SOUTH AMERICA 1966 - 6 COUNTRIES 1966 3 of 4

Z2 from p. 41

Point at which we went inland had odd geometries of levels covered with weeds---like a whole city buried by weeds. If I thought the pilot Asuncion-Montevideo was nuts, Montevideo-BA outdid him by climbing into cloud region with such DETERMINATION that he was still climbing 35 minutes OUT, and it's a 45-minute TRIP. There's this one factory, see, with a smoking stack, and it's visibly, provably, and with no possible argument against it, casting a pall of smoke over the ENTIRE city. The whole blooming city, which went on for miles and miles until I figured it must be all done with mirrors, ALL, TODOS, under a bland pall of industrial smog. Is THIS the price of progress? Is THIS BA's biggest city? Who needs it? BA, like Montevideo, had to check vaccination papers. Is there REALLY such a danger? Again the list is checked in order of ticketing. At least I'm moving up. In Montevideo I was last, here I'm next to last. IMAGINE, a huge city smothering under dozens and dozens of smoke stacks, fires, ships, chimneys, furnaces, fumes, etc. How absolutely ABSURD. I have a vague idea how Pittsburgh looked under the smog, and how it looks now. It proves what CAN be done. ALREADY in BA it feels more humid than in Montevideo. There the air was clear and cool, and it FELT like a pleasant city to live in. But the first look at BA, though it has large buildings and flashing lights and an interesting looking waterfront area, I'm really rather AGAINST it from the start. I wonder what I would have done had my first look at NYC been three or four blocks of visibility down a gray Madison Avenue one choking morning. Not too good, I guess, but I grew to like it DESPITE the smog that I learned was there. Maybe I can grow to like this city, but first impressions----. So I only have a few days here---well, if I can find Henri Doublier, or if C&T have met someone who will make the city LIVE, I think I'm ALREADY looking forward to Bariloche.

AA from p. 41

(((2 pm, Jan. 4: I MUST be tired---just CAN'T seem to get interested in BA. Again the idea that if someone met us, drove us to their apartment, lavish with a view of the city, showed us "the" places to see and in the meantime showed the plazas and the fountains and the obelisks, I'm sure we could fall in love with the city.

Riding on the bus, 230, through the parks of Palermo, they look sterile and uninteresting, stretches of grass and statues and monuments and benches and lakes and tennis courts and swimming pools and train stations and playgrounds. What could be more BORING? Again I feel strongly that the CITY depends on the incidentals, and more and more the incidentals are the PEOPLE. Something like Iguacu or Seven Falls or the Chilean Lakes are beautiful on their OWN, and can be enjoyed for themselves (even though the Hotel Cataratas perked up during the midnight swim in the lighted pool), but a CITY is mainly a conglomerate of PEOPLE. The bus ride showed the parks and one of the suburbs with their auto sales lots and outside cafes and little shops and dug-up streets, and showed some nice tree-lined avenues that gave an odd impression of privacy and discretion because of the prevalence of drawn blinds with small pieces of shutters louvered open to allow the people to peek out at the air. It makes it look fortified and private and suggests dim cool richnesses inside. Also, some of the older (1920?) buildings are marvelously decorated above the doors and windows, and the four sectional shutters are so elegantly long and narrow, the impression is of luxurious wealth, despite the fact that most interiors show shoddy curtains and evidences of decay. Some look like old Boston and old Philadelphia look: get them old places cheap, blast off all the accretions of the years (here it would be mainly political posters and painted words, names, slogans, and leopards), fix up anything that's broken after the original surface is virgin again, then give a good coat of gilt or paint or varnish or polish, fix everything up inside with rich hangings and crystal chandeliers, and you have an apartment of beautiful "fittingness." But that doesn't change the depressing thought that most of these look shoddy beyond repair, and will probably be torn down to put up the standard facade of apartments: all balcony with one large door, window, and one smaller bedroom window, all shuttered, tightly except for a peephole. Many of the buildings even close to the town are only one story, and one is sure THESE can't last. Funny how ALL stupid American tourists make the same mistake. I get on bus 31 and am glad to see I don't have to hold up the driver: there's a cashier. He looks at me and I say "Plaza San Martin," because on the microbuses the fare depends on the destination, and on 230 I had MUCH trouble with "Al fin," or "TODOS linea." He looks at me and at my money. I hold out a handful of "10" coins and he says (not asks) "dos" and so I give him two. Then he said "Quarte" and I give him four. He gives me two slips of paper both the same. Well, OK, I got two, though different, from FIRST bus. Then I sit down. A few minutes later he's back talking Spanish to me. He's accusing. I can think of nothing but to show him two slips. He takes one and hands me 2 fives and 2 ones. That's 12. I gave him 24. That means I PAID 12. THEN I think of Cathy's plight: driver said "dos" and meant "dose" for 12, and C THOUGHT he meant two PEOPLE and said "Yes." Seems just repetitious, like BOTH being rooked in airport cambios---C changing $160 for 189 rate, I changing $10 for 180, when REAL rate is 220).

BB from p. 41

Tour bus picks us up at 2:20, makes more stops until bus nearly fills, surprisingly with some young people, too, at 2:30.

Shirts are Cali-Listo---wash and dry?? Imagine advertising a "Plastics Store." Palermo Park is 150 acres. Velodrome is for bicycles. Wonder if Vincent Lopez knows the street along the border of BA is Vincente Lopez? Nod to sleep---must wake up. By the time we get to the launch at 3:25, I've nodded and dozed through most of the bus trip. I sure don't know where C&T saw all that varnished wood they raved about. Such a quantity of fat snobby children---first at Iguacu, now on the boat--must weigh at least 130. Ugh. Then of course there's the garbage collectors' strike, and everywhere is the smell of burning garbage on street corners. Beautiful home of strips of brightly vari-colored plastic. Club de Regatas La Marina is GORGEOUS. They SWIM in the cruddy Tigre waters. Rio Luhan water, rather. Elaborately colonnaded official place looks Venetian. Water is very high: wake reached over top of breakwaters. Some villas are very nice, many are rather cruddy. Again, it would seem to be nice to own a large yacht. Two cows grazing on grounds of enormous old palace. Happily, there is still blank room for growing on. Needless to say, boat ride around Miami Beach showed places a dozen times better. It's possible that the third or fourth WORST there could be the second or third BEST here. I'm sure the people who live here hate the noisy, wave making tourist boats. "Riotel Europa" is clever name. Grasses wave angrily back and forth in the rapid waters. One wonders if the owners PAY the drivers to slow down at their place?? People on shore are not happy to watch us pass. Impressive to watch the solid rise of water as the boat draws even to the shore. SWEEP of water; after half an hour, at 4, we stop at "a typical island restaurant." Out at 4:30 after a welcome 50 peso ham and cheese sandwich from a trembling hostess. Casa "Se Alouila" sounds pretty.

It's strange to see ships lying on their sides; concrete pavilions that collapsed from the SHORE side, not from the water side, sloping up from shore. It was all marvelously symmetric. Scheduled to start at 2, finish piling people into bus at 2:30, get to launch at 3:30, to restaurant at 4, to launch at 4:30, to dock at 5, return by SAME road (how stupid) to hotel at 6. Ho Hum.

To stop this garbage collectors' strike, carry load of garbage to the houses of those holding out, and BURN it. There's a "Coney Island" section below Aywurechos))). (((Edward Albee: Historia del Zoologica))

BBB from p. 42

In BA there seems to be enormous difficulties with telephones. The ones in the hotel make C sound three years old and me sound like a girl. The airlines phones border on the impossible. At the airport (in Montevideo) the girl pressed a button for a clang, dialed two numbers, then hung up, pressed the button for a clang, and repeated about a dozen times with a patience evidently born of long experience of this type. When the number was finally reached, there would be much shouting of "OLA" at the start and even during the conversation. She seemed not to be able to hear the person on the other end, and vice versa. At the confirmation booth at Aerolineas Argentina, one girl tied up two phones, but at last had the wisdom to cup her hand between mouth and receiver before shouting "OLA." One fellow behind the counter possibly suggested why some people have trouble. The earpiece was firmly against his ear, but the mouthpiece had dropped below the chin. He spoke only at a conversational level, not projecting at all. Then with his left hand he gestured Italianately and emphasized every point with a plucking gesture with his thumb and four fingers. This must be one reason why some vacations are short on flights, one could spend 3/4 the trip waiting at airports, checking passports, reserving space, confirming space, packing, unpacking, and trying to find how NOT to get rooked going to and from the airport. This morning seemed a bit better in the weather

department, happily. Stop into Feria Montserrat. Nice, like Park Avenue Market, only open and Spanish, and very crowded.

CC from p. 44

What chaos at airport for Bariloche. To make the difference between first and second class more distinct, everyone pressed to the door and then they boarded only first class passengers, leaving the second class hot and pressed up against each other. The flight has been called, but there we stand. Of course, they wouldn't dream of making two announcements, no, root the people out of their seats and the restaurant, the peasants, and watch the elite pass through the gate. The plane only seats 75, but it seems that 100 people are waiting after the 40 first class passengers board. The baggage convention is also odd, the attendant piles all them up, taking them out of your hands, and then you have to point and announce number of pieces, and the weigher calls out the weight and hands you the tickets. Then your baggage is gone, and you've never SEEN the tag on the bag. I felt better when I could go up to the baggage truck and verify that the ticket was OK. Then finally, 10 minutes later, everyone can go out.

CCC from p. 44

From BA to Bariloche. we fly west, then north, then east, then south, then southwest to circle the entire town. There are scattered suburbs then villages, then only fields looking like farms. Gradually the fertility is marred by patches of sand or water in the green fields. Then the patches begin to assume an orientation along the axis of the plane's flight, and then small humps appear, and the farms are partially replaced by wooded areas that run along the burgeoning rills. As actual hills appear, there's a repetition of the odd pink-red blotch of a lake we had seen before. It almost looks like a large salt lake, turning pink from evaporation, surrounded by gray brown sand beaches. They look like grotesque wounds on a land which is no longer farmland, but sparsely wooded wasteland growing gradually to hills and mountains. Roads cut straight across, curving around the lakes and hills. Lakes are green, gray, blue, red, melon, peach. Very odd. roads travel straight with small perpendicularities (like driveways?). The ground gets rougher and more barren, then there are buttes and a wide shallow mesa, with buttes leading to the wasteland. Squares of green towns along a river were patches of life. Then the ground changed to red, and, in the distance, there rose snow-capped peaks: the Andes! The near ground took on the veined look of river-runoff of the US west. A river ran alongside the plane as the mountains passed under the wing tip.

DD from p. 46

Clear sweet air, gentle wind, moist grass, long tree shadows, sound of branches brushing each other in the morning, the horn-call of the loon, calls of water birds from near shore and answering echoes from far shore, a robin with the reddest I've ever seen, the sun warm when I face it, the rumbling motor of a boat warming up, the dust clouds of busses, browsing birds on the fresh grass, horses grazing, looking at passersby, white seeds of birds on water, far calls of men, made angelic by distance, the quiet wood, stone, stucco mass of the hotel completely settled onto the hill, the sweet smell of the blue, white, pink, yellow lupine, with a faint overtone from millions of wild roses. The lakes, blue and quiet, stretching without beach or rock to cliffs covered with trees. Tiny figures of people walking across the enormous green aprons of the Llao-Llao Hotel. Mournful cry, repeated three times, of another water bird. Perfectly clear sky, except for haze in east where sun hasn't poked behind the mountains before me, and a scarf of dark clouds around the double peak of Tronador, one nearer, lower, craggy, the other farther, higher, completely snow-peaked; stretched spring of road zigzagging up to the ski slopes, distant crow of a late rooster, somewhere below, someone coughs twice, sun glints off glass frames and pine tops. Lines of roads link houses on a chain, gray dead skeletons, fresh green bodies of trees contrast on the slopes. I think of breakfast and hurry off to the hotel. Incredible blue of flowers like violets but twice as large, in little beds, the click of weed tops as they tap the top of my dusty-muddy, dank-wet shoes, and the cow footprints of dandelions in the grass).

EE below

As the boat passed the tiny white cross marking the grave of Perito Moreno, the horns solemnly blew three times; there were no other boats in sight. The wind was cold, but as I slid down the sloping railing to write this, the heat of the sun thawed the side of my face that had become numbed by the cold.

FF from p. 46

Dos horas por nada: jump awake at 7 am at Llao-Llao after a rather bad night because of all the cars and busses roaring around at 2:30. Peep out the shutters to find the sun has already risen. The shaver doesn't work, and I'm too lazy to call for a transformer, so I decide not to shave. Shower without a curtain and get water all over, but they must know what they're doing. Get packed and out at 7:45. Wander around back and to front to climb hill again. Wonderfully fresh and clear. Write stuff, and it's 8:15 when I was supposed to meet C&T for breakfast. Back and they've started, and the cornu rolls are good. Out to lobby to find our guide there, and he gives me parcel of tickets, with only one difficulty: he insists that the Puerto Varas hotel NEVER serves meals with the tour, yet Ardel said it would be ALL meals. Nothing can resolve it, so he suggests we take receipt back to New York. Fine, after everyone in South America gets THEIR money, they don't care WHAT happens in the USA. Leaves a vaguely sour taste in the mouth. Pay 655 for the wine last night and it about takes our last peso, except that one coin that C thought was a one, but is pointed out by the desk clerk to be a 25, so we're left with 24. Into car for short hop down to boat, and I decide that since we're going to Chile today I need my entry visa, so open my suitcase to get it out and we're one of the last ones onto the boat. The water is remarkably clear and I can follow the lines of the piers down through the 40 feet to the bottom, then see cans and papers and bits of debris fresh on the bottom that's not been covered up with muck falling from the surface. I take up position in front of ship and take wind full in face for 90 minutes. Pass the simple

EE above

white cross where Perito Moreno is buried and gape at fjord-like body of water that the boat enters. Mountains covered with trees, rocks, and snow rise up sheer from water edge and stop at snowy horizon against blue sky. Small clouds cast small shadows, and it's amazing to find clouds lower then the mountaintops. C&T come out and we look at many cascades down the mountainsides. The water is an intense dark blue until we turn into Puerto Blest, and there's an odd strip of GREEN water against the other shore. Quite a chain of mountains, these Andes. Crags and rocks and snow, MUCH snow in high places, and some even low down in shadowy clefts. Head into shore at 11 and find that lunch is at 11:30. Wander around looking at huge brown-furry bumblebees and flies with green eyes that follow T's blue coat around. There are dozens of spikes of lupine, terraces of rose bushes, wild daisies and foot-tall dandelions. Iris and poppies and others. Into rather plain room for a corner seat with a good view. Order wine, a mistake since I feel drowsy now sitting in the sun with alcohol buzzing through me. We COULD have found a better place to spend two hours. If we'd been set down here right after the states, with the refreshing brisk cool wind, the hot steady sun, the phenomenally blue sky and lake with silver streaks of wind-blown ripples, the tile, wood, stucco, stone (top to bottom) fittingness of the hotel, the launches chugging in and out, the soft-lap-lap of the water when a passing boat churns the water, the milk green of Rio Frias as it hits the Lake Nahuel Huapi, the mountains standing all around, the triplets opposite the hotel as steep as the Cerros of Rio, looking low but STILL with small patches of snow on top, the view of more-distant snow-capped peaks---if we'd seen this FIRST we could have said it was great, but after Llao-Llao, it pales. Even the rocks, mainly conglomerates or a black volcanic rock, and the driftwood, one piece that I liked enough to dry out on the windowsill during lunch and even dry it has nice twisted grained quality. But STILL the wine makes drowsy, and my idea of perfection would be a place to SLEEP away between now, 2:20, and 4, when we leave. However, such tactics don't seem possible, so to get away from the burning sun on the back of my neck and the chill wind and the flies, I go inside the hotel and appropriate a table and begin again, jacket off to make it cooler so I won't feel so much like sleeping. Since it's typical for me to wake at 7, and typical to go to bed at 1, I guess my average is about six hours sleep, and so it's no wonder I feel sleepy. Wonder why I can't bring myself to sleep longer. Rail against the Spanish custom of eating so TERRIBLY late at night. It seems to require the ENTIRE day to be built around the necessities of life, working and eating. If one works from 8 to 12, goes home (terrible) for three hours to eat and nap (again terrible), then finish work between 3 and 7, that kills the entire day, and leaves no time for doing anything. I'm tempted to say it sounds decadent, but the Spanish I don't think have advanced far enough to get to a stage which would ALLOW them to be decadent. Maybe it's pre-progress ridiculousness. Much better to eat, work, eat, and work, eat between 8 and 6, and sleep between 12 and 8, same as them, but allowing 6-12 for anything, and you can do a lot more "anything" in 6 hours than you can in 2 or three separate sets of 2 or three hours. So this PM we cross into Chile---that leaves two countries. Chile and Peru. And I've already been in 4.

GG from Y, p. 26

Finally get down to the bottom of the Falls, after tracing back for roads and going down one very narrow one that leads to a sloppy wet promontory past which everyone climbs to stand on the utmost lowest precipice of the Brazilian side of the falls. Back up to the observation tower, and am sorry to find the elevator isn't working and that the top of the tower is locked. Walk more along the road and find a lunch spot on which is a small shop and steps leading down into the water. This is a taste of what the Argentines see, the tops of the falls, and it's not terribly exciting. Walk back up the road and find that it's quite a distance from the hotel. Dinner starts at 8, but no one's there at 8, so I write a bit and fix things up a bit and dress in my suit and go down to dinner. It's a mistake because most others are in short sleeved shirts, but I resolve to continue to wear a suit for dinner. Again I'm reminded that it's awfully lonely to eat alone. There's only so much concentrating on cutting and buttering and trimming and arranging and drinking that one can do to keep busy, and the rest is mere chewing and staring into space.

The German fellow is in a suit, good, but eats hunched over with his fork clenched in his fist, very bad. They must be newlyweds, 50ish though they seem to be, since they gush and smile at each other and hold hands very ostentatiously. A Portuguese couple look at me rather reprimandingly. but I certainly don't want to talk to any of them. Get my first introduction to typical South American small hotel menus, with the soup and possible appetizer and inevitable fish and meat and dessert. I'm so sick of the ROLLS, colorless ovoids with little salt and tough crusts and dry insides. that's ALL that's available for breakfast except for a good quarter slice of banana-type bread. So for twice or three times a day, these rolls are a bit of a bore. The horned rolls in Llao-Llao and BA are a most welcome relief. Wander back down path in suit and look out over misty scene. Sit for a bit on the fence, thinking, "I'm at Iguacu Falls in South America, I'm at Iguacu Falls in South America." But then I'm tired and get in to bed. The music that's canned seems not about to stop, and someone downstairs is doing some terrible hammering. Get ear plugs leveled off so it doesn't feel like a pillow stuffed into my ear when I lay on it, I finally fall asleep about 11.

Page 34

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 31. Up at 7:15 feeling lousy and lounge till 8:30 and up and shower and down for breakfast and over the path again,

but this time head for the outcropping, where I sit on the ledge for a good long time and sketch the falls and play with the butterflies, then have to get back to the hotel for lunch at 1 so I can catch the river tour at 2. Lunch is quite formal with chicken and rice again, and we have rice so much, rather rough and with little gritty things in it, that by the times THAT's over I HATE rice. If the trip went on, I suppose I could grow to dislike everything. Think I see the truck driving away and so I'm leaving without my ice cream for dessert, but there's another truck. Ride part-way to town, and turn left at the gate to the park and rattle through the jungle. If we passed anyone HERE, neither would have a CHANCE. Get near the river and the road starts almost straight down. Hang onto sides and get to tiny clearing and out to clamber down steps to large boat. Sweat it out while the fellow tries to start the motor, but finally we're off.

Trucks trundles itself

M, p. 15

back to the hotel about 5. Back to store at the falls, and get caught up in sunset, but have to get back to meal before it's over. Remember that it's New Years Eve and am thankful that after the chicken is so terrible that I can't EAT it, the management brings out a plate of fresh figs, hazelnuts that I don't like, walnuts that I finish, lovely dates, and a half-rotten, half-green banana. This helps to fill the empty spaces. Try to get to bed at 10:30, but again the music is loud and I toss and turn and hear cheers of sorts at midnight, then get to sleep at about 12:10.

Page 34

SATURDAY, JANUARY 1. Up the next day rather late and don't get to the falls what with sorting things out and packing two bags, one to stay, one overnight for Sete Quedas. Eat and get to the truck at 10 am. Share it with Ginny Pauley who tells me all about the terrible winters in Osorno, where she teaches English and music at the Jesuit school. She has 45 second graders. We talk away and she gives me address and I enlist her to help me get a change from Jan 2 Iguacu to BA to Jan 3 Iguacu to Montevideo.

T p. 22

Varig officer isn't terribly helpful, but finally they say they'll do it. She has poorer luck and will probably have to take a bus to Asuncion. Then, since the hotel gives only 2100 for cash, she goes with me to change place for a rate of 2150 and then I grab cab for airport, a very short way for, he says with a smile "1000cr minimum." I don't believe him, but what can I do? Into airport to find if the plane is on time and the agent says something mysterious. Get the Jack Adjami type to translate and the fat pig-slob tells me the runway is no good, there are NO planes to Guaira. I stand dumb. Well, there's a noon BUS. No, only at 7 am. WHAT? Only at 7 am. Since I don't know the language and since I don't feel like confronting HIM with the agent that earlier told me 12 and 7, I leave it at that. Any other way to go? Cab. He calls over a thin hawk-faced fellow who looks like we're ruining his holiday, and he says 400cr per km, and it doesn't dawn on me that that sounds AWFULLY high. So the 240 km to Guaira is 96,000cr. about $50. I stand contemplating, but do I really have a CHOICE? I don't leave until the day after tomorrow, the Dragon's Throat is closed so I've SEEN Iguacu, I WANT to see Sete Quedas, $50 isn't REALLY that much since I've spent over $1000 anyway, and since Seven Falls should be one of the SIGHTS, I guess it must be worth it. Say OK. Fellow translates that "he must go home and tell his wife," since it appears we might be coming back the next day. He says 6 hours, so get there at 6, see falls till 8, and we certainly can't come back at 2 am. Fine. He drives to get milk, then to a house with a garage that's somewhat better than the others around. The road gets worse immediately beyond his door, he has a fence and flowers, and glass in the windows. A little girl runs out and down the road. Another girl comes out and stares at me. He and his wife come out and all three get into the car. So he's taking her to her or his mother's while he's gone for the trip? But then we drive out of town and they're still there, so I assume they'll go all the way. There's nothing I can say in Portuguese, and he can't speak English, so I'm glad the family is along. At least I don't have to worry about him falling asleep from boredom. It looks like a good family, he and she smiling with infinite warmth and love on the girl, the girl obeying the parents and NOT being cranky or petulant, and husband and wife calmly talking together, she slightly subservient to him. Perfect family. Road is merely two paved ruts, and in some of the low places he skids off hills onto valleys which scrape underside of car and he wobbles back and forth to retain control. He announces the towns and rivers as we get there, and at the River Itavo, I'm about ready to act on the small urge I've had to turn back. We're now about an hour out and I'm nodding already with fatigue, and the road is VERY bad, there are five more hours there and six BACK. But he doesn't pause, jumps out to observe flooding river, takes fan belt (so someone tells me later, to stop the fan from flooding the motor) out, and drives into the water. The swift current actually seems to drive the car sideways, and I look out side to see a ledge I hadn't seen, and car plunged into deepest water. It CAN'T be much below the door, but there is no leakage. Now we seem to be in the worst of it, and he slowly guns motor and the Willys slowly moves forward. Almost over when we get to a sharp ledge up to the shore. Car rumbles back, rumbles forward, rumbles back, rumbles forward. Gas-smelling smoke pours up from the motor and I figure this is it. He rumbles, rumbles, rumbles, and I fear the worst, but gradually the car lumbers up onto the dry land. He smiles and gets out to put fan belt back and marks the level of the river for going back. I ask "autras?" and he grins and says "No." Drive on and I find myself snoozing as the girl sleeps in the back. We stop in Porto Brigato for Guarana and get five or six packages of sweet and salty biscuits; I pull out wallet but he says that's on him. There are periods of fast rain that reddens the windshield with dirt from the road. But as fast as it starts, it stops, and the sun comes out bright and clear and the bushes absolutely GLISTEN like an enchanted forest. The Falls of Iguacu were good for Disney-like butterflies tumbling over themselves to follow people, and for spectacular scenery, but this must resemble the LSD-induced countrysides of jewels. Absolute incrustations of diamonds glazed the tops of each leaf and stem and blazed in the sun. Silver and platinum emblazon the plants, and cathedrals of splendor rise from the sides of the road. Gleams too bright to look at dazzle the eyes, sparkle and gleam and glister, shine and coruscate with incredible brilliance. I hold my breath---possibly the most overwhelming sight, brief though it is, on the trip. Lizards run in and out of road. we pass many chickens that flap away as car bears down on them, but at one point two BEGIN to run across and only one GETS across. We look back and there's a flurry of yellow feathers and one limp wing flailing in the air. One down. After that point I wake up and begin to look around. Much of the land looks as if it has only just been cleared of the primeval forest. Stumps and burned logs litter the rows between the corn. In some places smoke rises from the fields being burned, in other places no planting has yet been done, but the ravaged field stands desolate under the sun. Again and again we come to expanses of mud in the road that he would frown at, peer at, judge, then without reducing his speed too much, prudently steer through. One such mess, when the car slipped off the tracks and skidded sideways for a long distance as he nursed the steering wheel, prompted me to pat the hood. He smiled and patted the hood and said a word which I forgot. It must have rained and stopped at least three different times, but as we passed Porto Mendez (where I expected the road to change because the map SAID it changed, but it didn't) the rains let up and I hoped for nice weather at Guaira. Finally, after only five hours, we barreled into town, through the main district, and along the dusty road which Chuck described as "only a few minutes from town" but it must have been five or six miles. Came to a swimming pool and a small dam, and a stream of spume in the air, and we got out of the car. I walked ahead and came to a concrete walk over which water was flowing---that was the first indication, aside from the fact that the falls of Iguacu were at peak flow, that there was MUCH water going over the falls. Further on there were boards spread from concrete pile to concrete pile, and there too some of the boards were underwater. Then things got wild: up a wooden rampway, across a metal bridge, over more wooden causeways, and a series of teetering wooden platforms where the water washed halfway up to the knee! Take shoes and socks off and still get pants wet because I didn't roll them high enough. A rock path and the first grand swinging bridge. Four feet wide, of iron cable anchored in concrete with one side guy-wired, the worst part was the fact that the boards on the bottom were spaced slightly, some as much as three inches, and from the continuous sprays a slippery growth of algae made them treacherous. I stood in the center of the bridge and got drenched in foam, soaking in the scene, before I went on. A central island led to other bridges, to brinks of sheer cliffs over roaring waters. Paths led through dripping soggy forests to spongy grassy swards right AT the lip of the largest falls. Rainbows hung in the air, and moving slightly could put both ends close by. It acted as a frame for people in the grass. The sun, setting, came out in earnest and lit the foam to a dazzling white.

0 p. 17

The heat dried the clothes quickly, but there were always other falls to look at and get wet by. Into the woods, the greens were luminous with the sun at an angle, and at places the falling mist, or sideways shooting mists, hit the sun's rays to illuminate celestial paths of radiant light, setting the trees glowing with silvery light. Sun and water, foam and leaves, light and shadow and shimmer, amazing displays to astound the dazzled eyes. Clouds lit up with preternatural brilliance, single rays would pick out a falls, leaving the surroundings in shadow, making them stand out with mouth-gaping clarity. The falls ran over such a complex system of ledges and lower levels, retards and mill races and side channels, that it was quite impossible from the ground to trace the entire scheme of the falls. I could only wander from bridge to ledge to edge to bridge, and gape out at the enormous quantities of red-brown water cascading into white foaming pools. Mountainous waves rose where underground currents erupted, whirlpools caught up huge black limbs and dashed them against waves from another direction, and they turned and glinted in the sun and plunged down the river. So swift and deep was the water that when boys broke off fronds fully four feet across and threw them into the maelstrom, there was absolutely no evidence within sight that such large things had been thrown in. The wet paths and tunnels through the trees threaded through the islands, turning and twisting and affording various views of the falls and cliffs. It seems to be very much a NATIVE tourist resort---there appeared to be no non-Brazilian tourists. Sun began to go down and as the rays got more parallel to the earth, the glare of the falls became greater. The heat of the sun is so great that things dry immediately after tramping before and after the family over the bridges and the walks and the paths, and marveling at the balance of Orlando (or Lando) carrying Liane over the rough spots. She fell anyway and they spent a long while washing and drying her off. Then, as the sun set, we bounced over rocks to a wooden observation platform at the highest point of the falls. Marvel at rush of water flowing past and the gyrations of large logs caught in the current. My face is hot from the sun and I'm quite tired. We were at the falls about 2 1/2 hours, from 5:30 to 8. Marvels. Drove back through town and to a rural hotel, but "Esto Fechado" or closed, a phrase I would learn very well. Back into town to the Hotel das Sete Quedas. He talks to proprietor and rather disgustedly refers to me as an "Americano." He acts friendly and smiles at and with me a lot, but it seems he's rather hostile underneath---or at least he feels he HAS to put on a front of disliking me or being hated by his own people. We're shown to our rooms, and mine is only 5x11,

R, p22

with a small bed with no covers, only a heavy sheet and a tiny square of thin stuff, not tucked in, on top of what looks like a red couch. There's one chair and a sink, and a bench for the suitcase, and that's it. The toilet is simply a toilet, and as I raise the seat and urinate, it's not attached as it slides forward. It looks cruddy so I won't want to touch it, there's no toilet paper to move it with, and what looks like pieces of paper bag are in the wastebasket. we arranged to meet in the dining room in fifteen minutes, but I didn't want to enter without them, so I walk into open back room and look at huge expanse of river. They come out and we go to a table that the girl covers and puts plates and spoons on. Then a tureen of chicken and egg drop soup which we ladle out for ourselves, and then she brings out plates and plates and plates of food: cucumbers (slices, not wedges, which he calls pepina, not chu-chu), tomatoes (on the green side), lettuce (delicious in oil and vinegar), frijoles (brown beans, their staple, which he mashes), noodles with a meat sauce (that I don't eat), French fries (tasty), pieces of fried fish (which I don't eat), and to cap it off, a plastic support having three swords on which are impaled three large dry chops. I stare, and Orlando says to merely cut a piece off and eat. The quality of the food is good, and we have guarana and mineral water. Also they bring out as MANY plates as you want. One of the more interesting meals. They go sit outside and watch life go by, and I wander down to gas station, then turn around a come back. Families and kids and dogs, but not much of interest: rural Friday night. I get up to room and don't turn light on, for fear of attracting bugs into the room through the broken window. Paper clip the curtains together and flop into bed. Long time getting to sleep, it's hard, but any turn uncovers my feet or pulls the undersheet loose, and I don't want to lie on the SOFA material. Get to sleep rather late.

Page 37

SUNDAY, January 2. Wake early and lie there. Then up at 8:30, since they said to meet at 9. Again wait for them, and we're down to breakfast. The bill comes to about $5 total, which is amazing for dinner, room, breakfast, for a family and a single. He asks if I want to see the falls again, but it's cloudy so I say no. We try the museum, but it's fechado. The ride back is good because he gets out an English book that has the phrases in Portuguese inside. I get him to say the alphabet to get the sounds when he spells a word, and then we go through dozens of words. We're both rather good in thinking of ways to get words defined, except that when we get to the Itavo again, I try to syllogize "more" to get the word for "less" but it's not possible. Only very occasionally he comes out with an English word to help, and he otherwise throws in Spanish equivalents, too. Turns out that Buba is "polonaise," too. Forget about the car ferry, going across the Sao Francisco River, that's well designed to make use of the current.

Today, when the river is less rapid, they have to pull hard on the rope to get the ferry across. The trip back is rainless and many of the puddles

Q S, p22

have hardened, but with the conversation the time passes faster. we stop at Porto Mendez to see the police office and the Parana and wander down to the john. Stop again at Porto Brigato for a drink, but I have none. I ask him to take me to the hotel, and he charges $5 for it, a real gyp. So the whole bill is $60. I thank him, but I'm not quite sure who should thank whom, although it was ACTUALLY a time to remember. Left Guaira at 10 and get to hotel at 3:30. Get assigned room 27 this time, and it's a bit brighter than 29, and have a fuller view of the falls. Out to walk again and watch a spider building a web, and am surprised to see he erects a temporary thin scaffold of circumferential web and used it to build from, but when he builds the final web, he ingests the scaffolding. A fly lands and buzzes, but he ignores it. I find a spider hanging, pluck its web and flight it into the other. Quick as a flash he races down, grabs, sucks, then rushes back to center. As always around the falls, it's almost impossible to say whether it's raining or not. I'm starved and want to eat early, and remember it starting at 7. Get down at 7 and he says it starts at 7. I look and he points to watch and I say "Ocho," and he nods "ocho." Back to write some more. After falls and before 7 I take book and write quite a bit,

still not nearly caught up.

Eat the final dinner (and glad of it), then get down (missed the sunset because of the late

P, p. 18

dinner) to watch the sunlight fade and the stars come out. Venus is setting in the West, and the moving clouds from the falls cause an odd optical illusion. For a few seconds the clouds appear to move past the star, but then, shockingly, the star appears to jerk forward and move! I sight along a post to prove it does NOT move, but it's impossible to look at it for any length of time without seeing it jerk into odd apparent motion. It seems to be the same as the odd look that the clouds are moving AWAY from a car rushing toward them through aisles of trees. The reason for this is easy, as the trees get closer, the clouds are stationary so we see a WIDER sky and MORE of the clouds. However, since the eye might be fooled into thinking that the uniform trees are standing still, the only possible reason for the clouds to become more visible is that they are moving away, so the eyes tell us that they are. How odd the tricks the eyes can play. The moon gradually rises and the falls take prominence in an incredible scene. The horizon and the sky fade to nothingness, and the foam of the falls faces forefront as it reflects the moon's light. Marvelously, oddly, the opalescent arc of a moonbow forms below me. There are no flies or mosquitoes to bother me, and I sit in fascinated wonder as the night gets brighter and brighter under the moon and the falls get more and more wondrous. I feel that this MUST be shared, so I go back along the path, easy when the moon lights the path, save where the overhang is still so great that the trees or cliffs cast a shadow. Thus only the reflection of light from the falls dimly shows the outlines of the steps. At 9:30 the falls are to be lit, but I don't see the light. Walk back in wonder as the mist fills the sky and the moon bores holes through leaves and lights a cylinder of moon mist, glimmering, in the pearl-light. Such sights I've seen in the past few days!! Odd sights that so few people have seen!! An almost full moon beaming in silver splendor down on an incredibly full set of waterfalls. A sunset on a misty forest trail that's transformed into a green and gold cathedral of bamboo architecture and leafy celestories. The jungle lit by sudden sun after being silver-plated and diamond-studded by a sudden fall of rain. The quiet glory of a moonbow, refracted from mists and lit by the cold face of a bright moon. Standing bathed in mists from the greatest rivers in South America, drinking in the sights and feeling the earth tremble with the power of the water. Get back to the hotel to find the guys clustered around the door waiting for the truck to take them to the observation tower. They agree that what I've said sound great: "I don't like to butt in, but have you been down to the falls?" "Yes." "In moonlight?" "Oh?"

but I convince them, and we trek down the path, myself in the lead, telling them they have to get used to the dark. I feel the steps going down, down, down, and the falls are luminous in the night light. Reach the parapet and they too gasp at the solemn gray of the moonbow. We debate whether we can see colors, then exclaim that the lights ARE on the falls, from the observation tower. I say I don't think we can get there from

here, but they take off anyway. The lead three take off at a good clip, but the fourth fellow is slow to follow and drops behind. I bring up the rear and contemplate passing the two and catching up with the three, but it IS dark and I'd hate to break something on such a foolhardy jaunt. Find it's very easy to follow someone in the dark: only have to stay in step with the person in front, one pace behind, thus when his left foot raises for a step as your right foot falls, then you know that YOU must raise your left foot for the step. This makes the process of following as easy as if you had ropes attaching your feet to the feet in front, but one step behind. Ahead we can see the light, and we clamber up onto the platform and ring for the elevator. With the white sheet of water dashing against the rocks, we feel that the view is better without the lights. Finally the elevator comes and takes us very slowly to the surface, with the roar of the falls all around. The car stops with a jerk and falls a few inches, and I picture our screams merging with the roar of the falls. We get out and everyone looks out the window. I hear metallic chungs and everyone vanished, and I discover that around back is a steel ladder to the next level. Everyone is there, outside, looking over the concrete railing, clustered around the "chicas." I climb another level past the light control panel, another that's empty, and emerge onto the very ROOF. There's a spindly aluminum railing around, weak in some spots, and I'm on the top of the world. The moon throws my shadow right on the brink of the falls, and the rushing current tears at my image on the waters. Suddenly the lights go out, and the entire falls leaps into focus, far falls still obscured by haze, but now I'm ABOVE the brink and can see that it stretches farther BACK than I thought. The semi-circle and more of the moonbow stands out with such distinctness that one can swear one sees beginnings of greens, yellows, and blues there in the arc. Everyone below leans toward the sight. Still my shadow holds firm, and I can cast it on the people below, hanging over the railing. The fall dips down directly, and the feeling of flying is inevitable. The lights come on again and the mystery somewhat fades as the near falls leap into concentration. However, over everyone, even the guides, the familiar lure of the falls holds all gazing at the sight.

Feel a bit sad at the fabulous moths killing themselves on the scorching burning glass of the high-voltage lamps. Afterwards, we five walked up the road, talking. Two were brothers and three were in the Peace Corps. We chat about La Paz, about the water situations in the other cities, and about the girl situation.

We get sopping wandering back to the hotel.

go to JJ, p 40

HH from p. 53

Another grim time at the Gran Hotel Puerto Varas. It strikes me that the hotel is really not so bad as it actually looks---there's a carafe of water where we had none before, except what I had at Iguacu. There are no curtains on the window and the hangings, often broken, still look out over balconies, small though they may be, that most hotels don't have. The garden over which the balcony looks is definitely in the European style: hard benches along wide walks surrounding formal beds of flowers, rose trees, and carefully trimmed hedges. About three inches of black soil edging carefully separates the grass from anything else. There is a shower curtain, though dangling from its attachments. The faucets are new in the sink, though for some reason they are at the EXTREME edges of the wide sink, so that you're cramped in washing your hands. The bathroom is tiled, but very thinly and poorly done. There is soap, not as in Peulla. The ceiling and bed lamps are new and modern, though they have to suffer with a dim clear glass 40 watt bulb. The bed and headboard set and the desk were obviously made by local craftsmen from local wood, painted an ungodly blue-gray. The bed is a box sitting on the floor, a foot high, with a lid of steel mesh on which rests a thin mattress. If done of fine materials, it would look well in Japan or Norway, but done shoddily, as here, it looks shoddy. That seems to typify the hotel: as if someone with only the BEST of intentions, eager to please, had poured large amounts of money into modernization, but the only items available locally look provincial, and other items like plastering where the shower has eaten away the plaster wall to the core, like the Heaven's sake doing something about the hideous gray cement prison look of the outside of the hotel, or replacing the hideous scar-lipped maitre d' by someone more versed in languages; that the place is going to pot, but with a nice background. The situation might have been thought to be nice, in a residential suburb bordering onto farmlands, but all the residences have dogs that bark and yap in chorus all night, and the farms have cows in birth labor and roosters crowing the Day of Doom, so that the sounds are distinctive, to say the least. The chairs are upholstered easy chairs, rather than the wooden stick ones of the other hotels. They have a telephone, though the number doesn't match the room number. They have bells for maids, though I rang for a transformer at 7:50 and now at 8:35 it hasn't come YET. But still I tend to excuse these things because this is a VERY small town, and I doubt that, say, Newton Falls, Ohio, would have anything that even compares (probably has a sleek new motel). I got to bed at 10:45 and woke at 2, at 5, at 6, and at 7, and got out of bed at 7:30 to take a frigid shower. The day began in the rain, and now has seemed to settle into a falls-like mist, not really rain, but visible and probably in a short time thoroughly wetting. So the day till 5:30 when we're taken to Puerto Montt for the plane to Santiago (assuming it DOES go), is liable to be a long and boring one, and I hope my writing hand can hold up---this will probably end any SLOW section of the journey, and the rest of Chile and Peru will probably be rather speedy, provided we're not laid low by oxygen lack in Macchu-Picchu, and I'm quite far behind. At this point I can count my woes: my shoes are still damp and cold from falling into the river yesterday---but if I don't wear them, they'll NEVER be dry, and I need the protection against the cold and wet HERE; there are half a dozen mosquito bites on each elbow that drive me wild every morning; and a few others on hand-backs, arms, legs, that bother. There are 6 or 7 pulgas bites on both hands that are sore if poked with, but if not poked with will probably never go away. I seem to be constipated---which is better than having something else; I'm probably going to get a WOW of a cold, what with the day of cold wind in the face before yesterday from Llao-Llao to Puerto Blest, the walk in the stream yesterday morning, the wet cold trip across Lake Todos Los Santos yesterday in too thin trousers and shoes, and the fact that there's not a SPECK of heat coming from any radiator. My woes really aren't as bad as they could be (add a scab from shinning myself at the pool at Iguacu), but they certainly keep me busy scratching, blowing, worrying, and aching.

JJ from p. 39

We talk about my trips and their trips and they seem rather happy to have me around, so that when they suggest a dip in the pool, I feel that I'm included and look forward to a fine lounge

56a

in the lighted waters. Think to go out with suit under trousers and shoes and shirt, but get out (passing a very frightened little rat on the stairs) to see one of them in suit only, swinging towel. And I had rather foolishly thought they would have towels at the pool. Go back up to take everything off except shirt (and trunks) and grab towel and try again.

56b

It looks great swimming in the lit pool, but as I step into the wading pool at the edge, the lights go off. They holler for "Luz," but it does no good. The lifeguard comes out to talk with them and while they talk I burble back and forth across the pool. It's like swimming in a bath of ink covered by a black velvet cloth. The water is pleasantly warm, so that later we stay IN the water to keep warm, rather than evaporate coolly in the night air. The stars are bright to even my glassless eyes, and the moon is still high. I listen to conversation a while and again strike off on my back. The lights go on! My body lights up and the water glows green. I jump to my feet and stare in surprise. Everyone laughs. Their swimming and diving prowess definitely puts me to shame, so I mostly float and frog-kick around.

All end up standing around in the water talking about languages and diseases and girls. Get back to room just after midnight and even too exhausted to shower. Undress and dry off and flop into bed, hair askew.

Page 40

MONDAY, JANUARY 3.

v, w, Xs, p. 25

Up pretty late and shower and pack and get down to breakfast just in time NOT to go to the falls. Get into airport. Get a shine and fret over plane being late. Chat with the Peace Corps people and write some and look at luggage and debate eating something, but finally plane lands and I tell people my plight, and they wish me luck. Orlando comes in and WE chat a bit. Then the plane is off.

Xs Z p. 26, 27

There IS a cancellation and again there's a flurry of getting luggage checked and a ticket made out and a card to be typed for the Montevideo airport and getting reservations down pat. Land with a rush on the plane, deservedly last as the girl had told me, but there's a seat next to last near window net to large sweating fellow. Slide into it gratefully and we take off quickly and relieve the enormous sweaty heat inside the packed and circulationless plane.

ZZ, p. 27

The flight was QUITE a thing. We land and file into waiting room, but there's another delay.

ZZZ

Into Montevideo for quick pleasant look around.

ZZZZ, p. 28

and get on plane for BA

ZZ p. 29

Land to the flashing bulb of a concessionaire and into airport for ANOTHER wait while all the names are called. Quick check of luggage and I'm into airport to get some money changed for taxi to city. Can find no cambio, so ask girl behind counter and a standee is ready to give 180 for $1. I change $10. Later find that the Embassy "crook" will give 220, but that 180 is the official rate. Ask for taxi and she shows me out, but when I can't find "non-crook" place, she personally conducts me to the end of a long line waiting for good cabs. I figure someone ELSE must be waiting for the Plaza Hotel, so I ask the Japanese couple in front of me. No, he says, I'm going to the Dora, but they're close together, so we CAN go together. He speaks English haltingly but quite well, and Spanish and Japanese VERY well. Works in Santiago and invites the three of us to call him there. I ask if he's eaten and he says no, and I invite him to dinner. I say I'll call him at his hotel. He's just come from Lake District and has only one week. Mr. Kasai from Mitsoui company. Never been to US. Cab finally comes and the driver is fat and unshaven and sweaty and surly, and snaps back at Kasai who tries to show me city. Get to hotel and Kasai insists on paying for fare. Get key and call C&T and ask them to come to my room while I unpack. They haven't eaten (it's only 9 and most dinners start at 10), so we five will go to dinner to a place they've chosen. C&T say that BA is lousy, the only tour that's worthwhile is the Tigre tour, and that they couldn't get into Montevideo and that if it weren't for me, they would have gone to Bariloche two days ago. I entertain them with my travels, and they kill me with words and looks about five times. Kasai calls and will meet us in our lobby. I dress and we meet them and take an unmetered cab (to be avoided) for 300 to the "Cabana." The place is rough-timbered and lined with wine bottles, but it's Monday and they don't serve beef on Monday or Tuesday, so all we have is a Parilla of pork. Start off with something like asparagus or pea soup, melon and ham for a starter, and then a tray with chops and intestines and other junk on it. All pork. Salad is on the sad side, and the red AND white wines aren't exactly great tasting. End up with bill for 5000 which is five bucks apiece and thus rather expensive. The place is closing and they're taking off the tablecloths as we leave at 1:30. But it's been pleasant talking with the Kasais. Back to hotel and to bed as the wines overpower me.

Page 41

TUESDAY, JANUARY 4. To breakfast at 10 after fearing I've burned out my shaver by using the transformer on 220 watt current on the 110/130 switch. I see a spark flashing through the plastic and the whole thing is HOT. Use a tweezers as a screw driver to take it apart, but apart from a very hot coil I can see no real damage from the short use. My transformer is also very hot. Thus go to breakfast without showering or shaving, and the cornus are good and the chocolate is good, so maybe my distaste for the Continental breakfast can be staved off for a while. Talk about the town and I miss the AM tour to Tigre. They've got a noon flight to Montevideo and I stupidly forget to give them my left-over pesos. Go out for a bus after signing up for the 2 pm Tigre tour.

AA p. 29

It's time-passing, but there MUST be a better way of passing time in the largest city in South America, but since C&T say all the museums are closed, what can one do? Ride way out on 230 and have to walk back in the hot sun for the 31, and get back to hotel not too long before 2 pm. Not enough time to eat. Sit in lobby writing, and tour leaves at 2:30

BB p. 30

(The trip, AGAIN, is hardly worth it. Call C&T but they're still out. Send stuff out to laundry and sort junk again, and write some, and they come back. It's a long time until dinner, and we haven't decided WHERE to eat. I've gone through all my travel information and come up with a tiny list of places I want to see, so I suggest a walk to the Avenida 9 de Julio. They balk but finally come along---what else is there to do? Walk along the fun Calle Florida and browse in jewelry and shoe and junk shops. Down to the cathedral, which looks like a warehouse, and gape at the Casa Rosada and the Cabildo, then follow my map up the street. There are some VERY old restaurants with dark varnish and ceilings and revolving fans and crowded native tables. I suggest we eat in one of them, but both refuse. Many sidewalk cafes and newspaper stands.

Many awnings hang out from very old colorful buildings with ornate decorations and tiny balconies and tall ornate shutters. La Prensa site is what could be a replica of the Paris Opera House. Trees darken the street considerably on both sides, and the traffic is heavy in the evening streets. Get to the avenue and look at obelisk. Many of the areas are completely blank, as were many of the Parks. BA has an enormous amount of expansion possible in monuments and fountains and parks, if they ever get the money to build them, or find anything as important as the revolution of the 5th of May to commemorate. Look northward to the Congressional Palace, modeled after the US Capitol on a quarter scale (or something; anyway, skinnier). There's an elaborate fountain with cruddy water and junk floating with the inevitable flying horses pulling assorted deified motley.

C&T went on and I joined them to laugh at the horrible caryatids, jowled females with disproportioned arms. Piles of pigeon droppings littered the steps. We looked back on the Plaza, but it was not yet lit and there was little of interest. Better from the Plaza de Mayo, looking toward the Congress and two horsemen off on 45-degree angles from them down long avenues. Walk down and past an elaborate Art Nouveau gateauery with much Tiffany-type glass and metal and fantastic cakes for 2-3 dollars. A beautiful building that C&T and the rest of the world would have pulled down in a few days. Try to get a cab, but there appears to be none available. T starts complaining

about walking. We get back to read the penciled inscriptions on the obelisk and poke into the plastic-tented Industries fair with games of chance being noisily tested. C&T threaten to leave, so we cross the avenue (at the right place, after being whistled at by one of the old badged civilian traffic cops) to again look for a cab. None. Walk and walk and walk and T says there's no time to dress and go to dinner. Pass a few more places, but none look edible in. Through the legitimate theater district, and a half dozen or more plays and comedies are going strong, but none that would appeal to non-Spanish speaking tourists. I cross street at will and T&C tag angrily behind. Finally get to the hotel and T says "I'm not eating, I'm going to BED." C&I look at each other and agree to meet in the hall in ten minutes. We discuss T's odd resemblance to Mozelle in saying something ONCE and MEANING it.

The hit of the meal is by all means the Coliquot, a white wine in which soaks cut-up oranges and apples and pineapple and bananas. VERY good, though the sommelier was as sour as he could be at being put to work. The chicken a la Kiev was quite tasty, too, but we remark that NO where can anyone prepare vegetables properly. The green beans are mushy and waxy and green tasting, as if they were cooked a combination of not long enough and too long, then had too much rancid butter poured on it. Even the vegetables in the soup, which could have been delicious, were tasteless and underdone in their clear broth. Gaped at a HUGE mass of custardy fluff that was being scooped out for a party at the next table. Then, last again, we paid the check and left. I wished there was something else we could do, but it was 1 am, and there was nothing to do but go to bed. So I did, and was glad to have no trouble in falling asleep.

Page 42

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 5. I pack after I wake and they call and I join them for breakfast again. we say we'll check out at 1 or 2, since the plane is at 3:15, and then we catch a METERED cab, I to AA to confirm my ticket, C&T to Maximiliano Klein to spend $100 each on alligator and unborn calf bags and other souvenirs, among them leather roses. Find a girl who speaks English and get my ticket confirmed in about 45 minutes

BBB p. 31

Out with map and again walk up to the 9 de Julio and poke around, dodging in and out of traffic made more miserable by the fact that the areas are so ENORMOUS that cars can bear down on you from absolutely ANY angle and from ABSOLUTELY any path of approach from a straight line to a tight curve. Positively the worst street in the world to cross: no traffic lights. The story is that BA is in process of installing traffic lights at a great rate, but there were so many intersections that need them, they can't go fast enough. Where they DO have traffic lights, they have police to make SURE the people obey. Usually you can tell a street with a traffic light: traffic is tied up and there's much fruitless blowing of horns. Locate the Lezama Park that Chuck said was nice, and make toward it by way of Constitucion Park. Stop at Feria Montserrat and look at tomatoes and peppers and beans and dark cruddy meat and eggs and assorted plastic junks, all busy being sold. Continue down Peru Avenue and the sidewalks are narrow and made worse by outdoor concessions blocking much of the traffic for kitchen hardware, toys, soaps, balloons, junk, anything. Shops are very tiny and have all sorts of junk in the windows. Every so often, intruding into the junk storefronts, is the clean shuttered facade of a private home. Sidewalks ALSO dangerous as walking near the curb can bring a bump from a bus careening close. A fellow's crossing, jerked his head back in just enough time to keep it from being carried off. Kids are pulled along by parents and all the fellows stare at all the girls. Constitucion is a big sterile looking park with boys playing ball in shorts in the shallow ponds. Getting on toward noon and I try to keep in the shade, but the sun's almost directly overhead and it's hard to avoid. Dust is in the streets, but still it's cooler than Rio. Down the Avenue Brazil to Lezama, and it's a tropical jungle of grass and plants and bushes and trees. There's a rectangle of water with a sputtering little fountain (which seems typical of Argentina and Chile) and goldfish, but the whole is surrounded by a grand amphitheater of concrete steps with plantings between, about 4 feet wide for 8-10 steps. I can so easily visualize a grand entertainment around the pool, magnificent music by a symphony orchestra, grand minuets by columns of brocaded men and women, waving fans

and powdered wigs and elaborate bows. Around the Grand Tiers sit jeweled ladies with formally elegant gentlemen standing behind their chairs in cavalier attendance. What fun to have been the Grand Master of the Spectacle for the Medicis in Florence. The usual seamy side is present in the park, and I walk down toward La Boca, the last stop on a very short list. Pass a barrio, obviously the Spanish equivalent of the Portuguese favela, and see the tin-sided houses and dirty children peering up at me. The first thing I notice past the large apartment replacing large sections (like Washington Square Village replaced part of Greenwich Village) of the old neighborhoods, and outrunning a train that pulls old carriages with their carriage-wheel front wheels, is a large street-middle market that's just closing at noon. As if to make it official, a whistle blows at noon. Follow the boundaries of the area deeper and deeper and come across trees, fences, curbstones, houses, telephone poles, everything painted blue-yellow-blue. It was as if an 8 foot flood of blue paint flowed down the road, dried, was followed by a 6 foot flood of yellow paint, dried, which was terminated by another flood of blue paint 4 feet deep. Except that the flood would have had to be longitudinal at the curbs. Another feature of the area is the plazas like loading docks in front of some houses. Merely walking along the sidewalk necessitates having to step up four or five steps, walking along the walk, then stepping down four or five steps. Made walking rather a bore. Again the garbage was being burned, and again one got the feeling that everything happened BEHIND the closed doors and shutters. Some of the doors open revealed a labyrinth of halls, doors, stairways and sub-houses, and it looked and felt cooler and more private. No one occupied the front rooms, all the business of living took place far behind the facade, beyond the reach of the street. Most of the shops were closed, but a few revealed dark smelly interiors. On a few of the streets, thick trees made the walking cooler. Some of the corrugated tin walls were painted green and brown-red, but in general the garish colors were missing, except for the corner building on Hernandaria, where each wall, each level, each shutter frame, and each set of shutters was painted a different color. In another place a beer parlor had board sidings, and each level was painted a different color. As time wore toward 1, the streets got hotter, the passing cars that left men off at home came less frequently, and workmen cuddled into the corners of a truck fender drinking Crush. I walked back to Lezama and studied my map to find I could take a 203 bus. Gave him 15 pesos and he took it. Covered Avenida San Martin one last time, used the wrong entrance (or exit) for the Plaza one last time (the 27th), and finished packing. Went down and had a long talk with the manager about the 10% IBM discount, and feared failure when he finally shrugged that IBM World Trade had 10% off, but our ID's stating "subsidiary of IBM," saved the day and I berated myself a second time for not bringing the OLD SBC cards that stated the same thing. After all, my title hasn't changed since then, anyway. Finally he gave in, taking one of my cards as proof, and the bill is over $50 for C&T anyway. My laundry bill is high, but the convenience is worth it. With all the fuss about the 10%, we had no time for tea and caught a cab at 2:30 for the plane. Get checked in by a stupid way of doing it

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SOUTH AMERICA 1966 - 6 COUNTRIES 1966 3 of 4