Bus travel: expect the unexpected

El Jardin Hostal, Asunción, Paraguay

It is eleven in the morning. Hunting for a tank top in our backpack I come across a pair of socks. Given the fact that the door was almost too hot to the touch from the outside three hours ago already it is hard to imagine that I'll ever need them again. May I live with this illusion for a little while longer ...

Illusion, too, is that even the shade of this tree-lined little courtyard will provide coolness for much longer: the temperature, right now, is 30º C. El Jardin is at the perimeter of the city centre, which, according to Thomas, the Swedish owner of the hostel, is small enough to explore on foot, and that's what we plan to do later.

But what a journey it has been to get here! Little did we know that what was supposed to be an easy travelling day would turn out to be anything but when we shouldered our packs and walked down to the bus terminal in Puerto Iguazú yesterday morning. We held the tickets to Ciudad del Este, the Paraguayan city right across the Rio Uruguay, in our hands, an hour's bus trip at the most including the border crossing, according to our information.

Having misread the handwriting of the employee of the 'Rio Uruguay' bus company we were a bit early, and for the longest time it looked as if hardly anybody would join us on this trip across the border. Modern two-story busses came and went, loading and unloading people and luggage, and finally a relatively small, older bus arrived, displaying a 'Paraguay' sign in its front window. There were fewer seats than on the other busses we'd been on, but more space to put luggage, and suddenly there were all kinds of people, too, only a handful of them obvious foreign tourists, and only one other girl with a big backpack like us, indicating that she planned to cross the border for more than just a day's exploring or shopping.

It soon became clear that most of the passengers were going to Ciudad del Este to do just that; it seems to be a popular place to shop for bigger items like electronics, and Christmas is coming closer. We thought the bus was quite full when we left the terminal already, but the bus driver stopped at several bus stops along the way on his way out of town. By the time we left Puerto Iguazú behind us there was hardly a place left to put one's feet: seats and standing room alike were filled to capacity. We had had to leave our big pack at the front end of the bus and ended up at the very rear ourselves. No worries, though: we didn't need it until we got off, after all ...

A tall blond woman in her sixties had addressed us in excellent German at the bus stop: a third-generation Argentinian of German descent. A teacher at the Goethe-Institute (a German college) in Villa Gesell on the Argentinian coast she was in Iguazú for a holiday, had heard us speak German and enjoyed the opportunity to practice. Happy to be distracted from the crowded circumstances on the bus we didn't pay much attention to the landscape we drove through. It took only about twenty minutes until we reached the Argentinian border station where everyone had to get off the bus, the five or six foreigners to get their exit stamp, the locals only to show their identity card. Just like the day before, when a bus took us to the Brazilian side of the falls, these formalities went very smoothly, and in no time at all we were back on the bus. We were much too late to find a seat close to the front (or anywhere else, for that matter), but we made sure to get a standing place close to the back door to be able to exit quickly at the Paraguayan border station.

Not long, and we crossed the Rio Uruguay. 'Now we're in Paraguay', Johann said. My impression that the view from the bridge to the left was the same as the day before when we crossed into Brazil couldn't be right, of course. Not able to get a good view out of the window from our squeezed-in position we wondered just a little how quickly the bus passed some buildings that could have been a border station, but didn't think much of it, just wondered a little why it took so long to get to the official entry to Paraguay. Road construction made for a bumpy ride, and to the left and right shopping centres and commercial buildings lined the road, some of them not finished yet. Road signs seemed a bit strange to me: this didn't look like Spanish, was only reminiscent of it. Maybe this was what Guaraní looked like, the official Paraguayan language? Still, letter combinations like '...eixe' and 'ão' made me think of the signs we had seen the day before – but we weren't in Brazil, were we? By now, the French couple close to us was wondering aloud about this strange occurrence, too. And then we crossed the river – or a different one? - a second time. There was a lot of traffic here, a long line of trucks waiting in the lane beside us, masses of people crossing the bridge on foot.

Suddenly a call from the front: 'Pasaporte? Pasaporte?' This, then, had to be the real border to Paraguay, and we had indeed travelled through Brazil for the past twenty or thirty minutes. Trying frantically to get to the front of the bus from where the call had issued we made very slow progress. The local passengers not only didn't need to have their passports stamped, but also were not in the least concerned about us. By the time we got close to the front the bus was on the move again. The French couple and the girl with the big backpack, just like us, were left without an entry stamp; only the Japanese man had been close enough to the front to get his.

The girl, a young traveller from Holland, as it turned out, spoke Spanish quite well, and from her conversation with a Paraguayan woman I gathered that while we could travel all we wanted in Paraguay we would face a heavy fine when we tried to leave again without the stamp. She explained to us that she had even asked the bus driver if we needed to stop and get our stamp when she boarded the bus, and he had just waved off her concerns. Hot and not at all happy with the situation we decided we better take a taxi back to the border station from the terminal before going on to Asunción.

At the terminal we found that we could take the same bus back to the border station, about teón or fifteen minutes away, so that we could save at least the taxi fare for one way. The three of us – the French had got off the bus a few stations before the terminal already – boarded the bus again, now almost empty, and made sure the driver knew that we wanted to get off to get our stamps. This time we encountered no problems, were quickly processed at the border and found a taxi to take us back to the terminal. Altogether this little excursion took no longer than maybe half an hour extra – and 100 pesos ($10 Can) in taxi fare, of course. How strange that a country is not interested to check the people crossing its borders.

As soon as we entered the terminal building again and looked around for a bus that would take us to Asunción shouts of 'Asunción, Asunción' greeted us from different booths. The nearest one, of the NSA bus company, had a bus leaving in 'five minutes'. Sure. Eager to be on our way again we paid the $15US/person (no need for Paraguayan Guaranís yet) and soon stepped on a bus most definitely a class or two below the long-distance busses we had travelled on in the last while. The bus driver walked along the isle and asked me to open the window: 'for air', he smiled. Well, here was our air condition, then. How long would it take to get to Asunción, Lisa, the Dutch girl, inquired of the driver. Oh, we'd arrive 'a la seize, mas o menos' – around six, approximately. Five hours, then. The end was in sight.

The five minutes turned out to be more like twenty before the driver had decided that he now had enough passengers. This time Lisa and us were truly the only foreigners. With the open windows the temperature was very pleasant in spite of the heat outside, and we soon enjoyed the beautiful landscape we passed through. We had brought bread, cheese, water and peanuts – our standard travel fare – but would not have had to go hungry and thirsty if we hadn't. Unlike in the fancier busses we were finally back to South American bus travel we have come to not only appreciate but love. Women with huge cloth-covered baskets came on board to sell warm 'chipas', a local cheese-flavoured kind of roll made with cassava or corn flour; also men carrying coolers of 'agua' and 'gaséosas' (pop) or sweets.

Green and lush, Paraguay proved to be a balm for the eyes. Fields with white, long horned Brahma cattle and big herds of beautiful horses passed by, interspersed with long stretched out villages with shady groves of blooming trees where people sat in the shade and children were playing. Finally, finally there was something we had most sorely missed in Argentina with its meat based diet: fruit stands, with watermelons and honey melons at first, later with bananas, citrus fruits, tomatoes and much, much more. How good it would be to just be able to stop at a stand for some great quality fruit instead of turning away in disgust from the poor display of Argentinian fruit in the supermarkets.

Often, the bus didn't make quick progress, stuck behind a line of traffic which, however, the driver had no qualms passing quite aggressively, but whenever there was an empty stretch of road we made up for the delay. We stopped at bus stops in smaller towns, a couple of times at a bus terminal in a bigger town along the way, and, the window open beside me, I tried to take a few pictures. 

 

We had just passed this '24-hour tire shop' with the tethered cow in the background at about 5:45 when the bus stopped. This was not a bus stop, however, and after ten minutes we still had no idea what was going on. The engine rumbled quietly, the driver and co-driver got off, after a while followed by a few of the other passengers who stood around

 looking just as clueless as we were. It took a whole hour

until we were finally on the move again, and not much after the sun started to set. Soon it was too dark to see, and, tired of spending all these long hours on the bus, we were anxious to arrive at our destination and finally stretch our limbs again.

By the time we entered the huge bus terminal in Asunción it was nine o'clock – the trip had taken three hours more than anticipated, only one of those hours with explainable reason. It didn't matter: we were where we wanted to be, and our hostel was only a twenty minute taxi ride away. What relief to finally be able to call it a day!

Wall of the courtyard with Jasmine spilling down

Fragrant Jasmine flowers

It is now 3:30 in the afternoon, time to go for a walk and see what this city has to offer. According to Thomas, it is a safe and pleasant place to be, and I look forward to finding out more.

Iguazú Falls, day one: Argentinian side

It is the morning of our second day here in Puerto Iguazú. Johann just walked over to the bus terminal to get the tickets for today's trip, the Brazilian side of the Iguazú falls, a 'must', supposedly, to get a complete impression of these mighty waterfalls. The bus leaves in an hour and a half, so I have some time to write for a while.

Yesterday, we boarded an early bus to visit the Argentinean side, a wise decision, as it turned out. Like at any major tourist attraction bus loads of people descend on the place every day, and it was nice to have a quiet start to get a feel for the place.

But how to describe such magnificence? It seems impossible in the face of wall after wall of water stretching far into the distance, the force of it making the ground tremble under my feet when I stand on one of the many bridges allowing so close an encounter that it takes but a minute to be drenched. Eternal mist from the spray rises from the bottom of the falls, enhancing the feeling that this is the gate into a mythical world – or the wall separating me from it.

Gazing at this one can almost forget the presence of so many other people vying for the best spot to take a photo or have their photo taken, but whenever we turn from a viewing platform to enter a walkway to another one the shoving begins again. The few restaurants and rest areas spaced strategically along the way draw the biggest crowds. Coatis, small, omnivorous animals with ringed tails, related to the raccoon, but diurnal,not nocturnal, have long figured out the best place to scavenge food, and are, of course, popular subjects for photographers. Signs warn of their aggressive behaviour, however: too familiar by now with humans they don't hesitate to use sharp teeth and claws to get what they want, and ugly injuries can result. We encounter a huge family group on one of the quieter paths through the forest: two adults and about ten cute youngsters root around in the leaf litter, the babies playing and rolling around while the parents look for food more seriously. It seems impossible that all these babies belong to one family, and now I just read that females and their offspring live together in family groups, during mating season sometimes joined by a male for a while. 

 It is now Thursday, December 4, and we'll be packing up for a new leg of the journey soon. We'll take a bus to Ciudad del Este, right across the border in Paraguay, and will find another bus to Asunçion, the capital, where we'll stay for the next couple of nights.

There is still a bit of time, however, so I will finish at least the report about the first day in Iguazú.

After walking the different trails – paved and well maintained – with the many bridges allowing different views of the many parts of the falls on the Argentinian side, we spent part of the afternoon walking a much less crowded path through the forest, with a small waterfall at its end. Here, I could enjoy the other aspect of this area: the verdant lushness of the rainforest. So many shades of green, so many different shapes and textures of leaves, so many degrees of light and shade!

 Far from the roar of the falls this is a quiet world where the incessant shrill of insect voices surpasses all other noise. Its beauty is not as immediately obvious, but there is a lot to see here, too.

How to get from Montevideo to San Ignacio

San Ignacio, Argentina

7:30 in the morning

This time the rumble that woke me up from the latest hour and a half of sleep was not thunder but the sound of a car engine. Maybe it is finally over ...

All through the day yesterday it kept building up to this. Clouds appeared all along the horizon and grew as the day progressed, huge walls with ever more threatening thunderheads billowing. Yet the sun was still shining throughout the afternoon, and we had time enough to walk the length and breadth of the extensive grounds of the San Ignacio Miní Jesuit monastery. This UNESCO world heritage site is surrounded by a sleepy little town of the same name, and until we stood in front of its gates we would have found it hard to believe to find anything than the usual small shops and restaurants here. Dirt roads branched off the few paved streets, and our feet stirred up small clouds of dust of a deep, dark red colour when we crossed them on our way to the area of town where we suspected the few lodgings to be.

It had been a long trip to get here. Early Saturday afternoon we boarded a bus to Salto, about a six hour bus ride north and a bit west of Montevideo on the Uruguay river. We had booked this, the first ticket on the long journey to Puerto Iguazu, in advance, but after that it wasn't quite clear what the best way to proceed would be, and we couldn't have booked with the same company all the way through because of the border crossing to Argentina. Yes, it was time for another little adventure after the sheltered few days with friends.

We arrived in Salto after seven pm, still not quite sure if we needed to spend the night here (not our favoured choice) or if we would find a bus to take us across to Concordia, the Argentinean city on the other side of the Rio Uruguay. A bit sticky from the bus ride – this time the air condition system was underfunctioning, contrary to the trip to Punta del Diablo – and almost overwhelmed how hot it was outside when we stepped out into the open we were glad to enter the air conditioned bus terminal. Here, like so many times before in bus terminals all over South America, we walked along the long row of bus company booths looking for one going to Concordia. The 'Flechabus' office we found after a short search opened at 8 pm, still more than half an hour away, but the schedule posted looked as if we might be lucky – if they weren't booked out. When the office opened we were pleasantly surprised that the company representative even spoke English. Yes, she said, there was a bus that very evening, leaving at 9:30, arriving around the same time in Concordia: we'd be back to Argentinean time, gaining an hour. A short bus ride indeed, especially since it also included a border crossing.

At the appointed time we found that there would have been no need whatsoever to worry about space: we were six, including the bus driver, and no tourists except for us. The road leading away from Salto was narrow and bumpy, and traffic was sparse. After maybe fifteen kilometres we turned left and soon entered the bridge crossing the mighty Rio Uruguay. At the end of the bridge was the border station. The bus stopped, we all got out, and the bus driver led us into the brightly lit building. He walked past a large group of people from another, obviously much fuller bus waiting in line to a couple of border agents at the end of the long desk. In no time at all we had our stamps, guaranteeing us a 90-day stay in Argentina as visitors. After a perfunctory inspection of our luggage at customs, consisting of a brief glance into the baggage compartment by a customs officer holding a flashlight, we were free to continue to Concordia.

Now came the real test: would we find a bus to take us to San Ignacio, a stop on the way to Puerto Iguazu, that same night? If not, we would have to find a place to stay in Concordia, a sizeable city from what we could see driving through, but not a very inviting prospect at this time of night. Again the walk along rows of company booths, this time with several prospects, according to the signs. Alas, one after the other – all of them in perfect Spanish – regretted to have no space until at least the evening of the following day. Now what? The English speaking bus representative in Salto had suggested we'd visit the tourist information booth in Concordia if we needed help, and while the friendly man who slid back his window now did not speak a word of English either he had an alternative for us: why not go to Posadas instead? A bus left at 1:30 the same night for this city on the Paraná river, and we could connect to San Ignacio and ultimately Puerto Iguazu from there. He directed us to a company we had visited before, and this time it didn't take long until we held the tickets in our hands. Why the bus company employee hadn't thought of suggesting this alternative herself is a bit hard to understand. One more time the tourist information guy was able to help us, this time in our quest to exchange money, which happened at a store selling sweets and snacks. The exchange course, this time, was 11.5:1, but then, the store lacked the competition present in 'Florida'.

We had to kill three hours until our departure, so we went in search of a place to eat and have a beer, not a difficult undertaking. It was very hot: 31 C at eleven o'clock at night! No wonder people avoid being out during the afternoon. In Argentina and Uruguay it is completely normal to have the evening meal at ten, eleven or even midnight, and even small children and children who have to go to school the next day are up and about. Concordia was no exception, and until our departure there was no sign of traffic slowing down or the crowd thinning.

We slept much of the rest of the night on the way to Posadas. I have trouble keeping my eyes open during bus rides even in the daytime here. Maybe the landscape and the driving here are less exciting than in Ecuador, Colombia, Bolivia and Peru. Daylight showed a slightly rolling landscape stretching far into the distance to both sides, lots of cattle, here and there some sorghum fields in the vicinity of infrequent feedlots. Small bushes were planted in often irregular rows, grass high between them: yerba mate, the ubiquitous drink of Argentina and Uruguay. Other than that, we passed plantations of pine trees, much less eucalyptus than further south, and native brush. There is enough moisture here to keep things growing, but the soil doesn't seem to be very fertile.

It was no problem to find a connection to San Ignacio in Posadas, and within the hour we were on our way. We arrived at our destination after about 24 hours and 1100km

of travel. Contrary to the travel guide the town (now?) has a small bus terminal, and we had only a few blocks to walk until we found a place to stay, right across from the San Ignacio ruins. An older man, shirtless because of the heat, welcomed us at the door. I could only understand a word here and there in the flood of Spanish, but he did indeed have a room for us, a small, simple cabin, but clean and equipped with air conditioning – very important in this heat. He led us through the hallways of his house to get to the cabin, stopped at a freezer, pulled out an opened beer bottle and added some to a glass standing on a small table beside it. 'Alemanes toman – Germans drink', he stated, handing the glass first to Johann, then to me. It felt a bit like sharing a pipe in a native American ceremony, and somehow it wouldn't have felt right to decline the room after this.

By now it is almost 9:30, and we should think of checking out and getting to the bus station somehow. I sure hope we can find a taxi, because it is still raining, and right now it's raining hard again. We just made it back to the hotel after going out for a meal, around 8:30 last night, before it started to rain hard and harder. At times it felt as if somebody was pouring water from huge buckets – never in our lives have we experienced rain like that, and it was almost scary. Time and again the clap of thunder, lightning lighting up the sky all around. A few times it seemed to have slowed down, maybe even to have quit, but then the sluices of heaven opened again, and water poured down with renewed force. It will be interesting to see what the dirt roads we crossed yesterday will look like today. The poor people living there, or in the country. This must be the kind of rain that produces floods and land slides.

The 'wifi' promised brazenly on the sign in front of the hotel only works outside: if I understood our landlord correctly it is the network of the monastery ... This means we don't have an internet connection at the moment, since I don't plan to subject either myself or the laptop to a downpour. Posting this likely will have to wait until we are in Puerto Iguazu, about four hours by bus from here, where we hopefully will not have too much trouble finding a hostel or hotel.

By now it is 8 pm. We arrived in Puerto Iguazu at about 3:30 this afternoon, are checked into a hotel, went for a walk 'downtown' (not a big undertaking), had a beer to cool down a bit - and now it's raining again. The internet here is working just fine, and inside the room, too, so I will post this and possibly report a bit more later. 

 

A day at Punta del Diablo

Today, the time of 'homes away from home' will come to an end, and we will once again be on the move. The destination is clear: the mighty Iguazu Falls, but so far we haven't quite decided on the best way to get there. For now, we will take the bus to Salto, about six hours north of Montevideo, and then make plans how to continue.

When I wrote yesterday's posting we were on the way back from Punta del Diablo, the easternmost of a string of small towns along the coast. All of them are popular holiday destinations for Uruguayans and foreign travellers alike, and in high season Punta del Diablo must be a busy place. Now, however, we were told we didn't need to book ahead of time, and so we embarked on the five hour bus ride Wednesday afternoon.

As pleasant a city as Montevideo is, it felt good to leave city life behind and rest my eyes on rural scenes for a change: black and white Holstein cows or herds of Hereford cattle on green pastures, newly emerged soybean or corn fields or hay ready to be baled, here and there some unharvested grain fields, combines at the ready: recent rain seems to have delayed the harvest.

Towns along the way are all designed in the same pattern: a central plaza bordered by government building(s), church, police station and businesses, cobbled, paved or sandy tree-lined streets leading away from it. The passengers of the bus were almost exclusively locals, most of them connecting from one of the small towns to another, San Carlos and Rocha a bit bigger than the rest.

When we arrived at Punta del Diablo it was close to sunset already: the trip had taken longer than the designated five hours. We had read in our travel guide that there was only one paved road leading into town, but when we arrived we realized that this was a long road to walk if one had no idea where to start looking for accomodation. We needn't have worried, however: moments after getting off the bus, obviously looking a bit undecided, we were approached by a man in a bright yellow t-shirt with the logo 'La Viuda Hostel'. He was there to pick up a woman who arrived with the same bus. He had private rooms available, the price was good, and so we hopped into the pickup.

This proved to be an excellent choice: although about 700m from the closest beach the 'La Viuda Hostel' was a great location, quiet, well run, clean, with a nice breakfast and a lot of information about things to do and see.

The next morning we took a bus to the nearby Sta.Teresa Fort, just outside the small Sta. Teresa National Park. The fort, a huge building, was started by the Portuguese in 1762 and finished by the Spanish in 1775, changing hands during the constant battle for supremacy in this part of the world. Unfortunately it is open only from 1 pm to 7 pm, and we would have had to wait for an hour and a half, so we walked along its massive walls (up to 11.5m high in some places, and four metres thick at the base) and then slowly made our way through the forest down to the beach.

Cormorants waiting for a meal

A series of beaches, interrupted by puntas (points) connects the National Park and Punta del Diablo, and we walked for about 12 km through the sand, dunes of varying heights to our right, the ocean to our left, meeting hardly anybody until we got close to the village. I cannot imagine that it feels really crowded even in high season, at least on the Playa Grande, the longest of the beaches. The water is relatively cold, and only a few people in neopren suits worked on their surfing skills on 'La Viuda Beach' when we returned there to watch the sunset in the evening.

Standing at the bus stop yesterday morning we regretted a little not to have stayed a day longer, but we had booked the bus to Salto when we were at the bus terminal in Montevideo, and now there was no turning back. Off to new shores, then. 

Montevideo

It's another sunny summer morning in Uruguay, and we have just started our five hour bus ride from the seaside village of Punta del Diablo back to the capital, Montevideo. Since it seems that I am way behind in my reports I will use the bus ride to at least get a start and hopefully post it later today after our arrival.

After the first busy days in Buenos Aires, on Sunday we took the ferry across the Rio de la Plata to Colonia and connected immediately to Montevideo by bus. Here, we found a home away from home with our Uruguayan friend Miriam, who had invited us to her place in the quiet Prado district. Once we had settled in we went for an evening walk with Miriam and her daughter Camilla in their neighbourhood and were amazed at the extensive parks and green spaces. Once again I admired the Jacaranda trees, their blossoms covering the crowns like a purple veil, sweet scent lingering in the still evening air. Houses here are well kept, and many of them speak of affluence if not outright wealth. Here, we would not have to be constantly aware of our backpacks; this is, as Miriam assured us, a safe place even at night.

Miriam operates 'Sabrozón', a small take-out restaurant in the centre of the city (Sabrozon) and is gone for much of the day, so on Monday we went exploring on our own. She had given us a quick run-down which buses we could take, and once again we bravely took the plunge into the intricate public transport system of an unknown city. Coming to Montevideo from Buenos Aires is like entering a different world. Traffic is less chaotic, sidewalks much less crowded, and it all feels much more relaxed. Unfortunately it had started to rain when we were still waiting at the bus stop to get into the city, and it only let up from time to time, just long enough to make it possible for us to dart from the 'Sabrozón' to the bank (we didn't have any Uruguayan pesos when we arrived) and back to the bus stop at the corner of San José and Andes. By the time the bus reached our stop it poured so hard that water was running down the street, carrying plastic bottles along the gutter like little boats. The corner of Miriam's street was a lake, the water almost flowing over onto the sidewalk. We were totally soaked – but at least it was a warm rain ...

Tuesday dawned clear and blue, and this time we could pursue our walking tour of the old city and along the harbour. Houses in the Ciudad Vieja (Old City) speak of the by-gone splendour of more affluent beginnings, but many of them are not kept up, the windows boarded up, grass and wildflowers growing on intricately masoned lintels. Yet we often only noticed this when we raised our eyes to the first floor or higher; at street level it all feels integrated and, for the most part, not shabby. We were amazed at the high number of street vendors, much higher than the presence of tourists would have warranted, we thought. Miriam later explained that they get their business from the passengers of cruise ships stopping in the harbour, pouring out their loads for brief shopping excursions into the ciudad vieja.

We crossed the generously laid-out Plaza Independencia with its huge monument of José Artigas, the general who led Uruguay's quest for independence from Spain and Portugal. Although quite impressive it is not really a very inviting plaza, so we found a bench in the much smaller, treed 'Plaza de Zabala' to eat our lunch of empanadas and orange juice. We ended the afternoon at the 'Plaza de la Constitución', like the Plaza de Zapalo shaded by big old trees, but much bigger. Here, we ordered a cerveza grande, a one-litre (well, 960 ml) bottle of Pilsener, listened to a busker with a large and well rehearsed repertoire mostly of Beatle songs and watched, fascinated, the 'living statue' of a woman alternating between total stillness and slow awakening, startling passers-by when she started to extend a hand or open her eyes, shifting position ever-so-slightly so that it wasn't immediately clear if one had just imagined the movement. She was a favourite especially with the children who were enchanted by this strange being. Tables with antiques and crafts along the perimeter invited to browse, but by then we had had our fill and were glad to return home.

Before we left Montevideo for an trip to the coast on Wednesday we had time to visit the impressive Botanic Gardens in the Prado district, only a few blocks from Miriam's place. Huge trees arched over the well-kept walkways, and even at that early hour it was well frequented by joggers, school classes, people reading books or papers drinking the ever-present mate, even more common here in Uruguay than in Argentina. All day people can be seen walking around with a thermos of hot water clutched under one arm, holding the mate (a cup, most often carved from a calabash gourd), with its bitter content of the same name in the other, sipping from the silver drinking 'straw', the bombilla.  

After this short excursion we once again embarked on a bus ride, first to the 'Tres Cruces' bus terminal, and from there to the coast.

Learning experiences

Last night we arrived in Montevideo, where we will likely spend the next couple of days. We are staying with a friend in the beautiful green, peaceful neighbourhood 'El Prado', a far cry from busy downtown Buenos Aires. The rumble of thunder threatens rain, so we will stay put for a while - a good chance to catch up on some writing. Later, we will take the bus into town, most importantly to change some money, quite likely a much more regular process than in Buenos Aires ...

Argentina's economy has changed considerably since we were here last time, about four years ago – and not to the better. Then, it was still possible to get money from bank machines without disadvantage. This is no longer so.

With high inflation and a very unstable economy it is advisable to bring US dollars instead of using money machines. Johann reasoned that it would be a good idea to have smaller bills to pay taxi drivers, hostels etc., and little did we know that this would prove to be a hindrance rather than a help.

The official ('white') exchange rate paid at the bank is about 8.5:1, and the staff at the Estoril told us that on the 'blue' market we could expect an exchange rate of up to 13:1. They directed us to 'Florida', the main pedestrian street where visitors and Porteños alike flock to do their shopping. This, they said, was the place to go to change money.

We hadn't even quite reached Florida when we were approached for the first time, that time only realizing moments later that the man saying something to us in passing wasn't selling papers but pesos. We entered the stream of shoppers on Florida and soon heard 'cambio, cambio' or 'dolares, dolares' every few metres. We stopped to talk to a couple of the callers – men or women, well dressed, not at all trying to hide what they are doing although it is most certainly not quite legal -, the amounts offered increasing from about 12:1 to 12.5:1, even 13:1. The first question always was how much money we wanted to exchange: the more money the better the exchange rate would be, understandably. The next item of interest was the denomination of the bills. Here, we soon found, we would have fared better if we had brought one hundred dollar bills instead of twenties or even tens.

An older man was willing to give us 12.5 to 1. He pointed to a kiosk in the middle of the pedestrian zone, a couple of metres away, and indicated that the transaction would take place in there. He did not want to see our money – while this business is as common as selling shoes or newspapers and seems to be quietly accepted, if not sanctioned by the police some rules still apply. After a few minutes a couple emerged from the interior of the newspaper kiosk, and we were ushered in. Here, a narrow space, barely wide enough for one person, extended the length of the kiosk. A man was waiting for us there, beckoned for Johann to move closer to him so that I wouldn't be visible through the entrance from the outside. He carefully counted out the money in 100 and 50-peso notes, and we proceeded to check every bill for obvious signs of falseness. Argentinians do this habitually and almost in passing, but for us it was a rather tedious process of holding each note against the light, hoping that we would recognize a fake bill. What were we looking for? The guy at the hostel had told us to first check that the vertical silver stripe appeared solid against the light, that the paper feels more substantial than just regular paper (which, in really bad fakes, is all that's used), and the watermark is a recognizable face, not just a blur. Our money exchanger showed us that hair, beard or clothes of people depicted on real bills were embossed. We made our way back to the hostel, satisfied with our transaction.

Twice more we visited 'Florida' for that purpose during our visit, and if we had thought the first exchange was remarkable we soon found out that we had probably only grasped the very basics of this intricate business. The second time we were caught in a downpour. People were crowding under protruding roofs and in entrances to banks and businesses, and still a few hardy young guys stood in the middle of the street, umbrella in hand, calling out their 'dolares, dolares'. We soon were successful in our quest and were now guided to a building housing small businesses like barber shops, small restaurants, bakeries, etc. This young man spoke English reasonably well and told us that he was working with his uncle. When Johann negotiated the conditions of the sale a few policemen were standing only a couple of metres away. 'Aren't you worried about the police?' Johann asked. 'No', the guy replied, 'my uncle pays $100/week to the police, so they leave him alone.' ...

The next day Johann went out on his own (obviously we needed more money than we had originally planned), and this time the woman he talked to led him to an even more obscure place, through hallways, up an elevator, into a small office where the transaction took place. He left with the money – and a business card which contained only a first name, but a couple of phone numbers: serious business, this money exchange. Where else would one find that people would print cards for illegal businesses?

Not only tourists need the service, however, but Argentine people as well. Understandably, larger transactions are usually done in dollars instead of pesos – and often in cash-, and when they want to travel anywhere abroad they need dollars as well since the peso is such a soft currency. The government only allows a small portion of the income to be exchanged officially, which has led to a thriving black money market.

Arriving in Buenos Aires

Rooftop terrace of the Estoril hostel

Three days ago we hadn't even arrived at our destination, and now it feels as if we've been here for a long time already. With the rigors of long travel, a bit of jet lag and the usual adjustment to different surroundings and a different climate I haven't been able to keep up with our experiences in my blog, and since we will spend the next few days visiting people we know it might be a little while until I can report at length.

We have already checked out of our room here at the 'Estoril' hostel, a beautiful old building with high rooms and ornate ceilings, situated right on the busy Avenida de Mayo, and right now I'm sitting in the common space, surrounded by young people from different countries, all busy checking cell phones, tablets and, in rare cases, laptops. From the adjacent lobby fragments of conversation and a few guitar chords drift over from time to time.  

In an email we received from the 'Estoril' we were told the best, cheapest and safest way to get from the airport to the hostel would be the shuttle from the Manuel Tienda Leon company. The next paragraph in the email dealt with taxis:

When taking a taxi or remise make sure to negotiate the fare before getting in the taxi. You shouldn’t pay more than 400 AR$ .

Extra cautions: You could consider telling the driver that the Hostel will pay for the ride, so we can assist you in case they want to cheat you. This can be done only when it´s a group of two or more people, so someone can stay on the taxi and take care of the baggage.
It is useful to write down the license plate number of the taxi before getting in. This will give you protection against scams such as taxi drivers insisting your money is fake, etc. It’s important to try to have small change rather than large bills i.e. 100 AR$ may be a temptation for a taxi driver. Please note, these extra cautions are for the worst case scenario, you shouldn’t feel frightened, but careful.

It's an interesting concept for us, living in a much different culture, to be fully accepting of a high probability of being cheated. I imagine we have been cheated by taxi drivers during our South America travels at one time or another without being aware of it, but we have not ever felt frightened. We habitually check out what the approximate price of a ride should be beforehand, and then ask the taxi driver what he will charge. That way there are no unpleasant surprises. 

 

The shuttle turned out to be a full-sized bus that took us to a point from where passengers were delivered to their respective hotels and hostels by company owned taxis, and a couple of hours after we landed we checked in at the 'Estoril' where we spent the first and third night. 

Views from the rooftop terrace

Right now I don't have time to talk about two interesting experiences of the last couple of days, exchanging money and the Cena Dinner Tango Show, but I hope to do so soon.