Parque Ambue Ari - Monkey business

Parque Ambue Ari
Amazonian Basin (Bolivia)

30 OCT - 17 NOV

I'm stubborn, I mean really stubborn, so much so that at times it can be quite detrimental. The day after I was attacked by Yuma I decided that I was going to get back out on the trails and walk that damn cat to the point of exhaustion. Yeah, I was going to show that wild beast who was boss! I mean it already sounded as though everyone in the park had a similar story of either being attacked, 'jumped' or mauled, I was simply going to have to suck it up and deal with the situation, no matter what the consequence. It was only later, in my own quiet time and with some equally critical reflection that I realised the park, with its specific type of 'eco-adrenaline-adventure' activity may in actual fact be a large drawcard for a specific group of people that we'd commonly term as 'nut jobs'.

Out on the trail with Yuma on my second day was not a particularly pleasurable experience. I was hyper-vigilant, I was overly watchful and wary of every single move the cat was making. Everytime she stopped on the trail, every slight turn that she made, I assumed the worst and had mentally prepared for a rush at my legs, or even worse, my nether regions - 'why oh why had I decided to leave the box at home?'...'Always protect yours nuts Henry, ALWAYS!'.

Popular - see that mouth? That's why there's a need to protect your nuts!

The previous day I had made some mental notes of a few hazzards or some potentially difficult situations on the trail should the cat decide that it wanted to test my metal. The day before I had dismissed these thoughts as being overly cautious but now out in her territory on my second day and in light of past events I was at best only hopeful that she wouldn't try to test me...unfortunately I didn't have to wait long until the battle commenced.

Taking photos of the flora - better than getting attacked by the local fauna

Walking down into a little gully I already envisaged would would happen with the cat out in front of me on 2-3 metre lead, it was kind of a self fulfilling prophecy. As Yuma reached higher ground and comfortably stood a metre or so above my head she turned to face me, then immediately she gave me that evil hiss which I knew was a test but at the same time automatically had me hitting panic stations. Looking at her straight in the eyes I was judging the distance and already agreeing with the assessment that Yuma had already made, 'Yes, a leap from there would have you around my throat quite successfully'. Facing off for what felt like an eternity I saw her feet start to move and then she took two or three quick steps. I tell you, there is nothing quite like the experience of mentally preparing yourself for a puma to be flying at your head. It's not like being in a plane where you have the tried and true 'brace position' to use for your protection - although if you're going to be hitting land at somewhere close to 500kms p/hour is there really any comfort or solace to be found in placing your head between your legs? In any case, as quickly as the move started and as quickly as I started back pedalling, it was over. She stopped before pouncing. Yuma just stared me out from her vantage point with a type of defiant look that said 'I own you'. The damn cat had bluffed me and caught me with my pants down. It knew very well that I was scared and this test I had failed dismally. There was no recourse, there was no coming back from here.

Meal time for Popular

Later in the walk Yuma did go for me one more time and drew blood but by then I had mentally checked out. There was just no way in the world that I'd be comfortable walking her again let alone on my own. In my mind it was just too dangerous and too stupid a notion to contemplate. That honour would need to be accepted by another brainsick volunteer whose disturbed nature would adequately suit the moody and temperamental Yuma.

The next day I was transferred to a male puma named Sayan. He had an interesting story. For sometime he had been the pet of a Bolivian family on the outskirts of Sucre. Most of his life had unfortunately been spent in a relatively small cage, an absolutely cruel existence especially considering that over the years he actually got too big for the cage and effectively 'grew into it', deforming his spine and leading to extreme digestive problems. One particular year his Bolivian 'carers' were suffering financially, perhaps their cocoa crops were failing or perhaps the Uruguayan matè market was starting to look for more exotic import destinations than nearby neighbour Bolivia. Whatever it was, their financial crises demanded a quick and prompt resolution, the 'family decision' being that a sacrifice to the Gods would be enough to alleviate their difficulties and set them onto a new path of wealth, prosperity and good fortunre - Sayan was to be their offering.

Popular - in his usual spot - just chilling out and escaping the sun

Now, the story of how Sayan was saved seems to be a little patchy. Apparently volunteers from one of the parks had heard through the grapevine of the existence of this cat in Sucre. They decided that it would be in their best interests to make a visit to this family and convince them that the best place for the cat would be far beyond the Sucre city limits in the wilds of a former cocoa plantation. Fortunately their actions couldn't have come at a more opportune moment. In the way the story was told to me, the scene must have been reminiscent of an epic drug bust of one of the new wave Mexican narco-cartels. The door was kicked down and in rolled the volunteers with their peace flags fluttering in their swift wake, finding poor little Sayan tied to the table with his 'death clock' reading at under five seconds. When I imagine the scene in my own head I see the patriarch of the family with a double handed grip on a huge kitchen knife ready to plunge it into Sayans' heart - and then my mind automatically defaults to what an 'epic fail' it must have been from the families' perspective. Their lives were just about to become infinitely better with this offering to the Gods and on the stroke of midnight it all imploded with these 'do good campaigners' breaking down the doors and stealing their golden ticket. I wonder how the family fared in life after those events?

The few days that I spent with Sayan were comfortable. Orr, the volunteer that had been looking after Sayan for the previous month, spoke ad nauseum in regards to what a great creature he was, as to what his respective idiosyncracies were, as to the best way to entertain him...and for the most part he was right, the cat was calm, fantastic, and I loved the way that he 'play stalked' me everytime I turned up to his cage. Unfortunately the realities of the wild cat scenario had dawned on me. No matter what I did, no matter how careful I was, these creatures only needed the smallest trigger and they would be 'at' you. That evening I decided that the daily exercise requirements of wild cats, with only my experts ninja skills as reasonable protection would probably not lead to a long and healthy life. I made the call and pulled the pin on the escapade. My next project was to be a group of Howler monkeys whose only requirements were to be an afternoon feed of bananas and a few hours let loose in the in the trees.

In a short Sayan post-script, my volunteer replacement, a young docile German guy by the name of Atiene had his arm savagely torn by the cat after Orr incorrectly judged the amount of playtime that the cat required. Atienes' arm looked like he had just come back from a weekend spent at a self-harm clinic, it had been shredded. Unfortunately Atiene had learnt of the ferocity of these cats the hard way ....a week or so later when I had left the conservation park I met Atiene briefly at Santa Cruz bus station, he was on his way to somewhere far safer. Apparently his 'heart conditions' had returned and he thought it best to leave the park in search of appropriate medical advice. I simply read that as code for, 'Bro, I was shit scared!'.

The Monkey Challenge

Ah monkeys, what could possibly go wrong with a cheeky group of Howler monkeys? After advising the park co-ordinators that being torn to pieces in the midst of the lush greenery of the Amazonian rainforest was not actually my thing - to their moderate dismay - I was transferred onto the rather cushy afternoon gig of 'walking the monkeys'. I know, counterintuitive right? How the hell do you go about walking monkeys? Is it even possible? Well as a matter of fact yes, to a limited extent it is.

The simple logistics of this gig was as such. Go to the monkey enclosure, take out the largest female monkey named Thalia (the Muse of comedy), put her onto your shoulder and walk her down to the monkey park with the other three monkeys, two males, named Bin Tong & Chico, and a young female named Faustina, following in Pied Piper fashion close behind. Then, in the park, you simply let them escape into the tree and lie back in your hammock for a few hours, reading, daydreaming or formulating your escape from the park. At the end of those few hours you call them back to their crib and lock them in for the night...so in theory it sounded like a cakewalk and in reality it looked easy as my American 'monkey coach', Chase, had pulled off those very steps teaching me the ropes.

Taking Thalia for a walk

Faustina

So with all the confidence of a veteran monkey walker I entered their enclosure one sunny Tuesday afternoon in November in order to take this group out for their afternoon session of tree swinging. Walking through the first of the double doors I could already tell that the monkeys were excited to be going. As I opened the second door however all four of these cheeky bastards shot straight past me and jumped onto the first door, which unfortunately had not been properly locked. Quickly realising the error of my ways I made my way for the door but this guys had split - it was a freakin' jailbreak of epic proportions. They were already out of reach and shooting up into the trees! Bloody hell, how was I going to explain this back at camp, '...well guys, yeah, I kind of lost your monkeys'. What kind of person is dumb enough to lose four monkeys on their very first day on the job? Well ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Mr Henry Elisher!

Trying to keep an eye on these guys through the trees I called out their names continuously. I was like a bad Billy Ray Cyrus song on perpetual loop, nauseating and depressing. There was simply nothing that I could do to get them back. This essentially became my life for the next two hours, 'Thalia....Bin Tong....Chico...Faustina', 'Vamos Chico's, vamos'. As the hours of the day drew on I could envisage myself sitting out on the trail in candelit, calling out to the trees in the withering hope that these monkeys may return.

Cruisy afternoon - laying in a hammock with a bunch of monkeys

Monkey business - you can just see that they're scheming for something that would inevitably amount to no good

Yeah - trash that hammock - 'go ape', or something close to that

Hours went by and I sat by their cage, not knowing what to do or whom to turn to ....and then....with the sun dropping in the sky and the familiar colours of an Amazonian sunset colouring the sky behind the dark curtains of trees, these cheeky bastards made their way home, Thalia first, followed by Bin Tong, Chico and then Faustina. It was like the Brady Bunch had just come back from an afternoon picnic and Alice (aka, yours truly) was waiting for them with a cheesy grin and an equally cheesy line, 'Well where have you been you cheap banana sluts?'...ok, that wasn't my line but it should have been. In any case they were back home and I was happy that all was now well in my neck of the woods.

Hanging out with Thalia in her favourite spot

After that first day things became much easier. I figured out how to lock and unlock doors professionally, how to get Thalia onto my shoulder with any difficulties and also how to swing my afternoons away in a hammock as the kids played in the trees above my head. It was definitely a 'sweet ride'. Who knew that 'monkey business' was going to be so much fun?

Parque Ambue Ari - The 3:10 express from Yuma

Parque Ambue Ari
Amazonian Basin (Bolivia)
30 OCT - 17 NOV

Ah, the lush greenery of the jungle, the overwhelming density of the flora that surrounds me, the sunlight illuminating the trees in an intruiging matted fashion giving my surroundings an agleam and fulgid look in a most rarefied atmosphere. I'm walking along one of the many trails that meander through this particular version of the 'Garden of Eden'. I then notice something extremely odd. Approximately two metres away from me there is a fully grown female puma walking the same trail. Actually, she appears to be quietly going about her own business. In fact, it's now that I notice that there is a long rope tied around my waist, and hey, wait a minute, it's somehow tied to the puma that's walking in front of me! Thinking back a few moments, I believe, in fact, I know for certain, that I had deliberately clipped the caribiner on the end of the rope that now dangles around my waist to the freakin' COLLAR of this wild animal? Thinking a little more clearly now in a kind of Avatar inspired type of fashion I question the sanity of this symbiotic relationship between me, man, and WILD ANIMAL! Is it an absolute neccesity, dear Henry, to take this wild, unpredictable, moody and temperamental creature out for a walk in its natural environment? In fact, what the fuck were you thinking when you convinced yourself that any place for this beast other than the inside of its cage was going to be a winning scenario for you?

'Welcome to the jungle' - Parque Ambue Ari - Amazonian Basin, Bolivia

Popular - not the cat that attacked me, but you can see the look in its eye - I'm looking mighty tasty

Day 1 in camp - all smiles after my attack...but internally I was more than a little freaked!

My trainer in all things puma related and inspired, Sebastian, a 23 year old German from the great city of Berlin, stalls for a moment on the trail and then casually announces in a cool, Euro-rasta style cross accent that you're sure was brought to you by the boys from 'Ganja 'R Us'...

'Yeah, this is where she went a bit funny on the trail yesterday'

'Oh shit, really?' I think to myself - actually, I may have said it out aloud because Sebastians' slow resonating and considered response was 'Yeeahh' as he nodded thoughtfully. Also, it was delivered in such a casual way that in actual fact he may have only been reaffiriming his own initial statement. Truthfully however,

at this point in time, I wasn't all that fussed to find out whether I prompted it or not. My mind was totally focused on other things.

Yuma, the cat that I'm now apparently walking, stops and gazes out through the thick undergrowth. My 45min orientation course of 'Yumas' trails' informs me that she's now being jungle mindfucked by a residual scent coming from somewhere in the vicinty of the river. Yuma,(aka, this freakin' wild cat) hisses into the dark depths of the Amazonian jungle, and then turns, turns and faces me squarely.

'Ummm, ok Sebastian, red alert on the psycho cat front! What did the guidebook say about dealing with pumas that have flipped their schizo dial to inbetween 11 and Watchu talkin' about Willis!?'

Sebastian, having already anticipated the possibility of this confrontation, tells me to shorten the lead on the rope, quickly! My mind, processing the situation at alarming speed, (I recently upgraded my internal processor to a Pentium 5), questions the validity of pulling a raving lunatic of an animal towards myself. The issue however, which I quickly deduced, was that the current slack on the rope meant that this mental bitch now had free access to any part of my body. I can see the cat staring at me, its ears folded back, its teeth exposed, preparing to pounce and use me as its very own churrasco.

Popular - the cat that I finally settled with - just chillin' out for the afternoon

Then IT happens. From a low rolling type of growl to an unmistakable wild cat snarl and then yowl, this thing makes its move with blinding speed. In an instant its claws are wrapped around my ankle and calf, its jaws around my knee. It starts ripping into my leg, the ferocity of which catches me completely off guard...'Hey cat, I'm on holiday man, why are you being so uncool?'...my mind now races in order to find a solution to the problem. 'OK, what did Sebastian say, try and be calm and try to assure the cat that everything is ok'...

So, out comes the following, 'Tranquila, tranquila chica'.

Nothing happens, the attack continues ...Ofcourse the attack is fucking continuing, this is a wild animal, what part of the Spanish version of 'chill out girlfiend' did I actually believe would resonate with this beast and prevent it from doing what it apparently needs to do? It's only at this point however that my mind turns to the potentially aweful outcome that is so common to such shows as 'When animals attack', 'When animals go wild' and the infamous Darwin awards. Could this animal be so ticked off that it actually wants to kill me? I've seen these ridiculous situations on TV before. A nutter getting into a cage with a grizzly, a circus elephant with a violent toothache rampaging through the streets of Dehli! Now could I, Henry Elisher, have put myself into the position where I was going to become another idiot statistic? Mauled to death by a puma that's more than likely trying to take out its sexual frustrations on me! I'm a God damn volunteer for Christ's sake, and I'm on holiday! Haven't you read the script today Yuma!? This is not the way it's suppose to go! Imagine what my parents are going to think? What sort of shame am I going bring on the family with such self inflicted idiocy. What sort of explanation could there possibly be to interested parties when asking of my demise? There's really no credible way of explaining a death by starting off with the words, 'Well yes, Henry had tied himself to a puma and...'.

Sweet Howler monkeys - they looked like they'd be much more pleasant to handle

Lorenzo 'showing off' for Dina - I swear, there was something ON between those two!!

'You're in the jungle baby!'

Yuma, after her first mawling frenzy backs off for a second. It's a slight breather but it's nothing more than that. In she comes again, her jaws land higher on my thigh and her claws are tearing at me just around the knee with animalistic ferver. Endorphins are flooding my system whilst at the same time I'm still convincing myself that the Parque Ambue Ari playbook response of trying to reassure the cat the everything is ok is the safest bet, I come out with the following firm response, 'No Yuma, no!' - because obviously the switch from Spanish to English was going to be the smartest thing to do! Pushing her mouth away from my upper thigh with my hand, a stray claw makes a sweet gash on my palm and my own sweet red claret starts dotting the jungle floor. Looking up at Sebastian for something, anything, he responds by saying 'Yooomaa',in the same way that a father might berate their child for being ever so 'silly'. 'Why thankyou Sebastian, thumbs up for instinct and protecting your fellow man'.

Suddenly it stops. Yuma backs off and lies down on the path panting, like her afternoon attack class has taken it out of her or something. My brain simultaneously realises that the immediate threat is over. Sebastian stands in front me and points to my right hand, telling me that I'm bleeding.

'Should I take the rope' he asks.


'Oh yes, this cat is all yours bro'.

After several more hisses and one nerve wracking stand-off Yuma turns around and walks back down the path from which we had just come. She basically guides us, meaning Sebastian, back to her cage. This is her territory. She knows the trail, she knows the way home and she knows the routine. Walking a cat, in Inti Warra Yassi theory, should be this easy. The potential to get 'jumped', the colloquial Inti Wara Yassi term for a cat pouncing you, or either being bitten or mawled is not actually highlighted in red on their site.In fact it's not mentioned at all. In that sense the organisation (but not your average volunteers), tend to cover up that well known fact. Whilst I don't really want to discuss that 'perculiar' aspect in this write up, I will address this extremely fraudulent and negligent aspect in the next.

Parque Ambue Ari - Bolivia - 'A road runs through it'

Dina our little fashionista shows off the latest in Ambue Ari jungle wear!

So, how was my first ever day as a volunteer? Alarming! At the end of the day I did come to realise with absolute clarity that these cats do not really understand Spanish, or even English for that matter. Also I realised that if a wild animal is going to attack you then the best form of defence is probably not to be there in the first place.

The next day I was given the pleasure of reading some of the impressions that previous volunteers had written of Yuma during the time they had worked with her. The general pattern or rather flavour of what they said went something like this, can be aggressive, is moody, is temperamental, is definately a princess, either likes you or hates you. Reading those impressions and pausing for a moment to allow them to sink in, my brain regressed. I remembered girlfriends of years past that could have been described in a very similar fashion and I knew then, as I knew now, that the only wat out was to run...to run and never ever look back!



Sucre - Off the Grid

Sucre (Bolivia)
27 October 2010

This evening you´re going to have to deal with Helisher ´unplugged´, a stripped back version of a Year Full of Saturdays that finds itself, out of necessity, having to deliver its impressions through simple words rather than having its narrative aided by the standard visuals. For those of you than scan my write-ups only for the happy snaps, well, this one isn´t for you - I´m aiming an arrow squarely at you on this one Frichot! Read the damn thing will you!

In a few days time D and I will literally be dropping ´off the grid´ and finding our way into the midst of the Bolivian Amazon, volunteering at a wildlife sanctuary whose main purpose it is to rehabilitate rescued animals - if you´re interested in understanding what it´s all about, check it out via this link http://www.intiwarayassi.org/articles/volunteer_animal_refuge/home.html

For the next month however I´ll be out of touch with most of the world, so there will be no impressions, no solemn moments of introspection, no moments of wild reckless abandon and certainly no moments when I´ll question out aloud, ´hey, does anyone know where I left my pants?´, JJ and Kim, you still have a lot to answer for. For my part it´s kind of a shame as I know that when I make my way back to Sucre at the start of December I´ll be playing catch up on such fantastic places as Mendoza, Bariloche, Villazon and a wicked 60hr bus adventure to Sucre that ended with me getting a friendly reach around from a guy named Pablo, (well I assume), under a brilliant moonlit night on the high dusty roads of the altiplano. Ahh, the high Bolivian plateau has ALOT to answer for, and whatever cheeky ´blanket action´that Pablo tried to pull in the murkiness of the witching hour I know will haunt me for quite sometime. Bolivian bus PTSD, it´s a reality and it´s a problem!

A couple of words about Sucre before I drop off the face of the earth for the next few months. This place is the constitutional capital of Bolivia and is located at an altitude of 2750 mtrs, which may explain why I´ve had a dull throbbing headache over the last few days, a sudden gain in altitude whilst walking up to the heavens tends to have that affect on you. It was very much a Spanish city during the colonial era, and the style, architecture, layout of the town and even in some ways the people, reflect the Andalusian culture that has embodied the city for the last several centuries. As D and I walked around the town this evening, taking in the place amd absorbing it, we both commented that aesthetically, it´s not the most appealing town/city that we´ve seen but it certainly has a feel that´s warm and inviting. It has the capacity of quickly drawing you into its realm and I guess in that sense you feel extremely pleasant and at ease. It´s for this reason that I´ve decided that once my pirate sidekick, aka D, and I finish our Amazonian expedition, that I might settle in here for 7 to 10 days, get a true feel for the place and throw myself into an intensive Spanish course - those guttural sounds of very vague Castellano need improving, and muy rapido!

So, until I walk out of the jungle in approximately a month´s time, enjoy what November has to offer, especially if you´re in the Southern Hemisphere and not having to cram for law exams! Just to let you all know that I´m having an absolutely amazing time and I truly think that from this point on, well, it´s just going to get better!

Your Explorer on the road,

H

Buenos Aires - The Quickening

Buenos Aires (Argentina)

02 OCT - 06 OCT

10 OCT - 15 OCT

I'm standing out on the grounds of Castenera Sur, an ecological park on the eastern border of Buenos Aires which fronts the Rio de la Plata. Rage Against The Machine have for over the last hour delivered a ferocious, brutal set that has lit the fuse of testosterone amongst a predominantly male audience. The intensity of the performance, the power of the delivery and the common themes within the  lyrics of their songs of raging against the establishment, fighting oppression and standing up for ones rights are not lost amongst the Argentinian faithful. The tumultous political history of this country and some of the horrors suffered by its people fits the message that Rage delivers like a glove. As if by design the rain increases in intensity during their set, assisting in the transference of an invisible electric current through a 50,000 strong audience so that at the point where  they drop the bomb of 'Killing in the name of', the charge is released, lifting the crowd off their feet in unison, bouncing bodies off one another like protons in a nuclear reaction.

[Rage Against The Machine - Testify - 1st song of set - 13 OCT 2010] 

Recoleta - Buenos Aires - Argentina

For this last hour I've been carried along by both a wave of emotion and  the immovable force which is the vast sea of people around me. This moment and this particular time however, for me, has been more than just the music, more than the energy, even more than the sum total of the individual components of the event. Drifting in and out of my own thoughts whilst relinquishing myself to the ebb and flow off the human tide that has consumed my being has strangely enough given me the opportunity of being able to connect with myself without distraction. As strange as that may sound, the unanswered  questions that have been rolling around my head for some months, those of which I really hadn't attacked, for some reason at this point in time and in this space required a little attention.

The Obelisco de Buenos Aires - morning of arrival

Casa Rosada - the official seat of the executive branch of government - Buenos Aires - Argentina

Absorbing the towering skyline of Puerto Madero that served magnificently as the backdrop to the stage my mind traced a line back to the origins of where this journey actually began, poetically almost, a year ago to the day. Back then the decision to up and leave felt like a decision literally made within seconds but really, it had been at least 5 years in the making. My life had become sterile and sedate, driven by routine and obligation. Starting my days at 6am, working the standard 9-5 gig, rolling on in the evening for hours of lectures and study, sacrificing away my weekends for the sake of relatively arbitrary results, in the end didn't add up to much. It wasn't a stimulating existence nor did it make for a particularly interesting individual .I guess at the crux of my thinking therefore was the truth of the matter, the fact that I had hidden from my own demons for such a long time with the assistance of a self inflicted routine that the true root of the issue only felt like a symptom rather than the cause. The end result whilst being uniquely subjective, in the way that only self analysis can be, came back as this. Essentially I know that I'm just you're average guy, not much of  an inspiration to anyone, not a marvelous intellect, sometimes even just a plain boring person! What the hell had the last five years  really done to me or for me for that matter? Now, I know that I also have some great qualities also, but those are the ones that aren't causing me the concern, so please, don't feel obliged to provide me with a list, I'm not sad or depressed here, I'm just looking for a way to better myself and this type of reflection is a necessary part of the process.

Punta de la Mujer - Puerto Madero - Buenos Aires

Che Guevara mural - San Telmo - Buenos Aires

San Telmo - Buenos Aires

In Dead Poets Society the English teacher John Keating asks his students at one point to venture out into the hall and look at the photos of alumni from yesteryear.He asks them to lean in and listen intently for their voices echoing down through the years. Rather than quoting the typical line that usually arises from that movie the one that I feel to be most pertinent is this, '...make your lives extraordinary'. From somewhere I hear the sound of a hammer hitting a nail flush on the head - 'make you're freakin' lives extraordinary'. Doesn't that sound like the right thing to aim for? In addition, whilst journeying through Argentina for the last few days I've just touched on a collection of essays by one of Mexico's most well known writers, Carlos Fuentes. Quoting Marsilio Ficino at one point he says '...nothing is incredible, nothing is impossible, the possibilities we deny are but the possibilities we ignore'. With those quotes in my back pocket I really had to ask myself, 'in the truth that will be true only for you, in what manner will you deem your life to be extraordinary?'. For those wanting me to answer that, for right now, I don't have clue. Is it to love fully and to be able to completely give myself to another person? Is it about being a well rounded human being and having deep pockets of knowledge in several areas rather than just selected specialised fields. I don't know, again, I don't have answer for myself at this point. It could be all those things and much more. What I do know is that there is a need for change and that the journey that I placed myself on a year ago was 100% the best decision that I made for just myself at the time and one that I think has put me on a path that has allowed for this type of self realisation. As cheesy and as daft as it may sound, coming from a sceptic like me, this process of soul searching has felt like exactly the right thing to do at this moment.

Sunday sunshine - San Telmo - Buenos Aires

Tango in La Boca  - Buenos Aires

Calle Caminito - La Boca - Buenos Aires

After Rage Against The Machine finishes their set the massive crowd disperses into a damp and cold Buenos Aires evening. I find my way out of the crowd and catch up with Dina who had watched the gig from somewhere towards the back. Oddly the  intensity and demands thrown out my such a combative band had affected the thought processes of this self confessed pacifist also. After my initial rant as to how fantastic I thought the gig was D let loose with snippets of thoughts from her mind that suggest that right at this moment she was mentally 'spinning'. Now for anyone that doesn't know,  this girl is SWITCHED ON, as in her intellect outstrips mine by a factor of 50. When someone like that is in a moment where their thoughts are in a 'spin', well then you better prepare yourself for the wicked ways in which their mind will construct a momentary thought, question or statement. There could be 20 things that gets them to their final summarised outcome which they're in turn now putting to you for assessment. As an aside to this however, what I have come to find out over the last few weeks is that like everyone she carries around a bag of her own worries struggles and slight insecurities. Without mentioning any of them here, because it's not my place, I can say that its kind of poignant that she's travelling along with me at this point in time as it seems that in a strange way we're kind of looking for the same thing on this journey.

Dina, did you pack the cat? .....smart girl but still she can´t get the basics right!

Avenida 9 de Julio - Buenos Aires

Wondering the streets for a few hours after the concert we end up in the barrio of San Telmo. This area is 'old school' in terms of its architechture, lovely cobblestone streets and old style colonial buildings, it is known to be the oldest barrio in Buenos Aires.. On this night we're able to find ourselves a bar that his able to provide us with a few bottles of Malbec that will keep us going until 5am. A few days earlier however, after having made our way back from the disaster of visiting Argentina's close cousin, Uruguay, we had walked down La Defensa in San Telmo on a glorious Sunday afternoon in order to pick our way through the markets. Now, when I say that these markets go on for miles, I literally mean that as far as I could see down this road there were people trying to scout themselves out a bargain. The activity and the atmosphere was just so warm, friendly and good natured that you didn't really even take notices of the hordes around you. Whats more, once we had made our way almost to the end of La Defensa the San Telmo samba 'crew' started up with an improptu display of drumming and we were effectively coerced  back to Plaza de Mayo at the top of La Defensa via the magical samba rhythms that had unwittingly intoxicated us all.

San Telmo - Buenos Aires

San Telmo samba

Ernesto lives on!

San Telmo samba

La Defensa - San Telmo markets - Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires is kind of a tough city to get a grasp on straight away. Each barrio is its own entity, different in character and style from one to the next. For that reason it took me a little time to be able to connect with this town but when it happened, and when the roots were firmly planted, I really fell for it as a whole. On one of our daily excursions into this city we headed down to the barrio of La Boca, another old neighbourhood that's considered to be one of the towns' most authentic, colourful and energetic. The area had originally been settled and built by Italian immigrants that had worked in the warehouses and meatpacking plants in the area. Considered to be one of the  poorest barrios in BA, it's major drawcard is Calle Caminito, effectively a small street with bright colourful housing that now serves as the centre for all things tango, tacky and touristy. Not that it's such a bad thing, the surrounding streets do provide you with the opportunity of walking around and taking in the creation of a famous Argentinian artist by the name of Quinquela Martin. His inspiration for the creation of these colourful streets originally came from the conventillo (shared housing) that use to be the predominant type of accommodation in the barrio. Originally the houses in the area were mostly tacked together with scrap corrugated metal and wood from the local shipyards. Families would then make use of any leftover paint from the port in order to spruce up their doors, windows, or facades generally in bright colour combinations that was traditional for the predominantly Genoese migrants that inhabited the area. Whilst the old style convetillo's were pulled down and eventually replaced by dull, lifeless small rise apartment blocks, the streets inspired by Martin stand proudly as a reminder of those times. They can also easily draw hours out of the tourist that goes in a little trigger happy on their camera. Unfortunately on the day that I was there my battery died within the first few minutes otherwise who knows when I would have left and who knows what the outcome may have been.

Calle Caminito - La Boca

Tango boys - kickin´it old school style

Recoleta and Palermo are the barrios with the greatest number of inhabitants. They lie to the north of the city and are considered to be predominantly areas of the middle to upper classes. Their streets have a distinctly European feel, reminding me of such places as Madrid or Paris in terms of architecture, street life and even temperament. Again, they're interesting places to walk around and experience although it takes a little bit of work to convince yourself that you are in one of THE thriving metropolises of South America and not elsewhere. Most of our time in this space was spent in Recoleta, scouting out their main museums such as the Museo National de Arte Decorativo and the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, the latter being a real highlight due to the fact that my crash course in art history over the past few months was starting to pay dividends,albeit small ones considering that they were now being delivered in pesos and had to deal with a volatile exchange rate.

The remains of the day - Recoleta

I really thought I had a shot with Mafalda!

Punta de la Mujer - Puerto Madero - Buenos Aires

Overall I have to say that Buenos Aires is a place that I think that you need to feel rather than it being a place that you can capture purely through aesthetical beauty. Whilst there are definitely places that you can see and be satisfied in that respect, some of the things that enticed me dealt more with the impact that it had on my emotions and collective senses rather than those that were distinctly visual.  From the  distinctly meaty smells that waft from one of the many paradillas located in the backstreets of San Telmo, to the uniqueness of the tango which originated in the area of the Rio de la Plata, to a drunken improptu salsa on the streets, to dulce de leche, to the plethora of happy perros that roam the back alleys. Buenos Aires to me was a feel, a place that I had the  opportunity of connecting  with and a place that in my own personal searches allowed me to ask and seek answers from myself that may have otherwise gone unchallenged.


The post that follows this is Colonia del Sacramento - Riding the red wine and empanada revolution  for the period 07 OCT - 10 OCT 2010, and then,

 - Mendoza - The smoking gun theory for the period after 10 OCT 2010.

San Sebastian - At the top of the list, it's all toast!

San Sebastian (Spain)

24 SEP - 25 SEP

I had spent over a month in Belgrade and my time there had been fantastic. It always amuses me as to how my perception of time shifts in the last few days of a holiday or stay in a specific place. In the beginning I'm able to convince myself that I have all the time in the world and then as the final days close in days and the final hours dwindle away I get to wondering how exactly it was that I let all that precious time slip by. Don't worry, 'we all do it'!, apparently? Well, it's enough to convince myself that I'm not the 'standout' when it comes to this way of thinking.

Heading out of Belgrade on my final morning I encountered a taxi driver who for some reason was so enamoured and enthralled by 19th and 20th century Serbian writers that he thought it would be in his best interest to 'make a list'. By the way, this was no ordinary list, this was a list of such proportions that his cab was filled with foolscape notebooks of names, years and odd notes regarding major works of those that he enjoyed inparticular. Kind of startled and taken off guard at the life work of this man I kind of didn't have it in me to question him on the purpose of the 'end game' of such an endeavour and it wasn't even that I wanted to judge the guy in accordance to what his passion is, but mate,can you at least keep your eyes on the road when you're explaining to me that Laza Kostic was more than just a writer and more than just one of the greatest minds in Serbian literature, and please, stop flicking through your meticulously kept pages with both hands when explaining to me his legal career whilst in front of you all sorts of mad manouveres are occurring. I think what was more troublesome for me was the fact that he also went into some detail regarding a 'new list' that he was working on, one which would comprise his favourite 1111 songs of all time. Why and for whom this list was going created I had no idea but he seemed quite adamant that the golden number was to be 1111,determined also to cull all those songs whose lyrics did not have significant meaning to him, even if their sweet melodies had placed them onto the original first draft. As for the meaning behind 1111, well the best this man could offer was 'well everyone wants to make a list of their top 1000', 'Geez, do they? Alright, please continue', 'Well I then thought why not an additional 100, then why not an additional 11, and then finally why not just add one more?'. Please, if anyone can find any sort of meaning or sense behind that type of deductive reasoning then could you kindly let me know of the key elements than I'm missing!

Hanging out at Belgrade airport was an absolutely abyssmal affair. Not that it's the worst airport in the world, far from it, but because I had such a great experience with my family there it was kind of hard to bid farewell to all of that and know full that my most optimistic projections would have me back in this part of the world in approximately three years.I recall sending JJ a text text telling her that I was feeling somewhat soft and was suffering a bout of homesickness, asking her essentially to send me a reply demanding me to harden up! What I received in turn was 'Oh, princess, if I see you in Australia before the 13th of Oct you'll never hear the end of it'...well I'm kind of paraphrasing there but you get the gist, and what's more, it did the trick! So thanks JJ, I owe you for that kick up the tail! What's more, once Dina rocked up to the gates and it actually dawned on me that South America was now becoming much more of a reality than a cloudy dream, those sentimental feelings subsided and I hardened up, a little. Can't be a princess forever hey!

So there we were, D and I, about to board a couple of flights to Madrid and then take an extended ride to San Sebastian without really knowing a hell of a lot about one another and both wondering how exactly we would fit as travel buddies. In reality we both took relatively large punts based solely on a handful of facts and a bucket load of intuition hoping that the result would work in one anothers favour. That in itself however is another story best to be told in a later write up. In addition to this I did wonder in advance where the 'friends of friends' collision would station itself once we made it to San Sebastian. Cutting a long story short, Jay andI had decided to catch up in San Sebastian this specific weekend in September when we'd both settled on the fact that we'd be in Europe at the same time whilst D had piggy backed onto the plans that I had set in motion several months earlier. Kind of trusting my own instincts and I think, correct me if I'm wrong, being a reasonable judge of character, I assumed that both those personalities would gel in a productive manner albeit with a slightly debaucherousresidual  effect of which I was hoping to be the welcoming beneficiary. 'Oh yeah, let the good times roll people!'.

San Sebastian film festival - throwing out the ´Welcome´mat

Flying out of Belgrade to Madrid via Stuggart meant that technically our first port of call on this two month escapade was to be in the Bundes Republik. This German city of disarmingly odd baggage carousels, Tweety bird soundtracks, flag conventions and Movenpick madness assisted in showcasing the talents that both D and I have in 'taking the piss' out of the most inane of situations. It could be considered to be somewhat 'droll' humour certainly and that in itself would not have been something that I would have quite understood until my travelling buddy quickly picked up on my incorrect use of the word. Damn, hate it when I'm wrong! Anyway, several hours later we were in the heart of Madrid for an evening stopover checking out the working girls on the north side of Puerto del Sol plying their trade. Old men and young Latin American girls make up a large part of the human traffic on Calle De la Montera, odd in itself as there is a police station located halfway down the street which operates with the full knowledge that illegal activities are taken place at the top of the street. Do the sums for yourself.

Urumea river - San Sebastian - Spain

The next day it was five hour bus ride out of Madrid and myriad of picturesque landscapes and moody weather pattern shifts that decided to frame themselves in the gallery of my memories. After 52 runs of the shorts for the Anthony Hopkins film Fracture on the 'inflight monitor' we finally entered into San Sebastian-Donastia, a town in the Basque country of Spain situated quite close to the French border on the southern coast of the Bay of Biscay. Taking a short ride from the bus station and heading north alongside the Urumea river for a few kilometres we crossed over onto Avenida Zurriola and parked our bags at the door of the apartment that Jay had lined up in the truest form of the travelling gypsy. Without a way of contacting Jay and with no method of entry into the apartment complex where our Bris-Vegas protagonist was residing I had the briefest insight into our potential future as globetrotting destitutes,being stranded on the streets of a magical town in the midst of the cities greatest yearly event - The San Sebastian film festival. It was only then that I heard it, those fimilar 'Skippyesque' whistles floating gently along the Basque coastal seas breezes which I inherently knew meant that another Australian was in close proximity. How my Kiwi travelling partner picked on that unique sound I'll never know but I'm kind of thankful that she did otherwise I would have been staring at the empty balcony of a second floor apartment situated directly above my head for what may have been hours.

View of Monte Urgull from Zm´s - San Sebastian - Spain

Now I don't know what it is about catching up with a good mate on the otherside of the world but there's always something about being the odd men out in a foreign land that galvanises that nationalistic notion of solidatary and paves the way for all sorts of possibilities. So after doing a quick round of introductions and getting that intial 10-20 min 'feeling out' process out of the way we headed down to Z'ms, a place located right on playa Zurriola which Jay had expertly scouted out during his days of solo reconnonasance. This was to be the testing ground for the three dimanond dynamic that would need to successfully negate its way through several Donastian autumn days. So with cerveza's in hand (please see canes for the Basque equivalent), a magnificent outlook onto the beach and a mischeviously cloudy, tempermental Gipuzkoan sky, we settled into a holiding pattern of good 'ole fashioned banter that would have us on a sustained laughter loop for the entire weekend.

Like true Donostiarris we attacked Parte Vieja that evening,(the Old Part of San Sebastian and the traditional core area of the city), with vigour and intensity. I kind of had it in my head to let Dina know in advance that with Jay on point it was going to be inevitable that a late Friday evening was going to transition into the orange and pink hues of a Saturday morning,but really, why spoil that surprise? As we wondered the streets in search of various forms of liquid  poison and the Basque-style tapas called pintxos I tried to absorb as much as possible the unique architecture, cobble stoned streets and general atmosphere of this town. What I did notice once again, much the same other destinations in Spain, is that this place is alive. Conversation, activity and life simply flows out of all cafesand bars. It only takes a moment to be intoxicated by the buzz and activity, to immerse yourself in that welcoming atmosphere before you're fully invested. After those initial few hours in the town had drawn us into its clutches the party hats made their appearance, the eventual 'end game' for the night was now to be anyone's guess.

Bar hopping through an old district filled with tapas bars, restaurants, streets traders and Friday night donostiarri revellers, the 'Jungle Spanish' that both Jay and I had picked up in our time got a bit of a Basque spanking. Not that our attempts at Spanglish weren't amusing to the locals or that they didn't appreciate the attempts, you could tell by the trail of smiles that we left behind us that at least some of what we left behind was amusing...and the more we drank the more our jungle Spanish turned into plain old jungle boogie. It was somewhere around this time that Jay suggested that we set up shop at a placed called the Bee Bop, a relativeley small venue with a wooden dance floor, old school tunes and fun lively atmosphere.

With my man Jay at the BeeBop - San Sebastian - Spain

That my friends was the last we all saw of the small carrying bags of 'sensible' that we had politely carted around for the few hours whilst we were getting to know one another. As we were drawn into the open and inviting Spanish way of doing things the night marched on, leading us further into debt by which recovery would only be allowed with the aid of the surplus hours of sunlight available the next day. From memory it was somewhere between the point where a Colombian guy by the name of Mike had ordered our fifth round of 'tequila surprise' shots and where Jay had commenced his 16th random discussion with a Donnastiarri innocent that we decided we'd walk back to base for a little recovery.

Passing through the early morning drizzle with all the misguided finesse we could muster I realised that San Sebastian was more than likely going to leave us all a little dishevelled come early Monday morning. With Jay making a b-line for his room and crashing out on impact and Dina setting up shop with her sea salt chips on the living room floor I knew than San Sebastian was going to end up having a lot to answer for at the completion of this mission.

Jay and Dina @ the BeeBop

D with her new toy boy

The post that follows this is - San Sebastian - Debt recovery