So, hospitals are crowded, and stingy about offering information. This particular hospital had a security guy controlling the hallway. Valparaiso is Chile’s most dangerous place, or so I’ve been told. And the hospital’s audience did seem to warrant some authoritative presence. I don’t know about you but I never know whether these guys’ presence shouldn’t render me more nervous: If security is necessary, why is there only one guy? But then, I’m in a paranoid state because a few days ago I got robbed of my bag with ALL that is valuable to me here (except passport and credit card which I kept apart…)
The first guy I had to talk to wanted to chat about Paris. (I thought, stupidly, that this was already the doctor but no-no-no. That was only the guy to take my data. I had to make an appointment and return later that day for this) I never like it when doctors like to chat. They probably think they are doing me a favor, calming the nerves and whatnot, but I want my questions answered, get the thing done, over and out of there.
Anyway, the guy was what they call a “Viejo caliente,” and he addressed every nurse as “amor de mi vida.” After another half an hour of waiting and playing Naipes, I was let into another room, where two women, a young and an old one, practiced whether or not “ella” (me) understands them.
When they finally took my blood, or tried to, I had been waiting 2-3 hours (with appointment), and I was freezing. It gets quite chilly here but there is no calefaction, nowhere, because “it doesn’t get cold enough” (this is a very relative statement) to justify squandering money on heating. As a result, everybody has a cold and/or expensive electric heater.
Have I mentioned the obsession with money that people display here? Forget prudence about “dirty money”: every price and paycheck is relentlessly asked, told, compared and memorized; and even the least helpful staff member will be able to rattle off the prices of things.
The corpulent lady did not find a suitable vein and complained to me about this. She then decided to tell me she would “try her luck” and literally poking in my arm in search of blood, occasionally asking me if it hurt. I have been watching In the Valley of Elah recently, and was weirdly reminded of the sadistic private in that movie. When she gave up she told me she would try my hand now, informing me that “this will hurt.” There was only a little blood coming, and I tried to tell her that I was going to faint but she didn’t listen or pay attention. When I was coming to, there were four women in the room, two holding me tight, all of them gabbering in Spanish at high voice and speed. Unmitigated terror. I had no clue what was going on but felt that I definitely should.
Afterwards, one of the ladies was indignated that I couldn’t tell her what was my usual low blood pressure (Seriously, do you know?) Whether I haven’t been told my pressure? In innocent and unintentionl rudeness I told her yes but that I found the information uninteresting and therefore forgot it. Great look on her face.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tales of Chile, part I
I recently found myself in a hospital in Valparaiso (don´t be worried). This endeavor – to take a blood test – turned out to be quite a surreal experience. I have had time to observe before that hospitals in Chile (with the exception of the places for the very rich) are places for social gatherings and exchange. A bit like going to the market. There are always a lot of people waiting and chatting, and blocking the entrance to the information counter.
As an aside, the relation to space, both personal and social, is definitely different here. For example, many times I exasperate because there are no stable currents in highly overcrowded places; Instead, everyone walks han-solo-style, in a chaos, with sudden stops, turns and blockades. - On the other hand, I enjoy the fact that people are less dominated by a “social pace” and walking in right angles. - Relating to this subject matter is the territorial behavior of females of a certain age group. Shopping carts become weapons in their pushy fingers. But this might be an international problem? Am I mistaken, or are men, generally speaking, more considerate of possible backs, feet and knees into which they might be ramming their protruding artificial limbs? (Or is that because here you’d find only non-machistic men doing the shopping here?)
To return to my point, possibly as a result of this permanently crowded state of affairs, forget privacy: Both in hospitals and in farmacias, no-one would dream of voluntarily relinquishing space (even if it were possible) or at least turn the head or eyes away as a social act of performing inexistence (I really should find a place here that has huge and crowded elevators, and experiment with it). Again, this has its plus side. While everybody will know your tampon brand, rash medicine or worse, people are willing to assist with information. While in my case - that of a grumpy European - this interaction is mostly unasked for, I’ve had to grudgingly admit that it is very very helpful because of Information Gathering Rule 1. Which says that there is no secure way to obtain information. Forget authorities, certificates or logic such as “in a place where they sell xx, the vendors should know about xx.” The only reliable way to obtain valid information is to ask as many people as possible. Ask at least three times for a way, and don’t be shy to walk back a couple of blocks if the last person you asked, seemed to be more well-informed than the previous ones.
As an aside, the relation to space, both personal and social, is definitely different here. For example, many times I exasperate because there are no stable currents in highly overcrowded places; Instead, everyone walks han-solo-style, in a chaos, with sudden stops, turns and blockades. - On the other hand, I enjoy the fact that people are less dominated by a “social pace” and walking in right angles. - Relating to this subject matter is the territorial behavior of females of a certain age group. Shopping carts become weapons in their pushy fingers. But this might be an international problem? Am I mistaken, or are men, generally speaking, more considerate of possible backs, feet and knees into which they might be ramming their protruding artificial limbs? (Or is that because here you’d find only non-machistic men doing the shopping here?)
To return to my point, possibly as a result of this permanently crowded state of affairs, forget privacy: Both in hospitals and in farmacias, no-one would dream of voluntarily relinquishing space (even if it were possible) or at least turn the head or eyes away as a social act of performing inexistence (I really should find a place here that has huge and crowded elevators, and experiment with it). Again, this has its plus side. While everybody will know your tampon brand, rash medicine or worse, people are willing to assist with information. While in my case - that of a grumpy European - this interaction is mostly unasked for, I’ve had to grudgingly admit that it is very very helpful because of Information Gathering Rule 1. Which says that there is no secure way to obtain information. Forget authorities, certificates or logic such as “in a place where they sell xx, the vendors should know about xx.” The only reliable way to obtain valid information is to ask as many people as possible. Ask at least three times for a way, and don’t be shy to walk back a couple of blocks if the last person you asked, seemed to be more well-informed than the previous ones.
this is funny (I didn't write it)
The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its
yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternative
meanings for common words.
*The winners are:
*
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3 . Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly
answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run
over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when
you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there..
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish
men
The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word
from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one
letter, and supply a new definition.
*Here are this year's winners:
*
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright
ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign
of breaking down in the near future.
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of
getting laid.
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject
financially impotent for an indefinite period.
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person
who doesn't get it.
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending off all these really
bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a
serious bummer.
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming
only things that are good for you.
11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when
they come at you rapidly.
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've
accidentally walked through a spider web
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into you
bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in
thefruit you're eating.
And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternative
meanings for common words.
*The winners are:
*
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3 . Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.), describes a condition in which you absentmindedly
answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run
over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when
you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there..
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish
men
The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word
from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one
letter, and supply a new definition.
*Here are this year's winners:
*
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright
ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign
of breaking down in the near future.
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of
getting laid.
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject
financially impotent for an indefinite period.
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person
who doesn't get it.
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending off all these really
bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a
serious bummer.
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming
only things that are good for you.
11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when
they come at you rapidly.
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've
accidentally walked through a spider web
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into you
bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in
thefruit you're eating.
And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
"Deliverance" reloaded and without hillbillies
Outside of Arequipa lies a beautiful landscape of volcanoes, hot and thermal springs, and other fancy-sounding things. We made for the "Canyon de Coca" the other day: "This is one of the deepest canyons in the world where the distance from the Colca riverbed to the top of the cliff is more than 13,100 feet." It took a nerve-wrecking, stomach-clenching 5-hour bus journey to arrive in Cabanaconda, home base for trips to the Canyon. I had in mind something like the Isla del Sol in Boliva: some peaceful walking, easy on the altitude, beautiful landscape,repetitive food, and cheeky kids.
Instead, as became crystal clear on day 1, this was a different business. We made out as late as 8am, what with all the last-minute water-and-banana-buying. Around 9am it was seriously hot. There weren´t many people - we had taken the "less touristic" road -, but among those we met was a shrivelled old lady who slowly but steadily walked by with her donkeys where I had collapsed in a rare spot of shade, around 12pm.
Upon arrival at our destination of Llamar (or similar) realization dawned that this wasn't a pueblo, only a place for weary tourists. It turned out to be quite incredible: With a stellar view on the canyon, comfortable bamboo-based beds, really good food, 2 cats, and very soothing thermal springs.
On day 2 we started earlier, at 6.30, without (the heavy and egg-based) breakfast from yesterday and with only about 1.5 liters of water, as the next pueblo was supposed to be close (drumrolls).
Climbing up, I took the first round of carrying the heavy backpack; I was playing the lady card, as my Chilenean co-traveller was supposed to carry it during the hotter time.
We reached a forsaken little place, decorated with cactus and red flowers as garden. A blind man and a deaf lady lived there. I wondered who took care of the old couple. They didn't appear to be very agile. The blind man asked for cigarettes and showed us the way and called me Mamacita. I told my compadre about that time when my family went trekking in some Scandinavian country, and my dad got lost. I must have been 7 or so, and I remember mostly the endless empty promises of "after the next hill, there'll be the hut." but there was always only a next hill... (drumroll 2)
We came to a crossing. As I remember it, we took the way as indicated, even though my companion said, Seeing that the man was blind... It didn't seem to be the right way. It was very narrow and unkempt and after a while it hugged so closely the hill on one side and fell down steeply on the other that I was frightened to slip and fall. We changed packs. We walked on. Malata was supposed to be 1.5 hours from the couple's place. After two hours there was nothing, but the way got worse and worse. There were cactus and scrubs everywhere, steep up a hill on one side, steep down to the river on the other side. We felt we might be too high. It was hard to have an overview but there was a different path below us. We climbed down. The path turned out to have the same characteristics as the first path. To make this whole thing shorter, at one point the way ceased to exist.
I don't remember our reasoning, but we climbed down to the river. By climbing down I mean climbing. There was no path fit for humns, only vague animal treks. Twice I put my hand in a cactus. I was most afraid to fall and break something. My sneakers slipped, unfit for the excursion. I slipped. He slipped. It was hot. there was no fucking path.
Arrived at the river, there were three horses or horse-mule creatures. It was 11.30 am now, and we needed rest. My legs quivered, and while on the hill, the only shadow to be had was the occasional larger cactus. I had stopped taking pictures when the amount of sliding increased and my cooompaion stopped making "before death" jokes. There seems to be a time for everything.
The water in the river seemed, smelled and tasted quite obviously unfit for drinking, but I filled one empty bottle anyway. There was no path to make our way along the river to the next bridge, which I surmised should be close and would serve as landmark. The single house we had seen on the other side of the river - broad and heavily currented - seemed deserted.
After that excursion, the horses were gone, which worked quite devastatingly on my mood, although don't know what I had in mind: follow them (they ran quickly while we hobbled painfully and slow), ride them (yeah. right.), use them as messengers (how tacky)? But they were living beings, reassuringly alive.
However, as fate blinked for a moment and thus forgot about her current pastime of torturing two insignificant idiots (forgive the hyperbole), two guys appeared. They hopped as easily as the horses and didn't linger, but they told us where we were - 1km from the next bridge, and nowhere on the map really. (This doesn't say much, in my experience here, maps resemble kids' drawings of treasure map, with limited capacity for real information and unproportional dimensions).
The guys also told us how to get away. They said it was three hours either way, back to home base in Copacabana, or on to Malata, which meant all the way back upon the hill, on top of which there was a path to lead us to Malata.
We went back up the hill.
Don't ask me why, I really don't know. And I cursed and asked myself a lot on the way, until I stopped noticing anything anymore, not the threatening-looking declivity, the squishing and growling of the river, the startled birds exploding in a vertical fright flight like spacecrafts, the desert flowers, the pebbles and rocks, the sweetish smell of sweat. I stopped noticing all the scratching of my legs and arms and every exposed piece of skin of my body. My face was burning from sun, dirt, and sweat. We were also low on sunscreen.
I pulled on every plant that got my way and wasn't a cactus. This wasn't a way, it was vertically hagling up a steep slope on loose ground, in intense heat, with backpacks, and so little water that we rationed every sip. We were very slow. The boost that I had initially felt about finally knowing where we are quickly vanished. The hill seemed endless. no shade. no person. not even fresh animal trackings. we ate tuna - the fruit of cactus, and probably spelt differntly - cut with my knife. I must have eaten eight tunas that day. But they were so thoroughly spiked that we pulled out the fine stinging hairs endlessly afterwards, from hands, lips, face, tongue. I drank from the river water. My companion poured it over his head. When he started cutting open cactus in search of water, I decided it was time to change packs again. My body was in death mode, and I felt I couldn't linger while he sucked on a piece of peyote or else I might never get up again.
Little later, I cut open cactus as well and rammed a spike so deeply in my finger that my whole hand hurt. when we were on top one hill (there is always the next "top") it was 3 o'clock, and there was no way.
There were two pueblos visible, far away, in the direction we came from, without a way to get there. I couldn't think. It was all I could do not to panick but I was very very scared. Apart from the two sprinters, we hadn't met anybody all day. In three hours it would be dark. No water, and only dry, useless food. My cell phone didn't work here, and his had blocked itself. We were uttlerly exhausted, dehydrated, and by now I was less afraid of falling than of actually dying. Isn't this exactly what happens to stupid gringo tourists?
He wanted to go to the pueblo. The guys had told us shit. I wanted to go on. We went on. First we found the imprint of a human sole in the sand. Then we found a way. I was too dehydrated to cry. It was a broad, long path. We walked on. There was always another turn, but less sun now. There was wind, welcome and refreshing, even though it slapped you and your pack to the ground. When I finally saw a pueblo - Malata! - quite afar and below, I had a feeling of biblical dimension.
When we tottered into Malata, it was ten past 5pm. The town seemed deserted. We found a hostel, complete with guinea pigs and chicken (I though, "food!") and big black insects, but without any owner. We emptied all water bottles we could find. I actually staggered. Then we went twenty minutes more to the next town to find a hostel inhabited with human life. And that was it. A bed witha view, a hot shower, food and pulling out a 4cm-spike out of my finger, after 10hrs walking.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Bolivia baby
firstly, pictures from the North of Argentinia: my favorite llama baby, relaxing in Tafi de valle, a tiny town on the way from cordoba to salta
and on to Bolivia:
A train took me from Villazon - the border town btw Argentina and Bolivia - to Uyuni, famous salt desert of Bolivia (biggest desert in the world). The train was quite an experience. We paid dearly (comparatively speaking) for a dinner, and were offered four sorts of toasted white bread with a little butter and a little jam. But this with style! In an old-fashioned food salon waggon, like in an old movie, with fashionable waiters serving the toast and falling over the tables because the train was shaking so hard.
First stop in Bolivia were the salteras of Uyuni: mindblowing. it's a beach, a desert, an ocean of white salt. amazing. (on the third picture I'm enacting a Hitchcock movie, and on the fourth, I'mcrying out for a banana.)
shopping
On the way to the salteras, there is shopping - this is a spiderman-hand puppet
and a cemetery of trains
There are more tourists than I expected in Bolivia. But then, I expected nothing, not knowing anything, and for that, it's great! The first thing that became obvious is that they have an issue with toilets. Mostly, there are none - in the busses for example. Then, those that exist, are always dirty, the flush almost never works, the seats are wrongly in place etc etc. It seems a totally strange object.
maybe because the decision to come here was taken within such short notice, I'm surprised at how much I like the land here. The landscape is occasionally entirely incomprehensible. Sometimes it´s legible and fantastic: A giant sky and puffy clouds, great colors, an eagle, sheep and pigs and cows that look like they're supposed to, like in my children's books.
The only thing is, I'm craving for a Wiener Wuerstchen with mustard. But on the last day in Sucre, I had the best fish ever.
some market town in Bolivia
Then there is the whole thing about altitude. Weird. I enjoy the coca-chewing ritual, just like the mate-drinking (basically wasting time). I don't think it does a damn, but I like the aenesthetization of the soda.
In Sucre, the first hostel had the strangest vibe. A giant white breakfast room, empty, cold, with candelabras, and the guests are cramped in a tiny drafty kitchen.
The hostel in the centre had atmosphere, no kitchen, and electric short circuits in the bathroom. The cranky Bolivian lady refused point blank to lend so much as a knife, but the French expat, a lumberjack (hello darling), who was also sort of there, slipped at least some hot water. (It gets damn cold here at night). They also had a bad-tempered aggressive puppy called "Baby."
this is Salta. or sucre?
and on to Bolivia:
A train took me from Villazon - the border town btw Argentina and Bolivia - to Uyuni, famous salt desert of Bolivia (biggest desert in the world). The train was quite an experience. We paid dearly (comparatively speaking) for a dinner, and were offered four sorts of toasted white bread with a little butter and a little jam. But this with style! In an old-fashioned food salon waggon, like in an old movie, with fashionable waiters serving the toast and falling over the tables because the train was shaking so hard.
First stop in Bolivia were the salteras of Uyuni: mindblowing. it's a beach, a desert, an ocean of white salt. amazing. (on the third picture I'm enacting a Hitchcock movie, and on the fourth, I'mcrying out for a banana.)
shopping
On the way to the salteras, there is shopping - this is a spiderman-hand puppet
and a cemetery of trains
There are more tourists than I expected in Bolivia. But then, I expected nothing, not knowing anything, and for that, it's great! The first thing that became obvious is that they have an issue with toilets. Mostly, there are none - in the busses for example. Then, those that exist, are always dirty, the flush almost never works, the seats are wrongly in place etc etc. It seems a totally strange object.
maybe because the decision to come here was taken within such short notice, I'm surprised at how much I like the land here. The landscape is occasionally entirely incomprehensible. Sometimes it´s legible and fantastic: A giant sky and puffy clouds, great colors, an eagle, sheep and pigs and cows that look like they're supposed to, like in my children's books.
The only thing is, I'm craving for a Wiener Wuerstchen with mustard. But on the last day in Sucre, I had the best fish ever.
some market town in Bolivia
Then there is the whole thing about altitude. Weird. I enjoy the coca-chewing ritual, just like the mate-drinking (basically wasting time). I don't think it does a damn, but I like the aenesthetization of the soda.
In Sucre, the first hostel had the strangest vibe. A giant white breakfast room, empty, cold, with candelabras, and the guests are cramped in a tiny drafty kitchen.
The hostel in the centre had atmosphere, no kitchen, and electric short circuits in the bathroom. The cranky Bolivian lady refused point blank to lend so much as a knife, but the French expat, a lumberjack (hello darling), who was also sort of there, slipped at least some hot water. (It gets damn cold here at night). They also had a bad-tempered aggressive puppy called "Baby."
this is Salta. or sucre?
Friday, March 13, 2009
the one about noise
a last glacier picture (that I had uploaded and then forgotten to post.. duh) 
This is La Paz. My idea of the place is equally erratic. remember tired-ness and noise and smell and shouting people and honking cars (the honk of many many cars resemble wolf whistling - but there was also a recent truck with "For Elise" at full dezibel level)
Speaking of noise, I forgot to mention that in my Buenos Aires hostel there was a dogwalker stand outside the dorm room. Trucks were thundering past at night, although, to be fair, it was always rather morning than night. There was partying in this hostel EVERY night, and when we went out for dinner, it never started before 9 or 10pm. You adapt immediately to this time frame.
Of the following BA impression I had fotos on my cell phone, which got stolen in Mendoza however, so there's only a verbalized version:
Jugglers on the giant Avenida del Libertad. An acid green parrot eating an orange colored fruit from this claws. Around the strangely artificial rose garden, people walk, bike and run by. There's even a streetball court, for an upcoming "Buenos Aires in zapatos" festival, and Toto's Africa is playing for a nonexistent audience from the empty stage.
Middle-aged medium-built men are meating meat from a street cart, where kebab-sized pieces are grilled. Middle-aged ladies are elegantly dressed up. The weather changed from dull and sticky to almost impalpable rain to sunny and downpour of rain. At night, the sky was burning and I left for Mendoza in the usual hectic chaos.
In the bus to Mendoza I suffered the usual enforcement of acustic contamination. This time rendering hilarious moments, though and opportunities for a teenage revival: Besides heaps of languishing "latin lovers" and extremely sensualized female singels (the argentinian videos), I was enjoying an amazingly innocent video of "I want it that way," "Total Eclipse of the Heart" which seems to me to be the 80s version of camp? It's a mix between "Bad (the fog machines), the Rocky Hrror Picture Show (her hairstyle), and evidence in a conspiracy case: doors opening unmotivatedly, a scary alien congregation on "bright eyes"... scary
This is La Paz. My idea of the place is equally erratic. remember tired-ness and noise and smell and shouting people and honking cars (the honk of many many cars resemble wolf whistling - but there was also a recent truck with "For Elise" at full dezibel level)
Speaking of noise, I forgot to mention that in my Buenos Aires hostel there was a dogwalker stand outside the dorm room. Trucks were thundering past at night, although, to be fair, it was always rather morning than night. There was partying in this hostel EVERY night, and when we went out for dinner, it never started before 9 or 10pm. You adapt immediately to this time frame.
Of the following BA impression I had fotos on my cell phone, which got stolen in Mendoza however, so there's only a verbalized version:
Jugglers on the giant Avenida del Libertad. An acid green parrot eating an orange colored fruit from this claws. Around the strangely artificial rose garden, people walk, bike and run by. There's even a streetball court, for an upcoming "Buenos Aires in zapatos" festival, and Toto's Africa is playing for a nonexistent audience from the empty stage.
Middle-aged medium-built men are meating meat from a street cart, where kebab-sized pieces are grilled. Middle-aged ladies are elegantly dressed up. The weather changed from dull and sticky to almost impalpable rain to sunny and downpour of rain. At night, the sky was burning and I left for Mendoza in the usual hectic chaos.
In the bus to Mendoza I suffered the usual enforcement of acustic contamination. This time rendering hilarious moments, though and opportunities for a teenage revival: Besides heaps of languishing "latin lovers" and extremely sensualized female singels (the argentinian videos), I was enjoying an amazingly innocent video of "I want it that way," "Total Eclipse of the Heart" which seems to me to be the 80s version of camp? It's a mix between "Bad (the fog machines), the Rocky Hrror Picture Show (her hairstyle), and evidence in a conspiracy case: doors opening unmotivatedly, a scary alien congregation on "bright eyes"... scary
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)