A Brit of Argie Bargie

Not the most original of titles but hey who do you think I am? **fill in name of favourite witty writer here **? eh?

Maybe if during my trip I´d eaten a Onion Bargie... oh well..lets move on.

Is a month long enough to judge a country? I think so. Here I go. Argentina is a country with an inferiority complex fed on a diet of milenesas (chicken or beef schnitzels) and a long experience of pathetically rubbish government. When not ruled by murderous military dimwits the country has lurched from one chancer to the next, each with the economic aplomb of a pissed tourist (is this a ten or a hundred? - whatever!), which has clearly driven 90% of the population to an irrational love of breadcrumb covered meats. I think that covers it.

On the upside the hopeless mismanagment and eventual collapse of the national railway system has led to arguably the best long distance bus service on the planet. The quite staggering luxury and comfort of these buses is unsung by the locals who seem surprisingly keen to label themselves as ´third world´ and bemoan the economic woes of one of South Americas most advanced economies.

It is possibly the closeness of Argentina culturally speaking to Europe that results in this unreasonable comparison and resulting gloom - so near and yet so far. However, when distracted from pontificating on national identity most Argies I have met are uncomplicatedly friendly and hospitable.

Not least my host for my stay here in Esquel Patagonia. Lucia is a 40 something mum of two with a love of butterflies and fairies and all things spiritual. On entering her house you get the distinct impression that in her search for ´something´she has in fact found everything. There are pictures of Jesus, Buddha, dream catchers, fairies, witches, assorted Catholic saints, and although I´m yet to see it there must be an Obama around somewhere.



As a happy clapping athiest all this spiritual bumpf leaves me somewhat dismayed but fortunately Lucia´s evangelical tendencies are fairly well controlled. I do occaisionally have to chew determindly and stare at my plate when invited to enthuse about the ´real´cause of asthma or share a knowing look about her probable past life. Nevertheless, she´s an excellent host who is interested and interesting and always ready to give a hand. All in all I could have done a lot worse - I may even develop a taste for incense....or perhaps not.

When not at home I have taken to running up the local hills, or rather mountains. This lung bursting leg jellifying activity is more fun than it sounds, leaving the regular practicioner with an inner glow of pointless achievement and buns of steel.
In addition there is to be a competition of stupid uphill running in a few weeks and I intend to participate. Not only will I be able to join the choral wheezing of several hundred fellow nutbars but its all for charity - ahh how nice.

In the next post I´ll tell you how I´ve been saving the world via unsupervised internet browsing - stay tuned juanfans!

Some old tatt

The lower east side Manhattan is renowned for its bars, its art galleries, studios, its 'scene' and of course its tattoos. What? Hadn't heard about the tattoos? Well take it from me there's more square inches of tattooed flesh on display on the streets of the 'garment district' NYC than at a Polynesian arse slapping contest. But these tattoos aren't of your arrow through heart smudgy drunken lifelong error variety nor culturally significant sphincta backdrops these tatts are art, original, striking, sometimes shocking usually just cool.

All this body art brilliance is prone to turn a poor country boy's head, and as it turns out, mine too. It had been a long time since my last encounter with the needle gun and the heady mix of 90 degree heat, 90% humidity, bourbon on rocks and a pocket full of Greenbacks was making me just darn crazy enough to go back there.

But why in the name of the mothers who boure us into this world, all wrinkly and unblemished, would anyone get tattooed? There are many reasons: Fashion - to look 'cool' has to rate as the favourite. Nothing wrong with looking cool as long as you do. Beauty - different from fashion, more likely to be in the eye of the beholder, and more likely to result in an original design. Toughness - yeah there are those who tattoo at least partly to show that they are not afraid to be outside of the norm to shun social conventions and to be marked their whole lives - ooo so tough. Self-harm - the thrill believe it or not, of marking yourself irrevocably, of allowing someone, and indeed watching someone mark you irrevocably floats some boats - I hear.

So on the third week of my stay in New York City for a range of reasons not wholely unrelated to those you have just read I got another tattoo (sorry Mum).

The first one I had has always been a bit shit. I knew that when I first got it, but what can you do? I never hated it, it was just a bit, well rubbish. Poor rendering of a reasonable idea. A small tree sprouting from the barren landscape of my right upper arm (deltoid for you anatomy freaks)that always looked a bit lost. Now, 17 years later, the exposure to quality tattage confirmed a long held belief that I needed to cover it up, but to keep true to my original idea the cover up was going to be in the shape of another tree, a bigger tree, a much bigger tree.

A tattoo is not something to be stingy about. When your purchase is for life, think quality not value. With this in mind I chose the most expensive looking tattoo studio I could find and pressed the buzzer. 'Invisible' is an apointment only studio but there was a slot free that night and in no time I was back, vague design in mind $500 in my pocket.

Kiku my tattoo artist was a heavily tattooed (no surprise there) Japanese hipster of indeterminate age and an interest in Zombie movies. He too had an idea for a design and proceded to sketch it out on my arm. Here's the first factoid about fancy tattoo artists you no-body-art-weirdos should know, they care more about their art than your preferences. Kiku listened politely to my ideas about what should be INDELIBLY PUNCTURED INTO MY FLESH, then dismissed them. Only through a force of will rarely witnessed outside of a Shoalin temple did I manage to get him to agree to my broad design ideas. Finally we were ready to start, needle poised Kiku asked "shall we do this?", "Let's f**k this puppy" I replied, he didn't laugh.

Being tattooed has a well deserved reputation as being painful. Its not a huge pain, more a winching stingy sensation ranking somewhere between stubbing a toe and a light scalding on the ouchometer, or more acurately like being pricked thousands of times by a tiny needle for hours on end. The good news is you kinda get used to it.

It took three visits for my (our) tree to be completed, in total five and a half hours and nearly $1000. An aside - I was recently in a beer garden with my much younger half-brothers and sisters. Theo who is 15 asked my sister's friend to show him the tattoo on his right arm 'Oh, that's shit!' my brother announced. 'Theo,' I said, 'you can't tell someone their tattoo is shit, it's not like he can return it now can he?'. Putting aside the fact that Theo was right, I stand by my point so those of you who feel my new bit of me is rubbish - keep it to yourself okay? On the other hand if you think its the bees bollocks don't be shy let me know!. Am I happy with it? Well, I better get used it.