra. The area is quite similar to the Dutch provinces of Friesland and North and South Holland, but then, in essence the Netherlands are wetlands as well. There are a few differences, though, between, say, the Naardermeer and the Estéro del Ibéra. One of those is the presence of caiman, the other of capybara, the world´s largest rodents. There are more than 330 different species of birds, and anacondas, but, quite like the Naardermeer, it has a lot of mosquitoes as well.
Now, who just mentioned Louis Vuitton?
The thing to do in Pellegrini is to take a boat trip on the lake. In two hours time one comes across such an amazing amount of wildlife. The lake contains floating islands, where a specific species of deer live. Capybaras munch grass, while small birds pick the insects out of their furry skin. Birds chirp, herons take off elegantly into the skies and mosquitoes buzz. It is all very peaceful, and in contrast to the Naardermeer, one does not hear the permanent din of a nearby motorway, for there is nothing in a wide radius. We saw caiman babies of 15 cm and adult ones of up to two to three metres in length. They are called yacares in the Guaraní language, and are greatly endangered. Their leather is much wanted in the luxury goods industry. Since their main staple consists of piranhas, these fish flourish with the demise of their predators. That in its turn empties the rivers of other fish, to the detriment of the birds. At least in this corner of Argentina nature is kept as it has always been.
The capybara takes the tourists in his stride.
Karsten, Bettina and I went out for a hike and saw some more capybaras, who do not seem to mind the presence of men. I also spotted a wild boar, who was just as afraid to see me as I was of seeing him. Meanwhile we had met the neighbours, a couple from Boulder, Colorado. Karen and Henrik, who are around their 50s, had given up their jobs and were travelling South America by custom-built camper van. We had a great dinner party that evening, under a sky so laden with stars that you could almost touch them. As always, all good things come to an end and this one at a very early moment of the day. Karsten, Bettina and I boarded a Mercedes-bound bus at 4.20 in the morning. Once there we parted. What a pity. They had been such fun.
They come nice with cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes.
It took me two days to get to Mar del Plata. Who cares, though? There is no place like it, bar, perhaps, Tel Aviv. It is situated on the Atlantic Ocean, some 370 km south of Buenos Aires. It is pretty big, with 620 thousand people, a number that triples during summer, when the crowds from the capital pull in. But, mid-October is not the season yet and that makes the place very pleasant. Ever since coming here I have had the feeling that I could end up living here. It is a city that makes me a very happy person. I had not been to MdP since March 2009 and a lot had changed. For a start there is a brand new coach terminus. It is vast and airport-like. A new, more modest, railway station is attached to it. New buses ply the streets of the city. The #512 got me where I wanted to be. But, it turned out that Hotel Franci, near the old terminus, was still closed for the winter season. Accommodation in MdP is not much of an issue, though, and within five minutes I found a room in a basic pension, called Impala. It charged 70 pesos a night, less than € 12. It had a TV-set, which I deemed necessary, for I wanted to watch the election results. Like Hotel Franci it sits next to an area, called Stella Maris. I quickly rediscovered all my hide-outs, such as the newsagent, the laundry, and La Esquina, a street café, where I had my morning coffee, while ploughing through huge amounts of news La Nacion was dishing up prior to the presidential elections.
Cool kids, who are having a great time.
All told I spent four nights in MdP. I walked a lot, visited the sea lions´colony near the port and worked feverishly on my tan. One eats well in Mar del Plata, so I had great lunches on the beach and nice dinners in neon-lit comedores, because that is where one eats best. I was quite sad to leave the town. But, I knew, a prize would lie in waiting, San Martin de los Andes. It took me 21 hours by coach to get there. And I was exhausted once there. However, as these things go, once inside Puma Hostel I met backpackers from Germany, and as always, when the world´s best neighbours meet, there is fun to be had. It has been partytime ever since.
This sea lion is having a whale of a time in Mar del Plata.
San Martin sits in the mountains, astride a lake. Instead of the scenery of a Dutch province, or a Tel Aviv look-alike, I find myself in surroundings more similar to those of Switzerland, or the South Island of New Zealand. Snow-capped mountains dot the horizon. Their faces are full of pine and very green, deciduous trees. Spring has finally arrived in this corner of the country. Birds chirp. Lamb and calves walk alongside their moms. It is all very peaceful. Or so it seems. But it is not. Trouble looms from the other side of the mountains, from Chile. The Andean mountain range in this spot may not be that impressive. Mountains do not go much higher than three thousand metres. But there are a lot of active volcanoes one of which, the Puyehue, has been spewing ash for more than a year. The tourist resorts suffer tremendously. Joshua, a 20-year old from near Hamburg, Germany, told me that visibility was almost absent last Monday. The past few days have been great, though, with lots of sunshine.
That bit of news demands more than one cup of coffee.
I met another young German guy, also from near Hamburg, called Jonas. We went hiking yesterday, Thursday 28 October. There is a place, called el Mirador, from where one has sweeping views of the lake and the mountains. So that is where we went. We spotted two more people there. As we approached them, they, and I, opened our mouths in utter amazement. There, in the middle of nowhere, 3,500 km to the southwest of Colonia Carlos Pellegrini Karsten, Bettina and I met again. We were overjoyed and hugged feverishly, astounded to see each other again. Sometimes, it seems, even Argentina is a small place. We met again that evening for a few beers, and parted, in the full knowledge that we will meet again in Puerto Madryn, on the Atlantic Coast of Chubút province.
No, this is not Lemesos, nor Tel Aviv. This is Mar del Plata.
Meanwhile Jonas and I have decided to team up and travel together for a while. Tomorrow we will be off to either Bariloche or El Bolson. Probably the latter, since that place is less affected by the volcanic ash. From there we will cross Chubút towards Trelew and thence to Puerto Madryn, to indulge in a spot of whale watching. From there we´ll head north to Cordoba. Thereafter I am going to visit my friend, Sebastian, in Rosario. So, probably, the next blog will come from that great city on the Paraná river. I find it hard to believe that in another three-and-a-half weeks´time I will be back in Amsterdam.
It has been about two weeks since I last filed a blog post. Yet, during this journey I can not think of a similar period of time that has been so diverse as the past fortnight. For a start I switched continents. I also exchanged the one megacity for the next one. Then there was another language and a different season -although by the looks of it you would not tell. (The clouds and rain of New York’s atumn were swapped for the ones of the Buenos Aires spring.) Two weeks ago I was still in the concrete jungle of New York City, where I submerged myself in a deluge of art. Now I am in a subtropical -and real- one, where Argentina abuts Paraguay and Brazil. There I fell prey to another deluge, in the most literal fashion. I got soaked by the waters of the Iguazú River; in the spot where they plunge down, and offer one of the most awesome shows on Earth, the Iguazú Falls.
That man makes such a mess in the kitchen! I know. And he takes forever in the bathroom.
The last few days in New York were very pleasant. I had been to the city only a year and half before and had therefore not felt any urge to go about the place in a frenzy. Yet, as always, once you start walking the streets of Manhattan you never stop. It is this just-one-more-block type of city that makes visiting New York so very tiresome. There is one place I always go to, because it never bores me. It is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I deem it the best museum of the world. It is also very big, and expensive. Last time, the recommended entrance fee was US$ 20. Nowadays it stands at US$ 25. That is a 25 per cent increase in about 16 months. So much for Ben Bernanke’s soothing comments about inflationary risks in the US! Fortunately I had met New York City-dweller Alice, while in Turkey, who explained that recommended only means just that. I stuck with US$ 20, and felt very bad about it. Why? Well, what museum advertises my arrival in such a grand manner? I was quite stupefied to see my name looming large above the entrance. But it was not me, but the painter Frans Hals, the Met were heralding. OK, Frans Hals and I are from the same town, Haarlem. But he is more famous and prized than me. And long dead.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was ever so delighted to see me back.
Other than the Met, where the sole thing I saw this time were the paintings galleries, I did the usual. I walked the Financial District and had a look at the building site of Ground Zero. And did not like what I saw. I find the newly-built high-rises too unimaginative, with far too much glass. Neither was I was much impressed by the centrepiece, which is still under construction. I wonder, whether it will hold the same appeal as the Twin Towers had, once everything is finished. I doubt it.
So nice to be reunited with Venice. Haven´t seen the place for ten days, at least.
On the evening of Monday, 3 October, I bid Melanie and Lily goodbye. Their regained peace-and-quiet will last until Tuesday morning, 15 November, for then I will be back in the Big Apple. Not for long though, since I have a Frankfurt-bound flight on Thursday evening, 17 November. Believe me when I write that I abhor of the thought!
A view of Brooklyn from the F-train.
The flight to Buenos Aires is a long one. It takes more than 10 hours, but it does not leave you with a jetlag, since the time difference is one hour only. Besides, I slept well. The airport has a new terminal with lots of -staffed- immigration and customs booths, that see to it that you are outside in no-time. I know my way around and before long I joined the queue for the number 8 bus into town. (Argentines queue for buses. And woe betide the queue jumper!) The bus takes about two hours to get to the centre of town -Buenos Aires is about four times the size of Berlin- and costs the ridiculous, and heavily-subsidised, sum of 2 Pesos, ie, 35 eurocents.
A view of New Jersey from Manhattan.
I found a cheap hotel, called Plaza, on the Plaza de Congreso. Things do not come any more central than that in Buenos Aires. I went to the local newsagent, bought a copy of La Nacion, the Buenos Aires-based quality broadsheet, then went to the same restaurant -the one next to the Ibis Hotel- and had lunch, consisting of ravioles, a bottle of still water and a glass of white wine. And thought nothing of it. I have been doing the same for the past seven years. As I was watching the news -the telly is always on in Argentina- I could not believe that I had ever left the country. Nothing had changed. But I have. Time was I was thrilled to be in the country. Nowadays it is all so normal; it is like being back home.
The Empire State Building reigns supreme.
I spent one night in that hotel and then went to my local hostel, called San Nicolas. That had changed, for the better. The place had been done up. Lots of places have, I find. The economic boom that started in 2004 simply goes on and on. Tellingly, the girls at the reception are no longer Argentine ones. They are Colombian. On the streets I notice far more dark-skinned, dark-haired, short people. They are Indians from Paraguay, Bolivia and further afield. The Greater Buenos Aires area has attracted more than 100 thousand Chinese in the past ten years. They dominate the local supermarket scene. But, La Nacion lamented, they do not learn the language and do not mingle. They send their kids to Chinese classes and when they go on holidays, they go to China. It seems, la Argentinidad is not for them.
A boom is called a bonanza in Buenos Aires.
Frankly spoken, I had no -and still haven’t- a proper campaign plan for the five-week stay in the country. I have seen most of what there is to see and just want to go back to those places that I really liked. Top of the list is Mar del Plata, my city on the Atlantic Coast. But, not yet, since the weather is awful there. (I take it, my readers know the Argentine provinces by heart and are well acquainted with the geographical layout of the country!)
I wanted to go to Rosario and visit Sebastian, but he advised against it since everything would be full for the long weekend, and he would be busy. So Rosario will come later. One needs to do a bit planning, though, since Argentina is a very big country. It is five times the size of France, which by European standards is a large place. And there is one thing that makes Argentina such an odd country; all of its main attractions sit at its edges. So I made a shortlist. There is the Lake District in Neuquén Province. There is Puerto Madryn, and the whalewatching, in Chubut Province. There is that delightful and small town, called Villa General Belgrano in Cordobá Province, and then there are the provinces of La Rioja, Catamarca and Salta in the northwest of the country. Those are stunning ones. The Argentina countryside is not pretty nor nice in those areas. There Argentina is simply spectacular. The mountains rise up to six thousand metres. The lakes are salty and teem with flamingos, the sole creatures having a good time in that environment. Cacti grow high in the barren soil. Fleet-footed vacuñas, ever-aware of prowling puma’s, feed off the grass and shrubs. Rock formations of three billion years lay bare, the world’s oldest. You have never seen nature if you have never been to South America, but if you want a mere taste of it, go to Argentina’s northwest. But, at night it is still cold out there. So I headed for the northeast.
A rainy evening in the city of Buenos Aires.
On Friday, 7 October, I took the coach to Concordia. It rained the whole journey. The Argentine coaches may not have all the technological gadgets their Turkish peers have, but they have more-comfortable chairs and more leg-room. It is quite a long journey. It gets you through the province of Entre Ríos, part of the area, called Mesopotamia. It is the land between the mighty Paraná and the less-mighty Uruguay rivers. It is flat and fertile land. Concordia is not much to write home about, but I feasted on Argentine beef in a very busy restaurant. To sweeten my wait for a table I got a glass of Argentine espumante. Quite nice, but then, the province of Mendoza knows how to handle grapes.
A view of some of the 270-odd falls of Iguazu.
From Concordia I went to Posadas, 530 km further north. This coach was virtually empty, which allowed me to sit in of the front seats of the top floor. (Coaches are double-deckers in this country.) This leg of the journey goes through the province of Corrientes, a country of big skies, wetlands, cattle and gauchos. Empty land, like most of Argentina. I was pleasantly surprised to see that the road, Ruta Nacional 14, is being converted into an autovia, which is midway between a dual-carriage way and a motorway. The RN14 has become synonymous with traffic accidents, and, once complete, the autovia will certainly cut the number thereof. Posadas has an enormous coach terminal way out of town, but these days it has a few hotels and a huge, new shopping centre next to it. So I checked in at a nearby hospedaje and then headed for the plaza de comidas in that shopper’s Mecca for a meal. The next day I went another 300 km further northeastward. I was now getting excited, for the province of Misiones is a very special place.
There is a lot of wildlife in the jungle.
Once you leave Corrientes and enter Misiones things become different. The earth is red, like in Brazil. The forests come thick, verdant with a densely-dark green streak. Gone are the pines, in come indigenous, deciduous trees of the tropical variety. The sky is of a darker shade of blue. The people are different as well. Misiones is one of the few areas of Argentina where people are not all-European. Most are of Guaraní origin, an Indian tribe, that lives along the banks of the Paraná river. They may not even speak Spanish amongst themselves, but Guaraní, or Brazilian Portuguese. In the evening people do not watch the dreadful dancing shows presented by that master of bad taste, Marcelo Tineli, but go for a racy Brazilian telenovela. I feel to see how tall, ever-blonde, 67-year old Susana Gímenez, who is now so over-botoxed that she can hardly open her eyes anymore, entices the dark-skinned, stocky women of Misiones to have her as their role model.
Misiones holds two major attractions. There are the ruins of the 17th and 18th century Jesuit colonies, from which this province takes its name, missions. (You may know the gripping 1986 movie The Mission, with Robert de Niro.) But first and foremost Misiones is home to the Greatest Hydrokinetical Show on Earth, the Iguazú Falls.
Now, what was a workday like?
There is nothing that prepares you for Iguazú. The waterfalls are located in a vast national park, some 1o miles from the nearby town of Puerto Iguazú. That is an attraction in itself, since it is situated at the confluence of the Iguazú and Paraná rivers, where Paraguay, Brazil and Argentina rub shoulders. It is a town with an end-of-the-world feel about it. This is one of the points where Argentina ends. There is nothing but wilderness thereafter. Pioneers live here next to Guaraní. Buenos Aires is a faraway city. I like those places. Alice Springs in the heart of Australia is like that, as is Ushuaia in the southern tip of Argentina.
There are quite a few tourists and travellers here, so much so, that every 20 minutes a bus peddles them between the town and the national park. And those buses are full to the brim. These days one pays quite a bit to enter the park. A ticket costs 100 pesos, more than €17. Once you are in, you walk into the jungle, but on well-trodden paths, though. And, this being Argentina, (nearly) all is wheelchair accessible. Yet, it is so big that you see wonderful birds in the trees, oblivious of the presence of man down there. You spot howler monkies who whisk their kids from the one tree to the next, equally unfazed by the camara-carrying animals they share most of their genes with. Once you head for one of the trails, you may discern a slight fog and hear sounds of what seems a rolling lorry. The closer you get, the louder the noise, until you recognise it as the roaring thunder of billions of litres of water cascading down the mountains. This was my second time here, but I was again awe-struck when I saw the first of a row of waterfalls. Eleanor Roosevelt, on her visit to the falls in the late 40s, reportedly exclaimed “poor Niagara”, when she saw the spectacle.
I keep admonishing my co-travellers that whatever they are going to do in life, they should go to Petra. May I exhort you, my dear readers, that your lives will be greatly embellished by a visit to Argentina? Should you make the effort, then, please, head for Iguazú Falls. You have never seen anything like it.
Nature is quite often quite spectacular in Argentina.
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of,
There’s nothing you can’t do,
Now you’re in New York,
these streets will make you feel brand new,
the lights will inspire you,
lets hear it for New York, New York, New York
Thus sang Alicia Keyes, and as a New Yorker from Hell’s Kitchen she knows what the Big Apple is all about. New York City is a big place. But for a city this size traffic is remarkably light. And traffic, such as there is, is mainly quiet. Another thing that always strikes me is how clean the city is. There is no litter, hardly any graffiti and no dog poop. And that in a city of 12 million, 8 million people and 4 million pets. To Europeans, most of whom never leave their continent, -but to quite a few Americans as well- New York is akin to Gotham City of Batman fame. In reality, though, it is a safe, civilised and pleasant town. Another thing that strikes is that no one smokes. Only when someone lights up you become aware of that. New York is also strikingly beautiful. It calls itself sometimes, with a measure of hubris, the Center of the Universe. Before I arrived here, though, I first went to another world-famous town. In its heydays it occupied the scientific, commercial and artistic high grounds, much like New York does these days. I went to the city that deems itself La Serenissima, or, more modestly, La Dominante. In other words, I went to Venice.
Croatia bids its biggest fan goodbye.
I left Zagreb, and thus Croatia, on Saturday, 17 September. I had enjoyed Zagreb. It is a very elegant, very mittel-European city, with neoclassic buildings, a majestic railway station and a 16th century old town, with Gothic churches and renaissance palaces. I was also quite impressed by the progress Croatia has made in the past eight years. The country had to get ready for admission -or accession in EU parlance- to the European Union and it certainly has made enormous strides towards that goal. The first thing that struck me is the abundance of information. Things like street maps, maps of bus and tram routes, announcements on trains, information on historic buildings, all those things we in the West take for granted, but which are mostly lacking in the vast majority of countries beyond the West. The difference between Croatia and the rest of Yugoslavia, let alone the rest of the Balkans, is impressive. The second thing that pleasantly surprised me is that everyone speaks English. In Serbia and Serbian Bosnia no one does. English means NATO, and that is an organisation that attacked the innocent Serbs in the 1990s. Now, why should you want to learn the language of aggressors? The third thing that struck was how prosperous the country has become. The noughties, as the first decade of this century is known, must have been good to Croatia, as it had been to Montenegro. I find it very encouraging and inspiring to see how many former-Communist countries have advanced. Poland is like that as well. I spoke to quite a few Croatians and begged them to say yes to Europe in the oncoming referendum on the EU. I said it would be so nice if you’d join us. Fortunately, I always got a positive response to that plea. I then headed for another European success story, Slovenia.
Lake Bled: picture postcard Slovenia.
Few countries come as picturesque as the Alpine republic of Slovenia. Two thirds the size of Belgium, with a tad more than two million people, it is nestled between Croatia, Hungary, Italy and Austria. For centuries it was part of the latter and it shows. When we boarded the coach for Bled in Ljubljana there was oompah pah music on. Oh, I said to my American fellow travellers, one can tell we are heading for the Alps. An elderly Slovenian lady merrily nodded in agreement. I had been meeting the two Americans, a very pleasant, married couple, for the past two weeks. They were from San Diego, CA. This year they were doing the former Yugoslavia for vacation, as the Americans call their holidays. Last year they had been to Austria, Hungary and the Czech Republic. They were independent travellers, but did so with suitcases. As she explained to me, backpacks had become too much of a strain on the backs. They were 72 years of age.
Lake Bled is a must-see. Probably, most Europeans of my age and beyond have already seen it, for it figured large on posters and brochures the former Yugoslavia used to lure us there in the 1970s. Two things immediately struck me when the coach pulled into the town of Bled. It oozes Austria-like affluence and order -and prices-, and everyone speaks English. No, not only the locals, but the visitors as well. When I got off the coach I was instantly exposed to a language, called Strine. It is the English spoken by Australians. Where did you stay, I asked. In a place, called Castle Hostel, down the road. A bed in the dorm comes at € 12 a night, they told me. So that’s where I went. After check-in I kept my mountain boots on, because I wanted to walk around the lake. I could have done it on my flip-flops, though, since it was more of a stroll through the park than a mountain hike. It was very pretty, though. In the middle of the lake is a small island with a Baroque church. Overlooking the lake is a massive castle, with an equally massive entrance fee of € 8. I went there, but found it slightly disappointing. The views were impressive, though. Equally impressive was the presence of middle-aged Americans and English. I had hardly met any of the latter. The Brits, it seems, are not attracted by the Balkans. In the hostel, though, there were plenty of them, both from England and Northern Ireland. There is a pub conveniently located around the corner and that is where we went. 20-year old Dean from Belfast slapped me on the back and invited me for a football game on the X-Box. I had never seen such high-tech a game and was impressed. Needless to say, I was not a particular apt player.
Slovenia is the Austria that happens to speak Slovenian.
The next day, Sunday, I took a local bus to Lake Bohinj. As it approached the lake the gates of heaven opened. It poured with rain. I had long yearned for it, but when it came I was fully unprepared. Rain has left my system and I never think of bringing a coat with me as a result. As always, though, Fortuna smiled at me, for, once we had reached the lake, the rain stopped. The Julian Alps are wonderful. Seeing cows in the meadows, Baroque churches sitting in the fields, and farm windows with flower boxes laden with geraniums I felt like being in Austria. It made me wonder when Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp children would appear, about to break into song.
Well, as I approached the end of the lake I heard a different sound of music. The locals were celebrating the descent of the cows from the mountain pastures. That event goes accompanied with music, the polka and loads of beer-drinking folk sitting on long benches aside equally long tables. For the ones acquainted with ZDF’s celebrations of Germanic -and totally untranslatable- Volkstümlichkeit, it looked like a scene from Musikantenstadl. (A dreadful all-German TV-show with all the clichés the Teutonic tribes evoke.) Only here, they partied in Slovenian. It convinced me that Slovenians are Austrians who happen to speak Slovenian. That evening I met Paul, the oil trader from Singapore, again. We had met in Skopje a fortnight before and were quite astonished to meet again a thousand kilometres up the road. We had dinner together.
Bled has two railway stations. One sits astride the major international railroad linking Munich with Ljubljana, Zagreb and Belgrade. It is 4 km east of town, and is totally useless if you want to go to Italy. The other one is situated in the west of town on the line to Gorizia, north of Trieste. It is a lovely building, more with the likes of a villa, or pension, than of a station. It could have walked out of a Märklin model railway brochure. It had a handicap, though. It was high up in the hills. When I left the hostel on the Monday morning the rains had returned with a vengeance. This time I was prepared, though. Both I and my backpack were wearing our raincoat. It was a long, and exhausting slog uphill, during which I got properly soaked. I had yearned for rain. Well, here I had gotten it. Derek and Karen looked equally battered when they boarded the train one station further down the line. I had hung out my towel, coat and Andy Roddick-style baseball cap to dry on the train’s luggage rack and they were going through a similar exercise. That set off a conversation that would only come to a stop when we parted at Venezia-Mestre railway station. They were from Vancouver, BC, and therefore represented a tribe one hardly ever comes across, English-speaking Canadians. Derek was a lawyer specialised in labour law, much like Irish-American Maura had been. So, while we travelled through the Julian Alps, walked across the border into Italy and boarded another train, this one Venice-bound, we discussed the differences in each other countries’ pension schemes, severance pay and job protection rules. Why do like travelling, Melanie’s mother would ask me a week later. Well, exactly for this reason: the one evening you play the X-Box with a lad from Ulster, the next one you discuss the oil markets with a trader from Singapore and the day thereafter you talk pension scheme with Canadians. That makes travelling so very interesting.
Derek and Karen were on their honeymoon and were off to Venice, whereas I was intent to go to the city where I had spent one night -the only one hitherto- in the bridal suite, with then 27-year old Ricardo from Sao Paulo. That was 10 years ago. We had not been able to find a place to sleep, neither in Venice nor in nearby Padova. The 5-star Plaza Hotel had come to the rescue with the bridal suite. Thereafter we moved to Hotel Junior, close to Padova’s railway station. It was still there, it had a room available and as the landlady came in to join her husband for the check-in procedures I exclaimed Lei non è cambiata! She was flattered. Of course she had changed, she said. She had aged 10 years and had become dependent on reading glasses. Well, I replied, so have I. And so, after all the hardships of the past five months I found myself smothered with attention by this lovely Italian couple, who have been running a very nice, no frills hotel for years on end. Padova is an extremely affluent and beautiful city. But pity Padova, for it sits wedged between Venice and Verona and therefore does not get the attention a city this age and size merits. (On the other hand, the Padovans are so content with their own town that is not them, but the ones who pass it by that should be pitied.) As I set out to rediscover the city the sun came out and would not leave me again.
No, Ferrara is not a Dutch town. It is Italian.
Padova sits at a major railroad crossing. That allows for daytrips to the surrounding cities that are all architectural gems in their own right. Vicenza or Ferrara, I asked the hotel owners. Ferrara, they replied. And so it was Ferrara. Italy and I have known each other since my boyhood. I am so utterly used to it, know the language quite well -although Spanish seems intent to destroy the fruits of my hard labour to properly master it- and am fully acquainted with its geography and its railway system. I merge with the scenery and blend in. The disposition is mutual. Hardly was I out on the streets of Padova and I was asked for directions. The same happened in Ferrara. Now, do I look like an Italian?
Ferrara, like Padova, is a must-see if you are into art and architecture and can stand good food. The city’s walls are impressive examples of Italian Renaissance defence works. Equally impressive is the medieval castle in the heart of town. Then there are the palaces, the monasteries, the cobble-stone streets, the elegant, and very expensive, shops, and the cyclists. Even more ubiquitous than in Padova, the cyclists are kings -and queens- of the road, and of the pavement and the squares, and what have you. They are not like their German peers, who wear helmets, wait for red lights and stick to the rules. Far from it. Ferrara’s cyclists would blend in wonderfully well with their Dutch peers. The cyclists come in all ages, and their bicycles in all shapes and sizes, but they all share that all-Dutch contempt, and disregard, for other cyclists, cars and that most spiteful of creatures, the pedestrian. It felt refreshingly like home when I saw grandmothers, with grandchildren in seats in the front and the rear, racing the streets of this Italian city as if they were participating in the Giro d’Italia. There is a major difference between Ferrara and, say, Leiden, though. It is the locks. They come very flimsy in Ferrara, whereas in Leiden they are massive and come at the same cost as the bicycle. Something must have changed in the land of Vittorio de Sica’s ladri di biciclette (the bicycle thieves) since 1948.
The city that needs no further introduction.
After Tuesday’s outing to Ferrara it was Venice’s turn on the Wednesday. It is a mere 45 minutes from Padova to Venezia Santa Lucia Station. Trains run very frequent. In contrast to their brethren on the Balkans they are also full, comfortable and run on time. They are not particularly expensive either. I had managed to find myself a one-way ticket from Padova to Ulm for Thursday afternoon, 22 September. It came at a cost of € 59. Not bad for an 8-hour, 580 km journey. Only too bad that the train does not exist. At least, not according to the Padova station timetable. How odd, I thought. Would DB, as Deutsche Bahn is known by its acronym, sell on-line tickets for non-existing trains? Oh, said the lady at the Trenitalia helpdesk, DB do that all the time. They have become so inaccurate, these Germans, she said without a trace of irony. I was told to take a regional train to Verona and see to it to get there before 2.45 PM because the Munich-bound train from Venice calls at Verona at 2.55 PM. But it says 2.08 PM from Padova on my ticket, I reiterated. Yes, but it does not call at the Padova railway station, the lady said. I was glad to have found that out 30 hours prior to the journey!
Venice, as always, was astonishingly beautiful, basking in the late summer’s sun. I found it fitting to be here. I had seen its trademark, the lion of St. Mark, in lots of places I had been to in the past five months. Venice, like Austria-Hungary, had been one of the main forces to call a halt to the advance of the Ottoman Empire into Europe. I had seen its ramparts and burghs in Cyprus and Montenegro. I had been in its arch-rival Ragusa, the current Dubrovnik and was currently staying in its backyard, Padova. La Dominante is one of her soubriquets, but I like La Serenissima much better, ie, the most serene. But it is not serene everywhere, because even on a Wednesday in late September the Rialto Bridge and the Piazza San Marco were teeming with tourists, many of them of the totally wrong kind. Those are the ones that fortunately visit neither Ferrara nor Padova.
The city's soubriquet is la Serenissima.
And so on Thursday, 22 September, I bid the hotel-owning couple an arrivederci, walked to the railway station, and was off to Verona. At 2.55 PM sharp the Munich-bound train pulled in. I sat down and bid the Chinese-looking couple in the compartment a good day. By the time we were past Trento we had established each others’ whereabouts. They were from Taiwan. I keep tab of the nationalities I meet on a trip. These were my first Taiwanese. The tally now stands at 48. Of course, you always meet Americans, French and Germans, but on this trip I also met a guy from the Bahamas, two from El Salvador and a mother and daughter from Thailand. Those were debuts to my travel scene.
Crossing the Alps and heading for Ulm.
I changed trains in Munich for Ulm and at 10.02 PM embraced Peter on the platform of that city’s railway station. We had last met in early February, when his wife Ema was still pregnant. I had not seen their six-month old daughter, Charlotte, yet. She was sound asleep when we got home. Ema was quickly gone as well, since she had to get up for work at 6 AM. Peter and I, on the other hand, kept going until 5 AM, which saw to it that Friday, 23 September, was a day spent fighting sleep and a hangover. As long as I stick to wine, or beer, I am all right. But the question möchtest Du ein Glas Whiskey? -and more to the point- my answer, ja, bitte!, put paid to any further plans or activities. I managed to do a bout of laundry, though.
However, once Ema was back home from school -she is a science teacher- we picked up the sweet little thing and went into town. We had only met once, in February 2007, just before I went away for a year. It was about time to get to know each other. We walked, we talked and with onkel Frans at her side, little Charlotte decided to behave extremely well. As behoves a woman, even at her age, she mightily enjoyed sitting on a street-side terrace and watch the world go by. That I evening I set a seasonal record by going to bed at 10.30 PM. I had not managed to accomplish that feat for a long time.
Your quintessentially German corner shop.
The weekend was spent in the hills of Schwäbisch Alb, east of Stuttgart. The weather was gorgeous. The trees and the light betrayed the first signs of autumn. We went to a reunion of Ema’s family. They hold one every year, but this was the first one since the untimely death of her mother, late last year. At first, I had my hesitations of joining a reunion of a family I do not know, but Peter and Ema were adamant I’d come along. As these things then go it turned out to be quite gemütlich and relaxed. We hiked, with Charlotte lying in her tank-like pram I dubbed the Kraus-Maffei Panzer, had a beer in a local in a small village, called Winzingen. While there I thought that in a week hence I’d be in New York. That seemed a world away, at that time. There were three young kids, aged 6 and 8, trying to light a bonfire, and making a mess of it. Now, I said to them, if something fires me up it is a bonfire, so let’s go and hunt for wood! I gained untrammeled respect and affection when the flames started to roar. Du bist echt cool, said 8-year old Luca. I know, I responded. Other than that we played cards, ate and drank, and washed a helluva lot of dishes. It felt like convalescing after five months of travelling.
Little Charlotte simply loves German pastry.
And then suddenly it was Monday morning, 26 September. As so often, the German train arrangements were in complete disarray. Trains were late by 30, 60 and even 190 minutes. I had to go to Frankfurt’s airport to catch a plane to New York. Train delays are the last thing you want in those circumstances. I decided to not make DB’s problems mine, but keep those in DB’s court. They were very kind at the help desk. I was rerouted -and upgraded free of charge- to a delayed ICE to Frankfurt’s airport and got there earlier than the original plan had been.
Things moved fast thereafter. The flight to London was an uneventful affair. We flew over Britain’s capital and got views of the Olympic Park, the venue of the 2012 Olympics. I find it always quite astonishing to see how close London Heathrow is to the west-London neighbourhoods. It is as if one is about to land in the garden of the Jones family.
The plane to New York was not full. That allowed me to move to a very nice seat in the front of the middle row, facing the TV-screen. Chairs on either side were empty which allowed for room to spread things. I fly Oneworld wherever I go. That way I amass points that allow me to fly to Madrid for free in May of any given year. By a merry coincidence the Spanish capital organises a nice tennis tournament during that month. (Spain has some good tennis players.) Thus I stumbled across American Airlines, when I went to New York in May 2010. I have become a big fan of it ever since. The seats are good, the food also, but it is the service that makes it stand out. Not a single flight attendant, it seems, is younger than me. Everything is done efficiently and professionally. Staff are friendly, easy-going, down-to-earth and no frills. American, really.
New York is a mere commute from London.
American Airlines have another huge advantage when it comes to flying to New York City, or more to the point, JFK Airport. They have terminal 8, a small-town terminal in a big-city airport. You are out of it in no-time. I took the AirTrain to Howard Beach station. That cost $ 5. I then paid another $ 2.25 for the A-train to Jay Street-Metro Tech, changed for the Coney Island-bound F-train and got off at Ft. Hamilton Parkway. We had touch-down at 7.45 PM at JFK. At 9.45 PM I had touch-down in the living room of 651 Vanderbilt Street in Brooklyn and was reunited with Melanie, her 83-year old mother, Lily, known as Granny, the Shih Tzu dog, known in Afrikaans as die kleine man -I am die groote man- and a few cans of Budweiser. Before long we were merrily chatting away in the most extraordinary mix of languages, thinking nothing of it: ornate, elaborate English, mixed with Afrikaans and Dutch, Hebrew and Yiddish. An outsider hearing us would think we were mad. Which we probably are, but we have been behaving so for the past 27 years. Over such a span of time it becomes normal, at least to us.
Home away from home in New York City.
The girls had my work cut out. Since my arrival I have been on a relay run to two different supermarkets, Foodtown and Keyfood, to get the supplies in. Granny is a fussy customer and sends me on all these errands that have endeared me to the ladies at the till of Keyfood: gefillte fisch, popcorn, cheese pizzas and what have you. But, you see, I don’t care, for I love walking the streets of Brooklyn.
Melanie had me clean the fans in her bedroom and the kitchen. Thereafter I leapt out of the window onto the fire escape to clean the windows. Mellie is a volunteer at an animal shelter, so I had to walk a dog. Occasionally I have some time off, though. I went to that mouth-watering art collection named after the steel and coking coal baron Frick and walked the Upper East Side. It is there that New York is simply so chic, so beautiful, and so elegant, that it beggars belief. Mellie and I went for dinner to a typical New York diner on 14th Street. Other than that I simply enjoy eating at home, checking the news and writing this blog. Guess what? I even watched Dancing with the Stars! Ricky Lake cut such a dashing figure that I want her to win.
I am such a big fan of New York.
From New York it is a mere 10-hour hop to another big place. Buenos Aires is beckoning. Ricky Lake won’t be dancing there. Susana Giménez would certainly not have it! A live report on all things Argentine will follow shortly. Bear with me.
