Bountiful Bahia

Salvador is black, Salvador is beautiful. It is also the capitol of the state of Bahia. Back when it was the capitol of Brazil it was also the largest center of the slave trade in the new world. The fact that Portugal abandoned Salvador as a capitol may have played a part in the preservation of the culture of the millions of Sub-Saharan Africans who ended up here. That´s just a guess of course but all that is quintessentially Afro-Brazillian can probably be found in Salvador. More specifically it can be found in the Pelourinho. The Pelourinho is the old district in the high part of the city. Pelourinho is Portuguese or pillory which as you know is a stockade or whipping post or some other form of restraining device uses for public flagellation. Lovely no?

Bahian cuisine is found all over Brazil but its difficult to dispute the authenticity of what is to be found in Salvador. Moqueca is a stalwart of any Bahian menu. Moqueca is a fish stew cooked in cocount milk, sweet red peppers, and a palm nut oil known as dende.(Everything is cooked in dende up here.) This is usually served over rice with and some hot chili pepper salsa. It is both divine and inspirational. If you want to go more heart you can always order a bobó which is moqueca that is thickened with manioc gravy. Both of these are served as hot as molten lava in a black earthenware pot. On the street you can find the "Baianas do Acarajé", these are women dressed in all white tradition African dress who sell Acarajé which are fried black-eyed bean cakes which are served with various exotic tasting sauces. Some of the Baianas also sell abará which is fundamentally the same except that it is wrapped in banana leaf and boiled instead of fried. Lastly Carne do Sol is a local specialty which is a dried salted meet. l None of these are ever far from arm´s reach in Salvador and we´re all better for it.

Saturday night I was fortunate enough to witness a Candomble service. Candomble is syncretism. The Yoruba slaves brought Orisha faith with them from Africa. Since both The Catholic church and slave owners on the coffee plantations seemed somewhat "spooked" by the "pagan" religious practices the slaves took it underground by hiding their Orishas or spirits behind Catholic Saints in order to continue to practice their religion without the threat of persecution. An Orisha which is a type of guardian angel is the basic element of Candomble. During a service many parishoners will under go a trance and become possesed by the Orisha. Candomble is an oral tradition with no holy book. The services are led by a Mae/Sae do Santo which is the equivalent of a priest and the momentum of the 4 hour service is led by a contigent of drummers. The service is a fascinating kinetic ritual, as the drums weave ever evlolving polyrhythms the parishoners, dance and chant and support one another. A couple of hours into the cermeony a select few will enter the trance state and begin convulsing and become possesed by the Orisha. Soon after some will disappear to the back and reappear wearing a constume image of the Orisha. The constumed and possesed worshiper will then go into a special dance which is not them but rather the orisha making the movements. This is followed by more dancing and chanting and eventually the intensity winds down. The service usually finishes with a celebratory meal which is taken outside. Fascinating stuff.

Capoeiria is a martial art/dance which was created in Salvador. The origin is likely in a martial art from the old world of the slaves that was turned into a jocular dance in order for the slaves to sustain its practice. It is a martial art and a dance and is highly entertaining. You can find a roda which is a circle of Capoeiristas with the active participants in the middle of the circle in many public places in Salvador. To add to the spectacle the roda de capoeiria is accompanied by music. There are usualy a couple of berimbaus which look like a hunting bow which are played with a wooden stick, then there is a pandeiro which a type of hand drum resembling the tambourine. Sweeping round house kicks, elbow blocks and back flips are exhanged in rapid succession. If you were to combine the violent precision of Bruce Lee with raw energy of break dancing crew you might have a loose approximation of the entertainment value of good Capoeiria.

Besides the crime in the Pelourinho the only other problem is lack of a quality beach. The city is dived in to the Cidade Alta and the Cidada Baixa. In order to shuttle between the two involves taking one of the old Jesuit Elevators. the beaches along the Cidada Baixa are small rocky and slightly polluted. Finding the good beaches involves moving north or south of Salvador which is where I am heading next.


Anyway I have some pics in and around Salvador HERE

Football, Forro´and Fio Dental

It is quite conceivable that one could come to Brazil for a month and never venture beyond either Rio or the Zona Sul. There would be nothing wrong with this scenario either. However in any country that spans 4 or more time zones this constitutes a postage stamp-sized tether. Here are some of the ways I filled up the proverbial bucket before leaving.

A Churrascaria survey tour. Churrascarias are the Brazilian equivalent of the Gaucho Asados found in Argentina, basically a slow barbequeue. Where they differ of course is in the method of delivery and the variety of their offerings. The meat is served Rodizio style which is where the waiters circulate throughout the dining room with a skewer of meet and a knife. If the token on your table is facing green side up the waiter will shave off a cut of whatever he is serving, if the token is red side up he will keep moving along. They all operate on a prix fixe scheme so you are only limited by your intake capacity. At any given time there half a dozen waiters moving about the dining room with a seemingly endless selection of beef, chicken, lamb, pork, duck. Further, within each category of meat early every type of cut is offered as well. The winner hands down was Porcão which without any touch of irony means "big pig" in Portuguese. Although opinion seems to be split between Plataforma and Porcão as to which is the best Churrascaria, my vote rests with Porcão. In addition to its quality BBQ it has its share of that "see and be seen" element. I thoroughly enjoyed my friend Fabio, a Leblon local pointing out the different TV stars, football players and politicos while detailing their accompanying scandals. That´s entertainment.

On Wednesday night I attended a football game at the fabled Maracana´ Stadium. Maracana´is the biggest football stadium on the planet. Before receiving a face lift for last summer´s Pam American Games the capacity was 200K. After removing the terrace style seating the number is somewhere closer to 120K people. The game was between Flamingo which is Brazil´s most popular team and Sao Paulo´s Corinthians, a classic rivalvry for urban supremacy. A football game at Maracana´ has no comparison in any of the big 3 sports in USA. The Flamingo fans make the Red Sox fans on Yawkee Way in Boston look like choir boys. I think with the exception of automatic weapons everything is permitted to be brought into the stadium. I am trying to think of a 20 piece samba troop trying to enter Madison Square Garden with their drums on game night and it just doesn´t compute. There were passages of time where between the smoke from the fireworks and flares and the flag waving it became very difficult to see the field. It was like the Nuremburg of sporting events. Everything reaches an apoplectic peak of course when Flamingo scores. The movement of 80K fans in unison causes the concrete beneath your feet tends to undulate ever so slightly but enough for it to register. It also begins to rain, it rains beer, water, coke, plastic cups and cans. It also becomes evident that this is no place for a freshly pressed button down shirt. The game ended with a 2-1 victory for Flamingo after which the madness moved from the stadium to the street.

A visit to a Favela. Initialy I had mixed feeling about visiting a Favela. On one hand there seemed to be something touristcally exploitive about it. Yet on the other hand with a population of over 2 million people and a growth rate of 6 percent the favelas are clearly a legitimate part of the social fabric that makes up the city. After doing a minute amount of research I found a guy named Marcelo who donated a majority of the money for a guided tour to the community there. The favela I visited was Rocinha. This is the biggest favela in Rio. There doesnt seem to be any type of official census type data but many estimates put it at 100K people. I think most peoples impressions of the favela were culled from the movie "City of God" and up to that point mine were as well. True, drug lords and there soldiers run the favela but they do so along with an elected favela predident. Not everyone in a favela is a drug dealer either in fact these would be a minroity. Many of the maids, porters other service industry people who work in Copacobana and Impanema live here. Most of Rio´s construction workers are favela dwellers as well. Despite the illegal prescense of drugs and guns in the favelas there is little crime. Windows and doors remain open, there is no armed robbery, muggings or rape. This is one of those self regulating elements that are sometimes found in marginalized areas. In the abscense of a police patrol justice is meeted out by the Command which is the reigning power structure of the neighborhood. The Command is generally one of three different drug gangs that control the neighborhood. The kids with guns on the street are soldiers of the command. They are the eyes and ears on the street and report up the chain of command. They are not out for the wallets and jewelry of of tourists in any way. Their armed struggles rests with the police and rival commands looking to make inroads in their favela. The only real danger in visiting a favela or I imagine living there for that matter is getting caught in the cross fire between these elements. Another misconception is that in these neighborhoods there is an abscense infrastructure however this is patently untrue. There are supermarkets, restaurants, bars and bus stations in the favela. Every resident also has access to power and running water. The favelas also have their own community radio and cable TV stations. I dont mean in any way to portray a rosey picture of but what became obvious to me during the afternoon here was that there is a difference between poverty and being "down and out."

Next it´s off to the North East to the state of Bahia, the African heart of Brazil.

CT

Sucos, Salgados e Popozão. Tudo Bem? Brazil !

It's mid-afternoon on Leme Beach, the bronze Carioca woman next to me is rummaging through her shoulder bag. A moment later she produces a large circular hand-held mirror. When she stands up she begins angling the mirror around her back side. With head craned backwards she begins inspecting the tan lines under the piece of dental floss that is her bikini bottom. Subsequently a look of smug satisfaction appears on her face and she proceeds to lay back down on her towel. 'Note to self' I think, 'now I have seen it all.' Ah Rio. I am reminded of that old adage that "a bad day at the beach is still better than a good day at work."

After nearly a week of sun, surf and samba I think I have turned into a gelatinous blob. I am trying to account for my time and having trouble doing so. I rented an apartment for the week a block from the beach just between Leme and Copacabana. The stand up juice bars that occupy the corners everywhere in the city are a good place to begin the day. Since my command of the Portuguese language ranks up there with my command of Swahili I have resorted to the "point, order and pray" method of consumerism. Fortunately for me everything is good. The juices are a real treat though. My personal favorites include:

The maracuja(passion fruit), caju(cashew fruit), açaí(a purple Amazon berry), caldo de cana which is sugar cane juice where they put fresh stalks into a hopper to extract the juice or a vitaminia(fruit, milk an crushed ice.) They are all equally delicious.

The Salgudos(salty snacks) are the perfect accompaniment. Pastel de carne/queijo which is a large square deep fried pasty - very light and airy filled with shredded beef or chicken and cheese. The cheese is Catupiry cheese which has the texture and consistency of cream cheese. Bolinho de aipim - fried yucca and ground meat, Coxinha which is a tear-drop shaped pastry filled with shredded chicken. Kibe - Which is Carne with Tabuli and Mint. Not a bad one in the bunch.


Saturday night I was invited to a Feijoada party in Jardim Botânico. As always if you are fortunate enough to be invited to someone's home for dinner you accept. Feijoada is the national dish in Brazil and is traditionally eaten on Saturdays. It has it's roots in the slave days when the slave owners would give the scraps of pork (knuckles, ears, tongue etc.) that were left over at the end of the week to the slaves. It is somewhat similar to Jumbalaya. Pork and black beans seasoned with garlic, onion and salt are slowly stewed for most of the day producing a very rich sauce. This is served with rice, a Brazilian type of cous-cous called farofa (manioc flour), and couve (kale), as well as pieces of freshly-cut orange slices and washed down with a cold chopp(beer.)It is safe to say that nobody leaves the table feeling hungry. The party itself was good, there was a varied mix of Caricoas - artists, professionals and fashionistas and of course the odd solo traveler. I would venture to say that nearly half spoke English as well which seems to be a characteristic of the middle class here. After that it was off to Leme to a house party where people generously shared their favorite places to visit in the North of the country.

Yesterday laying on the beach I experienced a pang of guilt for not yet having done more of the touristy things. I had ridden the Bonde to Santa Teresea and explored Centro but little else. With a sense of duty I packed up from the beach and jumped into a taxi to go up to Corcovado which is the mountain with the statue of Christo Redentor that peers ominously down on you from everywhere in the city. Ten minutes into the cab ride we are in Botofogo by the marina in grid lock traffic. As I sat feeling that my plans for seeing a sunset high above Rio were dissipating like exhaust fumes I heard a long whistle blow. Then it began, the propulsive thunder of the bateria which is the percussion section of the samba troupe. To the right along the promenade of the marina was a samba school in full rehearsal. I paid my fare and leaped out of the taxi and headed towards the fun. The percussion section was well over a hundred men and women deep, the surdos, the tarols, the Cuícas and the Pandeiros are all weaving a fabric and working everyone up into a lather. This is bliss. Momentarily the flag bearer starts waving the schools flag and the Baianas begin strutting well polished samba steps, the choreography seemed well set. From atop a truck the stringed instruments and singers begin the schools anthem and everybody sings along. For the next hour and twenty minutes they march around the beach of the marina deftly working through their routines. The energy level only heads in one direction and that is up. This is an impromptu parade for most people and the few hundred that are flanking the left and right move along in unison, including the drink vendors on their bikes. At this point in the year the school seems to be operating like a well oiled machine, everyone knows their parts and nobody appears to be going through the motions. It is ready for public consumption. It is now dark and I walk back through the tunnel to Leme with their theme song etched firmly in my head. That Art Deco Christ statue will have to wait another day. In the words of the late Kurt Vonnegut Jr. - "and so it goes."

PS
Congrats to Cristina Kirchner on her election and becoming the first first lady to win the presidency. Now maybe they can take all of those digitally enhanced MTV style posters of her hanging up of her in Buenos Aires down? Kidding of course but I do imagine Nestor might be giving Bill a call this time next year to advise him of the nuances of being a first man.

Anyway some random pics can be found HERE

Tchau
Cliff

Asunción

Nuestra Señora Santa María de la Asunción is the capitol of Paraguay. The residents of Acunsion(Asuncenos)have the distinction of consuming more mate´ than anyone else in South America. They consume so much mate that they carry it around in a special fashion accessory. Nearly everyone walking the street in Asuncion carries a "guampa" which is a leather container with a handle or shoulder strap that holds the thermos of water. Many of these guampas are real works of art, dark leathers and beautiful etchings. They also have a compartment to hold the mate cup as well. The mate here is called terere´ however and is enjoyed cold since most of the year Paraguay bakes under the torrid sun.

Architecturaly it is a curious place. What isn´t faded colonial glory from the 16th or 17th century is brutalist architecture from the 1960´s and 70´s - large blocks of plain but imposing concrete edificios. Heat seems to be the only design conceit of the non-colonial structures, many have lateral blinds attached outside of the windows. It wouldn´t be incorrect to call Asuncion ugly but I also think that this strange dichotomy is what gives it its' charm.

Paraguay was once the most advanced country in South America. In addition to having the first telegraph network and iron foundry they also built the first passenger railway on the continent. This fact was brought to my attention by a taxi driver every time we passed the old station in the Plaza Uruguay and the following litany would invariably take place: "This was the first passenger train in all of South America", the driver would proudly intone. "Where does it go to?" I would ask. "Nowhere, it doesn't run anymore, not for a long time now." would come the response. Rather than make investments in the thousands of miles of existing track someone came up with a cheaper solution - simply turn the station into a museum.

It was with a certain pleasure that I took photos of the Palacio de Gobierno since during El Supremo´s(José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia)time the dictator forbid citizens to look at his house and anyone caught doing so was shot on site. Sure this seems a little extreme but perhaps if you were a dictator living in a palace that resembled a wedding cake you could probably understand employing such a policy.

Pantheon of Heroes in the Plaza de Independencia is similar to Invalides in Paris. The most impressive coffin in not one of the seminal players in Paraguayan history like the Lopez dictators but rather the kid sized casket dedicated to the children between ages 10-15 who fought in one of the bloodiest wars in Latin American History, The War of the Triple Alliance. This was the war that pitted Paraguay against Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay. During the war Paraguay lost close to 60% of its population. The Paraguay casualties swelled so much that kids were put on the front line to fight against the Brazillian cabalry. It was common for the children to have beards and moustaches painted on their faces to appear older from a distance.

Bar Lido is a lunch time institution in Asuncion. A large scalloped lunch counter snakes throuought the interior. There is often a wait to gain a seat at the counter. The lunch special is a cold surubi´fish soup. It is somewhere between a bisque and a chowder. This comes with a panchito and a refresco of your choosing. Savory, satisfying and cheap. This was the only place I had lunch during my time in the city.

I have some picture of Asuncion's funky aesthetic HERE


Flying over Paraguay from Asuncion to Brazil I am struck at how little there is below me. Large tracts of farmland, miles of uninterupted greenery and nothing that resembles a city. In a country the size of California with a population of only 6 million surely makes Paraguay one of the least populated places here. Oddly it seems to still be a victim of its' once isolationist policies. I don't if this is a place for everybody. I could see some thinking 'there was no "there" here' but I think that is the whole point. I think it is a close as you can get to seeing how places in South America looked when the Spanish arrived. Paraguay don't go changing.

C

P is for Paraguay

“An island surrounded by land” is how the novelist Roa Bastos once referred to his native Paraguay. Sitting with a group of fellow travelers at my hotel cafe in Posadas, Argentina I responded to the proverbial "where are you going next?" question by dryly stating "Paraguay I think." This was met with a group look of confusion. "What's there?" asked the studious looking Englishmen." "I am not exactly sure but I thought I'd have a look, you know, just in case" I replied. Next the akward lull in conversation rolled in like a fog. This place just wasn't on their radar. Technically it wasn't on my radar either. I knew a fair amount about the country's history which was intriguing enough but little else. So with the crumpled up Paraguay section of the 1998 Shoestring Guide I had found, I negotiated with a cab driver to take me to the frontier. It was a short trip to the other side of the Parana' River.

This wasn't actually my first time here but it was the first giving up my Argentine visa. Three days before I ventured into Ciudad Del Este which is a "soft" border of Paraguay shared with Brazil and Argentina. Ciudad Del Este is South America's answer to Hong Kong - a giant tax-free trade zone. The area is sketchy to say the least. Everything here is for sale, legal and illegal and openly at that. It is crowded and filthy and you likely wouldn't want to know exactly what business was being conducted in back rooms. This is not a place you want to find yourself after the sun sets. A border town always seems to embrace this wild west spirit though and I guess it stands to reason that a triple border town would be exactly three times that spirit. Not to be disheartened my assumption was that this could be in no way representative of the rest of the country. It turns out this assumption was correct.

Thirty minutes after leaving Argentina I found myself in Enarnacion at the bus station where both everything and nothing at all seemed to be going on. As the next bus north wasn't for an hour and change, I negotiated with a taxi driver for my passage. For 60 dollars we would be heading 260 Km north to San Juan Bautista(St. John the Baptist.) Momentarily my driver pulled up in a 4 year old Toyota Camary, tinted windows, rims and all. Since the standard Taxi here is a 20 year old yellow Fiat that had long since spent its crankshaft in some other country, this was first class.

It takes less than 10 minutes to get out of Encarnacion. Heading North on Ruta 1 everything appears to be upolstered in plush greenery. Long stretches of unspoiled land are puncutated by the occasional estancia, a Menonite farmer working his field, a guacho riding along the highway and the odd long-haul truck heading in the opposite direction. Tranquillo.

The driver wants to know why I am heading to San Juan Buatista. I explain to him that this is where the guitarista Augusto Barrios is from and I believe there is a museum there. This makes no impression on him, he has no idea who Barrios is. He then goes on to ask me why people that come to Paraguay must visit the Jesuit Missions. "I have no idea maybe because they're there." I reply. It is afterall a dark period of history. The missions were actually known as reduciones which is a cognate in English meaning of course "reduction." It was an encomienda type system. If the inidans could be reduced in their sprawl and centered around the Spanish pueblo, taxing them would be more efficient for the crown back in Spain. This was a quid pro quo though. In exchange for their labor and taxes the Jesuits gave the Guarani both religous and language training. Obviously that deal worked out better for one of the parties involved but as the saying goes "there's aint no such thing as a free evangelization." In all fairness the Baroque-Guarani architecture of the reducciones and some of the red sandstone church facades are quite beautiful and certainly worth a look.

San Juan Batista is a no stop light town tucked neatly off of Ruta 1. After a brief stop at the taxi stand in town my driver made arrangements for one of the locals to pick me up the following morning at 10:00AM at my hotel. Since there was only one hotel in town there was little in the way of details that needed to be worked out. As I was checking into the hotel it became apparent that I was the only guest in the hotel and possibly the only traveler in town. I set off to dinner at palatial place across from the hotel. It was no shock to discover that I was to be the only diner in the place. The owner asked me if I was Americano and after I nodded affirmatively she began speaking English. It turns out that she lived in Greenwich Connecticut for 25 years. Her husband was in politics and lived half the year in Paraguay and the other half in the US. We went on to talk about Connecticut, politics - the US presence up north here, the restaurant business, the weakening dollar and tourism in Paraguay. Sitting at a table outside I more or less let the waiter order for me. There is something infinitely satisfying about discovering a new fish. This particular fish is called Surubi is catfish that comes from the Parana' River. It was prepared lightly grilled with a squeeze of fresh orange proved to be simple perfection. This was rounded out with papas fritas which were not potato but rather mandioca(cassave), a simple green salad and an ice cold beer. This was followed by a dessert of mamon which is a local fruit with the consistency of papaya that was stewed in dulce sauce of some kind. Genius.

The following morning the taxi driver appeared promptly at 10:00AM and we headed off to Casa de Barrios Mangore. The house where Barrios grew up was a colonial weather worn place with no sign announcing its' cultural significance. The entrance was on the corner and as I entered there were six children sitting with nylon string guitars playing along to the minor scale that the teacher was humming. The kids seemed delighted that there was a visitor and were besides themselves at having their picture taken. There wasn't much of a museum to speak of. It was a gutted house with pictures and newspaper articles tacked to the walls. Gil the owner of the house informed me that is was being used as a cultural center and showed me the painting studio where local artists work. He was curious as to where I was from and how I knew about Augstine Barrios. I explained to him that our composer John Williams had declared him the greatest composer of all time and recorded some of his works. He nodded and produced some postcards which I purchased. I could sense that he wished there were more here to show me but as money is in short supply in Paraguay this was the reality. I thanked him for his time and told him I thought what he was doing at the museum/cultural center was a great undertaking.

I climbed back into the cab and my driver took me around San Juan Bautista and showed me the cathedral, pointed out the various monuments in the plaza and took me by the police station where dictator Stroesner's secret police tortured suspected subversives. It only takes about 15 minutes to have the grand tour of this mission town and before I knew it was back at my hotel waiting for the next bus to the capital of Asuncion.

Some Pics of Missiones Province can be found Here

Vive Hollywood, Vive Cinecanal.

CT

This Side of Paradise

Hiatus, that´s what it´s called. I had a two week hiatus in Buenos Airies. It was necessary. I would like to think of it as a sabitical but I have actually been on sabatical now for three months. I am struggling to find a word or phrase which means taking a break from taking a break but it escapes me. I am sure there is a verb for it in Spanish as they seem to have a specific one for almost everything else. My first order of business was to address my suitcase which looked as though it was in the third tri-mester of a pregancy. I dispensed with the all of my winter clothes and "aquired items" and sent them all back to New York. I also updated the ipod, got a hair cut and picked up some new books. You wouldn´t imagine that would take a full two weeks but it did. After restricting my transportation to nothing greater than the subway and taxis for 14 days, it was with itchy feet that I found myself at Aeroparque Newberry Airpot yesterday. Destination, Puerto Iquazu.

Traveling in South America sometimes feels like an aptitude test in logistics. Unlike Europe there is no high speed rail anywhere. Unless you enjoy 24 hour bus rides it is necessary to fly. If you look at the route maps for the airlines it becomes obvious that they are all set up in a hub and spoke pattern. If you want to fly 800 Kilometers East or West you must double back to the hub and fly from there. The concept of a shuttle service between second tier cities does not exist here. To make a lateral move requires three airports. So the question of how to navigate the continent efficently is one that often requires hours of thought and pouring over maps like a cartographer in training. Is it possible to move about Latin America without backtracking? My experience tells me "No." It´s like those "Seven Bridges of Königsberg" or "The Chinese Postman´s Dilema" type math puzzles. Perhaps if I knew something about Graph Theory I could probably write the definitive travel guide here.

Puerto Igazu is a small parcel of subtropical rain forest in the upper right hand corner of Argentina in the province of Missiones(think Jesuit.) This area is known as the triple frontier. It is where Paraguay, Brazil and Argentina join hands. Spanish, Portuguese and Guarani are spoken here, often in the same conversation as locals seem to be fluent in all three. The main attraction is of course the cataratas - Iguazu Falls. Iguazu makes Niagra look like a leaky bathroom faucet. You hear them some 2Km before you see them, 6.5 million liters a second of water flowing is a sonic force. The park is beautifully laid out, narrow trails thread throughout the rainforest heading towards the falls. Along the way toucans, butterflies and monkeys go about thier daily business. The spray from the falls is almost ubiquitous. Iguazu spills out over a gigantic U shape of basalt rock. At a little over a mile and a half wide there are some 300 inividual falls, the highest of which are 30 stories. The constantly replinished moisture in the air creates a sequence of never ending rainbows. The “Garganta del Diablo” at the top is one of the most impressive displays of raw power there is to be seen. The Brazillian side of the Falls is supposed to be even more impressive. Amen. I managed to salvage some photos from my water-logged camera. You can see themHERE

South to Salta

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Fun with Google Maps! They have a new API that allows you to embed them in all their interactive glory on your site. Go ahead click, grab and shake the continent around, you know you want to. OK enough geek speak though.

I left Bolivia on Thursday evening. As the rickety Aerosur 737 warbled with endless turbulence we passed by a lightning storm that was a little to close for my tastes. It's a bit unnerving to be up in the Troposphere in a metal tube during an electrical storm. The tarmac in Salta was met with an overwhelming sense of relief. Deep breaths.

The night before my Bolivian friends Julien and Maya whom I met in BA back in July took us out to show us what Santa Cruz had to offer in terms of entertainment. It was a fun albeit late night, a proper send-off at any rate. Gracious hosts indeed.

Anyway it is good to be back in Europe ... I mean Argentina, ha ha. Seriously though after nearly five weeks of almost exclusive Nescafe instant coffee it is nice to be back in a place with cafe culture, cafe con leches and great Italian food.

It is Oliver's birthday tomorrow and I am meeting up with he and Gladys in Buenos Aires. I heard there might even be cake.

Fly low and beat the radar
Clifford