Gridlocked

So I did some tourism yesterday.

I went to the Panteon Nacional where Bolivar is entombed and the Church where he was declared El Libertador, for those not familiar with the backstory, go here.

Unfortunately it wasn´t much to write home about.

And that´s kind of the way it is here in Venezuela. Tourism doesn´t really exist in Caracas because there are other preoccupations, I woke to the noise of what sounded like explosions this morning.

Ah, the coup is taking place I thought.

But it turned out to be industrial style fireworks at a rally / concert in Plaza Altamira that was just an anti-violence gig.

In other news, despite being the only gringo for miles, I haven´t been victimised by the police yet so I must be doing some decent fitting in. Two factors at play in this may be that I´m pretty dark right about now and that Venezuelans come in every imaginable hue and colour.

So what can you write home about Venezuela?

Seriously, if you want to see many beautiful ladies, this is the place to come. You can see why they´ve won five Miss Worlds and done the Miss Universe / Miss World double twice, the only country apparently to have accomplished this feat (Lonely Planet don´t fail me now!).

But on the whole, Venezuelans are loud, pushy and more aggressive than the Argentinians and in no way as laidback as the Chileans. Arguments in the bar are loud, vociferous and accompanied by all manner of threatening gestures.

The wolf whistling continues unabated, and in fact is the only new noise in the persistent gridlock of Latin American capitals.

I´ve got my routine here down though and am guilty enjoying my first shot of heroin for the eyes, TV, that I´ve sampled since New Zealand. You can tell America must be close by when the evils of the Warner Channel are visited upon you daily.

Then at 8pm, it´s obviously time for the Rumba. I adjourn to my local where everybody doesn´t know my name.

Everybody tells me that Caracas isn´t Venezuela.

I´m aware that it is not the whole of Venezuela but you really can´t take it out of the equation either.

Roll on Monday and the Nashville skyline.

Linkin´

Yo.

I´ve updated my blogs to read section.

Partially for my own convenience and partly for your own edification.

Both bloggers are devout readers of Scary Go Round which if you´re not reading already you definitely should be.

"a heap of broken images" is Lucy. She´s esoteric. And hip.

"it´s all a beautiful blur" is Jenna. She´s frank. And she´s got style.

Seeing as I´m taking the time to say this, I´ll fill you in on my other two pals listed.

"Paean to Wanderings" is Sam. Seriously one of the most intelligent people I´ve never met. Studied Philosophy at Oxford don´t ya know. He´s one of my good buddies from Nationstates where we run fictional countries for shits and giggles.

"Melbourne on the Mosvka" is Casey. Another Nationstater, who when he can be bothered keeps a rather amusing expat blog of a yankee living in Moscow.

Enjoy.

A Postcard from Caracas

Sometimes this trip is like being Clive James without the dry sardonic wit.

Without the camera crew.

Without the budget.

Having survived Sabana Grande and now being comfortably installed in the slightly more salubrious surroundings of Altamira, I´m able to take in Caracas a little bit more at my own pace.

Yeah, they have it all here in Altamira, valet parking, cops in abundance and no kids smoking crack opposite the Hotel.

I´m going to get into my sight seeing tomorrow, if I can get the balls together to actually drag the camera out. All of the main sights, all the Simon Bolivar related stuff, is in the absolute center and of course is a haven for thieves and bag snatchers.

In other news, pub culture does not exist in Caracas, in fact, it´s damn near impossible to get a decent beer around here. They only sell little ones, 220ml, on the basis that the beer will get too warm in another larger measure. Well, it sure is warm but at the same time!

On Tuesday night, myself, Serge and another Christophe ventured into the night, actually walking to the Metro at Plaza Venezuela in Sabana Grande. We made it and proceeded to Las Mercedes to sample the cafes. Serge claims to have been a hotshot private tour operator on the Isla Margarita with a sideline in providing working girls from the University as escorts for paying clients.

"I had alot of good clients" he says...

No shit Sherlock. That´s why you´re staying in this dive in Sabana Grande and working as a labourer. The complete bullshit artist.

The other Christophe is apparently working in Caracas and is steadily working his way around the low budget haunts and attempting to get an apartment.

Good luck with that.

Anything else to report?

Nope.

Nada.

The culture shock goes on.

Aló Presidente!

It was up at 3:45am, Monday morning, for some quick abolutions and then the taxi ride to the International Airport, Buenos Aires. LAN had me in the air for most of the day, via Santiago and then onto Caracas.

Despite some farting about with arrangements, all passed off relatively well in terms of the flights, and Fred (my rucksack), even managed to turn up on time. I can´t think how many flights that is now, and maybe it´s tempting the Gods of International Air Transportation but he sure is beating the odds as far as I´m concerned.

After my arrival in Santiago a month ago and that initial taxi driver melée, I thought I would be well able to deal with the BASTARDS this time. However, the Lonely Planet forewarns you with all sorts of messages about not stepping past the taxi rank at Caracas as you will be shot, etc. Not really putting you in the best head space for the coming onslaught.

Immigration and Customs successfully vaulted ("Is this your first time in Venezuela?" - No, I vacation here every weekend... What do you think!?!?!?!), we emerge into the Arrivals Hall to be grabbed by a man dressed as a policeman who begins to drag you away from Tourist Information and the Bureau de Change and all your grand plans.

Some minutes and some confusion later, having successfully disentangled yourself from this character and his taxi-driving amigo, you finally make it out to the registered boys and still get charged a whole wack.

120,000 Bolivares, which is roughly worth 45 euros. Still, they did ask for 150,000 to begin with, which the taxi-driving amigo assured me was a very good price for me.

Exactly. For me.

Are you getting that 2-tier sensation yet?

Caracas itself?

Imagine the problems of every major world city.

Then multiply by a million every single one of them and you still don´t even come close.

Ferrer, the driver from The Backpackers Hostel, who was supposed to pick me up, greeted me with the following:

"At least you are alive."

Simple as that.

On going out in the general neighbourhood of Sabana Grande.

"There are many robbers and you must also watch out for the police. This is the truth."

I kinda hunkered down with the French ex-pat community whom are making the Hostel their home for some reason and went to bed early, speculating as to the origin of the various suspicious noises that rang through the building throughout the night.

Today, Tuesday, I´ve already spent the morning in Alta Mira booking supposedly more secure accommodation for the rest of the week, a trip down South without my yellow fever shot seems pretty out of the question and I don´t think I could be bothered with going to the Caribbean island of Margarita and getting ripped off there aswell.

I´m pretty unimpressed with all of President Hugo Chavez´s rhetoric and posturing now. It probably emanates from the machismo of the Venezuelan culture and picking fights with George Bush and offering aid to the people of New Orleans is obviously a damn sight easier than alleviating the crippling poverty of Caracas and the Venezuelan people themselves. I´m not saying it could be easily done but the man´s been in power for close on 8 years and things do not look like improving in the near future.

There´s beautiful cars and beautiful people in the street but it´s the poverty and desperation of the majority on the outskirts and in places like Sabana Grande that really catches your attention.

Or does it?

Aló Presidente!

Business As Usual - Buenos Aires

Safely made it back to Buenos Aires.

Despite only having an hour or so to make the connection from the non-existent bus station in Rio Grande to the tiny Airport.

My luck was in however and I made it, then to San Telmo where despite a bit of messing around, I managed to book into a pretty decent Hostel.

Pretty much just slept last night as Ushuaia and the trip up had kinda taken it out of me.

All being well, I´m meeting Tiago and Joao (see: Are you Experienced?) and we´ll be heading to La Bombonera to see Boca Juniors take on some no hopers.

Then it´ll be early to bed as it´s Caracas via Santiago early tomorrow.

The guide book makes Caracas sound like Iraq for a Gringo but sure we´ll see.

I may not stay there long at all and may instead try and make it to Ciudad Bolivar and down south to Angel Falls depending on what tour operators offer at the Airport.

My time in Argentina, close on a month, is almost at an end. I had the most fun outside of Buenos Aires and with the locals.

Some of the cliches are true. Maté is imbibed with frightening regularity, probably challenging the frequency of the Irish cup of tea, street dogs are ever present, nobody can drive but on the other hand it´s a really safe country.

The only thing that has happened at all was having a 5x5 inch paving slab thrown at me from a bus in Rosario following the local derby (Newell´s Old Boys vs Central), I´m not complaining, he missed and I think he could have hit me if he wanted to. He was just being an ass in front of his mates, they get a little crazy after the football and the same thing and much worse happens in Ireland and the UK.

I´m definitely coming back to Argentina at some stage to do the apparently very pretty North and West of the country. Salta, Cordoba, Mendoza and Bariloche but you need probably two months to do this country properly in one trip and I just don´t have that kind of time.

At this point, I´m kinda tired I think... Not homesick as such but I´m getting to the point where I wouldn´t mind bedding down for 2-3 weeks somewhere and that ain´t going to happen in the next month and a half.

Lying in bed the other night, instead of counting sheep, I started counting Hostels and different places I´ve stayed in the last two and a half months, close on to 25 places now, which averages out as nowhere for longer than 3 days or rather nights.

Sydney was where I stayed the longest for one stretch, followed by Wellington (though that was two seperate stints) but alot of places have been for 1-2 nights and that takes it´s toll.

Down in Ushuaia and indeed even in Argentina, the kids on Round the World trips are much less frequently encountered, Santiago is obviously a more hardcore stop as they were all there, and people are more interested consequently in Argentina in my trip than they have been at any other point.

"It´s alot of travelling", they say.

And so it is.

So it is.

UPDATED: Boca Juniors 1 - Arsenal 0 (No, not that Arsenal)

Hey, That´s No Way to Say Goodbye

Drunken blogging.

There´s nothing like it. I´m going to keep that last entry just to remind me how low the quality curve can go and hopefully never plumb the same depths ever again.

It´s time to talk about Ushuaia properly.

We had a great time in Ushuaia.

It was like being part of a small family for a few days, a grown-up existence for the perpetual teenager, that rare sort of vibe that you hit every now and again on the road.

There was Patricia (Argentina - Visiting her sister down south), Graciela (Patricia´s sister), Diego (Graciela´s boyfriend and a firefighter at Ushuaia Airport), Tiago & Joao (Portugese brothers, who were booked on the same activities as myself and also staying at the Freestyle Hostel), Dan (a native of Michigan, who lived in South Africa for ten years and had just sailed a boat 37 days from New Zealand to Ushuaia solo en route to South Africa) and Jennifer AKA California (one of the numerous American students from Buenos Aires studying Spanish and taking a quick break down south).

There were others, walk-ons and such, but these were the most significant players.

The scenes took place in either The Hostel, down on the seafront or perhaps most often, The Dublin, the conveniently located Irish bar that was a block and a half from The Hostel and the focal point of Ushuaia by night.

To give you an indication of the kind of small town community we had going, Patricia and myself took a stroll to check out Dan´s boat on the Friday. Unbeknownst to ourselves whilst we were negotiating the quay that is in such a precarious state, each step on the rotten boards is an exercise in faith, Graciela and Diego were able to look out their apartment window and laugh at us.

Now that´s a small town.

We went for the ever present and ever popular hot chocolate shortly afterwards in one of the myriad chocolate joints that exists in Ushuaia only for Jennifer to arrive in the door so many seconds later with the Austrians and Dutch in tow.

We spent most of the time discussing language and accent, or rather, Patricia spent most of the time giving out about both my Spanish and my English.

Thursday was the National Park. Up at eight am, we weren´t picked up by Yani (our guide) until about 9:30... The group was about ten people and the snowfall and the relatively low temperature made for a fun trek. Snowball fights were numerous and we spent most of the time attempting to ambush other tour groups. Apparently this is the last week for tourism in Ushuaia as mid-Autumn pretty much makes the trails and passages out of the question for all but the most hardy traveller.

The trek completed there remained the question of the kayaking in the bay that the National Park surrounds. Finally, it was a question of sure, why the hell not?

Ten seconds in and facing into the blizzard, cramp in my thighs and frostbite in my fingers setting in, the answer was clear why not. But, we persevered and 40-45 minutes later were safely deposited at the far end of the park, the storm that had threatened thankfully held off.

I came across the sign that indicates the end of one of the main National Roads in Argentina. Theoretically, this road takes you as far as Anchorage in Alaska, therefore the sign indicates the distance of 17,848 kms to Alaska and 3,000 kms to Buenos Aires.

I´ll be in Alaska in four weeks time so needless to say I took the picture.

On Thursday night, I made the usual mistake of going to a club in Argentina. In my defence it was the End of the World and you kinda had to see what it had to offer. We went to Fusion, driven by Emiliano, and as we skidded and pulled handbrake turns in his tiny jeep on the short drive to the club you began to understand what sort of night was in prospect. The snow had fallen heavily all day in the National Park and the aftermath left the roads in dangerous condition.

The club was funny, pretty much every kid in a radius of probably 50 miles was there and the age of the kids was pretty much open to dispute. We stayed for an hour of deplorable electronic music and then hopped back into the car for some more dicing with death.

Walking home at 5am, having deposited Jennifer and co, to their Hostel, the ground was by now covered in a foot deep of perfect snow. I´ve never seen anything like it and well, it was an experience.

Friday night, we had our last evening out and everyone bar the boys from Portugal was there.

I came in late, did some drunken blogging, picked up my backpack and stumbled out into the snow.

Into the wild.

To pick up my bus to Rio Grande and from there, punch the sky all the way to Buenos Aires.

I could say more but enigmatic is pretty much all I´ve got left.

The End is the Beginning is the End

It was snowing man.

Really snowing.

We trekked 6 kilometres and all that was confirmed to me was that I HATE FUCKING ROCK CLIMBING!!!

Outside of that, we spent a pleasant afternoon, despite the snow, enjoying Tierra Del Fuego National Park. Then some sea kayaking.

Chalk it up.

The kayaking was... interesting...

Southern Exposure

Ushuaia.

It´s just stopped snowing and we´ve gotten in 2 hours late at about 10:30 pm.

It´s about a seven block hike from this joke of a bus station to the Hostel but Ushuaia is a surprisingly big town. All that´s here is Antartic expeditions and tourism and two Irish pubs.

The Freestyle Hostel lives up to it´s reputation and provides a spectacular vista of the Harbour from it´s guest living room.

Navigation on the Beagle Channel yesterday. A little trek on a small uninhabited island, Thomas Bridge´s Island to be exact (oh yeah, I forgot to mention we crossed the Magellan straits on a ferry during the bus trip from Rio Gallegos to Rio Grande! = FUN!), the sea was as calm as anything.

Nothing like the Stewart Island catamaran from Invercargill, New Zealand.

So Sea lions, Fur Seals, Penguins and Comorants...

Wild life.

Just like the Ushuaia locals.

Had a night out, lost in translation style last night... Two Portugese, Two Argentinians, a Mexican and a guy from Ireland walk into a bar...

A recipe for disaster in any man´s language.

It´s snowing right now.

And we´re about to hop into a canoe in Tierra Del Fuego National Park.

The Death Agony of Capitalism

There are approximately 600 or so card-carrying supposedly revolutionary Marxists in Ireland.

It´s sod´s law that you end up talking to a member of the SWP (Socialist Workers Party) from Phibsboro on a bus journey from Rio Grande to Ushuaia.

To start with, the journey from Rio Gallegos to Rio Grande encompasses, not one, not two, not three but four border crossings! Which is an incredible pain in the ass and a ridiculous exercise in officialdom...

Out of Argentina, into Chile, out of Chile and back into Argentina...

In the space of about 4 hours.

The old passport took a bit of a hammering.

We finally got to Rio Grande and I was approaching 20 hours of bus station - bus - bus station - bus existence.

Then the rickety old bus to Ushuaia.

The snow began to fall heavily and the pitch black outside provided a canvas for the falling snow as the bus skidded it´s merry way down south.

So yeah, the world political situation as a whole is chiefly characterised by a historical crisis of the leadership of the proletariat.

We never did get past that.

Until The End of The World

Back to El Calafate.

A greater variety of nothing to do is on the agenda today. I´m currently looking into accommodation options for my return to hell, Buenos Aires, and my voyage into the unknown next Monday, Caracas - Venezuela.

It´s Easter this weekend which means Buenos Aires will be heaving, thankfully, Milhouse is fully booked out so I´ll have to look elsewhere.

Tonight, I take the bus to Ushuaia, transit through scenic Rio Gallegos and arrive tomorrow evening, Fin del Mundo at approximately 9pm. The Freestyle Hostel has very good ratings from those I´ve met so far so it should be a pleasant stay and it´ll be navigating the Beagle Channel, penguins and a spot of sea kayaking for the following four days.

I´m meeting Graeme (UK, Sheffield to be precise) shortly, see the hike around Fitz Roy - Touching the Void entry, and we´re going to try and locate a pool table in this one horse town. Then, it´ll be a night in The Famous Grouse undoubtedly, the Irish / Scottish pub, which is one of the few nightlife options that El Calafate offers.

Then.

Ushuaia.

The southernmost city in the world.

El Fin del Mundo.

Here Be Monsters.

Touching the Void

El Chalten: April 7th to April 9th 2006

Having witnessed the dusty plains and uninspiring landscape on the bus ride from Rio Gallegos to El Calafate, Patagonia was colouring me distinctly unimpressed.

Hopping on the early bus to El Chalten on Friday, after kicking some French ass in the El Calafate Hostel on Thursday night, it was hard to know what to expect.

But El Chalten delivers, in spades.

The weather, when she decides to piss it down, definitely does. However, we have been blessed with three days of Patagonian perfection and magnificent views of Fitz Roy and Cerro Torre mountains and the accompanying glaciers.

I hadn´t expected to do much trekking on this trip but we´ve overdosed this weekend, I had a solo hike up to the lookout point for Cerro Torre on Friday afternoon which took about three hours and yesterday, with Graeme and Mike, we managed a round trip to the lookout point for Fitz Roy and around one of the calmest and clearest lakes I´ve ever seen in about six hours.

I was definitely hurting on the ascent of about 350 metres but managed to hang in there. Turns out a desk job for six years and copious alcohol consumption at the weekends is not the best training for this kind of stuff.

Thankfully the weather has held, because there is nothing to do but trek in El Chalten, we are talking about a mining town where mining never really got off the ground. In fact, you want to trek out of here, the glacial winds that rip through the valley whipping up the dusty roads make it completely inhospitable and even a trip to the shops is a mission that must be considered carefully.

Last night however, the wind dropped for no apparent reason. After a couple of drinks in the microbrewery we were invited to a local party, which took place in one of the numerous buildings that are in the midst of construction in this little village.

A fun evening and despite being kicked out of bed at 10am this morning, things aren´t too bad.

Nothing on the agenda today barring catching the 6pm bus back to El Calafate and hopefully catching Manchester United vs Arsenal on the TV.

Conversation is genuinely different in this Hostel compared to The Milhouse in Buenos Aires. In BA you inevitably hear an English voice inquiring as to the best nightlife that BA has to offer, Friday night, somebody here said they wouldn´t mind climbing Everest.

The funny thing is, despite the task, whether clubbing or climbing, the motivation at it´s root essence remains the same.

Why?

Because it´s there.

Goodbye to Comodoro Rivadavia, Rio Gallegos and all that...

Welcome to El Calafate, in the heart of Patagonia, Argentina.

So I took the long way round. Funnily enough, I had been remarking to myself that despite five weeks plus in South America I would not have fully done the bus thing, the principal mode of transport.

The universe stepped in, and agreed.

Next thing you know you´re arriving at midnight at Comodoro Rivadavia, the focal point of the Argentinian Petrol industry into a tiny deserted airport. The one taxi, well, he isn´t even a taxi. 15 pesos and you takes your chances. Lord knew where the bus station was, so this gringo was down to but one option.

Safely deposited at the bus station it became apparent that this was one hole of a town. As bus stations go after midnight this was pretty much par for the course, the usual cast of vagrants, petty thieves and weary travellers. Imagine missing out on all this civilisation I mused to myself.

The bus was due at 01:05 to take us to Rio Gallegos.

It did not arrive till 2am and it did not leave till 02:30am.

Great fun and not even a cafe in the place open.

O, itinerant dogs of Latin America!

O, unlevel paths of Argentina!

Why have you forsaken me!

Anyway, we got on board and of course there was the usual, will I, won´t I, wake up the person blocking access to my sleeper seat. She even had a little dog on her lap, whose unfeasibly large eyes on a tiny frame provided an eerie glow in the dark of the bus.

I actually managed to sleep, which was nice, but as 2pm approached the next day, it became clear there were going to be problems at Rio Gallegos.

Originally, I would have had a couple of hours to transfer and double back to El Calafate but the unexplained delay the night before made this look increasingly difficult. Worst still, I had to exchange a voucher for a ticket, one nonsensical scrap of paper for another, before Argentinian officialdom would be satisfied.

Amazingly, they actually held the TAQSA coach for the delayed Andesmar passengers and thank fuck they did. If, Comodoro Rivadavia is a hole of a town than the etheral nature of Rio Gallegos could probably never be put into words. Argentinian transport, all is forgiven.

So a quick, hop, skip and a jump and we were on the bus to El Calafate.

We pulled in here at roughly 7pm last night and I had a nice early night on a fully horizontal bed for once. I gave the glacier a miss this morning and am just spending the day catching up on different bits and pieces.

It´s off to El Chalten in the morning for a couple of days where a more serious glacier awaits in any case and then back to El Calafate for 1-2 days before heading to Ushuaia.

More bus shenanigans.

Great craic altogether.

So you know, don´t worry you guys.

I feel pretty good, but that ain´t saying much.

I could feel a whole lot better.

I´m a Backpacker, Get Me Outta Here!!!

Or "Plan B From Buenos Aires"!

Well, the less said the better my friends.

Let´s just say I´m in the domestic airport, 10 hours later than I should have been in the International Airport in Buenos Aires.

The result is that I´m flying to a town I´ve never heard of, to catch a bus in the middle of the night to a place I´ve never heard of, where I´ll have to change buses and eventually arrive in El Calafate a day late.

The kind considerate people at Aerolineas Argentinos have also taken the liberty, thanks to my non-appearance this morning, of cancelling my return to Buenos Aires from Ushuaia on the 15th.

Great.

This means I´ll now be flying from Rio Grande to Buenos Aires having successfully negotiated a trip by bus from Ushuaia that morning.

And the worst part is I don´t remember a thing.

Now that´s backpacking.

Scar Tissue

While I'm being honest.

Yeah.

-------------------

Location: Left fore-arm.

Size: 1.5 inches approx.

Where you caught it: Buenos Aires

Why: Being polite.

Impressiveness Factor (Out of 10): At least an 8 at the minute.

-------------------

Location: Left shin.

Size: At least 4 inches.

Where you caught it: Santiago

Why: Hopelessly inebriated.

Impressiveness Factor (Out of 10): 6

50 First Dates

Name: Melisa

Age: 22

Nationality: Argentina

Occupation: Hostel Barmaid | Training to be a Doctor

Right.

Where to begin?

This trip has it's high points and it's low points, this is an in between. We talked so much last night it seemed kinda obligatory to go out and give it a shot tonight, so that's what we did.

Now, at the best of times, I'm terrible at reading signals but at the same time, this girl quoted, of her own volition, my theory of life back to me. We were on the same page on so many levels, it was kinda scary.

Needless to say, tonight, she lead me a merry dance.

I think half of it is self-defence. As a Chilean girl said to me about two weeks ago: "I don't even want to know your name, 'cos you won't be here tomorrow..."

And she was right.

So what can you say?

When you're trekking up a hill in the middle of Santiago with an Australian girl from Brisbane and having "amusing" incidents, one after the next and then the very next day, despite all your best intentions, finding yourself in the company of a German girl training to be a paediatric neuro surgeon (and boy, could she drink...).

It's all in a day's travelling.

The title of this blog is surrealist | absurdist.

Some people have picked up on that, others have pushed the boundaries of my sanity to it's very limit with literal interpretations.

In essence, this trip is about finding what it is about me that I want to keep.

And what I want to change.

Right now.

Day 61.

I still don't even know where to begin.

Other people keep finding me.

And that makes it kinda hard to focus on priorities.

So tomorrow.

Laundry.

Maybe Rosario Vs Newell's Old Boys.

But no women.

Definitely no women.

I've got a date with a Karen from Galway in Buenos Aires on Monday night.

Hasta La Victoria Siempre

Rosario rocks.

The pace of life is just right, there is something very French about the style of the place and the weather is well, nigh on perfect.

Did I mention this is my third week of mid twenties celsius and not a drop of rain in sight?

So the bus ride in from Buenos Aires was anxious enough, waiting around the station for my loser of a bus company was an exercise in faith. Eventually they came through and five hours on one smelly coach on some of the flattest land I´ve ever seen was endured.

Pulling into Rosario, you get to see how the bottom 10% live and it´s utter squalor. I´d imagine there are parts of Buenos Aires that are even worse but this is regular shanty town.

I was starting to think I had made a major mistake coming here but it levels off and being a town of 1.5 million had to have some nice areas.

And indeed it does, the Monumento Historico Nacional a la Bandera being the supposed highlight and it´s indeed spectacular. On the river front, it´s a parthenon-esque structure surrounded by flags and makes tribute to Argentine´s who died for their country. Just as in Buenos Aires, this famous structure now seems to host teenagers semi-permanently break dancing with video cameras in hands whilst couples compete against each other for who can perform the more amorous embrace in public.

Largely unsung but far more interesting for myself was the walk out to Plaza de la Cooperación and Entre Rios Street. In the Plaza itself their is a large mural depicting a vision of Che which embraces both the light and dark side of people´s interpretations of the revolutionary fighter.

The plaque reads that Che was born in Rosario and the house stands but a few metres from the square, it goes on to say that he fought and died attempting to create a society that was more equal and just. Official Rosario does not attempt to play up the Che angle and in fact the house itself remains in private ownership today and is off limits to the public.

The locals I´ve met so far have been absolutely cool and it´s taken getting out of Buenos Aires to actually enter into this sort of cultural exchange. There should be some Mate later on and more conversation with people who don´t put barriers up and like to talk.

So yeah, Rosario has made the list.

Prague, Czech Republic; Vancouver, Canada; Rosario, Argentina

Places I´m prepared to countenance living.

Hasta La Victoria Siempre.