The Falls, Dam, Paraguay etc

We left you in the dull town of Rosario, where we stranded ourselves for the weekend. Well, get ready, because we've not rested since then - we've been on the move.

Our first impressions of Rosario were well founded: it is a rather dull town. We spend most of our time looking for somehere to eat. On Saturday night at 10pm this is very hard, and it's only later we realise that we were just too early. On Sunday everything is closed except the supermarket. We eat sanwiches and a GBP1.20 bottle of wine. In the afternoon, the populace decamp to the grassy banks of the Paraná, sittings in folding chairs and sipping their maté tea. On Monday we try to take a ferry to nearby island delta, but the ferry isn't running. Well, it is Monday after all. We console ourselves with beef. Let's get out of here!


- Damn those eengleesh!!!!


- The best bit of Rosario


- Dunno what this means. It's probably a gaucho hoodies' tag. All over Rosario's squares

We take the nightbus north. It's a plush double-decked affair, and we have the grandstand seats, in the front upstairs. It's dark and the road is just a bit scary. From our vantage point, every truck, lit like a Christmas sleigh, is rushing headlong at us, and every overtaking maneuvre is going to be a disaster. Thankfully, our steward saves the day by drawing the curtains, firing up a succession of bad movies, and doling out dubious whisky. A little later, tv dinner trays materialise on our laps. We're rather pleased that we brought some extra ham and grapes to go with the salad and tinned fruit. We scoff the lot, only to look like fools when great hunks of roast beef and mash are delivered, with a nice malbec to wash it away. We push our seats back, raise feet and relax. This is better than the back of a jet, and much cheaper than Ryanair...

...but it's far far slower. After twelve hours (and over 1000kms) our knees are not in the mood for bending, and we're dumped in an anonymous bus terminal in a nothing part of a nowhere town for our "connection". It takes two hours of negotiation with the drivers to get us moving again, and finally we are where we want to be, in the little town of San Ignacio, near the Paraguayan border. This is the site of a famous reduccione, a mission, set up by the Company of Jesus, where the local Guaraní folks were roped into the construction of an early hippy commune. These are the guys, I think, who were dramatised in the film "The Mission". For more information, see the Wikipedia entry about San Ignacio.


- Remains of the church at San Ignacio


- Ruins never looked so pretty

Giving up ideas of staying the night, we hail the next passing bus, whose steward insists on forcing coffee liqueur into us. Our teeth recoil at the sweetness, but the kids around us seem to be enjoying it. Eventually, after another five hours of movie graveyard robbery (we're talking ancient Jean Claude van Damme here) we are finally able to touch down and pitch our tent in the extremity of Argentina, Puerto Iguazu. After a nice night under the canvas, which feels so familiar now, we make for the Igauzu cataracts. Whatever I say can't do them justice, but to put them in context, the Vic Falls are knocked into a cocked hat by them. Here are some pictures:



- Down the Garganta del Diabolo


- ¿Mrs. W, I presume?


- Picture-perfect Iguazú

For a counterpoint, we cross the border into Brazil to visit the man-made version of the falls - the Itaipú hydroelectric project. It's obviously not as visceral an experience, but it is pretty marvellous (it's the biggest HEP in the World), and appeals to the slumbering physicist in me. God knows what kind of a mess they made putting the thing up, but the end result is good news for already-polluted Paraguay and Brazil.


- One of the spillways at Itaipú, spilling the Paraná river

This being a complicated little corner of the World, we leave Brazil almost immediately for Paraguay, and the free port of Cuidad del Este. In the spirit of this part of the adventure, we do it the hard way: on foot, fully laden. Here's a tip for anyone wishing to disappear themselves. Make your way to Paraguay, and particularly Cuidad del Este, any way you choose. Do some shopping. Stroll over the bridge, or catch a bus, to the Brazilian side. Wander through nonchalantly. You will not be stopped, your passport will not be stamped, and Biggs' yer uncle, you've disappeared. Easy!


- Now that's the kinda signpost we like!


- A rather picturesque border crossing; Brazil left, Paraguay right

Paraguay looks pleasant enough from the bus we take to Asuncion, the capital. It's very green and sleepy outside the cities. People draw up their chairs to the roadside and face the traffic. This may say a lot about Paraguayan telly. It is odd to see your typical Paraguayan without his or her enormous thermos of iced water and guampa (cup) encrusted with Yerba mate tea leaves, which they suck at all day through a bombilla (straw). Apparently this is a nation of addicts. Obviously it's better than being on class A drugs, but it does look a bit gay carrying one's teapot around all day. I´m pretty gutted to discover that the Miss Paraguay competition was held while we were in Asuncion, and we missed it!


- The Pantheon de los Heroes. Does not seem to include a mention for Senhor Stroessner


- Got me! Ascension Sunday in Asuncion doesn't hit the heights, but at least the shopfronts are pretty colours

And now we're back to Argentina, seeking out more natural wonders. More bus-rides to come...

Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires - is this really South America? Are we sure that Lufthansa hasn't just circled for 13 hours and dropped us into Madrid? Well I guess we are, but this does not feel like a foreign place. On the surface everyone is fairly homogenously Mediterranean-looking and the buildings are in the neo-classical and art deco tradition.

But looking a bit closer things are slightly different. Where are the rambling, narrow streets of the old centre, the city wall and fort? Not present. Instead, we have a sensible grid layout and some monumentally wide avenues. Crossing the Avenida 9 de Julio is like walking across a rather splendid airstrip. You could probably land a couple of Airbuses side-by-side (or more to the point, show off lots of tanks and soldiers) down this road. The central section has 18 lines of traffic, mostly driving at extraordinary velocity (so it could be Italy, then).

We stroll through the central barrios of Montserrat, Recoleta, Retiro, San Telmo, Palermo and La Boca. San Telmo is our favourite. It has an arty, studenty vibe, and is home to many antique and designer boutiques, cafés and bars. It's cool.


- I want to say "San Telmo's Fire" but it's too cool for that

And the people are different from Europeans. They exude confidence, looking at you in the eye before very blatantly checking you out. Shy they are not. Girls tend to have booty rather than bust, and guys run to seven shades of stubble and lots of hair. Lots of smokers and lots of people attached to their maté gourds. Quite a pleasant lot too.

We wander the streets agreeably, ending up, more often than not, drinking coffee (twice the size, half the strength of the Europan equivalent) or eating the famous beef. It's no lie, the beef is stupendous here. It's big, tender, and tasty straight off the parilla, often served with the attendent kidneys, chitluns, and blood sausage. Wash down with a litre of beer or bottle of Malbec, thank you very much. Excellent value too.

BA has a genuine vibe beyond the basics, it's a proper World city. Visit!


- The tower on the left was built by the English. It almost didn't see 1983...


- Cimiterio de Recoleta. Is that a ghost?


- A religious taste for the macabre


- Spooky light on someone's personal vision of heaven


- Boca Junior's stadium, Maradonna's old stamping, elbowing, diving, snorting, cheating ground.


- Don't cry for me. La Plaza del Mayo, BA's public address system.


- A splendid old bus. Utterly typical BA transport


- Big meat


- Moaning about the Malvinas continues to be a national pastime


- Plenty of superior grafitti adorns BA's vertical spaces

For my birthday we make the short journey to San Antonio de Areco. It couldn't be more different. It's a sleepy little town by a stretch of river. Cyclists potter about, cars that should have been destroyed years ago struggle their way through the cute streets. The police car circles aimlessly looking for any kind of felony to while away a couple of minutes. A gaucho exercises his horse on the river bank. Kids jump off the weir. It's quite idyllic. We find the best bar in town and do the necessary damage to cow, grape and cigar. Happy days!

It would have been easy to trip back to BA, but instead we take our hangovers like men and catch a bus to the city of Rosario, birthplace of Che Guevara. It's kinda dull to be brutal, especially on a Sunday when everything is shut, but we're heading to better places on Monday.


- Making an imaginary cuppa at birthday lunch


- It's a boy! Sleeping off lunch by the river


- Gaucho drill. Putting his horse through it's paces


- Lovely old shop in S.A. de Areco


- Bring me your finest wiiines...


- And bring them to me also...

You might have noticed that the map has gawn. It was too slow for some of our readers and you can always click the little link to see where we are - no maps of Argentina I'm afraid. Don't know why.

Portugal

After a lunch of marinated pork ribs, rice and the most local of organic greens courtesy of Lucy's Mum, Alice, the four of us take a drive.

Behind glass the sun warms the car comfortably for our trip 40km North-East to Amarante, straddling the Rio Tamega. The road drops quickly into the town centre and takes us into a cobbled square with a minute petrol station, filters us into a dark, narrow street, shared with pedestrians, and eventually over an ancient bridge spanning the river. On the South side, the town hangs over the steep banks of the river, many buildings jutting out over the water. On the North, a 16th century church stands proudly beside impossible winding streets of an old bairro.

We take coffee at a cafe on a riverside square outside the church. Some research is necessary to reveal whether this is the location used for the denouement of "Love Actually" where Colin Firth mangles Portuguese for the sake of his heart; it certainly looks like it. The church has an extraordinary gilded altarpiece, too gaudy for English eyes. Relics and graphic statuary make for macabre company, this is no place for the unholy. I retire to watch the river and street life.

Jobless and retired men mark time on garden furniture outside cafes. They dress respectably in shirts, sweaters and jackets, a hat is optional. A waitress in a hair-net solemnly fills tumblers with port. Conversation is gruff and fractious-sounding, the privilege of long friendship. A few hundred yards up the river, another man watches the loose end of his fishing line from a rock in a shallow cataract. At some point the rapid was upgraded to provide sport for energetic Summer kayakers. A cat's cradle of ropes span the river suspending a series of vertical gates, the red or green directional notation and white paint of the poles is badly faded and cracking.

The narrow lane home traces a countour line along the Rio Tamega's corrugated valley. The curves are constant and the view slides back and forth across a driver's gaze. A maniac back-projection cameraman hoping to make his name could not intimate a more nauseous ride. This time of year the landscape is crisply defined. Later, lush foliage will suffocate the terrace edges, mossy dry-stone walls, tilled fields and vineyards. For now, the yellow of Mimosa and bowing lemon trees, and the red of last year's leaf fall contrast with the modestly green slopes and still leafless trees. Mystery is provided by the banks of backlit river-mist mingling with muscular plumes of wood smoke. The fires that look so impressive might warm only a corner of a profoundly cold granite home These houses were designed for Summer, to be retreated into when the heat becomes impossible.


- The Tâmega river at Amarante


- Gaudy alterpiece


- Spooky cross in the old town


- Lucy mugging for the camera

To celebrate our release from the road we are directed by Neca, Lucy's father, up the hill overlooking Alpendurada, through a tunnel of bare vines, to a three-storey house. On the ground floor is a long, narrow room with a tiny bar at the far end. We eat green olives, heavy bread and salpicao. This last is a prime fillet of pork cured with salt, wine and wood smoke then stored in olive oil until sliced thin for the table. It's sweet, sour, salty and smoky. Could it be the ultimate bar-snack? To accompany, we have a white china pot of red wine to pass between us. Homer would have added honey and water to make this inkily thick, bitter and pungent brew more palatable for his pampered heros, but we are made of stronger stuff and neck two pots at fridge temperature. Not only is this snack tasty and wholesome, it has impeccable local and organic credentials.

Stomach and soul thus refreshed it is visiting time. Arnaldo's new place commands an impressive view of the valley. Nelo and Annabella have also moved and are positioned at the foot of a ridiculously steep drive. On the next terrace down, a neighbour tills his kidney-shaped field. He tosses his tractor about with abandon and no little skill, working at a rate which suggests that his dinner is poised above the dog. Keeping watch is Nelo's newest toy, a caged raven. The story has it that the bird, already fully grown, sidled over to him and asked to be put inside, and it may deserve to be there. It has a menacingly deranged way of marching and hopping along its perches, karking one-two-three-four times, and then wiping it's beak as if it can't quite get that spot of blood off. I won't be letting it anywhere near my eye-sockets.

The property above Lucy's parents' is up for sale and has been for a year. It's a little smallholding with a river view, a three storey house and plenty of problems. It has no access, and is on an awkward bend in the road. The house itself probably needs tearing down and rebuilding from the foundations - no small task, but surely a bargain at €50k?

Or is it? Sergio, a contemporary of Lucy and local architect outlines the difficulties and irregularities of the planning legislation designed to protect what is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. This percentage of your land may be developed, this many stories, this many windows per story. All couched in a great big "maybe". It is all too easy to be seduced by the majestic curves and cosseting ambiance of the valley and make grand designs on a ruin, only to be told that your piece of heaven has been designated for growing spuds and nothing more. Caveat emptor indeed.


- Offsetting our carbon-footprint by planting a single Magnolia tree in Ricardo and Joana's garden.


- Misty magic of the Douro