Jesus in a Mine Shaft

About 50 km North of Bogota lies Zipaquirá, not much to look at, but home to the biggest salt mines in Colombia and consequently, "Colombia's first tourist attraction" (their words, not mine): the salt cathedral. The ocean that used to exist where Bogota now is was drained after the Andes mountain range rose up to form Colombia as we now it today, leaving a large quantity of salt deposits. While the indigenous populations had a basic way of creating salt cakes from streams and lakes, the Spaniards streamlined this process by boring into the mountainside.

While the tour quietly skipped over the sad-but-true fact of how these indigenous populations were forced to work in the salt mines, it did a good job of explaining the development of each of these crosses representing the 13 stages of the death of Christ were made. Being a miner was (and still is) one of the world's most dangerous professions, so the miners figured that one of the best ways to protect themselves from the many dangers of the mines was to pay tribute with a cathedral in their workspace. As we were led nearly 700 feet (200m) under the ground, the chambers got bigger and wider, reflecting some of the blasting and extraction techniques of the salt miners. As we reached the great hall with it's great statue and pews, we were informed that public church services are still held here every Sunday. I had to stop for a Star Trek looking picture next to this tablet of power:

 

We even did a mine shaft tour, where there was a "simulated" explosion and we got to throw pickaxes around mining for salt. After a disappointing 3D movie (which sadly did not rival Avatar), I tried my luck at a climbing wall and was humbly put in my place by the wiry Colombian operator, who had mad it look way to easy by scrambling around on the wall earlier.

Trucho Cubano, Cali High Society

Descending from the Cordillera Central and into the Valle de Cauca, we were bombarded by hot breezes as we headed towards Cali. This was of course, a result of our constant opening of bus windows to counteract the bus driver's sub-zero air conditioning (it's their thing I guess). In any case, we met up with a local Caleña that Brent had met in Panama for dinner at a Cuban restaurant. “El Malecon Cubano” is located in the swanky neighborhood of El Peñon and featured a full-size Havana taxi on the stage, as well as waitresses decked out in Che Guevara regalia. Alex sat at a long table with about 12 other people who all gave us a glance, then promptly ignored us for the rest of the night. I wasn't surprised, we weren't anything special to these Colombians: doctors, lawyers and trust-funders; they had all been to the U.S. before and spoke better English than our Spanish. Oh, and most of them were with their significant others, even more reason to not give a crap about a couple gringos.

Annoyed and hungry, I called a waiter over and ordered my Cuban restaurant default: Ropa Vieja with a Mojito. I tried to stay calm when I received a carne asada sandwich with bacon. “This is Fidel's special ropa vieja sandwich,” the cutesy waiter informed me and quickly edged away after I began to lambast her employer for daring to call itself a “Cuban restaurant” without having the most typical Cuban dish available. (I mean, even Cuban places in the mall have ropa vieja). After listening to a mediocre salsa band cover Buena Vista Social Club, I couldn't take it, I'd had just about enough of this poseur Cuban place and these well-to-do Colombians, I called it a night.

Sunday couldn't have been any different.  Alex picked us up in her truck in the morning to head out to her family's “Finca” or coffee farm. We drove up the valley into the pueblo of Pance, which is the destination for lazy Sunday relaxation. Though not suited for swimming, the river sits at a higher altitude than Cali and provides decent refuge from the afternoon heat. We had a great time chatting with Alex, her mother and our new friend, Antonio. While definitely more upper class than most of the Colombians we had previously met, Alex and her mother demonstrated that Colombian kindness and warmth is pervasive towards new people regardless of where they hail. They also had personally known victims of FARC violence some years before, lending powerful commentary our discussion. As we got more comfortable talking, I cautiously shifted the conversation to Uribe and the U.S. use of Colombian bases. While everyone agreed that the country had been made safer under Uribe, it was also noted that he had some things to answer for (such as the “falsos positivos”) and getting the economy on track. Their opinion on the bases shocked me a bit; not for their purpose (everyone always asks why the U.S. needs bases here) but for their opinion of U.S. soldiers.

It is general belief among Colombians that the U.S. soldiers that are stationed here hold little regard for their local populations (namely women). Despite allegations of rape (which after the famous case in Japan, seems unlikely) there is fair certainty among Colombians that U.S. soldiers have fathered many children with Colombian women before returning to the United States. Whether or not this is true, it is a matter that the U.S. military should address in it's Public Diplomacy towards Colombia and the rest of Latin America. The conversation returned to a somewhat lighter tone as we lunched on bife de lomo and salad and enjoyed a lazy Cali Sunday Breeze.

La Costa Norte

Photo update from the lovely Northern Coast of Colombia. My inner foodie has also compelled me to start keeping better track of all the sweet eats I come by.

Santa Marta/Taganga/Tayrona Nat'l Park

Eats '10

Indiana Jonesin'

From Manizales, we caught a bus to the pueblo of Salento (pop. 3000), on the other side of Parque Nacional Los Nevados. The small town feel was a nice change, Salento is a place where people actually said hello to each other on the street: I tipped my hat and offered "buenos tardes señor" to an elderly gentleman and he responded with "que caballero" and a smile. The only way to reach Valle de Cocora National Park is via Jeep, which they gladly run with the "pack as many as you can" rule; people hanging off the sides, wherever you can get a handhold. After a dusty ride and a short walk, we found ourselves in the midst of hundreds of wax palms, Colombias national tree.

In addition to growing nearly 60 meters tall, these palms were set against a surreal-looking backdrop of rolling green hills (which Brent remarked, looked like something from DragonBall Z or Sonic). Before trekking in Colombia, I had no idea how many hues of green Mother Nature was capable of reproducing to paint a palette of amazing natural beauty. As we hiked further up the valley, the terrain changed from grassland and wax palm to denser jungle and cloud forest. We began to encounter man-made development, long abandoned to the clutches of the jungle. As we crossed makeshift bridges over roaring rivers, I felt like the next turn could bring out blow-darting jungle pygmies a la Raiders of the Lost Ark. We came across a suspension bridge that scratched Brent up as he tried to avoid the broken slats below.

We were also reminded of the rebel FARC presence that had prevented tourism in this park only a few years before; there were certainly enough jungle tunnels that we saw to reinforced this fact. Though there had been FARC activity on the other side of the mountain as recently as last year, we felt safe, knowing the Colombian Military checkpoints we had driven by earlier would do everything they could to hold the line. A few more miles up steep terrain and we came across the Reserva Natual Acaime. The caretaker chatted with us about the eating habits of the Andean Bear as we sipped Aguapanela (chocolatey tea) with chunks of freshly-made cheese and watched the hummingbirds buzz around the air.

Into Thin Aire

Headache, shortness of breath, fatigue, I was familiar with these high altitude symptoms from my time in the Peruvian Andes though this time there was something new. Hands tingling, I clapped them together to try to get the circulation going and *OW* -jolts of pain shot through my palms and joints. I was a little worried, more than half of our group had already turned back, but our guide was yelling "animo! animo muchachos! vamos! (attitude guys! let's go!) encouraging us on to the summit.

Los Nevados National Park lies just a few Kms from Manizales, a town that sits at about 2,100 meters (7,000 ft). I had experienced some symptoms of the altitude when we arrived, but was able to sleep it off the next morning. Before we reached the park, we had a bit of a comical incident, as two guys from our hostel had accidentally hopped on our tour (in a minibus) while we had boarded the full size bus on a different tour (going to the same place). Both buses stopped for breakfast and we were forced to give up our comfy full size seats to squeeze in the two back seats of the minibus. This ended up being a blessing in disguise as our minibus was full of Colombians. We chatted it up with almost every single group on the bus, who were surprised to find a pair of gringos who could gift the gab. In particular, there was a mother traveling with her two daughters who had never seen a Yankee (in person), so they were a lot of fun.

As the hike up Nevado del Ruiz (Colombia's highest peak) began, the youngest daughter began getting really sick. Incredibly, the mother walked her two daughters down before double timing it to get back to the tail end of our group. Another feat of age in the face of adversity was a 50 year old father of two who scrambled past the guide (after his portly sons turned back) to be the first one of our group to summit. I guess it's all about physical and mental conditioning, which at least pushed me up to the top to ensure that people almost twice my age were not going to leave me in the dust. At 5,150 meters (17,000 ft), we were rewarded with a beautiful glacier that is unfortunately getting smaller every year, but a reminder of the limitless diversity that exists in all regions (and altitudes) in Colombia.

Aprovecha el Idioma

After nearly two weeks in Colombia, I can't figure out whether my Spanish is getting better or if the locals are just getting nicer the further South I go. In any case, we are meeting a ton of locals, all very eager to speak with a Yankee. Our hostel in Medellín was in the El Poblado district, very nice, very safe, close to many things. The only drawbacks for us were the amount of dude-bros in the hostel and their penchant for 9am partying. We did manage to put together a pretty good group of like-minded kids who, like us, spoke (or at least tried) to speak Spanish. This put us at a big advantage for meeting and having fun with Paisas, folks from Medellín and the Antioqua Valley.

Our first night out was a bit of a disappointment, while Poblado's Zona Rosa features a plethora of bars and restaurants, these are geared towards teens on the weekdays and families on the weekends. On Saturday, we decided to bite and head to the areas of town less frequented by tourists. As our taxi climbed the hill towards Las Palmas, we could see the enormous light arrangement left up on one of the hills for Xmas. There were several massive nightclubs with impressive themes that were all totally empty as it was only midnight. We headed back down the valley and were left on “Calle 33”, the main local drag. The bar we chose was oozing with local vibe and blasting loud Vallenato. I maneuvered my way between the gyrating dancers and ordered us a bottle of rum (as there was no beer). We received a fair amount of stares, which reassured me that we were off the “gringo trail” (as my buddy Paul calls it) and in the real Colombia. The owner gushed when talking to us, coming and checking on us several times to make sure we were having fun, and our tab was a fraction of what it would have been in the Zona Rosa.

We ended up at a cluster of local dance clubs and between the four of us, probably spoke to everybody who was there. We danced with the chicas, who were very amiable by accepting to dance with us for at least one song, even if they weren't really interested in us. Many of the guys there were impressed that we had made the effort to find the non-gringo area and gave us shots of aguardiente as they tried to practice their English. That night, we made a ton of friends, drank for practically nothing and my buddy Matt even scored a date with one of the hottest Colombian women I've ever seen. So let this be a lesson to you traveling in Latin America: if you aren't speaking Spanish, you're getting slighted on your cultural experience. ¡Aprendalo!

Feria Taurina

Today we witnessed the first "Corrida de Toros," the opener of Colombia's bullfighting season. That's right, Colombia ranks 3rd behind only Spain and Mexico in bullfighting popularity. In ‘03, I managed to catch a bullfight in Madrid that was by far, the most emotional sporting event I've ever been to: women were crying, men were shouting and matadors were showered with flowers and gifts. Outside Medellín’s Estadio Macarena, there were a few hundred "antitaurino" protestors facing off against a police battalion in full riot gear. I can understand the argument against bullfighting and while I'm no fanboy, I do think bullfights present an interesting cultural experience worth seeing at least once.

The protest may have had an impact, as the stadium ended up being only halfway full. In any case, those that did fill the seats started off by embibing mass quantities of aguardiente (anis-flavored liquor), which they drank out of buckskin "Daniel Boone" style water bottles. The first bout featured some incredible horsemanship, with the matador conducting all of the bullfighting on horseback, strafing, dodging and baiting the bull into fast paced pursuits. With the bull literally nipping at the heels of his mount, the matador had to change horses every minute or so because the movements were so strenuous and technical. He charmed the crowd with his daring moves and drew a huge applause whenever he made his horse rear up on two legs and pogo hop into the air.

The other bouts were more traditional and involved the picadors (spear-wielding horsemen), bandilleros (nimbly-toed barbthrowers) and matadors. To my delight, I had an old veteran fan sitting near me, regaling us with all of the proper jeers, cheers and audience participation expected at a bullfight. One thing he would not concede was that some of the bulls had been drugged. My friends and I (who also conferred with others in attendence) noticed that some of the bulls seemed very disoriented and sluggish during the fights, which generally lasted no more than 5 or 10 minutes. This was especially different in Spain, where each bullfight is 30 minutes. In any case, I don’t really agree that bullfighting is a “sport” as much as it is a cultural and historical experience, which means the next (and possibly last) bullfight I go to will be in Mexico.

Photo Updates...Finally

Since my Camera was stolen in October, I've had to rely on the photos of friends and other travelers, but I happily received a new Camera for Xmas and have been snapping away as much as possible.

Here are recent pictures from Cartagena, Colombia

Cartagena, Colombia

And here are some from my month in Rosario Argentina

Rosario Argentina

Seedy Santa Marta

Santa Marta is not the most scenic or recommended of cities, but you know what, guidebook recommendations can shove it; they've steered me wrong enough times. Every time Lonely Planet has characterized a large city as “seedy,” it has usually been just fine for me (Puno, Peru being the most recent). It seems that in this case, seedy means no gringos and lots of locals, which is what I guess the majority of tourists want.

A long bouncy bus from Cartagena takes us to the beachfront of Santa Marta, oldest surviving city in South America and where the great liberator General Simon Bolivar finally perished. After a quick survey and several fan photos, it's obvious that we are the only gringos in town. After calling out some teen girls for clandestinely taking our picture, we give them a pose, feeling like celebrity tourists. Noticeably less are the swarms of street hustlers and prostitutes; well, there are some of both, but their services are geared towards Colombians meaning we are left alone. We get a lot of strange looks from people, but when we surprise a couple in responding to their “why are the gringos here” conversation that they think we don't understand and end up receiving praise when we tell them meeting Colombians for us is just as important as the sights.

Gone are the tourist police, who have been replaced by military national guardsmen. However, instead of simply standing around looking intimidating, these soldiers conduct a little Army Diplomacy. They stroll up and down the beach, giving candies to kids and talking with parents. I saw one soldier give a fist bump to an eight year old who one day may grow up to fill those very same boots. I wanted to take pictures, but I knew better.

Militant Urbistas vs. Pacifictic Peruvians

Casa Viena in Cartagena served as a great staging point for outings, both night and day. We opted for the Chiva bus last night, which is sort of like an old school bus painted Rasta colors with musicians onboard grinding away and shouting Vallenato music. We were packed in behind an accordion player who had the Wesley Snipes “Blade” do’ plus a rat tail and tossed a bottle of rum to start. I couldn’t figure what the objective of the Chiva was: a halfhearted city tour? An odd musical experience or a tipsy tourist dance off? We got all of these things, with very little gusto on the end of our guides, maybe the Chiva just was. 

The bus dropped us outside some clubs that looked too pricey and too full of prostitutes to be fun, so we drank the remaining rum outside by the beach. A couple from Medellin heard our English and were even more excited to discover 2 Yankee brothers they could talk to in Spanish. “Antonio” had his wife pose with us for several pictures, why? “Because you are Yankees and I have never had pictures with Yankees, I love you guys!” He then went on to declare proudly that he was a staunch “Urbista” (President Uribe supporter) and that he wanted a constitutional change for a third term to kick ass and take names.

His demeanor struck me very much of a pro-war conservative in the States post-9/11 and pre-Iraq number II. He kept firing his fake machine gun up into the air to emphasize his points: “and we’re gonna smoke out all those socialist bastards out of the jungle, RATATATAT YEAH!” And this guy was almost forty. It reminded me of when we drove by the naval base and saw a huge statue out front of a Colombian soldier, flag in one hand, mouth open wide (presumably yelling) with his machine gun pointed towards the sky. He didn’t mesh well with Daniel, a pacifistic Peruvian sculptor who was one of the only other sole Spanish speakers in what became “the gang” for the night. Daniel and Antonio were lightly sparring words all night, Daniel usually deferring to take the high road and admit that Colombia was safer because of massive military mobilization. “But it’s not that simple,” he would whisper to me “mobilization of right wing paramilitaries has displaced millions and killed thousands.” It’s a difficult subject to discuss, especially when your own country has been so involved (Colombia still receives about $500-600 million a year in U.S. military aid). While I’ve been apt to talk politics in Argentina and virtually everywhere else, in Colombia I have just been listening. 

We ended up on the magnificent city wall, listening to downtempo electronic music at Café Del Mar. The majority of the people on the wall had opted to hang out outside the club as opposed to club-priced beer and we chose to do the same. I polished of a great looking burger on the way back as well, green tomatoes and peppers, yum.   

 

Nation Branding: Te Amo Colombia

I can’t get over how beautiful the city is. Some newly arrived Yanks asked me what highlights Cartagena had to offer any my reply was “the highlight IS the city.” You can simply wander around finding little fruit carts with exotic bevarages and snacks or just lounge in the shade of the city walls. While there is a fair amount of pushers and prostitution at night, one can defer unwanted attention with a "no gracias" or shameful finger wag (of which I prefer the latter). We set off to the Torture Museum, which is located in the same building where many of the Inquisitions between the 16th and 18th centuries. Many torture devices were on display, as well as more contemporary exhibits demonstrating some social injustices still perpetrated by the Catholic Church.

On our way back, I noticed a big exhibition in the main square, with young attractive folks in red jeans and fedoras offering information about Colombia to many of the foreigners who had just disembarked from a cruise ship. This was "Te Amo Colombia," a Public Diplomacy project by the Colombian government.  Each of the exhibits was made to look like a heart, showcasing various aspects of Colombian culture, such as celebrities (Shakira, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Juanes) and some you may not have known are Colombian (John Leguizamo, Edgar Renteria).

Aside from music there were other highlights of Colombian culture, such as dance, food and biodiversity. The exhibits utilized a high level of interactivity to showcase the mix of African, European and Indigenous cultures. Of particular interest was a series of blocks of travelors sharing their personal experiences in visiting Colombia:

We chatted for a while with Martín, one of the information people. PD folks will be happy to know that the organization funding the "Te Amo Colombia" is actually an autonomous body devoted to Colombian Public Diplomacy, much like the now-defunct USIA.The organization sends some Colombians abroad as Cultural Ambassadors, but oddly only to Germany and parts of Europe right now. Martín also talked about how the project in Cartagena was coming to an end in two weeks as the I gave him my USC Annenberg card and told him to check it out, maybe they'll get it. They are off to a good start anyways. Check out the Te Amo Colombia Facebook Page here.

Bienvenidos a Colombia

While leaving Argentina provided little relief from the summer heat and humidity, I was hit smack dab in the face with a dazzling array of colors that characterize the Carribean coast of Colombia. Flourescent pink, teal and rojos of quaint little haciendas lined along the beach and packed together in barrios with antique Spanish architecture make for a stunning contrast against colonial stone walls. And the people, seldom are there places where there is such a strong representation of African, European and Indigenous ancestry. You are bombarded with this triple alliance of three cultures in everything you see, eat, smell and hear in Cartagena, and did I mention, the entire city is surrounded by a giant anti-pirate wall?

Cartagena was one of the first stopovers for Spanish galleons who after colonizing most of the coast in the 16th century, began to make their rounds throughout the Caribbean before heading home. And where there´s treasure, there´s bound to be pirates, resulting in Spanish fortification of Cartagena. Most colonial cities I´ve been to have a section where it´s the old colonial section and the "new and improved" part of the city. Cartagena has about thirty blocks of lively city action within its ancient walls, which made it a blast to explore both day and night. As if the wall wasn´t enough, the Castillo de San Felipe, which overlooks the entire city and bay, stands as the strongest Spanish fort ever built and never stormed. It already stands as the best I´ve ever visited with panoramic city views and a labrynth of secret caves and passages within it.

Internet (well, wifi) is a less available, so I might be updating a little less than usual, but here are some initial observations:
1. Colombian food is actually pretty good (contrary to what others have told me) on the coast it´s a lot of fish, ceviche and chicken accompanied with fruit, rice and plantains. I will be devoting an entire blog to the ridiculous amount of fruit that is available here. Shout out to the return of the spicy, though they prefer to add homemade hot sauce after the meal is cooked rather than before.
2. Colombians are in general, much more open than Argentines to outsiders like me and their spanish is a little easier to understand, though the Coastal variety is a little stranger as its has a Caribbean twist.
3. There aren´t nearly as many Yanquis as in Argentina. I´ve met a few Euros and Aussies, but despite being at the height of tourist season, there are far less than in BsAs.
4. Cartagena is really safe. Granted, it´s the number one tourist destination in the country, but I see police on nearly evey corner AND strategically dispatched in places where they are actually needed like city parks, plazas and seedier looking parts of town. In contrast to Mexico, where I saw the Army everywhere, I´ve only seen a few actual army personell in contrast to the hundreds of local police, oh and they have been very friendly in providing me with directions or city information as well. More to come!

The Gringo Treatment: BsAs

I’m laying in bed at the El Sol hostel I hear the “happy birthday” song (in English) being sang by drunk, loud Americans and I’m not surprised. For years, Buenos Aires has been the jumping off point for many U.S. and European tourists wishing to explore South America. But each holiday season and summer more are coming; and more are staying. I hear English everywhere and when I attempt to converse in native toungue, I am rebuked by an Argentine who is staying in Buenos Aires “to learn English man!” Not to say this city doesn’t have a great deal of charm and amazing things to do, but I feel they are changing.

Tuesday night, we went to Peña de Colorado, a cozy alcove where Argentine Folk legends like the late Mercedes Sosa got started. My brother had been two times before, in ’05 and in ’08 and had gushed to me about the quality of food, live music and jam sessions that happened nightly. I first started to suspect something when our waiter informed us that they were out of the “cheap bottles of wine under 30 pesos. Our parilladada (assortment of grilled meats) looked impressive when we received it but upon further inspection it appeared that we had gotten the “gringo treatment.”

If you ever find yourself in a tourist spot in South America NEVER order the assortment, this same thing happened to me in Uruguay(see Anthony Bourdain is a Liar). When we told the waiter that this was a subpar assortment of fat, he shrugged and said he would tell the chef. Gringo treatment was confirmed when we got our bill, we were charged for an extra bottle of wine and extra empanadas, a difference of about $20 dollars. My brother, whose previous experiences at the Peña had put him in a deep funk, called the waiter out for trying to short us which was met with another “not my problem” shrug before changing the bill. The gringo treament continued, both with hassles from our hostel owner and the owner of a bar who “jokingly” said he would spit in our faces if we were American (Brent said we were Canadian).

This was only one experience, but both my brother and I have found gringo treatments occurring in far more places (hostels, restaurants, bars)in Buenos Aires than in the rest of the country. I fear that BsAs is getting “tapped out” by the increasing number of tourists visiting and increasing number of locals that try to take advantage of them. It’s endemic in both Peru and Costa Rica and it’s why I could never live in either of those countries: 50+ years of tourism + persistent poverty and inflow of rich tourists = the gringo treatment. The only difference in Argentina is that they may not know you’re a tourist until you order a choripan in broken Spanish.

Part of my reasoning in going to Colombia is to check out something that hasn’t been tamped down by the tourist Teva just yet. To my delight, the biggest tourist critique on Colombia hasn’t been safety issues rather, but the lack of people that speak English. Now I’m going to go throw some earplugs to try and drown out the cries for “Jaegerbombs” and Kanye West blasting in the background.

Scooby Don't - Avoiding Canine Agression in the Americas

Reconnecting with our buddy Martin meant heading to Juan's Hostel for more rooftop fun. Though we didn't realize it was a birthday party for two girls with at least 15 guests each. This presented a conundrum for giving saludos to everyone there. We obviously went to both the birthday girls, giving them a kiss hello and wishing them a happy birthday, but then merely waved to the rest and said our names, which I thought was sufficient. It appeared that we had made a grave faux pas in our Argentine greetings when the next guests that arrived went around the circle of more than 25 people, giving kisses hello and handshakes to everybody. The kiss hello is an unavoidable Argentine trend. Slightly ostracized from the main group for our lack of manners,  Brent and I decided to head to one of Rosario's biggest clubs.

Taura was on the riverfront, right by the boatstation and the first club that I had been to in a month in Rosario. Clubs are becoming less and less my thing, but I could see how rolling there with a big crew of friends (the only way Argies roll) could be potentially awesome. Walking back however, we decided to cut through the park, trying to take a wide berth around a group of sleeping homeless people. It wasn't wide enough to deter their guard, which was a fairly big dog that rushed out barking at us. Before I even realized what happened, it lunged at me, trying to take a bite out of my leg, I instinctively kicked it square in the face with my boot; causing it to jump back and come back at us again, this time wagging it's tail and head held low. I raised my foot again and scolded it with verbal threats promising the next kick would ruin it's night, and it ran off.

Brent was a little more shocked than me of what had just transpired. "That was crazy! Did you get bit?" No no bites, and at the time, it didn't seem that big of a deal to me. When I had been living in the barrio of La Plata, there were stray dogs everywhere, and though the majority of them have figured out it's easier to win more flies (or bones) with honey, some were a bit territorial. After talking to a couple friends, I was able to establish a couple rules for dealing with dogs in South America:

1. Just mind your business, looking them in the eyes can be seen as an invitation or threat, so as long as you keep walking most will leave you alone
2. Don't get startled or panic. Anytime I've ever been startled by a dog, it has returned the favor, getting more riled up, remember, they can smell your fear, literally.
3. If one does come at you for god's sake DONT RUN! You think you can outrun a dog? They live for this stuff. Just do what I did, stand your ground and yell at it. If it looks like it's coming at you, hit it with a blunt object or kick it in the face. If you present yourself as more trouble than it's worth, the dog will leave you alone, showing it you have no fear is key.

Even if you do get bit, your chances of getting mauled are relatively low, but I hear that Rabies vaccine is 6 needles to the stomach three different times, so it's best to avoid both ; ).

Beach Soccer Hooliganry

Rosario is a really spread out city, the hippest parts of which sit on the West bank of the River Parana. This makes getting around via public transit kind of a pain sometimes. After a 35-minute bus ride, we finally arrived at Playa Florida for some beachtime relaxin'. Though this was soon disrupted by a raucous soccer game, which just sprang up, forcing us up onto the sea wall. We weren't the only ones displaced and affected; the boundaries of the makeshift field were simply drawn around families with small children, I saw a sunbathing older woman take a soccer ball to the head and laugh and throw the ball back. Soccer is king in this country and everybody seems to know it.

Watching Argentines play is an interesting lens into their culture. It's more than just a pick up game on a beach, it's about pride (for this reason I also find Argentine soccer a bit annoying with it's over-the-top machismo). Their ball control is incredible, I was talking to my college friends living in BA who had once found themselves facing chubby 12-year olds in a pick up match and outskilled, outhustled and outmatch.

Later on, we headed to Alta Grande for a Muncipal flotilla that was to take place. The "Caravana de Deseos" (Caravan of Desires) involved an assemblance of maybe 100-200 watercrafts who raced down to the flag monument to place hand-written notes in the River Parana of their future desires for 2010. Policemen mounted on jetskis barking orders at Argentine "sailors" that were obviously too drunk to be piloting anything.

Dogs on the dance floor

Just as my brother and I continued our trend of bringing in the new year in the Southern Cone of the Americas, we also continued our trend (2 years running) of spotting at least one canine companion in the club on New Year's Eve, though he looked like he was about to throw in the towel:

After sleeping off his jet lag for 14 hrs, Brent was ready to explore the city. We went to Rosario's "Monumento de Bandera," a tribute to Manuel Belgrano, who designed the Argentine flag. We then sauntered along the Costanera, watching maté sippers, troubadours and lip-locked lovers enjoy the river scene. My buddy Martin invited me to his friend's hostel for a big NYE party. When we got there, I was a little surprised to find the hostel deserted of guests. Juan, the owner, had just purchased the hostel 2 months ago and was still remodeling.

We had a killer Mexican dinner on the rooftop of the hostel, allowing us a phenomenal view of the fireworks. I even convinced our Argentine host and guests to sample some tiny pieces of jalapeño, "pica mucho!" they exclaimed. One of the rowdier guests kept everyone on their toes by setting off what sounded suspiciously to me like pipe bombs on the other side of the roof. Midnight was the huge fireworks display which we were treated to 360 degrees of, but failed to come close to the magnitude and longevity of the display we had witnessed in Valparaiso one year earlier.

I kept asking Martin if we were ready to hit the club, 2 am, 3 am, 4am passed by until we finally got a posse together to mosey out to the clubs at almost 5 in the morning. I mean, I like an occasional late night but leaving with one hour til sunrise is just ludicrous. We ended up at a club with a huge outdoor patio underneath the contemporary art museum on the waterfront. It was impossible to navigate the swelling masses, but we had a great deal of fun people watching, which got even more interesting as the sun came up. As we walked back towards the hostel, we ran into a couple friends who were still bringing in the new year despite this sudden intrusion of daylight. Brent and I had to respectfully decline, citing our desire to avoid sleeping all day, which in turn, allowed us to spend most of today drinking maté, reading and planning out our Colombia trip in the park.