The importance of being idle

SALTA, ARGENTINA - 22nd March 2010

Prior to this morning, the last time I had to wake myself up for something, without the backup of having someone else to wake me up anyway, was at 3am in Auckland Airport back on that epically long 1st February. Clearly, I'm out of practice with this whole waking up malarkey - a fact not helped by my mobile phone-cum-alarm getting smashed back in Queenstown.

Having met up the night before for a cheeky bite to eat, Tom and I had decided to get up e.doors and hike our way up to the 1500m summit of Cerro San Bernado - the hill overlooking the city. In order to avoid the savagery of the tropical heat beating down later in the day, we agreed to meet bright and early at 8.45am at the foot of the hill, by the statue of Martín Miguel de Güemes - a hero in this northwestern part of Argentina thanks to his role in defending the north-west against the Spanish in the Argentine War of Independence. However, an 8.45 meet-up was looking pretty grim when I awoke and looked at my watch to find hands pointing towards a quarter to 10!

Feeling like a prize dickhead, I headed pessimistically over to the Güemes monument anyway - I figured at some stage on my way up/his way down we'd have to cross paths and I could apologise for being useless. What a surprise it was then, as I paused to photograph Güemes in all his military glory (see right), that over from my right strolled young Thomas - turns out he, being an equally useless boy, had done very much the same thing and had only been waiting at Güemes' foot for a bit over 10 minutes!

So up we went - step by step ascending to the top of this striking hill in, thanks to our mutual ineptitude, far hotter and more uncomfortable conditions that we'd intended, but the time flew by. Whether from the refreshment of having someone new to talk to, or the liberation of being able to speak totally frankly again, or just the immature amusement that comes only from laddish chat, it barely seemed like we'd set off before we found ourselves sitting pretty, looking down on Salta and - obviously - backing the bid!


The stroll back down was, surprisingly enough, much faster, but having both largely skipped breakfast thanks to our waking up woes, we were both bloody starving by the time we were back at street level. Cue scouting out a speciality empanada restaurant and, being hungry, growing boys, ordering a solid round of 6 (or 8?) special local-style empanadas (potatoes, chillies, and beef), followed by a proper main course involving plenty of meat, followed by fruit salads - all washed down with the delicious Salta Negra malt beer. Then it was definitely time to chill out back at Las Rejas.

Some quality kotching included time for Tom to get an email from his Mum with details of a Salta restaurant that had featured in The Observer's travel supplement - one of only 3 South American restaurants to be featured. As the same place had been recommended by Taylor back in Mendoza, there was no questioning La Casona del Molino as our choice of dinner destination. Unfortunately, the place was a mission and a half from the city centre where we were and, after making the ill advised decision to walk, we discovered that we'd inadvertently and wholly unnecessarily walked a good 6 blocks further north than we needed to, so proceeded to cover the same ground again back south. All in all, we walked the best part of 35 blocks before finally arriving, and very quickly realised that it was very much closed. Monday. Closed Day. Not cool.

Now knowing not to make the same error of heading north/south, our walk back home in a straight eastward direction was hella shorter (probably still 25 blocks though), and with hunger and time nipping at our heels we found ourselves in Plaza 9 de Julio (Iglesia Catedral looking stunning in its lit-up state, below) and were sold by the classic, simple option of superpanchos (foot-long hot dogs) - which came complete with all ends of sauces and toppings. I got one topped with sweetcorn and one topped with something else; both were fantastic.


Well aware that last night's decision to book of 2 consecutive days of tours to cool places around the area obligated us to two consecutive morning departures of 6.30am, and conscious of our collective waking performance this morning, it is hardly a shock that tonight is an early night!

A Wild Week in Buenos Aires... by day

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA - 7th March 2010

The purpose of The Daily Rod, back in September at least, was purely to allow people to know where I was and what I was up to without their inboxes being clogged with annoying and impersonal bulk emails that they'd probably ignore or forget to read anyway, and equally to stop me having to write the same thing 25 times to different people. Its remit may, arguably, have subsequently expanded into various other realms - not least as a platform for my various inane musings about the world - but with this blog in danger of losing any sort of semblance with real time, it has become increasingly obvious how useless it becomes in serving its primary purpose when it's hopelessly out of date. The earthquake in Chile put this in real perspective - I had a load of messages from people who read the blog, but had no idea where I was because the last thing posted on there was from Rio de Janeiro almost 3 weeks earlier.

So, after spending a whole week in one place for the first time since being in Mangalore, Buenos Aires seemed like the perfect opportunity to fast forward this blog to a vaguely more sensible time lapse. Whether or not that goal comes close to being achieved, we shall have to wait and see.

Most people you talk to who've been to South America usually come up with the same answer when asked "what was you're favourite city?" BA has managed to build itself a status among backpackers that seems to edge closer and closer to legendary the more you ask people. But what nobody ever mentions, or at least failed to mention to us, is that BA is damn weird.

There's no denying it's a cool city, indeed one of the coolest. However, and Anna and I agree on this (an event so rare that when it occurs it should be duly noted), the place has an undercurrent to it - both in the demeanour of its inhabitants and the general atmosphere of its streets - that is just a little bit uncomfortable. It's not that you feel unsafe or threatened - the discomfort isn't of that kind. Rather, it seems like something that is embedded in the psyche of the city - a lack of thrill, of optimism, of get-up-and-go enthusiasm seems all too prevalent - a feeling that seems totally at odds with the very essence of the reputation Buenos Aires holds among travellers. The reason for why we both felt this is not something either of us could really pin down - to a certain degree the economic collapse in the early part of the decade could provide adequate reasons for a lack of optimism, but BA's weirdness seems to go beyond reasons economic. Drawing comparison with Rio de Janeiro - one of South America's other "heavyweight" drawcard cities - Anna was bang on the money when she noted how both cities have a blend of all kinds of people - ethnically, socially and financially, but in Rio they all seem to blend harmoniously together into one big happy Rio family. In BA, there doesn't seem to be any harmony.

Notwithstanding that somewhat dire analysis of Buenos Aires' social makeup, BA is still a fantastic city - but it lives upside down. You live by night and sleep, if at all, during the morning. Dinner comes after midnight - eating any earlier is the preserve of weirdos, or tourist gringos who have yet to adapt to (or can't handle) the BA-way. You go to sleep at sunrise, and have lunch at around 4pm. This is not just students or young people on holiday - parents are walking around with 3 year-olds in tether at 11.30pm; dinner in a family home is likely to be past midnight. This is Buenos Aires life.


One week is a fairly long time anywhere - my travels are certainly testimony to that - but the week in BA has been somewhat disjointed resulting in a strange blurring of days and events. Of immediate concern upon arrival was that Anna had various other things to attend to and had vanished off into the Subte (subway metro) less than an hour after we'd arrived at Che Legarto's BA hostel. However, Ellen was still with us from Iguazú and, accompanied by Jamie (who'd also just rocked up at our hostel), the 3 of us went exploring the city by foot. Plaza de Mayo was the first destination (see photo above) - a central square of sorts that is home to various civic buildings ranging from the colonial Cabildo to the Casa Rosada ("Pink House") - as the seat of the executive branch of Government it roughly represents BA's equivalent of the Élysée Palace. The central park and pathways of the central section of the Square give more of a hint to its special political significance for both Buenos Aires and Argentina - the scene of the May Revolution of 1810 that set Argentina on its path to independence from the Spanish, Plaza de Mayo today features several mounts of Argentine flags dawbed in slogans protesting about veterans' rights and various other issues, while every Thursday the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo continue their three-decade-long protests demanding information about their children who "disappeared" during Argentina's military dictatorship between 1976 and 1983.

The 3 of us continued random walking around the city, heading up Diagonal Norte to Avenieda 9 de Julio - the world's biggest avenue - and the Obelisk monument in the middle of it. A stroll up Av. Florida and a glance into Gallerias Pacifico brought me back to the same streets I'd walked exactly one month earlier, but we continued a bit further north up to the tree-lined greenery of Plaza San Martín before doing a U-ey and heading home. Interestingly, at some stage around then we were almost certainly within about 20 metres of Anna... but were totally oblivious to the fact until several days later.

We had the pleasure of Anna's company on Tuesday as we headed down to the famous barrio (neighbourhood/district) of La Boca - about half an hour to 45 minutes walk south-west from our hostel, heading through the artesanal shops, streets and buildings of San Telmo en route. You know when you've entered La Boca - it involves walking past the colossal gold and blue mass of La Bombonera ("the Chocolate Box"), the home of Boca Juniors FC (one of BA's two arch-rival football clubs, the other being River Plate). It's a fairly surreal experience - one minute you're walking through a fairly quiet, nondescript, residential neighbourhood with barely a person in sight, the next minute you round a corner and find yourself sharing the road with hundreds of tourists with cameras streaming out of coaches, tour buses and seemingly out of the walls - all posing in front of the multitude of blue and gold memorabilia that is dominated by a single name and face - Diego Maradona. A pretty good footballer, he's generally known round the world these days as an overweight abusive alcoholic whose cheating right arm robbed England of their rightful place in the 1986 World Cup semi-final. In Argentina, however, he's on a par with Jesus - a national hero who can do no wrong (despite the fact that his managerial ineptitude almost cost them their place in this summer's World Cup). Shame for them, really.

The intense colours of La Bombonera are mirrored across La Boca - the buildings are brightly painted and artwork ranging from grafitti to random "sculptures" to beautiful images are visible in every direction - a visage that comes to a head when you reach the street of Caminito. Although the droves of tourists somewhat tarnish its charm, the succession of pastel shaded buildings of every colour combined with simplistic architecture that hints of an Italian heritage give the place a genuine sense of identity and character that is intertwined with the area's proud history of tango. Indeed, it exudes the very feeling that seemed lacking elsewhere in BA.

With Jamie and Ellen, it was the same 3 of us that headed up to Recoleta on Wednesday that had scouted the city centre on Monday. The principle aim of the trip was to check out the famous Recoleta Cemetery - a massive necropolis of marble mausoleums that house the remains of Buenos Aires' rich and famous (most notably Eva "Evita" Perón) in a pretentiousness grandeur that is matched only by whichever tomb lies next door. The most poignant sight is the statue of Jesus Christ in the middle of the cemetery (right) - a simple statue of not great height, that is totally dwarfed in size and opulence by the tombs of those who supposedly died as his followers. If you ever wanted an example of Jesus' words, "the last shall be first, and the first last", being spectacularly ignored by the very people to which they word directed, come visit Recoleta.

The Cemetery wasn't the entirity of what Recoleta had to offer though, and a wander around vaguely to the tune of the LPG-recommended "Walking Tour" saw us check out the impressive architecture of the Buenos Aires School of Engineering, me acquire another Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt to add to the collection, a saunter across 10 lanes of traffic on a cool graffiti-strewn pedestrian bridge, and plenty of photos of the impressive Floralis Genérica sculpture in the United Nations Park. The latter, seen right, is a giant metallic flower, but is cooler than your average sculpture on the basis that its giant metallic petals open and close "based on the incidence of solar rays" - i.e. open by day and close by night. A good place for Jamie to join the illustrious group of England 2018 Bid-Backers...


A couple of journies were made to the leafy upper class Palermo neighbourhood over the week - Thursday's trip with Anna involved a walk through the parks and a couple of hours lying on the grass, while Friday afternoon saw me return minus Anna with a bunch of young'ns (18-year-old pre-university Gap Yearers) and check out the artesanal market and the general surrounding area. A fairly cool market, but the highlight on the afternoon was almost certainly a sign for "feria de la ropa" (clothes fair) on a random back street that got a few people excited; an excitement that burst like a harpooned balloon upon discovery that the "fair" consisted of a guy manning a small table and a single clothing rack - a total of maybe 20 articles of clothing. Whether it was false advertising or good marketing, you've gotta admire the guy's audacity.


Markets were also the order of the day this morning; the San Telmo area is dominated every Sunday by the weekly street market (see above) that runs the whole length of Avenieda Défensa - we covered about a kilometre of it but it could well have gone on for four. Between paintings, clothing, jewellry and the usual blend of souvenirs, there were also some unusual bits and pieces including a whole load of Homer Simpson doing the "Hand of God" t-shirts, coins with their interiors carved out around whatever design they have on the front, and - much to my excitement - a copy of Flashman in Spanish! Given that I'd just about finished my 9th book in the series I was tempted to purchase it... but common sense suggested by Spanish probably wouldn't do the book justice.

In a slightly overgrown nutshell, that largely recounts my various comings and goings of Buenos Aires during daylight hours. It is only by night, however, that BA really comes alive - but those tales will have to wait for another blog.

Anna's Baptism of Fire... part I

RIO DE JANERIO, BRAZIL - 15th February 2010

Today has already been one of the most fantastic days of my life, and there's the small matter of the world's biggest party still to come! My travels take a notable turn today, however, as for the remainder of my journey I will no longer be taking on the world solo - last night I was joined here in Rio by Anna, previously mentioned in Mumbai and various other occasions...

The weekend was passed with Rita and her sister taking me various places that wouldn't be too bad for Anna to miss - beginning with a tour of the legendary Maracanã Stadium. I've seen many a big stadium in my time, and to be honest the Maracanã isn't up to much from the outside. It doesn't have the towering height of the MCG, nor the sheer surface area of Wembley, and looks in many ways similar to the concrete-clad outer face of Twickenham. Through the internal tunnels and changing rooms - all shrines to Brazil's World Cup-winning heroes (all 5 squads of them) - and out pitchside, however, and you realise how this place once held just shy of 200,000 spectators. It is vast. The pitch itself, at 110x75 metres, is a bit longer and a bit wider than average, but for some reason it seems like an eternity from one side to the other - particularly across the width of the pitch. Anyway, I doubt there's ever been a more compulsory place to "Back the Bid".

I sampled the traditional Brazilian feijoada lunch at the Academia da Cachaça in Leblon, including the ubiquitous caipirinha cocktail (savagely strong), and had time for a sunset stroll down Ipanema Beach which, thanks to being arguably the most picture perfect sunset I'll ever see (and anyone who's been reading this blog knows that I've seen my fair share of picture perfect sunsets), brought a degree of wistfullness at my lack of camera. Rio may be one of the most fantastic cities on the planet, but the fact that you aren't safe to take your cameras on the subway metro system is a crying, crying shame. To give you some idea of what it looks like, however, I found the image on the right on Google Images.

Anyway, the fall of night saw Rita, her sister and I take on Lapa - the clubbing district - to great aplomb all round. Imagine the thumping alcohol-fuelled revelry of the Greek clubbing islands, mixed with the sheer volume of people and noise seen in Mumbai, but all moving to the samba beat that is just oh so South American. It may have been after midnight, but in Rio that is when the night begins - and how. Thousands upon thousands of people were just everywhere - you move in a throng and go where the crowds take you. Spontaneous al fresco dancefloors and bars appear on streetcorners where locals have rocked up with their cars and are pumping out tunes - and everywhere you look everyone is having the time of their life. We went into Lapa 40, one of Lapa's samba nightclubs, and danced away several hours watching an awesome troupe of samba percussions, singers, and most impressively, dancers strutting their stuff.

That was Saturday, today is Monday, and it wasn't much more than 18 hours ago that Rita and I, after a day* of Copacabana (compulsory visit to the city's most famous beach), Pedro Bonito (watching hang-gliders float down off a massive hill), and Barra (for an unsuccesful attempt to purchase a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt), were in a taxi home from the airport with Anna safely joining us from London. Despite the knowledge of a 7am wake'up alarm, it won't be much of a surprise that "catching up" chit-chat took us well into the early hours.

My first instinct this morning was one that has basically become foreign to me - feeling damn cold. Parked on the mattress underneat the air-con, it was a refreshing change from the unrelenting 40°+ heat of the day that has been standard issue since my arrival. 7am was, admittedly, a struggle, but by 7.30 we were on the road towards Ipanema to meet up with one of Rita's friends, her Canadian boyfriend, and the latter's brother who was visiting Rio as well. A two car convoy, and we were on our way up to Corcavado.

I've already spoken of the magical aura Cristo Redentor provides as it stands above Rio - but one thing you cannot appreciate looking up at it from the city is just how massive a structure it is. Monumental is the word - trying to capture the whole thing in one photograph is tough enough, leave alone trying to take photos of people... and that's just the physics, leave alone the hundreds of tourists rammed around you all trying to take the same snap. Looking down of the city serves incredible views in every direction, but for me it was looking back up at the statue that sent shivers of excitement down my spine - the simplicity but completeness of the facial details; the holes in his palms; even the glow of the stone in the sunlight; all contribute to making this one of the great works of man anywhere in the world.

Back down the other side of the Corcavado, we were pleasantly surprised by how early it still was and decided to make the most of time by tackling Rio's other famous hilltop - the domineering Sugar Loaf on the other side of town. There's a cable car up to the top, but being intrepid adventurers Anna and I took to the path... and 40 hot, dehydrated and very sweaty minutes later, spent a good hour taking many an identical photograph of the stunning views looking back down to the city. We took the cable car back down, which probably says more than enough about the climb...

Anna got to taste the traditional meat-rice-beans feijoada for herself at Academia da Cachaça, but arguably the most memorable part of her first day here in Rio came afterward, with a trip to one of Rita's friends apartments. We were told it would be a brief trip - Rita just wanted to say hi and bye - but as we walked into a penthouse suite, adorned wall to wall with all kinds of fascinating but random crap, and ascended a spiral staircase to a rooftop terrace complete with swimming pool, meat on the BBQ, and ice cold beers being offered to us... well we knew it wasn't going to be a brief visit. About 15 people were up there just loving life - and both Anna and I were in agreement that coming across a place like this will forever make any other fantastic apartment just that little less special. With legs dipped in the cool pool, sipping on an ice cold sud, with beautifully barbecued beef being offered to me every 2 minutes, I looked across the water to smile at Anna, and then just arched my head upward to find - right above us, with nothing else in between - the open arms and solemn smile of Cristo Redentor. All was good.

* after another late start (breakfast after midday), "day" would really be more accurately replaced with "afternoon"

Swimsuit Edition

FLORIANÓPOLIS, ILHA DE SANTA CATARINA, BRAZIL - 7th February 2010

Consider that people come from all over southern Brazil, Uruguay and Argentina to bask in the sunshine of Ilha de Santa Catarina's gorgeous beaches - with January-February holiday period being the absolute peak season. Further consider than Praia Mole (Mole Beach) has established a long standing reputation throughout the region as the "beach for beautiful people".

Take five 20-something-year-old guys, put them on Praia Mole for the day with an ice box full of beer, and arm them with a high quality digital camera with an 18x optimal zoom lens. And voíla:












Surprisingly enough, the soundtrack to the day was Lady Gaga's "Papa-Paparazzi"...

Oh and of course, we couldn't miss a great opportunity to get some locals Backing the Bid...

"You're a Gwaiii"

MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY – 3rd February 2010

Although I briefly mentioned the stifling heat and humidity of Buenos Aries, I should have put the 40° or whatever it was in some perspective by adding that it was heat of a magnitude foreign to even this part of the world – locals were just as uncomfortable as I was (leave alone the poor gringos walking around like looking like slow-boiled lobsters). It seems that unusual weather is very much in vogue across the world – my travels alone have featured devastating monsoons arriving a month or more late in western India, days of successive sunshine in Milford Sound running the normally gushing waterfalls dry in what is supposed to be the wet season, and all the while there’s been pandemonium back home with the winter to end all winters. Man-made global warming? There are more than enough people out there willing to argue about the cause, but everyone should have a read of an excellent commentary by Gregory Petsko (HT: CJ Harris) who beautifully compares the current state of the atmosphere with the hypothetical discovery of an asteroid heading for Earth. In the latter, people aren’t going to sit around arguing whether it is a natural phenomenon or not – natural or otherwise all that matters is doing something about it. Climate change presents exactly the same situation, but sadly politicians cannot, or will not, see it so.

This quite magnificently tangential turn on an otherwise focused introduction isn’t totally irrelevant, although its scant relevance can be fairly conclusively summarised along the lines of “it pissed it down with rain yesterday in Colonia, and it is pissing it down with rain here in Montevideo right now”.

Filling in a few blanks, I spent yesterday morning wandering around Colonia del Sacramento’s historic old town – its significance rests on its geographic situation just an hour across the Río de la Plata from the Spanish stronghold of Buenos Aries, making it the perfect location for the Portuguese to set up shop (i.e. build a base to smuggle goods). The fort, named Sacramento, was built on the adjacent island, and Colonia was established in 1680 as the colony for its inhabitants (hence the name). Although it switched hands between the Spanish and Portuguese several times over the centuries that followed, it has now been Spanish for the best part of 200 years and is unique in being a Portuguese settlement in Spanish Latin America, but its real beauty – and source of its UNESCO World Heritage status – is the preservation of its history in timeless cobbled streets and century old buildings.

Overcast skies and light drizzle were a bit of a nuisance, but it was still cool to get up close and personal with old structures like the City Gates and surrounding city wall (right), as well as the still-functioning lighthouse – the latter open for tourists to climb (and inadvertently, but repeatedly, smack their heads on a stairwell ceiling that gradually decreases in height as you ascend). It wasn’t long, however, before I was back at the hostel getting my things ready for departure – fellow Pembrokians Oli and Becca were arriving in Colonia by ferry at 1.30, leaving us just enough time for a bite to eat and general catch up before I had to dash down to the bus terminal for the 2 hour ride to Montevideo.

It’s fair to say I was still carrying a bit of lethargy from “The Longest Day”, and consequently remember absolutely nothing from the bus journey – I think I was asleep before we’d started moving, and woke as we ground to a halt in the sprawling mass of Montevideo’s central bus terminal. The “Red Hostel” was found easily enough by taxi, although it seems more than probable that I was subject to a special “gringo” tariff that charged me far more than it should have been – the 90 pesos (US$5) I forked out being about double the rate indicated in the LPG. The hostel was a good show though – powerful showers with complimentary towels and free shower gel (the latter being particularly useful when you have a tendency to forget yours in hostel showers around the world on an annoying regular basis), and a good little communal area that saw me befriend a motley crew of Aussies featuring Emma from Canberra, Luke from Melbourne, and latterly Scott and Mitch from Sydney. I opened a can of worms by bringing up the rivalry between Melbourne and Sydney, and with inter-Aussie banter in full flow we all sauntered into the city centre, accompanied by Barbára, also staying in the Red Hostel, but on a one week holiday from Buenos Aries. A good quality looking establishment in Piazza Matriz saw us dismantle some fine steak and a good quantity of pilsen beer, before we moved on to a bar on Bartolmé Mitre – ground zero of Montevideo’s nightlife. Plenty of banter, plenty of beers, and a good dancing session took us well into the early hours of the morning, and it would be several hours later that I recalled a university-esque walk home involving attempts at 3-man piggy backs and the standard issue bit of roadside food (possibly in the form of a burger, though details escape me).

This morning was a bit of a struggle, but I managed to wake up early enough to scoff down a good portion of free breakfast (something I’d failed to do in Colonia after getting woken by the staff at 11 in order to check out) – fresh fruit and strong coffee went down an absolute treat. The Aussie lads had departed (Scott and Mitch) or were in the process of departing (Luke), but myself, Barbara and another girl (from Spain, but living in Chile) made plans to hit the city’s beach before checking out the town in the afternoon. We made it approximately 25 steps to the beach before noticing a mammoth dark cloud coming our way, so went back inside and sacked off beach gear in favour of some culture in the Ciudad Vieja (Old City). It doesn’t take a genius to immediately notice all sorts of similarities to Europe, both architecturally and culturally, but while I would assume such imperatorial traits are found across most Latin American cities, what is interesting here is the extent and significance of Italian stylistic influence – buildings like the Teatro Solis would be more at home in Florence than Madrid. The Plaza Independiente is Montevideo’s most famous spot and the central focal point of the city, with the prancing statue of national hero José Artigas dominating the square (right) in front of the striking height of Palacio Salvo which, at 26 stories, was once South America’s tallest building. At the west end of the square is the Puerta de la Cuidadela (Gateway of the City), and seemed like a perfect place to Back the Bid...





Getting a coffee and a bite to eat turned out to be a bittersweet experience – the cute upstairs cafe we found had an interior that simply resonated with artistic style and contemporary chic... but the food and drink provided by the one-woman operation was both terrible and expensive in equal measure. More culture was in store though, with the city’s historical museum the next stop. Featuring the usual array of colonial and indigenous bits and pieces, its highlights in my eyes were its extensive and seriously impressive collection of oil paintings depicting scenes from colonial battles between European powers and other equally evocative imagery. The Museo Torres García, our next stop, offered art of a different kind in the form of the works of Montividean Joaquín Torres García. Known for abstract and cubist pieces, the displays follow his life as an artist: a circle around one gallery room takes you step by step from portraits of a most conventional form right the way though to lines and dots and “make what you will of this” shapes. I’m not particularly big on art, but I’m definitely a huge fan of Torres García – the fact that the sculpture on the right produced one of those “this really speaks to me” moments that I’m usually the first to parody says it all.

It wasn’t long before the heavens well and truly opened, and when it hadn’t ceased after some more substantial food on the Bartolmé Mitre we decided to cut our losses and grab a taxi home. However, rain in Uruguay is rare enough to bring things to a relative standstill when it begins – so getting a taxi immediately became next-to-impossible. After half an hour and getting ourselves thoroughly drenched first, we were on our way – now there’s time for a shower before dinner with Oli and Becca (who’ve followed 24 hours behind me to Montevideo and, just like in Colonia, appear to have brought crappy weather with them) and 8.15pm reporting time for my 9pm overnight bus to Porto Alegre, Brazil.

Parklife

BENGALURU (BANGALORE), KARNATAKA - 25th October 2009

While achieving minor fame on the side, I was able to check out some of Bangalore's sights with various relations (and get some more "Back the Bid" photos). Meeting up with a cousin, we went for dinner to "UB City" - a mini-Manhattan in the heart of Bangalore built by Vijay Mallya - owner of United Breweries (of "Kingfisher" fame)/tycoon/India's answer to Richard Branson - on the site of an old UB brewery.

It is like stepping into another continent. One minute you're driving down a half-built road inhabited by half-brained drivers driving half-smashed cars in what is best described as "classical" India - the next minute you're in the plushest New York city centre shopping complex with clean crisp multi-story parking, classy restaurants and outdoor piazzas and ultra-modern glass towers surrounding you - the tallest of which is a model of the Empire State Building. You've gotta take your hats of to Mallya - the guy's his own self-proclaimed brand ambassador - he doesn't need celebrities to endorse the Kingfisher brand when he's living the dream himself. For example, a few years back for his 50th birthday, he hosted a mammoth party in his bungalow in Goa. As you do, it was decided that a fly-by of Kingfisher Airlines' latest Airbus fleet should be organised, so a few phone calls were made and Goa airspace was closed for half an hour while 10 jet airliners cruised around Panaji. In India, great wealth always equals great power...

Roaming around with my uncle during the day(s), we also managed to check out some of the city's historical eating establishments, including Koshy's on St. Mark's Road - around since 1940 and caterers to HM Queen Elizabeth and the late Prime Minister Indira Gandhi; and Mavalli Tiffin Rooms - a quality thali joint on Lalbagh Road that represents the home of the MTR brand, now known internationally for various powdered spices, coffee, and various other pre-packaged bits and bobs. A quick Google search suggests they've even done well enough to have their own Wikipedia page!

Just down the road from MTR is one of Bangalore's landmark sights - the Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. The self-styled "Lung of the City" is a huge park right in the middle of town that features - as you would expect from a Botanical Garden - all sorts of plantlife from pretty much every climate across the world. It is always nice to be able to wander around an area that, despite being slap bang in the middle of one of Asia's busiest cities, has the peace and tranquility of the middle of the ocean - the cooling breeze lifting off the park's lake combined with the swathes of shade provided by towering canopies of tropical trees transport you to a whole new place - open space, clean air, quiet... it's all so anti-Bangalore!

While Lalbagh Gardens was a spectacular showcase for the flora of the region, a Sunday afternoon safari trip to Bannerghatta National Park very much ticked to fauna box. After shifting residence from one cousin's place to another on Friday night, we went on a big family trip - about an hour and a half's drive to the south of the city. The place must be about 1000+ acres, and is divided into various reserve enclosures for different animals. In a manner somewhat similar to Jurassic Park, you hop on board a safari bus and head off into the wilderness. Every so often you reach a gateway that opens up into another gate - a sort of double door mechanism to stop any of the big cats/bears escaping and going on a rampage - but within the gates you are treated to groundhogs and bison; bears; lions; tigers; and white tigers, in enclosures 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 respectively.

As I say, the enclosures are huge - once you're inside it is very much like you're out in the open savanna, and the bus driver uses his experience to spot various animals at a distance where possible. But occasionally, as anyone who's been on a safari will know, you're lucky enough to catch one up close an personal... and the thrill of my life came as we were approaching the exit gate of the final enclosure.

Kotching on the floor by the gate sat not one, not two, but three tigers. Two white, one red; both looking straight at our bus as it approached. It's worth pointing out that these vehicles are massively re-enforced around the window and engine regions, but you can't help feeling the adrenaline flow as you pull up literally 2 metres away from these three bad boys - sitting, flexing their colossal thigh muscles and generally looking like they owned the joint. The red one in particular had the sort of "I'm the Boss" look of unadulterated power that is blatantly thinking, "I could absolutely munch these guys". There are some killer photos, and they will appear very soon (they're uploaded on the computer, so they actually will be there soon!).


The final chapter of Bangalore before the morning's train journey to Mangalore was a stop at Fanoo's, another famous haunt at Johnson Market. It is no exaggeration to say I've eaten my fair share of kebabs of all varieties in my time, and I was fast arriving at the conclusion that kebabs of the seekh variety obtained perfection at a nondescript restaurant on Drummond Street (near Euston Station in London). However, sitting in the back seat of my cousin's car with his younger son* on my lap, I had a gastronomic revelation on a par with sliced bread. This seekh kebab was perfection wrapped in paper. Apparently the one I had was a "jumbo" size - I could have devoured about 5 on the spot. If rumours of a larger, "mumbo-jumbo" variety are true, my next trip to Bangalore could well be fast-tracked...


* My cousin's younger son - Kevin, 9 - provided an interesting repost to my views on Wayne Rooney. While his elder brother Brian has made use of the wisdom provided by his extra years and supports Manchester United, Kevin has - for some unfathomable reason - decided to support Chelski...

DR: "Wayne Rooney is the best footballer in the Premiership... he's pretty much God's Gift to football"
KF: "Wayne Rooney is a multi-coloured gorilla. And you're also a multi-coloured gorilla.".

The Oxford Union awaits...

Arabica, Robusta, and Grandfathers' Godsons

KUVEE (ish), CHIKMAGALUR DISTRICT, KARNATAKA - 17th October 2009

Following in the footsteps of my parents from their last trip to India in January, we decided to head up to a family friend's coffee estate in the Chikmagalur Hills, about 120km north-east of Mangalore. 120km isn't really that far, but through an all too Indian combination of poor planning, poor construction, and gross incompetence in redevelopment of National Highways, the journey takes about 5 hours. Ironically, the road quality improves dramatically once you leave the "Highway".

Once you're off the highway, the drive to the estate is pretty special - in particular the stretch of road the winds its way up and over the Western Ghats. We hit this section just before sunset, and the views looking down were pretty impressive. Think Alpine ridges covered with Amazon jungle plantlife. Again, photos will appear at some stage...

Anigundi Estate is over 100 years old, and has been in the Saldanha house right back to 1899. Mervyn, who is running it now, took over from his brother, who took over from his father, who had taken over from his father... (and possibly another generation in there - I forget). Modernisation has, obviously, gone hand in hand with development as the years have passed, but it's pretty awe-inspiring to think that a sizable proportion of the coffee plants on the estate today are those same plants planted decades ago - Robusta plants, in particular, just keep churning out the produce, year after year.

I don't want to turn this blog into a written lecture, so will brush over the details of the science of coffee-growing - suffice to say that it is very much a science (vastly more so than tea, as I saw first hand). It's seriously interesting stuff though, so consider yourself lucky if, come May, you're on the receiving end of an early version of the soon-to-follow Rodrigues Lecture Series on Coffee Plantation Methods in South-Western India.

Mervyn gave me a thorough tour of the estate, explaining the way everything worked, and pointing out the coffee estate next door (next door being about 3km away) where, about half a century ago, my grandfather (Dad's Dad) used to be Manager, and where my Dad and family used to come and spend their holidays. Pretty surreal experience, especially getting my photo taken with a plant that was almost certainly planted by my late Granddad. Things got more surreal, however, when we stopped to pick up the paper at the local store. I should emphasise that coffee estates are basically in the middle of nowhere, so this one store was pretty much the only place you could get a newspaper within an hour's drive or so. Thomas "Hound Dog" Hughes would appreciate what I'm saying...

Anyway, buying the paper, Mervyn explained to the old lady at the store that I was visiting from England, and my Grandfather used to manage the estate over the road. "What was his name?", he asked me - I reply, "John Rodrigues". The old lady's face nods - "Ah, ya - John Rodrigues!" Her son, Vivian, pipes up - "Ya - he's my brother's Godfather!". Sure enough, they call Chandran (the brother) from inside, and completely out the blue I get to get my photo taken with the Godson of my Grandfather (see right)... a Godson no one in my Dad's family seems to have any idea about! Good times.

Saturday means departure for Bangalore, but early morning we enlisted the help of Kyemala, one of the farm's labourers, to guide us up to the top of the estate's mountain peak - about 4000ft up. Thinking back over my long 21 years of life, I've met some pretty memorable people on my travels - last summer alone brought characters such as "Jonny Depp" (over-sized British backpacker with ideas above his station - think Runciman with a beard), "Mr. Sam" (dodgy tailor in Bangkok who claimed to have ties to the Bombay Mafia) and that crafty devil Akhmed (or something like that) in Jaisalmir - but Kyelama is without doubt my new favourite. First up, he's no ordinary labourer - he's about 75 years old but still fit as a fiddle, and has worked at Anigundi for several decades, before which he worked at the estate my Grandfather used to manage, as well as some stints at other places. All that while, he's never been further than about 10km from that place - but his wife and he are happy as Larry. Every Saturday afternoon is pay day, and by 10pm on Saturday night they've both spent their allowance on liquor and are both high as kites. The wife moreso, as she commands 60% of any alcohol purchased! Below is Kyemala "Backing the Bid":


Anyway, Kyemala secured his reputation in my eyes when we asked how old he was (translated from Kannada/Konkani/Tulu).

K: "What can I say - very old!"
Us: "A hundred?"
K: "Oh yeah, at least a hundred..."
Us: "Reallly?!"
K: "Yeah - lets see, the first place was 50 years, then 50 years here, then
30, then another 50... lets see... it's at least 175..."
...
K: "... and then there's this, and that... I think finally about
275?"
Us: "Ok - excellent!"
K: "Wait! There's another 10 years at the beginning - you've got to
add them too!"

Brilliant.

Training

MUMBAI, MAHARASHTRA - 6th October 2009

With our bus tickets to Mangalore booked for Wednesday afternoon, the latest episode of "D-Rod" on tour saw us take the opportunity to go gallivanting around Mumbai's city centre. Stage 1 of the plan, however, involved the not-so-simple task of hopping onto one of Mumbai's infamous suburban commuter trains.

I've been in some pretty damn crowded places in my time - being rammed against the metal barrier in front of 40,000 people at T in the Park to the beats of Kasabian was pretty mental, though in transport terms I always thought the Jubilee Line towards Canary Wharf at 8.45am would take some beating. That was before I saw this video of Japanese "train pushers" ramming a few extra passengers onto the Tokyo Metro:



But - and I'm sure everyone can guess what's coming - Mumbai trains take the metaphorical biscuit. The train pulls up into Borivli station, already with people hanging out the doors. Before the train stops, the wall of waiting passengers engulfs each and every doorway and ram-roads their way into the carriage - it's dog eat dog and anyone left by the wayside gets no sympathy. Tokyo-style train pushers are not necessary not because there are fewer people - there are probably more - but because nobody has any qualms about quite literally rucking their way into the carriage. "Into" is probably an exaggeration - as long as they are close enough to put one foot inside the carriage and have one arm around a handlebar, they'll be happy as larry just dangling outside the door frame. Contrary to popular beliefs, closer examination at a later stage revealed that the trains do, in fact, have doors... but are left perpetually slid open.

Credit where credit's due though - the trains run like clockwork, and the train leaves the station no more than 30 seconds after it arrives - regardless of what anyone is doing or attempting to do along its 16 carriage length. The economist in me appreciated the true efficiency of it all.

Anyway, about 30 minutes later we'd pulled up to Churchgate Terminus in the heart of Mumbai's old city centre - the moment you step outside you see the British influence on all the architecture. Most spectacular is Victoria Terminus - still called VT by everyone despite being renamed Chhattarapati Shivaji Terminus a few years back. VT is up there with St Pancras for grandeur - its outer facade mimics the London termini on which it is based, but towers above its surrounding in a way far more impressive than its British cousins.

Some of you may have heard of/noticed the England 2018 "Back the Bid" campaign on Facebook, where 40 *lucky* supporters got a free scarf in return for sending in photos of them "Backing the Bid" around the world. I managed to snag a couple of photos into the album from my pre-travelling sojourn to Switzerland (here and here), but the real snappy snaps have been here in India. Some classics in Mumbai town included one with one of the world-famous dubba-wallahs (see right). To quote Wikipedia (the source of all knowledge),

More than 175,000 or 200,000 lunch boxes get moved every day by an estimated 4,500 to 5,000 dabbawalas, all with an extremely small nominal fee and with utmost punctuality. According to a recent survey, there is only one mistake in every 6,000,000 deliveries, statistically equivalent to a Six Sigma (99.9999% accuracy) rating.

Photos of this, and several other Backing the Bid cheesy grins, will probably appear on Facebook in due course.

Anyway, we had a fairly comprehensive wander around downtown Mumbai, swinging by the historic Crawford Market (whose structure was designed by Lockwood Kipling - father of Rudyard) for a falooda. Somewhat an acquired taste, faloodas are made by soaking tapioca seeds in water, then mixing them into rose syrup with vermicelli and adding milk, basil seeds, sugar and ice cream. Bloody terrific for digestion.

Moving slight away from the touristy region, we wandered through "Chor Bazaar" - literally "Robbers' Market" (I'm fairly sure it's an unofficial name), where you can pick up pretty much anything under the sun for a bargain price that is solely attributable to the good old five finger discount. I'm reliably informed that if you go there wanting something that they don't have, they'll get it for you within half an hour. I'm fairly sure that whatever economy Liverpool has is built on this principle, but they clearly haven't perfected it quite to the same extent as these guys.

We made time to stop for a pint at Leopold's in Colaba - a tourist hotspot that was one of the places gunned down during the 26/11 terrorist attacks on Mumbai. They've left the glass with bullet holes ridden in as a reminder to all its vistors (see right) - it's always chilling to think that a couple of months before then Simon, Jamie and I were in there being the very English tourists that those nutters were looking to murder. From there we had lunch at a brilliant Goan place called Martin's - off the tourist trail but damn good food. The afternoon passed with various journeys around Mumbai's districts - Worli (to add Mumbai to my collection of Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts), Sion and Bandra were all visited before the forced our way onto a train back up to Borivli. End of days for Mumbai - next stop, home - Mangalore.