Going solo

SALTA, ARGENTINA - 21st March 2010

"It's weird isn't it - when you go to other countries you always see locals wearing English football shirts, but you'd never see English guys back home wearing Argentine shirts, would you?"

Proudly sporting my "Moscow 08" Manchester United shirt (following this morning's brush past a Liverpool side that really, really aren't very good), I've just finished a good value pizza here at "New Time Cafe" in the south-west corner of Salta's impressive Plaza 9 de Julio. The quite stunningly dense quote above came courtesy of one of two English girls sitting at the table opposite me, presumably after a cursory glance in my direction (and the relatively standard if woefully inaccurate assumption that my dark skin makes me Latin). I'm not sure if it's good that Anna isn't here right now or not - these two are prize specimens of almost everything she dislikes (in English people): unable to speak a word of Spanish (less than me, even); content to order vegetarian salads in a place specialising in meat dishes, and still not finishing them; not particularly attractive (admittedly not their fault); and patently lacking a couple of notches of basic common sense. Shame - she missed out.

I rocked up to Las Rejas Hostel here in Salta this morning after a long 20 hour bus from Mendoza and, first things first, settled down to watch the football. Actually, it wasn't first things first at all - an hour earlier I'd decided to help myself breakfast and some coffee, but had the unfortunate experience of picking up a jug of milk, pouring it in and tasting it, only to discover that the "milk jug" was in fact yoghurt. Not ideal.

Equally far from ideal was sitting on a computer in the hostel attempting in vain to find an online stream of the match. Finally, via Facebook and a useful post from a certain Robin Hill, I managed to get a stream... and discovered that in the 10 minutes I'd been looking for a stream I'd missed Liverpool scoring, a penalty, United equalising, and generally the best 10 minutes of the match. Again, not ideal.

At some stage after a post-match shower I sauntered out the hostel and over to here. The square is certainly one of Argentina's most impressive, and is dominated at its northern end by the beautiful 19th century Iglesia Catedral, resplendent in pink and white paintwork (right). Sadly, like so many churches on this continent during the day, it was closed - but then again with hunger calling me it was probably for the best.

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The near-on 1000km journey up here covers the best part of 10° of latitude - Salta is just shy of the Tropic of Capricorn, and you damn well feel it walking around in the early afternoon sun. So do the locals, apparently; the place was as dead as Liverpool's Champions' League chances - nothing open, barely a soul on the streets - siestas are the big business here. Iglesia San Francisco doesn't need to be open to be appreciated, however - its blood red exterior tapered with cream edging is so visually overwhelming you almost feel bad staring at it.

Anyway, Tom - one of the crew from our Mendoza vineyard and thermal pool adventures - will be getting into town around about now, so the next few days of South America are likely to involve more beer, less Spanish, and a lot more football than the previous 2 months. Happy days!

Beyond Belief

MANGALORE, KARNATAKA - 13th November 2009

Every so often something comes along that unites almost all people in communal disbelief. September 2008 saw one of those occasions, when a bunch of Hindu fundamentalists turned up at at a small chapel here in Mangalore armed with swords, iron bars and wooden clubs, and proceeded to smash the place - and anything and everything inside - to pieces. Those unfamiliar with the events should read the Enquiry Report, which gives a full account that I won't repeat here (and also explains the significance of certain things if you're a non-Catholic), but a brief summary is found on Wikipedia -

A group of youth from Hindu nationalist organization went inside the chapel of Adoration Monastery of the Sisters of St-Clare in Milagres and, in a quick succession, desecrated a crucifix, the tabernacle and the Eucharist, the monstrance, the oil lamps, the vases on the altar and a few statues of saints.

Up to 10 churches or prayer halls were attacked the same day across Mangalore, and the following days saw mass protests from Catholics in the area. At the Monastery, the battered and beaten crucifix, itself a heritage work of rare art, was left as it was for all to see - and subsequently has been placed in its own glass case outside the Chapel.

Yesterday we visited the monastery - a small, modest place hidden away from the busy Falnir Road; accessed from a tiny lane too small for vehicles to pass, noticeable only from a small sign off the main road. The monastery itself is private for cloistered nuns, but as a "Perpetual Adoration Monastery", the linked public chapel is always open, with the Blessed Sacrament always on display (see Enquiry Report for explanation of the significance of the Blessed Sacrament).

As you enter your eyes are drawn to a corner of the small lobby area, outside the entrance to the Chapel. Whether though instinct or conscious thought, you cannot help but shake your head as you approach; the shock of seeing the battered, broken pieces of the Crucifix slowly sinking in as you move closer. The Crucifix, alongside is smashed Monstrance, is encased in a glass display; the glass marked simply with "14/09/2008, 10.20am", and the words "Thus, I Loved You".

As I'm still unable to get my photos from the computer to the net, but this photo of the Crucifix is found on Manglorean.com.

I'd seen the photos like these over the internet from England last year when it all kicked off but, like so many things you experience through life, the chilling, spine-tingling effect of seeing it first hand invokes feelings that can never be felt through a photograph on a screen. Leaving religion, creed, and anything else aside, you are forced to sit back and wonder what sort of mindset could possibly possess someone (or several people) to do something so shocking.

But, at the same time, seeing it out on display as it is - a constant reminder for all to see - has the same symbolic resonance as seeing the US flag fluttering above the rubble at Ground Zero, or the bullet holes left littered on the glass of the still-bustling Leopold Cafe in Mumbai. You can safely say that some things will never die.