Mercado Bazurto

Dirty smelling sprawling mess.

Pretty much everything you will ever read about the infamous people's market in Cartagena will reference the above description. There will also probably be some kind of mention of the thieves and pickpockets it allegedly harbours. It is all true. But if you discount Mercado Bazurto based only upon what you read, you are missing a place that is also incredibly vibrant; filled with coloured foodstuffs, the energy of frenetic commerce, the inherent warmth of the Costeno people and the widest smiles you will ever see. You'll also be skipping one of my most favourite places in Cartagena.

Yes it is dirty. The street gunge that seeps between your unprotected thonged* toes is a less-than-hygienic combination of mud, decomposing rubbish and fish juices. A misplaced step and your foot will be plunged into a pool of it, splashing the brown gunk in an attractive splattering up the back of your calves.

And my, does it ever sprawl. Unlike other Latin American markets I have been to with their more or less ordered zones (ie separate sections for shoes, meat, electronics etc), the Bazurto's floor plan defies rhyme or reason. Legumes lie next to lingerie. Fresh(ish) fish are displayed alongside fake flowers. There's also plenty to rate highly on the gore factor scale; like grey entrails and eyeballs freshly plucked from unfortunate cows.

Gory photo thanks to R Caplin.

The smell is what locals will complain to you about the most. Look. It's definitely not roses. But somehow I find the almost tangibly thick smell, kind of visceral. Like I am giving my nostrils a workout, in the same way as a bracing swim or arduous hike makes your body feel used and useful. And when you do catch the whiff of something pleasant, like the sweetened tang of freshly squeezed passionfruit pulp, your appreciation is heightened and your taste buds swell instantaneously.

Being tall and blonde, I often describe myself as high-vis here at the best of times. In the Mercado I swear it feels as though I have a neon sign pointing at me that flashes and screams GRINGA while the song Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport is playing and monkeys cycle around me on miniature bicycles. Which is to say, I definitely do not blend in. But I like it. Got distracted buying Bolis (frozen fruit ice-blocks)? No problem! Look slightly lost and 4 or 5 people who have been clocking your every move will be ready to tell you exactly which way your friend went. Hmm.. where can I buy Cilantro? Again, volunteers everywhere to lead you directly to a vendor and to help you bargain a good price. There's the usual hissing, bonitas, “beautiful eyes” etc, in fact the frequency is actually cranked up here, but it's nothing if not good for the ego. And as soon as you require any help or information, the lewdness is quickly replaced by a genuine desire to help out.

I like to arrive early - before the traffic dust has settled on the produce, negating its freshness. Recently I've taken to getting the supplies for a simple ceviche. Fresh Corbina (white fish), cilantro, onions, limes, chilis and tomatoes. The whole lot, including the 2 giant fish (filleted while you wait) will cost less than $7. Sweaty, fatigued, I will then pull up a stool at one of the many outdoor eating spots for a hearty corriente (daily meal). A pile of coconut rice, fish/chicken/pork, fried platano or banana, lentils and salad, with a giant bowl of satisfying soup to start. It also comes with a glass of the revered panela. This is basically a cordial-like drink made from cane sugar. I continually make the mistake of telling them I don't like it. Woah! It's like I have spat all over the Colombian flag, so closely tied is this drink to their national identity. “But it's so delicious!”, they insist. I joke with the owners and share smiles with my fellow diners. I smile at the faded pornographic pin-ups of big busted women, lovingly pasted into place (and completely without irony) above the painted wall sign declaring “Todos gracias a Dios” - Everything thanks to God.

Then it's back on a bus, with their pimped up gilded curtains and travelling buskers, to the slightly less pungent world of Centro Cartagena. You've spent less, got more and got better.

When speaking to locals, they are genuinely amazed that I love the market so much. They talk of it being a dangerous, bad-smelling eyesore.

Sadly the government agrees:- council has recently decided that the Mercado Bazurto must relocate to a new home further out within 3 years time. Apparently the well-to-do consider this sprawling mess something of a blight on the beauty and safety of the walled city and want to keep it far from tourists and business. This is actually the second time the market has been moved. Previously it was right in the centre, near the current home of the convention centre. The rumours abound as to why it was moved at that time. Whether it was the result of some underhanded play by supermarket chain Olimpica or the result of the unhygienic tangle becoming too much to tolerate so close to the city walls is uncertain. Either way, the market has again offended the powers that be and is being pushed further out. How awful?! Cities need markets. And I think Cartagena, more than most, needs the colour and character of Bazurto to stave off the blandness and gentrification that threatens to deaden its personality and charm.

More than likely I will make the trek to the market even after it moves. And until then, I will continue to parade my gunge-splattered calves with pride, knowing I obtained the warpaint getting up close and personal with the real Cartagena.

*Australian glossary: apparently the rest of the world calls this type of footwear, flip flops

Blame it on the rain

Catchup post from May 19, 2012.

Rain.
Sheets, buckets, cats and dogs of rain. Rain submerging our feet, saturating our clothes, and flying from our head-tossed hair. Yup. The unexpected but undisputed star of my going away party was rain. And goddamn it gives good guest.

It wasn't really a going away, so much as a see you later. I was leaving my beloved Cartagena for 7 weeks of wedding (go LARK!), New York, San Diego, Mexico and Central America (more on that in other posts.. hopefully) but I was definitely coming back. Still, many of the friends I had made over my 3 months of living here would be taking off while I was away, so I figured a last-hurrah was more than called for. Plus, as many of you can attest, I really really love parties. 

Given I was not only sharing a room, but a bed too.. I totally did not have a home environment suitable for party. Also, most of my friends, like me, were totally broke, which kindof excluded traditional venues. So I got creative and decided to have a proper Costeno street party. 

The preparations, in themselves, made me fall in love with Getsemani anew. I began by canvassing the permission and advice of my neighbours. 

You will need decorations.
And food.
Definitely balloons.

Really? Picture proper grade 4 party planning. I'd previously attended the birthday party here of a 25 year old male complete with themed soccer cake, candles, balloons and signs.. so I wasn't totally taken by surprise. I acceded to the extend of purchasing some of that festive coloured bunting, but put my foot down at the cans of party foam (they really really love that stuff here).

But raising the coloured paper flag decorations necessitated the procuring of a ladder. I asked someone who led me to someone who led me to the smiling face of my leering neighbour. After 3 months of walking past this man on a daily basis as he eyed me lustily and called me "Precious" and "Queen" we had eventually reached something of a friendship. So now, he was excitedly issuing instructions to his son as we went to his house to get the ladder. He proudly showed me his house. How big it was. Its bathrooms. He proposed marriage. I did my head-shake, eye-roll "youuuuuu" laugh that you need to employ constantly here in order to decline advances without offence. Then I joined his two sons as we carried the enormous ladder through the backstreets of the barrio. 

Next thing I am on the near to highest rung of the ladder, with streams of kids jostling to hold the papered lengths, world-wise women cackling out directions and my leering neighbour holding the base of the ladder for support (and more than likely, looking up my skirt). I took a mental photograph of this crazy scene for future reference and then continued to finish the job. Decorations in place, the beers were passed around, backs were patted and the ladder was returned.

Another neighbour, Nelson, then came and insisted I inspect the sound equipment. Picture speakers that are too big to fit inside a doorway. He proceeded to explain the very important process of song selection: 3 salsa, 3 reggaeton, 1 vallenato, 1 Rhianna. Repeat.

The gossipy, here they say Chismoso, neighbours were already abuzz with news of my party. What time? 10pm. Can we come? Yes! Yes! Everyone is invited! I felt so happy and appreciative of my barrio and the way it just comes together to help and support each other. Even embracing the non-Spanish-speaking gringa. I was on a heart-swell high (yes, this happens to me a lot here) and had my silly big grin on all afternoon.

Ok.. the party itself.  By now I was long use to having an all-covering layer of sweat as my constant daily companion.. but tonight, the humidity was something else. The sweat pooled on my upper lip, backs of knees, arm crevices and small of the back almost instantly upon my exiting the shower.   So as my friends gathered, the rum was passed around and dancing sweat was added to the general environmental sweat.. I started to silently hope the imminent rain would hurry the heck up. We drank. My amazing friend from Brazil, (miss you Vini!) sang the team song for my afl club the Brisbane Lions, which he had learned in my honour. We talked. We reminisced. We made promises to keep in touch. And ofcourse, we danced. Some of the neighbours joined in. Most continued playing their games of cards or ludo. Then, about 20 minutes shy of midnight, the skies opened up and poured down its heat-quenching relief. 

And that's when the fun really started.

There's a reason rain features so prominently in music video clips and cheesy dance movies. All that rain-licked skin, the glistening bodies and the clinging clothes makes for some seriously sexy scenes. Add in copious quantities of hot latino blood, and things were positively sizzling.

The music blared, the street was packed with writhing bodies and the water kept rising. We kicked off our shoes (ahem, thongs) and stomped and splashed theatrically in time with the beat. It kept raining til 3am and we kept dancing. Everyone ecstatic in this shared moment of recklessness and extreme fun. This night definitely is included in one of my best ever.

The party was such a hit, the venue and theme has since been borrowed by other party makers. although when I asked someone after one of them they told me sadly.. "It was pretty good.. except.. it didn't rain". Its fame spread to Panama where I heard it spoken of in hostels with great reverence. And then, on my return 7 weeks later, strangers were calling after me and giving me a thumbs up. Kristy! Despedida! Chevere!

So I guess this story snapshot shows that Cartagena is the type of place where when you throw a party, the whole barrio throws the party with you. It is the type of place where pervy neighbours end up being your greatest ally. And it is the type of place where they make limonada from lemons and really frickin amazing parties from rain.

I HATE MOSQUITOES

Generally speaking I don't tend to or like to use the word hate. There seems to be enough negativity in the world and by the time I have crystalised any thoughts surrounding something that may be irking me, the bad vibes have passed and I'm already skipping after another butterfly.

But I really, really hate mosquitoes.

I've been sitting at a computer doing data entry for the past few days and have had the unfortunate opportunity to observe these prehistoric vampires closely as they continually suck both my blood and my will to keep working. I am staying in a place that is situated close to a river that I haven't learned the name of yet. And my gosh there are a LOT of mosquitoes. And the mosquitoes here in Colombia are a superbreed of mosquitoes. They make Australian mosquitoes look so dumb and unenterprising in comparison. 

For starters, they are silent. 

Many the Australian summer night I spent lying in bed, hot and sticky, listening to the sole mosquito in the room buzz around.. waiting for it to finally pause.. before SMACK! A mix of delight and morbid curiosity on my face as I surveyed its squished corpse to ascertain exactly how much of my blood the expired tyrant had helped itself to. I developed a pretty good strike rate. Sometimes, on the occasions I'd left my window open past dusk, the following morning my pillow would be decorated with brown and red smears after a night of employing the pillow-whacked-into-the-ceiling technique. Did anyone else do this?!

But key to any of my success was the fact that the mosquitoes made noise. You could always tell where they were.The Colombian mosquitoes are like silent assassins. I never know when they will strike. In fact I can barely feel it even while they have their needle tweeter stuck in me. If not for the angry red lump that later forms, it would be the perfect crime.

Then there's the fact that these mosquitoes don't follow any regular flight pattern. Their movements are completely unpredictable. They will be right there in front of me and still they manage to escape my death clap, leaving me looking clumsy and bewildered. 

Finally, and most frighteningly, they remain utterly undeterred by my usually impenetrable armour of Tropical Strength Aerogard. Seriously. I think their evolution is fairly scary. 

OK. Phew. I feel better now that's out. I'm sorry for wasting the time of anyone who bothered to read this post thinking it would eventually move onto something interesting or relevant. Nope. It was all about mosquitoes. And how I hate them.

BUT on the positive side (Ha! I can't help myself) this is seriously the only negative thing I really have to say after 3 + months living in Cartagena. And also, it wasn't really something I noticed while living in Getsemani or Marbella.. so it might just be a location thing.

So, in conclusion. I hate mosquitoes. But I hate them everywhere, not just in Cartagena. And I grudgingly respect the fact that the mosquitoes here are smarter opponents than I am accustomed to and I am probably just being a bad loser.

Ooh look! A butterfly!

Take me out to the balllllgaaaaame.

It started with a seemingly innocent and not unfamiliar question. 

Are you American?

"No.. soy Australiana"...[ Pause for wide-eyed disbelief] "Sii... Muy lejos!" (Very far).

He insisted. But.. do you play baseball? 

Well.. when I was a child I played softball. He agreed it was the same thing and started talking excitedly with the others.

It was Wednesday night. I was in the Plaza Trinidad Getsemani, watching the old-timers labour over their chessboards and occasionally getting flogged royally by whichever of their number decided to take pity on me and give me a go.

But now something else had piqued their interest: my supposed proficiency in baseball. Another hour of heated discussion and it was decided. I would be joining one of the local women's baseball teams. I was ushered off with vague instructions that I would be playing on Sunday at 4pm.

I didn't know where, who with, what or much else. I needn't have worried. The entire neighbourhood knew everything on my behalf. For the next few days as I walked the street, the usual greetings were modified to include a mimed baseball swing and a thumbs up. Then on the appointed day, I was walking home after a meeting at about 3pm and a skinny kid with an enormous smile came running up to me.. talking quickly and grabbing my hand. I needed to come play baseball NOW.

I quickly shoved on what I thought was baseball-appropriate attire and tried to keep pace with my new friend as he weaved in and out of the backstreets. As we ran, I received the excited calls of good luck from my neighbours. The kid led me to the team captain who explained (eventually) that I would also need a photo for the registration card. Woah. This was official. Paperwork completed, I was dragged (literally) by three girls to meet the coach. 

I started to get a bit nervous. I mean, the last time I had held a bat was when I was ten years old. Ten. And now there was a building crowd and a coach and an entire neighbourhood cheering me on. 

The coach took me through some warm ups. Catching. Fielding. Batting. I cost the team 4 balls as I belted them over the buildings. Oops. Coach seemed happy though. As I completed the drills I noticed a couple of the old-timers from the Plaza watching my progress from the side and nodding conspiratorially amongst themselves. 

Then the drills stopped, there was more rapid discussion in indecipherable Costeno Spanish and I was dragged off once again. This time it was to the house of one of my teammates (picture a city shack, 6 people sharing a double bed, clothes strung throughout the ceiling and a lot of happy semi-clad children) to get my uniform which was, appropriately enough, an incredibly bright pink tshirt. Awesome.

I was ready to play.

So the venue. I found a photo that someone else took over a year ago through a google search. This is it. 

But when I arrived in my bright pink tshirt, the wall was filled with supporters. Standing room only filled. And standing is dangerous because a home run is whenever you hit the ball over the wall. Some had signs. Some had noisemakers. The wall you see in the photo is centuries old (like 16th?)  and I think you'll agree it makes a pretty impressive backdrop for a first-time baseball game. Home base is actually on the other side of the road now. And the streets are filled with hotdog and hamburger vendors. The photo also doesn't show the music. I mean it can't. But the music was blaring! Contagious wiggle-your-bum salsa, hip-grinding reggaeton, sing-out-your-soul vallenato. I joined my teammates at the side of the diamond and waited. There was a game still in progress and I witnessed one of the most Colombian scenes ever. Bases loaded, scores locked and still the tubby guy on third base couldn't help himself from dancing when his favourite song came on. Classic.

So the game itself was pretty straightforward. I batted fourth and managed to equip myself fairly ably, hitting the first ball I faced and making it to first base. Our next 2 players struck out, but then curvaceous Catalina hit a cracker and I sprinted for home. Unbeknownst to me I had accumulated something of a fanclub, and as I pounded into homebase, they erupted into a stirring chant of "GRINGA GRINGA GRINGA!!!". My teammates surrounded me, hugged me, high-fived me. It's been a long time since I have felt such a profound sense of accomplishment. 

Then it was three out, change sides. In the field we kept the other team to a single run also but they were noticeably better than us. Next time at bat I repeated my first-ball, first-hit effort and made it to first. But we were three out before I could make it home. The crowd shouted instructions throughout the game. And this crazy crazy fanatic who I think was aligned to our team, was forcibly removed on two occasions for screaming at the umpire.The final score was 3-1 to the other team. And unfortunately my teammates didn't accept the loss graciously. The game ended with them shouting at the umpire something I still don't understand and storming off to gossip amongst themselves and leaving me bewildered and shaking hands with the girls of the other team.

It was crazy, colourful, manic and I loved every minute of it.

So.. putting on my tour guide hat now.. If you are in Cartagena on a Sunday you must must must get yourself along to a ball game. Buy a hotdog con todos (with everything), a beer or kola roman from the local store, plonk yourself down on the wall and soak up a non-touristy but totally delicious chunk of Cartagena flavour. And look out for a tall blonde girl on second base who can't help herself from dancing between batters.

Today was a good day

When you never have a bad day, you start to wonder if you possess the necessary depth and perspective to recognise a really great day. Without the troughs can I truly appreciate the peaks? It's ok. I can. Today was a great day.

It started with a morning run along Manga Bay. The sunlight hit the water in the most delightful fashion, rows of white yachts lined up invitingly, other runners smiled at me with minimal ogling, I ran into (yes, literally) a friend and had one of those fantastic symbiotic exchanges.. you know those moments when you just get each other and what is happening without having to talk about it? I love those moments. As I ran back over the bridge to Getsemani and rounded the corner that led to Plaza Trinidad I had one of those heart-swell moments as the local traders and vendors waved to me.. I even felt affectionate towards my elderly pervert neighbour who greets me leeringly everytime I walk past (a minimum of 5 times a day). I live here! Amongst these bright yellow and blue and green painted buildings. In this neighbourhood where there is a radio permanently plugged in on every street, pumping out music you can't help but smile to. With these street dogs that I have named and assigned backstories to. With the guy selling cold coconuts and the other guy shouting out "Aguacate"! With the carrot juice man in top to toe orange. HAPPY.

Back to my house for breakfast with the birds.. literally dozens of finches, cockatiels and budgies singing and squawking their little chests out while I ate my porridge.. my crazy anorexic dog running around my feet, looking for attention, then darting off timidly when he got it. My 20 year old housemate singing Vallenato. The radio station with the corny announcer screaming sporadically "Tropicana Style Mon Niiiiiiinyoooooo!!" and my housemates giggling as I do a perfect impersonation. SO HAPPY.

I get to work, where I receive confirmation from a friend of my boss, that I am to meet the director of a movie being shot here with the view to me being cast as an extra. This would involve travelling to a gorgeous island for what would essentially be an all-expenses paid holiday. The movie is the sequel to the highest-grossing Colombian movie of all-time. A comedy.. kindof along the lines of National Lampoon's, starring John Leguizamo.  I still don't know if I will do it or not because it cuts things fine re:attending Leah and Mark's wedding (which I am mega-excited about by the way). But still. Pretty darn cool.

So then, my Boss tells me that some american food channel is doing a show on street food and want to interview me. Squeal! So next thing I'm eating fried pig and discussing the joys of hot-oil rendered fat on camera. Yay yay yay! We hang about eating and talking about eating and getting filmed eating. Dream job material, seriously.  At one point, someone in the crowd that had gathered to watch starts singing a little ditty. We were actually eating Arepas con queso.. those mounds of white, cheesy, buttery goodness I'd written about here. So anyway, the song was basically along the lines of "Oh! Arepa with cheese.. I want to give you a little kiss! Mwah mwah!" And because whenever I'm eating I'm happy and because when I'm happy I do a little happy dance and because he was singing.. I start dancing along.. and then some people in the crowd start cheering their support and then two guys in the crowd start shouting at each other and I don't know what they are saying but my boss explains they are kindof fighting over me. And I find the whole thing pretty amusing. But THEN my boss explains to me that in this song: Arepas con queso that he was singing and that I was dancing along to happily, the arepa with cheese they are referring to is ACTUALLY the lady's cha cha.. and THAT'S what he wants to give a kiss to. So the fact that I was wiggling along happily to it and calling out occasional "eso!'s" was kind of hilarious.

Also entertaining.. the fact that the local expert for the Cartagena-leg of the street-food series was local restauranteur Juan. This is the photo that my boss showed me of Juan before I went to meet him. So ofcourse this was what I was picturing whenever Juan asked me a question.

After this mega cool day of pretending I was a star of network food, I went a-calling for clients for the website AND managed to sign up one of my fave fave places here.. appropriately enough, a gelato store. Whee! 


There were other things.. a Michael Jackson dance lesson I publicly provided to my Boss' 5 year old son, a chess-game in the plaza with the grizzled stalwarts of the barrio, an email from one of my best friends, ice cream, yoga, a perfectly ripe avocado.. but I think I've gloated enough and I'm sure I'm inviting some kind of retributory wrath. 


I'll just conclude with one word and know you will understand: YAY!!!

Come out and playa

So the beaches in Cartagena city itself leave a little to be desired by Australian standards. I'm not a total beach snob..  there's sunshine, sand and water plus palm trees so I'm happy. The fact that I can cycle to them in under 10 minutes makes me giddy. But visitors and locals alike (especially spoiled Australians) tend to complain about the pollution, colour of the sand, colour of the water etc.

Luckily there's a pristine beachy reprieve from the clouded cityside waters, at Playa Blanca. Situated on the island of Baru, just 45 minutes by boat from Cartagena, Playa Blanca is the stuff postcards dream of. The white sand alluded to in the beach's name (Playa= Beach; Blanca = White) is soft and squeaky, the water is [insert cliche - they all apply]. The boats will drop you off on a kindof main drag (as far as, relatively, beaches go).. turn left and leave the masses (again, relative) as you round the corner to a quieter stretch. Heavenly!

Armed with my secret weapon, a Colombian boyfriend, we negotiated a tent to sleep in for the night (15,000 pesos). There are also little palm rooved huts and simple hammocks. Bags dumped, we pulled out the first litre bottle of Ron Medellin and began the difficult task of relaxing. Took about 3 seconds. 

The boat ride to Playa Blanca varies in price.. if you catch it from the port in front of the Torre del Reloj (Clock Tower) it will cost 40,000 pesos return (including lunch) or 35,000 pesos return (excluding lunch). BUT if you don't want to return the same day, you will have to negotiate your return trip on top of this price. You can normally get cheaper boats from Manga or from Castillogrande. Or it is possible to take a bus, then a moto and get there for as little as 7,000. But it will take you 2 hours. I should also say that if you front up looking all touristy you will probably spend a lot more than this. OR you can take the big ferry which is a cheaper option (I think 15,000 each way?) but super slow and makes all these stops along the way. Anyway.. when you think that the minimum wage here is about 150,000 a week (this is what I'm getting paid!) 40,000 or $20 is quite expensive. So that's why you (I) don't do it every weekend.  

So I recommend getting the included lunch option for 5,000 pesos.Whole grilled fish, patacones, salad and coconut rice. Conversion is less than $2.50 AUS. This is what it looked like:

We happened to go the same time as my friend and work colleague Jen, and her German squeeze Carsten. If you've seen the photos, you'll know these two are magazine-worthy: bronzed, buffed and better than you. But I was too frickin chilled to allow even their ridiculous hotness to make me feel self-conscious as I let it all hang out. I drank coconut juice then ate the flesh, I swam, I made out with the aforementioned Colombian boyfriend, I slept, I drank rum. People visited us, we chatted. Like with the incredibly nice and cool Arnando who runs a kitesurfing school on the beach. The sun went down. We added rum to our coconuts and snacked on crispy patacones chips. Life was pretty darn good.

Mid-way through the second litre bottle of rum we decided to get dinner. We walked up to Mama Ruth's which is hands-down the best spot to eat. Beautiful steamed-in-the-bag fish, garlic prawns, dream catchers everywhere.. and a gorgeous hippie couple working there that made this amazing jewelery from coral and silver and shells. My spend-no-money resolve loosened by the rum, I maybe bought myself a few reminders.. 


Truthfully, the remainder of the night is fairly blurry but definitely involved dancing on the beach and skinny dipping. Though, ofcourse, I would do both of those things sober. I also insisted on drunkenly making tuna and corn sandwiches for anyone who came within cooee of our little beach shelter. Apparently they were appreciated.


Next morning I literally crawled from my unzippered tent, past the emptied third litre-bottle of rum, to the welcoming warm caribbean waters. Sins absolved, I continued on in the same fashion as the previous day: eat, sleep, read, make-out, sleep, swim. HAPPY. I maybe also did a few cartwheels.


We arranged to board a boat at 2. Things didn't exactly go to plan on this front. Because you are squeezing onboard boats with other people who only came over for the day.. it is better to negotiate as a two-some then as a four-some. That's just for future, visit-playa-blanca reference. Long-story- crazy-beach-filled-with-crazy-locals-short, we eventually made it back. Oh! further tip from those in the know. When selecting your seat on the boat - be sure to hustle your way to the back seat. Way less bumps and bum bruises. 

Anyway.. sorry for the unnecessary detail.. I kindof thought I'd make this post a wee bit educational because Playa Blanca is somewhere people might actually visit. So hence prices, locations etc


So in summary... When I choose to take a holiday from my perpetual holiday, I choose Playa Blanca. White on, man.

World Nomads Travel Scholaship Entry: HELP!

Meat or Soup. Vietnam or Argentina. Please help me decide which one to enter. The topic is :  Understanding a Culture through food.  Apparently they are looking for essays that show:

- great descriptive ability
- strong eye for detail
- ability to uncover and tell a compelling story
- excellent spelling and grammar and a knack for avoiding clichés

Please make your choice and either comment below or on facebook. And email me or fb message me any additional comments, corrections or improvements. GRACIAS!

Option 1: Street Eating

My rear-end tingled with pinned and needled numbness as I crouched on the teeny tiny red plastic stool. Later that week I would be introduced to the man allegedly responsible for the introduction of this ubiquitous seating to Hanoi, but for now, my attention was being monopolised by the steaming bowl of soup before me. I followed my father's lead, plunging the tooth-chewed communal chopsticks into the mystery broth and holding them beneath the surface. 

“The soup's just off the boil so I figure this will kill off any germs,” Dad explained.
The steam delivered the fermented sweet and sour smell of the country's notorious fish sauce to my nostrils where it intermingled with the head-tickling exoticness of anise and coriander. The soup's fragrant contents layered upon the already established street odours, creating a kind of evocative olfactory decoupage.
 

It was time to eat.
 

After a brief moment contemplating the identity of the meat, I commenced with a hearty slurp of broth and sucked down a few slippery white noodles for good measure. Oh yes. It was good.
 

I was 17. It was my first time eating street food in a foreign country. And I was hooked.
 

Since losing my street-eating virginity way back then, upon arriving in any given destination I will immediately head to the streets, gesture convincingly at whatever mysterious concoction excites my curiosity, plonk myself down next to some unsuspecting local and plug into the community in a way not possible on a guided tour.
 

While eating the cheapest, and arguably, the best food available, you are also served a tantalising slice of local reality; pretension-free exchanges and simple but important rituals. It helps that my adventurous approach to food is accompanied by guts of steel and a (touch-wood) never-get-sick confidence. I guess one day my reckless hubris will render me powerless and clutching at a porcelain bowl. But until then, and, in all likelihood, afterwards as well, the call of the street resounds.

Option 2: Pleased to meat you.

“Bravo!” I chorused over the building applause, appreciatively eyeing the meaty towers that crowded the table. The Asador (the evening's appointed barbeque buff) accepted the traditional thanks with a gracious bow before stabbing his fork into a chubby little chorizo and loading up the first plate. Soon afterwards, myself and 15 other carnivores were unleashing our inner caveman on pile of sausage, steak and innards that would stop Fred Flinstone in his tracks.

Welcome to the Argentinian asado. In a country where the eating of meat has been elevated beyond quintessential pastime, to something closely resembling a national sport (I've been told Argies consume 100kg of beef a year per capita), the barbeque is taken very seriously indeed.

I'd been invited to arrive at 9pm. “Oh! But you can't arrive before 9.30pm”, I was cautioned by my Porteña friend, “It would be rude! They won't be ready!” Ahh.. Argentine-time.

Fireside, the coals turned ember-red, while we downed that potent Listerine-like concoction of Fernet and Coke and stuck the boot into political leaders and football players. My inner-Aussie comfortably embraced this familiar ritual as the asador expertly created his collage de carne on the grill, arranging the various cuts according to cooking time and usual eating order. Grilled nibbles to begin; teeth-blackening morcilla (blood sausage), tender sweetbreads, best-you-don't-know-what-they-are chinchulines; all offal-ly good (ba boom ching etc). Then the main event of strip, flank, ribs and belly.

Is there anything that arouses salivary glands more than the smell of flame-licked beef?

The grass-fed, happy-cow goodness of Argentinian beef is so staggeringly flavoursome, my knees feel weak at even its memory. Salt-seasoned (anything else would detract) and cooked in the open air with the tendrils of smoke from the woodchips still teasing your nostrils, I defy you to find better. 

And if you do, please invite me.