If you thought the rat tail died in the early 90s, you were wrong. The rat tail is sported in many forms in Argentina. They range from the traditional to my personal favorite: the hanging jewel. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. 
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Truly Majestic Mullets
I must give a nod to the spectacular hairdos warn by Argentinian men. The Argentinians have taken the mullet to a whole new level. I give you the Rastallet. Business in the front and dirty-hippy in the back. If you thought the rat tail died in the early 90s, you were wrong. The rat tail is sported in many forms in Argentina. They range from the traditional to my personal favorite: the hanging jewel. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
If you thought the rat tail died in the early 90s, you were wrong. The rat tail is sported in many forms in Argentina. They range from the traditional to my personal favorite: the hanging jewel. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. 
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Waterfalls And Falls And Falls and Falls
Within the first twenty minutes at the waterfalls, I am drenched. Water sloshes in my shoes and my camera is soaked. I don’t care because this is a magnificent place. Falling, churning, splashing, liquid. The water first plummets and then broken into smaller molecular masses, is sprays back into the air almost to the height of the initial departure. The water vapor transforms the sunlight into rainbows. And what would a beautiful jungle-waterfall experience be without butterflies? The delicate creatures land on my hands, arms and shoulders. They hitch a ride as I walk from one area of the falls to the next. What a day.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Apart
Buenos Aires truly is a city that never sleeps. At 12:00am on a Tuesday night, restaurants are still packed with people. Maybe it’s that the clubs don’t get going until 2:00am or maybe it’s the constant consumption of mate, a mild narcotic. This city is awake at all hours, full of life. However, there is another side to the city. Amid posh apartment buildings, designer clothing boutiques and up-scale steak restaurants lies a different place; Cementerio de la Recoleta. When we arrive at the cemetery, we are given a map to negotiate the small roadways that twist and turn between expanse of marble and granite mausoleums. Contained within these structures are the bones and decay of Argentina’s most rich and influential historical figures. The miniature fortresses were built to hold the dead for eternity. Each mausoleum is an architectural masterpiece, complete with stained glass windows, spires, ionic columns, mosaics and statues. It is strange to tour such a place, the morbid beauty attract hundreds a day. 
A single statue grabs my attention more than plundered tombs and internal stairways that lead into unknown darkness. This statue of a woman (likely the wife of the barrier, morning forever-more over her diseased love) captivates my attention. Her stone face is abstracted by city pollution. She exist both in the purity of the white marble she was carved from and covered by dirt and grime that the world has deposited upon her over the years. As I peer at her, I cannot help but think that her face, her existence is a metaphor for everything. This would appear to be a strong claim: metaphor for everything. In all likelihood, it is too strong a claim.
Her face represents the world we live in: the dirty the clean, the life the death, the good the bad. But all the beautiful and even more so for the expression of surrender she wears.
It is this image that I keep in my mind as Julie and I prepare to part after nearly 6 months of travel together, 6 months of waking up in the same room and sharing every meal. Life leads us in different directions. As Julie ventures forward with her own plans, I continue on with mine. The parting is bitter-sweet. She is a friend like few I have in this world, a person who knows the dark and light that live within me. At the same time, I look forward to the freedom of independent travel. The freedom to continue on without compromise. I morn the loss of companionship as I wish her happiness in her future plans. Life is strange, souls pulled together and than apart. Needs shifting and wants changing. No situation is clear and splits of emotion occur more often than not. I cherish all that has past and all that is ahead. For what is light without dark and what is dark without light? The statue personifies this. Beauty watching over decay.
What will come next? For now, I am on my own. A situation that I find strangely comforting.
Her face represents the world we live in: the dirty the clean, the life the death, the good the bad. But all the beautiful and even more so for the expression of surrender she wears.
It is this image that I keep in my mind as Julie and I prepare to part after nearly 6 months of travel together, 6 months of waking up in the same room and sharing every meal. Life leads us in different directions. As Julie ventures forward with her own plans, I continue on with mine. The parting is bitter-sweet. She is a friend like few I have in this world, a person who knows the dark and light that live within me. At the same time, I look forward to the freedom of independent travel. The freedom to continue on without compromise. I morn the loss of companionship as I wish her happiness in her future plans. Life is strange, souls pulled together and than apart. Needs shifting and wants changing. No situation is clear and splits of emotion occur more often than not. I cherish all that has past and all that is ahead. For what is light without dark and what is dark without light? The statue personifies this. Beauty watching over decay.
What will come next? For now, I am on my own. A situation that I find strangely comforting.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Meat Sweats
Asados (grills) occupy picture window, tempting the stomachs and imaginations of passers. The smoky scent drifts down streets, wafting in the hot summer breeze. I should have known that a place called Siga La Vaca (Follow The Cow) might be trouble. I arrive at the restaurant as innocent as a spring chick. All-you-can-eat has never been a problem in the past. The bread is deliscious and I can’t help but eat two pieces. Rookie mistake, but what can you do? The salad bar is lacking on the greens but heavy on the prosciutto and provolone. I dabble.
It is time for the grill. I take my plate to the window and point at the various slices of medium-cooked steak that I desire the most. The grill attendees question my fortitude, I will show them. My plate is packed: shoulder, rump, leg, upper back, lower back, rib, and who knows what else. My plate is stacked with meat, only meat. After taking my seat, I go at it. My mother would disown me should she see this display of table manners. The beef (and maybe a little bit of pork) melts on my tongue. Juices elate my taste buds. Each cut is unique in taste, tender and supple. I marvel at every bite: smoky, slow cooked artistry. Half way through, I wipe a napkin across my brow. This is getting intense. Gentle perspiration turns into a persistent flow of sweat. Who ever said: “woman don’t sweat, they glow,” has never encountered me eating copious amounts of beef.
As I approach the window again, I contemplate bulimia. I have never vomited up food with the intention of continuing to binge. I have never vomited food by choice. I will not lie to you, the thought weighs as heavy in my mind as the meat weighs in my stomach. I am at it again. This time, I cannot taste the subtleties of the different cuts of meat. With my knife I remove small chunks from the greater mass, hoping that my body will not register the addition. I keep going. I tell myself it is delicious. Cognitively, I believe it. Physically, my body is finished. I continue on.
For those who have seen the movie Seven (with Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman) you might just imagine the scenes that are playing in my mind’s eye. Sure I am moments from explosion, I push the half-finished plate of meat away. I am done. The tenedor libre (all you can eat or more literally free fork) meal includes desert. I refuse. The bill cannot come quickly enough. Get me out of this restaurant and into a reclining position!!!
Success, I make it back to the hostel. I am in my bed. Life is bloated, but good. I drift into a meat induced comma. Little do I know the meat sweats that I experienced in the restaurant are only a prelude. At 4am I awaken drenched. My back, forehead, legs, arms and everything else is drenched in sweat. Clammy, sticky sweat. I can’t breathe, I must be running a fever. I feel my head. It’s hard to tell with all the liquid that has accumulated. Is that a purple hippopotamus over there? Oh no. I am hallucinating. I lurch out of bed and throw myself into a cold shower. I fill my water bottle and slowly sip at it, worried at my stomach’s ability to handle the additional occupancy. For the rest of the evening I toss and turn. This is horrible.
2pm the following day, I still have not eaten. Nothing. I am not even a little bit hungry. In fact, the thought of food still repulses me. It is not until 5:00pm that I am able to choke down some carrot sticks. I swear to a life of vegetarianism. 10pm (early dinner by Buenos Aires standards) rolls around and what do I order? The lomo. A beautiful tender juicy cut from the rear of the cow. Soooo delicious.
Post Script: though I had my camera on me for all of my beef eating excursions, I am too week of heart and mind to postpone the moment of ingestion long enough to snap a few shots. Maybe it is better that these moments are not commemorated.
It is time for the grill. I take my plate to the window and point at the various slices of medium-cooked steak that I desire the most. The grill attendees question my fortitude, I will show them. My plate is packed: shoulder, rump, leg, upper back, lower back, rib, and who knows what else. My plate is stacked with meat, only meat. After taking my seat, I go at it. My mother would disown me should she see this display of table manners. The beef (and maybe a little bit of pork) melts on my tongue. Juices elate my taste buds. Each cut is unique in taste, tender and supple. I marvel at every bite: smoky, slow cooked artistry. Half way through, I wipe a napkin across my brow. This is getting intense. Gentle perspiration turns into a persistent flow of sweat. Who ever said: “woman don’t sweat, they glow,” has never encountered me eating copious amounts of beef.
As I approach the window again, I contemplate bulimia. I have never vomited up food with the intention of continuing to binge. I have never vomited food by choice. I will not lie to you, the thought weighs as heavy in my mind as the meat weighs in my stomach. I am at it again. This time, I cannot taste the subtleties of the different cuts of meat. With my knife I remove small chunks from the greater mass, hoping that my body will not register the addition. I keep going. I tell myself it is delicious. Cognitively, I believe it. Physically, my body is finished. I continue on.
For those who have seen the movie Seven (with Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman) you might just imagine the scenes that are playing in my mind’s eye. Sure I am moments from explosion, I push the half-finished plate of meat away. I am done. The tenedor libre (all you can eat or more literally free fork) meal includes desert. I refuse. The bill cannot come quickly enough. Get me out of this restaurant and into a reclining position!!!
Success, I make it back to the hostel. I am in my bed. Life is bloated, but good. I drift into a meat induced comma. Little do I know the meat sweats that I experienced in the restaurant are only a prelude. At 4am I awaken drenched. My back, forehead, legs, arms and everything else is drenched in sweat. Clammy, sticky sweat. I can’t breathe, I must be running a fever. I feel my head. It’s hard to tell with all the liquid that has accumulated. Is that a purple hippopotamus over there? Oh no. I am hallucinating. I lurch out of bed and throw myself into a cold shower. I fill my water bottle and slowly sip at it, worried at my stomach’s ability to handle the additional occupancy. For the rest of the evening I toss and turn. This is horrible.
2pm the following day, I still have not eaten. Nothing. I am not even a little bit hungry. In fact, the thought of food still repulses me. It is not until 5:00pm that I am able to choke down some carrot sticks. I swear to a life of vegetarianism. 10pm (early dinner by Buenos Aires standards) rolls around and what do I order? The lomo. A beautiful tender juicy cut from the rear of the cow. Soooo delicious.
Post Script: though I had my camera on me for all of my beef eating excursions, I am too week of heart and mind to postpone the moment of ingestion long enough to snap a few shots. Maybe it is better that these moments are not commemorated.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Napping With The Penguins
What does one find at the end of the earth? Penguins of course. Ushuaia, the world’s southern-most city, the place where roads end, is home to a rather large rookery of these black and white birds. As I step onto the island, I feel as though I have just walked onto the set of National Geographic special. The fat squat birds dot the landscape and splash in the surrounding waters. A rainbow hangs in the air over the scene, just an added dust of magic.
They do not flee at my approach. I find myself standing less than three feet away from these bulbous creatures. They waddle, fat stores jiggling and wings flapping at their sides. Many are in the midst of a morning nap, snoozing on their stomachs. These are my kind of birds. Most people want to walk with the penguins, but for me, napping with the penguins sounds much more appealing.
When we leave the island, my clothes are covered in fishy penguin poo. Ahh, to be one with nature.
When we leave the island, my clothes are covered in fishy penguin poo. Ahh, to be one with nature.
Land Of The Ice Queen
We were told that the weather in El Chalten is unpredictable and more often than not, rainy and windy. Imagine our delight when we wake at sunrise to find a clear pink sky and beautiful day. Time to go. We ready ourselves quickly; scarfing down a breakfast of eggs and toast, lacing boots, filling water bottles and ensuring we have all the necessary cold weather gear. We are on the trail an hour after sunrise. 
The air is still, clean and invigorating. The view from the first 100meters of the trail sends adrenaline pumping through our bodies. The seldom seen jagged peaks of Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy loom in the distance. Our clip is fast, we serge uphill passing slower hikers. This is our day. Not a cloud in the sky.
We wind our way up the path through wind swept meadows and forests. The surrounding trees are short, trunks twisted by the weather. Their small leaves are ideal for resisting the wind and cold. The trickle of a stream creates soothing sounds. The hike feels strange, reminiscent in so many ways of the thousands of Colorado hikes stored in my memory. The landscape is similar, but tweaked just enough to be exciting and slightly unsettling.
The air is still, clean and invigorating. The view from the first 100meters of the trail sends adrenaline pumping through our bodies. The seldom seen jagged peaks of Cerro Torre and Fitz Roy loom in the distance. Our clip is fast, we serge uphill passing slower hikers. This is our day. Not a cloud in the sky.We wind our way up the path through wind swept meadows and forests. The surrounding trees are short, trunks twisted by the weather. Their small leaves are ideal for resisting the wind and cold. The trickle of a stream creates soothing sounds. The hike feels strange, reminiscent in so many ways of the thousands of Colorado hikes stored in my memory. The landscape is similar, but tweaked just enough to be exciting and slightly unsettling.
Two hours in and we have left tree line behind. Rock stretches out before us as far as we can see. Igneous, granite and sedimentary samples shift below our feet. I am walking atop every geologists dream. The sun is warm on our backs. The wind makes us aware of our altitude, whipping at our jackets and hair.
Over the bend and I can’t believe my eyes. Surely, this can’t be real. Lord Of The Rings has nothing on this moment. Stretching out before my eyes are the most jagged and daunting mountains I have ever seen. Their peaks rise in spires, like the castle complex of a fictional ice queen. Glaciers are tucked into crevasses, hanging like small accessories on the cold faces of the mountains. The wind pushes and pulls at my body, but I don’t care in the least. Places like this only exist in the distant recesses of my imagination. Julie and I are the only people here. For the moment, this place, this view is ours and ours alone. We watch the newly forming clouds drift and swirl in the wind. Birds drift and float atop the upsurges of mountain air. All is silent but for the wind. This is living!
Ot
her pictures from El Chalten: 
her pictures from El Chalten: 
Perito Moreno Glacier
Weathered spikes in shades of white, grey and pale blue. Contrast and shape rely on shadow. Sediment veins in patterns of pressure. My visual cortex is incapable of processing the intricacy and size of this mass. Creaking and lurching, it crawls toward me a fraction of a millimeter at a time. My life, my hopes and dreams are insignificant to the 34sq/km, 5,000 year old frozen geological wonder. Nature has done it again, I feel insignificant.
Check out the size of the 180 passenger ship in the above.A cracking sound pulls at my attention. I search for the first sign of movement along the seemingly infinite ice wall. There! As though in slow motion, a giant sheet of ice sloughs off. It appears to hang in the air. The bottom of the ice chunk catches on the water below. With nowhere to go, the upper portions lunge forward in an ice belly flop. Water flies through the air. The splash reverberates through the air. 
Submerged by weight and velocity, the ice chunk disappears below the churning water. Resurfacing, it bobs emitting ripples that would sink a ship. The motion slows and it floats innocently, like a giant ice cube in a punch bowl. All is still. Except for the light blue hue in the ice wall that indicates where the chunk previously clung, the mass is unchanged. Adrenaline pumps through my body. The air buzzes with the excited chatter of my fellow spectators. We scan the ice wall, sure that more is to come. No movement. Stillness. Creaking and lurching, we can hear the ice shifting in the center of the mass. No motion. We wait expectantly, any minute now. Now? Now? Nothing. The air is still.
An hour passes. We all feel lucky to have seen one large calving. The shared experience transcends language. We are connected by the glory of nature.
I have just determined that nothing more is to come, when a crack in the ice wall catches my attention. I can see the crack grow, splintering down the ice wall. This is the big one ….
Julie got it on film:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8YuvaUSW6ZA
Submerged by weight and velocity, the ice chunk disappears below the churning water. Resurfacing, it bobs emitting ripples that would sink a ship. The motion slows and it floats innocently, like a giant ice cube in a punch bowl. All is still. Except for the light blue hue in the ice wall that indicates where the chunk previously clung, the mass is unchanged. Adrenaline pumps through my body. The air buzzes with the excited chatter of my fellow spectators. We scan the ice wall, sure that more is to come. No movement. Stillness. Creaking and lurching, we can hear the ice shifting in the center of the mass. No motion. We wait expectantly, any minute now. Now? Now? Nothing. The air is still.
An hour passes. We all feel lucky to have seen one large calving. The shared experience transcends language. We are connected by the glory of nature.
I have just determined that nothing more is to come, when a crack in the ice wall catches my attention. I can see the crack grow, splintering down the ice wall. This is the big one ….
Julie got it on film:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8YuvaUSW6ZA
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