The Iguazu Falls, at the northern extreme of a narrow outcropping of Argentina, is the second largest waterfall in the world, and it’s got to be the most beautiful. The further north you get, the more green and lush the vegetation is, spotted with red, yellow, white. Some of the roads on the way were just the rusty red-brown dirt and stones that are everywhere here.

I’ve never been in a jungle, but the national park near the falls *sounds* just like I always imagined one would: it’s absolutely full of noise– buzzing, tweeting, rustling, woops and maybe some growls– from every direction. Most of the time you can’t see where it’s coming from, but in my four hours I saw tribes of big-cat-sized coaties (the Ferengi of the park, walking unafraid amongst people, pulling coke cups out of the trashcans), a nest of fantastic green birds and one tall white graza (and lots of other birds), monkeys who were suddenly harvesting all around me at one point (if I were 10 meters in the air), and insects (including lots of different butterflies) galore.

The river splits into dozens of smaller falls (and one huge one), with copious greenery throughout. I’ve never seen an area so full of life. There aren’t very many “trails”, and all of them very over-engineered, but they’re good and bring you close enough to the falls to feel the spray. Half a day was not nearly enough, but it was what I had to give.

Note, the pictures below don’t show very well the biggest waterfall (which I did’t get close to, because of the trails I chose), but just imagine all of the other waterfalls combined.

The Green “Trail”	Trees on Trees	Coati on the Trail
Coaties Swarming	Looking over the Jungle	River and Cliffs
Above a Waterfall
		On San Martin Island
Looking Up	The Two Brothers	Family of Coaties
	The Kid
	Family of Birds
	Monkey over the trail	Another Monkey

Below are (most of) my pictures from Bariloche to Buenos Aires, Argentina. I put all the naked statues behind a cut, for people who think their bosses could actually dislike such things.

Bariloche, Argentina:

Bariloche Street	Centro Civico	Centro Civico
Bariloche Cathedral	Lake Nahuel Huapi

Neuquen, Argentina:

Countryside Nearby	More Countryside	More Countryside
Canyonscape in Neuquen	River bordering Neuquen	Mud-Brick Oven

Buenos Aires, Argentina:

Near Plaza de Mayo	Church of San Francisco	Rose Garden (Feb 3 Park)
Family of Ducks	Plaza Italia	Fountain in Palermo
Botanical Gardens	Cactus Section	Monument in the Gardens
A la cera perida	Another Monument	UBA Faculty of Engineering
Homenaje	Row in Rocaleta Cemetary	The Row Less Traveled
Looking Down a Tomb	Two Tombs	Zombie Problems
Parrot in the Hostel	Mural in the Mall	Reserve in Buenos Aires
More Green Birds	Buenos Aires from the Reserve

Buenos Aires’s Statues of Naked Women

Buenos Aires is an incredible city, full of action and noise and grime and beauty, colossal avenues and endless cobblestone, ornately carved churches next to ugly apartment buildings. I was never able to find the cathedral, which I think is nestled among a bunch of banks and stores.

Not often do I find a city that loves statues of naked women as much as I do (pictures pending). The northern part of the city center is dominated by large parks, filled with statues and people playing futbol. Nearby is the huge famous-people’s cemetery, a city of tomb monuments, of every style if its huge, criss-crossed with passageways so mazelike that you can take two turns and never see another non-dead being.

On the weekends, outside the cemetery is the Feria Hippie, one of Buenos Aires’s many crafts/trinkets/antiques/art fairs (this one specializing in my pot-smoking friends). This city throbs with its fairs (on weekends). On Sundays, several blocks near the hostel I stayed at (in San Telmo) are taken over by little outdoor stands and street performers and music and food and most of all, lots of people. Everyone seems to come out to the fairs.

My second night, I went out drinking with a group of Spanish-speakers from the hostel (a first for me). Before getting drunk, we stopped at a Tango Bar, mostly to watch. Tango is definitely a dance I can get into– rather than salsa’s bag-of-tricks, tango seems to be a humming duet of bodies. And after a few songs, the music changed, and suddenly, everyone got up and broke out in the SCA Maltese Branle! Bizarre.

I have more stories from Buenos Aires, like catching a parrot and late-night talk of Derrida and the kick-ass hostel I stayed at, but now I’m a full location behind (I’m about to leave Iguazu Falls for Brazil– its own odyssey), so I’ll see you there.

I write this on the 14 hour bus ride to Buenos Aires, munching on a sweet cone of dulce de leche. The last two days have been some of the best in years, filled with homecooked feasts, endless laughs, and incredible kindness. I know I can wax hyperbolic, but this has been an unforgettable, eye-opening experience to the joys of Argentina.

My beautiful couchsurfing hosts, Adriana and her daughter Maria Jose, have been more welcoming than I imagined possible. Adriana is a professor and former dean at the University in Neuquen, teaching tourism and its environmental consequences, very kind and a great cook. Maria Jose (Majo?) studies social communication (media studies) in Buenos Aires– she’s smart, talented, environmentally- and socially-conscious, and hot. They were patient with my Spanish (but good English speakers), and Majo filled papers writing words I didn’t know. They live on 7 ha, with fields and (a little) forest, a small orchard, vineyard, and garden, five dogs, and an absolutely beautiful house.

They also have an outdoor mud-brick oven (a la Crook’d Cat), where they cooked delicious homemade empanadas (pockets of meat), bread, and a big parradilla (Argentine BBQ)– they let me help make the fire. Plus, over the two days I was there, there was pickled fish and a wild rice fish dish (Majo and her father caught the fish themselves), work-of-art salad and pizza, and sweets from Argentina’s favorite. We ate it all over plenty of good discussion and wine.

The first morning, I lazed in their hammock with a book of Majo’s (El Principito) while she did crafts. After more food, Majo showed me the city. Every block, it seemed, as we walked and talked, Majo would run into friends, and they would laugh and talk for a couple minutes, with cheek-kisses to me. Majo told me about the city in her youth, where everyone in town gathered at the big market, where she would dance every night. A river borders the city, an easy walk from the center, where people chill and play in the water, and beyond which is sudden forest green. We walked in the river and had ice creams. Before heading back, we drove to the other side of the center, to a huge planned canyon landscape of trees and trails, where people run and bike and walk and sit in the stark beauty.

Maria Jose drove me back to the bus station, with a full tummy, a head of beer, and lots to think about.

Sorry for the thumbnails are so small and the (sort-of) originals are so big. I’m working on making my picture site give me an intermediate option.

Valparaiso, Chile:

Chess Mural

Statue in Valparaiso

Valparaiso from Above

Garden by Neruda’s House

Valparaiso Street

Human Tower

Puerto Montt, Chile:

Chile Countryside

Building in Puerto Montt

Puerto Montt Seacoast

Houses in the Hills

Island near PM

Looking away from PM

Chiloe, Chile:

Chiloe by Ferry	Chiloe Countryside	Entrance to Chiloe Fort	Chiloe Fort	Beach Near Chiloe Fort	Grains in Market
Island on the Island	Houses on Stilts	Castro from the Boat	Castro’s Cathedral	Castro’s Cathedral	Plazuela el Tren

Chile/Argentina Border:

Andes in Chile

Andes near pass

Andes near Border

Andes along the Border

More Andes

More Andes

The following morning, I took off for Argentina. The Andes are incredible here: densely forested up to their oddly-shaped tops, licked by whispy clouds; wild flowers and fields; the occasional earth-toned home; unspoilt lakes. A gregorious Ecudorian professor with a Desperato look kept up an unbroken stream of chatter behind me, but it’s a good day for it.

The customs building looked like a park service cabin. We were held up for a while at the Argentinian border while customs officers pulled out all the luggage and the drug-sniffing dogs (one of whom took his task in zest, and the other who seemed more interested in attention from his handler). The even opened the AC vent. The largest sign nearby read “Drugstore”, naturally on the side going back to Chile.

By the time I got to Bariloche, the last bus to Neuquen had left, but I’m happy I stopped. Bariloche is a tourist town again, but with a totally different audience: active tourists, students on break, skiing or nature-loving (bats don’t wink there at my huge bag). The whole town looks like it was built by the three bears, all lincoln logs and big stone structures. I didn’t go out into the wilderness, but I didn’t need to with the a beautiful lake a feather’s throw away. Bariloche is very diverse, and appears to love its chocolate. There’s a fair amount of English spoken or known, but I hear its epidemic. And I’m definitely getting my tan on (really my sunburn, but who’s counting?).

All the hostels in Bariloche were booked, until the hostel desk worker helping me finally found one 18 km out of town. The place was fantastically laid-back: the sleeping room didn’t have beds, just two shelves of mattresses, the kitched wasn’t clean or organized, and the check-in process consisted of filling out a line on a register (everyone else on my page was Argentinian or Brazilian, except 1 Canadian) and paying at some point: just make do and have fun, the place shouted. Another day, I would have rode that groove, but I tried to make it an errand day. Sadly, Sunday isn’t the best day for that, so I ended up mostly just busing around, but that’s all the fun of the game.

For the third time in my wanderings, I’ve come upon two British women talking together about a mutual male friend and how “big” he was or wasn’t. Are British women size queens? I’ve been having lots of other deep thoughts, but not for public consumption.

I have lots of pictures to post, but they’re not for the dialup connection of the beautiful ranch house I’m now typing from. So here’s text through yesterday (in two posts).

I need to learn to slow down. In Puerto Montt, a pretty girl stopped and looked at me, popsicle in pose. “¿Tienes un cigarette para la chica?” I could have said a dozen things: “Not on me, can I offer you something else?” Instead, just like I would some days in English, I mumbled a “No,” and moved on. But she was there: “¿No fumar?” “Not today– want some fruit juice?” Instead, another, “No.” Still, she tried, as I walked by, but too fast for me to follow. I half pretended I didn’t hear. It’s must have made her feel crumby.

My first afternoon in Puerto Montt, I headed out along the shore, walking well outside of the town center. Suddenly, I came apon an interminable row of tourist handicraft stores, and was surrounded by elderly, camera-toting, English speakers, like there was a great granparent relocation program. The street finally ended in an resort-looking, fish-smelling shopping center, with a big entrance and no exit. I decided to pull a Vandiver and took for the hills. I didn’t get much into the wilderness, but I did get yelled at by Chilean from his window.

The next day, I went on a full-day tour of Chiloe, the first island drip off Chile’s sopping nether-regions. The jolly tour guide, who kept tweaking his nipples, told our group plenty in Spanish that I couldn’t follow. A dutch hosteller came too (which created a pocket of English around us), but the tour was fun for the pictures and the boat trips. The plantlife has a huge diversity there, but Chileans are not to be outdone. In the US, the Smith house is white (with picket fence). In Chile, I think it’s blue, with green trim, and has an orange roof.

At a fort in Chiloe, another tourguide asked if I wanted him to take my picture for me. “No, gracias.” “Oh! ¿Que pais? ¿Frances?” “Los Estados Unidos.” “Ah! So who do you want for president? Osama? Edwards? Clinton? Who are you going to vote for?” “Um, probably Obama.” He shook my shoulder. “Yes! I too think Obama will bethe next. He’s young! Brings change.”

Valparaiso is the most turisty town I’ve ever encountered (filled with Chilean turists, but still). The sidewalks are crammed with street sellers, food stands, performers of all sorts. Commercialism is rampant: the parks are filled with holidayers, but also with rides and cotton candy. The historic area is small, and overgrown with street vendors. It’s exciting in a way, but I’m happy to leave. Valparaiso’s one redeeming aspect is its hills, which stretch so erratically that the sidewalks need elevators when stairs don’t cut it. I visited Pablo Neruda’s house– ah, to be a poet.

I *love* public transit in not-the-US. The Santiago Metro comes about every minute, and there are buses everywhere all the time. I took el cheapo bus from Santiago to Valparaiso– it was half the price of the Fung Wa (for half the distance, but still), twice the comfort of Greyhound, and it left every 20 minutes.

Hmm, I wrote that before taking an overnight bus down to Puerto Montt, which wasn’t much fun. The guy next to me kept singing to his mp3 player; there was a toddler and his even-louder parents right behind me; and after showing a movie (an English made-for-TV adaptation of Paolini’s Inheritance cycle), they left it on the DVD’s skipping intro music screen until after I fell asleep. So it goes.

“The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in Puerto Montt.” Is that how the saying goes? It’s not actually that cold here, but you’d never know it by the way the Chileans are bundled up. Puerto Montt is a charming and bustling seaside town in southern Chile that forms the gateway to Patagonia, a place so beautiful I don’t have time to see it, and sits on the southern edge of the Chile Lake District, a region so beautiful I slept through most of it. But with any luck, I’ll be spending the next couple days enjoy some pockets of beauty before busing across the Andes into Argentina. I just heard that from my first couchsurf-host (couchsurfee?), and I’ll be staying on a farm in Neuquén. Wee!

Here are pictures from my last two days in Santiago.

Happy House Hostel	Political Mosaic	Santiago Cathedral	Church in Barrio Brazil
Santa Lucia “Castle”	Santiago from Santa Lucia	Santa Lucia Park	Penis Drinking Cup

My hostel has really cool atmosphere– crazy wood work everywhere, bamboo and candles; the public computer is sitting in a rock garden.

The Penis Drinking Cup is a neat invention (I couldn’t take pictures in the museum, so it’s from their book). The holes in the crown make it so you have to drink from the tip.

One of the powers of travel– or maybe it’s of truered‘s book– is that it makes you think about the direction of your life. I told a friend recently that what I wanted in life more than anything– more than enlightenment or good friends or incredible experiences– was to leave it a better place than I found it. But instead over the past two years, I’ve spent my time chasing after women, spending gobs of money and time to start a travel blog business, and spending more to see the world. And for what? To better be a person, to make something cool, to understand the world? It’s all dry-runs; practicing instead of doing. I’m the only one to benefit. And for all the fun I get out of my contract work, it’s just fun; I can’t take pride in it, because it’s isn’t helping anyone.

There are a million ways my skills could go towards making this world a better place. I have a project already made to help college students find host homes in swing states so they can change the political sphere. My aunt is bringing infrastructure and computers to the wilds of Costa Rica. One Laptop Per Child needs skilled programmers. And if all else fails, there’s always Pakistani schools.

I’ve been thinking of where to go when I leave Cambridge. Prague has a huge appeal. It’s a place for artists, and people who live life as art. We are all artists, desperately trying to manifest our deepest selves, and let our art shine so that someone else will want to share its glow. That (translated, distilled, reduced) was the understanding that came from my recent acid trip.

Now I disagree. Life is love, and a love of art is to mistake the finger pointing for the object it’s pointing at. Loving is easy; I don’t want to love my art– I’d rather love children in third-world countries.

Of course, I won’t totally give up life as art. It’s too much a part of me. Or for that matter give up chasing women (especially not in this lovely country) or my travel blog (it will be great and useful) or travel (it continues to serve me well). But Prague? I’m more likely to move to Africa.