A Night Out in Buenos Aires

In Potosi, Bolivia, Nate and I had a hard time finding anything open past 11:30. In Sucre, everything shut down by 2, and in Cuzco, if you were out til 4:30 you had a really late and crazy night. But in Buenos Aires, the evening doesn't really start until 2 and if you are home before 7 AM, it means you have made a conscious decision to leave early. I really have no idea how anyone gets any work done during the day, since the portenos (people from BsAs) have got to sleep sometime.


So here is a typical evening here: we see the sights during the day, until about 8 pm. Then comes the only period where most of the city is quiet: 8 to 12 am. So we head off to tango classes, where we try desperately (and positively fail) to move as gracefully as the locals. Around midnight we head to dinner (where there may or may not be live music playing), which usually consists of impossibly inexpensive grass-fed beef. Then we linger drinking vino tinto (red wine) from Argentina's western province of Mendoza, waiting to digest the food and bide our time until the dance clubs get going.

When the magical hour of 2 AM rolls around, we're already sufficiently primped to head out to dance the night away in one of Buenos Aire's incredibly happening neighborhoods. We try to keep up with the Portenos, but inevitably bow out, exhausted and happy, at an embarassingly early 5:30 AM. Good thing I'm only here for 2 weeks. I couldn't keep this up much longer.

The Apartment: An Ode to Cake and Juanes.

We'd stayed in San Ignacio to view the wonders of the mission at night, so we rented an apartment. It was the best idea ever. It had a complete kitchen, so we bought a bottle of wine, yerba mate (Argentina's incredibly bitter national drink), and cake mix. After 2 months, I can't tell you how cathartic it was to bake. It was a vanilla cake, and we topped it with Nutella, imported from the states by a generous George. It was DELICIOUS (or maybe we were just really hungry).

We positively snarfed it up (a very nutritious dinner, I know) and then proceeded to dance Salsa in the kitchen until 3 AM, courtesy of George's discman (with headphones playing full volume, since we didnt' have speakers) and the pirated Juanes CDs I bought in Bolivia for 10 Bolivianos ($1.50 USD) each. A Dios Le Pido (This I ask from God) was on repeat most of the night as Miki, Elisa and I took turns trying to help George keep the salsa beat and avoid our feet while getting the steps right. When it came to teaching rhythm, even God wasn't much help (our dear George still has a few things to learn), but between the cake fresh out the oven and crooning of Juanes, it was divine.

San Ignacio

After Iguazu, Elisa, Miki, George and I headed to las missiones - the ruins of the Jesuit missions that give the department of Missiones its name: in the 1500's the Jesuits built these missions as havens for the indigenous people who lived in the area. They converted them to Catholicism, but also allowed them to live with their families, continue speaking their native language and retain a substantial part of their local traditions. It was far from perfect or progressive, but the Jesuits offered a life far preferable to the enslavement of Guarani pursued by the majority of the Spanish colonizers.

The four of us got of a bus, grabbed a hostel at dusk, and then headed to the ruins at San Ignacio and expected to walk through a lot of historically interesting rubble. What we found was enchanting. We walked through the walls of the Abbey and as the sun was setting the our surroundings surpassed romantic - I could imagine hundreds of people in habits scurrying through the walk ways and dramas unfolding in the courtyards. Every piece of literature I've ever read set in an Abbey swirled in my head: The Name of the Rose, Northanger Abbey, and the Redwall books to name a few. The ruins were swimming with stories - thousands of which were already on paper on somewhere, and countless more just waiting to be written.

To cap off the evening, we embarked on an tour of the grounds in the dark. Our wanderings were complemented by period choir music and fantastically dramatic (yet tasteful) lighting. If the place wasn't already magical, that more than did it.

"So Much Better than Magic Mountain": Iguazu as the Ultimate Water Ride

My friend Becca told me that I absolutely had to see Iguazu Falls, on the border between Argentina and Brazil. But I had seen Niagra and wasn't so impressed. Still Elisa needed to get out of the city for her week-long winter break, so Elisa, George, Miki (yes Miki, a high school friend bought her ticket from Chicago on a whim and headed to Buenos Aires to meet up with us!) and I got on a bus and headed North. What we found was absolutely fantastic.

We were running a little late (surprise), so we ran through the "lower circuit," a path to view the falls from the front, and kept making our way toward the sound of rushing water. We could see nothing through the dense jungle-esque forest and we joked that maybe there were just boom boxes with recordings strategically placed in the woods. And then suddenly, they were before us: multiple levels of falls, with endless torrents of water rushing into a fog of mist to meet the river, framed by rainbows and brilliant green foliage.

When we thought it couldn't get better, we headed down to the riverside for what we expected to be a leisurely boat trip to see the falls from a different angle (my idea). We didn't have rain-gear and we were told we might get a little wet, but we shrugged it off. We scrambled into a boat which soon zoomed off, headed straight for the falls . . . and then kept going. We were literally meters from where thousands of liters of water thundered into the water below - and positively SOAKED us. (Take that, Indiana Jones!) Then the boat zoomed to another set of falls and backed into them again as we squealed with glee and squinted desperately to kept the spray out of our eyes. 15 glorious minutes later, we emerged dripping and grinning, and George issued what might have been the most priceless comment of the day: "Man, that was soooooooo much better than Magic Mountain."

To top it all off, we walked along the top of the largest falls and saw what the pre-Copernican Europeans must have envisioned when they thought of world's end. We danced along the catwalks and were singing vintage REM for the rest of the day.

In Borges´ Footsteps: An Afternoon in San Telmo

When Elisa went to go pick up her boyfriend George from the airport, I went with Paola (Elisa's roomate at school) and Martin (Paola's boyfriend) to go explore Buenos Aires' San Telmo neighborhood. It was Sunday, the day of the area's famous market . . . it was chock full of colonial architecture, antique and art vendors and street preformers and milling crowds. It turns out that in BsAs, they really do tango in the streets. As we wandered through the different areas, I really thought my heart would burst. The life in the streets was amazing, and I can see why Elisa is threatening not to come home.

As we walked through the streets we stumbled across tango band after tango band, each with more than 7 members, complete with fiddles, accoridans, horn players and actual full pianos that had been rolled into the streets. But the best part about the bands is that all the players were you - my age. This wasn´t just a remnant of a cultural tradition long past - its a living breathing renaissance. (Aparently during the Dirty War of the 70s and 80s most of the musicians were disappeared, so there is a whole generation of Tango missing, but now the country´s youth has taken it up as their own.) Our favorite band featured a front man with a deep traditional passionate voice, a goatee and a shock of dyed red hair. It was fabulous.




And as you walk through the streets there is also cafe after cafe (think Prague or Paris or Vienna), in ways that make you want to sit down and write great deep literature. Practically any recommendation says that Borges wrote in this cafe, or this novel was written in that neighborhood. And all I could think was, I have so much to read and so much to see. Can´t I extend my ticket and just stay a little longer?? I called United. I am now coming home August 4th, so that I get and extra weekend in Buenos Aires.

Painting Cordoba Pink

When Elisa and I got back to Cordoba at night it was dead. And I mean inside a Bob Dylan song, walking down the street alone after the Apocalypse dead . . . and we worried that we had made a terrible mistake deciding to send any significant amount of time in this city. After calling 5 different hostels, we finally managed to find one with space, had some questionable Mexican food for dinner (Argentines really know nothing about guacamole) and crashed at a very early 2 AM.

Sufficiently skeptical about the merits of the town, we decided to take matters into our own hands and make our own fun. We went to the Science museum and decided to make the exhibits on prehistoric animals interactive (above). Then we headed to some fairly fantastic (though very random) art museums. We developed artist crushes on early 20th century Argentine graphic artist Alejandro Sirio. We found an outdoor cafe that had fountains choregraphed to dance to classical music. We got a tour through the first Jesuit university in Argentina (left).

And, sometime during all of this, we discovered the color swap function on my camera, and transformed what could have been a very boring visit into a positively surreal experience. Thoroughly satisfied, we hopped onto a night bus and headed to Buenos Aires.

Octoberfest in July

I arrived in Cordoba a day late, bearing a giant lolly pop as an offering of peace and begging for forgiveness. Elisa quickly forgave me (after all, she's shown up at my apartment at 3 and 4 in the morning needing a place to crash numerous times and I never gave her shit for it), we threw our stuff in a locker and jumped on a bus to Villa General Belgrano.


VBG is basically a Bavarian town in the middle of Argentina. Though it was vaguely disturbing to know that the town was set up by ex-Nazis who ran to escape the War Crimes tribunals after the second world war. But Elisa and I ignored that, and focused instead on the sun drenched streets, adorable tiled roofs and the crazy assortment of stores and statutes dedicated to the Argentines' strange obsession with fairs, gnomes and dwarves, and managed to have a fanastic time.

There are bratwurst and saurkraut stands galore, as well as a plethora of some of the best artisan beers I've had on my trip. Elisa had been eager to get out of the big bustling city and this definitely did it. . . we strolled down the streets, gaped at the strudel in windows and wandered in and out of cermaic stores selling hand painted beer steins. We spent hours catching up over Weisswurst, dark beer and goulash (she's been in Argentina for the last 6 months.) Then we hit the annual chocolate festival (which just happened to be going on while we were there . . . read: our whole reason for going to VGB) and bought several extremely tasty souvenirs. There is nothing better than chocolate, beer and old friends.

Grovelling

I was supposed to meet Elisa in Cordoba. In an act of enormous generousity, she took her exams early so that she could meet me there Thursday morning. In an enormous screw up (that I would blame on my disorienting bus ride if it didn´t reek so much of ridiculous excuses), I have been thinking it was a day earlier than it was all week. I was sure that today was Wednesday, and I bought my ticket for tonight. But it is Thursday, and she got in early this morning and has been convinced that I was dead or kidnapped for the last 8 hours. No, I´m not dead, I´m just stupid. I am a horrible human being and I will buy you chocolate and flowers and everything pink you can imagine and commence with my unworthy grovelling as soon as I get to Corodoba tomorrow (Friday) morning.

I am so, so sorry.

Soaking Up Salta and Dutch Folk Songs

After the craziness of getting here, it was a relief to find Salta absolutely LOVELY. Churches? Check. Maginificent Plazas and lagoons? Check. But what´s really striking is how dramatically and obviously Argentina diverges from its neighbor to the north. First there are the faces. 60% of Bolivia´s population is indigenous. Here it´s 2% and walking down the street, the faces are, well, white.

And then there is the bustle. I expected Salta to be a small town, and techically I guess it is. But there are so many people in the street at any given time that it makes Sucre look like Rip Van Winkle. (Sucre and Potosi shut down by 11:30 PM . . . at that time, Argentines are just having supper.) Yet the bustle seems to have nothing in common with the chaos of La Paz either.



I spent the day wandering with Ratha, a fantastic Cambodian-American girl from Berkely. We went in and out of churches, drank coffee in the plaza, went to the fine arts museum, and chatted with other travelers. And some of those other travlers were - get this - ARGENTINES. Argentina´s prominent middle class actually travels in a way that Bolivians, due mostly to monetary constraints, never would. And despite the fact that Argentina has a recent history as bloody a Peru´s, the former seems so much more prosperous than the latter it´s almost shocking.

In what I was sure would be the crowning event of our day, Ratha and I headed up San Bernardo Hill via cable car, wandered through the terraced waterfalls and watched the sun set over the city below. Thoroughly satisfied, we wandered back to our hostel. And then promptly left it again. After all, this is Argentina . . . going to bed before 10 PM two nights in a row would be a travesty!

Ratha and I joined up with Sara (English), Johannes (Austrian) and Thalita (Dutch) and Thalita´s parents to go to Casona del Molina - the kind of place that makes you want to move to Argentina permanently. It´s a restraurant that specialized in Parrilla (Argentina grilling) and folkloric music. But this is not some musical performance for tourists - its just an organic part of the mood. Guitarists, fiddlers, drummers, sit at corner tables and the people eating there (mostly Argentines) sing along to the folk songs and buy the musicians beer. The food, the red wine and the music were so good, I was convinced, for the second time that day, that the night couldn´t get any better.

But somehow over the course of the evening, Thalita bet Johannes that he couldn´t drink 5 bottles of water in 10 minutes. Johannes, who had claimed to be really thirsty responded that if he did, he expected Thalita to stand up on a chair and sing a Dutch folk song to the entire room. (What can I say? It was the wine talking.) About 5 minutes into the bet, it was clear that Thalita needed to choose a song to sing, and she and her father went to go talk to the musicians in the corner. We waited with baited breath and when the 10 minutes were up, Johannes smashed down his bottle triumphantly and Thalita´s father signalled the band. They began to play right on cue and Thalita and her (very Dutch, very Gentile parents) began to belt at the top of their lungs: Hava Nagila, Hava nagila, hava nagila, ve´nismechah . . . . I laughed so hard I almost cried. When they followed up with an oncore of ¨Heveinu Shalom Aleichem,¨I thought my sides might split.

Going to Guemes and Beyond

After 10 hours on a bus, I made it to Yacuiba, the Bolivian town on the border with Argentina. I arrived at 6 AM and tried desperately to sort out who was offering what as I waded through the venders touting their buses to Salta. I chose a bus and a company that fit into my meager cash budget (I only had $62 Argentine pesos, and there no ATMs in Yacuiba), and then waited nervously in an interminal line at immigration, hoping desperately that they wouldn´t mention anything about yellow fever. They didn´t and my passport was stamped without a problem.

From there I thought I was home free. The travel agent pointed me across field (right) to the bus terminal on the Argentine side and told me to give my ticket to the Flecha Bus ticket counter when I arrived. I got to the station, handed the teller my ticket and he handed me another (for a different bus company) in its place, and I noticed with annoyance that the price tag said $41 pesos, and I had paid $60. That was some commission Flech Bus was making.

And then I noticed something even more disturbing - the name of the destination had changed from Salta to Guemes. Is that the same thing?, I asked. They are very close, I was assured . . . only 20 minutes by car. No. No. Sorry, but I PAID for Salta, I said, and I don´t have any money left to pay for a taxi from Guemes (supposedly $7 pesos). After over 1/2 am hour of haggeling, I finally got them to give me back $10 pesos for my taxi. Whew . . . guess that Spanish does come in useful. I had 12 more starving hours on the bus after that, but I didn´t dare buy a thing to eat (I was out of food) for fear that $10 wouldn´t actually cover the taxi. Luckily, it did.

At 8 PM the next day (24 hours after leaving Santa Cruz) I finally rolled into Salta, went to an ATM, bought a snack and triumphantly crawled into bed.

My Natan is Gone!

Nate left early this morning to return to his regularly scheduled life in the US, leaving me alone for the next 4 days . . . so sad! Only two things console me: 1) I will see him when I get back to Chicago and 2) I´m heading off to meet Elisa (my college roomate) in Argentina. I leave Santa Cruz tonight on a bus to Yacuiba (a Bolivian town on the Argentine border, 9 hours away). I then have to cross the border on foot and catch another bus to Salta, Argentina (8 more hours).

If all goes according to plan, I will then have two days to decompress and stretch my legs before meeting Elisa in Cordoba (another 13 hours from Salta). I´m just crossing my fingers that I can actually cross into Argentina without my yellow fever shot.

Loving and Hating Evo

All over the country I´ve been soliciting people´s opinions of Evo Morales, who was elected in 2005 as the first indigeonous President of Bolivia. Evo, a former Coca farmer, has controvercially said that "the worst enemy of humanity is US capitalism" and has been closely with Hugo Chavez of Venezuela to pursue a more socialist vision for the continent. He has made moves to nationalize the Bolivian gas industry to bring more revenue to the state and re-write the consitution so that the country´s indigenous majority (which has been oppressed for years) has more power. There are people who think he´s a saint. There are people who think he´s the devil. The only sentiment Evo doesn´t inspire is apathy.


In La Paz, particularly in the San Pedro Prison, there is pro-Evo graffiti everywhere. It wasn´t until we got to Potosi, one of the country´s poorest cities, that we began to hear desent. Generally, the people working in the mines (most of whom are indigeonous) think of Evo as on of them. But the guy who worked for the tour company that took us through the mines told us that although Evo himself was a good man, the government continued to be corrupt: it was ¨the same woman, just wearing a different skirt." For example, he said, the guy given a job as minister of tourism for Bolivia was a farmer didn´t know a thing about foreign visitors. Though Evo had claimed things like this would change when he gained power, everything stayed the same. It wasn´t clear if the man thought Evo was the perpetrator of the victim of the system.

But Efra, our guide in the Potosi mines, was much more scathing of Evo - he called him a son of a bitch who talked about improving education (such as offering classes in the indigenous languages which most of the populations speaks), but who actually had done nothing to actually improve access to good teachers and schools. Efra said that before he started giving tours, he thought that Evo was great, just like the other miners. But in talking to foreigners and hearing about what other goverments did, he felt duped and no longer trusted Evo´s rhetoric.

In Sucre, which is still officially Bolivia´s capital (that´s the government Building, right) , the antipathy against Evo was deeper and more wide spread. After a civil war 100 years ago, the executive power for the company was moved from Bolivia to La Paz. Evo opposes consitutional change that would shift power back to Sucre. A few months ago, three students were killed by police during a protest of Evo´s opposition to the consitution. The policeman responisble was never found or prosecuted. Now the city is covered with posters saying "Evo es un Asesino" (Evo is a murderer).

And then, just last week, the Department (Province) of Chucisaqa, which contains Sucre, elected a new Governor (the first woman to be elected a Governor in Bolivia!) with over 50% of the vote in a field of 3 candidates. Evo´s handpicked candidate lost badly - and it was apparently a stinging defeat.who won with 55% of the vote out of 3 candidtates. She was installed this past week, and we actually saw the Departmental Band playing at her inaguration in the main plaza of Sucre (though we didn´t know what was actually going on until the next day.)

After a 16 hour bus ride, Nate and I arrived in our last city in Bolivia: Santa Cruz . . . the heart of the opposition to Evo´s power. Ironically, it´s also the part of the country that, because of its nearly tropical climate, most resem like Cuba (or how I imagine Cuba would look). Santa Cruz is the most oil-rich part of the country (a lot of the land is owned by foreigners) and its business center. Evo has threatened a program of wealth and land re-distribution (nationalizing the gas industry, using revenue from the Department´s gas taxes to fund projects in poorer Departments, redistributing land to indigenous people, etc) and the people here are not happy.

The anti-Evo sentiments are scrawled everywhere on the on walls (left). In May Santa Cruz voted to be an autonomos region not subject to control by the central Bolivian goverment. There were protests and the police got violent. The date of the next big showdown is August 10: a national referendum/recall election that will decide whether Evo and the Congress stay in office. Evo has said that August vote will give him a new mandate to pursue his agenda. While the political currents here absolutely fascinating, lets just say I´m glad I´ll be long gone from this region by then.

Update: When I said Santa Cruz looks as I imagine Cuba to look, I spoke too soon. I had seen Santa Cruz on a Sunday, when it´s fairly quiet and sleepy. Come Monday, it´s a bustling metropolis. Amazing what a difference a day makes.

The Last Jew in Sucre

After the previous day, Nate and I and I still hadn´t made it to Casa de Libertad, which was Simon Bolivar´s house here in Sucre. But given what we learned about the Bolivian mentality, we weren´t so shocked when the person at the desk told us, ¨Yes, its open every day, and every morning, just not this morning. Come back this afternoon.¨ So we sighed and moved on to plan B - visiting the cemetary, which was supposed to be beautiful and of which the locals are incredibly proud. We got there, and bought several small bunches of flowers and decided to wander through and put them on any graves that looked neglected.

As we walked through this beautifull manicured walled yard crowded with huge well-kempt moseleums, we came across the un pruned grave of Gerda Goldberg, who died in the mid 1930s. We joked that she might be Jewish (though we knew that there were probably no Jews in Sucre) and laid down a bouquet. But as we wandered further we came across a wrought iron gate crowned with a Star of David. It was open and we wandered into a yard of no more than 100 square feet, filled with names like Edith Kassewitz, Dr. Arthur Hiller and Elaine Peiser. It could have been a graveyard in Chicago or Miami or Israel. All the dates of death were after 1945 and in the center of the space was a memorial to "Our murdered brothers, 1933-1945." It took us a few minutes to realize that we weren´t alone in the cemetary. There were also 2 Bolivian woman and a tiny elderly woman with pale freckled skin and short red hair.

The elderly woman´s name was Eva Kassewitz, her community was burried in that yard. She had to be upwards of eighty and she told us in Spanish that she had come to Sucre from Germany with her family when she was very young, just after the second world war. Theirs been a small tightly knit group of German Jews, and she was the last. It was now her responsiblity to take care of and maintain the graveyard. The two Bolivian woman were helping her do that. We told her we were Jewish and talked a little about our own families. Maybe it was that she alone was the guardian of the memory of her community, maybe it was the fact that she and I have essentially the same name, or maybe it was that her bottom teeth were crooked in the exact same way that my grandmother Billie´s were, but as we talked, my chest physically ached and a small persistant lump began to rise in my throat.

And then the last Jew of Sucre and kissed us both hard and made her way slowly out of the yard. If the Casa de Libertad had not been unexpectedly closed, we would have missed her entirely. After she had left, the Bolivian woman, Arimanda (?), pointed out the graves of Eva´s mother, father and daughter (the daughter only lived 2 days) and told us the spot on which we had talking with Eva was actually Eva´s own plot. At that point I lost it. Nate and I stood and said Kaddish for the community and for those who will soon have no one to say Kaddish for them. Belatedly, we realized it was Shabbas morning. We left our last bouquet of flowers and Amiranda (who took this picture) locked the gate behind us.

Coloring a White City: A Trip to the Mercado Central

Sucre - its architecture, it´s white stucco walls, its plaza - was absolutely beautiful. But if we had thought that that beauty masked a city with no real heart, the Mercado Central was the pulse that proved us wrong. It was right across the street from our hostel for our entire stay, but we didn´t venture inside until the last day. What we saw was a feast of colors for the eyes: Apples, pears, tomatoes, bananas, green beans, carots, squash, overflowing in every direction.

We wandered upstairs to the pre-cooked food section, where Nate and I had literally the best meal of our trip: fantastically seasoned beef in a stew of vegetables, over rice. All for 8 Bolivianos ($1.10). But it wasn´t just the food that made our lunch fantastic: it was the conversation. We ate at a shared table, first with a elderly man named Juan Valdez (no, not that Juan Valdez), a former house painter and Carpenter from Potosi. He told us about his family and his job and asked us about our lives as he ate the successive bowls of soup brought to him (he was clearly a regular there, and the cooks knew exactly what he liked to eat given that he had no teeth.)

When Señor Valdez left to rejoin his family, we were joined by Sylvia, her 8 year old daughter Michaela, and Michaela´s stuffed dog Angelica (who we were informed was 2 years old.) During the rest of our meal/conversation the three of them went about proving young Michaela´s assertion that Bolivians are the friendliest people in South America. We finished off our meal with a combination of fruit and cool-whip (the aesthetic presenation of which would have impressed even my mother), and lamented that we hadn´t found this place even one meal earlier.

"Every Friday, Just Not This Friday": A Story of Warmth, Beauty and Futility

We arrived in Sucre to find warmth and palm trees! Palm Trees! Oh, and we found a gorgeous gleamingly white city full of amazing architecture, fantastic plazas, and the first good espresso Natan has been able to find this entire trip. The first day here, we wandered, grinning, in and out of churches and cafes and basked in the sun.

But the second day, my primary objective was to get a yellow fever shot. Those of you who have been reading for while will remember that while I was supposed to get one to enter Bolivia, I ended up bribing my way in and was never actually vaccinated. Since I hear I´ll need on to get from Bolivia into Argentina (my next stop), and I doubt I´ll be able to bribe the Argentinian officials, it seemed like this was a priority. Little did we realize the adventure we were embarquing on.

Act I: A Journey Begins

To figure out where to go, we asked a pharmacist. She directed me to a medical center that was no longer in operation. I asked someone at a near-by working at a refreshment stand. Go to the hostipal, she said. It´s just a few blocks away. So we walked to Santa Barbara Hospital, stopping at a near-by parkto regroup (see right.)

Act II: The Hospital

The emergency room directed us to children´s ward for the vaccinations. The people into the childrens ward pointed us down a long hallway, where we waited half an hour for the nurse to show up beneath a sign offering free vaccinations every day. When she finally arrived she informed us that children could get vaccinations any day they wanted, but I, as an adult would have to go to the Vaccination Bank(on the other side of town), which was only open Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays from 9-12 and from 3-6. It was Friday, but it was only 1:30.

Act III: The Vaccine Bank

Third time is the charm, we thought. So we bided our time and arrived at 3:30. After following the signs for "vacunas" (vaccinations) we wound up in a dark frigid room full of styrafoam containers - it was clear we were not supposed to be there. When we got tired of waiting outside the roomlike good boys and girls, we were finally able to pester someone into talking to us. Oh yes! she said. This is the place! And yes, we do give vaccines for yellow fever. Every Friday. But just not THIS Friday, because the guy who administers them is not working. You could come back Monday. He´ll be here Monday. Well, Probably.

Dejected and defeated, Nate and I slowly made our way up to the Recoleta, a Church on the Mountainside, to drink freshly squeezed fruit juice and watch the sun set over this beautiful but totally confunding city. (At least we got SOMETHING yellow in this town . . .)