Missiones

Today's treat was the Iguazu falls. Normally I'm quite sceptical when someone says something is indescribable. But I honestly believe that no images, words or description could possibly do these waterfalls justice. Commonly on TV you'll see them as a fly-over of the Devil's Throat (the widest of the falls) but nothing can prepare you for the enormous roar of the water as it rushes past you just meters from your feet. But the main thing is that the Devil's Throat is only the beginning. An invaluable addition to the national park is kilometres of raised platforms that span throughout the Iguazu national park. These and these alone allow you to freely explore the dozens of spectacular natural waterfalls that explode side-by-side out from the thick jungle. As the water disappears at the bottom into a cloud of water particles you won't believe your eyes as up to three or four rainbows stare back at you.

BA Spanish

So surprise, surprise... thanks to my mother's complicated family tree I of course have family members here in Argentina too. And not just one, but five large families widely spread across the humongous expanse that is Argentina. The great thing about family is that despite them never having met you, not speaking your language and having no clue as to what you actually look like, they still happily welcome you with open arms when you turn up on their doorstep.

I visited two of the five; one in Villa Carlos Paz and another in San Juan. Both times upon meeting me they had to ask if I was in fact Tom; the person who had emailed them two days earlier, claiming to be related to them.

Both visits were wonderful. Going from regular road-side restaurant food to good old home-cooked meals is never an unappreciated treat. Especially when a typical platter includes a succulent mix of sausages, ribs and chops. It was fascinating to see how they lived, and to some extent quite surprising how indifferent their lifestyles were to Europe. Gorgeous homes, everyone with cars, iPods, impressive music collections (James Blunt is huge here and Phil Collins seems to have rerecorded all his singles in Spanish) and TV's in every bedroom. In every instance my Spanish improved greatly.

The great thing about South America is that you can travel around the majority of the countries speaking just one language. Unfortunately, what you quickly realise is that the differences between their Spanish sometimes makes it feel like you're a brommy speaking to a Glaswegian; you both have absolutely no idea what the other is saying. So after a month of intensive Spanish lessons in Bolivia, it quickly occurred to me that I suddenly needed a whole load of new lessons just to understand the Argentinian differences. This is where Buenos Aires came in.

There are dozens of schools all offering a range of Spanish options. I only had a week, so decided to go all out. Never have I been more exhausted. The first four hours of every day was group Spanish lessons rapidly covering increasingly more grammar. After an hour lunch break the last two hours were an intensive one-on-one conversation class focused on converting my accent to an Argentinian one, by discussing in great detail everything from music interests and travel plans to embarrassing moments and relationships. My teacher knew me very well by the end of it.

The interesting thing about living in hostels is that upon arriving back at 4pm, after my long day of schooling, I would be the person to wake up my room mates. They would then proceed to join me for dinner (a meal they would call breakfast) before an evening of fun, frolics and clubbing would commence. Then as the day breaks and I arise for another day of fun-packed Spanish learning, I could be sure not to miss my wake-up-call as it inevitably coincided with the return time of my trusty room-mates from the club. And then among these event-filled hours I also had to fit in over an hour of homework. And thus I conclude: Never have I been more exhausted.

Despite the rush, I did manage to fit in a few sights and significant events during my brief visit to Buenos Aires. Saturday was the day I watched us lose the Rugby world cup final to South Africa in a traditional Guinness-selling Irish pub. Sunday was match day: The BOCA vs. Estudiantes match at the BOCA stadium was enthralling. BOCA are the most popular team in Argentina – most likely the reason my BOCA shirt was stolen the day after its purchase. The atmosphere in the BOCA end was immense, with shouting, singing, supporters climbing fences to hang up banners, and an orchestra encouraging ever more chants and excitement. A generalised observation would be that Argentinian football seems to be a lot more about skills than about teamwork, but it does make for great watching. Also, now I'm no expert, but 9ish yellows and 2 red cards does seem a tad excessive for one game.

Tuesday was Arctic Monkeys. I couldn't believe my luck. There wasn't a billboard or advert in sight. Just shear luck led me to bump into an English guy who had heard, by word-of-mouth, that they were touring. When we arrived the streets were bustling with fans, yet at this point it was still possible to buy tickets on the door, and (at just £20 a piece) for a band who could sell out in hours back home, I felt this was quite a bargain. And in case you're wondering... yes, they were amazing!

That night was unfortunately also the night a couple decided to have sex in the bunk bed above me. Don't get me wrong: Walking in on couples in a hostel – whether it be in dorm rooms, on lounge sofas, or on bathroom floors – is a common occurrence, and causes me no great offence. But when I am first in the room, comfortably asleep, and they enter, continuing despite my presence, it causes me great grief.

My fantastic week in Buenos Aires ended on a high note with a spectacular tango show and meal at Cafe Tortoni's with Christophe. The following day I then got the coach to Missiones, the birthplace of my mother, and coincidentally also the home to the infamous Iguazu falls. Upon arrival the weather was scorching and we; myself plus the fun-loving Swiss triple I met on the coach, immediately booked ourselves into the first swimming-pool-boasting hostel we encountered. The plan had been to see the falls that day, but the local temperature was such that even just sitting beside the pool was unbearable. So we were forced (not regrettably) to spend the remainder of the day soaking in the outdoor pool, enjoying the blue sky and sunshine.

Oktoberfest

Argentina was, for want of a better word, a very lazy month. Whether this was due to utter exhaustion after four months of travelling, or just down to the fact that no-one else was doing anything either, I can't be sure. Cordoba is a gorgeous, culturally rich location surrounded by lush landscapes... or so I have heard. Mikael left for Buenos Aires, leaving me to enjoy the good-natured fun of Cordoba's Tango Backpackers hostel. A week passed and us residents had avoided ever leaving the premises unless absolutely necessary. The days were spent sleeping, eating, playing Risk (it's called Conquest here - and amusingly South America has a lot more countries), go-karting, watching movies, and unsurprisingly a considerable amount of time was also spent "sampling" the local beverages. And this brings me nicely on to one day trip that was definitely listed under "absolutely necessary": Oktoberfest.

Oktoberfest is the famous german beer festival held in Munich, that the Argentinian's have cunningly decided to copy. Despite the noticeable lack of lederhosen, trachten (the women's outfits) and bratwurst, Villa General Belgrano had a fantastic german feel to it and the festival lacked anything but atmosphere. Everyone had to buy their own drinking tankard - I found a classy one with a sexy woman's bossom - and you then proceed to go from stall to stall filling up with any and all of the flavourful beer ranges available. Christophe, my multi-lingual belgian amigo, found that taping his tankard semi-permanently to his drinking hard not only helped him to devour beer at a significantly faster rate, but also meant that the staff had no choice but to always let him pull his own pint. Unfortunately it also meant that releaving his own bladder on a regular basis was made a considerably more challenging task.

The Search for Maccy D´s

Six long weeks passed in a country without McDonalds. How the Bolivian people survive is beyond all understanding. All Mikael and I knew was that we needed to get out, and quickly. Three days we headed south through the southern salt deserts of Bolivia towards the haven of Chile. As the richest country in South America, we were sure such success could only have been achieved through a steady diet of Big Mac´s and fries. We couldn´t have been more disappointed.

After 3 scorching days and 2 freezing nights, our jeep passed the solitary house in the middle of nowhere that indicates the entrance to Chile. An hour or so later and we arrive into the sweltering holiday town of San Pedro de Atecama. As our stomachs ached and our mouthes watered, motivated by thoughts of a quarter pounder with cheese, our spirits were drowned by the finding of only over-priced restaurants and money-grabbing tourist agencies. As the most expensive country in South America, it really was expensive. Once again, we had to get out.

With prices equalling if not exceeding those in Europe, even a coach out was miles out of our budget. We bought pasta and vegetables to control the hunger and camped under the stars in order to save as much money as we could. The following day we´re back on the border, but this time the Argentinian side. All we can see is a dusty road disappearing into the horizon, but at times we´re sure we can see those two golden arches, just out of reach. Maybe it was a mirage, but it gave us hope.

Our plan was to hitchhike. Two charming lads like us; who wouldn´t want to pick us up. Well, turns out that on a saturday afternoon (we had a little bit of a lie-in), there isn´t actually that many people doing anything, let alone taking the six hour drive over the wasteland dividing Chile from Argentina. A few do come and we take turns to sweet-talk them into giving us a lift, in their comfortable spacious 4-by-4´s, but to no avail. After six hours trying, by now more focused on our card game than the cars passing, border controller Juan was the one who eventually came through for us. We had become quite well-known at the border and Juan, the big bossman in charge, turned out to be the king of sweet-talk, sorting us out a ride in a lorry headed for Uruguay.

The driver was Manuel. He was a nice enough guy, but totally and utterly impossible to understand. We would beg him to speak slower, but my very limited experience of Chilean people suggests that this only encourages them to speak faster.

All in all, driving with Manuel turned out to be fun. The scenery was beautiful and he happily provided a running commentary of what we were seeing. Mostly we just nodded and smiled; having absolutely no idea what words he was muttering. But in less than 24 hours we had successfully arrived into the Argentinian province of Salta and had been dropped off in the tiny village of Fraile Pintado. This was almost perfect. Only three hours from the aptly named capital of the Salta province; "Salta," in an area where buses run regularly. Only one obstacle stood in our way: we had exactly zero Argentian cash, the people in the village had barely even heard of cash machines, and the buses turned out to be rudely unwilling to take a rain-cheque. We both knew there was absolutely no way we were spending another half day thumbing down cars, so we provided an offer no-one in the village could refuse. We sold our dollars at a rate of one dollar per Argentine peso; the equivalent of selling your soul for a doughnut... and unfair but necessary sacrifice.

The final stretch, approaching the city of Salta, and we´re both feeling the strain. Not a normal hunger but the kind that can only be quenched by a round of hashbrowns and an EggMcMuffin, was piercing through our veins. After arrival we are almost brought to tears when a taxi-driver has never heard of McDonalds. But we compose ourselves; we know better, we´ve been on the McDonalds website, we have an address! We have faith. We´re now in no doubt; there really is a god. As the taxi turns the final corner, never have a pair of grown men been more excited. As we stand before the golden gates of Salta McDonalds the tears finally begin to flow, but this time with joy. After six days and five nights and over a month of Mc-food deprivation we´ve finally reached our goal.

Moral of the story kids: You never really know what you have until it´s not there any more. Eat McDonalds while you can!

The Uyuni Salt Flats

When they`re selling The Uyuni Salt Flats, they talk about the beauty, they thoroughly describe the fascinating mix of climates and nature, and then they proceed to wow you with the kind of amazing pictures that you are able to take home. Until Mikael and I got there... we had no idea it was just going to be one big, huge grown-ups playground: