Argentinian Journal: The Road from Iguazu

                                                                             

First view of Iguazu falls from Brazil

   Tuesday, Jan 14, 2020 Iguazu airport, 11:30 A.M.
     Now, leaving Iguazu to Salta, farther northwest, closer to the Peruvian border.
     On reflection, the town of Iguazu, which we passed in the van, yesterday (our hotel well outside the town and taxi service spotty), is kind of a hip, jungle outpost, a lot of vegetation, warm and humid, and filled with cafes, restaurants, and quaint hotels.
     Iguazu’s draw: it’s waterfalls, one of the world’s largest, two times taller than Niagara and four times wider. Of course, the town caters to the thousands of visitors who come from around the world.
     It is an old town with banks, schools, and businesses. Like many Latin American countries, tourism is one of Argentina’s top grossing industries, to the dismay of many proud Argentinos, who prefer to believe their country’s economy is sound even without multitudes of foreigners tromping through their towns and villages. It isn’t.
     [Side note: soy has replaced wheat and beef as Argentina’s top export. For 2019, soy will take a backseat to a classic painting, El zuavo by Van Gough and some other works bringing in nearly half-a-billion dollars to the Argentine economy. But what country wants its export numbers to be based on the sales of paintings?]
                                                                                 

More like a prison than a mine

     Yesterday, we visited an amethyst mine, not high on my bucket list of places to see. Surprisingly, the mines are a hit with foreigners who like the bright, purplish, crystalline-type stone. Squads of tourists, including our group, followed their tour guides throughout the quarry that looked more like an underground prison than a mining complex.
                                                                                   

Brutal conditions for any miner

                                                                                   

Is the payoff worth the work?

Just another rock

     The mines are fairly new discoveries, say the 1960s. Unlike Peru, with its abundance of poor Indians to work its mines high in the freezing Andes, Argentina has no Indians or large immigrant populations to do its undesirable work.
     When I asked about the miners, our guide, reluctantly, and carefully, answered the question with vague references to unemployed Argentines and skilled miners from neighboring countries. The pay is “fair”, whatever that means.
     One of my fellow travelers, a Chicano counselor with deep Mexican roots, refused to visit the gift shop after the tour of the mines. He said its merchandise was pulled from the earth by exploited labor. He thought the whole thing immoral. I agreed but argued the old capitalist refrain, “Well, it is bringing tourists to the region and much needed income.”
                                                                                     

     As we prepared to leave, a column of vans filled with tourists lined the entrance. The gift shop was full. One woman in our group, a known shopaholic, swore restraint. She emerged from the store with a large bag and her credit card increased by $500. So much for restraint.
     From there, we drove to the Misiones region and walked the 17th century Jesuit ruins, San Ignacio Mini, a UNESCO World Heritage site, subject of Robert De Niro’s movie, the Mission. The Jesuits, with Guarani Indian labor, constructed a string of missions through the forest, about a day’s ride separating one mission to the next.
                                     

San Ignacio's workshops and classrooms

                                           

Remnants of the original Jesuit church

     The rebel clerics created schools, workshops, ranches and farms to convert and educate the Guarani people. Each mission specialized in the production specific merchandise. This way they could trade with each other. The Guaranis who refused indoctrination into the system escaped into the forest, and in some cases, waged war against the Spanish crown, including the Jesuits. Still, many Guarani swore their loyalty to the priests whom they saw as protectors against government soldiers and rebellious Indians.
     When Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay hammered out a treaty to divide the land, Brazil would not agree to the pact unless Spain cleared the region of all Jesuits and Guaranis, a little too much power in that relationship, I guess. The Spanish king agreed and set his soldiers on a path of destruction. It wasn’t long for the missions to fall into disrepair, followed by ruin. All this according to our guide who claimed mestizo heritage.
     He said of all the Incas once inhabiting what we now know as Argentina only about 1% remain. What did surprise me were the number of Argentinians who claim mestizo blood, part European, part Inca. The stereotype is that Argentinos see themselves as European, not quite, I learned.
     Outside of Buenos Aires, we visited an estancia, or what the rest of us would call a rancho or hacienda. Like Downtown Abbey, estancias can no longer operate solely on their production of wheat or cattle, so they have opened their doors to the tourist trade to make ends meet.
     I hadn’t been on a horse in close to a half-century, so when I saddled up and rode with about twenty-five others around the vast lands, led by a young gaucho, all I could think was—please, lord, don’t let me get a leg cramp now.
                                         

The gaucho's son now the artist

                                         

The Old Gaucho

     Yes, Argentina still maintains its gaucho heritage. The estancias are working farms and ranches, so after the tourists jump into the vans and buses and depart, the hard work begins. However, as part of an estancia’s show is a horse demonstration and folk dance by the gauchos(as).
     Of course, they are masters with horses, not unlike Mexico’s charros, Spain’s caballeros, or even the Arabia's horsemen, all who preceded the American cowboy, even if my countrymen don’t like to admit it.
     What caught my ear was after their performance, the lead gaucho said to the crowd of tourists, “Gauchos are mestizos, a mix of Indian and Spanish. We are proud of our heritage and our culture.”
     I’d never heard anyone call a gaucho a mestizo, or many other Argentinos, for that matter. It was only later, when passing through Argentina’s villages and towns, much like Spain’s architectural influence throughout Latin America, I noticed all the shades of brown, nothing like the European Portenos of Buenos Aires. Mestizaje is alive and well in Argentina, even if it is downplayed. Or as one guide told me, with a chuckle, “Yes, Portenos believe only they are Argentinos.”
     A few days ago, upon first landing in Iguazu, I could see from my window seat the green landscape surrounded by large swaths of water, different than any place else we’d visited. The destination of all that water, I would learn soon, the rivers and tributaries raging towards Iguazu falls.                                          

     As we boarded the van to the hotel, Brandon, our hearty leader, asked, “The driver told me he can drive us to Brazil, to see the waterfalls from that side, so is anyone up to going?”
     “When?”
     “Right now. They recently changed the law, allowing people to cross with only a passport, no visas needed, anymore. It will cost $50.00 each, but I guarantee. It will be worth it.”
     I checked the time, 1:00 PM, lunch time. I thought, isn’t a waterfall a waterfall, no matter from which side one views it? Just then, Brandon said, "It's an entirely different vantage point from Brazil. Besides, you can have a Brazilian stamp in your passport."
     So, we were off to Brazil.                                                                          
     The day was slightly overcast. I decided to leave my umbrella in the van and carry just a light backpack with water.
                                                                             

A view from Brazil

     

From Brazil, closer than it seems

         

     I can’t describe the magnificence of nature except to say Iguazu’s waterfalls were breathtaking, even more stunning than the Grand Canyon or Yosemite, if that is possible. From the Brazilian side, we walked a footpath closer to the waterfalls than is possible on Argentina’s side. No matter how many turns we made, or how far we walked, the waterfalls kept stretching farther and farther in the distance, like they would never end.
     You couldn’t just stand in one place and see it all. From any one place, all you could see was only one portion. From a new location, you could see a different portion. So, to see the entire falls takes views from both Brazil and Argentina.
     Then came the rain, a few drops at first then the deluge. No place to hide. Luckily, the air and the water were warm.
     I put my backpack under my lightweight jacket. The wind started. My umbrella wouldn’t have helped. Umbrellas were turning into kites. We ran. The footpath went up and down the mountain. We gave up. Or, we gave in. We let the rain soak us. When I looked at the women in our group, I thought--so glad men don't wear makeup.
     Through the mist, the massive falls roared like a monster. Two hours later and thoroughly soaked, but elated, we headed toward the exit. The Brazilians built elevators and a store right beside one end of the falls where, if the rain hadn’t wet us, the falls surely would have. That was the end of day one at Iguazu.
     The next day, under a clear blue sky and bright sun, we viewed the falls breadth, but not it totality,  from Argentina's soil. Hidden within the jungle, water, and spray was the metal and wood foot path winding through nearly every conceivable angle from which to view the falls, sometimes straddling the mountain at the lower levels before rising to the top of the falls itself.
                                                                               

First view of Iguazu from Argentina

But one small segment of the falls

     I gave thanks to my two dogs Rocky and Phoebe. Their insistence on a mile to two mile walk each day kept me in good enough shape not to embarrass myself. Then I saw them, boats carrying tourists up river and into the falls. “Look at them,” I called to my friends, above the roar of the falls. “Yeah,” Brandon said. “We have a 3:00PM appointment, right after lunch. We can’t be late.”

     We were at the top of the falls. I looked at the footpath, winding down the side of the mountain to the river’s edge and the boat landing. Going down didn’t concern me that much, nor did jumping on a high powered outboard dinghy and heading into the falls. I pushed the thought of climbing back up out of my mind.                                                                                

The long walkway over the falls

The sun shines through

     Once securely in the boat, at water level, the falls looked taller, magical, but harrowing. Our driver sped through rapids and rough waters, slapping the boat's bottom, as if hitting cement. I felt like a kid again, and I savored the trip, making it without much trouble. In the humid, warm air, the tepid water of the falls was refreshing, especially directly under the bulk of water coming off the 300-foot cliffs. We wrapped anything we wanted to stay dry inside waterproof bags, including our shoes and a change of clothes.
     That evening at dinner, exhausted but energized, we realized our visit to the falls was more than just tourism as usual, it was engaging with the elements. We’d experienced nature's force, held on to her hand as she led us into secret caverns and crevices, revealed her mysteries. Of course, the Guaranis saw all of this as sacred. If we felt it in the course of a day, they had internalized it over a lifetime.
                                                                                   

Emerging from a massive dunking

     The flight to Salta takes about an hour. Supposedly, we will be a few mountain ranges away from the Andes. Salta claims one of the largest Inca ruins in Argentina. It is not only remote but desolate, even with it's charming little city.
     From Salta, we fly down to Mendoza, wine country. I’m not much into wine, and coming from California and spending a portion of my youth in Spain, I don’t think I’ll be tasting much better wine than I already have.
                                                                                 

Does Eva Peron really rest in peace?

     Two images come to me, as I think about Argentina, one, the cemetery at Recoleta and a crowd of people around one particular mausoleum, the name Duarte, Eva Duarte Peron engraved in stone. Her body went missing for years, only to return home after the people threatened those responsible with death. The second is of me walking into El Ateneo, a classic theater in Buenos Aires turned into a bookstore. Yes, Latin America still reads.
                                                                               

El Ateneo, books are the main show here

     At first, the beauty of the architecture disguises the hundreds of thousands of tomes on the various levels. Then, the books themselves appear, standing colorful and haughty, survivors in a quickly changing world.
     Up on the stage, I see what is set for a performance, possibly some really good storytelling.