Farewell Argentina in true Argentina style: meat, wine and a different kind of crowd surfing

It’s been well over a month since we arrived in Argentina and we’ve loved our time in the beef and wine country. Having decided to head back to Bolivia to learn Spanish, we’d been dreading the 37 hour bus trip from Buenos Aires to Santa Cruz de la Sierra. But, come the end of Carnival, it was a reality, a next day reality! So, with no sleep at all, we caught a bus back to Buenos Aires and, having a mere twelve hours left in the big city, we did the essentials. We had our last taste of street food - a choripan (sausage sizzle), smothered with our all time favourite, chimichurri. This was followed (after a long siesta) by a final meal at the amazing San Telmo steakhouse, Desnivel, accompanied by a good bottle of local red.

The following day on our way to board our 9.15am bus, we were given one last parting memory of Argentina, provided this time by our ride on the metro: peak-hour. The backpacking way means we take public transport whenever we can, and this includes when we’re laden with our heavy packs. So you can imagine the look on our faces when, 45 minutes before our bus left, we physically couldn’t fit on the train. It was impossible. There were just too many bodies crammed into each carriage. So we waited for the next one, hoping for a change. Same deal. This time, however, the urgency of getting to the bus station on time took over. Like front rowers charging a scrum we did the same to the pack of unsuspecting passengers on their way to work. Surprisingly, us and our packs (which made us four people, not two) made it on unscathed. So my parting memory of Buenos Aires - and Argentina - is not the meat or the wine, but standing like an upright sardine in a can, swaying with the movement of a sweaty crowd as the train took corner after corner, hoping desperately that no one person would send us all falling down like a set of dominoes.

So thanks for the memories Argentina, I’ll miss you!

Before heading to Sucre, we’re off to spend two weeks volunteering at an animal sanctuary called Inti Wara Yassi, near Villa Tunari in Bolivia. I have a feeling that the monkeys and pumas there aren’t huge users of the internet, which means the blog’s going to have to have a two week siesta. Not to worry, sure there’ll be plenty of material in the making over the next fortnight. Until then xo

Who said Argentina can't do Carnival?

Having previously attended the mother of Carnivals in Rio de Janeiro - which I describe as being like the Sydney Mardi Gras parade times 100 - I was skeptical when I met Jorge who raved about Carnival in Argentina and said I just had to go. Yeah right, I thought, Argentina may have some great things, but it certainly ain’t Carnival. This was a while back. We’d just crossed the border from Bolivia and were waiting for a night bus to Salta. Jorge was the very chatty Argentine sitting next to us in a restaurant and was on his way to Bolivia for a holiday. It was the usual scenario. He spoke no English and us, no Spanish.

Well this ‘conversation’ (what the rest of the restaurant would have perceived as an ongoing game of charades) resulted in our getting on a bus last weekend to attend Argentina’s biggest Carnival celebration in Gualeguaychu, Entre Rios. We had planned the week well in advance. We’d spend the weekend in Buenos Aires followed by a week split between Rosario and the ‘G spot’ as we playfully named the tongue-twisting Gualeguaychu.

First up was Rosario. We’d heard a lot of good things about the University city, mainly about its beauty. Perhaps being from Sydney, with its twinkling harbour and unspoiled beaches, my perspective on waterside cities is slightly biased, as both Bec and I weren’t overly impressed with Rosario’s aesthetics. It sits on a peninsula encircled by the murky Paraná River. We went to a “beach” called La Florida on the River’s bank. The 12 peso entry fee seemed like a bit of a waste as the water was so uninviting that the most we got out of the visit were burnt bums from lying in the sun all day avoiding any temptation to swim. I wont harp on but I wouldn’t visit Rosario for a beachside holiday. In saying that, I can’t say we gave the city our full attention. As we were saving our pennies for Carnival, we didn’t get to the islands that face the city, nor did we eat out, so let’s not rule poor Rosario out completely.

 Rosario's Florida Beach

Thankfully, things looked up when we reached Gualeguaychu. It’s obviously a busy time of year for the little holiday town. We were lucky to get a spot in the Family Hostel, which was right in the centre, close to the action and well priced, considering the time of year. The night before the big outdoor event it poured non-stop with rain, and there were bursts of rain the following day, making us think twice about outfit selections. Thankfully it cleared up just in time for the 11pm start.

So, donned in face makeup (my attempt at the Carnival spirit which I made a slightly apprehensive Bec take part in) we headed to the Corsodromo. First port of call? The cocktail stand of course, where we selected a concoction served to us in a hollowed-out honeydew melon. Whatever they put in it, it was good, so we had another, and another.

And then there was the parade. Well ok, it wasn’t Rio, no, but it was a very impressive small-scale version. Our seats were great. We were three rows from the action and surrounded by excited onlookers, including a bunch of Argentine guys who were really keen for us to glitter them up with our supply. The parade had all the stock-standards – music – folk and samba, multi-leveled floats draped with vibrantly coloured oiled-up semi-naked bodies, masses of glitter, beads and feathers, and dancing, dancing, dancing.

What more could you want? Well in Rio I don’t think you’d get away with what we and many others did - jumping the fence and momentarily joining in on the energy of the parade. That made it all the more memorable. So I say kudos to you Jorge, you’re on a winner with this Carnival.

A comedy of errors in Mendoza

If you're like me - a lover of good wine - it would be unthinkable to be in Argentina and not visit Mendoza, the centre of the country's wine-making industry. I went there on my trip two years ago and loved it. It's amazing to think wine can be grown there, considering its desert-like terrains. But it is, and it's good! This might have something to do with Mendoza's impressive irrigation system that runs in channels around most of the city, apparently a hand-me-down from the Incas. So, like my trip to Iguazu, I had no qualms in getting on the 13 hour bus ride from Buenos Aires.

Getting some exercise in the streets of Mendoza

Unfortunately, as suggested by this post's title, Mendoza round two did not score rave reviews. This was certainly no fault of the wine, but more the sequence of mishaps and annoyances that occurred over the five days we spent there. So let the rant begin.

First were the navigational issues we had leaving the bus terminal. I wont try and say that Bec and I are especially good with maps, but the streets' random changes in name did not help at all, nor did our hostel's false advertisement of being ten minutes from the bus terminal. Yeah, by cab maybe. Once at the hostel,  we were told the four-bed dorm we booked online  did not actually exist and instead we were put in an eight-bed one, with two measly and ineffective fans. Team this with the 40+ degree heat and, voila, we had a sauna...literally.

Unsurprisingly, we thought we'd try our luck with another hostel, one closer to the action on the social street of Villanueva. Here we were placed in a tiny six-bed dorm room which had no space to house all six people's backpacks. This was particularly hazardous when the two of us entered our room late one night in search of dry clothes, having come back from dinner and been unsuspectingly thrown into the hostel's scummy green pool by some drunken guests (and a hostel employee). I wont lie though, the shock it caused was funny at the time, but I still count this random and unprovoked act as another mishap to add to the list. Sure others wouldn't have found it quite as funny.

Finally there were the wine tours - or lack thereof. To save some dollars, we thought we'd do one tour ourselves and one through a hostel. The first hour of our self-navigated tour of Lujan de Cuyo was spent trying to find the public bus stop to get there. Turns out the girl at reception didn't know where it was, nor which number bus to take. After finally arriving, we found out that you actually need a car to visit this region, as the wineries are so far apart (probably something we should have looked into first). So our tour of the region turned into a cab ride to one winery and a long wait for the bus back to Mendoza.

Thinking organised tours might be the way to go, we attempted to book a bike riding one of Maipu through our second hostel. Unfortunately all tours were booked out until after we had planned to leave. Not a problem. We went to the hostel next door and booked a better tour, one the girl at reception said 'has everything': bike hire, an enormous asado lunch, three wineries, a distillery, visits to chocolate and olive oil factories, a swim in the 100,000L swimming pool. Was this too good to be true? Apparently so. Having fasted in anticipation of the asado, we arrived at 2pm for pick-up only to be regrettably informed by reception that three of the five people who had booked that day had cancelled, so the company had called the tour off.

Am I ranting? Ok, maybe a bit. There were some good points. The hostel quickly organised another tour that same afternoon, unfortunately this one had no lunch and no bikes. Although our empty tummies were rumbling and we got tired of hearing repeatedly the ins and outs of wine vats and fermentation, we finally got to taste some wines. The best was a shiraz harvested by a local family-run vinyard called Don Arturo. Bec and I bought two bottles. We also learned a thing or two about olive oil and tasted some good ones.

 

The gorgeous Don Arturo winery

All in all, we were there for the wine and drink it we did (even if it wasn't at the wineries). Over the following five days we had numerous boozy lunches and dinners and enjoyed sampling the local produce, the Malbec in particular. I guess the lesson was that you don't have to visit the touristy city of Mendoza to taste its fruits. Being in South America for another few months luckily means the good stuff is pretty much on tap.

Tigre from a local perspective

The best travel advice I’ve had so far is to befriend a local and get their tips and views on what to do and where to go. In doing this, often you can avoid overpriced tourist activities, experience quality wining and dining, or discover an interesting suburb that’s been overlooked by the guidebooks. You can also make some great friends. I had a stroke of luck in that not only did I have a connection in the Argentine capital, but she was also generous enough to invite both of us to her holiday house in Tigre! Alex is a dear friend of my mother’s, having met in their twenties when Alex moved to Australia. They haven’t seen each other in years but, nevertheless, she welcomed us with open arms.

The first benefit of this connection was the discovery of Alex’s neighbourhood, Belgrano. Here we found Buenos Aires’ Chinatown, and also some fantastic Chinese supermarkets which import many items that aren't found in the average city supermarkets. For us curry lovers this was curry paste and powder. Another noteworthy item is peanut butter, but the search continues for vegemite.

After a tasty lunch in a cheap and cheerful Belgrano café, we had the treat of driving to the ferry terminal, a luxury for those used to negotiating busy trains with large backpacks. It was also a bonus as it was pouring with rain outside.

Tigre is an island on the Parana Delta and is about an hour outside of Buenos Aires by train. After an hour long ferry ride, we arrived at Alex’s little wharf. Painted a striking shade of pink with blue trimmings, like most, her gorgeous place is perched right on the riverbank. Through Alex we met her niece Diana and boyfriend Rodrigo, San Telmo dwellers who were staying in Alex’s sister’s place next door.

Apart from sun baking on the wharf, watching boats go by, the next twenty-four hours spent with our new local friends was filled with firsts. We tried mate for the first time. You’ll notice in Argentina and Uruguay that people walk around religiously sipping from silver pipes in ornate little cups, clutching their thermoses for refills. This is mate and it’s everywhere! Mate is difficult to describe in words. It’s kind of like a bitter tasting green tea, but much thicker. Actually, what am I saying? It’s not like green tea at all. You just have to try it. Rodrigo performed what Alex labeled a ‘mate ritual’ for us, and sweetened it up a little with some brown sugar and orange zest. It’s definitely an acquired taste, but I got to like it.

Another first was melon with prosciutto for dinner. I’d seen this on menus everywhere but never ordered it. It’s delicious, if you're into mixing savory and sweet. Diana and Rodrigo also recommended a San Telmo steak house, ‘Don Ernesto’. We ended up going the following evening and boy was it good, as most local recommendations are.

Futbol with all the trimmings

We happened to breeze into Buenos Aires the night before a La Boca Juniors v Argentinos Juniors soccer match. Not huge fans of soccer, Bec and I thought twice about going but we decided the stadium atmosphere could be fun so we booked tickets through our hostel. I can now safely say that you definitely don't have to be a fan of soccer to enjoy a match in South America. You must, however, be prepared. For those back home, this is no friendly Sydney Swans match, no beer-guzzling day at the Cricket. You will face a riot squad. You will be frisked not once, not twice, but three times on your way in. Any alcohol, cigarette lighters, lip balm or aerosol cans will be confiscated. High fences and barbed wire will prevent any contact with spectators from the other side. Oh, and you will see a lot of men who probably shouldn't take their shirts off, with their shirts off. In saying that, you will also see the most passionate of sports spectators. Armed with flags, drums and wistles you can't help but wave your hands around, shout and chant with them.

Getting used to the half-naked bodies behind me

Heading to a football match is not for the faint hearted though. Don't expect a seat, you will stand, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, for the entire time. It was a little like being in a chicken coup. This could, however, have been my saving grace as at one point, when Boca scored its second goal, the crowd got a little over-enthusiastic and surged forward sending about ten of us toppling forward also. Luckily there were too many people for us to go too far and nobody was hurt. Finally, a cold beer at half time is out of the question, which was a little disappointing when beer o'clock rolled around. All alcohol is banned but the locals seem to make do by smoking other substances.

One image that will remain in my mind is that of a father holding his son triumphently in the air whenever Boca performed well. Every time I turned around, there he was. The only problem was the child, who looked absolutely terrified, could not yet have been six months old! You can imagine the conversation this guy's wife had with him before the match: 'Honey, I've got a girls night tonight, so you'll need to watch little Diego'. If only she knew.

The result was a little disappointing (a draw of two all with Argentinos scoring in the last two minutes). This meant that both sets of supporters had to be released from the stadium separately to avoid any 'disturbances'. The Argentinos side were the unlucky ones to be literally locked inside as we filed out past the ready and waiting riot squad. All I can say is it was certainly an experience, at times jaw-droppingly so, but it's one I'd do again if I had the chance.

I'll always come back to San Telmo

We've come and gone from Buenos Aires a few times now and stayed in different neighbourhoods. On our first weekend we headed to Palermo with the intention of taking full advantage of its thriving club and bar scene. This suburb is one of the city's trendiest. Full of young bohemian-types, the streets are lined with boutique shops and stylish cafes, and the nightlife is pumping every day of the week. My Mum would say this place has panache.

San Telmo, on the other hand, doesn't have the panache factor. The streets are comparatively dirty, the neglected buildings are smeared with graffiti and wafts of dog poo are constant. Many homeless people congregate in surrounding parks and some say it's not the best place to walk around in at night. But that's San Telmo and we keep coming back. Once you get past its superficial lack in aesthetics, you fall for its character. Whether its the funky Sunday antique markets, the ubiquitous street performers, impromptu jazz quartets, or amazing steak houses, there's something about this place that brings us back each time. It's the only place where I've noticed people walking along the footpath singing audibly as they go! There's something in the air.

Conveniently, it's also crawling with hostels, so there's never a shortage of options in that department. It's close enough to the slightly tacky Centro if we need a department store (and far away enough to avoid altogether). A hearty walking distance from the colourful La Boca and the modern Puerto Madero, to me, this is the place to be. Long live San Telmo!

Iguazu Falls round two

To quote Eleanor Roosevelt, on seeing the Iguazu Falls: 'Poor Niagara'. If you come to South America at all, you have to drop in and see this natural wonder. The first lady was right. Iguazu is taller than Niagara, and it's 275 cascades are twice as wide. I came to South America for a whirlwind month about two years ago, which included a visit to some of the continent's highlights: Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, a few days in Buenos Aires, and of course the Falls. These gems were one of the reasons I came back for an extended period of time, as I regretted rushing through and only seeing a tiny piece of some amazing places. I've digressed. Back to Iguazu.

Jules was really keen to see the Falls on her visit, and I had no second thoughts about hopping on a bus and going for a second time. We had planned to do both the Brazilian and Argentinean sides in two days and one night, but after our seven hour "roadworks" delay, we had to extend it to two nights.

This meant two nights in the not-so-exciting Puerto Iguazu which has seriously no purpose other than as a pit-stop for the Falls (sorry Puerto Iguazuans). We did, however, make the most of our first night in this uninspiring town by eating great meat and drinking good wine, perhaps a little too much of the good wine. With benefit of alcohol, we put faith in our friendly waiter who said he'd take us to a club up the road. Unfortunately, all faith was lost when the club turned out to have closed hours before, so we chose bed over his idea of fun which was walking the deserted streets in search of beer. Thanks for the memories Puerto Iguazu.

The next morning we pulled ourselves out of bed (some may or may not have popped a few panadols), searched the streets far and wide for breakfast, and headed to the Argentinean side of the Falls. Here, we invested in the 'Grand Adventure Tour' which included a jeep tour through the surrounding rainforest and a boat ride. To be honest, I didn't get a great deal out of the rainforest part. We followed a man-made jeep trail for about 20 minutes with a guide who stopped to point out trees. Then again, I wouldn't call myself a nature fanatic. There were, however, a good number of butterflies.

My enthusiasm kicked in for the waterfalls - that part of the tour was unbelievable. Not only did we get in a speed boat that wildly meandered down the centre of the Brazilian and Argentine border, but it actually took us into the Falls, and I mean into! Of course, the force of the water meant we couldn't get all the way under (which is generally a plus as, if you could, there's no way you'd make it out), but we did get an idea of their enormity and intensity. While the spray from the pounding water soaks anyone within 50m from head to toe (as you can see in the pic), it's also difficult to breathe at times due the sheer barrage of water. The soaking part actually wasn't a bad thing as it was about 40 degrees that day. The breathing part was a minor drawback, but who needs air...

Having completed the lower circuit of the Argentine side, we spent the rest of the day wandering the upper-circuit. This included various trail walks along boardwalks and a trainride out to the 'Devil's Throat' (of which you get a better view from the Brazilian side). We also got some entertainment from an irate Argentine who blasted an American for feeding a monkey.

On my second time around I was reminded that the National Park makes a killing from tourists. To give you an idea, if you're Brazilian, Paraguayan or Argentinian, you can enter the park for a measly 5 pesos. Tourists, on the other hand, are charged a whopping 80 pesos! Seeing as I'd seen the Brazilian side on my last trip, I let my backpacking stinginess do the talking and on the following day opted for the hostel pool while the girls went exploring.

Am I a flashpacker?

Who knew there were different forms of backpackers? Armed with an oversized pack, wearing the same unwashed pair of jeans for weeks on end with a Rambo-style ambition to find the cheapest hostel or bargain the lowest price – is that not a backpacker? Not necessarily it would seem.

I had heard of the ‘flashpacking’ phenomenon before but thought the mere taking of my laptop traveling couldn’t possibly mean I was one of them. An ‘affluent’ backpacker. However, over the past few days, I think I’ve overstepped the mark. Crossed the line. Become a…flashpacker.

The girls and I decided we’d head to the Iguazu Falls and of course, a backpacker doesn’t fly (only flashpackers would consider this sort of thing, right?) So we decided to ‘rough it’ on an 18 hour bus ride. Roughing it turned into traveling on the ‘oh it’s just a bit more expensive’ first-class bus in ‘super-cama’ seats (basically seats that extend to 180 degrees – think first-class flying). We even had our own televisions, entrée, main and dessert, wine and…champagne before bed!! I think I could get used to this.

Concerned that I’d lost all backpacking dignity, my legal training led me to check the facts so I headed to the ultra-reliable source that is wikipedia, to see if I had any similarities with these so-called flashpackers. Well I was quite shocked to see just the variety of backpackers that apparently are out there. Not only do you have your regular backpacker, and of course flashpackers, but you also have ‘gap-packers’ and ‘megalopers’! I’m sure there’s more.

While our first-class bus did hit a protest (or ‘road works’ as informed by the bus driver) on the way, which created a 6 hour delay (how very backpacker), we did book the first class option back to BA. And, since then, we’ve also travelled to Uruguay first-class on a ferry (champagne on arrival)! But I put that one down to the economy class tickets being sold out.


I wonder, is it Jules’ high-life yacht sailing influence? Have I let the champagne get to my head? Is it because South America is so damn cheap? Whatever the reason I do plan to quash my recent flashpacking tendencies and return to the realm of the humble backpacker…soon.

Paris of the South

Buenos Aires can certainly claim this title with its colonial structures, wide avenues, alfresco dining, reliable metro, leafy plazas and countless monuments. It really is like being somewhere in France or Spain, particularly having come from Bolivia, which is about as far from Europe as you can get.

Our plan was always that we would get to BA, travel around for a few weeks, and then settle there for a couple of months and do an intensive Spanish course. This is my second visit to the city and I was quite excited about getting to know it. The plan has since gone out the window, for two main reasons. Firstly, since arriving, we’ve really felt it in the financial department. I think this is accentuated again by our Bolivian experience, where everything was cheap as chips. There’s also the constant temptation of good food, bars and shopping to which it’s very easy to give in and spend up. Secondly, Argentinean Spanish is quite different to the Spanish spoken in other Latino countries. For example, normally, the word ‘parrilla’ (grill) is pronounced ‘par-ee-ya’; here it is pronounced ‘par-ee-sha’. And ‘pollo’ (chicken) usually pronounced ‘po-yo’, is ‘po-sho’. This is unique to Argentina and considering we’re going to many other Spanish-speaking countries, both here and in Europe, we’ve decided it would be more practical to learn a more common dialect elsewhere. At this time, elsewhere is back in Bolivia, probably Sucre. There is, however, always the possibility that I might pack in the law thing, stay in BA and become a dog walker, very tempting considering I want to adopt every stray I find (we saw one guy walking about 15 dogs at once!).

Given that our time is limited, we still certainly plan to make the most out of BA. We spent a good four days with Jules, which was tainted by a suspicious case of food poisoning after a hostel ‘asado’ (various cuts of coal-cooked meat), coupled with Jules’ near death by pisco sour (the national drink of Chile and Peru) – that stuff is potent! Stomachaches were put aside however, and we soldiered on. We walked the streets and boutiques of Palermo and spent hours
wandering the San Telmo antique markets. We strolled down to La Boca, past the famous Boca Juniors football stadium and to the colourful birthplace of Tango. We also got to the Recoleta cemetery, best known for being the resting place of Eva Peron (Evita). She was the rags to riches wife of the President of Argentina and influenced the introduction of many social and economic programs for the working classes in the 1940s. Her global profile was probably also raised by the very average film ‘Evita’, starring Madonna and Antonio Banderas.

I think it’s safe to say that everyone’s taken advantage of the great food and wine on offer here. My favourite was a juicy steak at a place called ‘Desnivel’ in San Telmo. I also introduced the girls to my favourite Argentinean salsa, chimichurri, a delicious mix of herbs, garlic, olive oil and vinegar. I tried to make it once back home, but it just wasn't the same.








Jules being here for only two weeks has conveniently turned into a great excuse to play tourist. So far we plan to hit the tourist-hub of Iguazu Falls and also explore Uruguay. Stay tuned.

Cowboys and Cordoba

We were a little more active during our one day and night in Cordoba than we had been in Salta. Cordoba is the second-largest city in Argentina after Buenos Aires and is known as a lively university town however, being in the southern hemisphere, it's university holidays at the moment so it wasn't as busy as we'd thought. That wasn't an issue in the end as we'd been told about a festival in a town called Jesus Maria about an hour outside Cordoba so we caught a bus there that night.

It turns out the 'Festival de Doma y Folklore de Jesus Maria' is one of Argentina's largest festivals. We arrived at around 11pm to a flood of locals enjoying 'parrilla' and listening to live music in tents. The smell of meat and smoke from the barbeque was strong and, seeing as we'd had an Arabic meal back in Cordoba, we headed to the main stadium. Surprisingly, we were two of the few 'gringos' (foreigners). The place was packed with local families, most with young children, listening to live Latino bands and waving signs at cameras that panned across the crowd. After a while, the real show began. About 50 'gauchos' (cowboys) filed into the stadium on horseback to compete in a barrel race. This display was the epitome of machismo! Dressed to the nines in bombachas pants, neck scarves and boina hats, and egged on by the roaring crowed, they raced each other twice through the circuit, sharply manoevering their horses around each barrel. It was certainly an experience and, although we were tired the next day having got back early that morning, we were really glad to have seen it.

It wasn't all horse racing and cowboys, we managed to see the Cordoba zoo, tucked away on the city’s border in some parkland.

I haven’t been to a zoo since I was a kid, so it was great to re-live the golden years. We saw the usual – lions, tigers, reptiles, birds – but the highlight was definitely the hippos. Biggest hippos imaginable! Well maybe that’s exaggerating a little as I’ve not been to Africa, but these hippos were seriously big!

Unfortunately Cordoba zoo is no Taronga. Some of the ‘enclosures’ were hardly bigger than the animals themselves and many had little or no water supply, which, on the sweltering hot day that it was, was very concerning. And of course a visit to the zoo wouldn’t be the same without the ubiquitous South American risk factors. You could practically put your hands through the bars and touch the animals if you wanted, as you can see in my up-close-and-personal zebra shot here for which no zoom was needed (he was obviously a bit camera shy, given the angle). So my advice would be to put the kids on a leash next time you visit Cordoba zoo so they can leave with limbs.

Relaxing in Salta

So far this trip we've been on a schedule in order to get Mel back to Buenos Aires by the 14th for her flight home. This also coincided with a visit from Jules Heaton, a close friend of mine from uni who's been travelling the world working on yachts for the last couple of years. She was due to arrive in BA on the 15th. Things changed a little when Mel left us in Tupiza and flew from Salta in order to spend more time in BA, so Bec and I decided to use the extra days to visit Salta and Cordoba on the way through.

I think all the restless nights on buses and early mornings on the Salt Flats took a toll on us because over the few days that followed, we relished in resting and chilling out and didn't do a whole lot of touristy things. In saying that, we weren't completely lazy...

The northwestern city of Salta gave us an intro to the impressive hostel breakfast standard in Argentina. We've become accustomed to the stock standard stale bread and jam for breakfast, tea or coffee if you're lucky, rarely milk. Here, we were welcomed with delicious little pastries - some filled with apple, some strawberry, some dulce de leche (like caramel), and I had a couple of cups of tea. We've since discovered this is common in hostels here, so I'll have try hard not to make that a morning ritual if I want to avoid a more permanent reminder of Argentina!

Keeping to the topic of food, we ate well in Salta and loved sitting in the very European-like cafes set on the footpaths of the main square, enjoying the sunshine and the gorgeous colonial architecture (that's Bec enjoying the view). I had my first salad in who knows when, a real treat. To walk off all that food we climbed Mont San Bernardo which was something like 1178 steps, a mean feat when we could have taken a cable car. It was a stinking hot day so we didn't look our best when we reached the top but the iceblock and the view made it all worthwhile and softened the blow when we were told the cable car was having technical difficulties and we'd have to walk down. I guess it could have been worse. We could have been one of the people stuck in the car at the time.

We also went to the Museum of High Altitude Archaeology which displayed three more frozen Inca children who'd been sacrificed 500 years ago on Mount Llullaillaco, near the Chilean border. Turns out Junita the ice-maiden in Arequipa wasn't alone! This museum was much the same as the one in Arequipa, however it was difficult to fully enjoy it as the commentary had not been translated into English. Time for some Spanish lessons me thinks!