City Life

3RD JUNE 2019 SINGLE GLAZED PATIO doors muffling the Monday morning hum of a city awakening to the dreaded working week. The sole occupier of a 4-bed dorm extended my personal space from the bunk’s perimeter to the walls of the dormitory and I wandered to the window to look for the source of the din from the street. The vista through the window of city rooftops under a steel grey sky could have placed me in London or Manchester. Opening the balcony doors released the high frequencies into the room and turned up the volume just a notch. The source was a road resurfacing crew, which explained the lack of parked cars and the rough state of the planed road last night. Had I’d left my bike parked, it would have probably been lifted onto the sidewalk – if not stolen.

I inserted the brass key into the lock and could not get it to turn. Argentinian keys are double-bitted with not quite a 180-degree offset which means they often only can be inserted one way – just like the one I was holding. I remembered that the receptionist came in last night to tally up the bunk availability and locked the door on his way out. He had only given the lock a 180 degree turn instead of the full 360 before withdrawing his key which put my key out of phase with the locking mechanism. I’d worked all this out after the fact when I had access to both sides of the door. All I knew was I was locked in a corner dorm that had no passing guests to alert.

Luckily, I already had WiFi access so sent an email to the contact address I’d booked the room through and resigned myself to wait. My bladder felt even more full and there was no ensuite. Needs must, and all that, I opened the patio windows and squeezed out onto the tiny ornamental balcony next to the air conditioning unit and tried to pee to one side down the wall as discreetly as possible. All the people I saw either had their eyes level or were downcast. There was usually little of interest along this street for attracting attention 3 stories up from the urban canyons of the Buenos Aires backstreets. There was nobody on the balcony below and few people passing the hostel on this side of the street.

It was only 8am. There was no telling how long it would take between email and a key arriving at my room but cleaning services were usually done and dusted by 1pm. Ah well, I rolled up the tent I had hung over the wardrobe doors to dry overnight and sat back with my laptop sipping on the thin dregs of the WiFi signal that strained to reach my corner of the building.

Rescue came just after 11 by some bemused cleaners. With the door now fully unlocked my own key worked perfectly which made it difficult to explain to the non-English speaking staff what had happened.

Out for a wander, Buenos Aires felt more European than South American. Plenty of Art, sculpture and Hustle Bustle gave it a London/Paris vibe with the climate not as cool as the surrounding countryside, all these people huddled together in one place, perhaps.

My plans are mostly mile-stones: my previous one being to turn right at Florianopolis, Brazil to follow the coast south after having crossed the whole continent from Peru. the next milestone? To: catch the Total Solar Eclipse on the 2nd of July. Buenos Aires wasn’t quite in the path of totality at 99.7%. I planned to experience 100% totality in a quiet location somewhere west of here. Time enough to decide. The eclipse was still a month away.

Cozy corner cafes and sandwich bars tucked away off the main drag around the backstreets close to the hostel. I had yet to source some Argenine pesos and since the local services accepted debit cards, I’d tackle that little project tomorrow… there was no rush with such a richness of time I had to waste…

Microcentro

4th June. No new guests again so I had virtually a private room for another night. I was on a lucky streak. The receptionist pointed me in the direction of the ATMs at Plaza de Mayo just at the end of the street where the Casa Rosada presidential palace stands in all its pinkness. It turned out I was staying in the Microcenter: the financial district of Buenos Aires. Described as charmless compared to the likes of Palermo, Recoleta or San Telmo, but at least I should be able to get some cash.

A small queue at Santander and a handy button on the ATM for English instructions. They don’t tell you what your withdrawal limit is until you guess wrong. In this case 2000 pesos – or fifty quid to you and me. £50 for surviving in a city? That wasn’t the worst of it: service fee 480 pesos – 24% or £12… The good news was that if you needed more money you could make another transaction… at £12 a pop… There was no sign saying beware of thieves as they were already built into the ATM.

Later, the receptionist told me Banco de la Nación had better rates and higher limits – just across the plaza from Santander. Yes, it allowed about double for almost half the fee. I read up on the Currency options for Buenos Aires and was warned off the plethora of “Cambio, cambio, cambio.” money-changers in the streets. The Argentine peso had different designs, depending on age, and counterfeiting was reportedly rife so I ignored the hawkers and swallowed the bank’s bandit rates and fees whenever I had to, using cards everywhere else whenever possible.

It wasn’t until months later that I was told that Western Union used the informal exchange rate almost doubling the return of currency. From Ushuaia onwards, I would harvest cash from Western Union and pay using cash only, extending my budget and cutting out the annoying ID requirement for card payments. Even so, Argentina still felt a tad cheaper than Uruguay so I wasn’t really feeling the pinch.

Over the next few days, I had company in the dorm: a girl from Barcelona who could speak fluent English and a Brazilian, less so. They were both pleasant company so I didn’t mind the loss of privacy.

Looking at the large map of Argentina hanging in the lounge area of Portal del Sur, I noticed “Las Malvinas (Arg.)” A typo at the factory, surely. But no, all maps here label The Falklands as Argentina territory despite what the island’s residents want.

Retiro

There’s a lot of emotional attachment to Las Malvinas, which is probably understandable considering how close they are to the continent. I’d wonder how we would feel if Argentina held The Shetland Islands just off the top of Scotland.

I took the Metro out to San Martin, in the Retiro district, to visit the Monument to the Fallen. Every one of the 649 Argentinian soldiers killed in the conflict is listed on 25 black marble placards. Set in a beautiful park, it’s a haunting reminder of what horror power-hungry psychopaths can inflict on humanity for political gain. There was a guided tour in progress so I moved around silently and respectfully so as not to turn anyone’s thoughts to “The Enemy” even though none of that had anything to do with me… except perhaps for the misguided act of voting for Thatcher in 1979. Sorry about that. The other lot had cocked it up all through the 70s…

La Recoleta and the tomb of Eva Peron wasn’t far away but I’d had enough death for one day. I began to realize how much the whole continent seemed preoccupied with war, mourning and loss – or maybe that was just the impression given by statues, monuments, and streets and cities named after military officers, dates of great battles and political achievements. It seems that what is claimed as honouring triumph and independence actually keeps fear, sacrifice and lack in the collective subconscious.

San Telmo

San Telmo was a short walk south from me, less than a mile. The original cobbled historic centre of Buenos Aires. I didn’t like the famous Sunday street market much, punted as a must-see. Too many people and we have the same in England in most towns.

Walrus books is a specialist English book store and I picked up a Saul Beddow book called “Seize the Day” which turned out to be a depressing tale of a disappointment of a man who loses his money by trusting the wrong people and disappointing his father. It wasn’t just the story but also it rang too many internal bells that should remain silent and forgotten. In a way, it was similar thefts and betrayals that brought me here. Forks in the road of times long past. I later donated the book to a hostel on the Chilean isle of Chiloe, where that melancholy story combined with the constant rain has probably ended someone’s life by now.

Just around the corner from Walrus Books stands The Gibraltar Public House an authentic English styled pub. I could have been in the Old part of Bristol, with its subdued lighting, rich wood-panelled decor and authentic craft ales. The place was empty – it was still early afternoon, grey light filtering between the silhouetted hanging baskets and through the windows, lending a contrasting warm yellow glow to the lamps inside.

Sitting there, drinking my pint just brought up the memories of home. Deb would have loved it here, visit the bookshop and a glass of cider over a few hands of cribbage. Sitting alone, the scene that’s offered to be savoured gets drowned by memories. One beer doesn’t offer much distraction. I felt ready to leave halfway down the glass. Time stopped – a staged snapshot of past possibilities. The last half pint felt like a wait, similar to having sitting at a table at a railway station waiting for an overdue train. I put the empty glass on the bar and waved a “Gracias” stepping out of this memory museum.

La Poesia (“The Poetry”) Cafe became a luxurious breakfast treat and an inspiration for catching up on my blogging which was starting to lag fairly badly. Great food and antique Victorian styling all infused into the process.

9th June I approached the hostel reception to extend my stay, as they preferred I didn’t keep booking via booking.com – you know, fees and all that. They told me all the dorms were full due to a large group booking. See what you risk by changing your systems? Luckily, there was a single room available just the other side of the mezzanine from me so it didn’t need much effort to haul my kit from the dorm to the room. Just before the checkout deadline, it all started kicking off at reception. An irate American woman was trying to rebook the room that she had already been staying in, complaining that the staff had told her just to rebook on the day instead of in advance and now there were no rooms left. I had her room now and continued ferrying my bags.

There was room for two but I held back from offering. I didn’t like her energy – and it was only a double bed. There were plenty of other hostels nearby… anyway, I had baggage. The tariff was double the dorm but I got my money’s worth by basking in the ensuite facilities and staying in the room right up until checkout before shuffling back into my old dorm.

11th June, I needed a haircut. Back in Canela, Brazil, Antonio at the barber’s told me whenever I got to Buenos Aires, check out Chopper Cuts and tell him that he sent you. I located it on Google Maps and retrieved the bike from the estacionamiento across the road. I don’t really miss riding in cities: one way systems with no left/right turns and little room for error often makes for a hairy mystery tour.

I turned right, one street early into a one-way system so as to arrive at the barber’s joining the next one-way street upstream of them. Police! Two young female traffic cops stepped into the road and flagged me down at the far end and ask for my papers. Luckily I had remembered to bring them with me:
Passport? “Si!”
Registration? “Si – Peru, look.”
Seguro? (Insurance)… “Que?”
Yes, that was a problem. Ever since the Insurance agent in Bolivia printed out a free sheet of paper valid until the end of 2018 to get rid of me, I hadn’t worried about insurance. Here, they seemed enthusiastic for these Nazi-like “Papers please!” habits. I produced my SOAT card from Peru. It had a bar code on it that made insurance renewal easier – in Peru.
“Si, esta seguro… insurancia, Es bueno no?”
They looked at each other ticked a box and wrote something and let me go. Nice girls, they were. Friendly and cheerful. Insurance would have to be looked into.

Around the block, I arrived at Chopper Cuts: Moto themed barbers. Chunky tattooed, bearded biker dude, just lacking a leather waistcoat with a skull and crossed pistons design on the back, sporting scissors and comb. He spoke no English but I cheerfully told him how Antonio from Canela in Brazil sent me, expecting tears of joy from a personal message from a long lost friend… He didn’t have a clue who I was talking about. This has happened before, more than a few times. “So-and-so sent me.” “Who?” “You know, so high, blonde hair, walks with a limp?” “No, sorry.” Anyway, I emerged away with a half-decent haircut and a request to deliver greetings from a brief encounter fulfilled.

And so time passed, getting familiar with countless cafes and the sights of Buenos Aires. It was OK for a city. Some days it rained, just like home in the UK. So far, Buenos Aires hadn’t been as cold as I expected. Definitely without that bone-chilling cloak of dampness that the British Isles wears for Winter.

June is officially Winter down here, but the bulk of the cold weather I’d expect in July and August. I’d be well inland by then – probably near the Andes. In fact, I’d need to be over the mountains and out of Argentina by the end of August before the 90 day Visa expired. Crossing the Andes in Winter hadn’t occurred to me until then – a slight wrinkle in my plan. I’d cross that border when I came to it.

I managed to get hold of a new phone from Paraguay via Manuel’s son, Mateo. Manuel is a friend of John’s who I’d spent some time with in Asuncion. Mateo picked up a Samsung J4 Core cheap from one of Asuncion’s plethora of tax-free electronics stores before returning to his University studies in Buenos Aires – and so we exchanged cash and goods at a local Cafe and I was back in business with photographs (since the recent loss of the camera) and GPS (since the loss of the Sony Xperia in a river near Urubici.) I had ordered a replacement SIM from the UK as soon as I arrived in Buenos Aires but there was still no sign of it and the narrow window of opportunity of its arrival was being squeezed up against the end of the month departure to catch the Solar Eclipse. I wouldn’t be hanging around for a lousy SIM.

I found some Motorcycle gloves at Moto Logic up on Lavalle. Motorman, a brand I had never heard of. Thicker than my old pair but not full Winter gloves but should serve me well enough for getting over the Andes and then during Spring and Summer down to Ushuaia – apparently, the last city south before the Antarctic.

£50 was a bit expensive, I thought, but I was in a beggars choosers situation. They seemed well made except made for flat hands, meaning that when my hand curves around the handlebar, excess material rucks up in the palm area making long rides uncomfortable in the palms. Precurved cloves are much more comfortable.

Anyway, if I hadn’t have lost my old thin gloves climate would have forced my hand, so to speak. I imagined selections would be more scarce further south. Buy stuff when it’s available is a good rule of thumb in South America.

After a couple of weeks, Portal del Sur felt like home. I knew my way around pretty well and cafes were almost as cheap as cooking back at the hostel but without having to fight lentil-boiling hippie travellers for space in the kitchen,

I visited the famous Cafe Tortoni once. As nice as it is, it’s too much of a tourist trap to just sit and enjoy a coffee. London City, just down the road, is less iconic but famous for being the hangout of the famous Argentine writer, Julio Cortázar. Mainly, the little cafes off the main drag were quieter and cheaper so I’d usually find a quiet corner table there.

It was easy living like this knowing that my days were numbered. I was treading water for the eclipse so I knew how long I was staying better than some of the places I’d stayed before: if I liked somewhere, I’d extend and extend and extend. This time I had arrived with a departure date. I think that if my visit had been open-ended I would have left after a couple of weeks as I would have to come up with reasons to stay and, for me, cities didn’t intrinsically provide any. Reasons would usually come from circumstances or necessity.

I decided I’d leave tomorrow, the 28th, and coughed up 1820 pesos for the parking bill so I could simply produce the receipt the following morning and ride away. Then I marched purposefully down Ave 9 de Julio looking for bike insurance. It was harder than it looked since I used to notice insurance offices all over the place when I didn’t need them. The ones still on Google Maps seemed to have either closed or moved. Passing a Yamaha dealer, I dropped in for some spare O rings. My valves hadn’t been checked since Peru so the old seals were probably flattened over that time.

Disappointed and hungry, I dipped into a corner cafe for lunch overlooking the wide river of traffic ferrying people about their daily lives reminding me of the smallness of modern life. Here I was, chasing paper to avoid possible incarceration or loss of funds if my papers didn’t line up with “the rules.” Where the real living was in the colours, smells and flavours of taking a moment to check in with the senses. Like in this cafe.

Hooked up to the WiFi, Google told me ATM Insurance was just across the road – 16 lanes and a good sprint to make the crossing in one go. And so it was: manned by two helpful ladies with enough common language between us to hack out a year’s Murcosur Carta Verde policy with a monthly direct debit from my UK bank. It turned out to be fairly painless. The Carta Verde insurance covers Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Uruguay, Paraguay and Bolivia. I knew that Bolivia, Paraguay and Brazil didn’t even ask but it’s nice to hold a get out of jail free card just in case. Anyway, I doubted I’d be back there within a year so Argentina and Chile were my only concern.

Unlike the UK, where insurance companies try to silently renew contracts and send Debt Collectors after you if you cancel the Direct Debits, insurance here is cheap and easily terminated by simply cancelling the direct debit or, as I found out later, missing a payment due to insufficient funds, which didn’t make much difference as I still had the paper certificate and that’s all the police were interested in.

The UK SIM still hadn’t arrived so on the way back to Portal del Sur I popped into Claro Celular to buy a PAYG SIM loaded with data for satisfying my internet addiction and finding camping spots near rural locations that had a signal. Nothing else needed, I returned to the hostel with that little melancholic pang, felt whenever leaving home.

So the plan for tomorrow? Destination Venado Tuerto. Dead centre of the path of the Solar Eclipse just 4 days away. A 350km jaunt, I could make it in one go if I tried but I’d split the journey into two and camp overnight in Junin…