Don't Cry For Me.
"Las Malvinas are Argentinian" proclaims a sign at the border crossing. They certainly should be, but it does prove you can't always beat the English by pulling a fast one, doesn't it. I prepared for hostilities as I opened my passport but the officials were far more preocupied (they always are) with giving the large group (it always is) of Isralies a hard time. In fact, despite the recent anniversary of the start of the war, the only people to take the matter up with me have been a couple of Uraguayan pensioners wishing to pass the time whilst waiting for the bus. More pertinent for many Argentinians is the ongoing struggle for acknowledgement of attrocities commited by their own government during seven years of dictatorship. Posters calling for the re-appearance of long-vanished individuals and demands to know the fate of 30,000 (certainly dead) desaparacidos are not uncommon. Maggie would have done it too if she could've got away with it.
Ice Cubed.
With the social commentary out of the way, back to all the fun of the fair in a land where folk scoff steaks bigger that their own heads and insist on addressing you in the plural form (sadly, replying with the royal 'we' is not done). If New Zealand is a continent shrunk in the wash, Patagonia is a bicycle tyre that has ignored the warnings and blown itself up using the high pressure line at the car wash. Everything, including the empty space between, is enormous! Arriving at the Perito Moreno glaciar you are hit by a wall of cold air as if God had left the freezer open. On sighting it, you realise that the old fool has let the ice box get out of control again too. 250 sq km out of control. The sound of gawping silence is broken only by the lickety split of gigantic pillars crashing off the 60m high face as glaciar is forced to finaly conceed that gravity's dad is harder.
I Don't Get My Kicks.
Want to appear ten years younger? Take gale force winds, allow to pick up speed unimpeeded over 787,000 sq km of nothingess, mix well with unsealed gravel roads and apply liberaly to exposed skin. The Patagonia Peeling, all the stars swear by it. NB; no claims for loss of sight will be accepted.
Patagonia tests the soul. The emptiness in yours yawns in direct proportion to the vacant landscape. Tourists cling to the mountains and coast like awkward teenagers skirting the edges of an empty dancefloor, afraid to be the first to venture out. I'm ashamed to say I ran away from its' bleakness, the very thing that makes it what it is. Having worn myself two inches shorter from walking, and before the 45ยบ bend in my back became permanent, the only way was up, via the spine-spindling Route 40 which spans the entire nation from north to south. Covering approx half an inch on the map, we jolted for two days through a varied landscape of pampas desert, pampas desert and pampas desert where the vista (interupted only by the odd seething metropolis of three shacks and a sheep) mirrors the lumpy sky above and you become intimately aquainted with the odours of your fellow travelers. Ah but she is "a hard mistress" indeed. She torments you and drives you away but no sooner are you comfortably ensconsed with your fine wines and your fluffy pillows then you're already thinking of begging her to take you back...
Next time; some mountains. For a change.
"Las Malvinas are Argentinian" proclaims a sign at the border crossing. They certainly should be, but it does prove you can't always beat the English by pulling a fast one, doesn't it. I prepared for hostilities as I opened my passport but the officials were far more preocupied (they always are) with giving the large group (it always is) of Isralies a hard time. In fact, despite the recent anniversary of the start of the war, the only people to take the matter up with me have been a couple of Uraguayan pensioners wishing to pass the time whilst waiting for the bus. More pertinent for many Argentinians is the ongoing struggle for acknowledgement of attrocities commited by their own government during seven years of dictatorship. Posters calling for the re-appearance of long-vanished individuals and demands to know the fate of 30,000 (certainly dead) desaparacidos are not uncommon. Maggie would have done it too if she could've got away with it.
Ice Cubed.
With the social commentary out of the way, back to all the fun of the fair in a land where folk scoff steaks bigger that their own heads and insist on addressing you in the plural form (sadly, replying with the royal 'we' is not done). If New Zealand is a continent shrunk in the wash, Patagonia is a bicycle tyre that has ignored the warnings and blown itself up using the high pressure line at the car wash. Everything, including the empty space between, is enormous! Arriving at the Perito Moreno glaciar you are hit by a wall of cold air as if God had left the freezer open. On sighting it, you realise that the old fool has let the ice box get out of control again too. 250 sq km out of control. The sound of gawping silence is broken only by the lickety split of gigantic pillars crashing off the 60m high face as glaciar is forced to finaly conceed that gravity's dad is harder.
I Don't Get My Kicks.
Want to appear ten years younger? Take gale force winds, allow to pick up speed unimpeeded over 787,000 sq km of nothingess, mix well with unsealed gravel roads and apply liberaly to exposed skin. The Patagonia Peeling, all the stars swear by it. NB; no claims for loss of sight will be accepted.
Patagonia tests the soul. The emptiness in yours yawns in direct proportion to the vacant landscape. Tourists cling to the mountains and coast like awkward teenagers skirting the edges of an empty dancefloor, afraid to be the first to venture out. I'm ashamed to say I ran away from its' bleakness, the very thing that makes it what it is. Having worn myself two inches shorter from walking, and before the 45ยบ bend in my back became permanent, the only way was up, via the spine-spindling Route 40 which spans the entire nation from north to south. Covering approx half an inch on the map, we jolted for two days through a varied landscape of pampas desert, pampas desert and pampas desert where the vista (interupted only by the odd seething metropolis of three shacks and a sheep) mirrors the lumpy sky above and you become intimately aquainted with the odours of your fellow travelers. Ah but she is "a hard mistress" indeed. She torments you and drives you away but no sooner are you comfortably ensconsed with your fine wines and your fluffy pillows then you're already thinking of begging her to take you back...
Next time; some mountains. For a change.
posted by Kate at 4:02 PM
1 Comments:
Nice words. You should seriously start thinking about writing books.
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