Cafe Cortado, With a Side of Borges

Grand. Splendid.

It’s easy to spend just a week in Buenos Aires and see a city in love. Easily escaping bustling streets into the dusty filled cafe culture. Where sunlight fades into the crumbling corners of architecture once reminiscent of another era rich in capital and European designs. A place where they always give you a small cookie nibble and a miniature glass of soda water with every coffee.

It’s easy to spend a week in Buenos Aires and fall in love with the city. There must be something in the air, or the atmosphere. Where they serenade you on a grand piano in a old restored theater, where you can sit with your cafecito in a private balcony, among rows and rows of books flipping through whims. That’s Buenos Aires for you, home to the most captivating bookstore in the world: welcome to El Ateneo Grand Splendid.

Attack of the Lobster Tourists

Lately when it has rained in Buenos Aires, it has poured. Sky opens, cats, dogs, full-on goldfish, and every other domesticated pet that would serve as an adequate metaphor, will rain down. The streets flood in some zones, mainly the ones I live and go to school in, rather conveniently. So on Friday at 4:00 o’clock when the sky turned a violent purple as I was just about to start the long 45 minute trek home, I was not the only one preparing for the next water world. I did make it home, but the only thing that made it home dray was the water inside my water bottle (irony!).

The rain continued un-abated despite the fact that we had very set plans for enjoying that Friday night. Nor did the weather forecast look promising, it seems Friday was only the start of the mini monsoon. Well, there was nothing to do but flee the rain, wish it good riddance, and escape to the beach: Mar del Plata, a beachside resort with a sunny weather forecast. Only the brilliance of our plan idea didn’t dawn on us until 10:30 Friday night. Lucky for us, Argentina was a country made for accommodating last minute impulses, or just a country that never, ever sleeps. The 5 hour buses complete with semi-cama seats (comparable to business class avion seats) to Mar Del Plata leave all hours of the night. Which is precisely how we wound up on a reasonably crowded (with all types of normal, average people, thank you Mom) on a bus at 3:30 am bound for the beach...

Mar del Plata is the Buenos Aires of the beach, and a popular escape from the city. Arriving just before nine, and upon rolling out of our bus beds we were instantly charmed by the plentiful sunshine and sleepy streets with their lack of traffic and bustle. We would only find out later, after we were already enamored with our getaway spot, the streets were only empty because everyone, but everyone, was already at the beach. It was packed so full of people there was nowhere to place your towel, I’ve never seen anything like from Miami to California. I was never one for crowds, but I actually didn’t mind for once. There was a great vibe, the sun was out, everyone was strutting their stuff*-- there was a really community atmosphere, everyone was here to enjoy the beach, so what if we each only had our little portion of sand and sun? There were entire families from grandparents to young kids all crammed together in their plot, as content as could be. Friends or even strangers, like the guy in front of us who helped two girls install their parasol, were engaging in mate sharing circles as if drinking a steaming hot tea in a gourd was the only natural thing to do at the beach. Actually, there were beach stands everywhere advertising they provided hot water to fill aplenty mate thermoses.

However, there is a moral to this story. Jumping on the bus in the middle of the night and other crazy ideas can be very rewarding and spontaneous. However, jumping on the bus in the middle of the night, not sleeping well, and going to the beach can be dangerous. True story. Naturally within 20 minutes of sun after a long night of restless sleep, and with sand constantly being kicked around the best defense was to lay back and close your eyes. It was the perfect setting for a small nap. A small nap that turned into an hour of deep sleep, in the sun, in the same position, into the worst sunburn we three have every experienced in any of our young, and apparently careless, rather than carefree lives. There’s no other way to shout out tourist in a beach town than to limp and moan around like a bright red lobster. Reaching deep, REM cycle sleep (I know I was dead to the world) at the beach is probably never the brightest idea, less so in South America. Apparently that hole in the ozone we humans always like to pretend will never affect us, will. This hole is very realizable in South America, I’m still peeling three weeks later to prove it, hellooo skin cancer.

*Cultural note: The beaches and beachwear in Argentina march to their own latin infused beat, carrying a definite Brazilian tune. Brazilian bottoms or less seems to be the model; the suits were skimpy no matter who you were or what kind of shape you were in. And forget having modest swimwear for the over 40 crowd, that concept simply doesn’t exist here. Mostly the general view was funny, sometimes it was a bit more then one would wish to see, but all in all I had to admire the people who had the confidence to stick it out, whether they had something to flaunt or not, apparently “no shame, no gain” mentality really goes here.

Into the 8th Wonder Wonderland

The cateratas of Iguazu falls may well be the 8th wonder of the world. Apart from that, they are completely unremarkable. Unremarkable only in the sense that words can do them no justice (neither really do pictures, though I did try). There is no way to describe the power and force behind the sheer amount of water rushing past at a dizzying speed in all directions as far as the eye can see. Let’s just say this is one falls you would not want to go over in a barrel. Indescribable, it’s the total experience of seeing and hearing the brute force of nature, and then getting completely soaked in agua dulce (ironically it is possible to feel both deaf and blind after staring/hearing the bright white water for lengthy periods of time).

Since the falls is something to be experienced and then left speechless about, here’s just a few random musings and un-factual based facts I can share to tickle your socks with:

• The National Park is located in the heart of la selva, and stretched across three countries Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil. The Argentine falls, however, are the best, where you can get up close and traverse over the whole park

• This land is birthplace of the Guarani, one of Argentina’s indigenous tribes that still exist today where I was able to buy an authentically awesome blow dart contraption for my brother, who I’m sure will find a productive use for it in everyday life in Berkeley

• There are plenty cute and friendly coatimundis, resembling an oddly adorable mix of squirrel and raccoon, yet are far more social, throwing guavas on the ground to/at big groups below and chattering away. Apparently they’re only cute unless fed, when they become aggressive tourist attackers

• Even better than the cuddly coatimundis were the abundant and varied species of butterflies. In fact, Iguazu weirdly resembled a variation of a slightly more savage wonderland. Savage apart from it’s apparent mecca for butterflies fluttering about by the dozens combined with it’s proclivity for double or even triple rainbows just over every fall.

• The highlight of the trip (apart from watching the once dry people in the only 12 minute boat ride in front of the falls getting absolutely and completely drenched within seconds) was the hike through the jungle toward the swimming spot. A 3km hike through the jungle each way would bring you to the perfect swimming spot: a pool surrounded by slabs of unearthed rocks and a small (certainly in comparison to the rest of the park!) caterata of perfectly refreshing, sweet water. The hike had the added bonus of providing a more into nature experience with the surrounding tropical selva, less impacted than the rest of the park, as well as serving to keep away the crowds of tourists who don’t like trekking, which must have been everyone as we were the only people at the secret spot aside from one other girl, que buena suerte!

Where’s Wanda?

Wanda?

Yeah, the town with the mines. Only none of the other backpackers had heard of her, the town that is. Which is funny in a major tourist destination such as Puerto Iguazu, attracting millions of visitors each year for the rightfully impressive Iguazu Falls, but the town has little else to keep them. So on our ramblings around town, kicking up dirt to stir up some form of excitement, we tried to find out what other activities we could pass the time on. With a drought of things to do, we must have hit up every single souvenir shop on the street and side-street just for something to look at. The local kids caught on to this pretty fast, chasing us around with local crafts. More like local bling, they were chasing us down with hands full of jewels (okay, okay stunning quartz crystals) with these absurdly popular crystal trees fastened out of rocks and wire in the shape of well, trees. As I was admiring a particularly nicely fashioned rock tree, it suddenly caught my attention, where were they getting all this treasure?

Wanda. The elusive town with the small, yet richly supplied local mine, about an hour away by local bus. Unmentioned by the guidebooks, the backpacker network, and virtually unadvertised, we were chasing gold and bringing the our little dust storm to Wanda. Literally dropped off with a cloud of red dust swirling about us, we stared down the small town as the sun beat down on us. We we’re the only people, let alone foreigners in sight. However, we had nothing to be discouraged about as the taxi drivers, all two of them, swarmed our out of their shady posts to offer/accost us with a ride to the mines. We declined, perhaps stupidly considering the heat, and set off on the estimated 1.5 km towards the string of souvenir stores, stands, and shacks. It was hot, the dirt packed road so dry you could feel the mud cracks with the soles of your shoes. Everything was covered with the red dust, that seemed to be a mark of the heat itself. Yet still the kids managed to come from nowhere, hurtling down on us with arms full of rock trees.

The mines themselves, were small. Small, but the better for it. Owned by an argentine landowner in a country swarming with foreign investors and owners, especially in the business of mining. Run on a small scale, without machinery, making the mine safer for the workers and less damaging to the environment, it was a quaint and engaging experience. There was a lazy charm to the place, and a love and enthusiasm for geology. This was after all the same area that produced the Falls just an hour away, it was thick with geologic treasures and triumphs. The legend goes the owner had bought the land to farm Yerba Mate, well known is Missiones, as the region of the best Yerba Mate. But when he stumbled on some rare rocks, well, he just stumbled into a jeweler’s paradise. And Wanda, was, after all these years, a gem to visit, untouched by the tour bus circuit, it remains charmingly bright and many faceted. And yes, in the end, I bought a rock tree and got a free crystal in the bargain!