Mella Madness

Don’t think a thousand steps get you to heaven. It only takes you to the top of Cerro San Bernardo, a hill overlooking Salta, a beautiful city in the north of Argentina. Although, with the spectacular backdrop of the Andes mountains, an exalted feeling is not precluded. It’s just the sweat and shortness of breath that brings you back to earth.

A man-made waterfall greets one at the top, which was not too bad as it is the end of the dry season here and no natural waterfalls to refresh the weary climber. I love the energy of running water. I was amused by the sign at the fall and still don’t quite get it. According to Google Translate zona cardio protegida means area of cardio protection. I thought if I stood there for a while, my heartbeat would return to normal…

Yep, that’s a cable car – as usual I opted for the more challenging way of getting to the top, feeling very superior. I sheepishly have to admit that it probably had more to do with dinero (money) than the physical exertion.

Just a slight diversion here. There was a documentary made a few years back, fast-forwarding the decline of planet earth once humans ceased to exist, and how nature would take over again. Somewhere there was a scene showing packs of dogs roaming and scaveging for food in the absence of man. I am seriously beginning to feel that here – roaming dogs are everywhere. On the streets, in the parks, in the city centre, and a lot on the San Bernardo stairs. Just lying there, obviously not belonging to anyone. I remember Paolo Coelho writing about the dogs of O’Cebrero on his pilgrimage to Santiago, and how fearful I was as I approached that town on my own Camino – I never saw any dogs. But now I seriously am becoming concerned.

Salta was founded in 1582 and the name is derived from the Diaguita word sagta which means ‘beautiful’, so I feel quite justified for having called it a ‘beautiful’ city in the first paragraph. For me, there is always beauty in everything, but seeing all the colonial and pre-colonial buildings around Plaza 9 de Julio, a tree-filled green park in the city centre, the name is easily justified. Most striking is the Iglesia y Convento San Francisco (church and convent of St Francis), which was started in the mid-18th century and the facade, done by Italian architect Luigi Giorgi, was only completed in 1870.

Two of the oldest surviving buildings (although both have been restructured as result of earthquakes and wars) are the Cabildo de Salta and the Convento San Bernardo (Convent of St Bernard). St Bernard is the patron saint of Salta, hence the hill named after him too.

This door is the only original part of the convent and was carved by indigenous craftsmen in 1762.

Something really upsetting is displayed in one of the museums here. It is a head piece that is carved out of turtle shell. It was fasionable in the 18th and 19th centuries and was worn by women, as shown in the illustration:

It is Miracle Week in Salta this week, with a huge parade and festival ending it on Sunday. The cathedral on the plain has daily ongoing services which are publically broadcast and people are queuing for communion and blessings, bringing little bunches of red and white carnations that are being sold on street corners. Quite inspirational, the piety accompanying it all. Although my poor mother would have had a fit, as she believed that red and white flowers together predicted death. Just goes to show how supestitions can govern one’s life. The flower arrangements in the church were different though.

Workaway has bestowed me with another friend who invited me for lunch today. She responded to my application, stating that she no longer accepted Workawayers, but would love to meet me as my vocation was of interest to her. She has etablished and runs a language institute in the city and has suggested that I teach English classes there in exchange for Spanish lessons. So I might come back to Salta in December or January!

I have decided to name her Louise, this pink companion of mine. Not that we’re suicidal, or that we’ve murdered anyone (yet), but yesterday she almost got me into big trouble. I had spent the day wandering the streets, sleeping on the grass, watching the river and generally waiting for the night bus to Salta. Louise was at the place I had stayed, where the host had kindly agreed to keep my luggage for me until 5 o’clock. By that time I was tired, hot and thirsty and Louise persuaded me to have a beer on the way to the bus terminal, which was 5km away. They don’t serve small beers in Argentina, the smallest is 500ml. So a slightly inebriated Louise kept on tripping on the uneven pavements, almost pulling me down with her a few times. I decided that it would be best for both of us to catch a bus for the last 3km. Good decision…

Corrientes was founded in 1558, but not much of the old town still exists, as it was a battleground for 2 big wars, the last in 1865 -1870. There are quite a few stately colonial and 19th century buildings, often centered around plazas.

There is a shaded walkway all along the Parana river, and at this time of the year the Lapacho trees (pink trumpet tree, or tabebuia impetiginosa) are in full bloom, some also along the river.

The Parana, as I have said, is the largest river in Argentina, and even has some beaches along the banks. Not swimming weather yet, but I am sure they are packed during summer.

I spoke about the murals in Buenos Aires, and in Corrientes they are everywhere, real wors of art.

I saw this abandoned power station, and it made me wonder about Eskom in South Africa. On the building is written: Agua y energia electricia.

The fruit here and everywhere is tasty, sweet and not too expensive. I bought 3 tangerines from a street vendor for R1 each, and they were the freshest, juiciest and sweetest I have ever tasted – they had their stems and leaves still attached.

The next few pictures tell a sad little story I witnessed while Louise and I were having my beer. The little girl’s mother was trying to entertain children for money, while she (the girl) had to sit on the bench:

Sometimes the mother would check on her…And then she got tired…

There are só many women and children living on the streets, begging or trying to do something for an income. Quite tragic and sad. But there are also many happy families: fathers, mothers and lots of little kiddies, often 3 or 4, close together like the family next to the little girl. My general impression here is that people are happy – even the statues have smiling faces!

San Ignacio Mini merited a stop as the best Jesuit-Guaraní ruins are to be seen there. Together with 3 other sites close by, it was declared a World Heritage site in 1984, for its ‘arcitectural beauty and evidence of unrepeatable history’.

As a former UNESCO Director General stated: “It is a matter of protecting the universal inheritance of humanity, not just preserving the past, but engineering a future more in keeping with the greatness of the human condition.” If this is the intention of world heritage sites, it was accomplished for me. I learnt about the Guaraní people, original inhabitants of the Argentinian Litoral, as that area in the northeast is known. How they had lived in communities of up to 2000 people, and very much in harmony with nature’s rhythms. How they regard words as more than a means of human communication, but a conduit to the divine. Their whole culture, its stories, myths and traditions, is orally transmitted, and they sing the messages given to them in dreams by the gods. According to them, the word is the soul, and to lose it is to die. “When the earth did not exist, amidst the ancient darkness, when nothing was known, He made the fundamental word open like a flower and, with Him, it divinely became heaven; this Ñamandu did, the true father, the first one.” (León Cadogan)

The first Jesuit Mission, or reduction, was established in 1609, and they were well-established and fully functioning by the time the Jesuits (Society of Jesus) were decreed to leave Argentina in 1768. They had grown in numbers and population, and had created a novel social construct different from any other where missionaries and original inhabitants intermingled. Cultural interchange was occurring, and every form of art and artisan activity was used to fulfil the evangelizing mission, The Guaraní took this a step further and created an art form which is now known as Guaraní Baroque. It was mainly wood and stone carvings, but was regarded as world class and filled every available space of the reduction. Unfortunately very little of it remains as the missions were all destroyed during the War of the Triple Alliance with Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay against Paraguay in the late 1800’s.

The reduction was completely enclosed by walls, and all activity took place on the inside. There were many private dwellings and areas designated for a vegetable and fruit garden, and one whole courtyard had all the workshops and shops, such as blacksmith, carpenter, ceramic, rosery making, bakery, spinning, etc. They thrived on music, dancing and plays and both Guaraní and western musical instruments were used. The presence of the Guaraní is strongly felt while walking amongst the ruins, especially as the beautiful old trees and plants serve as reminders of their connectedness to nature.

I

I had the rest of the day free so rented a bike for 250 pesos (R80) and took to the woods on my bicicleta. Nobody had warned me that the National Park had so many hills!! Up I went, pushing most of way, and down again, pulling on both brakes as the road was bad and full of stones, and ending up in hospital was not on my agenda. All worth the effort – being low season, I was completely on my own in the forest, and the view of the Parana river belonged just to me. I could peacefully eat my sandwich and contemplate all without having to clamber for a place as I had to at Iguazú. What bliss…

There was one solitary young man walking with a plastic bag to one of the comunidad aborigens (townships for the aboriginal people) that are located all around the outskirts of town. I passed him before getting into the forest, but then I stopped for a rest and was putting down my helmet and rucksack when I felt stinging bites on my calves, under my tight fitting jeans. I looked down to find my tackies full of tiny ants, and they were everywhere – how they managed to get up my jeans so fast remains a mystery, but I was determined to get rid of them before they climbed any higher. I was just about to yank off my pants when the lone man came up the road. So I had to wait, and by the time he had disappeared round the corner, they were biting me at the waist. Was I glad to be rid of those jeans! If it’s not the pesky gnats, it’s the ants…

To update you on the pink travelling companion – yes, I pushed and pulled it very far after the bus had casually dropped me off at the side of the highway outside San Ignacio. Of course I took a wrong turn agáín, based on anóther assumption… I was looking for house number 306 (that was the number in Iguazu) in stead of 1636 (the San Ignacio one) – completely opposite direction.

Note the pink travelling companion waiting to hit the road…

Is it possible for the soul to expand? If indeed, mine doubled in size after my Iguazu experience.

The indigenous people of this region,  the Guaraní, revered the falls in the Iguazú river. Iguazú is derived from the Guaraní word for ‘big water’, a very apt description for one of the world’s great natural wonders. It is made up of 250 individual falls, spanning a distance of 3km. 


I was blessed by that same water when I went on a boat that goes into the spray of two of the falls, one quite huge, and one lesser one. I was petrified beforehand, but once on the boat the adrenalin kicked in and the excitement became overwhelming.

Approaching the falls, one wonders if one will come out alive, and not quite knowing what to expect, the first torrent of water came as a huge shock that left me breathless. I was still gasping and trying to wipe the water from my eyes, when the next shower hit me. This repeated itself several times, leaving me completely exhilarated and exalted.  By the time we had gone through the second waterfall I was soaked and shivering  but as we sped back through the rapids, I turned my face to the sun, closing my eyes and allowing my body, mind and spirit to soak up the warming rays, and that’s when I realised that my soul had doubled in size. Such a meaningful blessing.

This is one of the falls we went into:


I was sure my gnat-bites would stop itching after the water-blessing, but no go – still huge welts that itch like mad. My cousin Lynton reckons spirit earth has a sense of humor.I spent the rest of the day exploring the 3 different routes that lead to different sections of the falls. The one to the biggest fall, called Garganta del Diablo (Throat of the Devil), is a 1,1km walk on metal walķways accross the river:


Throat of the Devil:


Some of the falls one can view from lower down, and get quite close up. This one is called Bossett:


Bossett Fall, and Adam & Eve on the left:


A view of one of the larger sections:


Puerto Iguazú regards itself as the tourist capital of Argentina, as the falls are the most popular tourist attraction. There are shops and restaurants galore, and although quieter at this time of the year, I am sure it is packed during summer. It is quite hot, and I was relieved to rid myself of winter clothes and join the locals in wearing shorts and a T-shirt.  The town is quite small, and the room I booked through Airbnb is very central and cheap, only R150 per night. I was fortunate to have had sunny weather yesterday, as we had a proper thunderstorm and rain today, the first of the season. They haven’t had rain in 2 months, so the river is low and the rain-forest quite dry – no need for raincoats.

A mural accross the street from my hotel:

Exit, not departure. According to my online dictionary, the latter means leaving a place, whereas the former means the way in which one leaves. A slow exit has its merits. And by slow I mean by foot, down a 200m dirt driveway, having to negotiate my pink suitcase around mud puddles, very successfully I might add.I waited until they were all doing yoga on the lawn before my grand exit – I had no intention of having witnesses. My ‘long walk’ towards a new adventure. Time for reflection, for a farewell. The gate at the end of the driveway was only the beginning, as I had 6 blocks to go to catch the local bus, and 6 more once I got to Santa Fe. I made it, and am on the night bus to Puerto Iquazu, my next destination.

The last couple of days have been eventful, as usual. On Friday I joined the yoga class outside, and impressed the instructress, Laura, with my abilities. Stretching felt good and relaxation at the end of the hour with the smell of grass and the warmth of the sun on my body, even better. Laura very kindly offered me her bicycle, and on Saturday I explored Sauce Viejo from one end to the other, discovering big houses, deserted houses, old cars, parks and even a sandy beach at the river.
Two interesting guests joined us as volunteers during the weekend. One is a drone fundi that came to plot the area and record videos for marketing. He is from Spain, living in Buenos Aires, where he’s launching a project to drop tree seeds with a drone, to counteract deforestation. Research needs to be done to establish the most beneficial way of preparing the seeds beforehand, but he is hopeful that the necessary funding will be obtained and people contacted. Admirable, to say the least.

The other person is a young traveller from Spain who has spent the past 3 years in Argentina. He is brimming with information and has given me some excellent tips and places of interest to explore. These young travellers have a unique way of doing things. They are well equipped with cameras (with huge lenses), have music, videos and series on their computers, with earphones. They have sleeping bags, very few clothing items, boots and a warm jacket and everything fits into a rucksack. They brew teas with curcuma, cocoa leaves, thistle or any herb that is cleansing and energizing, they are open minded and alternative in their approach to life and people, and they are ingenious about finding jobs to pay their way.  I’m half traveler, half tourist, which suits me – I’m trying to act my age. 

Do you know how complicated it is to paint the SA flag to scale? It was quite a job and required thorough research, but the result is spectacular, don’t you agree? On the stoep wall, with all the other flags:


I invariably land up on the back of a bike, no matter where I am. This time Alejandros wanted to buy poles at a sawmill on Monday, and invited me along. Don’t make assumptions (the 3rd of Ruiz’s The Four Agreements). I never asked how far we were going  I just assumed it was at the next village. Well,  35km on the highway, passing cars and going like crazy, and me holding on for dear life. But it was FUN!! And then a further 15km to have lunch at a special little restaurant that does ‘family cooking’, as they call it here. My first empanada, freshly baked, crisp and tasty, and fish from the Parana river, firm white fillet, well prepared, although a bit too salty. And white wine from Mendosa, the rest of which I had to cope with on the back of the bike. Holding on with one hand just felt too perilous, so I shoved the bottle down the front of my top. Much safer…


The man at the sawmill was about my age, and proudly showed me the meal they were cooking next to the reception bungalow.  He also wants to travel, he said.Of course the mate was made and offered, and much to my surprise sugar had been added. Not so good.  Which reminds me: Ale pointed out to us that all the ground coffee sold in Argentina has sugar added to it. We didn’t want to believe him, but it is clearly stated on the package.  What a disappointment.I did my first Argentian constellation!! On the grass outside, with 4 beautifully sensitive people. The horses were around, the river in the background and the late afternoon sun shining through the trees. One of the Spanish volunteers did an a excellent job of translating while representing as well. I am só excited, would love to pursue this avenue of work. On Tuesday, my last night, Alejandros barbecued meat and stir fried vegetables as a special treat, much appreciated.

The parting gift this morning was a turtle that appeared from the forest, making its way accross the grass to the river, literally falling down steps and into the water. It came up twice, as if in greeting. Goodbye turtle, goodbye Camino del Indio, goodbye Alejandros and goodbye Ale. Thank you for an incredibly special time.

Never judge a book by its cover, the saying goes. That is the case with Camino del Indio, the place that I’ve been staying and working at. The mere name, which means ‘the way of the aboriginal people’, indicates that it is a sanctimonial place, where people respect nature, the ancestral ways and unsophisticated manner of existence.

The original homestead was that of the founder of Sauce Viejo (the name of the town here), and is next door to our humble abode. It is part of the same property, but is currently not in use. In a previous blog I had referred to it as the ‘workshop’, not realizing the significance of the building. The one that had corrugated iron sheets ripped off during the twister in February, evidently 50 of them, most ending up in the trees of the surrounding forest.

Furthermore, a movie was made in this house, depicting the retired life of the 80yr old surviving spouse of the previous owner. Her name is Bella. It is called ‘Dilettante’ and was made by her daughter, as final product for a degree in filmmaking. Only 3 people act in the movie: Bella, her caretaker Kata, and a lone man living on the property, named Cecil. It’s on YouTube, and Ale kindly let me watch it on his computer. Very poignant and thought-provoking, made me view life here in a different way.

I have come accross the word ‘dilettante’ in Argentina a few times. First in Buenos Aires, where Renato’s friend Christian referred to himself as dilettante, then in the film, and then Ale also referred to one of our guests as ‘dilettante’. It means a person who is interested in and can easily talk about many different things, but does not have an in-depth knowledge of the subject matter. It seems that there are quite a few of them around…

The guest I am referring to is a young man (19yrs) who pitched up late one night, literally blown in by an icy wind. He happens to be a knife maker, who was on his way to do a further course in knife-making. Initially I was completely intrigued, trying to understand the process and taking photo’s of one of his creations. The handle is going to be crafted from special wood from Thailand, with engravings.

The patterns on the blade are the result of a sheet of metal being rolled out and folded double many times, up to 150 in this case. The grooves close to the handle are made manually with a small round file – time-consuming and detailed work. The sheaths are hand-crafted too, and the final product is sold for $800 (USA) in Argentina. By eleven o’clock I gave up and went to bed, feeling sorry for Ale who was victim to a monologue which carried on well into the early hours of the morning. According to Ale, the young man has a keen interest in many things, and is quite knowledgeable, yet he called him a dilettante. How would I know, ignoramus with un poco español.

An inscription on the kitchen wall says: ‘Cocinar es Alquimia’, meaning ‘cooking is alchemy’.

Ale, who is vegetarian, has turned out to be quite thé chef. My contribution to the cooking process has been oats porridge every morning, which is served with sliced banana and a generous dollop of dulce de leche, the popular chocolate/caramel spread that is eaten on bread. Ale, on the other hand, has produced home-made bread every day, savoury pizza with salsa and mozzarella, topped with fresh rocket from his garden

and pascualina, a pie made with chard and eggs. The chard is chopped and fried with garlic, finely chopped leeks and carrots. The dough for the pie is made without yeast or baking powder, only flour, salt, oil and water is used. The bottom layer of rolled out dough is filled with the chard mixture, and then topped with 4 or 5 raw eggs. This is covered by the top layer of dough, which is spread with egg yolk. He baked the pie in the clay oven outside, which by the way, he had built. Evidently his mother is the best pascualina maker in the world, and he must be a close 2nd!

The days are speeding by, each bringing its own element of surprise or satisfaction, such as horses grazing in front of the house, yoga on the lawn, friends dropping by or unexpected guests arriving. On Tuesday for example, we were going to have a light lunch because it was going to be pizza night, but come 2 o’clock (yes, our official lunch time), friends arrived and a pascualina pie was promptly made. Ánd we had pizza that night, albeit at 10 o’clock, which is not that abnormal anyway.

I’ve been helping Ale make a new garden for pumpkin (actually butternut), squash, green peppers and tomatoes. The process involves collecting many wheelbarrows of horse manure and compost, cleaning out the grass and weeds, digging the soil (my idea, he was just going to make mounds) and then spreading first the manure, which had to be chopped fine with a spade, and then the compost. The manure and compost have to be mixed by hand, so as not to hurt the earthworms, and the mounds are covered with a thin layer of soil. The result looks good, but my hands have aged considerably and my nails will take weeks to recover – broken, and blisters everywhere. The sad part is I will not see the plants grow or taste the harvest.

On Friday Ale decided to put another layer of clay on the stove, which meant 5 barrows of clay had to be brought from the river, and I softened the clay while Ale fixed and plastered the oven. And I thought my hands had taken a knock after the gardening…

I seemed to have chosen an excellent time to visit here, as the rainy season hasn’t started and there are no insects around. Spiders, scorpions and mosquitoes abound in summer, but I have only had to deal with gnats, those tiny miserable little ‘muggies’ that sting without you being aware of it, creating itchy welts. The spiders are coming though… We discovered a huge web, at least 3x2m, high above the ground between the trees that line the pathway to the gate, which was covered with hundreds of minute spiders, little black dots hanging there like stars. I tried to photograph them, not very successfully though. When we arrived there again the next morning, the web was intact but the spiders had disappeared. We discovered them clustered together back in their nest. We’ve been watching them, and they seem to come out in the afternoon and move back to the nest in the morning. And we’ve found two more similar webs in the vicinity – who knows how many more there are in the forest. I’m think I’ll be happy to leave pretty soon!

More than 40 species of birds have been recorded on our grounds, and I’ve seen about half of them, such as eagles, water birds, kingfishers, owls and many others. There is a bird, called the benteveo comun, which has a very specific call almost like the ‘Piet-my-vrou’, and the locals have named it ‘bicho feo’ as a result of this. To me it sounded like ‘beat your fear’, and in the beginning, when I was emotionally vulnerable, it was a very encouraging sound to hear as I worked outside. I had a good chuckle at myself a few days ago, when I disvovered that ‘bicho feo’ actually means ‘ugly bug’!

Grateful contentment at the end of each day, sitting on the bankie and watching the sunset over the river:

Mate is a culture, not a tea. It is used as means of inclusion, of creating companionship. It is ingrained in the culture, and when you are invited to participate, it is a sign of acceptance. On Sunday I came to fully appreciate the extent of the habit, or more aptly, the ritual. Let me first explain the process of making mate:The first step is cleaning the mate, as the container is called. It is made of wood, or other material, and is shaped like a small urn, with thick sides.


The yerba (pronounced ‘sherba’, the herbs that the tea is made of)


is poured into the container at an angle, and a little cold water added at the low point. The water is heated (90°, never boiling) and poured into a flask. The bombilla is inserted into the yerba at the low point,  straight up against the edge. Only then the water is poured from the flask, against the stem of the bombilla, to run down under the yerba, until the water just appears at the top through the herbs, frothing a little. The leaves are never completely covered and remain dry on the higher side.


The person to make the mate always drinks first, as initially it is very strong and bitter. Drinking involves sucking on the bombilla, about three small sips, until there is a gurgling sound, indicating that the container is empty. It is refilled with water from the flask, not moving the bombilla, and passed on to the next person who sucks until the gurgling sound is heard. If one is using a litre flask, then halfway through the bombilla is removed and inserted at the other side of the mate, where the yerba is still dry, and the process continues.  Mate is drunk immediately after pouring in the water, it doesn’t have to draw.

Back to Sunday…  Ale spoke about a traditional band that was performing in Santa Fe, so we took the local bus and spent the afternoon and evening there. The band performed outside a cultural training and art centre, which is housed in a converted old mill, I gathered. I was impressed by all the little kids that had been brought there, and many of the exhibitions were interactive – none of the ‘don’t touch’ type. They were loving it!

The band was good, the instruments being used mostly traditional, and the performance unconventioal, mostly to entertain the children.And then of course the eye-opener for me:  half of the people there were carrying flasks and mate, drinking and sharing all the time.  That is how it is done here, be it outdoor entertainment, markets or indoor festivals, where people gather, they carry their mate. Some have smart carry bags, some have  loose bags, others just carry it in their hands. A sneak photo…


We walked down one of the main streets of Santa Fe which has a pedestrian walkway in the middle, and discovered a beautifully restored manor house.


Further down we went into the station building, which now is used as entertainment arena, as trains no longer run to Santa Fe. We stumbled upon a huge festival, celebrating the diverse cultures that make up the Argentinian people. People were seated to watch the various folk dances,

and next door was an area ás big with

food stalls from the different countries. We settled for pizza and beer, enjoying the ambience (and watching mate being shared…)


Later we carried on down to the river where a brightly lit old bridge invited the classic picture:


And then it was homeward bound, walking a good couple of blocks (like twenty) to a point where we thought we could catch a bus. Much to our dismay, the bus came from a different street and we had to cross over and run – two blocks of full speed running for this old woman!! I made it just in time (of course Ale is 20-something and was way ahead of me) and collapsed into a seat, shaking with laughter and exhaustion.  Life never ceases to be exciting!

‘Maril!’ He calls me to sit down beside him by the huge bonfire which is gradually reaching manageable proportions. ‘What is your title for the day?’, he wants to know. Before I can answer, he says: ‘I have one: White Eyes. You see that dog with the white eyes that is blind? Sometimes he doesn’t know what is going on, but then he slowly moves determinedly and you realise he knows. That is the same with people in life…’


Bernardo is a paying guest at the hostel who arrived 2 days ago. He is a journalist who has been travelling for eight months, writing a documentary about various areas in Argentina, which he hopes will be filmed. He drives 10 000km a month – crazy! Quite eccentric, with a marvellous sense of humour.  He is on his way north and his car has been giving problems. It cannot be fixed in Sauce Viejo so he is now sleeping for 2 hours (after his late dinner of steak and tomatoes) and will then drive 500km back to Buenos Aires to have it repaired. As soon as it is fixed, he will drive north, past here on his way to Cordoba.Such are the characters I have been meeting here. At some stage there were 7 people around the fire, but not all were eating. They kept on coming and going, quite haphazardly.  It was a special night, with the full moon rising over the river, and not a breath of wind.  The fire was big and Alejandro kept on fuelling it with massive dead tree trunks. On the braai was one flat chicken, a steak and a potato cut into slices, all very slowly being grilled. A cabbage salad and sandwiches appeared from the kitchen, and some of Ale’s freshly baked bread. A feast, to say the least.
Things are gradually improving and the weather is playing along, it’s much warmer. I have cooked twice and am beginning to feel part of the establishment. I don’t mind that Ale’s English is improving at a much faster rate than my Spanish, at least we are communicating. Last night I was mostly enjoying staring into the fire, fully aware of the people and occassionally engaging, with the moon and river as backdrop. Bernardo had given me some useful information on Santa in the north, where there are wine farms,  and I read this very apt quote on a website:

‘My work is about space and the light that inhabits it. It is about how you confront that space and plumb it with vision It is about your seeing, like the wordless thought that comes from looking into the fire.’  (James Turrel, on his art).

The fire had done its work for me.

Last year I did a competent crew course, in the hope of sailing to South America. The only sailing I ended up doing, was from Knysna to Gordon’s Bay. Not that simple. It turned out to be a gruelling 3-day survival trip in a galing south-easter, with the other crew member below deck with sea-sickness, and only me and the very competent skipper to brave the seas. The point of this side-track is that one should be careful what one asks for. The universe has a way of delivering…  In this case I had ásked for wild weather, for wind and water spraying in my face. But nót three days of it with sleep deprivation and hallucinations. At one stage during the second night, as Aurum was being tossed about in gigantic waves with me holding the tiller, I was on the verge of calling André, the skipper, to come and look at what I could only assume was an UFO. Fortunately I timely realised that I was looking at the little light at the top of the mast, which had grown in proportion and changed colour in my exhausted and depleted mind.

Back to Argentina: be careful what you ask for… I had this romantic notion that I would spend time working with the locals, learning the Spanish and becoming acquainted with their culture. It is early days yet, I only arrived in Sauce Viejos yesterday, but I feel completely at a loss, cold and alienated. Communication is difficult, although the landlord and his helper are both extremely friendly and trying their best to explain things, using their broken English, my broken Spanish and Google translate, which I had downloaded in Buenos Aires.  I don’t really understand what is expected of me, but I did understand that the house must be kept clean and the leaves raked every 3rd day or so. It’s a rustic environment, extremely so, and things seem to move at a slow pace. The helper, Ale, keeps on reminding me: ‘Take it easy’ (in English!).The house is on the banks of the Rio Coronda, which runs into the Rio Paraná, which is the longest river in Argentina, and second longest in South America.  The Paraná forms a delta which enters the ocean just north of Buenos Aires. This is the view from the house:So this morning I raked the leaves on this huge lawn – notice the pile in the braai area…And cleaned the kitchen and swept the lounge and dining areaThat little stove (right bottom) is a life saver, warms up the room beautifully. And the sleeping quarters:Hats off to Alejandros, who came to this place in February last year and decided to create a hostel and start with permaculture. He has a small vegetable garden, and this morning a woman took away two crates of plants, free of charge, as it is food, and gladly given away.  He even has a scarecrow watching over the garden.They had just become operational in February this year, when a twister came through and wrecked havoc, breaking branches and tearing corrugated iron sheets off the roof of their workshop. Fortunately the house was not hit, but the paradise garden was in a mess and had to be cleaned up.  Huge torn off limbs of the ombú tree (which is not really a tree but a huge cluster of pampass-like grass) are still lying around. The rarity of finding óne 200yr old ombú here next to the river is made rarer still by the fact that there are twó standing close together (see lawn picture).  According to Ale there are forests if Ombú trees in Uruguay.In spite of my fragile emotional state, these past two days have been filled with new experiences and people coming and going. There were two guests staying the first night, a young couple whom I gathered were here to advise Alejandro on the business. The latter cooked us a typical Colombian meal of legumes and rìce, rather bland but tasty. And dinner is served late, at about 21h00. Ale bakes bread as needed, and at about 19h00 I was presented with bread, chocolat con leche (a caramel chocolate spread) and mate. My first experience of mate had been yesterday. It is a traditional herb tea shared by everyone present (from the same cup, drinking from the same bombilla, pronounced bombisha). Making and drinking it is more of a ritual than a process. It is an honour to be offered to partake.There is no WiFi at the house but Ale was kind enough to give me the password of the WiFi at the ice cream shop. The shops in Sauce Vieje are open from 9 – 11am, and again from 3 – 6pm, so I just stood on the pavement in front of the closed shop and read and sent WApps. Only later I discovered a cafe that also had WiFi, so this is where I will go to everyday after work. I took a cup of tea down to the river after work and while watching the water flow, I realized that my eyes were drawn downstream.  I looked upstream and realized it felt different, quieter and less energy.  I looked in front of me, and again my eyes were naturally drawn downstream, seeing the noticeable flow of water. I thought about Siddhartha and how he had spent time learning from the river. What I learnt today is that upstream is the past, it is over, it holds no energy. The water is the same, yet the present (in front of me) and future (downstream), is what matters. That is where my focus will be.

My hot, steaming breath blows little white clouds out on the crisp morming air as I emerge from the subway. I’m sweating, in spite of the 5°C, as I’ve been lugging my 20kg suitcase and 10kg backpack up and down stairs down there, en route to the bus station. And here I am, on the bus, after more sweat – nerves this time!

A friend recently quoted her late husband on Facebook: ‘It’s the start that stops many a person.’ Every time I’m challenged by a new experience I think of this, and just push through. Not without trepidation though, it’s quite challenging trying to ask directions in my broken Español. ‘Donde esta numero cuatro dos plataforma’ – and I get a smile and blank stare. No wonder, I’m not sure that means ‘Where is platform 42’. (I googled, it’s: ¿Dónde está la plataforma cuarenta y dos.) I wasn’t thát far off, I suppose it’s my uncertainty and accent that created the confusion. Eventually I found it outside, after having walked the length of numbers up to 39 inside (where they stopped). No corresponding exit numbers inside to platform numbers outside… You live and learn! At least everyone is friendly.

I’m off on my first venture outside of the city, on my way to Sante Fe (hey, that rhymes!), where I’ll be starting my first job as volunteer on a small-holding where they run a hostel and do permaculture.  The latter seems to be quite popular here, as many similar job opportunities come up on Workaway, the site I am registered with. The deal with Workaway is that one works 5hrs a day for 5 days a week, in exchange for board and lodging. The rest of the time one is free to explore and enjoy. Perfect way of traveling on a low budget, don’t you think? Well, time will tell.

One thing about luggage when planning to travel frequently, and specially if one is on a low budget – buy the best, it’s going to take knocks and you don’t want to have to buy new ones. I’m very happy with my bright pink durable and pliable whatever-plastic, with 360° turning wheels, it was money well spent. Obviously the salesman knew what he was talking about. And I managed to squeeze in the extra pair of shoes this morning.

This picture was taken when I left South Africa, just to show my suitcase.

This is then adios Buenos Aires,  volveré! (I’ll be back!)