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There are certain phrases you avoid when traveling. In most of the Southern Hemisphere, you’d be remiss to refer to the residents as “natives,” a term which smacks of the pejorative. This presents a problem, because of course there are natives, people whose ancestors have inhabited the region for hundreds if not thousands of years, and who are ethnically distinct from later colonial and immigrant populations. In Asia, the common phrase for residents is “the local people.” In New Zealand, Australia, Africa, and now South America, the preferred term is indigenous people.

We were shocked upon arriving to learn that very few of Argentina’s current residents qualify as indigenous. In fact 97% of modern day Argentines claim European ancestry. So what happened to the original inhabitants? They suffered different fates. The people of the South resisted colonial rule and were subsequently exterminated in an 1879 campaign called “Conquista del Desierto.” Immigrant farmers and ranchers quickly claimed their lands. As a result, today you can find Welsh settlements in Patagonia and Ukrainians in the Southern Pampas. The people of the North fared better but faced their own unique challenges. Beginning in 1609, they became the focus of Jesuit priests from Spain, whose efforts to convert and colonize brought mixed results.

In the Northeastern region, the Jesuits established 30 missions around the Parana River, 16 of which are in modern day Argentina. They called the missions reducciones, or reductions, because it was here they sought to gather the nomadic Guarani people and settle them in permanent communities, thereby reducing their presence in the land to fixed locations. The strategy bore fruit, but not necessarily in the way the Jesuits intended.

Under the Jesuits’ direction, the Guarani built beautiful settlements centered around impressive churches. They did not however adopt the God to whom the churches were devoted but instead maintained their animistic beliefs. They lived together in sedentary harmony but became sitting ducks for Brazilian slave traders, who now could pinpoint the location of large numbers of victims rather than having to scour the forests for the occasional hunter. They enjoyed the benefit of food and shelter but often perished at the hand of European settlers to whom the Jesuits contracted them as laborers. They contributed to the growing wealth and power of the Jesuit order by producing yerba mate, the dried leaf that when chopped and mixed with hot water becomes mate, but ultimately it was this wealth and power that led to the banishment of the Jesuits by the Spanish crown and the eventual dissolution of the missions.

We learned all of this fascinating information when we visited San Ignacio Mini, the best preserved of the Parana missions, located an hour outside the city of Posadas. This was another one of my must sees, and the family was skeptical from the start. Once we entered the grounds, however, there was little doubt this was a place worth seeing. We passed through the Visitors’ Center, which opened in April and was one of the most excellent displays we’ve encountered in our 10 months of travel. The guidebooks had promised a bizarre “interpretive center” boasting black lights, flourescent fruit, and half a pirate ship, but apparently it entered the museum graveyard with the initiation of this new facility. In our brief time in the center, we saw artifacts from the site, learned about Guarani history and faith through both text and film, listened to their music both pre- and post-Jesuit, and gained insight into the development and demise of the mission.

None of this mattered when we exited the building, however, because the ruins spoke for themselves. The spirit of the place was overwhelming. Crafted of basalt and red sandstone, the crumbling walls of the living quarters seemed to echo with the voices of Guarani children. Their parents, firm believers that everything in nature possesses its own unique spirit, received permission from the earth to hew the stone blocks that formed their new homes. Line after line of dwellings separated by grassy paths led to the heart of the complex, the Italian-designed, Baroque church, expertly adorned with bas relief sculpture by Guarani craftsmen.

Though neither as detailed nor as extensive, this felt to me a supremely spiritual place, on a par with Angkor in Cambodia, Chichen Itza in the Yucatan, and the Haghia Sophia in Istanbul. This feeling has nothing to do with any particular faith but rather with the energy that created the place and the conviction that sustained it. In the quiet of the morning, with nary another tourist in sight, I could picture the pathways bustling with earnest, hardworking Guarani and the black-robed Jesuits who had gathered them. I could hear the chopping of yerba mate as the breeze rustled the leaves on the trees and the tapping of chisels on stone as our feet met the tile walkways.

I wonder what might have happened here had the Jesuits been allowed to remain. Would the Guarani have stayed? Would they have prospered? Their few descendents that inhabit the region to this day express great pride in the accomplishments of their ancestors but are quick to emphasize their devotion to traditional beliefs. In my mind this place seems too fragile, too mystical to have endured. So now it stands, a hope for a future trapped in the past, a moment in time suspended in sandstone

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Technorati Tags: Argentina, Family travel, Jesuit missions, Guarani, Rockhounding, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW, San Ignacio Mini

I have been delinquent in getting up my getting fat posts. I have had two of them sitting on the back burner waiting for us to get to a place where I would have the time to finish them, an unforseen delay while they clear the roads over the Andes has given me that chance. I am slipping them into their proper places in the blog. If you want you can check them out at getting fat in Eastern Europe and barely maintaining my weight in Tunisia.

If I were searching for my food heaven, Argentina would be near the top of my list. San Francisco, New York, and Sydney vie for that title because of their vast and tasty selection of world cuisines. Beijing would show up on a short list because of the many varieties of Chinese food gathered in one city, Paris is fine but a little bit too gourmet. However, my American palate may have met its culinary soulmate in Argentine cuisine. My life of eating beef has prepared me for Argentina.

When I was a kid in the ’70’s, any beef beyond hamburger was seen as a special treat. I grew up with a reverence for beef; it was the expensive food we got only once in a while. A Sunday roast or a steak on the grill were two of my favorites and I harbored a misguided affection for “steak in a bag,” an unfortunate preference I won’t go into, but think of it as shake and bake with a sirloin steak. My love of beef was heightened when my grandparents moved to live near us. My grandfather ended his career as one of the leaders of the LA savings and loan scene (long before the scandal) but in his early years, he had been a butcher and knew his meat. When we went shopping for our beef, he would always go up to the butcher at the local supermarket and explain which piece of meat he wanted and how he wanted it cut. He was likewise a master with the preparation. The thought of his teriyaki steaks still cause my salivary glands to crank into high gear, and he has been gone 10 years now.
For most people this respect for the value of beef and a basic education in all things beef would be enough to prepare one for a lifetime of eating beef, however, I had one more meat sage who would cement the deal. When Anne and I were first married we lived in Connecticut while I finished up school. Anne’s mom and stepdad lived in upstate New York where he ran his own butcher shop. As we were on a tight student budget, we didn’t buy much meat. However, every month Anne’s mom and stepdad would come visit us or we would visit them, and in either case, a large portable cooler filled with meat would be waiting for us. Bill always set us up right. He included the best cuts–filets, ribeyes, some ground beef, chicken breasts, and a few roasts of both pork and beef. Anne and I joke that during our “macaroni years,” as Bill likes to call them, we ate bacon-wrapped filet mignon. I have carried that respect and love for beef into the business world and when given the chance have visited the best steakhouses in America. Some of my favorites are Palm and Smith & Wallensky in New York, The Chop House in Chicago, Harris’ in San Francisco, and Pacific Dining Car in LA. I even understand the healing power of beef(combined with prayer). A few months before this trip I had my hip replaced. The replacement went fine but my body did not respond appropriately during post op. For the first 3 days my hematocrit (the amount of red blood cells in my body) kept going down. Even with two transfusions it slipped lower and lower each day, to the point where we and the doctors were scared. If my body did not start producing its own blood, I would be in danger of organ failure and require a long string of transfusions while they figured out what was wrong. Fed up with the paltry hospital food, I asked Anne to bring me a real steak from McCormick’s in Atlanta. She drove to the steakhouse and brought me back a giant slab of sirloin, crispy on the outside and raw on the inside. I ate the steak and we prayed for help before she returned to the kids. As she left I told her “tomorrow would be better.” The following morning they were ready to give me blood from the bloodbank but I told them to run their tests again. “I am on the mend,” I told them. Sure enough when they re-ran the test I had more red blood cells at 10 am than I had had at 6 am. Not much more, but my blood level was now moving in the right direction. I am sure the prayers were more important, but that big slab of beef sure helped.

I never asked my meat to help me heal in Argentina, but if I were looking for a beef with healing power, this is definitely the place I would find it. In Argentina the beef and its domesticated cousins, the goat and the lamb, are the center of people’s social lives. Families throw big weekend asados (barbeques). Every town has parrillas (grills) where people gather, and the Andrus family has done its best to frequent as many as we can. Dax and I are the two biggest meat eaters and on days when the rest of the family has had their fill of meat, we usually slip away and get ourselves a steak. Last night, for example, Dax and I went to our favorite restaurant in Salta at 11:15 to get a late dinner. You have to love Argentina, and what could contribute more to getting fat than a nice 18-ounce sirloin (bife de chorizo) right before bed time. However, the Argentines are not fat. They consume the most beef per capita of any nation in the world, yet there are few obese people here and most are downright skinny. One of the reasons is their beef is not as bad for you as American beef. How you might ask are cows different? Cows in Argentina are mostly raised on the pampas; they eat grass. Having lost most of their land to make room for grain farms, cattle in the US are raised on giant feedlots and fed corn. Living on a feedlot also means lots of antibiotics and hormone injections. (I bet the Argentines use the hormones as well, but they don’t need the antibiotics.) The different diets create different meat. The taste is different and I would argue a little stronger, which means if you like the taste of beef, Argentine beef is better. If you like it a little blander, then you’ll prefer the US beef version. It also changes the ratios of omega-3 fatty acids. In the US, when we want to increase the amount of omega 3 fatty acids, we eat more fish. Another idea would be to switch to grass-fed beef.

The taste of the meat is different in Argentina and so is the preparation. All of the grills either use a pit with a fire surrounded by animals or parts of animals on sticks, or a simple grill over real wood charcoal. I can’t find a a US equivalent of the wood they burn to create the charcoal, but everyone appears to us the same pampas-grown wood. (If anyone knows please feel free to leave a comment.) The meat is prepared simply. They do not marinate it or cover it with spices. They rub it with salt, a whole lot of salt, and put it on the grill or a stick. The salt helps the meat to crust up on the outside making each bite a little crunchy and very juicy.

The Argentines also try hard not to distract the eater with other fancy foods. There are vegetables at the meal, but they take their proper place on the under-card. There are usually two starches, again a perfect match for my American palate, bread and potatoes. Each meal comes with a nice tasting french bread. It is usually hard and chewy on the outside and soft on the inside, perfect for dipping in steak juices. The potatoes are usually fried or pureed and have not been anything overly special. What is special are the condiments. Usually there is one salsa and one sauce to add to the meat. The sauce is chimichiri, a succulent combination of parsley, garlic, olive oil, and the occasional chopped tomato. Each restaurant has its own spin on the national sauce, but thus far they have all been to my liking.

There is little about eating in Argentina that is not to my liking. I enjoy the food, the atmosphere of the restaurants, and the national attitude towards food. It isn’t just the food though. It is a remembrance of something we once had in America that is gone or disappearing. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it stems from a vague recollection of going to old-fashioned steakhouses with their red and white checkered tablecloths. A senior-citizen aged waiter or waitress would greet us and take our order. The food wouldn’t be fancy, but when it arrived it was tasty and abundant. When the bill finally arrived, it was reasonable and everyone goes home full. That vague memory is still part of everyday life in Argentina. Even the cost of the meals hearkens back to 30 years ago. Our big steak meals have been between 4 and 8 dollars per person. Our most extravagant meals with all you can eat asado, drinks, and dessert have been between 5 and 10 dollars per person. It is hard to buy good steaks for that price in the US.

I have to tip my hat to Argentina. It the best place in the world for walking away from a well-cooked, satisfying meal with both your belly and your wallet full. The memories of the rich meat flavors we’ve experienced here will resurface and cause my mouth to water for years to come.

Technorati Tags: Argentina, Asado, Beef, Family travel, food, Parrillas, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW

Waterfalls hold some strange power over humans. Around the world people flock to stare at them, sail beneath them, fly above them, and wonder about those who have fallen over them. (Come on…admit it.) I personally have made my family travel thousands of miles, spend hundreds of dollars, and endure the pain of yellow fever shots to visit them first in Africa and now in South America. Tom thought I was crazy, but I refused to waiver in my pledge. We traversed Botswana and the Zambezi to get to Livingstone, Zambia, site of Victoria Falls, and braved an 18-hour bus ride from Buenos Aires to reach Puerto Iguazu, home of Iguazu Falls.

For this relentless dedication, I have been duly rewarded. Victoria Falls were vast and powerful. Known to locals as Mosi-oa-Tunya, or “the smoke that thunders,” one cannot stand at their edge and fail to grasp the brute force of nature. Likewise, Niagara Falls, which Tom and I viewed on our honeymoon (we had $100 in the bank and Yale football camp 4 days later so Bali was out), dazzled us with its picturesque horseshoe and reminded us that beauty can be found everywhere…even in upstate New York. Nothing, however, prepared us for the splendor that is Iguazu. While some Vic Falls fans will no doubt disagree, I contend the Iguazu Falls, which sit between the sultry subtropical forests of southern Brazil and northern Argentina, are of a higher order–magical, mystical, mythic, miraculous. While neither the tallest (that’s Angel Falls in Venezuela) nor the largest by volume (VIc Falls take that particular prize), they are the widest, with 270 distinct falls and islands spanning some 8900 feet, or almost 1 3/4 miles. But this alone is not the reason for their glory. The waterfall competition in my mind is one not of quantity but quality. Falls are not just so many gallons of water gushing over the edge of the earth, they’re an experience, a tete a tete between man and nature, a suspended encounter with the powers of the universe. And as far as experiences go, Iguazu blew us away.

The time we spent at each falls provides a clue to our fascination. As I recall, Tom and I spent the better part of 2 hours at Niagara in 1990, and all of us spent about 3 hours at Vic Falls in March. We spent 3 days at Iguazu. To be fair to Victoria, there was little to see from the ground since we were there during the rainy season and the chasm was filled with the spray. We declined the pricey helicopter rides and the Zambezi was raging so violently, all boat and river rafting operations had beens suspended. It is high water season at Iguazu as well, but even with mist visible from miles away, the views are abundant and breathtaking. We spent three days wandering the trails around the winding falls and still couldn’t take them all in. Had we crossed to the Brazil side (which we didn’t because doing so required a $100 visa for each of us–ouch), we could have easily spent 5 days in this most captivating of places.

Our experience with Iguazu began when we arrived at the Sheraton. Never has there been a time when we’ve been more grateful to be Starwood Preferred Guests. The only hotel in the national park, the Sheraton affords spectacular views of the Falls. Guidebooks recommend park visitors stop at the hotel just to sit in the cafe and savor the scenery, and here we were with a private 24-hour view from the top floor. Even with this most favorable of settings, my inner pessimist kicked in when I saw the forecast: cloudy skies for the next three days. I knew waterfalls continue to flow come rain or shine, but I’d heard tale that Iguazu was otherworldly in the sunlight–rainbows, butterflies, and magic. As the sun set behind a thick layer of clouds, I prayed for sunshine the next day.

I took my spiritual comeuppance as I woke to clouds the next morning. When a sliver of sunlight sliced through, I darted to the balcony and called for Tom to take my picture.

We vowed to make the most of the gloomy day and boarded the tiny tourist train to Garganta del Diablo, the Devil’s Throat. An intricate system of metal catwalks led us to the infamous Garganta. Along the way signs and debris indicated the spots where previous cement pathways had once stood only to be washed away by raging floodwaters. Sunshine or not, the Devil’s Throat was awe-inspiring. Millions of gallons of water crashing, bubbling, and plummeting over land’s end every few seconds from not one but three directions, hence the throat. We snapped a few pictures but could not bring ourselves to leave. The lure of the Falls was too strong. As we gazed toward the Brazilian side Tom noticed that the skies to the east were clearing. The clouds were not moving, but seemingly dissolving into the atmosphere. My heart skipped a beat as I realized I might get my sunny day after all.
Tom and I pondered the possibility and agreed we should stick around to wait for the impending weather change. Unfortunately, three of the six needed to make a pit stop. We were a good half mile from the restrooms but knew when nature calls, parents must hearken. We walked about halfway back on the temporarily deserted catwalks and those with the proper anatomy created their own momentary waterfalls. A few minutes later we were back on the viewing platform in full sunlight. Sublime.

After a surprisingly tasty and affordable lunch at the park’s Jaguar Cafe, we took the Paseo Inferior or Lower Trail, a 1.4 kilometer pathway that descends through the dense forest and along the base of the falls. The kids entertained themselves by playing with the coatis, a kind of weasel-raccoon mix, and throwing figs and sticks over the various falls.

After about 20 minutes we rounded a bend in the trail and gasped. We were greeted by one of the most magnificent views we’ve ever encountered. From this vantage point we could see almost the entire expanse of the falls as they wound their way through the landscape.

Weak in the knees, we continued along the trail and each time we rounded a corner the vista was more miraculous than the last. At the last overlook we were greeted by the view below. Like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae, a rainbow arced from the island below, over the river, and across to the Brazilian side. The most gifted of artists couldn’t have conceived anything more beautiful. Surely this was paradise.

The kids, not quite as enamored as their parents, were eager to get back to the hotel and cause some mayhem. I made them bust a pyramid at the lighthouse at the top of the trail before turning them loose on the Sheraton grounds. It had been a long day of waterfall savoring and they deserved a break.

We woke the next morning to sunshine. Rather than being content with our viewing from the previous day, we were determined to check out the falls in this new lighting. Would there be more rainbows today? How high would the spray be? Would the platforms be in light or in shade? Would the butterflies be hiding in the trees or magically descending from on high? And this is the story of Iguazu. A single viewing does not sate. It only sparks the addiction. Every view, every angle, every nuance, every inch of bordering forest begs repeat exploration. When the sun sets, you find yourself wondering how the falls look under the cloak of darkness. You can hear them thundering in the distance but must imagine what the park gates and the law prevent you from seeing. When the sun rises, you want to somehow be in every spot at every moment to grasp the enormity of their splendor.
With a tinge of regret, we boarded our bus for San Ignacio after three transcendent days at Iguazu. The Falls catapulted onto our Top 6 Natural Wonders list and earned a permanent place in our hearts. Sigh…

(If you think I’m alone in my obsession, one of Tom’s friends is so smitten with Iguazu he uses the word as his personal email address.)

Technorati Tags: Argentina, Family travel, Iguazu Falls, Victoria Falls, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW, Waterfalls, Waterfalls

It takes a little courage for me to come out of the closet and say what needs to be said. Before last week, I, Dax Andrus, the fourteen year old veteran world traveler, bungy jumper, and abseiler, did not know how to ride a bike. Sure I had tried before and concerned friends and family had tried to help me. But these experiences (experiences like when Grandma pushed me down the hill on the bike that was far too big, or when I tried to go off a curb and popped a tire on my friend’s bike) only strengthened my resolve to not ride a bike. I had it set in my mind that bikes were evil. Despite this, I knew that some day, some dark day, I would have to throw my leg over the bar, put my feet on the pedals, and ride a bike. I had no idea it would happen on this trip.

It all started when we went to stay at an estancia in San Antonio de Areco, Argentina. San Antonio is a small town with only a few narrow streets and a tiny central park. Here the only way for us to get around was to ride a bike. The beautiful estancia provided us with the necessary materials, now I just had to learn how to ride. When I went to the bike shed, I had no idea what the differences were between any of the various bikes. My dad explained to me that “Boy bikes have a bar, girl bikes don’t.” I questioned this logic since a bar for boys seemed counter intuitive. He explained that its so girls can wear skirts on the bikes without having to worry about them blowing in the air. This bar would be my main fear on the bike for the remainder of the time at the estancia. First I tried out a white bike with gears. After a short ride (more like falling to the ground repeatedly and shaking my fist in the air), I noticed the gears didn’t work and the bike was far too big. I tested out ‘The Spirit of the Beach’, an orange beach bike. I rode this one around and managed to stay on much better than on the other. The biggest hindrance of my ride was when I was headed straight for a line of trees and needed to stop. I attempted to stop the bike with a hand brake. I groped around the area where most hand brakes are located. Nothing happened. I shot a quick glance down and saw that there was no hand brake.

“What?” I thought to myself. “I chose the only bike without brakes, great!” At this point the line of trees was growing ever closer and my heart was racing ever faster. I thought, “Why not turn the bike? Yeah, good idea!” I attempted to turn, but at this point in my biking career I had not yet mastered that art. Instead of skillfully turning in a circle I skidded out and fell on one side. About two minutes later after a lot of thought I decided, “It’s not worth it!” I picked up the bike and walked it back to the shed where my dad was teaching Mac how to ride. “Dad, I chose the only stinkin’ bike without a brake! It must be the high stakes bike or something.” My dad shot a questioning glance at me.

“No brakes? Let me see.” He checked out the bike and started to laugh. “This bike is old school. It has a pedal brake. All you have to do is push back on the pedals to stop.” I tried my luck again and managed to get in a little better ride. After about five minutes of riding without falling I felt like I was the king of the world. I had learned to balance, turn, and even stop properly. (Mac has still not taken to stopping in the conventional manner. He prefers to simply jump off the bike and pick it up off the ground.) We took the bikes into the town for a couple rides and I practiced my newly acquired skills. Apart from a few crashes with Mac I was feeling rather good about my biking situation. How quickly things change…

The next day, I was still riding the high I got from acquiring some bike skills. We decided to ride back out into the town and visit the Gaucho Museum. After the short ride out of the estancia things took a turn for the worse. First I had trouble getting a start on the bike, I continued to injure my legs and the area in between them. When I finally got going, I crashed into a small stone wall and fell on my butt. I looked forward and saw my family far ahead, I grunted, got back up and attempted to catch them. Having managed to accomplish this feat we entered the museum. It was interesting, although it would have been helpful if it had been in English. We took a few pictures and raced out to try and find some coats for our upcoming trip into Bolivia. This is where I found out, I’m not a good bike rider. Round one of Dax’s Day with the Bike From Hell had now begun.

The bike threw a good one my way when I crashed into a curb and went flying onto the ground. On my way down my face slammed into the bike, leaving me with a headache. I got back up, not one to be beaten by a bike with the name ‘Spirit of the Beach.” I continued trying to ride around the town but the bike wouldn’t have it. Next I somehow slipped off the bike and managed to run over my foot on the way down. A few more incidents like this had me pleading to my parents to let me go back. But the Bike From Hell was not finished with me yet. As I was riding down the street a car came my way. I pulled to the right and managed to dodge it. Another quickly followed behind it. I pulled up to the curb and rode very slowly but whoever was driving the car must have had something against me because he swerved the car in towards me. I looked in horror and tried to jump off my bike onto the curb. But the bike had one last punch to throw. As I jumped my foot got caught in a part of the bike and the bike followed me as I fell to the floor. My old friend, the boy bar, came smashing into my inner thigh, leaving me with a terrible pain. I stood up quickly, threw my hands in the air and would have thrown the bike in the street if it was my own. “That’s it! I’m never riding a bike again in my life!” I yelled. This got me some strange looks from the local kids who were walking home from school. I walked the bike to the restaurant we were eating at and sulked in my misery. I had to be the worst bike rider in the history of the world. After lunch I slowly rode back to the estancia, trying to avoid agitating any of my wounds. When we arrived to the shed I put the bike away. “I’m never getting on one of those again…” I said to my family as I walked back to the room. All I can hope is that I never do.

As we have gone around the world, we’ve tried to find local books and authors to read/listen to on the iPod. These have given us a little extra insight into the criminal past of Australia (The True Story of the Kelly Gang), the difficult legacy of colonialism in India (The Magic Seeds), the apartheid past of South Africa (Cry the Beloved Country). In Argentina we are excited to delve into the works of one of the world’s great authors, John Louis Borges. He is Argentina’s foremost author and the founding father of magical realism (think Big Fish). Though I haven’t read much Borges to date, I adore one of his successors, the Columbian Gabriel Garcia Marques. His stories are like glimpses into a dream world where fantasy and reality intersect. When reading his novels and short stories, I always found it hard to understand where the South America portion ended and where the magical realism portion began. Having been on this continent only a few weeks, I am starting to see that looking for a line separating the continent from its magic is fruitless. There isn’t one.

The magic began in Buenos Aires and was reinforced on our day trip to Colonia, Uruguay, a sleepy, misty town where mystery hung heavy in the air. Our next stop was the small town of San Antonio de Areco, which proved the most magical to date. San Antonio was a mere two hours away from the big city but a world apart from its urban hustle. As we stepped off the bus onto the dusty streets, we could have been in any small town in Texas or New Mexico, the only difference here being the ghosts are gauchos not cowboys. The bus station was a 12 block walk from our estancia, a traditional cattle ranch where we would be staying to gain a view into the traditional gaucho lifestyle. When we called the estancia to get directions and ask for lunch recommendations, the voice on the other end informed us only two restaurants were currently open as it was siesta time. To get to the cheaper but equally delicious one, we would need to take a detour from our direct route across town.

As we turned right out of the bus station, a small dog was there to greet us. The kids immediately made friends with this dog whom they named Frankie Muniz (they’re big Malcolm in the Middle fans). He took the point and led us down the street. On our way we passed a number of dogs who approached Frankie, did the dog sniff test and let him and us pass. At one point we came across a German Shepherd and his mutt friend who were standing on their hind legs trying to turn the door handles of a delicatessen, which was closed for siesta. They were making a horrible racket as they banged against the metal door. In the end their lack of opposable thumbs prevented them from breaking in and getting a snack. It certainly was a bizarre scene as we were surrounded by canines with not a human in sight.
We continued making our way toward the river, to our restaurant where heaps of meat awaited us. All the while, Frankie walked ahead of us as if he was our personal guide. Every half block or so, he would turn and look at us as if to say, “Why are you checking your map? I know where I’m going.” Finding it hard to believe this little dog could really know our destination, we checked the map repeatedly. Each time Frankie was right. Within about 15 minutes we ambled up to the restaurant with Frankie in the lead.

Frankie was waiting for us an hour later when we exited La Costa. Now confident in his mystical canine powers, we followed. We had only gone one block when he turned into a small zoo. Zookeepers don’t usually like stray dogs running through their establishments, but the keepers here seemed to welcome Frankie as you would a tour guide. They ignored him and focused on us. Intrigued by the strange little place that occupied the equivalent of a large residential lot, we paid the $.66 entry fee and sprang for the $.33 bag of animal feed as well. Mac and Asher threw some of the food and some of our lunch to Frankie who promptly trotted off.

The zoo was an interesting menagerie of birds and small creatures, most indigineous to Argentina. The kids enjoyed the armadillo, Anne liked the eagles and I found a noisy toucan to be rather entertaining. Soon I forced everyone to load their packs back up and head to the hotel. I wanted to get there before dark. We were surprised as we left that Frankie was nowhere to be seen. I guess he had done his part, collected his payment, and moved on. We had nothing to worry about though as within a block we picked up a new tour guide, a gray unkempt half afghan/ half …. who knows that the kids promptly named “Snoop Dog.” Snoop Dog didn’t lead us as much as play with us. When we arrived at our estancia, La Cinacina I had the family stand in front of the sign for a photo. As they lined up, Snoop Dog noticed what was happening and ran to get into the picture. He stood there until the pictures were done and then trotted ahead of us down the path to the buildings. As we walked with Snoop down the long dirt road, we noticed two big Weimaraners up ahead. They spotted Snoop, barked viciously, and raced toward him. They left us alone but bared their fangs and snapped at Snoop. Snoop stood his ground and was soon saved by the manager, Manuel, who saw the big dogs scaring the new guests from his office. I expected him to give Snoop the boot, either figuratively or literally, but instead of throwing something at the big mongrel, he ran up and gave Snoop a big hug.

“This is amazing,” he said. “I have been looking for this dog for weeks.” He proceeded to tell us that he had taken Snoop in a few weeks earlier. He felt a kinship with the scruffy, freespirited mutt, whom he called Chewy (as in Chewbaca), and whom Anne assured him would wear a beret if he were human. One day Manuel had said something about a bath, and Snoop had hit the road. Manuel was beside himself with joy. He expressed his excitement in rapid English, using words like “great omen” and “kismet.” For him, our arrival was a magical event–a smiling American family delivering his long lost canine soul brother to his doorstep. For us it was an enchanting beginning to a brief but wonderful stay. Manuel proved a consummate host. His gregarious nature and native level fluency in English endeared him to all of us. Even Asher was kicking him within minutes (her way of showing affection).

Manuel showed us to our rooms, which were, he assured us, the best in the estancia. Since the winter weather was cold and gray, the whitewashed walls and wooden furniture were made even cozier by log-filled fireplaces. While the rooms were homey, Manuel assured us the heart of the estancia was the gorgeous, glass enclosed common room, complete with couches, coffee table books, jazz music, a magnificent fireplace, a small kitchen, and all the drinks, cakes and fruit we wanted. (This was shades of Esbelli Evi in Turkey.)

Manuel escorted us to the common room where we sat together and talked about Argentina and the pampas. He taught us about yerba mate, the national herb-based drink, and its importance to Argentines. He demonstrated the ritual for drinking mate in all its intricate detail. We enjoyed the warmth of the common room, deep mugs of steaming hot chocolate, and Manuel’s generous hospitality. He pointed out the bikes that were at our disposal and explained we didn’t need to worry about locking them in San Antonio. Dax and McKane were the first to jump on the bikes, regardless of the fact that neither of them really knew how to ride. We purchased bikes for them when they were little, but neither ever took to riding, preferring skateboards or scooters instead. After all the bike-related accidents I had as a kid, I let them enjoy their preferred wheeled vehicles and didn’t worry about their lack of riding ability.

The boys started riding around on the grass and within a few minutes looked like experienced though slightly tentative riders. One of the adult bikes had a child seat for Asher and there was a small bike with training wheels for Kieran to ride. I pulled out the little bike, and Kieran tried to ride. The training wheels were loose and refused to stay level so he crashed a few times. He started to show some real signs of frustration as the bike was hard to peddle. I encouraged him to sit on the back of my bike. He refused. Asher had a nice seat behind Anne, though it lacked any kid of restraint, but all I had was a rack. Kieran claimed he would just run alongside the rest of us. I looked at his little legs in doubt but said “OK.” For the first 200 yards he did his best. He ran as fast as he could, but it was apparent this wouldn’t be a long term solution as we had a few kilometers to ride in and out of the town. I convinced him to climb up and stand on the rack over my back tire. He clambered up, threw his arms around my neck, and we were off. This ended up being the perfect solution. As we drove around the estancia looking at horses, geese, and the odd sheep, I couldn’t help but think of the scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, only I had Kieran and not Katherine Ross on my bike. It felt like a dream as we rode and talked. For the next two days, everywhere we went Kieran stood behind me and asked me a stream of questions only a seven year old can ask. We occasionally followed one of the dog tour guides and frequently laughed as we heard one of the big brothers crash behind us.

In our 10+ months we have walked in the footsteps of history, gaped at nature’s greatest wonders, and witnessed the best and worst of the human spirit. It is here in Argentina that reality seems stretched to its limit and we often feel as if we’re walking through the pages of a novel or the frames of a film. This is all the more shocking after considering the number of places we’ve been which have served as movie sets–Lord of the Rings in New Zealand, James Bond sites in Vietnam and India, Crouching TIger, Hidden Dragon in China, Star Wars in Tunisia–and the locations of many of the novels we’ve read. I now understand it is no accident the magical realists came out of this continent. There is something mystical and dreamlike about it. We will continue to enjoy our time in this magical realm and relive it once more when we get home by reading more of its authors.

Technorati Tags: Argentina, Bicycles, Borges, Estancia, Family travel, Film sets, Gaucho, Magical realism, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW, San Antonio de Areco

Colonia, Uruguay is a great place loaded with dogs. On every corner you turn there’s bound to be one. They’re like little guides that lead you through the town, as if they know exactly where you want to go. We went to Colonia on a day trip from Buenos Aires. We took the Buquebus ferry early one morning and arrived around 10:00 am to find the town was still asleep. The shops and banks were all closed and only a few cars were driving through the quiet streets. Since no people were around, we were glad that the dogs were there to greet us and show us around.

There was one dog we liked more than all the others we ran into. We called him Harrison, Harrison Ford. He started following us right after we got off the boat from Buenos Aires, He could smell the croissants that were in Paula’s bag. He kept jumping up and trying to get one, and instead of letting the dog suffer, she threw him a crossaint. He devoured it so fast it was crazy. He was one hungry dog. It was sort of like he was magic because he would turn a corner and leave us and then he would pop up on the opposite side of the street two blocks later. We found many other dogs as we walked around the town and named most of them. Here are just a few: Luigi Vito, Olaf Jorgesen, Walter the Farting Dog (from the famous children’s books), Owen Wilson (from the movies), Ben Rouse (from my mom’s Sunday School class), Juan Diego, and Lassie (from TV). We separated all the dogs into two groups, the Penthousers and the Street Dogs.

We made up a story about the dogs that basically had the two dog gangs pitted against each other in a great South American dog war. I was going to post it but it turned out be 5 pages when I wrote it all down. Mom and Dad said I could put the first few paragraphs in, which will give you an idea of what it sounds like. As far as the rest goes, let’s just say it centers around Walter and a smoking caterpillar.

It was a cold night in Colonia. The sky was pitch black. Harrison Ford and his men had just escaped being shredded apart by Luigi Vito and his minions. It had been yet another fierce battle over the Colonia port. Many of Harrison’s men were wounded, 7 of the 10 to be precise. Harrison was one of them. The air was polluted by the smell of Luigi’s urine which marked out the new boundary lines. The port had been divided into halves the night before, but now Luigi had over 3/5 of the total territory. Harrison’s men were huddled in a warehouse planning their next move.

Luigi had about 17 dogs, 18 if you count his mom the cook. Juan Diego, Harrison’s second in command, had broken his left front leg. Everyone could see the pain in his eyes as he spoke his first words since the battle, “We… we… we need Wal… Walter th… the Farting Dog!” There was more to this than you think. Walter was a neutral who was still deciding which gang to join. His flatulatory powers were legendary. Whoever got him on their side would win the city without having to shed any blood. The Penthousers had already offered Walter 15 kilos of pure ground beef. That was a whole lot for a dog the size of a racoon if not less. All the Street Dogs could offer was a roof over his head and three square meals a day. The Penthousers had already offered that along with the beef…

If you want to read more, let me know and I’ll email it to you. Even if you don’t, you should be sure to go to Colonia sometime and check out the dogs…and the caterpillar if he’s still around.

Technorati Tags: Family travel, Colonia, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW, Uruguay

Where do I begin with Buenos Aires? I’ve already gushed about the Lovelies, the city’s foremost ambassadors, and hinted at our delirium over the cuisine, but there is so much more to this miraculous place than meets the eye…or the stomach. Quite simply, this could be my place. I’ve found a few that fit the bill–Los Angeles (my home of 6 years), Capetown (aaahhhh), Hanoi (go figure) and now this South American seductress, which translated into English means something like “Fair Winds.” I can’t attest to the wind, but I do know that the sunlight is spectacular as it glimmers over Puerto Madero in the afternoon.

Everything here is grand–the boulevards, the parks, the buildings. They seem as if they were designed for a different era, one when men wore top hats, women carried parasols, and ticker tape parades were a rite of passage. The city is often referred to as the Paris of the Southern Hemisphere, but this is far too simple a reduction. It is distinctly, inherently South American, and though it bears many resemblances to the grand old continent, it is very much its own creation. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt Paris to gun for the title of the Buenos Aires of Europe.

It’s not just physical attributes that make this city addictive–it’s the spirit, the vibe that pulsates through the streets and the people who walk them. They’re commonly known as Portenos, or people of the port, and live their lives as if custom ordered to fit my biorhythms. Take the way they eat, for example: small medialunas (slightly sweet croissants) for breakfast followed by a big fat midday lunch and finally a light late night meal that is more about socializing than eating. We were in heaven when we visited Spain back in 2000 because in the summer dinner begins around 10:00 pm. Here since it’s winter, it starts earlier, around 8:45. None of this North American 6:00 pm malarky. We fit right in since at home we can’t seem to put together an evening meal until everybody else’s kids are already asleep.

Portenos understand that creativity and camaraderie lurk in the wee hours of the night and stay up late accordingly. While I rise in the dark to put my kids on a schoolbus in the US after only a minimal amount of sleep (ouch), they wouldn’t dream of starting their day before the sun rises. This isn’t to say they’re unproductive, they just don’t see much need to do business before 10:00 am. Neither for that matter do I and there have been many days when I’ve considered homeschooling again simply to avoid the predawn hours.

The good people of Buenos Aires win my approval for their fashion sense as well. They don’t seem to follow any of the world’s fashion prescriptions but bust out in their own unique expression of glamour, whether it be vintage overcoats a la the Lovelies, the timeless Chuck Taylor hightop, or the oversized aviator sunglasses that are all the rage even among the senior citizens. They share my belief that warmth is comfort and blast the heaters in restaurants, apartments, and even busses. The radiant heat that emanated from our apartment floors was so abundant Tom and Paula had to open the windows just to cool off. When they asked if we could somehow adjust the temperature, the agent told us the doorman controlled the heat for the whole building. He felt we needed heat, so heat we got. Good man, that doorman.

I am not a Spanish speaker, but after a few weeks of iPod Spanish lessons and a lifetime of hearing bad Mexican accents on TV, my ears can discern the difference in the Spanish of the Portenos. Their Spanish is luscious, gorgeous. They turn the double l into a “zh” instead of a “ye”, the y in yo into a “dj” and drop the s at the end of many words, e.g., Buenos Dias becomes Buen Dia and seis becomes sei. There’s so much mystery and suspense in the omission. Where’d the “s” go and why? My theory is they keep it to themselves to savor and later add as embellishment to other less evocative words.

Portenos like their food like I do–mild. They may be South American but they sure don’t like things spicy. It took us four visits to the corner empanada shop to realize it was Tom’s picante (spicy) beef version I liked rather than the suave (mild) one we kept ordering for me (it was full of boiled egg and devoid of flavor). Here in the land of beef, potatoes, and pasta, I get to feel I’m eating with a zest my timid pallate doesn’t normally merit.

With all these fascinating and strikingly familiar traits, the residents of Buenos Aires present an abundantly likable yet intriguing population. They are passionate but subdued, elegant yet relaxed, glamorous yet understated. They ooze charm and confidence and seem above all happy to be here. Their history is unique in the world. Their country went from being one of the planet’s 10 richest before WWII to the bewildering status of developing nation in its aftermath. Military coups, mass demonstrations, recurring economic crises, and a frightening period as a police state created a backdrop of uncertainty and terror unparalled by anything modern Americans have experienced.

Americans who survived the Great Depression emerged with a strong faith in the power of cash. It wasn’t safe in banks, so they stored it under mattresses, in jars buried beneath the ground, and in baking soda boxes in their refrigerators. Here faith in cash is nonexistent. It weakened after decades of chronic inflation and received the death blow with the financial crisis of 2001, still known as “the crisis,” in which the Argentine peso was devalued by 2/3rds almost virtually overnight. Just six short years ago many people lost their life savings to an exchange rate and what little might have been left to rapid inflation. As a result Portenos spend their money as soon as they make it or sometimes even before. We learned that even a $10 purchase at the grocery store qualifies for an installment plan as if it was a purchase from an old Sears catalog. When Tom and Paula went to the grocery store, they couldn’t understand why the clerk wanted to know if they wanted to pay once. Paula grappled with her Spanish, thinking it might be a translation problem. After much confusion, she clearly established the question was, “Do you want to pay one time?” Both she and Tom answered with a baffled “si” thinking they surely didn’t want to pay twice or thrice. It was only later that we realized the question was “Do you want to pay the full amount now, or half now and half later?”

This particular aspect of Porteno life would be unnerving for me since I’m fiscally conservative, but I’ve got to admire a people who can put the importance of money into perspective. Even if you work hard and save it, it can disappear through no fault of your own. You might as well enjoy it while it’s still worth something. And if you don’t have it, so what? There’s still barbeque, beauty, and the Boca Juniors in the world.

The irony in this Porteno lovefest is that we received many warnings about safety in Buenos Aires, so many that Tom was reluctant to come. I overrode him, as only a wife can do, figuring we should show up and decide for ourselves. Initially we were terrified of taking taxis since we had been warned they might take us at knifepoint to an ATM, but after a few weeks in the city hanging with locals and American residents alike, we learned that this oft quoted danger is greatly exaggerated if not entirely nonexistent. A few incidents after the “crisis” ballooned into urban legend and guidebook paranoia and have yet to fade from popular opinion. Yes, Barbara Bush the younger had her handbag stolen here, but one local assures us it was her celebrity status that provoked the incident rather than a rampant crime epidemic. Of course this guy was equally amused that an Albanian crowd member relieved the president of his watch during a handshake last week. In his book it is not chance but challenge that draws thieves to high profile victims like the Bushes.

I cannot deny that safety is an issue here. There are shantytowns, thieves, pickpockets (ask Dax about them), and even kidnappers, but we’ve felt safer in our section of the city than we do in many places in the US. As with any place you visit, following a few simple rules can keep you safe and we’ve done our best to learn them all. (American readers should bear in mind that the US is viewed as a violent, dangerous country by people around the globe. We couldn’t believe it at the start but the statistics support the image. Check out this site for further info.)

This beautiful city has won not just my heart but Tom’s as well and earned a solid spot on our Top 6 Cities list. There is no doubt we will be back. The only question is when. Maybe we can convince one of the Lovelies to get married and throw a wedding asado. Any volunteers, girls?

Technorati Tags: Argentina, Asado, Buenos Aires, Empanadas, Family travel, Portenos, Puerto Madero, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW

On our second day in Argentina, I had a discussion on a bus with a lovely young Porteno who wanted to know all about our trip. When I explained to her that Tom had taken a year off from work to devote solely to the family and our travels, she was amazed. “That’s not easy for a man to do,” she said. “Most wouldn’t be willing to make that kind of sacrifice.” She may be right, but fortunately for me, my life is filled with men who would walk to the ends of the earth and back (one of them now actually has!) to serve their wives and children. Role models for boys are few and far between these days, now that pro athletes are felons and rock stars and actors vacillate between rehab and divorce court, but my boys have their own all-star lineup who teach them that being a man is much more than building muscle mass, conquering the workplace, and collecting toys, whether they be sports cars, electronics, or season tickets.

Many of my earliest memories center around the men in my life–playing in the park with my Grandpa Henry who died just days after my second birthday; picking tomatoes and riding the lawn tractor with my Grandpa John who will turn 90 later this year; riding the shoulders of my father who taught me all about sports and took me to every type of sporting event possible–Navy basketball and Oriole baseball games when we lived in Maryland; Saints football, Jazz basketball, NCAA Final Four games, and team motocross when we moved to New Orleans. As I grew older and my interests evolved away from sports and towards dance, history, and travel, my dad found ways to support me in my new pursuits. While working a temporary job as a hospital administrator in Saudi Arabia, he sent me a telegram congratulating me on my first big ballet recital and had my mom give me roses on his behalf. When I begged to go on school field trips to Mexico and Germany, he and my mom found ways to finance them, even though the timing was difficult. When I “needed” to travel 200 miles to Natick, Massachusetts to pick up a dress for a summer gala at Saratoga Springs, he chauffeured me back and forth without question so I wouldn’t be too tired to attend later that night. Always a history buff himself, he filled me with a fascination for the past and made sure I visited every Civil War battlefield between Maryland and Louisiana. He was my constant companion at countless Mardi Gras parades and introduced me to the wonders of rollercoasters as we visited amusement parks up and down the Eastern Seaboard and throughout the Gulf Coast states.

My dad recently told me how happy he was with my family. Frankly I think he’s still in shock that I ever married much less had four kids. While certainly I share some of the credit, my dad and I both know it is Tom who is the magic in our family equation. Shocking both me and my loved ones, my Prince Charming swept me off my feet when I was a 21-year-old college senior and hasn’t put me down since. He is my best friend, my fearless defender, and my personal life coach. On this trip he has both literally and symbolically carried this family. I view his backpack, a red behemoth that normally weighs about 30 kilos (66 pounds) fully loaded, as a metaphor for his role. That bag represents the weight of the world that he carries, the burden he bears on our behalf. Artificial hip and all, he has toted that thing across six continents so we can be comfortable.

Tom is not only the guy who carries all our clothes but our provider and protector as well. He shops for food, fights with cab drivers, and battles endless technological glitches on our behalf. He teaches the little kids math, the big kids life lessons, and me the importance of perspective. He leaves little doubt that although the world is big and waiting to be explored, we are his universe and all he really needs (although an iPod full of audiobooks and 10,000 songs doesn’t hurt).

Tom is no fluke of nature, but the product of his parents, about whom I’ve already waxed poetic in a previous post (they thought it sounded like a eulogy). Nowhere will you find a man more devoted to his wife, children, and grandchildren than Grandpa Lou. Though we have a lot of fun at his expense–just ask him what he said when the chicken bit him at Thanksgiving Point or how much fun he has ordering at the Wendy’s drive-thru for us–he is an anchor to his family (not to mention a jungle gym for his grandkids) and the object of our endless adoration.

Down in Florida, my stepdad, whom we lovingly refer to as Mr. Bill, dotes over my mother like she is a queen. Retired and limited by medical conditions, he cooks (you should try his meatball sauce—to die for), cleans, and volunteers in her kindergarten classroom, all to ease her load and brighten her days. One of his favorite weekly activities is helping her students with their Accelerated Reader tests which require him to read a book and then verbally quiz them on what he’s read. If he doesn’t show up for his regular visit, the kids start to beg for him.

In a century when priorities are easily confused, dedication seems outdated, and good men are hard to find, my life is brimming with them. The kids and I want them all to know that we are grateful for them and better because of them. Thanks for being our heroes. Happy Father’s Day!

Technorati Tags: Argentina, Family travel, Father’s Day, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW