The bumbag always has the last laugh

So, we headed over to the subte, the quickest way to get to the centre. I knew there was something up when it took far longer than it should to get my parents and a couple of other people into a relatively empty carriage. Two burly Argentines were cunningly positioning themselves next to us so they had easy access to our bags.
My Stepmum and I had handbags but my Dad was going full-out tourist, sporting the 'bumbag.'
I'll just let you know where I stand on the bumbag. I was raised to be a firm believer in it - at one point during my lifetime it was more or less in fashion. Mr motivator, a hero amongst men, wore one and for this reason I do not like to judge it too much.

Nuff said

However from a travelling point of view, it doesn't exactly hide the fact that you have valuables on you. I understand that all your belongings are in eye view and above that 'sensitive' zone, but... you are a moving target.

'Yes, I have something worthy of stealing, and that is why I have compromised recent fashion trends to wear this bumbag. You can try and steal from me if you wish, but I will see you, you little pikey.'

As the train started, I felt the zip on my handbag opening. I looked down and saw that it was open but thankfully nothing had gone. My head jolted to the man next to me - 'He just tried to steal from me', I gasped with Meerkat alarm velocity.

Unfortunately, what I seem to lack (among many things) is that instinctive fear which tells you a person like that may also be dangerous. Thieving for breakfast, stabbing for lunch, who knows really how far they dabble up the ladder of crime.
But if someone takes something from me, I get very angry and forget about these dangers. I think, for me, the anger stems from the fact that I have irrational, sentimental attachments to just about every inanimate thing I own.
It doesn't matter if I can no longer hear people on the other end of the phone or that my Mp3 player is ten years out of date - I feel guilty getting rid of these things.

Anyway, that day I learnt that my stepmum really has no fear. As soon as the warning came, she looked down to find her bag open and her camera gone. 'My camera's gone, who has it?!'
Not waiting for the inevitable confirmation and apology, she lunged straight for the big man in front of her and began, what I can only describe as 'frisking' him, to try and find the camera. Years of airline service had prepared her for this moment. Before her victim had any time to really register that a short, angry, English lady had begun a full blown patting attack, the man next to him freaked out (perhaps assuming he was next on her body searching rampage) dropped the camera on the floor, and ran off.

Meanwhile, my Dad and his smug bumbag were in the corner wondering what all the female babble was about.

Finally we made it to the ticket office. As we were queuing up, I overheard an authoritative voice announcing to a small group - 'And we are also going to see the White House, where the official offices of the President are.'

The Pink House. No seriously.

Have a peek at the photo to your right... note the subtle shade on the outside of the building. Also note the name - Casa Rosada. You don't have to speak Spanish to realise that this is in no way a direct translation of White House. I'll leave it there.

The bus tour was well worth the money. My parents and their highly tuned property development vision, noticed some stunning shutters ('Do you think they are wood or PVC'?) and good uses of pot plants. You can take the parents out of the property, but you can't take the property developers out of the parents...or something like that.

We hopped off the bus at La Boca -  a very important place in Buenos Aires history, which over the years has developed into an unashamed tourist hotspot. But there is nothing wrong with that - it's bright, it's bustling and you can watch a small show, absorb the ambience and boogy to the incongruous Samba band. Tourist places are touristy for good reason. Sometimes by trying to resist the mainstream and go off the beaten track, you just end up missing out and have no common stories about getting your picture taken with the legend dressed as a hobo/ superhero ant.

You thought I was kidding, didn't you.

The Beatles, the Falklands and that notorious handball

Greeting my parents at the airport with my 63 year old language student may have been a bit of a shock - 'Amy, we knew the men were difficult but...'
Quickly clarifying that he was not my new boyfriend but a student who had kindly offered to drive them from the airport to their hotel, we set off to the city centre.
As we drove up one of the city's main roads, one of the first things my parents noticed was - not the eclectic European architecture or the worlds widest avenue, but the flowering trees....something I had completely over looked in my new pseudo - cosmopolitan life style (I have no time to see trees).

Green eyes

Unlike their visit to Costa Rica however, they decided not to take cuttings for the garden back home. How my stepmother managed to get 32 exotic plant cuttings through two sets of airport customs and back home to our garden alive, shall forever remain a mystery to me.

Looking and sounding like typical Brits, it took only three hours for 'La mano de Dios' to come up in conversation - I warned them both that the Falklands (sorry...Las Malvinas), the Beatles and various football interrogations would be sure to come up eventually.
Now, my Dad's football knowledge is nearly as bad as mine - but he does manage to trump me - whenever he gets asked who he supports he declares triumphantly, Chelsea. I asked him what exactly this fan claim is based on (never having heard him ever mention football)... he replied - 'well I did see them play years ago against Shrewsbury town (where my Dad was brought up), it was 1964 I think, I was wearing a bobble hat and I had one of those rattles...damn fine bobble hat that was, your Grandma knit it...' (Chelsea till I die)

And do we fare better with Beatles talk? Well certainly not in my case...
'You are from England?'
'Yes'
'Do you like the Beatles?
'Yes'
(They begin to sing the words, I sing a couple of words (normally 'Hey Jude') and then fill with dah dahing)
'What? You don't know ALL the lyrics to EVERY one of their songs?'
'No'
'But you're from Engerlaaand!'

A fine example of British living

Yes I am, but neither do I know all the names of the Rolling Stones or have tea at 5.00pm everyday (tea is far too good to restrict to a single hour)...and do I recommend going on a once in a life time trip to England solely to visit Liverpool? How about I shatter your dreams with an episode of Brookside.

It's sometimes hard to explain that England has not remained in a time warp for 50 years and that the place is (culturally) quite different to the 1960's. I found this interview with Gael Garcia Bernal (not Gail, Ga- el, so yes he can still be sexy) which sums it up in some respects...

(Describing his move to London) 'At first, he was shocked by this country's apathy towards politics and culture. As an outsider, he expected the Rolling Stones, the Marquee Club and a thriving art-house cinema scene. What he discovered were the Spice Girls, 'Lock, Stock...' and fellow students who would rather down pints than watch films. '

(I once enraged an Argentine by referring to Pink Floyd as 'he'...Ok ok I know it's 'they', I just always thought it was the name of a band member as well)

Anyway - I'm sorry I digress (see... I do lyrics). The first day we decided to take the open-top yellow bus tour around the city. I knew there was a stop roughly around the zoo area so we headed over there, located it and waited for the bus. Two buses came by both saying that they had no tickets on board and we should have gone to the main office in the centre to buy them. My parents did not look amused. I realised my spontaneous 'lets just see what happens' attitude to travelling wasn't going to fly with these two.

It's a Batho Adventure

It's been a while since my last blog but I am officially starting back up. And what better way to get the ball rolling than a blogfest on my parents visit to Argentina. Yep, the Batho parent team are dropping the strimmer and garden shears and heading over here for two weeks of highly researched and organized adventure. Planned with typical Dad militiary precision, the only things that can really balls this operation up are me and my weak translating skills and, oh yes, the fact that this is South America and 'what your itinerary says' means nothing if the figurative S.A computer says no.

BA on a Budget

So I am now earning and living off the peso and it is getting to me a bit. The other day I refused to pay for a mandarin because it cost 9 pence. And I'm still getting over paying 3 pounds for a salad at my local café. 

But even though I am now living on a budget, it's actually good fun – living in a new city on a budget is a great experience. 
First of all, you have to do a lot more research when you want to travel anywhere, so you learn a lot more about the city, the subte, the buses and the street names. When I first arrived and was living a little more comfortably, studying a map usually followed this thought pattern....

'Ok so I take a left out the door and walk three blocks, then I turn right and look for the stop at the....sod it, I'll take a taxi.' 

And there were many ways of justifying it - 'you know, its probably really far and complicated and anything could happen to me really and I'll probably get lost - far better to take a taxi. Its not because I'm lazy, it's because I am sensible.'

But when the purse strings start to tighten - there is no choice, the only way to survive is forward planning and public transport or walking.... and a whole new world is opened up to you. Money tucked in bra, phone in pocket to prevent grab and run opportunists, and away you go... and you realise that the journey only takes you 20 minutes, you only have to make two turns (thankyou BA's simple grid layout) and you don’t feel unsafe even for a second. 

Some nights I walk back from work, which only takes half an hour, but when I tell people this they look shocked – 'What about all those dangerous muggers with knives? and the rapists on every street corner?' Ok I am exaggerating but sometimes I think people believe they are living in seventeenth century London.

'Well', I tell them, 'I have perfected my get home safely technique you see'. And it goes like this:

1. Phone in pocket, Ipod headphones in... select hard core, pumping music (The Prodigy is a good choice here)

2. Start fast-paced stride and adopt an 'I could seriously f*** you up facial expression / death stare  (You have to really embrace this one, even if you are wearing a floral dress and a cardigan)

3. Once confident march is in full swing, wind things down to a Michael Buble track and remain at cruise control for the rest of the walk whilst at all times maintaining a 'don't mess with me' façade.

Note: Turn music volume low enough so that you are still aware of your surroundings and would hear someone (like a street beggar with no teeth, in a cloak, with a dagger) coming up behind you.

Another advantage of being a cheapskate is that you see more of the city through cheap or even free events that you have to go to because you can't always afford to go to fancy bars. These can include house parties. However, beware, parties of friends of friends of friends can be risky. In my experience, if someone tells you that they went to a party, it was 'quite good' and they 'met some nice people', it generally means it was too random, awkward due to the distinct lack of social group mixing, and they had to down the Fernet at an uncomfortably speedy pace before they felt like they were having a good time. Been there.  

With a bit of research you can also stumble across some great places, off the gringo track, to go out to - arts cinemas that charge you half the price of a regular cinema and show some really decent films, small cultural festivals, free dance classes and quirky concerts. BA has interesting events going down most weekends and experiencing them can make you feel far more 'at one' with the feel of the city and the social scene (look at me, trying to sound cool).

Living on a budget, you also get to know the local shopkeepers better, and unfortunately for them they get to know you (the cheapskate) too, as you can't afford to go to the pricey supermarkets (and you don't agree with them and their ridiculous queues anyway). I am a regular at my local fruit and veg shop where most people go to buy their healthy veg in bulk. They seem perplexed when, during busy hours, I pop in for one banana. 
'You want one banana? Yes? Not a bunch? anything else?
'No - don't want to push it you see, we'll see how things go tomorrow.'

As well as being cheaper with fresher food, it is needless to say that the local shops are more personable and the owners care far more about their produce. You can really taste the difference when food has been sold to you with love - 'hmm this apple came from a good home...'

However, it's also good to let the smaller shops know where you stand on the 'we have no change so would you like a sweetie instead' game. Yes that's right - no one seems to own coins in Buenos Aires, so sometimes when shops don't have any, they offer you little candy sweeties that they keep at the till.

I am not five years old. No, I would not like a sweetie instead of money (note to shopkeepers - chocolate may actually work here).  

'But we have no change. Have you got anything smaller than this outrageous amount of two pesos (30 pence) you have given us for an orange? No? Ok, well we have no coins so it will have to be sweeties....'

'Ok I won't buy the orange then.' 
(Yeah, think you and your sweeties can screw with me?- they know not to pull that one now)

Whilst I am on the money topic, I also find the 100 peso note cracking challenge, a highlight to any week. I recently took a taxi ride with my first female taxi driver...now I am a feminist but on the driving front... hmmm, no comments...cough...but stereotypes, well... hmmm... maybe accurate…

At the end of the ride I handed over 100 pesos (about 17 quid) for my 30 peso fare, which was met with a sharp - 'Don't you have anything smaller?.....No?'

And a huge, stroppy, rant followed suit - 'You could have warned me! Just a little bit of warning would have been nice! Why didn't you tell me you were going to do this?' 
All the while my confused, whimpering inner monologue was saying - 'Why are you angry at me for giving you money? This is not right - I have not just killed a kitten, stop shouting at me please...'

I also enjoy the fact that here you tell the bus driver how much you are going to pay. I really have no idea how much a journey is supposed to cost - apparently increasing distance brackets are charged at different prices - the further you are going the more you should pay. The difference is minimal, but still, I have been using the same price ever since I got here no matter how far I am going - and to be honest I rarely know how far I am going.When I first got on a bus I just copied the man in front of me when he gave his price and that has been my set price ever since.

Of course things aren't that bad, don't get out the violins just yet - the point of this blog is to recommend living on a budget you are not usually accustomed to, and seeing that being frugal, especially in a city like BA, ain't that bad.

Heart disease? I get no beef from that.

Today on local television I saw my first health warning about the risks of a diet high in saturated fat. I haven't come across many health warnings or advertisements like this in South America. They are part of everyday life back in the UK with many food companies cashing in on a health conscious society with their promises of 'lower cholesterol levels' if you buy their margerine or a 'healthy heart' if you eat their whole grain bread.

I just can't see a health warning filtering into everyday eating out here, especially a social get together. The typical Argentine dish is the Asado - a meat lovers dream with beef steak, pork sausages and other animal parts, salted up and slapped on the grill for a couple of hours (with a little salad garnish for show).
The following situation would just not happen at an asado...

Hello bypass

'So, more meat?'
'Umm you know what? I think I'll pass...  there is a dangerous amount of saturated fat in that piece of cow and I am thinking about my cholesterol level.

(cue crickets)

You would never be invited back again, you would be sent into social exile along with those pesky vegetarians, who probably wouldn't even talk to you, and you would be called a right pain in the arsado.
Obviously, in the UK no one wants to be that health conscious nuisance who refuses food at a dinner party because they are dieting, but healthy eating is still prevalent in social situations.
The diet out here seems to go hand in hand with high cholesterol and high blood pressure - as my boss pointed out during last weekends asado - 'you can never have too much salt' (excellent news - I'll pass that on to my arteries).

So with a diet high in saturated fat and salt, surely cardiovascular problems are sky high? According to research, heart disease is indeed high in Argentina with cardiovascular diseases causing 30% of total deaths a year, but compared with the UK, where a third of all deaths are due to cardiovascular diseases, the rate is not that high.

You tell em Daise

With the average Argentine consuming a person of beef per year (about 70 kilos) why aren't the related problems through the roof? According to Beef magazine (not kidding - it exists, and is actually quite a good read....if you are into, well, beef) 60% of Argentine cattle are still grass fed - which is proven to produce beef lower in saturated fats and high in omega 3 (not the name of a spacecraft but a very handy fatty acid). These grass fed cattle produce better and healthier beef then cattle raised in feedlots - the other farming method. The feedlot option however is becoming increasingly popular with many farmers now choosing it because of the increased efficiency and convenience. It also frees up a lot of grazing land which can be used for the profitable growing of grains such as soybeans.
It is estimated that within the next 5 years 60% of Argentine beef will be farmed using feedlots - not good news for the arteries.


Another interesting fact I came across however, is that the traditional herbal tea - a massive part of Argentine culture - Mate (pronounced mah tay - not like your buddy) has been shown to lower cholesterol (so actually kind of your buddy). Yes, Mate magazine (not really) states that a study conducted in Argentina showed that drinking mate can have a significant increase in the activity of an enzyme that promotes HDL (good) cholesterol whilst lowering LDL (naughty) cholesterol.


The Argentines also seem to be a fairly active nation which helps in preventing CVDs. In BA gym culture is big time with a gym just around any corner. My local gym 'HOT gym' - oh yes, I am all about quality - is particularly busy. However I'm pretty sure one of the trainers has been taking fitness advice from a fat person - walking is just as effective as running? Am I missing a trick here - why on earth do people run then?

Obviously my research has solely consisted of a few hours on the internet and a cup of tea, but could we perhaps say that the Argentines compensate for their fatty diet with more exercise, good quality food and a helping hand from the local drink?
Also, another factor to consider is that they aren't quite yet at the same level of fast food indulgence as the 'great English speaking nations'. They are however on that McDonalds appreciation trajectory and it is becoming more popular all the time.

So, although the situation is not noticably worse than other countries, Argentina stills needs to keep those warnings coming. Another study says that mortality due to heart disease and strokes is estimated to increase by approximately 145 percent among men and women in South American countries in the next 10 years, compared with a 28 percent increase for women and a 50 percent increase for men over the same period in developed countries.

Preventative medicine is generally not a priority for developing countries but it seems to be increasing in Argentina and lets hope it keeps on going based on these statistics.

The future for Argentine cattle

Polite Porteños

Before coming to BA I was told by many other Argentinians that 'Portenos' (Spanish word referring to people from Buenos Aires - people from a 'port city') are 'stuck up'. However my experience here has shown me quite the opposite and I have encountered extremely welcoming and friendly people. 
People also show a lot of manners - for example, young teenagers on public transport offer their seat to women and the elderly far more often than I have seen in the UK. Sometimes men on the underground even offer me their seat , and I am a physically fit (that's a lie) 23 year old. I often decline however - being at crotch level in a rammed carriage during rush hour, makes for an uncomfortable journey.

In supermarkets, certain tills also give priority to pregnant women and old people. I found this out a slightly awkward way. Whilst standing in the queue, I was tapped on the shoulder by a man out of the queue who looked at me and pointing to a woman next to him, said 'she's pregnant'.
'Um...Ok' I said, confused (should I say congratulations?)
I just looked at him, smiling, so he continued... 'Are you pregnant?' 
'Um...no' (Oh great, a classic Bridget Jones moment, he thinks I look pregnant - why would he say that?)
He then pointed to a sign above the till which stated that pregnant women had priority.
'Oh, yes of course, go in front of me'.


A couple of days ago my friend Luke and I noted our frustrations on public transport. Like a lot of people we always try our best to be the first into the underground carriage or the bus, in order to get those much wanted seats. If we do get seats, the childish joy only lasts a couple of seconds. 
As all the seats start to get taken, we realise having seats is just not worth the effort. From that point on, the whole journey is spent eyeing up the door everytime a new passenger gets on, judging the demographic of the person and weighing up where they lie in the pecking order for seat priority.... 

'Young male - phew, seats mine.....'
'Young non-pregnant female - no worries, I can keep my seat for now.....'
'Old couple - damn it, both up.'

There is also that awkward line with older women - if I do offer her my seat will she be insulted and think that I think she's too old to handle the arduous task of standing up? 
As a woman, offering my seat to a man no matter what his age, often feels like I'm emasculating him. Most of the time I do offer an older man, I am declined with a 'don't be silly' Harold Bishop double-chin shake of the head, and I sit down a little embarrassed. 

Greeting people is also a lot easier out here. In the UK, there are just too many damn options.....handshake - too formal? hug - too informal? kiss - too pretentious? There is so much to think about that a lot of the time I just end up doing a hand up, salute, wave thing and looking a bit awkward. Out here it's easy - whoever you meet - old, young, male, female, it's always a kiss on the cheek - no awkwardness, straight in there, done. It is rarely even a proper kiss, just a cheek press and air kiss (far more hygienic than a germy handshake).
I have however come across a few frisky folk who adopt the 'two' method- this can confuse things a bit, especially when your caught off guard, do not move your head to the other side and nearly end up lip. on. lip.

In conclusion, not too shabby on the manners front Argentina, some of us Brits could definitely take a lesson.

Don't even bother

A sweaty, spiritual, sing a long, sunday.

Last weekend my flatmate invited me to a Temazcal ceremony in the countryside. Being an 'I'll try everything once except bungee jumping' kind of gal, I decided to go along and see what it was all about.
For those who don't know, a Temazcal ceremony is a 'spiritual purification' supposed to renew your soul and provide you with the inner strength to achieve your life goals.

A typical Temazcal clay hut

It was first practised by the Aztecs in Mexico but many other cultures throughout South America have adopted the ceremony. The main feature is a herbal steam-bath (basically a sauna) which consists of heating volcanic rocks in the centre of a dome shaped clay hut (supposed to represent the womb....)  The ceremony is usually led by a 'Shaman' - a messenger between the spiritual and human world....(Yes, this weekend was definitely going to need an open mind)

On arriving at the location where our ceremony would take place (the back garden of my flatmate's eccentric hippy friend), we met Juan or 'brother of the wind', the Shaman who would be leading the weekend. According to him he was an Indigenous Argentinian. A chat with him later on proved that he did indeed know a lot about the Indigenous Argentinian tribe the Mapuche, but his roots were a little suspect.
'So you are from an indigenous community?'
'No.'
'Oh, but your family are indigenous?
'No, actually I discovered it myself.'
I'm not quite sure how you can discover this, I am pretty sure it's something that you need to be born into, but hey ho, I assumed he was referring to the lifestyle. Anyway, he was quite an interesting guy even if his past was a bit suspicious. (Recovered alcoholic, was suggested by my sceptical French friend)

The night before the ceremony, was the preparation stage. Juan called us to the garden where we formed a semi circle in front of the moon and following his lead, began chanting towards the sky - just a typical Saturday night really. He also played a horn like instrument which at first made the most pathetic dribbling sound (think of a trumpet Fail) and I could not help but burst into laughter. The laughter that you know is wrong and because of that it makes you laugh harder. Luckily my scarf was around my neck to cover my mouth and muffle the sound… this was the first of many laugh suppressing techniques needed throughout the weekend.


The next day was the day of the ceremony. The sacred ground where the steam bath would be constructed was prepared by putting six sticks in a circle and adding some flags (bet you didn't know it was that easy to make your back yard sacred hey? - blue peter would be proud). Unable of course to create an authentic clay dome, we constructed the IKEA version with cane sticks and blankets. We then paid our respects to the trunk outside the sacred ground (The trunk did represent something but I wasn't paying much attention when he explained what) and then we entered the womb.

The ceremony began with Juan's words - 'now we will go around the group and express what problems we have in our lives at the moment and how we want to overcome them' (perhaps a line from the AA meetings? sorry)
Now, the thought of someone asking me 'how I feel about my life' or 'what goals I want to achieve ' fills me with dread. Like a typical Brit I can't just draw on these 'feelings' with a seconds notice. I need time to recall my vast knowledge of trashy American TV so that I can regurgitate phrases like - 'I want to re - connect with my body' or 'I want to love myself for who I am'.

After a standard 'I want to be happy' cop out, I began thinking about what I was actually doing. Admittedly, I was finding myself getting caught up in the pretense of the whole weekend and actually quite enjoying it. It was like nothing I had ever experienced and I was meeting some very intriguing characters. But the facts were these --- It was a hot Sunday afternoon, I was sweating profusely in a small dome of blankets in someone’s backyard, with nine other sweaty people - and a man wearing a headband was saying things like 'and now we shall establish the umbilical cord with mother earth'.

As the sauna ceremony progressed, I cunningly managed to manoeuvre into a position close to the ground where I could have a little snooze. But obviously it wasn’t just me having a wee kip because of the hot temperature, oh no, it happened 'so that the words of the Shaman could infiltrate my sub conscious and connect with my soul' according to the nice hippy lady. She also asked me whether I had been dreaming about fairies...
 'I had a vision of fairies dancing around your head whilst you were asleep - were you dreaming about them?'
Feeling the mood and not wanting to reveal the truth that I was actually dreaming about the next X factor episode, I replied...
'Yes, I think there were some...' (diva fever count?)
'What else were you dreaming about?'
'You know, my family and....traveling and stuff?' (that’s deep right?)

Finally after two hours, the door to the dome was opened and we were released or 'reborn'.

God bless the language barrier. Many times throughout the weekend my silence was reasoned with the fact that I didn't understand the Spanish.
'Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'No, not really, sorry'
'Oh I see, I am speaking too fast'.
Yes that’s it. Its got nothing to do with the fact that I wouldn't be able to understand what you were saying even if you were speaking English (did she just say that she was an eagle in her past life?)

So, I' m not sure the actual ceremony was the most authentic cultural experience I've ever had, but one thing I did enjoy about the weekend, was hearing about the Indigenous Argentinians. They are not people you hear very much about. When I think of Argentina, I basically picture a very European place, but there are indigenous groups around the country. In fact 3-5% of the total population are indigenous people living in rural communities with their own languages. The majority died out years ago, as there descendants integrated into Western civilization and according to the International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs, due to racial discrimination, many indigenous people now hide their true identity.

They also seem to suffer from the same problems affecting many indigenous groups around the world - the battle for land ownership and recognition in general.

So although I did not learn a lot about myself (not actually sure I want to find out 'who I am') I did learn a lot about other cultures here in Argentina. And just for the record, I am sure the Temazcal ceremony is a fascinating experience....in Mexico...with indigenous descendants of the people who created it....in a dome not made from sticks and blankets.

Photo of an Indian shaman. Now, meeting this guy would have been an interesting experience...