Beyond the Backyard #8: The Last Stop(s) – Santa Fe and Rosario, Argentina

By: Elysse Zarek

The Last Stop(s)

Santa Fe and Rosario, Argentina
Early Saturday morn, way before the sun raised its head over the rooftops of this far-from-sleepy town, Jacob and I were rushing to the airport to catch our 7am flight to Santa Fe. The previous day we had found some amazing (read: cheap and not with Aerolineas Argentinas) tickets and they were too hard to turn down, so we grabbed them and packed our bags in a hurry. Apparently Southern Winds, the airline we flew, is supposed to be the best one in the country, although I wouldn’t know because I fell asleep before the flight took off and awoke as it was landing (hey, it was early).

After seeing and touring several cities in Argentina, I’ve come to the conclusion that they all look similar: cobblestone-type sidewalks, short white buildings, lots of greenery; maniacal drivers and museums that are open at the oddest hours. Santa Fe was no different. It was cute; enough for one day but barely enough for two.

What we saw revolved around what was open, and it wasn’t much. The general rule seems to be that if it’s open, then it’s on the other side of town, and required a lengthy trek that my knees didn’t have the patience for but Jacob’s were eager to try. So we walked a lot and saw a little. The day ended with a church choir competition at the municipal theatre that very quickly left us snoozing.

Once again my klutzy tendencies were revealed in public when I oh-so-gracefully walked into a telephone booth. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been watching where I was going; the phone was surrounded by clear pexiglass that was just too easy to miss. Those things should be more clearly labeled or something. (Don’t laugh.) Either way, it is the opinion of a certain young man by my side that I need to cultivate some grace.

The next day we hopped on a morning bus to Rosario, two hours away. The Argentine manner of getting rid of garbage, tossing it out the car window onto the side of the street, is raised to an art form in this exceptionally grimy city with poor ice cream. However, it does house the flashy museum honouring the blue, white, and yellow national flag.

The Museo de la Bandera is about the size of several football fields and covered in brilliant white marble that reflects the sun back at such an angle as to blind its visitors and has more steps that I was able to easily manage. At one side is a large oxidized hunk of metal with a flame burning on top. I believe it is meant as a tribute to the country’s warriors and soldiers, although it was hard to be sure because it had no date and the writing was beginning to rub away. Beyond the soldiers’ monument was another set of impossibly long stairs that led to a massive statue of what appeared to be a naked woman with wings set into the white marble building, and a tower that gave an impressive, if obscured, view of the downtown core of the city. To the side, down more stairs, was a room that held the flags, national anthems and flowers, and cans of dirt from all the countries in the Americas (except the uninfluential and invisibly polite Canada) and Spain.

And like all other cities, Rosario has a Museo de Bellas Artas (a fine art museum). In response to my musing that most of the women in the art museums seem to be nudes, the charming Jacob offered to provide a male nude, but (thankfully) he didn’t manage to get too far into the task (!).

Jacob left me back in Santa Fe on Monday morning. I continued working my way up north.

Resistencia, Chaco, Argentina
On Tuesday I arrived bright and early in the Corrientes bus station, 10 hours north of Santa Fe. The bus station was grimy; the people were grimy; crowds swarmed around like flies are attracted to honey (and dog poop on the sidewalk on a sweltering summer’s day). It didn’t look like a place I wanted to be on my own, and 20 minutes later I was on a bus to the neighbouring city of Resistencia.

Resistencia is in the Chaco province, an area that’s topographically the same as Paraguay and parts of Bolivia. It’s exceptionally humid, but in a short distance changes to become exceptionally arid; not much grows out there, and vegetation is pretty basic. Certain areas are still called “impenetrable” simply because nothing’s there: no roads, no homes, no signs of life.

Anyways, I arrived in Resistencia to find it a small but bustling town oppressed by a humid heat that intensified the smells on the street. The city has been hit hard by the economic depression. Most of the people are lower-middle to lower class. Many stores have closed down; more than a few display windows were empty. The tourist information office at the bus station didn’t have maps or pamphlets; there just isn’t enough money to print any.

Resistencia is also called the city of sculptures because of the carvings and statues on nearly every corner. In one end of the city is a park full of statues that is the city’s pride and joy. But like the rest of the city, the sculpture park has fallen into disrepair: the statues are covered in graffiti and beginning to rust and decay. Disheveled men pee on the statues, young couples make out underneath them, and dog poop surrounds them.

The first night was spent in what appeared to be a cute little hotel. It was cheapish and it had private bathrooms, therefore it was perfect. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be on the wrong side of the train tracks (or more accurately, on the train tracks themselves). Locals shuddered when I told them where I was staying. Walking back after dark was an interesting, if slightly frightening, experience. Needless to say, my budget was overhauled and the sleeping arrangements were upgraded for the following night, followed by a hasty retreat from the city.

The Last Stop: Puerto Iguazu, Missiones, Argentina

Iguazu Falls

Massive thunderstorms that were whacking the area put in a kink in my plans and prevented me from seeing some apparently amazing Jesuit ruins, so on a rainy Thursday I made my way to Puerto Iguazu, a wee town in the north of Argentina whose claim to fame is the massive collection of waterfalls that makes Niagara Falls look like a leaking faucet. Jacob met me in Iguazu late Friday afternoon, and first thing Saturday morn, we were off to see the falls.

The falls were spectacular. It wasn’t just one waterfall; it was dozens of them, big and small, rushing down cliffs dripping with tropical plants. It was…spectacular. Enough to leave us speechless but take up three rolls of film. In Iguazu National Park are series of bridges that go over, around, beside and almost through the falls; we were so close we could almost reach out and touch them, and they soaked us with their spray.

The first amazing waterfall was the Garganta del Diablo (Devil’s Throat), a short train ride away from the main park area and kilometre and a bit walk along a bridge over the furiously rushing Rio Iguazu. Standing at the edge of this fall must be what it’s like to stand at the edge of the world. Falling…falling…gone. The fall itself is round; water pounds down from all angles; spray and mist almost completely obscures the violent whirlpools at the bottom. We were drenched. It was fantastic.

Another series of metal bridges and cliffside trails took us down to the falls, so close that if my arms were another few inches longer, I would have been touching the water.

Our second day took us to a rarely-trekked 3 km trail in the jungle that led to a small waterfall and a deserted beach on the river with (gasp!) real sand. Strolling down the muddy paths among the tall jungle grass, Jacob kept his eyes peeled open and camera poised: he’d heard there were monkeys in those jungles. Meanwhile, I was busy unsuccessfully trying to keep the bugs from sucking out too much of my blood. (Despite showering in bug spray, they still attacked with a vengeance, and I emerged as the winner of the sketchy who-has-more-mosquito-bites contest.) The hot sun crisped our skin; the bugs’ sharp stingers left itchy welts up and down our legs. But the river was cool, and the views of the waterfalls through the jungle foliage were well worth the pain…and dirt…and bug bites that still itch…and the sand that won’t come out of my shoes.

Always take your passport with you

Jacob and I at Iguazu Falls

Since Iguazu Falls straddled the border with Brazil, we planned to hop over to the Brazilian side of the falls and see the view from there. Before leaving Toronto, I had gotten a Brazilian visa, figuring that it would pay off it we stayed for a night, plus it was a way to fill up pages in my passport. I was prepared. Jacob wasn’t. In typical Jacob fashion, he had forgotten his passport, with his Brazilian visa, in Buenos Aires.

But we had a morning to spare, and the border was only 10 minutes away…

We made it no farther than immigration on the Brazilian side, where we spent some time inside the fascinating customs booth where they keep passport violators like ourselves. Between the two of us we scraped together $15 USD, Jacob signed some papers declaring him a forgetful Canadian citizen, and we hopped on a bus for the short ride back to Argentina. But for half an hour, I was in Brazil.

We’re still finding sand in our shoes in Buenos Aires.