Tango Porteño - Nico and Beni do Buenos Aires

Proud, beautiful, and hopped up on maté, the porteños of Buenos Aires take the already ridiculous Argentinian late nights to an absurd extreme. Restaurants don't open till 10PM and stay empty until midnight or 1AM. The clubs start up at 2,3, or 4 and more often than not see the next day's light.

We never made it to breakfast in Buenos Aires.

Our days weren't entirely wasted though. We did see the wild and crazy futból fans of River Plate, check out tango birthplace La Boca, peruse the posh cemetery and hippie market of Recoleta and gaucho market of Mataderos, stroll through Soho wannabe Palermo, and eat the best pizza (Ugi's!!) South America has to offer. Had it at least half a dozen times.

Also got bed bugs. That sucked. And we made a toga party in the hostel. That was fun. And rocked a tango lesson before attending the glamorous reincarnation of Buenos Aires' dancing heyday in the 40's, a stylish show called (coincidentally) Tango Porteño.

Can't really think of anything clever to say. Probably because as I'm writing this I'm half asleep; the last two nights we've been dancing on the sand in Uruguay's international beach resort Punta del Este until 5:30AM (at which point we took an hour driving tour of the area with a local doctor) and then 7AM (stayed up for sunrise on the beach with a Dutch friend we met in BA).  We also had absurdly huge steaks in Montevideo.

Oooh funny story about the older women drug smugglers. Remind me to type that up. Or maybe you'll have to ask me in person. Ha.

Apparently in Colombia, restaurants close at 9PM. Gonna be a tough adjustment.

Off now to see Diego in Montevideo and Max in Buenos Aires and then Bógota here I come. Get ready.

Didn't end up seeing Diego or Max.  Did run into El Luco though.  Before catching you up to the good times in Colombia I'm gonna write a thoughtful post with complete sentences.  I've actually had to revert to a normal schedule for a few days because of the scuba  lessons.  So check back soon for Eat Pray Love - Nech, Danny, and Alana do the world.

Did Che drink Duff beer? - Nico and Beni do Córdoba

Shout out to new follower: loyal cousin Eitan. And though I don't think hers went through, Becca also said she signed up so she gets a benefit-of-the-doubt shout out. That one really rolls of the tongue. Now I know that at least two people are still reading :) But I digress...

Boasting one of the liveliest downtowns in South America, Córdoba buzzes with hundreds of thousands of university students who give Argentina's second city a legendary club scene.

Somehow we didn't end up going clubbing in Córdoba. In fact, though we loved the city, we actually had our best moments in two outlying towns: Villa General Belgrano and Alta Gracia.

First was Belgrano, the site of Argentina's very own Oktoberfest. Loaded up with a majestic beer stein that holds more than a liter, I watched tango, salsa, ballet and more drinking artesanal beers with German sounding names brewed just miles away. One, though, had somehow hijacked the most beloved American beer name of our time - Homer Simpson's Duff beer. I just wish Moe had been there serving us (though the Argentinians who had licensed the name for exclusive use down here were nice enough).

There we also experienced a moment that epitomized one of the fun (or sad) realities of traveling in South America: realizing that almost everyone you meet is on the same Gringo Trail as you are. Fun because it helps make good friends but sad because you're just not as unique as you thought you were. There we were in a small village several hours outside Córdoba sitting at a picnic table with Irish, Israeli, Dutch, and British backpackers. Two remembered us from a tour of the Potosi silver mines we had taken together weeks earlier. Two more wore buddies we had made riding around the Uyuni salt flats, also up in Bolivia. Two more Binny recognized from our hostel in Mendoza. And the last had been on a tour of the university with us that morning. All gringos. And, of course, the Jewish world was even smaller; I found out later that night that one of the Israelis had been on the Bronfman summer program with one of my FunHouse housemates. Think that called for one of many "Saluds!"

Alta Gracia, besides housing a historic Jesuit estancia, was also the childhood home of this blog's namesake: revolutionary leader Ernesto 'Che' Gueverra. I figured that I at least owed it to Che to check out his museum, so off we went. There I learned not only about Che the Cuban guerrilla leader but also about Ernesto, the father who in his final letter to his children urged them to be the best revolutionaries they could be and even about Ernestito, the little boy with asthma whose love for motorcycles led to one of the most memorable journey's of the modern era, inspiring many (including hopefully me) to take their own motorcycle trips to truly experience and understand new lands and people. Che's compassionate poem for the poorly treated Potosi (and Chilean) silver miners we had visited touched me even as his devotion to guerrilla tactics scared me. His last letter to soulmate Fidel Castro was in equal parts sweet, surreal, and awkwardly over-honest. And who but Che would smoke cigars while sitting in a tree in the Congo reading a novel and waiting for an ambush?

Even as I disagree with many of his tactics, I can't help but be inspired by how Che followed his heart to new countries, positions, and goals without fear or hesitation. In that, at least, I hope I can take on the Che.

Having some trouble getting Córdoba pics up so for now check out these sweet photos from overpowering Iguazu Falls and then check back soon for Beni's last stand in Tango Porteño - Nico and Beni do Buenos Aires.

Steak and wine - Nico and Beni do Salta and Mendoza

Argentina at last.  After four months of stumbling through developing countries whose roads weren't complete without a ditch every few steps and idea of hygiene was - well, let's not go into that - I had finally reached the promised land.

The change in atmosphere was immediate.  The border crossing was simple, clear, and efficient and we were waved through with a smile and a joke.  The taxi refused to take all five of us at once; apparently, we were now in a country with actual rules and safety measures.  Sort of inconvenient.

Our first stop was Salta where we sat down to the first of many steaks and bottles of wine at amazing value.  "Isn't that a little bit unhealthy?" "I'm assuming that the red wine will balance out all the cholesterol from the steaks.  Pretty sure it works that way."  Couple days later we rented a car and began a road trip down through ancient rock formations - including a gaping hole in the ground known as the Devil's Throat and a giant toad - towards the northern wine district of Cafayete for tastings galore.  Next day we passed through beautiful Cachi and thousands of cacti, stopping briefly to witness dozens of majestic Andean condors lift off and glide up through the adjacent mountains.



We downgraded transportation for our Mendoza wine tour, opting to go with the recommended Bikes and Wine company.  Expecting dirt country roads leading from one vineyard to the next, we were shocked to find ourselves tipsily navigating through cars and trucks on a bumpy asphalt road drunk not only from wine but also absinthe, schnaaps, licquor, gourmet chocolate, and jam.  And then back at the launching area we fought on a giant inflatable castle, complete (of course) with more wine.  "Not sure if this was entirely authentic experience."  "Fun though."  "Wonder what the Disney Wine Tour would have entailed?" 



After checkin out the local artisans, makin dinner, and hittin up the park, we walked the wide streets of Mendoza one last time before our east.  Check back soon for Did Che drink Duff beer? - Nico and Beni do Córdoba.

Note: Shout out to new Canadian friends Jenn and Jeremy! They have a family mountain. Also note that you can now become a follower of the blog. Do it!

Agent Salt - Nico and Beni do Uyuni

From the jungle we journeyed south to Bolivia's most famous natural landscape - the Salt Flats of Uyuni - via the silver mining town Potosi. Dressed up head to toe in miner gear, we tasted the miners' 196 proof liquor before descending down four levels into a still-active mine. To get the full experience, we helped a few out with their shovelling and offered some coca leaves to the devil-god Tio, a macho stone figure with a huge penis and slot for cigarettes in its mouth who punishes the miners if Bolivian women enter his abode. Then we exploded some dynamite.

Soon we arrived in Uyuni and began a tour of the flats in a sweet Lexus jeep with new English and Irish friends Becky, El Luco, and Niamh. We rode through three days of incredible landscapes ranging from cacti-filled desert islands to green, red, and pink (from the thousands of flamingoes) lakes to 5000 meter high views of multicolored rolling hills and valleys. Most stunning were the flats themselves, plains of white salt extending as far as the eye could see and allowing for pictures that boggle the eye with their perspective. Beni and I also took a few with our new mascot, the (singing) dog of the La Paz Strongest (the oddly named local futbol team). We generally wear our Strongest wristbands to match.

Though I've continued to practice Spanish, Beni and I find ourselves often learning new English dialects as well. For instance, "your man" in Ireland could not refer to your buddy but could be a serial killer. Or the dude at the Hertz office. We're often not sure which one. "Piss" probably takes the prize for versatility. If I jest to an Irishman, "Your economy sucks because your biggest bank is about to be nationalized [we found this out before the news because Niamh works at the bank]," then I am 'taking the piss out of him.' Alternatively, if I sarcastically follow with, "Don't worry, I'm sure taxes won't have to rise to impossible rates," then I am 'ripping the piss out of him.' If we decided to get drunk to forget about the problem, we 'go on the piss' and I can expect him to 'get pissed' because many Irishmen and women are 'pissheads,' but I hope he doesn't get 'angry pissed' and begin throwing Guinness bottles around the pub. But if I have to urinate? According to Niamh, "Eewww, I would never say ´take a piss.' That's just disgusting."

Next was Tupiza, where we silenced a (nearly empty) karaoke bar with a Spanish rendition of Hotel California on our first night; the next day we followed in the horse prints of Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid's last stand near the southern border of Bolivia with our own cowboy hats and leather riding crops. Sensing my love of galloping, the leader gave me Speedy Gonzalez to ride and we took off at every opportunity. Andeley! Andeley! My knee only went up another horse's butt once.

Check back soon for Steak and Wine - Nico and Beni do Salta and Mendoza.

Welcome (back) to the jungle - Nico and Beni do Madidi

Following some time in La Paz learning about the coca plant and watching tourists attempt to bribe their way into cocaine-riddled San Pedro Prison, Beni and I spent a couple of tranquil days in beautiful Sorata. Then it was back (bearing an herbal gift from our friendly hostel owner) to La Paz and north on a different road which joined at times the Most Dangerous Road in the World; that got us to Coroico and then Rurrenbaque, jumping-off point for trips into the rainforest of Madidi National Park.



What our location lacked in animal life it more than made up for in plants; the rainforest stocks more medication than we ever imagined. "Are there any plants that don't treat embarrassing medical conditions?" At the time, Beni's question was fair - we'd only seen a natural substitute for Viagra and a bark that fought hemorrhoids up to that point. We then discovered some more normal ones including leaves rubbed together to ease up sinusitis and wood rubbed on skin to drive away mosquitos.

The jungle knows its share of fun too - we tripped over "magic" mushrooms (unfortunately too dry for use) growing out of a log on our path and harvested leaves from the huara shrub known in Peruvian slang as marihuara. Unlike the mushrooms, these needed to be dried before use. More odd was the reverse-Viagra plant which was uniquely useful, according to our guide, "in case you want to get into the pants of your friend´s girlfriend."

But the biggest surprise was yet to come. According to our guide, the cure for (or at least prevention of) cancer has already been found(!) and lies in the wood of thin branches also notable for the huge amount of clean water stored inside that we drank simply cutting a piece off and angling it downwards. Sure as hell filled up my bottle with that water.



Also notable from the trip were my extremely ungraceful attempted sideways running dismount from the Tarzan swing and the French guy who wouldn't stop smoking yet still had the energy to climb up every giant tree we save (and the Tarzan swing). He also went swimming wearing only underwear and a funny hat.

Truth be told, in my case George of the Jungle swing is probably more appropriate.

Check back soon for Agent Salt - Nico and Beni do Uyuni.

Wavin' Flag - Nico does Sucre

Just days after I arrived in Sucre the whole city stopped to celebrate the Fiesta de Patrias, Bolivia's equivalent of July 4th. Since Sucre is the capital (and site of Bolivia's initial declaration of independence), every school, including my very own Fox Language School, was required to march in the parade.

Upon meeting up to march, however, Fox had a special surprise for me and the four other foreign students who had come to march with the local kids - huge-ass regional and international flags present to symbolize Fox's international focus. A few minutes later I was marching proudly through the streets of Sucre waving the Stars and Stripes in front of their Independence Plaza (25 de Mayo) and own version of a Liberty Bell. Felt pretty damn patriotic (and brotherly; we are, after all, cousins in liberation and democracy).

Though I had expected booing given the US's poor relationship with Bolivia, I received far more cheers than jeers. I learned later that Sucreans hate Bolivia´s president Evo Morales almost as much as Evo Morales hates the US. For them, the enemy of their enemy must be a friend. To quote my Spanish teacher after I commented on his president, "El Presidente, no mi presidente - The President, not my president."

In front of me, Kate was half-heartedly carrying the Australian flag, nearly considered treason for a Kiwi like herself. Just imagine a gun-toting Texan being told to carry the Mexican flag and you'll get the idea.

Admittedly, I could not take full credit for the crowd's cheers. On my left marched my Scottish buddy Neale carrying a regional Bolivian flag. His appeal, however, lay not in his flag but rather in his clothing - a revealing kilt straight from the motherland.

I post this after finally leaving Sucre, my home for a month of Spanish lessons, Bolivian cooking, drinking, playing (WallyBall, Rackuet, Poker, Ping Pong, Pool, Foosball), dancing, hiking, flirting with Bolivian girls, and movies with popcorn covered in chili powder. Good times.

Today I meet up with big brother Binny and begin more adventures on the road.

Check back soon for Welcome (back) to the jungle - Nico and Binny do Rurrenbaque.