Montevideo

Normally, a 24-hour transit stop in a fairly uninteresting location would not warrant any notation.  (Sorry, Montevideo, I did find you to be uninteresting.  Let’s just be honest.)  However, there were a couple of significant incidents that need to be reported:

1.  The Emerging Uruguayan Currency Crisis

For the 4 days I was in Colonia del Sacramento, I was unable to get any of their 8 cash machines to speak to me.  But, of course, it’s a small town and the ATMs were all on the same network.  Surely, when I go to the nation’s capital, this will all work itself out.  I (barely) had enough Argentinian Pesos to pay my tab, so I took off a day early.

Bostjan and I took the bus to Montevideo (~1.3 million people, ~150 feet) and then a local bus to the hostel…and the entire time, I am staring out the window at the same fucking Banred cash machines.  Do not tell me…

Sure enough, we walked around town for 4 hours and saw nothing but, “Disculpe.  Tu tarjeta no es valida.”  24 different ATMs, same result.  Oh, fuck.  This could be a bit of an issue. 

My plan was to spend 3-4 weeks working the beaches of Uruguay, but that plan is obviously garbage if I have zero cash.  Here are the options:

1. Get cash off the credit card instead of the ATM card.  Problem:  I have no fucking idea what the PIN is.

1(a).  Call the house in Portland, pray to god that someone answers, beg them to go in the basement and root through a ridiculous stack of boxes looking for a folder that might contain said PIN.

2. Call Capital One and request a new ATM card.  Problem:  Odds are, the network won’t like that card either and I would have to wait at least 3-4 days in this shit town. (Sorry, Montevideo.  That was just plain rude.)

3. Call and request a card from my other account that uses an actual VISA debit.  Problem:  See #2.

4. Call someone and beg them to wire me some money.  (I’m looking at you, Dad.)  Problem:  There is nothing worse than calling someone and begging them for money…except for bed bugs.

5. Get back on the fucking Buquebus ferry and return to Buenos Aires, take out a mountain of cash, and then come back.  Problem:  A waste of ~2 days and ~$150 just to get money?  Fuck that.

6. Bail on Uruguay completely and find a beach in Argentina.  Problem:  This option is completely lame and probably won’t make for a good story later.

I return to option #1.  After an hour on a Skype call to the Capital One rep in India, (“Hello?  What?  Herro?  What the??  Can you hear me?  Can you hear me now?  Do you speakie ze engrish???”) I convince her that this is a dire fucking cashola emergency and that babies and little kitties all over the world will die if she doesn’t change my goddamn PIN.  After 37 security questions and another half hour on hold, I get a new PIN (and a free t-shirt!), and, BOOM, in your face, Uruguayan banking system!  The slight downside is that I’m paying essentially a 10% surcharge to take out money.  (In your face, Casey Swendig!)  Uruguay is going to hurt.  She better be good to me…

2. The Uruguayan Bed Bug Crisis of 2011

A couple of former regulars at The Lost City happened to also be in Montevideo, and we met at the hostel to catch up after 3 months of traveling.  Of course, the first thing I did was take off my shirt and show off my incredible bed bug wounds.  (Regretfully, I don’t have photos, but they went from between my fingers, up both sides of my arms, around my back and down both legs.)  Deanna, understandably paranoid, began to research The Internets about bed bugs.  And found a blog post about them. 

With pictures from our hostel. 

In the bed they were sleeping in. 

Ten days prior. 

(Casey falls of the bench, hits the floor, and rolls around in violent spasms of laughter.) 

There was even a photo of a live bed bug on the wall in the blog post and it was still there (squished).  Fantastico.

Of course, as your bartender, I recommend that you just stay up and drink all night instead of going to bed.  Feel the pain, amigos!

Time to get the hell out of Montevideo. 

Colonia del Sacramento

I intended to fly directly to Montevideo from Puerto Iguazu…actually, it was more than intent.  I had a CONFIRMED FUCKING RESERVATION, but when I arrived at the airport, Aerolineas Argentinas Dude kept saying something about “cancellado.”  Instead of punching him in the face, which he clearly deserved, I asked him calmly to get me on ANOTHER FUCKING AIRPLANE since I had a CONFIRMED FUCKING RESERVATION.  Dude took my money, checked my bag and handed me a boarding pass…to Buenos Aires.  What the???   “No, Dude, I need to go to Montevideo.  You know this.  Because I have a CONFIRMED FUCKING RESERVATION.”

Dude tries to charge me twice the price for a flight to Montevideo (that was supposedly “cancellado”), at which point I have to just shake my head and walk away.  These motherfuckers…

So…Buenos Aires!  I hit the ground, asked Tourist Info Dude how to get to the ferry to Montevideo, and then took a cab to the Buquebus Terminal.  Of course, the next ferry is 4 hours away, so I need to find a place to hang out and kill some time.  After hauling my shit (What the hell is in this pack anyway??  Jesus!) around a town that I don’t know and am not supposed to be in, I finally find a café with WiFi and settle in.  Five minutes later, Emily, my former roomie from Cusco, is on her way down to hang out.  Five minutes after she shows up, we see Cameron walking by the café and run out to tackle her.  Not bad luck for a city of ~7 million…

While online, I discover that my man Bostjan from Slovenia (this is not going to end well) is in transit to Colonia del Sacramento (~20,000  people, ~100 feet), which is the first stop on the ferry ride and I make the fateful decision to stop there first. 

First impressions of Uruguay: 

1. Much as the mullet is back in Argentina (thank you, Messi), the muscle shirt is back in Uruguay.  I can’t explain it.  I can’t defend it.  Just reporting what I see.
2. I think these people are more addicted to yerba mate than the Argentinians.  Everyone walking around town - down the street, along the beach, even through the goddamn grocery store - has a mate cup in one hand and a thermos of hot water under their arm.
3. The spaces are beautiful, the people are beautiful.  The food is shit.  The wine is even shittier.  Tradeoffs…

Next is a blur of beach, hammock, and Malbeer.  I think I enjoyed it here.  It will take some time (rehab?) to be sure.

(As a special bonus to this wicked hangover I’m nursing on the bus to Montevideo, I got absolutely torched – thankfully and luckily, for the first time – by the bedbugs last night.  Rough count is around 350 bites.)

Puerto Iguazu & Iguazu Falls

This is a true story.

Jack’s father left when he was only 1 year old.  But, thanks to the wonders of the Internet Age, he was able to find the father he never knew when he turned 17.  Fernando, 57, was living in Puerto Iguazu with his young Argentinian wife and his two beautiful daughters, aged 4 and 7.  After two years of emails and Skype, Jack decided he wanted to venture to Argentina to meet Fernando.

Mike was a family friend of Jack and had known him since he was only 9 years old.  And, as a Continental Airlines employee, he was able to arrange transport to South America that Jack wouldn’t have been able to afford on his own.  He also convinced his friend and co-worker Siggy to tag along for the ride.  Why not take a 5-day jaunt to see one of the 7 natural wonders of the world and also be part of this cool reunion?

Orlando to Buenos Aires, Buenos Aires to Puerto Iguazu.  After hitting the ground, Jack anxiously walked through the arrivals area scanning for Fernando.  Then he hears a voice behind him.  “Jack!”  He turns and there is Fernando and the two girls.  Hugs, kisses - the moment.  The reason why.  Handshakes and more hugs and kisses for Mike and Siggy.

While Jack and the girls go to get the bags, Fernando excuses himself to go sit down.  Jack doesn’t speak any Spanish and the girls don’t speak English, but they carry on like brother and sisters.  Bags arrive, everyone mounts up and they go to where Fernando is seated.  He says, “Let’s go!”

Fernando gets up, takes three steps, momentarily slumps against a concrete column, then falls directly onto his face on the concrete floor.  Massive heart attack.  Cracked skull.  Liters of blood.

One of the girls vomits on Mike.  Jack and the girls run away.  Mike follows.  Siggy, who had never met Jack until they got on the plane, is left with a huge pile of bags and Jack’s father laying face down in a pool of blood.

Paramedics arrive and Siggy helps them to turn the body onto a backboard.  Fernando moves his arms momentarily and then is still.  They make the long and painful drive to the hospital, but Jack’s father was dead the minute he hit the floor.

I spent 3 days with these men, arriving the day after all of this had happened.  We spent many hours together – laughing, crying, drinking, talking, processing.  I met the beautiful young widow.  I talked to the gorgeous little girls who had just lost their father.  I watched the video of the reunion that Siggy had taken, and, although the death itself was not recorded, you could feel its shadow in the eyes and the mannerisms of Fernando. 

Truth is always stranger than fiction, they say, and I am inclined to believe it.  I couldn’t invent a tragedy such as this.  And I certainly wouldn’t have chosen to be part of it, given the choice.  And, yet, I am forever changed because of it.  Of all the amazing stories I am able to tell after 9+ months, this is the one that means the most.  Because I was able to look in the eyes of these three men and share something unspeakable, and out of it came simply love, compassion, and mutual respect.

I did manage to visit Iguazu Falls, but only remember it by the photos because I was so lost in my own thoughts.  Frankly, a week removed, I am still emotionally raw and struggling to find what this all means to me and why I had to be part of it. 

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As a postscript, I must mention that after the body was carried away and Siggy is standing, alone, with 8 bags and a sizeable pool of blood, a taxi driver ran up to him and said, “Hey man! You need a taxi??”  Welcome to South America, motherfuckers.  It’s quite difficult to literally laugh and cry at the same time, but I think I managed it when Siggy told me that.

Salta

I didn’t want Argentina to run out of wine, so after 7 days in Mendoza I headed with Ruth to Salta (~475,000 people, ~3780 feet) in the northwest corner of the country.  (By the way, I would not really recommend a 19 hour bus ride on a homebrew wine hangover to anyone.)

Day 1:  Arrived at mid-day from Mendoza, took a brief nap, and then went out to check out the city.  In a hellacious downpour.  Perfect.  We had decided to rent a car and check out the area around the city, so I was tasked with “making friends” at the hostel so we would have someone to share the cost with.  Ten minutes later, I had convinced two 20 year old Swedish girls to join us.  Ruth is pissed that I am again on the move with three beautiful ladies.  I am not so upset about this.

Day 2:  We took a local bus to San Lorenzo and did a really beautiful hike in the rainforest with Florencia from Buenos Aires.  Then I decided to cook my first asado…which took way too long (per usual, when I’m cooking).  But, Ruth and I did manage to mow down 850 grams of quite delicious Argentinian happy cow.  It just happened at around midnight…

Day 3:  After Car Rental Guy showed up 90 minutes later than scheduled (I’d like to say I’m getting used to this shit, but I would be lying), we got everyone’s bags stuffed into the trunk and headed for Cafayate (~13,000 people, ~5,500 feet).  The scenery was absolutely stunning.  I didn’t even have this place on my radar and I think I just drove through Bryce Canyon, Arches, Zion and the Grand Canyon all in one day.  We couldn’t drive more than a kilometer without all four of us screaming, “WOW,” screeching to a halt, and jumping out to take photos. 

Cafayate is also the only growing region for the Torrontѐs grape, which I found to be quite tasty, particularly in large quantities.

Day 4:  We got up “early” to go on a trek. (I’m not sure in what fucking universe 9:30 counts as early.  I’ve got some sleepy-ass females on my hands.  Patience.  Scanning for patience…)  The trip to Rio Colorado actually turned out to be more of a bouldering/scrambling day than a hike, which was really quite amazing.  There was cactus humping, boulder mounting, 73 river crossings, a treacherous final ascent and then an hour soaking and sunning underneath a waterfall.  Honestly, one of the most fun days I’ve had in all my time here.  After returning to town, I personally downed 4 liters of water (not kidding) and ate 6 empanadas before the drive to San Salvador de Jujuy (~250,000 people, ~4,100 feet) .  For the last hour of the drive, there was a massive lightning storm in the hills to the west of us which, again had us involuntarily screaming, “Wow!  Jesus Christ!  Holy shit!” every 3-4 seconds.  And then we stayed in a shit industrial hostel.  Please, for the love of the gods, no more shit industrial hostels.

Day 5:  We again get up “early.” (9:15?  I’m going to choke someone.)   The prior night’s hot lightning action had kept us out of the hot springs, so we decided to start our day there instead.  Hot springs in the rain is actually quite righteous…I recommend it.  We drove on to Purmamarca, made the fateful decision to worry about finding a hostel later in the day, and continued another hour to the Salinas Grandes.  Since I ended up skipping Bolivia, this was my first trip to the salt flats and I was quite blown away.  Incredible light, beautiful reflections, intense solitude. 

Later I humped a llama made of salt.  Then we went back over the pass and returned to town.

Purmamarca (~2,000 people, ~7,600 feet) has several hostels, but I think the people that run them must all be morons.  Jessica and I spent more than an hour crossing back and forth across town (while Ruth and Emilia enjoyed a nice concert in the central plaza…) trying to find a place to stay.  “Oh, just go to this street and its three doors down.”  “We were just there, jackass, and they told us to come to see you!”  We finally found a room and celebrated with a bottle of Torrontѐs from Cafayate and a rousing “Wish You Were Here” sing-along.  After we all washed the salt off of our feet, we had a nice dinner in town and returned to 10 dudes from Buenos Aires drinking and making asado outside our room.  This is not going to end well.  (And certainly not early.)

Day 6:  I have successfully trained Emilia and Jessica to appropriately use the phrase, “IN YOUR FACE!” which they are now doing liberally.  I am quite pleased with myself.  Today is Emilia’s 21^st birthday, so we, of course, celebrate with a delicious breakfast of instant coffee and dry bread with ham and cheese.  Then its north to Humahuaca (~12,000 people, ~9,660 feet) where we, by mere luck, hit town for their biggest celebration of the year.  The Virgen de la Candelaria Festival (the patron saint of Humahuaca) brings in everyone from the surrounding hills and towns to pay tribute to a plastic doll with really fancy clothes.  There was also a parade of gauchos in regional costumes, which was a bit more compelling.  And then a cacophony of bands competing to be heard.  And sweet hats.  And killer street food.  And a Care Bears hoodie?

Day 7:  Fuck the 3+ hour bus ride to Iruya (~4,000 people, ~9,120 feet).  We have a sweet Chevy!  Who cares if we have to ford a river of waist deep water 3 times and traverse roads that only one of the 8 car rental agencies we checked with would even let us travel.  Again, sweet Chevy?  Hell yes!

I was a little less enthusiastic when I returned the sweet Chevy and they noticed that the front bumper was completely separated from the frame.  But…well…we got to see Iruya…

Day 8:  The girls are all on a bus to Bolivia this morning (no way in hell they get up on time…), so it’s up to me to get the Chevy back to Salta by 10 am.  Up at 6 am, guzzle a liter of mate (will it be enough??), and haul ass all the way back.  After making the really stupid choice of the “alternate” route back (the road was, literally, only 4 meters wide for about 100 km), I pulled into Eurocar at 9:55.  Nice.  After paying the tab for the broken bumper, I staggered back to the hostel for a much needed siesta and checked into a room…with 3 beautiful Norwegian girls.  Not again…

Northern Argentina is the most geologically interesting place I have ever seen, in my eyes surpassing the much more famous national parks in the US.  And I got to see it all with three beautiful girls.  (This is my third consecutive week traveling with three beautiful girls.  I have been the envy of Latin men from Valparaiso to Mendoza to Iruya.  The problem is that no one ever gets laid when traveling with three beautiful girls.)

Total kilometers driven: 1285.  Total times yelled “WOW” involuntarily at scenery: ~800.  Total towns, inanimate objects, and domestic animals told, “IN YOUR FACE!”:  countless thousands.  

This little girl was thrilled when I pulled a pen out of my pocket and signed her cast.