From the Ritz to the rubble

After spending a full week and more money than was entirely necessary being slightly underwhelmed by the Chilean capital, it was great to finally get back on the road, and heading back into Argentina. And so it was that Lou and I found ourselves once again settling into our seats for a nineteen hour bus journey, this time to Cordoba, armed only with the remnants of a hangover and a bag full of empanadas.

The journey itself was largely unremarkable, save for a slightly panicky moment during a stopover in Mendoza when our bus disappeared from the stop, seemingly stranding us in a bus station sans bags miles in the middle of the night. Flashbacks to the last time that something similar happened to us  soon receded, however, when our bus returned with a smiling driver after a ten minute wait, much to the delight of the assembled - and slightly bemused - passengers. In the finest South American tradition, the absence was never remarked upon or explained; we just dutifully filed back on grinning inanely with a dangerous mixture sheer relief and unspeakable tiredness.

We pulled into the bus station in Cordoba, Argentina's second city,  just past six the next morning and took advantage of the early morning air to walk the couple of miles to our hostel. Checking in to the Baluch Backpacker Hostel at this ungodly hour yet still being given beds and breakfast brought back some happy memories of the fabulous Manga Hostel in Belgrade all those months ago. Indeed, the hostel was one of the best we had come across in all of South America, thanks to the fabulous staff, ace location, top-notch BBQ and spectacular rooftop terrace. It also provided a handy pad from which to explore the compact yet appealing bundle of sights, sounds and tastes in and around Cordoba.

The four full days we had in town were more than enough to amble through the main attractions, from the architecturally confused Iglesa Cathedral on the main square to the very hip 'Milla Cultural' - literally 'cultural mile' - a little outside the centre, fit to burst with galleries, cafes and achingly-cool students from the Art School. The undoubted highlight of our time in the city itself, however, was the Museo de la Memoria, housed in an innocent looking building just off the main square. As you discover after a few minutes inside, the building as anything but innocent, and was used by the murderous dictatorship of the Dirty War years as a torture and interrogation centre. Opened with the money and political support that came with Nestor Kirchner's Government, the museum is almost unbearably poignant at times, staffed as it is by former victims and relatives of the disappeared, filled as it is with personal affects of the innocent murdered by the regime.

On our last day, we also took off from the city to a frankly bizarre complex of fake waterfalls and swimming pools about two hours away by bus. The waterfalls were dry due to a lack of water, and we'd not brought swimming trunks as we didn't know there would be pools there. Nonetheless, Lou managed to grab a bikini from one of the stalls, while I read James Bond novels and drank beer. Not a highlight, but better than a smack in the chops. Or a day of snow-related chaos back in Blighty...

Food-wise, we had some cracking Parilla at the menu-less and charming Parilla de Raul. Some of the travellers that brave this place are put off by the lack of menu, slightly surly attitude of the waiting staff and the abundance of offal on sale. They shouldn't be - just order a juicy Vacio (al punto, of course), bottle of house red and a salad and there you go. One of the best meals of the trip, and for a shade under twenty quid all in.

We chose our next stop, the Argentinian border town of Posadas, purely for its proximity to Paraguay. On route we made a lightening stop at the peculiar Resistencia, the town of statues. It was a town where you didn't seem to be able to buy a sandwich anywhere, but it did have a lot of statues everywhere. We sadly didn't have a lot of time there, but we did see a lot of statues.

Back in Posadas, and staying in the undeniably bonkers Residencial Misiones, we ended up having a ball, thanks in no small part to the insane nature of our accommodation. Seemingly run by volunteers and lunatics, this decaying colonial gem is straight out of a Hitchcock movie. Photos of apparently random 1980s teenagers jostle for wall space with pictures of Military dictators in the musty lobby, watched all the while by a stuffed giant ant-eater and preserve turtle standing guard in opposite corners. The room was no less insane, a ceiling fan whirring inconsequentially over the bed next to the bathroom with a shower that needed plugging into the live plug on the wall. Under the shower. I shit you not. Lou described it as the sort of room that people on the run use to hide out in, and she was bang on. Indeed, there was a man with a long beard in the room opposite who looked a little like Radovan Karadžić just after his capture in 2006. A war criminal on the run? A gangster hiding out from the Latin American mob? A harmlessly hirsute local pensioner? I'm not sure. Bizarrely, I loved the hotel anyway. 

All in all, it was just the right sort of place to get us ready for the madness that awaited us over the border in Paraguay. Or so I thought...

Tara for now,

Luke and Louise

(Posted by Luke)