Southern Legitimacy Statement: My latitudes and longitudes may not exactly qualify, but few places in the world are further South than South Australia. The dirt is red, the barbeque is king, and we love to shorten things just like y’all do!
Don’t Laugh at Me, Argentina
If you saw me at the airport at the start of a long-distance trip, you’d never think I was a world traveller. Trying to psych myself up for a torturous overnight flight ahead, I look like a hopeless novice, constantly rummaging around my handbag for my passport and a pen. No matter how many biros I stuff in different compartments, all of them vanish before I leave the ground. If I can’t manage to hold on to a pen, what hope is there to keep it together for some ridiculous zigzag around the world that I’ve planned while sitting comfortably at home with a cup of chamomile tea?
Once on the plane, I begin to suffer dehydration and back pain, and decide that any attempts to sleep would be pointless – I’m better off staring at the stupid screen all night. Nine times out of ten I discover that I have left my earphones at home, so music is out of the question. A gaping hole appears in my normally decent willpower, and down that hole goes all the horrible aeroplane food, substandard wine, cakes and ice-creams. I roll off the flight feeling like a bloated whale. I’ve developed blisters without even walking (for some reason, brand-new boots seemed an irresistible choice of travel footwear), and my backpack is saturated in coconut oil and nail polish remover.
Will I ever learn? I will, and I do. Flying home a couple of months later I’m a tanned, confident, much lighter version of myself. But a month of homely comforts, and when I take off again it’s back to square one.
It is in this raw, newby state that I arrive in Buenos Aires one late summer evening. Though, for me, it’s actually a summer morning, and despite having been on the road for the last couple of days, I cannot convince my body to sleep. Through the hostel window, I discover the Porteños (the capital’s fun-loving residents) are also having trouble sleeping. At 3 a.m., some watch television, whilst others host disco-ball parties. It’s a regular Tuesday in Argentina.
In the morning, I’m ready to make new friends, but the only other being at the hostel is a lonely visitor from Dagestan. He’s the type that spends the whole day in the common area, excitedly talking on the phone, telling everyone who cares to listen about all the amazing stuff he saw from the balcony. By the looks of things, I’ll be exploring this city on my own.
It’s nothing like love at first sight between me and this city. I imagined Buenos Aires, the place I have craved visiting for so long, as a vibrant, colourful, joyful metropolis. If there is one formula that I’ve learned applies to travelling, it’s:
Expectations minus Reality equals Disappointment.
The city’s sombre crowds, untidy streets and the veritable stampedes in the subway leave me baffled. The entrance to Retiro (the city’s filthy disgrace of a bus terminal) makes me want to run away or, better still, get back on the plane. To aggravate things further, I can’t find anything vegetarian to eat besides horrible pizza, dripping with grease at every corner eatery.
What am I doing at Retiro? Trying to take a day trip. Anywhere, away from this awful city – someplace with more air and greenery. It doesn’t go well. The bus I’ve purchased tickets for never turns up. Having almost fainted from hunger, sleep deprivation, and heat, I give up on the idea of escape and decide to methodically fall in love with Buenos Aires instead. I mean, it’s not often that scheduled buses don’t show up at all. The Universe is trying to tell me something.
Having failed to fall for the city organically, I revert to a couple of life hacks I have come up with over the years. One: Search my phone contacts for any Portenos I’ve met on my travels and ask them for suggestions. Two: Post on the Couchsurfing Hangouts page that I’m here and ready to explore, and ask if anyone wants to join. Three: Find good coffee and a salad. Actually, that should be number One.
Soon, it all comes together: First, Cafe Green Eat – a temple of quinoa, green juice and broccoli, light years away from the scary parilladas (ubiquitous eateries serving up entire herds of grilled and barbecued animals). Next, Ateneo Grand Splendid – a firm contestant for the world’s most gorgeous bookstore. Here, staring at me from the shelf, is Andrea Marra’s book Soltera Serial (Serially Single), a humorous slice of the Porteño lifestyle which becomes my best friend for the next few days. My relationship with the city is improving by the hour.
We get along even better once I meet Alejandro, a budding writer and a shameless flirt. Late-night bars, street art, and beautiful people crowd Palermo and San Telmo – atmospheric neighbourhoods waiting to show off their charms with the help of my new guide. Drinking surprising quantities of Fernet – Italian bitters with cult status in Argentina – Alejandro and I stay up late talking travel and exchanging innuendos. “Late” in Buenos Aires terms, the time people in other countries get up to go to work. It now seems absurd that just a day ago all I wanted was to run away. By the time I leave the city a few days later, I’ve taken tango lessons, drank a gallon of Fernet, and am ready to declare my love for Argentina’s feisty capital.
My last day in Buenos Aires is wasted on a doctor’s visit (note to self: forget about doing this again in Argentina unless I’m really dying). I wander the dusty corridors of La Boca Public Hospital looking for a mythical “Consultorio 100”, but the consulting rooms only go up to ninety-six. I do a couple of rounds past eight-dozen doors (decorated with welcoming “DO NOT KNOCK” placards) before I find a single human who leads me to Consultorio 100 – conveniently hidden in a separate alcove before Consultorio 1.
There, in the austere traditions of this hospital, I’m met with two chairs and a tiny empty desk reminiscent of rural African schools. The doctor, who is as worn as the furniture, draws out a scrap of used paper, crosses out whatever is written at the top, and scribbles something that could be my name, his name, or any other combination of two illegible medium-length words. After hearing my problem, he finds another paper scrap and scribbles a prescription. Meanwhile, my jittery mind wonders what caused this severe shortage of paper, who has the job of tearing the scraps to size, and whether they use the Fold or the Ruler method. The doc hands me the dodgy-looking script. That’s it. No computer, no record of my visit, no bill. The three minutes I’ve spent in Consultorio 100 leave no trace at La Boca Public Hospital.
Now I’m good to go, and looking forward to a two-week ramble around the north of Argentina, which begins on Easter Friday. The only problem is that I forgot to travel light. It’s taken me years to replace my old pack-ridiculously-heavy-and-get-my-bags-lost-by-the-airlines approach with a hand-luggage-only policy, but on this trip, I’ve slipped back into my old ways. I’ve packed heels and party dresses, picked up paintings and books in the capital, and now look like a Christmas tree with my two backpacks, a shoulder bag, a tube of artwork and an extra satchel. What kind of viajera (traveller) does that?
Seeing me hobble with all that stuff up the ramp of Retiro, only a fool would not think to take advantage of me. After all, this is South America, where words like ladrones (criminals) and deliquencia (crime) are as commonplace as tango and maté.
Suddenly, the foul smell of the revolting grey liquid splattering on my hair and clothes brings my thinking muscle to a halt. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve heard of this particular scam, it catches me unawares.
Of course, it could NOT have been a bird. Or anything other than what it was – a toxic liquid someone threw at me to make me stop and put my bags down, which I do. My neck is burning and turning red. The stench is nauseating.
A couple of locals stop to help, offering me tissues and water to clean myself up.
“Oh my Goodness, it’s terrible! You poor thing! You have so much of it on your back!” they chirp with fake sympathy.
After a mere few seconds of checking my back, I turn around to find my bags GONE. Backpacks, paintings, the stupid extra satchel – the lot. All I have left is my tiny shoulder bag.
My heart does a tango-worthy flip.
My helpers scream “They went that way!” Infected by a sense of wild panic, I dash up the ramp while my bags disappear in the opposite direction. It’s a team of professionals I’m dealing with. Both preparation and execution are impeccable; their dexterity makes me look like a kindergarten escapee trying to navigate the adult world.
Sad and defeated, I break down at the police station, bawling at the unpalatable truth. I wallow in self-pity, recollecting the contents of my bags: my favourite silver pendant, which I forgot to wear this morning and now will never see again. The book I bought just yesterday and was looking forward to reading. Worse still is the realisation that I can’t trust all people – a Groundhog Day moment for me. And to think how I thanked them for helping!
The Universe, as always, has a point. I pull myself together. It’s time for me to re-invent this trip. I still have my passport, a phone, a credit card, and a packet of tissues. Enough to take on the world.
It’s late afternoon by the time I’m done with the police report. I desperately need a place to stay, a shower, and a new dress, all of which prove problematic on Easter Friday. Eventually, I stumble on the last reasonably priced room in Buenos Aires. And suddenly find myself surrounded by an assemblage of warm, caring people from all over the world, a big family who all cook and chat together in a dingy hostel with a measly 5.7/10 rating. Ah, reviews! Can’t take them too seriously. Not everyone writes reviews. The champs staying at this hostel for weeks may not. But someone might stray in, not feel the vibes, see the peeling paint and feel they need to rant about it. No matter! This little gem of a place will go on, despite the reviews. By midnight I have bought a new dress, a hand-painted number from the night market.
More than anything I’m scared to tell Mum. As always, she’d lent me some of her favourite travel gadgets with a sigh:
“I’ll probably never see them again.”
“No-no-no, I never lose anything these days,” I had reassured her. And I don’t, when I listen to my intuition. It clearly told me: take the stairs, do not go up the ramp. Why, then, had I ignored it?
“Mum, please don’t freak out, but…”
Many a phone call has started this way, so she’s somewhat conditioned. Mum is kindness. Her every cell is generosity and kindness. I can hear the relief in her voice when I say I’ve lost all my stuff.
“I’m sorry I didn’t look after your things.”
“Which things? I can’t even remember…”
I’m sure she remembers. She just feels I’ve had enough for one day and she’s right.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve probably already bought new ones, you know me.” She pauses. “Listen, Dad is here, he says the most important thing is you’re okay.”
Next up, the amazing race Buying Clothes and Other Essentials on Easter Saturday Afternoon.
Location: The large, but reasonably pretty, city of Rosario some 300km from Buenos Aires, where I arrive a day late thanks to the “incident”.
Participants: Myself and my Couchsurfing host Fernando. We only met five minutes ago but he’s fully onboard.
Racing against: Time, the Argentinian banking system and all odds.
Fernando, darling, has a heart of platinum. At first, it’s like having a personal shopping assistant. I’m useless at buying stuff and don’t enjoy one bit of it. He helps me pick out some gems from the mass of wearable ugliness that’s on offer, and he’s not afraid to admit that certain items currently in fashion turn me into a potato sack. He even talks some lazy shop assistants into undressing a mannequin for me to get the last pair of decent pants in town.
Soon Fernando outgrows his newly adopted role, becoming my new best friend. He resuscitates me with a mate(herbal tea) when I can’t go on. Offers to lend me cash when my credit card stops working. When we get home some six hours later, I collapse, and he cooks while I nap. My faith in humankind is restored. As we share the defining moments of our biographies over dinner, I know that even if I don’t see a single sight of Rosario, I couldn’t have picked a better place to come.
I travel around the north of the country with a tiny backpack, washing every evening and wearing the same things. It’s liberating. The less you have, the better you sleep, especially on the road. Stunning as the country is, its highlights are its people: my Couchsurfing hosts and hostel buddies are good-hearted and giving souls. A hostel owner in Salta spends her entire morning helping me resolve yet another financial crisis; later that day I’m offered a piece of cake and discover it’s her birthday. I’m bursting at the seams with gratitude for them all.I get so used to bathing in this kindness that when I come to Mendoza and don’t meet anyone who wants to be my immediate best friend, I suddenly feel lonely and deflated. All the same, by then it’s time to pack my three pieces of clothing and head home. I climb aboard my flight, knowing I’ll be back for more tango, Fernet, and twists of travel fate.
