Saturday 19 August, 2023

The kids refused to come on a tour of the suburbs of BA. Their loss as San Isidro is an absolutely beautiful suburb.

We then went on a boat ride on the delta which I loved. Mr. Waffle thought it was a bit like a tour for the elderly and was unconvinced, but I am clearly leaning in to what, I suppose, I will have to call late middle age. The only negative element was the loud commentary in English, Spanish and Portuguese (there was a large, blingy Brazilian group onboard clearly driving the Argentinians bananas).

The delta is enormous and very attractive with its own infrastructure including water boats which pick up from your own jetty on the side of the water by your house and a supermarket boat that delivers your groceries.

There were numerous rowing clubs including “the Jewish”. It turns out Argentina has a big Jewish population of about 250,000. Who knew? A lot of these clubs were built in the early 20th century when Argentina was really rich and the world was keen on very elaborate club houses.

There was a museum to Sarmiento who was a 19th century president. The whole house is preserved in a special glass case. You heard me.

This upmarket area is the political base of Massa the economy minister. I asked our guide why she thought people were voting for Massa as the economy is, well, in some difficulty. Until that moment she had seemed very like me: same kind of age, children in college, husband in nice professional job, cousin who was an engineer who had emigrated to the south side of Dublin (small world – she gave us some alfajores to bring back to Ireland for him), similar slightly wishy washy views, appalled by hearing that some of her children’s friends had voted for Milei. This question, however, unleashed her inner fascist. “All the people getting social welfare money vote for him,” she said indignantly. “I know that in Europe, these people can’t vote in elections, but here they can.” We hastened to clarify that absolutely, in Europe, people in receipt of benefits from the State can vote and Mr. Waffle began talking about economic versus social and political rights but she was having none of it. “I am sure that this is the case in Norway anyhow,” she said firmly. We were absolutely baffled. Why would she think this about Norway of all places?

And then, she told us, the universities, which are free and apparently very good are “overrun with foreigners”. “What percentage of students are foreigners?” I asked. 4% apparently. It all made me feel a bit nervous about Argentina’s squeezed middle.

I tried to draw her out a bit on the relationship with Spain. It was like I was speaking a third language that she was incapable of understanding. “We are Spanish,” she explained. “But you got independence from Spain, you had a revolution, how does this affect the relationship?” I asked. I tried to draw parallels with the complexity of the Irish-English relationship but she was having none of it. She explained that one of the Argentine revolutionaries was Spanish “from Spain” she clarified. Yes, I understood but that doesn’t mean that there would be no Argentine bad feeling towards Spain. She looked at me, nonplussed. I was pretty baffled myself. I gave up. They love the Spanish.

When we got back on shore we had a look at some local markets which specialised in wicker; very attractive but, sadly, nobody was going to be bringing baskets back to Ireland.

On the way back into town our guide pointed out thousands slum buildings right against the motorway built there, quite obviously, in breach of all regulations. A bit depressing.

We got back at lunch time to an empty apartment. Very alarming. Mr.Waffle reckoned the children had gone to lunch and we should too. We went around the corner to the Pain Quotidien and, to our amusement, herself and Michael were ensconced. But where was Daniel? There was a slightly Jesus in the temple moment (I thought he was with you). Then I sprinted back round to the apartment where he was, in fact, still in bed. The relief.

That afternoon, herself had expressed an interest in going to the Malba art gallery. I would totally recommend. We taxied there and back (living like oligarchs approximately €2 each way – little “Las Malvinas son Argentinas” posters on the back of the headrests).

It’s a modern art gallery which I thought I didn’t love but after here and the Met in New York, I am beginning to reconsider. I quite enjoyed pointing out to Michael that he and this character have similar eyebrow action.

I was quite taken with this large work.

Corinne had suggested booking us a nice dinner towards the end of our stay and this was the night. It was a steak restaurant called Don Julio. When we arrived there were queues round the block but, at this point, you will be as unsurprised as we were that we were speedily accommodated leaving those whose lives were not organised by Corinne to weep and gnash their teeth in the outer darkness. Dinner was, hands down, the nicest meal we had in Argentina. We mostly like our steak rare and had learnt the word “jugosa”. This was the first time it was really as desired. The chimichurri (arguably Argentina’s greatest food invention) was excellent but so, more surprisingly, were the vegetables. We reminisced a bit about our trip and just had a lovely time. We were under heaters outside. It was quite pleasant but there were blankets. Mr. Waffle drew a comparison between me and Queen Maeve on the old Irish pound note. He is still alive, you will be pleased to hear.

Sunday, 20 August, 2023

Up again at 6 am to get the ferry to Uruguay which is only across the river. The ferry port was like the airport with security, passport, immigration and, most excitingly, passport stamps. Speaking of stamps Mr. Waffle was muttering anxiously about stamps and said, “Uruguay is a functioning country, I’ll get stamps there.” On a Sunday? I think not.

Herself stayed behind and initially, I thought this was a huge mistake. Spoiler alert: it was not a huge mistake. On the ferry, a nice purser let me go and have a look around first class. It was a bit underwhelming but I remain surprised that Corinne countenanced coach class for her charges. It was quite a short ferry trip – only just over an hour.

When we arrived, there were many ads encouraging Argentinians to buy property in Uruguay which seems to be a thing.

Our guide and driver picked us up and gave us a tour of Colonia del Sacramento which is a cute small town fought over by the Spanish and Portuguese and with architecture from both. Observe the Spanish v Portuguese streets.

Its big business is entertaining tourists from BA. It has a bit of a seaside village feel.

Then we had a lovely lunch and a couple of hours to wander on our own. All very pleasant.

We were dropped back to the ferry port for 3.30 and then to our absolute horror, our ferry was delayed by two hours. Honestly we had seen absolutely everything Colonia had to offer. We went for a desultory look at a local market but our hearts weren’t in it. We had tea and looked at the internet a bit. Inter alia, I logged on to the library app to see if the book I’d ordered had arrived. It had. The library app also managed to tell me that I was very far from home.

It was hours before we got back and then there were very long passport queues. Our driver was dutifully waiting for us in BA but it was 9.30 before we got home. Our saintly firstborn had dinner ready for the weary voyagers which was a highlight.

Monday, August 21, 2023

It was our last day. To celebrate, nobody got up before 10 am. In a signature move, we went to the Pain Quotidien for breakfast.

While Mr. Waffle snorted in disdain, on the way home I asked the man in the kiosk selling papers whether he had stamps. He only had the ones we had from the private courier company. “Where on earth do you post those?” I asked. He indicated a small discreet cardboard box at knee height. So, we posted our postcards, and if you got one, you’d better be grateful because it wasn’t easy.

We went to La Biela for lunch which was nearby and was a famous spot where all of the motor racing greats hung out back in the day (Argentina is big in the motor racing world). Crucially, from our point of view, we were all able to get something we liked for lunch.

That afternoon, Corinne came to our Airbnb to meet us. I was a bit dubious but, in person, I found her very warm and really lovely; and also the person most likely to be interested in our Argentinian adventures. She had only that morning flown in from Yerevan (but of course) where she and her son had been participating in the world Armenian games (who knew?), but was not to be deterred in her plan to see us. She presented us with a cactus and silver framed family photo of us up in the mountains near Salta. I was genuinely thrilled. What a nice gift. What a service! If you or someone you know is going to Argentina, let me know, I will pass on her details, you will not be disappointed but possibly plan for more downtime.

Then it was time for the airbnb checkout which was very thorough. I felt our host (who did not come himself but sent two young women to inspect) was not really psychologically ready to let out on Airbnb; he loved his (admittedly beautiful) apartment too much. I had thought he must be an architect because there were loads of architectural books about but the young women said no, he was a footballers’ agent. Honestly, he seemed much too sensitive and worried to be anyone’s agent for anything.

And then, our driver picked us up for the last time and we arrived at the airport. Daniel was very excited to see a Hard Rock Café but herself couldn’t face it and he said, quite bitterly, “I suppose it will be Ron’s Kale again.” They have different tastes, though herself introduced us to her airport motto “Always be Grazing” and stocked up to ensure that she could live that particular dream. Unrelated, but she had spent the summer unsuccessfully trying to read a tome on Spinoza and was disturbed to recognise his face on the front of some Spanish book in the airport; a sign, she felt, that they had spent too much time together.

We left BA to fly to Miami at about 9 in the evening BA time. It’s a nine-hour flight to Miami, yes nine hours, you read that right; you will remember Argentina is very far away. Mr. Waffle had sprung for seats together (let us not speak of the cost) which was a considerable improvement on the way out but still it was grim.

Tuesday August 22, 2023

We arrived in Miami at the crack of dawn US time, maybe 6 in the morning. My concerns about US immigration were misplaced and we flew through in about 45 minutes. Some profiling occurred as people took one look at us and tried to put us through the US citizens’ channel but we were steadfast in refusing and they shook their heads at our idiocy.

Breakfast in Miami was pretty grim. I mean actual breakfast was fine but we were all flattened and the kids dozed in their seats. We left for Philadelphia at about 8.30. You have questions? Do you know how much it costs to fly five people half way around the world? Well, anyway, this was the cheapest route but I would be lying if I didn’t say I was really regretting it.

We got into Philadelphia about midday. We booked ourselves into one of those airport shower things and all came out cleaner and marginally more cheerful.

I had a Philadelphia cheesesteak for lunch and, I’ll tell you what, nicer than you might think but I noticed that all the people pictured on the walls enjoying their cheesesteaks were pretty large. I have to say that dinner in BA breakfast in Miami and lunch in Philadelphia is not at all as glamorous as I would have thought. In fairness to Philadelphia, it’s a nice airport but it’s not somewhere I would necessarily choose to spend six hours.

We got on our six hour hop to Ireland that evening. There was a time, late July, when I would have thought six hours was a very long flight but not anymore.

I was sitting beside some nice older Americans who were going to Ireland for a week. Their first stop was Cork. “When are you going to Cork?” I asked innocently. “Oh,” said the enthusiastic Texan lady, we’ve got a car booked and we’re going to drive there when we arrive in Dublin. It’s only three hours. Maybe we will go to this Kinsale place you were recommending this afternoon. Honest to God, it’s no wonder they’re a superpower.

Wednesday August 23, 2023

We got home at 5am. As we were in the taxi from the airport, Dan got a message inviting him to a GAA match that very evening. Incredibly, he was keen.

We had a quiet day, we slept, we unpacked. I had some mate at home – still revolting.

That evening Dan cycled up to his match. I got a call from one of the trainers about an hour later. “We think Dan has dislocated his shoulder.” The GAA continues in its mission to ruin our lives. We brought him to the clinic, he was sore but not too bad and he was also starving. I went to a burger place across the road called the “Hog and Heifer” to ask if they did take away. Their gimmick as you cross the threshold is that an alarming moo sounds. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I think anyone would concede that I was fragile and not up to being loudly mooed at. However, they did do takeaway. I told the man that I was in the clinic across the road and would come back but shortly afterwards he turned up at the door of the clinic, burger in hand. A very gratifying touch. Dan had his x-ray. Not dislocated but not quite right either – endless physio to follow but at least we could go home.

My sister called, “I didn’t want to tell you before but you are Aunty Pat’s executor.” My cup runneth over.

Wednesday, August 16, 2023

We had half a morning at leisure! I went with herself for some emergency underwear shopping – some of mine seemed to have disappeared in the various laundry stops in the hotels. We went to this old-fashioned place with many assistants. After some discussion, they went into the back and found some large enough for me; it’s hard not to take this as some kind of insult.

We had been trying to send post-cards for some time. We bought extremely expensive stamps in Palermo Soho early on in the trip and it appears they were for a private courier company and the Argentinian postal service refused to deal with them – understandable enough, I suppose but Mr. Waffle found this out the hard way in the post office in Salta. Though he did see a combined pet shop and butcher which he really enjoyed. “A service from cradle to grave,” he observed.

As we were leaving our hotel there was a big gang of Italian pensioners leaving also. They had questions and I finally had a chance to speak Italian – “Ma come mai parla così bene Italiano?” Come mai indeed. I was delighted with myself after all my false starts with Spanish speakers. Even the family felt I deserved this.

Then R came to take us for a last mild walk in the woods and lunch. He was funny about his relations in Mendoza (his family tree is complex). He says he doesn’t go any more because it’s a sign of status to have European relatives in Argentina and he was paraded around like a show pony.

The walk in the woods was very pleasant and we managed to restrain R from taking us into the jungle. “The north of Argentina is a land of contrasts,” he liked to say and having shown us a lot of desert, he wanted us to see jungle. We, however, were steadfast in resisting as we had a flight to make.

We were quite sad to say goodbye to R and our lovely local driver. Still off we went to the airport where our flight was delayed for the guts of two hours. Corinne, of course, was on top of it and when we got to BA our Venezuelan driver was there to pick us up from the airport and drive us to the hotel where we were overnighting.

I saw these at the airport. Baffled.

Our hotel was in Palermo to give us a chance to explore the area, as Corinne put it. Even if our flight had been on time, I am not sure that we would have been up for an exploration. The hotel was a bit underwhelming, I mean good location and quite flash but the big city staff were not as friendly as up north. When we asked about overnight laundry we were told coldly that it was not possible. Just as well really as it would probably have beggared us. Was there a pool? There was. Did I get to swim in it? You jest.

Mr. Waffle had tired of complaints about accommodation and booked an extra room for the kids. Michael got to have the room to himself – he was delighted. I can’t remember whether I mentioned this before but at one stage Michael was so desperate to get away from us all that he checked fight costs to fly home the following day and found he could afford it from his savings. Herself was outraged when she heard this, as she had done the same thing and would have been unable to afford flights until the following week. I think Daniel enjoyed the trip the most? Did I say that when the kids were asked what was their favourite hotel, they said the Renaissance Heathrow airport because they all got their own room. This was the hotel they compared to a prison. I digress.

BA seemed huge after Salta and we plunged into the city where we found a very nice pasta place with, by Argentinian standards, lightning fast service.

Thursday, 17 August 2023

It was lashing rain and quite wintry for our 8.30 pick up.

We were going out of town to San Antonio de Areco in BA province and then spending the night on a guacho ranch. What, what? We were in Argentina, why not?

Our guide in San Antonio had a name as Irish as mine and when she heard that I had been to the Convent of Mercy gave me a big hug as she had too. She was a retired lady and despite her Irish name, entirely Argentinian. She was a bit polo fan and used to play a lot before they had to sell the farm in one of the many economic crises with which Argentine history is littered.

She had been an English teacher and knew everyone in town. The town is full of artisan workshops. They have the workshops in the back and sell stuff in the front. We bought some jewellery (lovely and very cheap); a heavy leather bag for carrying around your mate kit (lovely but has sat in the utility room since we got home as how much do we need to carry around mate?) and some artisanal chocolate.

The local church was imported stone by stone from Europe as there were no building materials in Argentina. Mr. Waffle and I both find this a bit baffling. Irish emigrants were big in this town and this list of parish priests in the church certainly proves it.

Our guide said that all the houses were only one storey as they were built without foundations, which explains something I had been curious about. We fled from the bucketing rain which had followed us from BA and had a nice lunch.

Afterwards, our guide got them to open up a local museum for us (unsurprising for those of us travelling Corinne airlines). It was run by some past pupil of hers and it was dedicated to an Argentine artist from the first half of the twentieth century who painted funny pictures of guacho life, Florencio Molina Campos. I had never heard of him before but I really enjoyed his work and one of my favourite Argentine purchases is a fridge magnet with one of his drawings of a horse on it.

Then we said goodbye to our guide. She was going on the trip of a lifetime to Ireland and Scotland the following week. We were terrified it would beggar her. Mr. Waffle had some sterling (I dunno, my husband the travelling bank?) and I was glad that he could give it to her but honestly it wasn’t likely it would go far. It also felt a bit like tipping one of my mother’s friends from the golf club, so quite weird. I imagine she quite enjoys the guiding work but that also she needs to do it to supplement her pension. Depressing enough.

We then were taken to our ranch experience in a place called El Ombú. Our driver dropped us to the side of the road and we were picked up by jeeps to take us to the estancia. It was a lovely place. I think all round for everyone, the best place we went to.

It was quite chilly and each room had a wood burning stove. Mr. Waffle had, yet again, sprung for another room and this time herself won the toss (poor Daniel). I’ll say this much for her, she couldn’t have been more grateful.

We handed over our enormous laundry bag to the staff and set about relaxing. There was an outdoor pool (of course) but it really wasn’t the weather for it.

There was a large drawing room with a pool table. We enjoyed playing but as Mr. Waffle said, “The only winner was sport and to be honest sport didn’t do too well either.”

There was table football which we all enjoyed. It was nice to just hang out and walk around the grounds and have nowhere to go other than to the other building for dinner. Herself found an enormous spider in her room so that gave us some mild excitement.

Our host was a descendant of the original German man who came to Argentina to make his fortune and who bought the estancia (in the 1920s, the relief). He was a genial man and chatted away with us. He had a great story about losing the top of his finger in a dog fight. The full details elude me now but they included the startling element that he had to extract his finger from the dog’s mouth and then drive with his finger to the hospital. To no avail anyhow because he lost it. He seemed pretty sanguine about it.

I talked to my sister on the phone. She was gloomy because, as she put it, she had taken a week off work to clear out one piece of furniture and it still wasn’t done. She bought my parents’ house and has been slightly lumped with clearing it out (I’m sorry but I’m grateful) and this enormous bookcase which my Nana bought from the canon in Killmallock nearly 100 years ago and was filled with stuff had to be emptied before her works on subsidence started (spoiler alert, the builders now say that they don’t need access to that room so her work was, if not unnecessary, certainly less urgent than she thought).

I had built up the fire in the bedroom in the afternoon and when we got back after dinner, I thought I would die from the fiery heat. I made Mr. Waffle sleep nearest the fire because I am kind that way. Motto: winter is not as cold as you might think in BA province.

Friday 18 August, 2023

The dawn chorus was deafening. I went out with Merlin and identified nearly a dozen birds. The most muscular cat I have ever seen in my life was sitting on the veranda outside our bedroom door looking grumpy and when I opened the door strolled in for a look around.

The kids loved the place and herself and Daniel both said separately that it reminded them of Ballyknocken where we have had very nice overnight breaks with Mr. Waffle’s family. It was similar in vibes rather than looks they explained and I knew what they meant.

We went horse riding around the estate. Honestly, it could have been a damp day in Kildare. I got Pancho, a very quiet horse that likes to eat grass (classic) and I really enjoyed it. So did herself but the others were, at best, more ambivalent.

When we got back, we had empanadas by the fire (lest we had got hungry since breakfast two hours previously) and hung out in the drawing room. Our host had arranged for us to keep our bedrooms for the day, which was a godsend, so we were able to lounge around very comfortably.

We had our asado lunch which was a lot of meat but fine. The young men who had accompanied us on our ride that morning were serving lunch. They had very much impressed me with their horse riding abilities and it was a bit surprising to find them handing out chops. Multitaskers, clearly.

Then we had some folk music and a truly impressive demonstration of horse training where our demonstrator seemed, if you ask me, to risk death.

Before we left, I went to pay for any extras – mostly laundry, I thought. And they said no. But what about the laundry, and so much of it, washed, ironed and folded overnight? “On the house,” they said. Honestly, would return in a heartbeat.

We were then driven back to BA. When we arrived the Airbnb was v nice but I found the explanations over-elaborate and the owner a bit over-anxious. We were all exhausted – I hadn’t thought it but maybe horse riding is tiring.

I made dinner for the first time on this holiday. I mean, it was pasta and packet pasta sauce so not a huge effort. The sauce, alas, had the consistency of soup. Unsatisfactory.

Will my next entry be the end of the Argentine odyssey? Stay tuned for further excitements.

Monday August 14, 2023

We went up to 3,500 metres in the Cactus National Park (show them what they like). Finally, here are some pictures of snow in the mountains.

Note the extremely unpaved nature of the road. Was I glad not to be driving? I most definitely was.

I became even gladder as we went up to “the bishop’s viewing point” along extremely narrow, winding unpaved roads. Weirdly it reminded me a little bit of Kerry.

Braving R’s disapproval we went to inspect the local tat for sale nearby. Herself got a necklace with a stylised suri bird and I bought a little polished stone chinchilla (“the animal of love,” the vendor told me earnestly, not everywhere you would have to say).

We saw many cows (weird), llamas, horses and donkeys in the desert landscape.

Also there were lots of places that weren’t connected to the electricity mains but were solar powered – even houses that looked pretty basic tended to have their own solar panels. I couldn’t help thinking it would be a great place to shoot a period film as electricity lines seemed to be non-existent.

R had taken the opportunity to pick up some goat and also some llama salami at the market. We ate it in the van. I can definitely confirm that it does not taste like chicken. Notwithstanding our consumption of exotic salami, we stopped for lunch in a traditional road side café. I should have said that the van always contained water and a range of snacks lest we needed to be nourished at any point during the journey. I don’t know when I last ate quite as much.

R pointed out to us that the jacaranda flowers were out and that spring had started very early. We made some combined gloomy noises about the impacts of climate change but those of us who had flown 10,000 kms to be there felt poorly positioned to take the high moral ground.

We wended our way back to Salta where, to my disappointment, we were staying in a different hotel from the place where we had got the brilliant laundry service. R said we would love it as a trendy boutique hotel and it was nice with huge bedrooms but it felt a bit like a boutique hotel that you could find anywhere. We were given the afternoon off which was a huge thrill. However, deep regret here, the boutique hotel had no pool. Was I to be forever thwarted in my desire to enjoy swimming pools in Argentine hotels? Spoiler alert: broadly yes.

We needed to change money and R took Mr. Waffle off to some exciting street corner operation trying to find the very best rate (something R regarded as a personal challenge). Mr. Waffle went with some trepidation. Following the primary election results where Milei did unexpectedly well the exchange rate went 700 pesos to the dollar, up from 500 when we arrived. It did fall back a bit later as the markets calmed down but this is a country that has defaulted on its debt nine times since it got independence from the Spanish in 1816 and, probably, more pertinently three times since 2001 so the markets are a bit wary. The poor old Argentinians.

The rest of us went to a second hand book shop with, sadly for us, no foreign language books at all, and then repaired to a café for a restorative cup of tea.

R, finally acknowledging my need to buy local tat brought us to the most brilliant market slightly outside Salta. The stuff there was amazing and I bought so many nice things. Delighted with myself. I bought a cactus wood bread basket, safe for export, since you’re asking.

For dinner, we had expressed a desire to have choripan again – reliving our first experience in BA. Our lovely driver M, said to R, “Leave it to me” and brought us to a local street side place. We had so much fun. R said, “You are an all-terrain family.” Which he meant as a compliment because he loves his jeep but also was not true as we were definitely not the kind of Andean climbers he was used to. In fairness, he was an all-terrain guide.

Tuesday, August 15, 2023

The boys decided that they would like to stay home and it was with some hesitation that I abandoned them in Salta while the rest of us headed off.

First we went to Tastíl to inspect more ruins. Again, we had the place to ourselves. 

There were rabbit like animals all over the place.  “Not rabbits, viscacha,” corrected R.  Although like rabbits, they are apparently unrelated. On first inspection, they have very different tails but quite similar ears. Cute.

R showed us how when you hit some of the rocks they were musical because they had metal in them.  More entertaining than it sounds. Your genius photographer took this snap.

We went up to 3500 metres and all was well.  We saw the old railroad for the mines.  R told us that there were huge Chinese operations extracting lithium around here.  He said that up in some of the mines all of the signs were in Chinese as well.  We all felt a bit ambivalent about this but the Chinese will lend to the Argentinians as I understand it and this is something most people seem to be backing away from.

R said that the fifth largest salt flat in the world is in the Andes.  Who knew?

Then we went to this old mining town (now much expanded), San Antonio de los Cobres, for our lunch.  This is a bit like what I imagine the Klondike was like.  It all felt thrown up and very rough and ready.  I see from the internet that the water there comes with extra arsenic. This was not covered over lunch.

We went for a walk near the highest point we had been to (4080 metres).  Herself and I felt fine but poor Mr. Waffle was really not very well.  The altitude did not suit him.  R spent a long time explaining the concept of Puna to us.  It seems to mean high altitude in the Andes but it’s related a bit to how you feel as well as the altitude.

There were many fields of llamas all of which I failed to photograph.

I finally broke R and we started speaking French.  God, I was delighted with myself.  He was very complimentary about my companions’ French and he took it upon himself to correct mine (that sounds sarcastic but we welcome opportunities for self-improvement).  He asked herself about how her French got so good and she explained that she had spent time at school in Tours.  She has previously told me that all French people know Tours and they know two things about it: i) it is where they speak the best French and ii) it is the most boring town in France.  R conformed to type.

When we got back to Salta it was to find that the boys had managed very well in our absence and rather than sticking to the hotel and room service (which was what I thought would happen) had been out and about and got themselves lunch in town.

That evening we went out to a “Peña” which is dinner and music and a big feature of Salta.  Mr. Waffle stayed home to recover but the rest of us trotted out.  We didn’t have dinner (an asado, the famous Argentine barbecue) until 10 but we were totally adapted to Argentine hours so that was fine.  The music was all very atmospheric and that but those of us who had been trekking at altitude earlier in the day were exhausted so we called it a night relatively early.

Stay tuned for further adventures when our heroes return to the big city.

Saturday, August 12, 2023

We were up with the lark to visit Parque Nacional Los Cardones. I think this was my favourite park. As we were beginning to regard as our right, we had the place to ourselves.

There were these incredible spiky rock formations which our local driver went through with great aplomb. I so enjoyed not driving or navigating.

R, our guide spoke eloquently about the flamingos and the salt flats. He told us there were three types of flamingos: the Chilean, the Andean and the James. We all found the contrast between the name of the James and the others exquisitely humorous.

We stopped briefly in a cemetery in the middle of nowhere with adobe walls. I don’t at all see how all this adobe survives the rainy season but it must do. It only rains once a year for about six weeks (in February if memory serves).

Vicuñas are a kind of wild llama (I learnt something about the difference between llamas, alpacas, guanacos and vicuñas but I cannot now tell you what it is – although my favourite llama fact is that if one llama in a string of llamas poos, all the others have to stop to poo in the exact same place making a big pile of llama poo that nobody enjoys except maybe the llamas, I suppose). We went to a farm which is trying to domesticate them to have a look. They are only enjoying medium success. Apparently in the wild, hunters kill them for their very soft skin even though, I think, they are protected. R and the other professional guides and walkers are always on the look out for illicit raiders. In the farmyard, Daniel asked whether the tree with pink seeds like peppercorns was a pepper tree. I thought not, but in fact, it was.

We went to this small one-horse town called Molinos for lunch. It had a beautiful church with lots of cactus wood, including a cactus wood roof which I found fascinating – who knew that cactuses are hard on the inside?

Not sure how everyone feels now about this particular local hero commemorated in the church. Mr. Waffle and I went to visit a small museum which was once his house. I think, yet again, he was important in the liberation of Argentina (cast of thousands).

This reminds me that we heard a fair amount about the Jesuits during our trip. They were expelled a number of times by the Spanish which is probably a good sign. Apparently they were, according to R, the least bad, actually believing that the local population had souls whereas for others the jury was out.

Lunch was in a gorgeous courtyard with a large spreading tree in the middle.

We had lovely limonada and a bean antipasto which is really common in Argentina and absolutely delicious. And more empanadas.

Then after lunch it was off to another winery where there is a famous James Turell museum. I was not previously James Turell conscious but I see from my researches that there is a Cork angle. I found the museum mildly interesting and I suppose the location in the middle of nowhere is kind of peculiar. It’s a slightly whimsical project.

To be honest though, I think I enjoyed our time sitting outside looking at the scenery before going in more enjoyable, is this wrong? We were supposed to be wine tasting again but none of us could face it. In some ways we may not have been the ideal crew for this type of holiday.

We ran into a Mexican couple who we had already met at our last hotel; the tourists are perhaps drawn to similar sites which makes it all the more impressive how often we were on our own.

R suggested that we could go to where they make the best ponchos, where they had, in fact, made the Pope’s poncho. I was genuinely tempted but I turned it down. In part because we were exhausted. But partly also I was mindful of R’s own words that you could buy stuff in Argentina and then when you got home, you would find it was not “comme il faut”. I would wager that happens more to French people than to others but I could sense that I was in real danger of buying an Andean poncho and, let’s be realistic, when would I be wearing that in Dublin?

We pushed on to yet another beautiful hotel with a fantastic swimming pool which I was determined to investigate.

Also quite a friendly cat.

Sunday August 13, 2023

We had a late start! It was alas, too cold for the pool despite repeated checks on my part.

I went for a lovely walk in the grounds and listened to the birds with my Merlin app (I had downloaded the South American bird pack).

Honestly, Merlin is the business; improves any walk. It was amazing to see the snow in the Andes while it was so pleasantly warm at ground level. I do not appear to have captured this in photographs so you will have to take my word for it.

The hotel had a lovely little prayer room which seems to be a feature of a lot of these old colonial buildings and which I also appear not to have photographed although, if you asked my children, they would say that I photographed everything.

We had a wander round Cachi which boasted more cactus wood in the church.

It was a pretty town.

Lunch in Cachi was fine but not spectacular. After lunch, at Mr. Waffle’s request we went to have a look at the place where a local had built a UFO landing station. Peculiar but if they’re coming, why not Cachi, I suppose? The truth is out there.

We went for a walk in another ruined city called Las Pailas. It was very atmospheric and, again, we had it to ourselves. We were climbing a bit and were at 3200 altitude which didn’t knock a bar out of Michael who ran around like a mountain goat but poor Dan got a nose bleed.

There was lots of cactus wood (a piece of which I picked up to bring home – it’s so odd with all the holes). There were also lots of cows and bales of hay. Not really something I expect to see with cacti. Not something I appear to have photographed either, I fear.

We didn’t see a soul except three locals on a moped – travelling off road. The father was in front and there was a small child sandwiched between him and his wife who was carrying a rifle casually over her shoulder. Mildly alarming but they waved in a friendly way.

We had a grand old chat with R, our v French mountain guide. As herself never tired of pointing out, I had been angling for days to get him to talk in French so that I could show off but he still hadn’t bitten. He would sometimes ask Mr. Waffle for quite tough bits of vocabulary but never yielded to speaking in French. Though not yet forty, in a previous life he had been a medical student, a physio in Roland Garros, a ski instructor (he grew up between Val d’ Isère and Paris), worked in a vineyard and owned a bar in Buenos Aires. His father was French and his mother Brazilian. He himself was entirely French in every way though a fluent Portuguese speaker which you don’t get so much.

When we got back to the hotel I met a man from Newry (wearing his GAA top: the indispensable identifier of the Irish abroad) in reception. He was living in London and his wife was Argentinian. They, their children, his sister living in Portlaoise, and her husband (from Kerry) and their children had all made the journey on a big family holiday. One of our children had already spotted one of their children in the corridors of the hotel, “I knew straight away he was Irish, big Irish head on him.” In case you are unaware, big Irish head is a national trait.

That evening the restaurant service was exceptionally slow even by Argentinian standards. The big Irish/Argentinian gang threw off the staff and it was an hour and 45 minutes after our arrival at 8.30 that dinner finally arrived. I thought that Michael was going to faint (from hunger/rage, honestly unclear which).

This gave us some time to reflect on the weird arrangement where on the tables in restaurants, there is no sugar or salt. Apparently, this is a public health measure as the authorities believe having to ask has a deterrent effect. Perhaps. The foodstuffs you buy in packets come with these absolutely terrifying labels which I definitely regard as a deterrent but which herself says is a guide to the good stuff.

The others joined the Irish/Argentinian contingent after dinner while I tried to help Michael find his pyjamas which had completely disappeared to his unspeakable rage (I think we must have left them behind in a previous laundry batch, alas). Probably not Michael’s best evening.

This was the day of the primaries and Argentinians had voted electronically for the first time. Indications were that this aspect did not work well with a video of one of the candidates trying and failing to use it doing the rounds.

During the afternoon (after I had carried it around for hours and brought it back to the car), R told me that it was illegal to export cactus wood from Argentina (he suggested I bury it deep in my luggage as he is not as much of a rule follower as me). That evening I tossed the piece of cactus wood I had picked up in the park out the hotel window. It bounced off the anti-mosquito metal mesh and hit me quite sharply on the arm. Cactus wood, full of surprises. Other than that the remainder of the evening was uneventful.

Are we doing this a mere 48 hours per post now? It would appear so. Stay tuned for, many more, future installments.