You Say Iguazu, I Say Iguassu...

So far the superiour South American snack to date has been the juicy and flakey saltenas pastries in La Paz. However, Argentina has produced some close competition with its parilla (sizzling hot plate of an assortment of meats, sausages, ribs, chicken, steaks and organs), the lunch menu and dazzling starter buffet at the luminous brick wall bohemian Cafe Clasico y Moderno with its accompanying piano has also been a joy. The multitudes of ice-creams have been sourced and destroyed with consumate skill. At Dylan´s ice-cream parlour we treated ourselved to a 1/4 kilo (the third largest portion available out of nine) vats of creamy dulce-de-leche and patagonico chocolate scoops. Suffice to say that the horror beach body of 2007 is returning.

Same outfit but different helados

Tuesday night brought us to our first tango experience after a day strolling around the NYC SoHo-lite Palermo area, and visiting Eva Peron´s grave at the Recoleta Cemetery. Le Catedral, tucked conspiciously in a darkened corner of Palermo with no neon signs or hints at the activities of the interior, housed what looked like a disused social hall with picture frames of fallen idols (namely that of Carlos Gardel) of the ballroom and a large papier mâché heart by the bar. The only light was emitted by the various candles on the tables and the spotlight on the main wooden floors of the dancing area where lessons in fleet footed assurdness took place in a smokey atmosphere. Matty and I opted not to join in (though if we were to, I would have definitely been the one leading) and instead looked on in sympathy at the rhythmless Westerners with their dragged heels following their graceful partners.

Following a cargo of like minded Japanese and American tourists we visited the historic Cafe Tortoni, which opened its doors in 1873 and seemingly has remained in that glossy evanescent era ever since. Formal waitors with slick side partings and furrowed eye brows ferried us two Submarinos - hot milk with a chocolate bar to dip in.

Some chick in Bueno Aires

Relaxing in the Japanese Gardens

Sinking in a Quilmes at the expat owned and lively pub The Gibraltor, we finally got our calling into the entertainment world after years of promise and heartache. A lady named Ingid, clipboard in hand, spotted the two of us propped up by the bar being ignored in turn by the pretty and slightly gothic waitress and approached us suspiciously. On introducing herself and handing over her business card, she propositioned us to star as models for an international advert promoting Tequila Cueva, which was to be directed by a famous Argentine director at the weekend. Somewhat baffled, we were escorted to the foyer by the lavatories for some headshots and completed details on our vital statistics and acting abilities (we lied). Confoundingly, we got hounded by numerous calls and texts the following day from our agent to confirm our availability but regrettably we were already on route to Puerto Iguassu on the Northern tip of Argentina.

Matty may have taken this picture but we all know he stole the idea from a postcard

Acting like children on the eve of heading over to Disneyland, we were excited to board the 19 hour bus on to our next destination. Like being on a business class international flight our soft cushioned laz-Boy eased us in to watching The Hangover on the private downstairs dvd player as a stewardess of stocky calibre brought us tumblers of Tia Maria on the rocks to send us to sleep to the songs of Marco Antonio Solis, who is fast becoming my favourite sleazy Latina superstar songsmith.

This man is my new hero, and he has a voice of an angel:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5nEwEjqDEQ

I shamefully booked a hostel in the wrong country (who knew that there was a Foz de Iguacu in Brazil as well as in Argentina) and so had to settle for a shabby hostel in Puerto Iguazu on the Argentine side of the falls. Our emergency ponchos were the order of the day on our first day at the falls and they shone under a constant sweeping attack from both rain and the vapours from the numerous waterfalls. We completed, in a haste, both the Inferior and Superior trail circuits and crept up close to the specatular water displays formed by the passing Rio Iguazu passing over a basalt plateau. Most impressive of which, reached after a short Indiana Jones dirt track train ride, was Gargant a del Diablo - Devil´s Throat. Tonnes of surging water plummeting in torrents towards the ground.

Don´t go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you´re used to

Another day, another country to explore. This time a twenty minute public bus ride over to Brazil, to the large town of Foz do Iguacu where our initial hostel was provisionally booked. From this side of the national park we encountered a more scenic and wide lensed vista of the site. The park had more of a Jurassic Park feel to the tour with its tropical pine-green bus and rampant racoons darting into the bins and jumping on Matty as condors circled the air with intent. For this occasion we decided to entertain the drones of tourists on a clear day with our enchanting version of TLC´s classic, Waterfalls, to befit the stage.

Buenos Aires Song of the Day: Maria Mendez Grever - What A Difference A Day Makes

From the grande piano of the irresistable Clasica Y Moderna Cafe and Restaurant in central Buenos Aires. It took us a while to realise what the motif was and on realising it we dropped our forks and listened on in appreciation.

Here is the hobbit-like Jamie Cullum´s version on Jools Holland which is excellent

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1r6GcPqFSo

i-Pod Song of the Day: Johnny Cash - Hurt

The video to this is brilliant. Johnny Cash in his final and poignant ode to the world, wife June Carter alongside him, sings over a narration of his life in black and white. His regrets passing by in scenes from his illustrious past. The Nine Inch Nails original pales in comparison, which is rare. Johnny Cash was apparently a troubled Christian which may be why he wished to bind his life in such a way to preserve it prior to his death.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIbepKZC7Po

Small Dangers In Uncle Diego's Backyard

From a quickfire overnight stop in Santiago (yes, taking in some more lightly stuffed empanadas, Pisco Sours and a regrettable late night spinach and feta pie to counter the happy hour) we made our way on to the bus over the border to Argentina. We were fortunate in completing the trip as the crossing from Santiago to Mendoza is generally temperamental this time of year in accordance with the severity of the snow disabling the roads. Past winding intersections through the mountains and ski resorts, where the moguls and chair lifts pined for us with their fresh and steep runs, to a rustic venture into farmland and the litter of pale blue and white Argentine flags, a hangover from the World Cup and distant national pride.

At the bus terminal in Mendoza we experienced our first touch of menace from the legendary street thieves of Argentina. A pack of youths, greasy haired and with a fascinating penchant for hoodies, followed Matty and I in the terminal with an eye for the bounty of our rucksacks as we were searching innocently for tour information, rollerpigs in tow, and with no real awareness of the imminent threat. Fortunately for us, two security officers hauled us to the side and chased the four scumbags out of the building with microphones by their mouths and hands on batons to add a little hollywood magic to the scene.

At the Chilean / Argentine border. With newly acquired facial hair

I half expected McBain to find vengence in Mendoza:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-opAM0dRW0g&feature=related

This was not enough to put us off taking a little trip to Maipu, on the outskirts of the city, for an afternoon's bicycle wine tour operated by the charming Senor and Senorita Hugo (they gave us a complimentary beaker of vino tinto when we arrived, enough for us to truly adore them). The Mendoza region is famous for its reds, in particular the Malbecs which, I can assure you, were of vintage signature. The first winery offered an assortment of spirits to toast the day, their famous, garishly toxic green, Absinthe among them. It was a bad idea to throw down the throat a shot of the hallucinatory syrup, and the concoction allowed me to float with such grace on the cycle that we were escorted by a policeman on his motorbike for the final hour of our trip so that we would not fall foul of the rickety roads nor the threat of local opportunists with a thirst for our wallets. This surreal episode made us feel like either state politicians or renegade fugitives.

Mr Hugo`s wine tour, police in close pursuit

Yet another overnight bus, our longest to date at 14 hours in Cama class (this time a 150 degree reclining seat and hot meals including a sweet ham and cheese swiss roll which was all very odd) towards the capital of Tango, Parrillas and Maradona - Buenos Aires. Our first exchange with a porteño - our taxi driver - was memorable as we understood most of what he said and it considered both Argentina and England's dreadful plight at the World Cup:

Cab man - Where are you from?
Us - Londres
Cab Man - Buen, Ingles. Alemania, them sons of beetches!!

We arrived at the aptly named guest house, Chill House, owned by two urbane Frenchman, which was decorated with an awareness of modernity and chic that was inevitable considering the Gallic pairs sense of sophistication and flamboyance on greeting us. Our first outing was to the San Telmo Sunday Market where we were promised vibrant stalls selling almost any handicraft possible, perfect for gifts back home. However, a bout of rain sent a shock of panic through the shop owners' spines and they promptly saved their artifacts from ruin with plastic covers, removing them from public view. We took solice in a door museum (puertos seem to be all the rage out here in Buenos Aires) and peering through the windows on to the square it was hard not to notice the neo-classicial architecture, hinting strongly at a Parisian influence. This was only amplified by the Obelisco centrepiece reminiscent of the Luxor Obelisk in Place de la Concorde, though the Argentinean model commemorates independence rather than being a gift from the Egyptian viceroy Mehemet Ali.


Hanging around in La Boca


Antoine and Kato, the French duo who quickly took the responsibility of our tour guides, urged us to head over to La Boca, a rather famously rough port district of the capital, in order to take in the tourist streets of the Caminito. The cobbled streets with brightly painted houses were accompanied by a rousing accordion and tango artists paraded their strutting dances within their taverns on every corner. The Caminito was laced with a gypsy carnival feel only strengthened by the tarot card and palm readers lurking with their hunched backs within their dens and the exquisitly crafted artistry of the signs of the bars and restaurants as well as the assortment of murals sprayed chaotically on the walls.




In the evening, after further consultation with our tour ambassadors, we stepped into a club called Konex, which was apparently the best Monday night out possible in the district. We were not left disappointed in the derelict warehouse hosting the night out where Brazilian and Argentine artists hypnotised the young and energetic crowd with a crescendo of African influenced drum beats and the under appreciated childlike tones of the wooden glockenspiel. Oh, and the Quilmes beers we had were massive.

Mendoza Song of The Day: Jamie T - Sticks ´N´ Stones
Straight out of the Mendoza Inn hospital radio burst out last years surprisingly good return single from Jamie T. Less cockney and lamentable teenage rebellion then his Streets impersonation of a first album. The further away from that southern nonsense the better. Tune.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zm9l9f7cNFk