Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool!!!

I hurried down the stairs of my apartment building, flew out the door and stopped dead in my tracks. The street, always bustling and filled with the sounds of screeching buses, honking cars and noisy pedestrians, was dead silent. The circle of old men consistently parked outside the kiosco was gone. Jason, the street-side fruit vendor, was ominously missing. Not a single car was in sight. Had a bomb been dropped on the city of Buenos Aires, obliterating everyone but myself? No, a bomb had not hit, but the World Cup had.

I have witnessed what one could call a national obsession, but even an obsession cannot convey what fútbol means in Buenos Aires, nor complete craze the overtakes the city during the World Cup. The weeks of la Copa Mundial however, are an exception to the typical Argentina fútbol climate. While the country is wholeheartedly united in their fanatical passion for the Argentine National team, a sense of national pride is far from the norm. Typically, fútbol is a matter which actually divides the people. Ok, let me take a few steps back. Professional Argentine soccer is huge, and pretty much everyone has “their” team. Once you choose your club, there’s no going back, baby. You support your team to the death, and switching to another is nothing short of treachery. I have spoken with several Argentines whose fathers nearly disowned them (I am not exaggerating!) when they opted to support another team. Indeed, one’s team is nearly hereditary, a tradition passed down from one generation to the next. I have heard that it is not uncommon for a newborn baby to be registered as a fan of his or her club even before the birth certificated is filled out and they are recognized as a citizen.

If you ask someone to which team they belong, you are pretty much guaranteed to hear one of two things: River or Boca. There are a ton of professional soccer clubs in Argentina, but the two main ones are Boca Juniors and River Plate. The rivalry runs very deep, and is not so unlike the rift between the Montagues and the Capulets: the fact alone of belonging to the other team is reason enough to detest, and possibly engage in battle with that person. Once driving by the Boca Stadium in a taxi, the driver stated casually, and in all seriousness, that we were passing the public toilet. Boca and River play each other the biggest game of the year, el Superclásico, which I suppose is similar to the Apple Cup, but the likelihood of having your mother insulted/having a bottle smashed over your head is quite a bit higher. I didn’t make it to el Superclásico, but I was lucky enough to attend a Boca Juniors game, in their stadium against another porteno team called Hurucán. Before I even entered the stadium, I was completely overwhelmed by a pulsating sea of blue and yellow, the huge, billowing fans, the screaming of trumpets and the deafening roar of los hinchas (the fans).



The Boca fans had an impressive repertoire of songs, at least ten, although I soon learned that each was some version of we will destroy you “hijos de putas,” to a different tune. For los hinchas, the game is so much more than just fútbol: it is pride, it is dignity, it is masculinity. Something that really stood out to me at the Boca game was how engaged the spectators were in the game itself. Unlike a football or basketball game in the US, where people are sipping a beer and chatting, Argentine fútbol fans are completely engrossed the game and hardly speak at all, if only to toss out the occasional ‘hijo de puta’ at the ref or the other team. There is no alcohol allowed in the stadiums, but I’m assuming that it’s because of safety reasons. Boca lost the game, and the fans took it pretty hard. Most of them just sort of stayed in their seats, looking a mix of dejected and like they wanted to punch something. To avoid any post-game fisticuffs, they let the other team’s fans out of the stadium first and probably with enough time to drive home. We had to wait about an hour to even leave our section of the stadium. In the end, I made it out alive, and a little more tuned in to the madness.

While I am on the subject, it is impossible to talk about Argentine fútbol without mentioning Maradona, soccer legend and Argentina hero. Diego Maradona is idolized, and in the eyes of many Argentines, nothing less than a god. And I’m hardly being metaphorical here: there are people who spell god (dios) as “D10S,” using #10, Maradona’s number. Another example: a ten peso bill is colloquially and commonly referred to as a “Diego.” Every Argentine has seen the footage of Maradona’s two most famous goals at least one hundred times, and despite his infamous past spotted heavily with drug use, highly inappropriate comments (usually about Pele) and violent run-ins with the press, he is unquestionably revered as the greatest soccer player of all time. Diego is the poor pibe from the slums of Buenos Aires who was born a soccer genius and carried Argentina to a gold medal in the 1986 World Cup.

Fast forward 24 years. Diego Maradona is coaching the National team. The city is decked out in light blue and white, and every store plastered in World Cup regalia. The front page of every newspaper and magazine is filled exclusively with articles discussing the upcoming game and analyzing the previous. All anyone talks about is fútbol. There is a 90% chance that if you pass by someone on the street (this includes little old ladies, 7 year old children and probably even the porteno dogs) you will hear the word ‘partido,’ or ‘fútbol’ or ‘Maradona.’

Essentially, life is put on hold. The entire city shuts down: school is suspended until the end of Argentine games and most people don’t go work. You may see some people head to work on game days, but don’t let this fool you: almost all businesses have televisions are brought in and NOBODY works. An Argentine explained to me that their dad works for an olive oil factory, and that through their union, demanded their undeniable and god-given right to watch all Argentine games, or else they would strike. They also ordered that media lunas be provided as a game-time snack. God forbid there be no media lunas. Naturally, the olive oil company abided both requests.

And it isn’t just Argentine men who fanatically follow the World Cup. Even my incredibly up-tight grammar professor, who called me out the first day of class for arriving late and then again during that same class for eating a sandwich (only a little bitter), had gone completely crazy. This woman, who follows the syllabus like it’s a map leading to Treasure Island, was skipping entire lessons on conditional phrases and past perfect tenses to analyze Maradona’s decision to sub out Tevez in the second half.

For the first Argentina game, I went to Parque Centenario, the big park right next to my house. They had a huge screen set up in the amphitheatre, and despite the fact that it was pouring rain, there were still a ton of people out to support the team. Only the World Cup could 1) incite an Argentine to go outside when during a downpour and; 2) wear these ridiculous floppy blue and white hats.



For the first regular play games, Argentines were generally pretty pessimistic about the team doing well, and usually made nasty comments about Maradona being a terrible coach (indeed, it is possible to distinguish between Maradona the player-god and Maradona the coach). The past two World Cups, from what I understand, Argentina kind of choked, and I think that the people were kind of bracing themselves for the fall. However, when Argentina won their first three games and moved on into the final 16, fans allowed themselves to believe that Argentina had a chance at the gold. I was in Iguazú for the final 16 round game, Argentina defeated Mexico. What occurred after was a sight to behold. All inhabitants of Iguazú, decked out in celeste y blanco, faces painted, fled to the streets to celebrate. Hundreds of cars drove around the blocks surrounding the city center, waving flags, screaming, singing, in an outburst of uncontainable joy. After about an hour of driving, they headed to (and filled) the main plaza where they spent the remainder of the day partying. Iguazú is a tiny, tiny city, and I was blown away by how the game (not even the quarter finals) had provoked so much pride and elation in a community. Watching the news, it was apparent that every city in the country had gone completely nuts.





The quarter final match took a drastic, bipolar turn. Argentina suffered a severe defeat to Germany, losing four to zero. In stark opposition to the fiesta that had raged the week before, the country fell into a state of national depression. I watched the game at Parque Centenario, which was jammed packed, and I was as excited as anybody to see Argentina move forward. Even sadder than Argentina losing the game was how deeply it affected the people. No one spoke, the man standing next to me punched a wall, and everyone was really suffering. I thought my taxi drivers were going to kill both of us, because they were driving so aggressively, apparently projecting their inner rage on the road.

Though it was not the happiest of endings, I feel so glad to experienced the World Cup 2010 in Argentina, to have cheered and to have suffered, and perhaps even going a little crazy, with the Argentines. I will always be an hincha de Argentina at heart.

El Transporte, o sea, un Kilombo

Por Taxi:



The most expensive way to travel in Buenos Aires (though still relatively cheap compared to the US, usually between $5 and 10), taxis are the best option if you’re in a big rush or if it’s late at night. There is never a shortage of taxis in Buenos Aires. I read somewhere that there is one taxi for every 83 people living in the city.

I usually really enjoy taxi rides because of the interesting conversations I have with the drivers. I get the impression that most customers tend not to talk, because when the drivers realize I’m willing to chat, they will talk non-stop until the moment I get out of the cab. Many of the drivers are from Buenos Aires, and get extremely offended if I ask if they have always lived in the capital. (obviously, I don’t ask this question any more). There is a joke that when porteños refer to Argentina, they are actually just referring to Buenos Aires. And it’s funny because it’s true: many of the people from Buenos Aires (about half of the country’s population!) consider the rest of the country, called el interior, and its people to be inferior. I had one taxista who drove me to the airport for my trip to Jujuy and ranted for twenty minutes about how Jujuy is feo (ugly), and that I would never find beef as tasty as there is Buenos Aires. I sat in the back chuckling silently as he described the generations of butchers in his family, how he decided not to be a butcher because it was too cold in the meat freezer, but that he was nevertheless a master of the asado. Every man in Argentina thinks that he is the master of the asado. This conversation however, was relatively tame to some of the others I have had, in which really derogatory things were said about people from el interior. Though, probably for every driver who is originally from Buenos Aires, there is one who is from another Argentine province, or from another South American country. I have heard many stories from taxistas who moved to the capital many years ago to find work, leaving their families behind. Almost all of them say they miss the tranquility and the friendliness of the people back home, and would like to return when they retire.

Aside from the BsAs vs. interior theme, I have all kinds of random conversations, from a taxi driver who swore he had a photographic memory and that if he saw me in ten years he would recognize me, to heated political and/or soccer related rants, to another when I received some serious life advice and was encouraged me to seize the day, ignore what other people thought of me and live in the present. Once I got really angry when one tried to convince me that’s it’s perfectly alright for a man to have a wife or a girlfriend and at least one other lover. A memorable chat was with a taxista who explained to me that Argentines are accustomed to crisis, because it is ingrained in the country’s history and national consciousness. Often they are very interested to hear how I like Buenos Aires, and what I am doing here. Interesting fact: I have only seen one female taxi driver in five months.

Por Colectivo:




El colectivo, known in Argentine slang as el bondi, will always be shrouded mystery. On a typical bus ride, I find myself gripping the railing for dear life, clutching my purse, as the bondi bombs down tiny streets, swerving and veering along its maniacal route. If one hand is clenched on the hand rail, the other is grasping my trusty Guía T, a little yellow book which breaks the entire city into quadrants, and shows which of the city’s 144 bus lines runs through each. Even my Biblia (the Guía T) can get me so far. Mystery #1: Where are the bus stops? There is no official way to access this information, and basically, you just have to know. Therefore, finding the right stop and knowing where to get off the bus can be quite problematic. I am often frantically alternating between squinting at the tiny print in my Guía, flipping between pages to follow the route, squinting outside the window to figure out what street we’re on, rifling through my book again, realizing I am utterly and completely lost, hustling up to the front of the bus, and asking the bus driver to tell me when to get off. And to find the bus stop in the first place, I ask people on the street. It’s pretty amusing because porteños never like to admit they can’t answer a question, and will invent the location of an imaginary bus stop in the case that they do not know. Mystery #2: Where is my bus? Oftentimes I will wait for my bus for 20 or 30 minutes, and then all of a sudden four will pass by at the same time. My personal theory, which I have confirmed with several bus drivers, is that the chauffeurs within each bus line are friends, and due to extreme boredom, prefer to travel in packs so they can chat at stop lights. I admit, kind of cute, but quite annoying if you have somewhere to be. Mystery #3: ¿Dónde están las monedas? (Where are the coins?) You have to pay the bus fee in monedas, yet these precious coins are scarce in Buenos Aires. Often restaurants and stores don’t have coins to give you for change, and people will leave larger tips than necessary in bills so they can keep their monedas. They are precious, and everyone, myself included, hoards their monedas de 25 centavos (a little more than 5 cents US), as if they were 100 dollar bills. Mystery #4: Where is the pimped-out bus? A girl who studied here last year informed me that are a few mythical “pimped-out” buses in the city, and that I would know when I saw one. She was right, and I knew I had arrived the second I stepped on the colectivo: it had several disco balls, black lights, an engraved steering wheel, blue lights and a sign reading, “El Club de Amigos del Bondi.” In some ways, I think that the bus system really embodies the city of Buenos Aires. In both I perceive ‘un desorden ordenada’” a sort of madness which makes sense, but only in a nonsensical kind of way.

Note: It is highly advised when travelling by taxi or by colectivo to not pay too much attention to one’s surroundings. Just like on the chairlift it’s a good idea to not think too hard about how high up you are, it’s usually best to not look out the window too intently. The drivers are, to put it lightly, psychotic, playing chicken with eachother at intersections, showing zero regard for stoplights and traffic signals, and careening down streets coming within inches of crashing into other vehicles.

Por Subte



Hot, sweaty, and crowded, el subte is my chosen mode of transportation. The subway makes a lot more sense than the colectivo: it consistently leaves from the same places and the stops are clearly marked, and it is much more reliable. The down side is that things get pretty up close and personal. Crowded doesn’t even begin to describe what it’s like on the subway during la hora pico (rush hour): I am almost always sandwiched between two people (and I mean like a Panini sandwich, really smashed together). The other day, my face pressed up against the back of a woman’s head, I thought to myself, “Ah, Garnier Fructis shampoo, that smells nice”. It is also tricky because at each stop there are the people entering the subte, shoving themselves into the cart (despite the fact that there is clearly zero space), and at the same time those stuck in the back of the cart yelling and pushing their way to the front in desperate attempt to get off. All the while, the rest of the passengers are grumbling, gesticulating angrily, and trying to avoid being trampled. So not quite as comfortable as travelling in the Focus, but definitely an experience.

There are 6 different lines, and each is a little different. My favorite is linea A, because it’s made of wood, is very old and reminds me of a train. There is also about a 1 in 10 chance that the subway won’t be running because the workers have gone on strike, in which case I head above ground and begin searching for a bus that could be anywhere and may or may not arrive. Luckily, nothing starts on time in Argentina.

¡Feliz cumple Argentina!

Argentines love holidays. Tuesday, May 24th was el Bicentenario, or the 200th anniversary of the revolution that terminated Spanish rule over Argentina. (They also celebrate July 9th, which is their actual independence day. Like I said, they like their holidays). Since 24 de mayo fell on a Tuesday, President Cristina Kirchner decided that Monday may as well be converted into a national holiday as well. Actually, the entire week preceding the 24th was basically a massive celebration: Avenida 9 de Julio, the landmark avenue in Buenos Aires spanning 12 lanes across, was transformed into the setting for the party, and the Obelisk, its epicenter.



I think I now know why the many of the government-run buildings in Buenos Aires, such as the universities, are not in the greatest condition: the government had been saving up all its money to spend on el Bicentenario. 9 de Julio was spectacular, flaunting multiple stages, huge screens, flashing lights, and a large exhibition for each of Argentina’s 27 provinces. Each day thousands of people flocked to the city’s center to partake in the festivities.





In honor of Argentina’s birthday, the Argentine World Cup team played a game against the Canadian team. I headed to the stadium with two of my friends and the rest of Buenos Aires to watch Argentina crush Canada 4 to 0. Before the game even started they shot out and covered the field in little pieces of blue and white paper. It was pretty amusing watching the team of guys with leaf blowers running around trying to clear the field, fruitlessly fighting the wind. The game began an hour and a half late (in true Argentine style), with the field still partially covered in tissue paper. We were sitting right behind one of the goals, and got a good view of the team and their famous coach Maradona each time they went on and off of the field. After the game, there was a huge firework show, singing and lots of joy.







On Tuesday, the day of el Bicentenario, I went to the highly anticipated parade, where Argentina really whipped out the big guns. It was as if the government was saying: Alright, maybe our political history is a little shaky, and perhaps our economy is not what you might call stable. But that's besides the point, because we can throw a better party than any other country in the world. And I would have to agree. It was an incredible parade, and so many people came out to see it and to celebrate that you could hardly walk down the street. The parade consisted of 16 floats, each representing a different chapter of Argentina’s history. They were huge, ostentatious, and very impressive.

There was fire:



There was snow:



There were flying cars, flying people…



A full-size charter boat and a crane dangling an enormous, flaming constitution (which was lit, metaphorically, by the military dictatorship):





My favorite float was the one representing the economic crisis of 2001: there was a group of about ten people suspended in the air, flying around and fighting over money. The entire parade (and 200 years of history!) took over three hours, mainly because the unruly crowd kept rushing into the street and blocking the floats. I headed home down 9 de Julio that night, covered in water and soap (no idea), reaffirmed in my belief that Argentines know how to how a good time. I wouldn't be surprised if they have already started planning the Tricentenario :)

Ushaia: Mi Viaje al Fin del Mundo

Having visited Jujuy in the north, Mendoza in the East, and of course, Buenos Aires on the western shore, only one corner of this enormous country remained to be explored: the South. And I when I say South, I really mean it. My French host sister Anna and I travelled to Ushaia, la ciudad más austral del mundo (the most southern city in the world), also known as “El Fin del Mundo,” (the End of the World). Ushaia is located in Patagonia, in the province Tierra del Fuego (the land of fire). Nothing about Ushaia however, makes me think of fire. Maybe the Land of Ice and Snow, or the Land of Arctic Chill, but certainly nothing above zero degrees Celsius.

We took a very early flight, and I woke up just as we began the descent into Ushaia. It was a spectacular sight: the huge basin of water and the imposing mountain range seemed to devour the tiny landing strip. It was so tiny in fact, that I was amazed to land in one piece. We passed quickly through the small airport and headed outside to catch a cab. Despite my attempt to mentally prepare for the weather, I couldn't help but be a little shocked when I first stepped outside and was hit by the bitterly cold Patagonia air. And I swear I wasn't just being a wimp: Ushaia is about as close as you can get to Antarctica without actually going there.

After leaving the airport, we checked Torre del Sur, our small hostel perched atop the hillside overlooking Ushaia. Anna and I had a room to ourselves, with huge windows and a panoramic view of the town. When we first entered our room, two of the fattest cats I have ever seen in my life were sleeping on our beds. Their names were Alfonsina and Garcia, and they looked more like small mountain lions than domestic pets. To my disbelief, I discovered later they were both on a diet, and had already lost a couple kilos. Luckily Alfonsina rolled off my bed and waddled away (probably to eat), because I’m pretty sure there would not have been room for the both of us.

A view from our hostel:



After walking around the center for a bit, we grabbed lunch at a little restaurant. When I opened the menu, what I saw nearly brought tears of joy to my eyes: salmón. Yes, the wonderfully tasty Seattle delicacy, along with a bunch of other types of fish, was served in Ushaia. There is very little fish in Buenos Aires, and this was the first seafood I had eaten since I left home. My salmon sandwich was extremely satisfying, which is good considering that it will probably have to hold me over until I get home in August.

Next we headed to la Glacial Martial. The only way to get there is by taxi, and our very friendly cab driver drove us up the windy road, giving us some background on the area, telling us his life story, and insisting that we pull over at random tourist stops to take pictures. For example, it was imperative that we pose with this carriage:



We hiked around up by the glacier for a couple hours, and soaked in the majestic landscape. At the glacier, and throughout my trip in Ushaia, I was often at a loss for words. I found myself saying "Wow" a lot, as any adjective could only begin to capture the surrounding beauty. That being said, I'll let the photos speak for themselves:



We started heading down just when the rain started. It would have been perfect timing had there been a taxi to take back to town, but unfortunately there were none in sight. Left with no other option, we began to trek back along the road, down the hillside, in the pouring rain. An hour and a half later we arrived back at our hostel, soaking wet and freezing, but feeling like we had just survived an authentic Ushaian adventure. I discovered the main heater by the front door of our hostel and parked myself next to it for the next several hours.

The next morning Anna and I headed down to the waterfront for una navegación, where we boarded our boat, El Tango. Despite the boat's ridiculously lame name, we had a wonderful tour. There were no more than ten of us onboard, and we could ask our tour guide questions whenever we wanted. There was also a big cabin we could go warm up a bit when we felt the frostbite coming on. We travelled to three little islands/big rocks throughout Canal Beagle, where we saw tons of wildlife and many amazing views. El Tango drove right up to Isla de los Lobos, where the sea lions were barking there little hearts out. We were hardly a few feet away, and the only thing stopping me from hopping over to join the party was the guide's warning that falling into Canal Beagle would guarantee a slow and painful death. El Tango also drove around in circles, and a large pack of seals followed us around, jumping playfully in the wake.







We disembarked at Isla Bridges, where the guide gave us a tour, pointing out the different native plants and giving us some history on the Yámana, the indigenous people who used to inhabit Tierra del Fuego. We learned that the Yámana survived mainly off of sea lion and seal fat, and that to be able to digest such a diet, their abdomens expanded, increasing their average body temperature several degrees higher than the average human. And not only did the go swimming to look for food and shells, but they lived naked. That really blew my mind. I was literally wearing seven layers and still freezing. The outstanding resilience of the Yámana could not however, withstand the arrival of the Europeans: two hundred years ago there were thousands of the Yámana, and now in Ushaia there only one still living.

Isla Bridges:





Anna and I made our way over to la pista para patinar, where Anna made her first-ever appearance on the ice-skating rink. We realized quickly that Argentines ice-skate like they drive. In other words, like complete maniacs. At any given time roughly 50 percent were on the ground, while the rest were completely out of control, on the brink on crashing. Despite not being the most hospitable of learning environments, Anna quickly picked it up. She started of clutching the rail, but by the end of the night she cruising around the rink, dodging Argentines, like a natural.



We spent the next three days hiking in el Parque Nacional. We did three different routes, and the scenery of each was completely unique. The first day we hiked along the shoreline, passing through thick forested areas and wide open fields. The landscape was constantly changing as we forged ahead: one moment I felt like I was heading to the mountains to go skiing, the next at the ocean ready for a boat ride, and minutes later I was in the woods, expecting Frodo Baggins and crew to appear at any moment.







Day 2: Snow. Ushaia was a winter wonderland blanketed in several inches of soft powder. The only pair of shoes I had was my running shoes, so to stay dry I wore plastic bags in between my socks and shoes. I looked like a homeless person, but fashion was a low priority on this trip, and my feet stayed dry. Once again, extremely diverse terrain: we passed by the sea, lakes, creeks and peat bogs, and through (according to my brochure) Subantarctic Southern Beech Woods.







The red posts marking the trail were buried in snow, and about half way through the hike we took a wrong turn and somehow ended up at the border with Chile. Though it was not exactly the trip I had envisioned, I am glad that I made it over to Argentina's skinny western neighbor, even if only for 30 seconds. Here am am in two countries at once!



Day 3: The final day we hiked along the bank of an enormous lake, in the shadow of the Andes.







During my stay in Ushaia I constantly had the sensation of being overwhelmed by the massive and indomitable natural environment. Even though town itself, hanging precariously on the mountainside, has not come even close to taming this rugged terrain. Having descended down into El Fin del Mundo, I emerged convinced that nature will have the last word.

Jujuy: Lana, Llamas y Pachamama

Last weekend I headed to Jujuy (pronounced who-who-EE), the northernmost province in Argentina. FLACSO, my study abroad program, organized the trip, and about fifty of us spent the weekend exploring some of the most breathtaking landscapes I have ever seen.

We flew into the province of Salta and drove a few hours north up to Tilcara, a small pueblo in Jujuy tucked deep into the heart of the Andes. The bus dropped us off on an nearly unpopulated road at the cabins we would be staying in. Within hours I had moved from the bustling madness of Buenos Aires to the peaceful, great outdoors of northern Argentina. (A little bit like flying back to Seattle from LA.)

A view from my cabaña:



My state of tranquility was short lived. I learned of a pet llama housed nearby, so naturally, an expedition was in order. That very night, my friends and I entered into the darkness wielding only our cameras and our thirst for adventure, determined to locate and befriend the mythical creature. Apparently llamas like to spit, so we were uncertain how open-minded the llama would be our friendship, and were prepared for a potential confrontation. The mission however, went extremely smoothly: we discovered the outdoor cage which houses the legendary llama, sleeping peacefully and even furrier than I had imagined. I dubbed him “Uriburi.” It is the name of one of Argentina’s first presidents, and it was perfect. I returned to my cabin, extremely pleased with our discovery of Uriburi, only to find that my water bottle, once full, had leaked onto my bed and was now completely empty. Exhausted from the night’s events, I curled into fetal position in the one square foot of dry space remaining, and dreamed I was perched on top of Uriburi as he galloped majestically into the Andean sunset.





I awoke the next morning rather damp and prepared for more adventure. We drove to an archaeological site in a town called Humahuaca, where the guide showed us vestiges of the pre-Incan, Incan and Spanish civilizations: thousand-year old fortresses, altars, graves and houses. To my great excitement, there were also tons of llamas grazing. (By this point in the trip, I was plotting how I could pack one in my suitcase and take it home with me to Buenos Aires.)







The guide also pointed out a hideously out of place structure in middle of the site. The archeologists, working the early 20th century, had decided that to congratulate themselves for reviving this “dead civilization,” they would build a pyramid. And not just anywhere, but smack on top of the ancient ruins. The anthropologists currently working in Humahuaca only leave this ethnocentric eyesore because, “it too is a part of history.” I was also horrified to see the name inscribed across the face of the construction: Juan B. Ambrosetti, the head archaeologist, as well as the name of the street I live on in Buenos Aires. It was disappointing to discover that old Juan was far from the valiant Argentine heroe I had envisioned as I strolled down my street each day.



That afternoon we drove to another little town, where we enjoyed a tasty lunch and a traditional folkloric musical performance. One of the musicians was playing what must be the world’s longest instrument. When he started swinging it around in the air we all got a little worried, but in the end no one was injured.



We walked from the restaurant to the town center, where the guide took us over to a cemetery. Far from gloomy and somber, this burial ground was bursting with color and life. Like many other indigenous cultures, the natives to this region had, and still have, an outlook on death completely distinct from that of the Judeo-Christian tradition. Rather than mourning the dead, they celebrate with their deceased loved ones.





Afterwards we headed over to la feria artesenal, basically and arts and crafts fair (Dad, I would argue mostly arts :) ). La feria offered every llama/alpaca product imaginable, and spent the next hour or so seeking out the perfect llama sweater. I found just the right one, along with the perfect pair of wool gloves and socks. I also bought Natalia a pair of salad forks, which she apparently did not think were salad forks, as she mounted them on the wall in the kitchen when I presented them to her upon my return. I was not going to argue.

Sporting our new llama gear:



That night we hit the town for dinner, I was not going to pass up the opportunity to try the classic Jujuy dish: llama. It tasted a lot like beef, and was quite tasty.



That night, three wild dogs parked themselves outside our cabin, where they began a boisterous barking/howling competition with what was apparently a rival pack from the other side of the hill. It went on for hours, each pack alternating turns, attempting to out-bark the other. It was an impressive performance, but I'm pretty sure that Max could give them all a run for their money.

We woke up early the next morning ready to take things up a notch, in vertical feet that is. Here we are at 13,000 feet, the highest point in Jujuy. They served us tea made from coca leaves, which is supposed to help with elevation sickness. Pretty much everyone thought it was disgusing, but being the tea fanatic that I am, I guzzled down my cup and as well as my friends'.



The guide then led us to a pile of rubble on the side of the road.



Or, at least that is what I thought it was, until we found out that this mound of stones and garbage is actually an altar to Pachamama, “Mother Earth,” or the fertility goddess worshipped in the Incan tradition. When passing by this point, you leave an offering to Pachamama, such as coca leaves or cigarettes, to ensure safe travels for the remainder of the journey. If in serious need of a blessing, you are recommended to sacrifice a llama. Luckily, it was never necessary for us to resort to such drastic measures.

The bus ride (throughout the entire trip, in fact) was incredible, and I stared transfixed out the window at the majestic mountains, and the diverse flora y fauna.





Next stop: las Salinas Grandes (the great salt flats). I had never seen anything like it before, except snow I suppose. Unlike a snowy field though, these seemingly endless plains are made of pure SALT. Las Salinas Grandes used to be enormous lakes that at some point in history dried up, and were converted into these infinite white fields.





Here I am licking the salt.



Ok, so I didn’t actually lick the ground, but I did taste the salt water from one of the hundreds of manmade pools.

Next, we made our way to Purmamarca, the town tucked alongside el Cerro de los Siete Colores, or the hill of seven colors. Painted majestically by the passage of time, these hills used to be under water thousands and thousands of years ago, and the minerals from the water left behind a hillside flaunting a range of striking colors. I didn’t do so well in my seventh grade Earth Science class, and can’t elaborate much more than that, but I do know that Pachamama must have been at work here.





We also learned about the Carnaval festival, which the natives celebrate every March. According to the guide, basically every sort of social contract, including marriage, goes out the window during the celebrations. People dress up like the devil and go completely nuts. She explained that unlike the famous Carnaval of Río de Jainero, Brazil, which is “para mirar” (to watch), the Carnaval in Jujuy is “para vivir” (to live). What exactly "para vivir" entails, she left up to the imagination.

It was hard to believe that in a single day I had travelled to two such distinct landscapes, each completely unique, and remarkably beautiful.

For the final night, our scarily large group of flacsitos, as well as the coordinators, went into town and basically took over a local peña, a place with folkloric dancing and music. We got our groove on and made fools of ourselves attempting to dance a dance we did not know, and had a really great time of it. I was sorry to leave Jujuy so soon, but I’m pretty sure the spirit of the llamas, and Pachamama, will stay with me.