Footprints

2/14


2/15


2/16


* this entry from 2/17 *
At dinner, I spoke with a couple who immigrated to North America from India. When they departed they had only two suitcases, twenty five dollars each, and a fellowship to study. They talked about bucket lists, about consumerism, and about a photo of Obama with holes in his shoe's soles. To all the individuals who use their shoes, paving roads with views, Thank You.


2/18


* this entry from 2/19 *
From starboard side a Wandering Albatross is spotted. It soars with the wind, angling through the sea's swells. Not one flap of its wings. Sailing northbound through the Drake Passage, Antarctica fades in the distance. It feels like a dream, an incredible one, the type that wakes you up in a splendid stupor leaving goosebumps on your skin and the sensation of snowflakes in your hair.

I didn't journal much once we passed the Antarctic Convergence. I intended to, but couldn't find the words. I've been feeling a bit dumbfounded, a bit stunned, a bit like this is surreal. A gentleman on board described wanting to take photos of the humpback whale that rolled next to his zodiac and lifted its flippers but was unable to because his camera was facing the wrong direction and with a gaped mouth, he lost the coordination to press the right buttons. Another traveler, having been on the backpacker's road for four months said, "I think I will go home now".

Antarctica leaves footprints.



***



(Of the literally thousands of photos taken, I've tried to narrow down for the slideshow below. Though, neither words or pictures do justice; Antarctica speaks for itself)



To see a larger view, click on icon-link below, then on slideshow.

Antarctica Favs

May we visit this magical place, be instilled with awe and respect, and leave with no traces. To help Antarctica remain pristine, visitors should book trips through an affliate of IAATO - an organization which advocates and practices environmentally responsible private-sector travel to this "wild and delicate" place.(http://www.iaato.org/about.html)




...at the moment, Patagonia Aventura Hostel
It's a quarter past one. I'm wearing wool socks with flipflops, what's that saying -- the you can take the people out the ghetto but not the ghetto out the people.. well same theory applies here, only with california sun and cold weather & socks. This analogy is odd. that's a sign that it's time for bed.

Antarctica 101

* this entry from 2/12 *

Albatross can spend a decade at sea, flying and sailing on 10-12 foot wingspans; rather than using their muscles, they use the energy of the winds. Seabirds have a kidney like organism to excrete salt from their bood which is dropped from a tube in their nose. Some birds can live sixty years or more. Grandparents of these birds are witnesses to the voyages of Shackleton and Scott. The Ornthologist continues his lecture, speaking faster than my pen can scribble. No member of The Expedition Team is able to hold a pencil and help write.



Lunch



1520 Hernando de Magellanes and his quest to find a westward route to the Indonesian Spice Islands, 1578 Sir Francis Drake and his pirating, 1769 James Cook crosses the Antarctic Circumpolar Current... the Historian continues his lecture.



Afternoon Tea




Water slides back and forth across the golf green deck, raindrops spot my glasses. Over the ship's starboard side, the midnight blue water swells like a breathing belly, inhaling & exhaling. The ship leans from right to left. This Drake's passage has been labeled a rare "Drake's Lake", a 1 on the scale of 10 being bad. Interconnected oceanic currents make this area one of the roughest waters in the world. In the distance a gray mass peeks above the water's surface; white foam surrounds it. (Later someone informs me that it was a whale's fin.)







Dinner




Histograms, exposures, thirds, angles, and light. The Photographer pairs his presentation with a projector slideshow of incredible photos.




The time nearing midnight, a brain full of interesting information to take with me to sleep.

Cabin 405


* this entry from 2/13 *

We're 5 mins South of 60° and past the Antarctic Convergence, a natural boundary defined by a drop in sea-surface temperature where the cold Antarctic Surface water meets with the warmer sub-Antarctic waters. It's 7:30am and I've awoken officially in Antarctica. The ship is pitching and it feels much colder (the Team Leader mentioned 2° to 4° C). Out the circular porthole of our room, the ocean looks ominous with sea spray splashing and the sky, an overcast gray.


posted on the bulletin board -- winds charted via the Beaufort Scale


Minke, Orcas, Humpback Whales, Glaciers and Mountains, Gentoo, Adelie, Macaroni, King, and Emperor Penguins .. the lectures continue


In the evening, a 1-in-4 part documentary about Edward Shackleton begins. Seated in the corner, I listen, inspired by this man's tenor and dedication to his men and their lives.

The "Love" Boat

* this entry from 2/11 *

Hotel Albatros, Ushuaia

Past a glass and stone lobby, fellow traveller's of the Lyubov Orlova are seated in the lounge. Our luggage has already been tagged and collected. A meeting is adjourned and a Quark representative instructs the time the bus will arrive to bring passengers through customs and to the ship.

Seated in the lounge amidst laptops, books, glasses of wine and snores, I experiment with Facebook. In a rectangular field I fill in the blank - Jasmine is waiting for a boat. I type in empty blocks and say hello to Miriam.

The next time I look up and survey the room, something has changed. There are no sounds of snoring, no typing on keyboards, no murmer of soft chatter. Rather, the boat is waiting...

Chastising myself while frantically stuffing laptop cords into a bag, I run out the double doors of the hotel, across the street to the dock. There I met a young Isreali girl (who turns out to be my cabin roomate). Together we cross customs and board the Lybov Orlova, an ice-strengthened ship named after the beloved Russian Actress who was known to always be smiling. Her first name translates as "love".



***

In the forward lounge, the Quark Team introduces themselves -- a Biologist, Glaciologist, Ornthologist, Historian, Naturalists, Zodiac Drivers, and a Team Leader, who ends her speech with a quote by Doris Lessing, author of the Golden Notebook and winner of the '07 Nobel Prize, "..millions of people are fighting and struggling; but behind them, somewhere, enormous empty places; a place for the spirit to find rest in".

After champagne toasts with the Russian Captain and cheers to a safe journey, we set sail. Destination -- Antarctica, the world's driest, windiest, coldest, and most pristine continent.

* This entry from 2/9 *

Monkey – check
Ninja Turtle – check
Sharki E. Thrash – check
Tintin – check

The expedition team is accounted for. Me – I’m sitting in a plastic chair in the domestic flight area of Ezeiza. Yes, Ezeiza. Not, Jorge Newbery Airport – the airport printed on my multi-destination ticket. The nice lady at Jorge Newbery told me so.

“You are at the wrong airport. You can still make it if you go now. You have forty minutes.”

Getting to Jorge Newbery Airport:
At Ostinatto in the morning, not good with goodbyes, I avoid the main areas and step outside. I flag a cab, flag a few more cabs, get in a cab, driver's name is Fabio, he aims the rearview mirror towards the backseat and talks the ride up to Jorge Newbery with his left hand on the steering wheel. Twenty five pesos and some twenty minutes later I arrive and casually stroll to the Areolineas Argentinas counter where I patiently wait behind the ladies with their babies and bulky strollers. At the counter, I say, “Hola, Ushuaia, por favor.” This is when the nice lady tells me, “wrong airport.”

Walk briskly out the double doors, someone is leaving a cab, run towards it, tap on window, “Ezeiza, mas rapido!”, plane leaves at the twelve hour, “por favor, gracias”. The old man wearing bifocals looks at the clock on his dash and shakes his hand like he’s trying to get water off it. I squish into the backseat with my backpack strapped to my shoulders and we’re off. He zigzags through traffic, past buildings and billboards, past open fields with horses, past toll booths, city streets, and freeways. Finally EZE comes into view. He made it in twenty minutes. A Thank You very much and keep-the-change later, the expedition team and I navigate through the lines and arrive to this plastic chair in front of the gate. Destination – Ushuaia. Mission – do not miss the expensive boat to Antarctica.

(On the flight I drink Coca Light in celebration of my new friends from Buenos Aires.)



...at the moment, Los Lupinos Hostel - Ushuaia
I have left the sea but the sea hasn’t left me. Sitting on the top of a bunk bed with Monkey in my lap, it feels as though this bunk is a waterbed in disguise. Monkey has helped me to type and eat chocolate.

Hoping to finish an Antarctica blog by tommorrow evening and buy more chocolate.

Harmony

* this entry from 2/8 *

Harmony, Club Atletico River Plate
Blurred buildings and weenie dogs, trees and small cars. The wind blows through the open window. The person seated next to me taps my shoulder, Paula hands me a ticket, tells me that I can’t bring beverages or writing utensils into the stadium. I nod and turn back to watch the scenery whiz by. As street signs become visible, I plot coordinates on my map. Near the end of Av. Figueroa Alcorta, the bus stops. A herd of tourists follows Paula, our Portena guide and Boca Fan, as she walks towards the giant concrete dome of Club Atletico River Plate.

This afternoon's soccer match – River Plate vs. Colon de Santa FE. What I anticipate inside - passionate fans and charged energy. What I don’t anticipate – losing my entry ticket.

At the gates, one by one fellow tourists hand in their ticket. The uniformed man motions for me to hand him mine. In my hands are a map and a half-eaten bag of crackers. I dig in my pockets – elephant wallet and a bobby pin. More people crowd behind me, no one looks familiar. Stepping, aside I continue to search, rummaging through my small daypack - pigeon seeds, this journal, writing utensils, and no ticket. Paula and the bus group have passed the gates.

I ask a man where can I pay tickets, ask the lady selling River flags and t-shirts where can I buy tickets. I follow in the direction of their pointed fingers.

Through tall gates, behind a booth, the man asks which [insert Spanish words]. Choosing the cheapest option on the list, I respond, “cincuenta pesos, por favor.”

A ticket later, I’m back to gate-man. He smiles and lets me into the concrete interior of the stadium.

A lady searches bags, surveys are being taken, people dressed in red and white, uniformed police officers, flyers with images of soccer players are handed out. Walking through alphabetical sections, I stop to ask a police officer for directions. He points vaguely. Along the way, others from the bus are spotted and I sit nearby. For the ‘guided’ excursion costing 180 pesos, entry to the stadium could have cost only 50.

The field is bright green, the players are scrimmaging. Vendors carrying boxes of helados, Saladix, and Dots zigzag through the seats. The crowd cheers. At the other end of the stadium a collage of red and white pulses. “Oye”, chanting and whistling. As the game commences, a rain of paper sparkles silver in the sunlight. With a hotdog and ice cream, Ninja turtle and I join in the energy. A fight breaks out in the section adjacent. Flags are waved back and forth. The man next to me is on his eighth cigarette. He lifts his arms and shakes his head. In the midst of the fans’ enthusiasm and energy, their curse words and chants, a dandelion seed floats above the crowd.



The match’s outcome – 2 : 2, which caused much controversy, causing the police to allow Colon fans to leave the stadium first. Though secretly, it was the outcome I had hoped for; I like ties.




Cheers, Ostinatto rooftop
It’s my last evening in Buenos Aires. We meet at the rooftop terrace – the ladies (Miriam, Jess, and Jenni) and the expedition crew. Over bottles of Coca Light Jenni shows us pictures of her family, Miriam teaches me how to use Facebook, and with the expedition crew we take self-timed photos. They are lovely people.





Miriam and Jess, as nurses, work with children. Jenni is a social worker and has volunteer trips lined up from Argentina to Guatemala for the next 11months. There is a warmness to them, a nurturing nature. They expressed concern the day I learned the consequence of drinking too much espresso. It takes a lot of courage to do what they do -- to be the person who can provide a terminally ill child a loving departure or the person who patiently guides a troubled youth in the right direction.

On our way to bed that evening, Jenni says to me, “I hope you find home.”

Cheers to the ladies.

Tango También

* this entry from 2/7 *

Tango Research, Centro
Tango, it was missed last night. Instead, I experienced a typical Argentine evening (ate dinner at midnight, out for drinks till 4:30, and awoke a few hours later). So today's main focus is to find a show and go.

Joining my roomies, two lovely nurses from England, we head to Centro to visit Cafe Tortoni, one of the oldest cafes in Argentina (built in 1858) and known to host a Tango show in the evenings.

Included among the great personalities who have sat at these tables are Albert Einstein, Hillary Clinton, Carlos Gardel, and Tintin.


meanwhile, back at the hostel...



Afterwards, we visit the Pink House - the Buenos Aires version of the Washington DC White House.

meanwhile, I stop to say "Hola" to the pigeons. The Pink House (Presidential Palace) is in the background.


a peek inside La Catedral which was closed yesterday due to the demonstration..



Tango Tango, La Boca
At the cross section of Don Pedro de Mendoza and Magallanes lies brightly colored buildings, Fileteado signs, tables displaying mate and blue & yellow futbol shirts, and of course Tango. From an outdoor sidewalk cafe over glasses of Miranda, siete-up :), and Quilmes Cerveza, we watch Tango dancers move effortlessly on a stage. The intensity in the way they look at each other, it's hypnotizing.

tango at a sidewalk cafe


Colorful La Boca


on the way back from La Boca



Tango Class, Ostinatto
The room is small, the teacher tall in her sharp heeled shoes. A group of six barefooted and sandaled feet crowd around her. She explains the dance, the shifting of weight from each foot, the figure eight, torsos aligning, and men leading. As six female students, we take turns as men. Throughout the duration of the class, elbows bump boobs, feet step on feet, two leaders, two followers, one girl trips over a platform and falls on her bum. Tango - not quite.


Tango Show, Catedral (Milonga)
A cab ride to the Almagro vicinity, we find ourselves at Catedral, a dance hall mentioned in Lonely Planet Argentina. The interior looks like a large warehouse with art cluttered walls and twisted Christmas lights. A red-orange mangle of scrap hangs from the ceiling like an enormous chandelier. Vintage sofas, mismatched wooden tables and benches surround a large dance floor. It’s dark, it’s dingy, and under the dim mustard glow a few couples dance gracefully. Despite the funky décor, the ambience is very serious. Ten pesos entry fee to watch a Tango show at midnight, a savings compared to the tourist targeted shows that average some two-hundred pesos. The hour nears one. We’re seated in sofas to the side of the dance floor. There are fleas here. Jess catches one between her fingers. An itchy bump has formed on my shin. The place is sparsely packed. Miriam asks the fellow in the front if there is still a show. She also inquires if there are mosquitoes. He responds, yes and we used to have a problem. We continue to wait. There’s a sensation of critters crawling on the sheets that cover the sofas. This has become funny. We move to a table. Near two the show starts. A guitarist, an accordionist, and a violinist. The accordionist’s beard is wiry and wild. The music is lovely, the couple dancing is graceful, but at first available interlude, we must leave.

from briefcases to babies

* this entry from 2/6 *

from briefcases to babies, around Centro
The subway train car is made of wood. In a strange way it makes me think of an old western saloon with its wooden walls, windows, and doors that must be manually opened and closed.

Before deciding to hop aboard this underground vessel, I promenaded around Avenida de Mayo with its metropolitan ambiance -- collared shirts, rolling briefcases, and cellular phones. Further down this street, stands the National Congress Building (inaugurated in 1906, built by Italian Architect Victor Meano in Greco-Roman style).




Accompanying me on this venture, Tintin.

I pop above ground at Peru, a street that transitions into Florida, an avenue well known for its boutiques and shopping. Amidst the swarm of people carrying bags of freshly purchased goods, a little girl carries an infant in her arms and begs for money. This same scene -- borrowing babies -- was witnessed in a train station in New Delhi, and is unfortunately a common concept used to strike empathy cords and encourage donations.


Florida Avenue

In 2001 Argentina suffered from an ecomomic crisis. Unable to pay back foriegn debt, government spending was cut, social services cut, wages cut, causing unemployment & poverty rates to grow. Although the crisis has since been recovered, it's believed that many of these street kids are the result of this. And with the Global Financial Crisis going on today, to what degree will its effects be?


* * *

Sun Rays cascade through a stained glass window high above the alter. Dust particles glimmer like little stars. It looks like a tiny universe. In this daydream, someone taps my shoulder. He wears thin framed glasses, holds a white plastic bag, a newspaper can be seen through it.

"[insert Castilian Spanish words], hora?"

I shake my head and smile.

He points to his wrist.

Oh yes, yes, I say, it's eighteen o'clock.

He laughs, you mean six o'clock.

He goes on to ask where I'm from, what I'm studying, and if I'm aware that I'm sitting in Buenos Aires' oldest church.


He continues to talk -- repeating himself often and slowly -- sharing bits of Buenos Aires' church history. He watches me write notes in my little journal, points to where comas are needed, at times even takes the journal himself and corrects my mispelt words. At the alter he folds to the image of Jesus Christ. He asks a gentleman with a key around his wrist for a phamplet of the church's history. Enthused, they both share more history about the surrounding area.

Here's my attempt at translation (should be checked for validity): The Parroquia San Ignacio de Loyola, in the streets of Bolivar and Alsina, was built in 1675 and took 300 years to complete. Before the advent of Recoleta's cemetary in 1822, poeple were interred beneath the church. Some parts of the church still has its original colors -- blue, mauve, and gold. Across the street, is the Catedral, technically the oldest church in Buenos Aires, but was bombed and reconstructed.

As we make our way across the street to visit La Catedral, a distant crowd of people and flags come into view.


He explains that they are part of a left party and the MST (moviemento socialista de los trabajadores). While chanting, beating to drums, and waving flags, they appear to express great support for the struggle of workers.



Before spilting ways with this kind older gentleman, he writes his full name (including his mother's maiden name) in my journal. Later he looks at his hands, as though they are bothering him. He says it's his work -- the work he does in houses for most of his life -- that makes his hands like that. He pauses and shows me his palms.

at the moment...
It's 14:34, am sitting at a table at Free Style Hostel. The internet connection is awesome here and the views from their lounge area are panoramic -- the Beagle Channal and snow capped Feugian Andes Mountains. About to get some food, then off to Hotel Albatros, the meeting point for travellers aboard Quark's Lyubov Orlova - an ice strengthened ship which will set sail for Antarctica tomorrow. Looking to finish the rest of the BA entries tonight :)

The Expedition Team

It brings me great joy to introduce The Expedition Team!




from right to left:

Tintin - an avid traveller and globe criss-crosser, Tintin is extremely experienced, has strong morals, and an altruistic demeanor. His journeys include a trip to the Moon, researching giant mushrooms in the Artic, and an encounter with the Tibetan Snowman - Chang Chong. (Milou, Tintin's faithful dog was not able to join us on this expedition.)


Ninja Turtle - with a strong background of Ninjitsu, Ninja Turtle is brave, devoted, and believes in justice, though he's also a big pizza-eater. His experiences include leading a mission to save Manhattan from Alien Monsters and enduring a 15month tour in Iraq with Captain Aimee. He would like to include a family photo of his brothers.


Sharki E. Thrash - a Great White Shark from the Carcharodon Carcharias Family, he is well versed in all forms of seafaring. His background includes eating people, scaring the hell out of generations of beach goers, and working in a corporate office. Despite his intimidating looks, he's quite sensitive. He asked that I include a photo of his Mom (he's very close to her and will miss her on this journey).


Monkey - a novice to travelling expeditions, this will be her first trip outside of Los Angeles. Despite this, she is the most powerful because she believes in Love. She has a brother she hopes to find on this journey.

Tiempo

* this entry 2/2 *

Early Early Morning, Ostinatto
It’s a familiar sound. One I hear on the hour every hour, only this time it doesn’t stop. Beepbeepbeepbeep. My dormmates are sleeping (or were). Frantically I push buttons on my watch. Each one makes a beeping sound. One button triggers a blue light; it flashes on and off. Someone shuffles in their bed. I bury the watch under my pillow muffling the sound. Eventually the beeping ceases. As I settle back to sleep, the beeping starts up again. This pattern continues until finally, I’ve pushed enough buttons to disarm the alarm as well as reset the time.



Encounters, Part 1 (2/1)
We meet on the stairwell. She's bubbly, says hello cheerfully. She walks past me and into room 202. My new roomie. She tells me about her planned 11month stay in South America, about the volunteer programs she has lined up. Her charged energy brings life to the hostel. She greets everyone she walks by.

By evening, a mix of travellers are brought together at the Hostel Bar. Over Malbec (Argentine red wine) and Quilmes Beer a myriad of conversation takes place. One lady when asked what the goal of her South America travels was, answered that she didn't know it until she experienced it -- after drinking a hallucinogenic jungle vine concoction. Another responded that he just wanted to be more tolerant, to take off his watch.



La Bomba de Tiempo, Palermo
Each Monday, a sort of phenomenom occurs near Palermo, a "hip" and large barrio of Buenos Aires. In the early evening, round 7 or 8, a live percussion band (La Bomba de Tiempo) performs at Konex, an open air, warehouse-like venue.

In my roomie's company and a few fellow hostellers, we hitch a cab and make our way to the Konex. We're deposited in an intersection crawling with people -- young locals and expats. They stand in lines extended on both blocks, wrapped around the venue. Inside, the music is electric. People are bobbing thier their heads, dancing, drinking&smoking, and/or taking pictures. From what I understand, each Monday a special instrument is played. Today's special guest -- the accordian.


After the show, we hop on the subway back to San Telmo. It's raining as we walk back to the hostel. Jagged lines of florescent lightening flash across the night sky -- a fitting ending to an electric evening.



...at the moment
it's 1:56, am in Ushuaia (Free Style Hostel) & feeling quite sleepy
Good night :)

* this entry from 2/1 *

Sunday Street Fair, Doreggo Square
The man squeezing oranges and serving juice from his shopping cart, the lady selling fresh empanadas from a woven basket, the band playing instruments on the cobblestone, the art galleries, the tables displaying handmade jewelry. Defensa, the street up to Doreggo Square is bustling with art and Tango dancers. Tents dot the square, each housing its own curiosities -- antiques and trinkets, old fashioned soda bottles, sink faucets, ornate mirrors, small silver combs, and colorful glass.




Tango Music
Two Guitarists. One closes his eyes, nods and smiles while plucking strings with gentle force. Their music, a magnet of sorts. People crowd in close. A collared, yet unleashed Dalmatian promenades around. Portenos and Portenas are seated at sidewalk tables, some sip espressos. A lady further down blows soapy bubbles. They float above the crowd. Afterward, Anibal Arias, labeled as one of the greatest Tango guitarists sits down to play. Regardless of age (born in 1922), he strums the guitar effortlessly, his music timeless.
(A sample can be heard on the left hand side of the blog in the music player; first song)


Tango Dance
It’s not so much the movement of the dancers -- the way the woman’s leg reaches out, swan-like, before it snaps back to her partner, the way their feet weave harmoniously, the way their chests are pressed together and then apart -- it’s the expression on their faces, the concern in the eyebrows, the passion in their eyes.


In the area -- Church San Telmo


My first ‘real’ steak. After a failed attempt with milanesa, I decided to eat out at a restaurant for a proper steak - Bar Seddon. In my plate were two large flanks, so tender, so juicy, that I easily ate them both.


My favorite photo so far, nestled amongst Borges, Peron, and Kama Sutra, is Harry Potter!!!

..at the moment
Still behind on the blogs :( About to eat a sandwich and head out to explore centro. PS. Here is my revised number +54+(11)+5602-6190 :)

* this entry from 1/31, pictures added to earlier posts *

R.I.P. Chanklas, Chacabuco
From out a barber shop, a man sings, it sounds opera-esque. Down another street, two black puppies jump out a shopping cart, one flops on its back, allowing its belly to be rubbed. Around the corner, a tiny store displays colorful fruits in old wooden boxes with peeling paint. It is here, while fruit gazing, that my shoe encounters a bump in the sidewalk. I trip, the leather strap -- the essential part of the shoe -- snaps. My favorite flip-flops from India meet their demise.

A middle-aged woman carrying a plastic bag witnesses this. She approaches, inquiring if I’m okay. Pointing to her white shoes, she offers them to me, but expresses concern that they are too big. Thanking her, I say, no problema, my hostel is near. She asks me if I have elastic. I hand her a hair band from my wrist. She inspects my foot, touching it with her hands, and motions for me to wrap the elastic band around my foot and my shoe. I tell her Thank You, she has a good heart. She responds, I am a mother.


Visiting Recoleta
Today’s mission, Recoleta, an upscale neighborhood of Buenos Aires and home to the Recoleta Cemetery, a Saturday Hippie Fair, and free weekend-admission to the Museo Nacionales de Bellas Arte. Accompanying me on my first trip into town, Monkey (I’ll introduce the expedition team in a future blog).

Riding the subway there: The subway’s walls are lined with blue & yellow ornate tile. On the C-line a young boy places red scissors for sale in passengers’ laps. He leaves them there a moment before returning to pick them up. On the D-line a small girl, perhaps five years of age, walks solitary down the aisle. With her palm up, head tucked low, and belly protruding she begs for change. At Pueyrredon, I pop above ground.

Recoleta Cemetary: Cross studded domes and archangel statues, neoclassical pillars and simple stone, rusted iron gates and cobwebs, like fancy lace. Within Recoleta Cemetery resides some of Argentina’s most prominent figures, among them Eva Peron (Evita), the second wife of President Juan Domingo Peron. The cemetary's intersecting alleyways creates the ambience of a neighborhood, one in which the homes are mausoleums and the pets, stray kitties.


Walking Back: (Prilidiano) Pueyrredon, whose artwork was displayed at the art museum is also the name of the street that leads to the D-line Subway. Along the way, a small boy tries to catch a puff of dandelion seeds. They float upward above his reach and in towards the main street, past the magazine vendor, the store awning and on over the bustling traffic where it joins a parade of fellow dandelion seeds moving with the wind.


Permaculture, Ostinatto
It's evening. To keep in line with my budget, I've attempted to cook milanesa. It is while eating the resulting clump of batter and beef, that I meet a fellow hosteller. His dinner, a small case of vegetables. He shares his tales of farming coffee beans in Hawaii, of wandering into the worst barrio of Popayán, and he also shares the concept of Permaculture.

From what I understand, permaculture (permanent agriculture/permanent culture) is a sustainable style of living. He describes the concept using grey water (sink water) to illustrate. If biodegradable dish soap is used to wash dishes, then the grey water can be redirected to supplement a garden. If all the community can follow the same method, than a larger garden can be sustained. And a larger garden would be able to supplement the whole community. It makes me consider who/what is affected by my non-biodegradable laundry detergent and all the little things I take for granted.

at the moment...
I'm sitting on the Hostel's rooftop terrace. It's a little past 0:00. My watch announces the time on the hour every hour with a beep. I'm trying to catch up with the blogs which are a few days behind :(
PS. Here's my local number 011+54+(15)+5602-6190
Feeling a bit homesick, okay goodnight :)