(old) Oh, the people you will meet.

sorry no photo of the festivities. but here's a photo from around Salta, appropriate because I was feeling a little penitent the morning after most of my nights in town.

What makes a good hostel, good? Sure there are the amenities (wifi, comfy beds, hot water and a clean kitchen) but there are also the people. And oddly enough, the hostels with the most amenities don’t always have the best people. So it’s rare when you get to a place where you have both packages. This hostel had everything. Perhaps it was because the owners, German and Eduardo, actually live there and actually made you feel like guests in their home. But the good company was the reason I wasn’t feeling so great this morning. Because of Tasha and Silvie, we had gone through the wine we’d meant to drink over our entire stay. But they were also one of the reasons we weren’t in any hurry to move on.

German tried to tempt us out with a visit to the small town of San Lorenzo. And even though most folks come to Salta to check out the surrounding countryside, I didn’t feel up to it. Besides we’d just come from the salt flats and seen all the rocks and desert we needed to for the moment. But Tasha and Silvie, those troopers, were all for it. They headed out while it took Adrian and I a little longer to get moving. But we did have to move. Thanks to an unfortunate incident with a wicker chair on the Isla del Sol, I needed a pair of pants and shorts to replace the convertible pants that were now shredded. Of course by the time we finally made it out to the pedestrian shopping area, it was siesta time in Argentina. We discovered that although it was Monday, all the stores were closed between 2 and 5. Yes, all of them. The imposed break gave us a chance to scope out our best bets for cheap shopping for clothes that might fit. And even walk to the bus station to buy our tickets to Mendoza for tomorrow. Then we camped out at the department store and as soon as the shutters were lifted we stormed in. In the uniform section we found a pair of good quality guide shorts that fit. However, the convertible pants were sold out in my size. Too bad, I was just getting into this shopping thing.

When we got back to the hostel, Tasha and Silvie were back and there were a few new arrivals. A couple from Singapore traveling with their young daughter, two French girls and two 30-something Brits, Del and Andrew. Andrew immediately tried to chat up the French girls in French but that seemed to drive them into their room for the night. Undaunted the Brits headed out to the grocery store to get food returning with little food and three bags of alcohol. Adrian was holed up in the lounge watching NFL highlights on the computer and I went to join him but they insisted that I, Tasha and Silvie stick around for a few drinks. They were only here for two nights as part of their two-week whirlwind tour of South America so they wanted to make the most of it. Uh-oh it was going to be one of those nights. They were good fun and even brought out the 8-year old Singapore girl early on. No, she didn’t drink with us. But she did enjoy mixing weird concoctions from Andrew's equally weird collection of alcohol that he actually drank. Fortunately for Andrew’s liver, she soon had to go to bed. But then it was time for German and his girlfriend Fabianna to join in. They had some time to kill while the suckling pig they were BBQing cooked. German brought out all the bottles of assorted alcohol left over by previous guests. A couple of sips into many of the bottles, and we had figured out why the liquor was left behind. Most of it either tasted of cough syrup or paint thinner. At this point, German thought it would be time to introduce all of us to the joys of Fernet, Argentina’s favourite liquor. Tasha and Silvie had already tasted it so they were excused. But Andrew, Del and I hadn’t. I tried to beg off but Andrew insisted I try it since it was so tasty. I should have know when he reached for his camera that I was in trouble. Somewhere out there in the cybersphere there is a video of me gagging as I spit-taking a tall shot of straight Fernet – a drink traditionally mixed with Coke.

I begged off any more drinks but hung around with the gang until 1am. I have no idea how late they went and I have no idea how the lads managed to get up for their early morning salt flat tour. But they did. When Adrian and I got up they were gone, as were the Asian family and the French girls. We just caught Tasha and Silvie as they headed out for a day of horseback riding and said goodbye. They were all a good laugh and it was too bad we were heading in opposite directions. That’s the problem with backpacking – you meet people whose company you enjoy and then you’re off, probably never to run into each other again. Of course if you run into people you don’t like then you’re happy about it. But we liked Silvie and Tasha and it was too bad we wouldn’t see them again. And as for Del and Andrew, well tomorrow they were headed to Rio and then Peru before running back to the UK. That was probably good thing, or so my liver told me.

Just after noon we checked out and headed to the bus station, grabbing a sandwich on the way. I’d heard so much about the comfort of Argentinean buses and was slightly disappointed to discover it was the same old type of bus we’d been on for the last few months. But then again we’d refused to pay $100+ dollars for the executive class upgrade. What was different about the bus ride, was the ayudante who was more like a cross between a flight attendant and Julie the cruise director from Love Boat. He led us in a game of bingo for a prize bottle of wine. It was good practice for our Spanish numbers but after last night’s festivities I was glad neither Adrian nor I won. Then it was dinner and movie time. I have to say the food was pretty good, except for the mystery sandwich meat. Just before it was time for bed, the bus pulled in to the town of Tucuman and Adrian and I hopped out for a cigarette break. Looking up from the ground, I saw a familiar face. At first I couldn’t place the guy, but I knew I knew him. And then it clicked, I actually had never met him. Him was Danny and beside him was Jillian. They were another couple I’d been emailing back and forth with ever since we discovered we were taking almost the exact same route through the same countries at the same time. We’d tried to meet up a few times but had kept missing each other. Now here we were, in a small town about to be on the same bus heading to the same time. We briefly chatted before we were hustled on board. Unfortunately their seats were at the opposite end of the bus. But we made plans to chat when we got to Mendoza the next morning. That’s the good thing about backpacking, you never know who you’ll run into or when.

(old) The joy of shopping.

Despite yesterday’s hassle it really was nice to be in Argentina, starting with breakfast. The Inti huasi hostel offered a nice spread of things we hadn’t seen in a while. Coffee, toast, dulce de leche, or course but more exciting, were the corn flakes. I’d never thought I’d get excited by breakfast cereal but that’s what backpacking does – you get excited by simple little things. And we’d just about forgotten about yesterday’s little border scam. We helped clean the slate by moving into the no-free nice room with private bath (including bath tub) and handing in our laundry. More excitement. Then it was time to actually explore Salta. Last night some of the other guests had been talking about the cheap empañadas sold at a little place on the main square and the promise of cheap and tasty food was a good reason to head to the square for lunch. The hostel was in a residential area but not to far from the centre of town. It was a good thing it was in a quiet area and it was Sunday because we needed to get used to civilization again. Sure we’d had a brief peak at it when we were in Chile but for some reason here in Salta it was immediate and stronger. There were stoplights! And street signs! There were huge grocery stores and trash bins on the corner. But it was also so green, lush and warm after our time in the desert. After freezing in Bolivia it was nice to be wearing shorts again, even if the strange clothes added to the disorientation.

But despite all this civilization, Salta was spookily quiet. It was Sunday and Mother’s Day in Argentina, meaning, everyone was at home or in church rather than out in the streets. It was a good thing because I’m sure I looked like an idiot gawking at all the beautiful buildings and shop windows. I’ll admit I was suffering from a bit of culture shock. Unlike the culture shock I experienced in Costa Rica, this was a good culture shock because the culture was Latin American not North American. And Salta was definitively Latin American. It was one of Argentina’s oldest cities and it was lovely. The square was old and leafy and surrounded by a pink cathedral, colonial archways and beautiful old hotels. But our destination was the empañada café. We found it and ordered a plate full and a couple of sodas. They weren’t super cheap but they were super tasty and the view from the sidewalk table let us take in the locals on a lazy Sunday.

We paid our bill and continued are informal walking tour. The main square was surrounded by pedestrian malls that were empty, all the shops being closed. There were beautiful buildings everywhere and evidence of ongoing restoration. A police station looked like a Moorish castle. The legislature looked like a palace. And family homes looked like Parisian townhomes. And the quiet streets we were able to appreciate them all without distraction.

However, one of the main attractions of Salta was the shopping mall. Adrian had walked there last night to fetch his McDonald’s. And now it was my turn to visit. After 7 months on the road, I was down to one pair of pants and a pair of shorts and my shoelaces had snapped rendering my trainers almost unwearable. The mall was the first modern thing we’d seen in Salta and it was tastefully tucked between the hillside suburbs and the old town centre but still in walking distance and despite it being Sunday it was open. Unfortunately, the shopping was not the best. The stores were all way out of their price range and even if we had been able to afford them, the designer duds did not come in my size. Le sigh. Just as we were about to leave disheartened, we came across a small outdoor gear store. They didn’t have much but I saw that they carried my Solomon sneakers with the annoying laces. I asked if perchance they had replacement laces in stock and they did – for less than I’d seen them sold for in Canada. Hallelujah! I bought two pairs just in case. I know it sounds like a petty thing, but honestly finding replacement laces for these super high-tech shoes was something I didn’t expect to happen and I was glad I ignored Adrian every time he told me just to buy a new pair of shoes.

We’d walked around town, had lunch, been through the mall and still had half the afternoon left. So we decided to take in the city’s major tourist sight, the funicular, called the teleferico in these parts. We walked to the park and found the boarding station that would take us up San Bernardo hill for a view of the city and surrounding countryside. The station looked like something from the 1920s and I was wondering about the safety of heading up inside a rickety old car. But a plaque inside the building revealed that the funicular was only 20 years old. It blended in perfectly with the old city but was shiny and new. And I’m glad because the funicular went high up and was high off the ground (photo above) and I didn’t want our journey to end in a crash to the bottom of the mountain before we'd had a chance to appreciate it. We decided not to walk down the mountain and purchased return tickets (Salta was small and walkable but we’d walked it all and our feet were tired.) and then hopped into our very own car.

The speakers pumped in classical music and in both Spanish and English welcomed visitors to the funicular and to Salta. I’m glad there was something to distract us because we were really far off the ground and every time the car traveled over a junction, it shook and swayed precariously. But the views were spectacular. Not sure they were worth the price of admission but close. And once we were at the top and on solid ground again we had time to take everything in. An annotated photo marked points of interest to look for, and I have to admit that I got most excited finding the large prison. But after looking around, there wasn’t much to do up at the top of the mountain. So we headed back down.

We walked through the park and to the grocery store where we loaded up on supplies for dinner as well as our first bottles of Argentinean wine. The good stuff was only $3 (the cheap plonk was $2) so we bought 3 for the next few nights. Perhaps not the smartest move because that night as we sat talking to Silvie and Tasha, the two English girls also staying at the hostel, we finished them off. So much for rationing. But I figure my success at the shopping was a good reason to celebrate.

(old) Tell me why I don’t like borders. Tell me why.

because my battery was dead no photos this one is courtesy of flickr user Emi ♫ and used under CC license with much thanks

If you’ve been reading along (first I should say thank you, and second apologise for the huge lag between posts), you know I hate border crossings. It’s not the bureaucracy but the touts and scams that drive me nuts. Ever since the horrible crossing between Ecuador and Peru that dread has just gotten worse. My new plan to counteract the dread and disorientation has been 1. make sure you’ve not spent hours getting to the border, 2. get a good night’s sleep before hand and 3. exchange as little money as possible when you get there. Waking up today, I’d already broken the first two of these new rules. It was almost impossible to get much rest on the train. Between the uncomfortable seats and constant early morning stops, I think there were only about 3 hours of actual sleep. So once the sun was streaming in the windows, I decided to stop the charade of sleep. Adrian was in a similar grumpy frame of mind. But we consoled ourselves that we were heading to Argentina – not know for its pushy touts and tourist scams. Perhaps this time it would be different.

We still had an hour or so before our arrival at Villazon – the Bolivian border town – so we headed to the dining car for breakfast. It was included in the price of our first class ticket and I suppose was where the extra money went. But I can’t say it was worth it. Breakfast was eggs, breads and crackers and café con leche. Better than nothing and it helped pass the time until we pulled into the station relatively on time – perhaps our German friend from Santa Cruz had already brought the Bolivan Rail Service up to German efficiency standards. The platform was packed. Most appeared to be touts selling overpriced bus tickets to groggy tourists. A little bit of research in Uyuni had revealed that most (maybe even all) of these tickets were horrendously overpriced and that the same tickets were available just across the border for far less. So we barreled through the crowd, swatting the pamphlets that were thrust in our face and went to fetch our baggage. Here we had to fight with the locals. We could see our bags within reach but weren’t allowed to grab them without handing our tickets to the baggage handler who ignored us until he had helped every local first. When every local was gone, he turned his attention to us. We pointing to the two bags in front but he ignored us and he went looking in the baggage car coming out empty handed with a shrug until I once again pointed to the two in front and began to pick them up. I thought he was going to slap my hand for touching the bags before he had checked the tickets. And then went through the whole performance of cross referencing every number on our tickets with the tags on the bags. I guess with our lack of sleep we looked kinda shifty or something. Or perhaps he was just trying to save us from the touts because most of them had left to chase the other gringos down the street. We hopped into a cab and for $2 we were let off metres from the border post.

The street was lined with money bureaus and we backtracked to the nearest one and converted our Bolivianos into pesos. The rate was almost the real rate and it looked real after our quick examination (gently used, water marks security bands etc.) So far, so good. With cash in hand we retraced our steps to the border and joined the line up of gringos waiting to get stamped out of Bolivia. There were no locals waiting and there wasn’t another line up for Bolivans or Argentines which was a bit odd. The line wasn’t moving very fast and some pushy gringos thought they could bypass the rest of us by heading directly into the office. Now, nothing upsets a Canadian or a Brit more than ignoring a perfectly good line up (or queue if you prefer). We’re folks that pride ourselves on the orderly nature of a line up and would go to war to defend it. There were three Brits in front of us, about to join Adrian and I in our battle against the interlopers. However, bloodshed was avoided when an official with shiny boots and a gun headed them off and waved them to the back of the line. The tourists didn’t give up and pretending not to understand the official’s Spanish tried to continue into the office. But the Border guy dragged them to the end of the line which was now ten people longer than when they arrived. The three girls laughed and celebrated the victory with us. The line suddenly sped up and we were soon at the counter getting stamped out. Even better, the line slowed to a trickle as soon as we were done and the pushy wannabe queue jumpers had barely moved. Now that’s my sort of travel karma.

We walked with the girls across the bridge to the Argentinean border. There was an old rail bridge that ran parallel to us, left over from the days when the Bolivian train used to continue on into Argentina. It was fenced off but it wasn’t deserted. No, this was the way the Bolivians and Argentineans apparently crossed the border. There was a steady stream of locals carrying huge bags hopping the chain link fence and crossing the border without showing their papers. It looked rather illegal but since there were watchful border guards everywhere I guess it was fine. As we got close to the shiny new Argentina border post, I have to admit getting a bit nervous. I don’t know whether it was lack of sleep or excitement over stepping into Argentina but the heart was definitely thumping a little faster and harder. Perhaps it was the fear of the unknown – Would we be forced to produce proof of exit? Would we have to pay some outrageous entrance fee? Or would they want to tax our electronics as imports? All these questions were going through my mind. And all for nothing. The crossing was painless and even the customs guy waved us through without searching our bags once he saw Adrian’s Canadian flag, proclaiming his love for Canada in perfect English. Okay, perhaps I’ll stop teasing Adrian (the immigrant) for the stereotypical flag on his backpack.

But the easy part was behind us. Now we had to go catch a bus to Salta. Rather than take a taxi I believed the guide book which seemed to indicate that the walk was a short one. Short only if you’re not carrying 25kg in luggage on your back after sleeping upright on a train. As we got close to the bus station, I was lagging behind Adrian and when I eventually caught up to him, he was already in line to buy tickets for the bus. He was trying to purchase the tickets with his non-existent Spanish. The ticket man was asking for 60 pesos for the tickets which appeared to say 30 on them. So I asked him again. The chaos of the lineup and the ayudantes telling us to hurry because the bus was leaving made it hard to hear, and now it sounded like he said 80. So I asked him to repeat it and he said 180 for the 2 of us. Behind us the ayudante grabbed our bags and was throwing them on the bus. I chased the bags while Adrian paid for the tickets. The bus was now beginning to pull away but before we could get on the baggage guy now wanted 2 pesos before he’d give us our claim tickets. I gave him a nasty look and asked him why and he told me to give him the money unless we wanted to miss the bus. So we had no choice but to give him the cash. And it got worse when we got on the bus. I looked at the tickets and discovered that this "direct" bus trip was in fact two bus trips on two different companies. And worse, the price on the tickets read 30 pesos for the first and 24 pesos for the other for a total of 54 pesos not 90. Scammed in our first hour in Argentina. It was a shock after Bolivia where we’d had a few moments with touts but had mostly been left alone and untouched as we traveled through the country. It was one of the reasons we’d loved it so much – cheap and hassle free. Now here we were in Argentina and people were demanding cash bribes from us and skimming money from our bus tickets. Wow, Argentina you have changed.

The gringo sitting across the aisle from us asked me what was wrong. I told him what had happened and he looked at his ticket. He’d paid 60 but was upset that he’d been over charged 54. But when he heard what we’d paid, he started asking other people on the bus what they’d paid. Apparently we’d all been charged different prices. Some Americans paid 75 others 70 but we’d gotten ripped off the most. Dmitri (yes, he was Greek) immediately called over the ayudante to complain. The ayudante was sympathetic and told us to complain when we got to Salta where we could get our money back. Dmitri was adamant that we all do that particularly when the ayudante told us the price should have been 25 for the first half of the trip and 24 for the second half. But to me, it didn’t make sense – the company in Salta would be a different from the one that sold us the tickets and probably weren’t even aware that this other company was reselling their tickets. There was no way we’d be getting our money back. But now I had 4 hours to stew until we had to change buses. Actually it was 5 hours because we were stopped at a customs check just outside of town because another passenger apparently had enough gold on her to raise the alarm. We were forced to wait for an hour while they questioned her and charged her an import fee. During this break, the South Africa couple behind us tried to make us feel better. They had just been in Argentina for 3 months and this was the first scam they’d encountered. But I wasn’t worried about Argentina I was just angry that we’d gotten ripped off at another border.

When we finally got to Jujuy, the other bus was already there. We had just enough time to grab our bags and put them on the new bus not before being asked for another 2 pesos from yet another baggage guy who had just lifting our bags one foot off the ground and on to the bus. Once again I refused to pay and luckily this guy gave us our bags without demanding the money. I was commenting on the cash grab, when the South Africans informed me that in Argentina it was customary to tip the baggage man (although the refusal to give us the ticket until we’d paid was unheard of – it was a tip after all). Oops, I almost felt bad but then I remembered that some joker had already gotten an extra 70 pesos out of us today and we had to recoup it somehow.

This second bus was nicer than the first and arrived in Salta on time. We immediately went to the Flecha Bus office to make our complaint. As predicted it was the El Quicacena company we should have complained to but the fact that they were selling tickets for Flecha bus was enough to anger the Flecha bus attendant, let alone that they were ripping people off in their name. We filled out a complaint form but since it was the weekend we couldn’t get much further. They gave us a formal receipt and the number of the head office. They were very nice and apologetic which was enough to make us feel better but I knew I wouldn’t be calling the number and wouldn’t be getting our money back. The amount we lost wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things – about $20 I think – and we wouldn’t have paid it, if we didn’t think that was the price for 7 hours on the bus. Plus, just having someone who appeared to care about a customer complaint was enough to make us feel better.

Now it was time to find the hostel. We needed a shower and to relax. Lucky the hostel was close to the bus station and even luckier that there was room available, albeit one with shared bath. The hostel was great. It was a converted house and it felt just as welcoming. The staff were super nice and made us feel very welcome. We jumped into the (hot water! high pressure!) shower and washed away the crankiness of the day. We’d survived another border crossing.