Argy Bargy - What other caption could we have? - 29 Oct 2002
Landing in a new continent
Kismet
Scouser Spanish
The extricating the bike from the docks saga
Not today, Josephine
Not today either?
So near and yetÖ
Masterstroke
Hippy has other things to do and I get to go, too
Meat isÖÖArgentina, of course
After an extremely pleasant flight with Air Malaysia (Gameboys in the headrests, top food, lovely cabin crew, etc, etc) we landed at Buenos Aires expecting 30+ temperatures as forecast by the captain. We were a trifle disappointed that it was in the low 20s. Heigh ho.
We were ready to do battle with the immigration staff. Everyone had told us that you cannot get into Argentina without an onward ticket. We reckoned that by arriving at the airport with reasonable documentary evidence that the bike was coming weíd be able to bluff our way through. I mean, they werenít going to put us back on a plane to South Africa, where they?
In fact, all went smoothly. No one even bothered to ask why we were coming to Argentina or anything. 3 months visa given without a blink. Brilliant.
Weíd not bothered to sort out any accom. as we reckoned to check out the story on the ground rather than rush to a rip-off back packers place. At the airport, a very nice man arranged a hotel room for us complete with breakfast for the princely sum of 7 quid a night. Much cheaper than guide books had suggested and so it looks as if the rapidly declining peso is working in our favour.
A trip into town on an air conditioned bus took 5 of our hard earned pounds, though. After all, it is 35 km into the centre of the city.
As we left the airport, we realized our elementary mistake. It was indeed in the 30s, but the air conditioning in the airport was so even and faultless that we had been fooled. As we walked out of the door, the cotton wool factor hit us and we rued the fact that there was no space in our bags for our bike jackets. Walking the eight or so blocks to the hotel at the end of the bus journey became something of a Nordic sauna experience. How we wished we had opted for the air conditioned room option. Still, after a quick shower, things seemed a bit more pleasant.
We braved the streets in the evening expecting to feel intimidated and threatened as we had in pretty much all of the cities in Africa. None of it! Families were out parading in force just as they do in Barcelona. Small stalls were set up in the pedestrianised streets selling all of those essential items ñ fluffy toy spiders, mate pots (more of this later) and tap gaskets to name a few. Every other shop was an internet gaff and each contained up to 40 terminals running at incredible speeds. Amazing.
As we searched for a reasonable place to eat, we passed a t-shirt vendor who was obviously catering for the anti British and anti American market. The whole of his stock portrayed either Maradonna or Osama bin Laden. Still, we had a cheery chat about football and he seemed simply to be very tongue in cheek about all his merchandise. Our favourite of all his offerings was a picture of a plane crashing into the River Plate stadium with Osama alongside wearing a Boca Juniors football strip. It seems animosity is as strong, if not stronger, between the local footy teams that against the new world imperial powers.
It is a welcome change not to feel conspicuous on the streets. The only major difference between me and the average woman on the street is that they all seem to be verging on anorexia and wearing uncomfortably tight trousers. Leaving nothing to the imagination about the perfect shaping of their pequina derrieres (not that I am jealous or anything having a true English pear type figure). Not a single VPL in sight. Pat and I cannot decide whether this is due to a lack of underwear or a population of people that have more g-strings per capita than any other nation in the world. The hipster nature of the waistline would suggest support for the former. There is such a plethora of gorgeous babes here, that I am surprised that the single male populous of the world has not descended on Argentina.
We woke early on our first morning in this fair continent, with plans to sort out Spanish lessons. The streets seemed emptyÖodd, but maybe itís a nation of late risers. Even by mid day there were few signs of life and then a lovely lady in the tourist office explained all. Itís Columbus Day! The fist full day we are here and they are celebrating the discovery of the Americas by Columbus. This is surely kismet.
The Burger King across the road was of course open, but we were saddened by the fact that a beautiful building had been defaced to accommodate red and white corporate signature of this burger change, clearly this is a country where capitalism rules over taste.
Slot machine venues were heaving with children on a day off from school. One game keeps us entertained. As teenagers, danced on a flashing floor pad to the instructions of a series of coloured lights in the screen before them I thought is the way forward to encourage the school kids in the UK into a little exercise.
I have many misgivings about learning Spanish. The only language other than English that I ever had any success at was Latin and that only because I never had the embarrassment of having to speak it. I ought to explain to readers, that I have always had 2 major disadvantages in languages a) I canít spell for toffee and b) I canít pronounce my ërís.
(Which is amazing with such a pronounced arse ñ written with Helenís say so)Spanish is one of those languages that revels in ìrî usage, leaving me with some reason for apprehension.
Bear in mind that I arrived in Argentina, just about being able to count to 5, say hello, goodbye and please and thank you in Spanish. I then got put in a room with a Spanish teacher who spoke no English. So I sat for the first lesson understanding something in the region of 3 quarters of bÖ all. Suddenly, it was all scarily clear how soul destroying it must be to be a student in a class where the level of the content is too hard.
With 4 hours a days of intense concentration on every word and intonation, I felt like I had been put in some kind of brain drain machine and I was content to crash each evening after doing my homework.
I was fine with the theory but spent the whole of one afternoon sitting trying without success to say ëperroí (dog ñ to you). This left me almost in tears. My solution is that I will deal with Spanish in the same way that I deal with English to avoid words with r in them and completely erase words with double r from my psyche, so from now on a perro is a lobo domestico (i.e. a domesticated wolf).
I was not the only student having problems with pronunciation. A Mancunian lad called Rajesh, with an accent to befit Man City supporters, managed to speak everything flavoured with tones of the lower western Pennines.
There were other problems with learning Spanish. It became clear that Buenos Aires is akin to Newcastle in that it speaks itís own personal version of the national language, and annoyingly the local pride means that the teachers here are insisting on teaching the mutant dialect, and seem to find it hard to understand that we may want to learn a version of Spanish that is more globally understood.
It is in these circumstances that I became acutely aware of just how crap the British are at learning languages. A couple of Germans and an Israeli joined the class and at least seemed to pick things up a lot quicker at the start.
I had been pre-selected for a higher group than Hippy. I say this not from any point scoring perspective ñ after all, I had done a year of night classes before leaving the UK. My teacher was marvellous. Mica was a petite charmer who was so incredibly positive all the time; she reminded of the ®scorchio® character off The Fast Show. Sensibly we had each been given different teachers for different sessions so that we would become attuned to different speakers. I wished I could have Mica all the time and then take her home with me. Ow, Hippy, Stop hitting me!!!!!!
Other than the distractions of the teacher herself, there repeatedly came gunshot sounds from the window. This is more of what I had anticipated from B.A. Each teacher shrugged whenever a barrage of plastic bullets went off and voiced their disapproval of the protestors. As we walked to and from college each day different streets had been blocked off depending on which ministry was being harangued that day. Greenpeace had quite a good one where they all took imitation pedestal toilets down to the ministry steps where they promptly dropped their pants and made as if to poo. This was to symbolize the government shitting on the constitution. I bet the plastic bullets stung their bare buttocks though.
Regrettably my lessons were interrupted by the ëextricating the bike from the docksí saga.
The extricating the bike from the docks saga
It all started the Tuesday after we arrived in town. Hippy and I went around a couple of shipping agents to find someone who could help us through the customs red tape that was sure to follow. In the end, we had to engage the shipping companyís agents or, at least, a sub department of them. This led to something of a conflict of interests but at least they seemed to be pretty clued up.
All was set so that the day that Fi arrived in Buenos Aires we would go down to the docks together to claim our respective vehicles. Poor Fi arrived early in the morning after a long flight from the UK and professed that this was not perhaps the best time for dealing with awkward officials. However, the die was cast. Unbeknown to me, there had been a call to the hotel while I was meeting Fi and others at the airport. This was to the effect that the originals of all the documents had to be at the shipperís office by 12:00. As we got back to the hotel at 11:55, I had 5 minutes to sprint about 20 blocks including crossing the widest street in any city of the world (that is what it claims in the brochures, anyway) I made it by a whisker only to find that their system had ëgone downí and so I had to return at 2 with Fi and the requisite money to get things moving.
We got down to the docks at about 3:00 and were overjoyed to see Burt (for that is the name with which the truck is to be christened) and Bertha nestling together on their flat rack. After a couple of hours, we managed to get the truck off although it had seemed for a good time that the technology of Cape Town had been vastly superior in that they had managed the lifting with consummate ease. Of course, by this time the customs folk had knocked off for the day. MaÒana.
We adjourned to the shipperís office to meet our agent (who, by the way bore a striking resemblance to Jeremy Clarkson, but with a moustache) at 9:00 the next morning. Down at the customs house all was not well. There were two main issues. Firstly, Fi does not own the truck and this means that she needed a letter of permission from the owner to take the vehicle across borders. The officers were simply not satisfied that the open letter from Stuart (the owner) was enough. They wanted a letter with Fi named directly in it. This was achieved by Fi heading back to the hotel, getting on the computer, writing a letter and signing it in Stuartís hand. Problem solved.
The second problem was that Fi was named as consignee on the bill of lading and no mention was made of me. This meant that they would not release the bike. This is somewhat bizarre because on the bill of lading were all of the bikes details. I had the same details on a registration document, carnet de passage and a letter from the original shipping agents to me matching in all respects. There was no question of me being the owner but there was no movement. The option was for me to give authority to Fi to take the bike through just as Stuart had done with the truck. This was met with the response that it would be impossible for one person to collect more than one vehicle.
Stop Press. Babb scores past his own keeper to equalise for the Wanderers.
I ought to point out here that Pat has been neglecting his scarf wearing duties for a number of games due to the fact that he neglectfully put the scarf with our other belongings on the truck being shipped. Bolton have of course performed abysmally in the meantime. Please suggest ways that he may redeem himself.
This was going to be more of a problem as the only way my name could be added was by contacting our original agent in Cape Town and getting them to speak to the shipping company in Cape Town who would speak to the shipping company in Buenos Aires. Etc. I could see this going on for days. To top it all, the letter that Fi had rustled up needed to be translated into Spanish.
I went of to school to see if I could get my mind off the pettiness and learn a bit of Spanish. My mind was not on it though and I fumbled around with all sorts of pronouns getting nowhere in particular.
In the morning, by magic, the bill of lading had been amended. Not so magic, really. In fact a different typewriter had been used, a squiggle added and a smudgy rubber stamp put over the top. Excellent, we were off to the docks. Not yet. There was the small issue of a 65 dollar bill to pay for the amendment. It would be a real bit of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern if I were to write the whole of the conversation that followed. Suffice to say Fi and I were united in our reluctance to pay and the opposition caved in just as one of their party was on the verge of tears.
So, we were off to the docks to pick up the vehicles. We called in at the customs office with our now exemplary paperwork. Unfortunately a huge queue had had the chance to build up while we had been arguing our point back at base. We waited and waited expecting to see the office doors close for lunch before we managed to get a foot in the door. Thankfully, we managed to get in and get the paperwork cleared by 12:00. Excellent, we may have the vehicles out this afternoon. Bearing in mind that today is Friday and if not today then Monday. Fi is expected in Ushuaia in the very south of Argentina on Monday ñ a 3000 mile drive!
ButÖÖÖ..Andreas (Jeremy C) then told us to come back to the dock gates at 3:00 to 3:30 to clear the customs inspection. We found it highly unlikely that they would be able to achieve a full customs inspection of the contents of the truck before 4:30 when they were destined to knock off. However, we had us lunch and returned to sit at the dock gates at 3:00 as advised. Sure enough, we should have known that the 3:30 figure would be more accurate.
Andreas eventually turned up and we were whisked down to the shed containing our babies. The sour faced customs bod who we had bumped into earlier seemed to have mellowed and he was fascinated by the climbing wall and everything else about the truck. Most impatient was he to get inside and see the passenger area. By the time he had had the guided tour, the ice had melted and he was not in the least bit interested in checking the serial numbers of the truck or the bike.
Once the crate was opened I had to get the front wheel onto the bike and all that kind of stuff. Of course, now that we had the customs guys in a good mood, we were desperate to get out as quick as possible. As I looked around, I could not find anything to lift the bike up onto while the wheel was fitted. At last, I spied a pallet truck in the corner of the shed and hoped that it would lift the bike far enough. Regrettably, no. As I was trying to add little bits of wood under the bike, a very nice man with a forklift came along and did the honours. Result, the fastest front wheel change in history.
More exciting still was the fact that the bike started first time. I was ready and raring to go ñ so much so that there were huge clouds of smoke pouring off the bike and filling the warehouse as the WD40 burnt off. ¥Not so fast, sonny¥ was the response from the customs guys. They had finally decided to check up on all items on the inventory that I had supplied to them.
This created a bit of a problem. All of my stuff was on the truck and to show it to them would have meant opening the sides and revealing all of the stuff that the Hot Rockers had on board ñ climbing gear by the heap. None of their stuff had been declared and so problems were beginning to loom large. At this point, Andreas proved his worth and prevented the search by transferring a crisp 100 dollar note from our wallets to the pocket of the customs official. There are times when you just have to play by other peoples rules.
That was it. All over. Legal in Argentina (but for the insurance, but more of that later)
Hippy has other things to do and I get to go, too
Whilst Pat was in and out of the docks, I was suffering with a cold and going off to my daily Spanish lessons. I have a theory that I am allergic to capital cities. I got a cold in Istanbul, Amman, Cairo and now Buenos Aires. My nose gets blocked. I feel tired. I get cold sores. I come out in a rash. I will test this theory in Santiago. If I am proved right I may devise a route around the world avoiding capitals. This is no bad thing, since up till now we have found an inverse relationship between the friendliness of people and the size of the town.
In the evenings we relaxed a little. Our first true night out was with a group of Argentine motorcyclists. A lovely, chap had answered our email and came to pick us up from the hotel. I ought to point out that his level of English was akin to our Spanish, but this did nothing to deter his enthusiasm. When we met Hueso (bone) it became clear the origin of his nickname, he seemed to be one of those people who fails to gain weight like the rest of us mortals. What followed, was a lovely evening where we sat in an unassuming bikersí bar, with a huge English Spanish dictionary, being passed to and fro, discussing the pros and cons of world travel by motorcycle. Despite the language difficulties the generosity of the gathered bikers, Chaco, Paulo, Andres and Hueso shone through. They refused to allow us to buy a drink (including the local legui), give us a road atlas of Buenos Aires, gave us chocolates, educated us in the niceties of matÈ (kind of tea drunk through a straw-thingy) and as we left insisted we
took good luck charms with us in the form of eagle representing freedom. It was one of those times that will always mate me feel warm inside with the memory of such genuine hospitality.
Gary and Caroline, a couple of Hot Rock early arrivals, persuaded us to go out on the town for Saturday night, with a few other folk from there hostel, including a plasterer from the South East (I only mention his occupation, because it is somewhat of a refreshing change to meet someone travelling who is not particularly PC and wishy washy middle class).
Pat & Helen (tourists of independent means) keeping it real! [Webmaster]
Now I should point out that Caroline is 23 whilst Gary is closer to our age. The bar had a band which was a nice idea, but I felt somewhat old when it became clear that they were not starting till 1am, and I wanted to go to bed. I gave the Elvis revival band a chance, but they were a poor imitation and it was only the magnitude of their sideburns and shininess of their tight leather trousers that was at all entertaining. We left at 3 and Caroline apparently rolled in at closer to 8am. Good Effort!!
After a week (including Saturday) of lessons I was itching to do something other than sit inside during lesson when all I could do was watch the gorgeous weather from within. So, on Sunday we had plans to do some touristy stuff, you know go and see some tango in some squares and things. But the Gods were not with us, from dawn till dusk the heavens opened and rain thundered down on the roof, drumming on the glass roof of the hallway, in a way that brought back sounds of Guyana, where the rain was kind enough to be so loud that you could hear it coming on the tin roofs from 4 miles away. Now no-one with any sense goes out in this kind of rain, so we sat and vegged for the day.
As more and more Hot Rockers arrived we were of course forced into repeated meals out. We have re-named this fair town Bryans Aires, in honour of a dear friend of ours. This is a nation of meat lovers. Here if you order a steak you get just that, a huge, deep succulent, juicy steak dominating an otherwise empty plate (this you can compliment with a salad or another additional order). It is now clear why the women here look anorexic, they are basically on a permanent meat only option of Slimming World Diet. So Pat had steak, followed by steak the next night and so on. I find it hard to devour so much cow in one go, so stuck with less protein based pasta meals.