(To the tune of Old McDonald) Beth and Jason had a blast, I-gua, I-gua -zu!

Growing up, I heard stories of princesses in enchanted castles, tales of Fairy Godmothers turning pumpkins into carriages, and accounts that i had family who lived far, far away in an exotic land called Iguazu. I was pretty sure all three must be true, since I had heard the stories several times and even seen pictures as proof! Time passed, and the Tooth Fairy turned out to be a sham. I kissed a few frogs and no princes appeared [Jason V. claims to have come pre-packaged]. No matter how hard I tried I could never, ever make it to NeverNever land. I tried to stay strong, but I was beginning to wonder: Did any of my childhood legends actually exist?

Years flew by and I found myself out of college, with the pleasant fables of my childhood far behind me. A couple of years in the "real world" were enough for me, and I ventured off to try to discover the truth behind my one long-lasting childhood fairy tale: the possibility that I ( the poor little American with no ear for language) had a mystical family in magical Iguazu (that spoke Spanish fluently.)





What I discovered on that trip was so much more than my childhood fantasies had prepared me for. Turns out my family was a thousand times more amazing than my imagination ever could have dreamed up. After 27 years of stories, I had the opportunity to discover the truth myself, and I wouldn't change that experience for the world. So without further ado:











Thank you, Aunt Diane, for welcoming us into your home and sharing your life with us. And Jenny, for making us laugh until we cried with your crude humor and funny stories. To Jose, for your patience with our Spanish and accepting us freako gringos like we were born cousins. For Erica, who we have both dubbed one of the nicest souls we have ever met. For Fabio, whose smile spreads like dengue throughout a room and whose parrilla kept Jason smiling for weeks. To Lisa, for your genuineness, your modesty despite your perfect ingles, and for your kindred spirit. Diegie, for your enthusiasm for meat, grilled every which way and for your infectous smile. To Cami, for making us laugh at ourselves and our horrible pronunciation. For Emi, for inviting us to your 9th birthday bash and graciously accepting a $2 bill like a bar of gold. To Vali, whose scream is the most impressive we've heard, matched only by her flair for the (incredibly) dramatic, and for Gonzie, for making it okay for all the grown-ups to cry when the time came to say goodbye. And to Nestor, for his humor and impeccable taste in wine.

They say you can't pick your family, and I suppose they're mostly correct, but sometimes you luck out and your family is exactly who you would have chosen.

Thank you, Iguazu!!!!

In search of Nazis

Buenos aires, according to lonely planet and myriad other online sources of varying veracity, has the third largest Jewish community in the world outside of Israel. The south of Argentina, as well as many other portions of south America, is notorious amongst backpackers for having a gringo trail, which has a unique double, an Israeli trail. In of themselves these are mildly interesting facts, but when combined with south Americas history of harrorboring ex-NAZIs and currently outstanding war criminals, you have an extremely interesting juxtaposition on your hands. (1)

Stories abound regarding the connection between South America and the power players in the third Reich: from conspiracy theorist claiming hitler can (or could, he'd be 120+ years old now) be found on the vast content to factual evidence of the likes of Dr. Death (Mengele) living with and raising his family, to actual convicted war criminals being found and extradited to be tried by the Hague.

With these thoughts in mind we set out to visit a small village on the outskirts of Cordoba, with a less-than-pristine reputation, Vila Belgrano Our local hostel owner gave us a brief, and arguably specious, history of the town. He claimed it was founded by a group of German submariners near the end of WWII, who had ventured up a river as a result of being fired upon by the Americans. After abandoning ship, they, presumably, founded the town (lost in this is why the Americans gave up persuit after nearly sinking the sub). To add more intrigue to the story, he claimed that the town held onto its roots, displaying images of swastikas and other nefarious symbols on super-kitsch objects such as coffee mugs, biersteins and t-shirts.





We only had two days in Cordoba, so we decided to combine our visit to the small home town of Che Guevra with that of potential Nazis. Call it the axis of evil meeting the forces of communism, our tour of contentious historia in South America.

Unfortunately, after getting caught up in the life and times of Che we had little time to spare. We made our way to the bus station, which we found closed for siesta. A couple of bus drivers directed us to the main route, telling us we only needed to stand alongside the road, hail a certain company and they would bring us the rest of the way. Dubious, but our only chance at seeing the aborhent past, presently. We took the local bus 20 minutes to the main route where we were dropped into nowhere. We then proceeded to sit alongside the highway for 10 minutes, 20, 45 and right as we were about to give up, at the hour mark, our bus appeared over the horizon.

We didn't realize that it would take an hour and a half more to reach our destination, or that once there the last bus would depart at the setting of the sun (at least organized company; we in fact might have been able to take a collectivo later, but at that point we were so worried about getting stuck in some 30's German propoganda film, we booked the ticket there and then). This gave us 1 hour 30 minutes to find some NAZIs, or at least some filthy sympathizers.

As we rushed through town we encountered fashioned print t-shirts with the word Deutschland, mugs with the emblem of the rising eagle (German, but not condemnable), booby biersteins (self-explanatory), a pretzel dealer (2), and a beer hall by the name of "Viejo Munich", or Old Munich, which wouldn't be so horrible, but for the rumoured history of the town, which leaves one with a bit of that bilous taste in the mouth, especially when considering exactly which "old Munich" they are referring.





This is not to say I'd recommend visiting Villa Belgramo, or even that I had an exceptional experience, solely that the contentious history makes for interesting thought, whether you have 1 1/2 hours or two days, you surely will be forced to face this severely German influenced town. And though, thankfully, we did not encounter any blatant relics of a NAZI past, the fact remains that the taint of history still endures.

(1) Not to mention a fairly significant influence in certain regions by the notoriously anti-Israel group, Hamas.

(2) I must admit here that I did buy a pretzel, which my girlfriend refused to partake in as she did not want to support a possible collaborator/sympathizer. To which I saw the point, but my stomach failed to fully respect, mainly because the woman at the counter was 60 at the oldest, and though she might have been of German descent, clearly she was born outside the age of atrocity.

Note: The inspiration to visit was based solely on the information provided by our hostel owner. To say that anything regarding the history of the town is factual would be a misrepresentation as it is based solely upon word of mouth (a separate hostel guest did corroborate the story claiming to have seen swastikas in some shops). To give some insight into the owner's credentials, after correcting him for the third time regarding my name, I proceeded to go the next three days by my newest, and least exciting, sobriquet: Jeff.

Jujuy, Salta, Cordoba & the Joys of Waving at Tourist Attractions as You Whiz Past

Hating on Arizona abroad.




May day, though enjoyed around the rest of the world, continues to grate upon the collective soul of Americans, even those abroad (yes, we have labor day, but why not both? We're America, we should always strive to be the best, goddamnit.).

We arrived with bittersweet emotion to Jujuy. Our in-bus film of the day was clearly an instant classic that somehow bypassed mainstream cinema. "The Improbables," or something along those lines, starring Ice Cube, as a down and out drunk ex-high school quarterback with nothing to prove in a small town, is forced forced to babysit his studious, and fatherless, niece. Their tumultous relationship takes a turn for the uplifting as they find a common bond in football, high school football, nonetheless. Through this shared experience they form an unbreakable bond after she "improbably" makes the high school football team as the backup quarterback. CUT. That's when we arrived, no doubt missing the inevitable break in the unbreakable and the even more improbable mending after the football game in which she orchestrates the game winning drive with him watching, minus the tall-can-- which he dumped out halfway through the 2nd half, promising himself never to drink again. Welcome to the uniquely indigenous (by Argentinian standards) city of Jujuy, just short of a denounment. (1)

Horse carriages among fancy cars fill Salta´s street.

You might think I'm digressing a bit here, as this blog isn't about my desire for a broader selection of inspired sports tales that, instead of playing up racial stereotypes, do perhaps that, inspire (could we break this cycle, perhaps getting Tyler Perry to direct the black Mighty Ducks. Now that would break some cinematic barriers). But, you'd be wrong, because if you were asking yourself right now, "Why would Jason be discussing the merits of Ice Cubes latest direct-to-Netflix-queues-across-America instead of Jujuy?", it's a simple answer: May Day.




Apparently Argentina celebrates May Day like it's the half birthday (and literal interpretation) of the day of the dead. Outside of our Friday arrival, which welcomed us with a bustling bus station, the town was completely dead. No stores were open, no markets hawking goods, and the next morning not a soul in sight, excepting apolice officer and the person manning the bus ticket center where we got our ticket out of town as soon as possible. Jujuy may be a great city, but neither of us can vouch for anything but it's eeire silence, or dedication to laziness, on and immediately following May Day. Thus we headed to Salta craving something improbable, but not Improbable.(2)




Waterfall on top of the park up the aerosilla in Salta.



Salta. A big city, but much of the same May Day Melee. Much of the local business was closed because of the holiday and because we were there on a Sunday and it's Argentina, so nothing happens on Sundays anyways (they definitely abide by gods day off). We did manage to do a bit of sightseeing. We took in the Marina-like (without the Marina-ites) downtown drag, sampled the local beer (aptly named, Salta Cerveza), checked out the central plaza and rode to the top of the cities central hill in an aerosilla. It was an enjoyable few days in an all-together beautiful city, but rather uneventful, as far as eventful goes. Vini, Vidi, Vici. Yada, Yada, Yada.



The aerosilla in Salta.


Our last stop in the mad-rush back to Iguazu was a city both Beth and I had been looking forward to since we arrived, (and incredibly difficult to pronounce correctly by Argentines' standards) Cordoba (or Core*duh*Buha, as far as I can tell, at least). A university town by guidebook, an apparent Rastafarian destination by the looks of our hostel, a great base for natural beauty according to locals and an Argentinian cultural center/UNESCO world heritage site via Wiki. We only had 3 days/nights, so we "planned" our trip in order to take advantage of these specific traits.

Day 1: wandered the city. Checked out the college portion of town and attempted to relive our college days throughout the day by a) eating McDonalds French fries, b) not studying or working, c) drinking exceedingly strong and excessive amounts of booze (though without the express purpose of going out to hit on girls (and getting shamefully denied) (3) and d) enjoying the semi-carefree existence only those without the weight of daily responsibility can.

Salta

Day 2: day trip, which I will go onto with great zeal and an excessive amount of detail in the next post.

Dirty War Memorial in Salta


Day 3: Culture, with a capial C. And a dabble of history. Museums, historical centers, churches, and the occasional interesting architectural achievement sprinkled in, defined our last day. We visited the modern art museum, no threat to the MOMA, but worthwhile in that it was free. Wondered the center square, even venturing into the ancient, if conventionally ostentatious, church (no residual scars to show on my part). And finally found ourselves in the most interesting and powerful, if incredibly depressing, experience to date, the former headquarters of the Argentine secret police. If you've been keeping up-to-date with the blog (I don't fault you if you have, but if you haven't you might want to reference the Bariloche entry briefly discussing the dirty war--wikipedia might be a better source though) then you'll remember the senseless kidnapping, dissapearance and presumable murder of thousands of political dissidents in the late 70s and 80s. This former headquarters and detention center has been turned into a memoral for those that dissapeared. It contains first hand accounts by family and friends of those that were lost. Anything from photo albums to the written memories and even the occasional coloring book created by children of the vanished. I spent hours wandering the halls, looking at the past and present of the families and watching beths tears slide down her cheek as she flipped through the loss, and life, of an effected child. Incredibly powerful and hopefully a deterent for future political misgivings.

One of the saddest rooms in the world.

Hope from inside one of the cells.

We left for iguazu the next morning feeling that we barely scratched the surface of the city, but grateful that we were able to spend the few days there that we did. Our list of reasons to return steadily grows longer the more time we stay...

(1) Beth loved the movie and really wanted to finish it, hence the bittersweet, as in I was bitter about the movie and the city, Beth was sweet about the movie and the "holiday."

(2) what we were really interested in was the quebrada de Humahuaca. Something like "the Hill of the seven colors." But, since we had a week to make Iguazu--to intercept Beths cousin Courtney who was on her way to visit--we were forced to witness its blur at sunset. To which we waved, but snapped no photos in our moment of mourning. Please feel free to google pictures, we did, they were nice.

(3) We heard tell of a drink entitled "The Torremoto (earthquake)" that is a curious blend of effeminate/potent ingredients. Beth was curious, I was willing to brave new ground. With that in mind we went to the store and purchased the three simple ingredients: white wine, Fernet and (proverbial drumroll, please) cookie dough ice cream (not true, the final ingredient is pineapple ice cream). The exact equation was unknown to us, so by applying the scientifically tried and true guess'n'check method, we concluded two scoops of ice cream, a heavy glug of chilled white wine (almost to the top of the glass), stir to fully integrate piña ice cream, and top with a shot of fernet. Boom, excellence and a gay and festive evening drink for all to enjoy, if a bit emasculating.