North of the capital and things get really isolated. On a six hour bus ride through the Chaco- a sort of palm savannah with vultures circling overhead (waiting to pick off tourists when the buses break down) we went through perhaps five settlements. These consisted of two or three houses made of logs, a hammock stretched between some trees, a tarpaulin, a few chickens, a ribby cow and a camp fire. Quite what these people do out in this wilderness I am not sure but everyone seemed happy enough staring at the buses from the shade of their trees. Our final destination was the town of Concepción. Stepping off the bus we were surrounded by locals wielding nunchuks- which turned out to be horsewhips. They were taxi drivers- the preferred method of public transport in town being the horse and cart, if you don't own your own scooter. Dumping our bags at the nearest hospedaje we headed off down the street to see what there was to see. Answer: not much- red dust roads, board buildings with tin roofs, and several stalls selling spitroasted chickens. The heat was incredible- like stepping into an oven- and after a short explore it became apparent that there was nothing for it except to order a cold beer and sit in the shade. Once seated, we noted that this is exactly what everyone else in town was doing.
That's pretty much how it worked for our three days there. It's too hot in the middle of the Paraguayan day to leave your little bit of shade, be that under a tree on your bit of pavement, or in our case, the only airconditioned room on the block. In the evening, we strolled down to get some roast chicken and then sat with the locals at a roadside shack and drank all their beer and played cards. On the second night we made friends with a carpenter called Nicholas who taught us some basic Guarani (the local language) and answered all our enquiries on Paraguayan life while encouraging Chris to ogle the breasts of passing local ladies. Five litres in we both agreed that we liked it here- alot. Fortunately we'd already booked our bus out of there or I think we'd still be there. Oh, and there was a crocodile in the river. They showed us mobile phone footage of the locals shotting at it with rifles. Extraordinary.
Having not been put off by the Patagonian 'Welsh' experience we headed even norther to the German Mennonite Colony of Fernheim at Filadelfia. This is even more remote and tricky to get to. Should you visit, may I personally recommend that you don't accidentally nearly leave your fiance in a service station toilet and have to shriek at the driver to stop the bus- it amuses the locals, but makes you feela trifle foolish. The insufferably wrong guidebook dubbed this one ' a suburb of Munich in the middle of a desert' which is stretching it a bit, and on arrival we were a bit nonplussed as to where exactly the Mennonites were. The Mennonites, for those of you who haven't been to Wikipedia yet, are a subgroup of Anabaptists, originally from Germany (or Russia, or Holland, depending who you believe). They eschew violence, speak a german dialect called PlattDeutsch, and are a bit Amish-ish. Expecting something akin to Amishfolk off the telly I was a trifle disappointed that they have all mod cons up here, until I realised this meant a swimming pool at the hotel. Bliss. We spent a happy hour poking around the Mennonite museum, looking at the things they had brought with them from home when the first colonists sailed up the Rio Paraguay and laid the first beachtowels down on the area in the 1929, fleeing from the hyperinflation of Weimar Germany and Bolshevik persecution in Russia. Rather brilliantly the museum included an old man's prosthetic leg (the original shot off by the aforementioned Bolsheviks), a lamp that ran on peanut oil, and Russian winter clothing- all of which was I am sure was deemed essential in the 40 degree heat of a Chaco summer. Upon arrival about 90 of the 500 or so colonists died in a typhus epidemic and were buried in hollow tree trunks. The rest farmed, milked, and sweated their way to what we see today. Some of the group- including the grandparents of the museum curator, went out and established a German Mennonite colony in China. Does anyone know if they are still there? I shall make it my task to find out.
So there you have it- Northern Paraguay is full of blonde, German speaking Germans, eating kuchen and not drinking gluhwein (because most of them don't drink- although you can buy a beer called Kaiser). I'll say it again- extraordinary.
First, select your llama...
Wednesday 23 November 2011
Friday 18 November 2011
Technicolor Paraguay
I should never have mentioned the heat. I have tempted the thermometer in the worst of all ways. Having left Argentina by way of the world's easiest border control (they do not give a rat's what you bring into Paraguay) we have now spent the week melting. It is not just the heat of the heat, which is mid 30s, but the fantastic humidity of the heat which makes your pants stick to your arse and your legs stick to your chair and your hair turn into a ginger Einstein afro. There is a scene in an episode of Star Trek where Counsellor Troi devolves into some sort of frog-human hybrid and goes to live in a bathtub. That's me this week. It's hot enough to melt both my shoes and my resolve to do anything. It's hot enough for Chris to agree to sit in the shade and drink 4 litres of beer with me. When the wind blows, it's like someone putting the hairdryer on in your face. In short, it's really hot. But there's Christmas decorations everywhere, which is all wrong.
Happily we have managed some short bursts of activity. In Encarnacion, we visited some ruined Jesuit missions. Lots of nice brickwork. No other visitors. I remember once my stepfather got a machine where we could print our own labels and for a few days the whole family went crazy making little stickers that said 'video' and 'biscuit tin' and 'sister' and stuck them everywhere. I mention this because I get the feeling this is what the over-enthusiastic folks who draw up the World Heritage List got up to in South America. EVERYTHING is on the damn list. In this case, although they have managed to provide no information and no context for the ruins, I can see what they were up to. There really isn't much in Paraguay for people to come and look at. Some nice brickwork is pretty much the sum of historical sites.
Neither this nor the heat should stop people from visiting though, because what Paraguay lacks in obvious tourist draws it makes up for with the fact that there are no obvious tourist draws and therefore-brilliantly- no tourists. This is South America at its (almost) unspoilt best. All the fun stuff is found in observing everyday life, especially out in the countryside which is just too picturesque to be true. In fact, I spent ages staring out at very green fields and very red earth, very brown rivers and very blue skies, trying to figure out why it seemed familiar. Then I remembered: it's the opening scenes of Gone with the Wind. Big plantations, old mansion houses, nicely positioned cows, all done in glorious technicolor. We caught a local bus out to a small town and went into the gas station to ask when the connecting bus would arrive. In about an hour, we were told. So we sat by the side of the road playing ball with rolled up socks and watching people take things on and off the buses.On the hour, the man from the gas station came out, got into another crumbling rustbucket and drove us to the next village. He came back especially to pick us up from the ruins. I loved that.
Asuncion, the capital, seems to have been put together with leftover bits from all the other capital cities in South America. It has a nice smattering of old buildings, including some huge colonial mansions on the main road into town, which seem to have been made for verandahs and people wearing linen to drink iced teas in the heat of the early evening. There's a wide, slow river perspiring away in the background, breeding those lovely dengue-carrying mosquitoes, and some nice leafy squares. There's also grinding poverty everywhere- half the local population seem to have no shoes, and in the middle of Plaza Uruguay there's a huge shanty town with tents made of plastic and washing lines hanging between the trees, and filthy kids playing in the roads. It's hard to think of another place where the words 'faded grandeur' are so apt: Asuncion was larger than Buenos Aires for a good few years. Nowadays all the bus companies sell you tickets to BA (a mere 18 hours away) and Asuncion seems to be having a permanent siesta, although there are signs that things are beginning to change. They've switched on to air conditioning, which is a boon- we've spent a lot of time looking at things in shop that we can't afford and don't want in order to avail ourselves of the lovely cool air. Every few days there is a citywide power cut because there's not enough power in the grids to keep all the fans running. Lots of people eat their lunch in cafeterias in the department stores where you can get a buffet style meal paid for by the kilogram. They've even opened a British pub. Visit now, before it's too late.
Sunday 13 November 2011
Hot Stuff
After the delights of the Holy Land theme park, all other earthly activities seem a trifle mundane. Feeling spiritually unclean and leprous we decided to go to Mass in Buenos Aires Cathedral. Happily we were not smited upon entry which I took to be a good sign, although God turned a deaf ear to my pleas regarding the result of Fulham v Spurs. Further evidence of divine displeasure manifested itself in the thwarting of our dinner arrangements. Chris had found a 'Real British Curry House' promising us an actual Lamb Rogan Josh (curry being rarer than hens teeth in this part of the world) but to our dismay it was closed on Mondays. Feeling that we had exhausted our capacity for beautifully cooked steak and fine wines we then trawled the city for inferior chinese food.
I wish to state on record at this point that I loved Buenos Aires deeply and passionately. It is one of the few cities which I have ever seriously considered living in. I would encourage everyone to visit and sample its delights. But of course all cities have one fatal flaw and in BA it is an outrageous, nay, criminal inability to provide crispy duck pancakes on request. The only possible candidate involved a sweating, shirtless kitchen hand who seemed genuinely baffled that we weren't there to close his establishment down and deport him. After two hours of fruitless wandering we were forced to admit defeat and this will tarnish my memory of this great metropolis forever.
On the other hand, there is nothing like arriving anywhere else in Argentina to make you nostalgic for Buenos Aires and happily our next stop was Rosario. We got off the bus into the sort of oppressive heat that makes you visibly wilt. Fortunately there is nothing to do in Rosario at all so I lay around in a listless daze for the first day rallying occasionally to demand that Chris fan me with a towel. Eventually I became delirious, calling weakly for beer (too weakly; he didn't buckle).
Overnight a tropical storm, the worst in 27 years according to the news, lashed the town, ripping the shutters off the hostel window and with some impressive lightning (or so I am told: I was hiding under the covers). The storm blew away the international food festival in town so we really were left with nothing to do except fight with the world's most incompetent supermarket staff over their inability to make change or work out the barcode on a packet of blueberries. It seems little wonder that Che Guevara and Lionel Messi, both native sons, decided to hightail it out of there as quick as possible.
Currently we're hanging out in Posadas on the Paraguayan border. Up here our biggest concern is mosquitos. Here, dengue fever is all the rage. This nasty little ailment is carried by a different set of mosquitoes to the malarial kind. Dengue mosquitoes hang out during the daytime, making this part of the world a 24 hour bug nightmare. I'm particularly thrilled to report that dengue can lead to a wonderful complication called dengue haemorrhagic fever. As we all know I am exceptionally brave but haemorrhagic fevers are no picnic- not unless you are a vampire. Consequently I am now suffering from psychosomatic mosquito bites of the highest magnitude. Every tiny itch and twinge has now become a sign of impending doom. There's nothing you can do for dengue except drink fluids. Nothing much for malaria either, except drink gin and tonic (for the quinine) so by process of careful study I have concluded that there is no choice other than to be medicinally drunk until December.
Bring it on, Paraguay.
Saturday 5 November 2011
Your own personal (animatronic) Jesus
Several years ago my friend Sully and I decided there was a gap in the market for a religious themed fast food restaurant. Called 'The Fast Supper', the sample menu offered dishes such as Lamb of God with Peas Be With You and Judas IsCarrots, Satan Kidney Pie and Cheeses of Nazareth. We reluctantly abandoned the plan for fears that it would outrage religious sensibilities everywhere and piss off the Big Guy Upstairs.
I mention it now because here in Buenos Aires they have managed to go one better and have opened an entire theme park based on the life and work of Christ. I had heard about this place a few weeks ago from a genuinely scandalised visitor and knowing that the giftshop would be outstanding if nothing else, I looked it up on the internet. It is called Holy Land (Tierra Santa). I know I've told you to look a lot of things up during this blog but trust me, look it up- you won't be disappointed. I'd spent quite a lot of time developing a programme of rides- hoping against hope for a Jonah boat ride with a whale leaping out of the water like the Jaws shark at Universal Studios. This time, my expectations were completely matched and overwhelmed. (In your face, Bolivian Dinosaur Park!)
It's hard to know where to start- at the main entrance I was accosted by a Roman soldier with a walkie- talkie lurking under a plastic palm tree. He steered us towards the Nativity Scene, before informing us that due to weather conditions the Birth of Christ was taking place on a revised timetable. Would we care to wander up to Golgotha a admire the beautifully rendered Plastic Crucifixion scene, complete with mocking Roman centurions gnawing on a chicken leg and Jewish women wailing and beating their breasts? Well, alright then, but try and stick to the script for the rest of this, OK?
We got a little lost looking for the Rivers of Jordan waterfall, having taken a wrong turn at Joseph's carpentry shop (closed, alas! I was hoping to pick up some carved wooden trinkets for the folks back home). So we instead followed a sign to the Resurrection via a grotto in which St George was slaying a poorly rendered dragon and a suggestions box where you could leave your own requests for your Guardian Angel. Plastic Pope John Paul II appeared to have been quarantined (for purposes unknown) in a large glass case, perhaps fearing another plastic assassination attempt. After a while things got a little peevish- "We should have gone left at the Beatitudes". "That is the sixth time you have redirected us to the Wailing Wall". Rounding a corner, we were startled to find Lazarus, covered in what appeared to be string and egg whites, advancing upon an unperturbed Jesus who was signalling for a waiter or possibly attempting a Turn Undead spell.
This was all so far beyond my expectations for tasteless awfulness that I began to feel serious, Catholic levels of guilt for being in the place. Poor Chris, desperately searching for some Methodism in this madness, held up bravely until an inspection of the winter timetable showed that the giant Jesus we had seen on the side of the plastic Gologotha moments before was the long awaited Resurrection, showing hourly at ten to the hour. "He pops up and down" my poor boy fumed, clutching his head in despair "like some sort of ecclesiastical jack-in-the-box".
Fearing a crisis of faith and/or possibly a smiting, we decided to have a sit-down amongst other disciples in the Animatronic Last Supper Spectacular. "Many visitors find this the most moving part of the park" the leaflet trumpeted (the ironic play on words didn't translate into spanish). As the lights dimmed a Spanish Charlton Heston solemnly intoned the narrative from the Gospels as a selection of disco lights played over the tableau. Then, at the breaking of the bread part, the mechanised disciples all turned as Our Animatronic Lord spread his arms wide, turned his head and stared RIGHT at me (bit frightening, that) and then opening and shutting his mouth to resemble talking, he gave thanks and praise (via the voiceover). This was repeated with the wine before the RoboSaviour turned and threw a withering look at Judas and patting St Peter awkwardly on the arm. Finally the music reached a crescendo and the lights came up to enthusiastic applause from the audience of pensioners and schoolchildren. I sat genuinely stunned.
Well, I could go on and on. After a stop at a gift shop (all the staff are obliged to wear Palestinian head towels, including the maintenance men) to stock up on religious tat (buy your Frankincense and Myrrh here! Ooh, how much for that Last Supper keyring?) we snacked on a Holy Hotdog before heading off to see some more treats. Why, here is the Wailing Wall! Apparently if you leave a prayer here we'll post it to the actual wall in Jerusalem. Look, there's Jesus throwing the moneylenders out of the temple! And look, you can buy some hummus over here, because that's what Jesus ate. We enjoyed the delights of the Nativity at last (flying cherubs, crazy party lighting- they stopped just short of a glitterball but it was a close one). At The Creation we were treated to Enya, which is apparently what God listened to while he was making the Garden of Eden out of some green lasers, dry ice and a lot of leftover animatronic animals from another theme park. We poked around the back streets of Jerusalem before stumbling across the Mount of Olives and fetching up in the far corner where, in a sop to other world religions, we found Gandhi, Martin Luther, a small synagogue and a replica plastic mosque. A sign outside the mosque asked visitors to take their shoes off before going inside the plastic mosque. It seemed a bit late in the day to be worried about offending anyone's religious principles, but why the hell not?
By this stage it was becoming really hard to maintain a grip on rising hysteria. But there was one more, the grand finale to end all finales. I refer of course to the Resurrection itself. We sat in a plastic amphitheatre with an expectant throng of guests. Then, acompanied by the soaring strains of the Hallelujah Chorus, the earth split and the 60ft Messiah rose imperiously from the ground. He is risen! Hallelujah! What's he doing now? Ah, he's turning to bless the multitudes. Hallelujah! He is risen! What's this? He is descending! That's not right- wait, come back!! No, show's over. But Fear Not, the Lord will rise again at ten to three and every hour until closing time.
All jokes aside, I honestly can't pass judgement on any of this. Of course it was awful; and unquestioningly, arrestingly bizarre . But it was certainly popular. The schoolchildren were lapping it up, and didn't seem to be doing so in a mocking or disrespectful way. The park genuinely seemed to be serious about bringing Christianity to life for its visitors and, while I am not at all sure about the methodology, I can't really fault the sentiment. And in its own unique way it definitely shed an interestingly light on how people relate to religion here. Which was certainly thought- provoking. I'm still thinking about it.
I leave you with this thought: They may have made some spectacular advances in animatronics these days but I say verily unto you, God still moves in the most mysterious ways.
I mention it now because here in Buenos Aires they have managed to go one better and have opened an entire theme park based on the life and work of Christ. I had heard about this place a few weeks ago from a genuinely scandalised visitor and knowing that the giftshop would be outstanding if nothing else, I looked it up on the internet. It is called Holy Land (Tierra Santa). I know I've told you to look a lot of things up during this blog but trust me, look it up- you won't be disappointed. I'd spent quite a lot of time developing a programme of rides- hoping against hope for a Jonah boat ride with a whale leaping out of the water like the Jaws shark at Universal Studios. This time, my expectations were completely matched and overwhelmed. (In your face, Bolivian Dinosaur Park!)
It's hard to know where to start- at the main entrance I was accosted by a Roman soldier with a walkie- talkie lurking under a plastic palm tree. He steered us towards the Nativity Scene, before informing us that due to weather conditions the Birth of Christ was taking place on a revised timetable. Would we care to wander up to Golgotha a admire the beautifully rendered Plastic Crucifixion scene, complete with mocking Roman centurions gnawing on a chicken leg and Jewish women wailing and beating their breasts? Well, alright then, but try and stick to the script for the rest of this, OK?
We got a little lost looking for the Rivers of Jordan waterfall, having taken a wrong turn at Joseph's carpentry shop (closed, alas! I was hoping to pick up some carved wooden trinkets for the folks back home). So we instead followed a sign to the Resurrection via a grotto in which St George was slaying a poorly rendered dragon and a suggestions box where you could leave your own requests for your Guardian Angel. Plastic Pope John Paul II appeared to have been quarantined (for purposes unknown) in a large glass case, perhaps fearing another plastic assassination attempt. After a while things got a little peevish- "We should have gone left at the Beatitudes". "That is the sixth time you have redirected us to the Wailing Wall". Rounding a corner, we were startled to find Lazarus, covered in what appeared to be string and egg whites, advancing upon an unperturbed Jesus who was signalling for a waiter or possibly attempting a Turn Undead spell.
This was all so far beyond my expectations for tasteless awfulness that I began to feel serious, Catholic levels of guilt for being in the place. Poor Chris, desperately searching for some Methodism in this madness, held up bravely until an inspection of the winter timetable showed that the giant Jesus we had seen on the side of the plastic Gologotha moments before was the long awaited Resurrection, showing hourly at ten to the hour. "He pops up and down" my poor boy fumed, clutching his head in despair "like some sort of ecclesiastical jack-in-the-box".
Fearing a crisis of faith and/or possibly a smiting, we decided to have a sit-down amongst other disciples in the Animatronic Last Supper Spectacular. "Many visitors find this the most moving part of the park" the leaflet trumpeted (the ironic play on words didn't translate into spanish). As the lights dimmed a Spanish Charlton Heston solemnly intoned the narrative from the Gospels as a selection of disco lights played over the tableau. Then, at the breaking of the bread part, the mechanised disciples all turned as Our Animatronic Lord spread his arms wide, turned his head and stared RIGHT at me (bit frightening, that) and then opening and shutting his mouth to resemble talking, he gave thanks and praise (via the voiceover). This was repeated with the wine before the RoboSaviour turned and threw a withering look at Judas and patting St Peter awkwardly on the arm. Finally the music reached a crescendo and the lights came up to enthusiastic applause from the audience of pensioners and schoolchildren. I sat genuinely stunned.
Well, I could go on and on. After a stop at a gift shop (all the staff are obliged to wear Palestinian head towels, including the maintenance men) to stock up on religious tat (buy your Frankincense and Myrrh here! Ooh, how much for that Last Supper keyring?) we snacked on a Holy Hotdog before heading off to see some more treats. Why, here is the Wailing Wall! Apparently if you leave a prayer here we'll post it to the actual wall in Jerusalem. Look, there's Jesus throwing the moneylenders out of the temple! And look, you can buy some hummus over here, because that's what Jesus ate. We enjoyed the delights of the Nativity at last (flying cherubs, crazy party lighting- they stopped just short of a glitterball but it was a close one). At The Creation we were treated to Enya, which is apparently what God listened to while he was making the Garden of Eden out of some green lasers, dry ice and a lot of leftover animatronic animals from another theme park. We poked around the back streets of Jerusalem before stumbling across the Mount of Olives and fetching up in the far corner where, in a sop to other world religions, we found Gandhi, Martin Luther, a small synagogue and a replica plastic mosque. A sign outside the mosque asked visitors to take their shoes off before going inside the plastic mosque. It seemed a bit late in the day to be worried about offending anyone's religious principles, but why the hell not?
By this stage it was becoming really hard to maintain a grip on rising hysteria. But there was one more, the grand finale to end all finales. I refer of course to the Resurrection itself. We sat in a plastic amphitheatre with an expectant throng of guests. Then, acompanied by the soaring strains of the Hallelujah Chorus, the earth split and the 60ft Messiah rose imperiously from the ground. He is risen! Hallelujah! What's he doing now? Ah, he's turning to bless the multitudes. Hallelujah! He is risen! What's this? He is descending! That's not right- wait, come back!! No, show's over. But Fear Not, the Lord will rise again at ten to three and every hour until closing time.
All jokes aside, I honestly can't pass judgement on any of this. Of course it was awful; and unquestioningly, arrestingly bizarre . But it was certainly popular. The schoolchildren were lapping it up, and didn't seem to be doing so in a mocking or disrespectful way. The park genuinely seemed to be serious about bringing Christianity to life for its visitors and, while I am not at all sure about the methodology, I can't really fault the sentiment. And in its own unique way it definitely shed an interestingly light on how people relate to religion here. Which was certainly thought- provoking. I'm still thinking about it.
I leave you with this thought: They may have made some spectacular advances in animatronics these days but I say verily unto you, God still moves in the most mysterious ways.
Wednesday 2 November 2011
¿De Donde Son?
¿De donde son?
Seeingly innocuous, those three little words, but what pain they can encompass. For the monoglots out there, ¿de donde son? is spanish for 'look it up'. Just kidding. It of course means "where are you from", and the starting point for all verbal interaction for travellers and natives alike across this vast and diverse continent. We are usually asked three or four times a day. When you're travelling for almost a year, that adds up to quite a lot of repetitions. It looks like a simple question- it is in reality a simple question, but handling it is troublesome.
First, the basics. Let's narrow this down to nationality. We'll be sidestepping the whole English v British issue, merely noting that the debate is particularly vexing to border police in remote areas: or maybe they just want to screw with your mind by holding onto your passport for an eternity while noting the discrepancy between the 'english' on your immigration card and 'british' in your passport. There are distinct times when you really don't want to have to admit to being a denizen of the sceptred isle. Standing in front of the Falklands/Malvinas War memorial when they are changing the guards (who have pointy swords) is one such time. Booking a hostel room anywhere in Argentina the day after England have beaten Los Pumas in the rugby is another one. English, your interrogator will repeat, with a scornful glint in their eye. English, he will say again, pondering the matter gravely- as if unsure whether it would be appropriate to have you arrested on the spot. (this is particularly worrying outside military or government buildings) English, he will repeat again even more slowly, and rather sorrowfully, as if he had been quite prepared to like you, but now of course that is out of the question.
At the other end of the spectrum you may meet a street peddler, drunkard or - most dangerous- lunatic anglophile who will take your admission as an opportunity to regurgitate their entire knowledge of England. 'David Beckham', he will say 'oh, and that fat one whatsisname Rooney. Whine Rooney.YES'. He will then either seize your arm and shake your hand until your elbow is dislocated, or follow you down the road saying 'Big Ben!Bobby Charlton!Prince William's Royal Wedding!'. A rogueish glance, if you happen to still be in Argentina- 'Do you know who Diego Maradona is?' (The appropriate response to that one is to look rueful and make the hand of god gesture). If you are lucky, or patient, they will eventually tire of this game and wander off with a wink and a Cheerio!
If you are at a bar or a football game, or anywhere else where the exits are blocked, the next stage of the conversation will attempt further subclassifications . English, your new Argentine friend will say. Do you like Manchester City? You will confess that you don't, because you're from London. Ah, London. A knowing nod. London is Chelsea fans. If, at this stage you manage to refrain from pouring your drink over his head, (perhaps because your fiance is restraining you), you will tell him that actually, the majority of Londoners are not Chelsea fans (and incidentally, that the majority of Chelsea fans aren't Londoners. Or sentient lifeforms.) And your team is... Fool Ham? What is this Fool Ham? They do not have Argentinian players, I think.
Well no, not yet. You smug git.
All this goodwilled quizzing is naturally part of the rich cultural tapestry of travelling and it would smack of rank ingratitude to criticise a nation for taking an interest in the lives of its visitors (Heaven forbid we tried this in London!). The real tedium of ¿dedondeson? comes from the thousand or so times you have to explain to another tourist from the English speaking world. Picture the scene: You are hanging your knickers to dry on the radiator or cutting your toenails in a dorm room and someone new and chatty walks in with a big rucksack. You glance up, fatally, and make eye contact. One of you has to break the awkward silence- they've seen your pants, you have to acknowledge their existence now. Etiquette demands that the invader offers the verbal olive branch. So whereyoufrom has replaced hello as the default conversational opener, backing the victim into a corner from which there is no escape. You simply can't ignore a direct question unless you pretend to be deaf. For this reason you should never drape your freshly scrubbed gussets in public areas unless you have headphones in. Don't say you never learnt anything from me.
Now everyone knows where London is. Two Londoner can dispense with this nonsense pretty rapidly- west?east.borough?tower hamlets. me.too.no,surely notwhatanextraordinarycoincidence which bitwhitechapelextraordinaryi'mwappingwellwellsmallworldnicetomeetyoubyebye. The fun and games start when you take someone earnest with a San Diego zoo baseball cap on and put them next to someone from, well, let's say for the purposes of example, Yeovil.
Hi, I'm Chip. I'm from San Diego, California. Whereyoufrom?
Yeovil, England
(blank look)
It's a very small place.
(blank look)
It's in the southwest of England, in the county of Somerset
(blank look, kind of wishing they hadn't asked now)
Near Stonehenge
Is that near London?
Yes, yes, I live in London.
(then why didn't you say so?)
The heart of the matter is this: No one gives a tiny mouse's fart where you actually live. It's just one of these odd things that backpackers do, like building up collections of plastic bags, and stealing toilet rolls, and growing unsuitable beards. Is it tedious in the extreme? Certainly. Do I secretly want to kick the next person who asks you sharply in the ankle? Indisputably. Or maybe this is all perfectly normal, pleasant human interaction and I'm the one with the problem. Einstein famously said 'Madness is repeating the same action over and over, hoping for a different result'. He was almost right, I think. Madness is repeating the same answer again and again and hoping for a different question.
Seeingly innocuous, those three little words, but what pain they can encompass. For the monoglots out there, ¿de donde son? is spanish for 'look it up'. Just kidding. It of course means "where are you from", and the starting point for all verbal interaction for travellers and natives alike across this vast and diverse continent. We are usually asked three or four times a day. When you're travelling for almost a year, that adds up to quite a lot of repetitions. It looks like a simple question- it is in reality a simple question, but handling it is troublesome.
First, the basics. Let's narrow this down to nationality. We'll be sidestepping the whole English v British issue, merely noting that the debate is particularly vexing to border police in remote areas: or maybe they just want to screw with your mind by holding onto your passport for an eternity while noting the discrepancy between the 'english' on your immigration card and 'british' in your passport. There are distinct times when you really don't want to have to admit to being a denizen of the sceptred isle. Standing in front of the Falklands/Malvinas War memorial when they are changing the guards (who have pointy swords) is one such time. Booking a hostel room anywhere in Argentina the day after England have beaten Los Pumas in the rugby is another one. English, your interrogator will repeat, with a scornful glint in their eye. English, he will say again, pondering the matter gravely- as if unsure whether it would be appropriate to have you arrested on the spot. (this is particularly worrying outside military or government buildings) English, he will repeat again even more slowly, and rather sorrowfully, as if he had been quite prepared to like you, but now of course that is out of the question.
At the other end of the spectrum you may meet a street peddler, drunkard or - most dangerous- lunatic anglophile who will take your admission as an opportunity to regurgitate their entire knowledge of England. 'David Beckham', he will say 'oh, and that fat one whatsisname Rooney. Whine Rooney.YES'. He will then either seize your arm and shake your hand until your elbow is dislocated, or follow you down the road saying 'Big Ben!Bobby Charlton!Prince William's Royal Wedding!'. A rogueish glance, if you happen to still be in Argentina- 'Do you know who Diego Maradona is?' (The appropriate response to that one is to look rueful and make the hand of god gesture). If you are lucky, or patient, they will eventually tire of this game and wander off with a wink and a Cheerio!
If you are at a bar or a football game, or anywhere else where the exits are blocked, the next stage of the conversation will attempt further subclassifications . English, your new Argentine friend will say. Do you like Manchester City? You will confess that you don't, because you're from London. Ah, London. A knowing nod. London is Chelsea fans. If, at this stage you manage to refrain from pouring your drink over his head, (perhaps because your fiance is restraining you), you will tell him that actually, the majority of Londoners are not Chelsea fans (and incidentally, that the majority of Chelsea fans aren't Londoners. Or sentient lifeforms.) And your team is... Fool Ham? What is this Fool Ham? They do not have Argentinian players, I think.
Well no, not yet. You smug git.
All this goodwilled quizzing is naturally part of the rich cultural tapestry of travelling and it would smack of rank ingratitude to criticise a nation for taking an interest in the lives of its visitors (Heaven forbid we tried this in London!). The real tedium of ¿dedondeson? comes from the thousand or so times you have to explain to another tourist from the English speaking world. Picture the scene: You are hanging your knickers to dry on the radiator or cutting your toenails in a dorm room and someone new and chatty walks in with a big rucksack. You glance up, fatally, and make eye contact. One of you has to break the awkward silence- they've seen your pants, you have to acknowledge their existence now. Etiquette demands that the invader offers the verbal olive branch. So whereyoufrom has replaced hello as the default conversational opener, backing the victim into a corner from which there is no escape. You simply can't ignore a direct question unless you pretend to be deaf. For this reason you should never drape your freshly scrubbed gussets in public areas unless you have headphones in. Don't say you never learnt anything from me.
Now everyone knows where London is. Two Londoner can dispense with this nonsense pretty rapidly- west?east.borough?tower hamlets. me.too.no,surely notwhatanextraordinarycoincidence which bitwhitechapelextraordinaryi'mwappingwellwellsmallworldnicetomeetyoubyebye. The fun and games start when you take someone earnest with a San Diego zoo baseball cap on and put them next to someone from, well, let's say for the purposes of example, Yeovil.
Hi, I'm Chip. I'm from San Diego, California. Whereyoufrom?
Yeovil, England
(blank look)
It's a very small place.
(blank look)
It's in the southwest of England, in the county of Somerset
(blank look, kind of wishing they hadn't asked now)
Near Stonehenge
Is that near London?
Yes, yes, I live in London.
(then why didn't you say so?)
The heart of the matter is this: No one gives a tiny mouse's fart where you actually live. It's just one of these odd things that backpackers do, like building up collections of plastic bags, and stealing toilet rolls, and growing unsuitable beards. Is it tedious in the extreme? Certainly. Do I secretly want to kick the next person who asks you sharply in the ankle? Indisputably. Or maybe this is all perfectly normal, pleasant human interaction and I'm the one with the problem. Einstein famously said 'Madness is repeating the same action over and over, hoping for a different result'. He was almost right, I think. Madness is repeating the same answer again and again and hoping for a different question.
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