Eco-logy. Homer or Plato already used these two words, eco: oikos which means home and logos which means science though possibly they never ever put them together in those times: trash was not a concern, though yes they were extremely hygienic, and in a way…delicate. But these two Greek words were possibly put down together for the first time in 1866 by a German biologist called Ernst Haeckel, who (according to books and google) was a great inventor of words (just as I am!).

What our friend Ernst said is that ecology is the science that studies our home, yes, but not our four walls and window, he “macro-viewed” his home and thought about our oldest mansion, the biggest one, our planet, our environment, our common home.

I am positively a fan of ecology and recycling, and hate all Argentine beaches filled with plastic bottles, bags, cans and all post modern packaging and textures degrading in the sun, possibly over more years than my life will have.

We are, as citizens of Buenos Aires, are completely used to the view of a silver river, and to the absolute non-possibility of bathing in it or betting a friend that we could swim to the other shore of Uruguay. We are very used to fantasising that the Río de la Plata is the widest river in the world, and we are so used to the fact that it is 100% polluted…God! In a way it is like having the biggest penis on earth and being unable to not only use it, but even touch it… and we still talk about size!

So what can I say about this beautiful country and all its geographic diversity regarding ecology? We can say we are still surviving maybe because the biggest amount of people live in the cities, which are 100% polluted, and where no government ever made clear rules or advertising to educate the masses regarding pollution. I am of course not even counting the factories, the mines, supermarkets, etc. Geography did an amazing job, but we are in our way to changing it.

We are an amazing nation, our people are mostly adorable, but if there is one thing that we are not it is eco-friendly. And here I think I am not only talking about Argentina, but of most of Latin America – we are not clean people, we have no conscience about pollution, our buses pollute, our cigarettes pollute, our glossy brochures that come with the paper ticket that we pay to enter a national park pollute, our picnics pollute, our family days by the beach pollute, our dogs pollute our streets, we use plastic bags like underwear, we are addicts to plastic, and victims of throwing it out of the window, on to the beach, in the mountains, by the river, in the streets, in the desert or at the falls.

So… if you expect me to recommend all the hypocrite hotels who have their organic groves while they throw their trash in the highway or that have golden details that come from a magnesium-using, ultra-cancerous mine in Catamarca, I may just say I am not buying those eco-stories.

The first time I was taught that I couldn’t throw a can through my car window was when I was 18 years old. 

Well, that is only Argentina, if I have to talk about the world, I think there is a double speech in all this eco-message, an eco-hotel recommending the closest airport sounds hypocrite for me, those hotels live from non-ecological suppliers and clients and indirectly we are all victims of – but most of all accessories to – pollution. WE ARE GUILTY!

So, here I am, with my computer (non-ecological and next to be a technological trash) plugged to the wall to use electricity, and honestly the list of my non-ecological lifestyle is very long, just like yours.

Do you want to know what is ecological for me? I mean real ecology? No clothes, no medicine, no markets, no ice, no matches, no lighters, no energy, no fuel, no cars, no jets, no passports, no buttons, no spas, no credit cards, no Coca Cola, no cocaine, no i-pods, etc, etc. Therefore, let’s not be hippies in the 21st century, we screwed it, there is no way back, so let’s fight against apocalypses, but please do not fall into the weakest arms of saviours of nothing: you may not wear a coat made of animal skin (which is something really ecological if you hunted it yourself and ate it and then made your coat) but you may own a car that keeps throwing dirty fumes into the air … So don’t be hypocrite, being eco-friendly is good, being an eco-extremist is insane.

Go to the desert, find a cave, light a fire (with stones), hunt a snake, eat it and make a wallet for your return, that is the only eco-tourism I may recommend.

When in life you focus too much on one single goal, and after all you are able to score it is inevitable you will be a victim of a post-goal crisis or depression. This is what happens to many souls in this world when vacations or a trip come to an end; to all the romantic souls like mine, and to many other pragmatic brains, who wear souls without noticing them.

I’m a victim, I would like to run like a fugitive, but guess what? I am back, my vacations came to an end, in a blink of an eye I almost saw the light, but here again I am knocking the doors of reality and they are slightly opening, making an old noise like the doors of count Dracula in his castle, and I am his slave, and am ready to offer my warm blood so he can softly suck it and consume it gently for 11 months more until he opens the cages so we can fly to the arms of our beloved freedom, arms which we will truly never embrace unless we finally break the rules and get our comfort standards below advertising patterns, and learn how to grow lettuce in our courtyard and not demand a Play Station for Christmas.

Well, this is an ultra pessimist version of the end of vacations, but in a way I feel I am always writing this column to redress those who are commencing their first wild trip to South America, or some others who are in the middle of something, but I never thought before that this column might be read by guys who are leaving for home or to work in the next 24 hours.

I am obviously not willing this new reader to pull a trigger in the direction of their brain, despite my first two paragraphs sounding like a great invitation to do this.

A trip or vacation always helps, for instance I left Buenos Aires ten days ago and was “YouTubing” all kind of rare John Lennon interviews, I came back today and while our pasta was boiling I googled some satellite images from Mercury (the planet, not Freddy) so in a way I realise my mind is still under the cosy effects that is nature’s gift to seeking souls…unfortunately during vacations.

If the bullet is still in that gun do not pull it!

I spent ten sensational days in the only lasting bastion of my aristocratic family, a farm in the province of Buenos Aires, 550km from the big city, ten minutes from the ocean, 200 metres to a river. Me, wife, my two baby twins of six months each and my brother and wife and baby daughter and nine-year-old son who took two friends for those days and dogs.

Vacation obliges a link with family once you have children, and if you choose a destiny where you have immense roots, as I did, it ends not only like a trip for vacation but also a trip to the past, to the heart of your short existence.

The three kids of the age of Billy Elliot offered the group a highly massed bit of fresh air, the three little babies of the age six moons invited many tender breaks (and some midnight break incidents, but, this time not so tender) the dogs offer as usual some casual chats when we need no answers and adults are great for cards and gambling.

I am in a way recommending these family trips, we had a fantastic night camp (only the men) me, my brother and the three children under millions of stars by the ocean, I had a rabbit situation in a narrow path who on its desperation to escape from its predators (dogs), with no way out and in inverse direction to hunters and about to be hunted found me, jumped literally to my chest but while he was in the air on my way, he looked into my eye and in an instant implored compassion, I read that look and moved so he could escape and only touch my left shoulder, we had a crazy sandstorm with zero visibility inside a car whilst I ran out of it to save my car outside from becoming a dune, and of course all the other pleasant things that a home far from city home may offer.

Yes, the return may sound and even feel heavy, but not in vain we are human, and in a way we cannot live in paradise for eternity, and not in vain again Adam ate the apple from the tree and denied an everlasting pure existence. We were made for instants, for breaks, for vacations, and weekends and after offices, otherwise from what would all psychologists – especially in Argentina – leave?

Welcome to reality, plan your vacation, and make love as much as you can, the intangible world is a ticket to ride, or to Mercury.

If any of you is a polo player or a big polo fan avoid reading this article though it may have its “pearls”. If any of you…others…who don’t know that much about this sport, and are listening about how great it is and that you shouldn’t miss the finals of the Palermo Open on Saturday 6th December, here goes a simple guide about the sport, its atmosphere and how and why is this sport of kings is so huge in land of “barbarians”.

A polo match is divided into eight terms of seven minutes each, if the ball stops the clock stops, so for 7 x 8 minutes you will see pure equine adrenaline. Two teams of four players each, all f***ing brilliant Argentine polo players. For this sport there is a handicap from 0 to 10, zero is for beginners, 10 for a small bunch of selected players. In history 97% of top players were and are 100% Argentine beef.

There is a big field so that horses can run at high speed and a goal at each end. The speed written as a passive word in last sentence is possibly one of the highlights of any polo game, but in Argentine Palermo Open, by far the most important tournament in the world and the trophy which every single polo player on earth dreams, the speed is extreme, there is no way you can imagine such a brusque and aesthetic spectacle.

Why Argentina? The reasons are not that evident, the English learnt it in Pakistan or India and brought it to Argentina possibly by the end of 19th century. In my opinion as horses were so important in Argentina, because of Indians and gauchos, and the pampas such a good “home” for this loyal quadruple, as soon as all equine wars and civil wars came to an end, the simple fact of being able to play a game, which after all seemed simple for expert riders, was sufficiently cool to practise it regularly, and most of all not that expensive.

More history (absolutely deduced, absolutely not studied). A couple of English families, began raising polo ponies in Argentina and they began playing this English sport in English clubs such as the Hurlingham Club in Buenos Aires, etc. Little by little these English sons born in Argentina started to play tournaments and some curious and wealthy Argentine aristocratic families offered to their young sons the chance to have horses and as always enjoying European customs as in architecture, they loved the fact of being able to have polo playing in their estancias and private clubs.

But what happened? Polo became so good that was played very frequently, breeders made of the polo pony an industry that became in our days the Argentine polo horse, Argentine polo players used their skills on the horse and the benefits of the land in their advantage and quickly were known as the best polo players in the world.

The sport had been played amateur until two decades ago, when for the first time in history (as far as I know) a polo shirt had the logo of a brand, and became the Marlboro polo team formed by the Heguy brothers. Speaking of families, another typical polo thing is that most of the teams were and are formed by brothers, often this teams are the most difficult to beat as it is impossible to have a team that has trained for as long, though their integrants are on average 20 years old, they had been practising for 15 years.

To conclude, and to recommend, this next Saturday 6th, as I said will take place the final in the polo field of Palermo, which is the icing on the cake of Polo itself. The invitation may be extended, as this weekend the semi-finals will take place to decide who will be playing the last game the other week.

What you are able to see, is something you will never see in any other country of the world, I know we Argentines love to say we are the best in many subjects, but I must admit, and I am not friend of exaggerations, that polo in Argentina is the best in the whole world. The invitation is made, do not miss it, Palermo after all its not only a neighbourhood of restaurants.

When a man has no good stories to write about, a good idea from that same man could be to write about the story of another man written by some other men. In this case I will write about a fantastic real story that took place at the end of XIX century in Argentina, one of those stories that sounds like a legend but is absolutely true and fascinating.

Please don’t let this boring preface stop you from reading this today’s column – the story is worth it!

This is a real story that includes a sailor, a naturalist and an indigenous man, the names: Fitz Roy, Darwin and Orurdelicone alias ‘Jemmy Button’.

Captain Fitz Roy came to Argentina with the mission of making the whole cartography of the Atlantic coast, the Beagle Channel and the coast of the Pacific up to Chile. The name of the boat was Beagle, and English boat that discovered this path to the Pacific from the Atlantic a couple of years before.

Around 1831 when the expedition was about to conclude, a rescue boat from the Beagle was stolen by the Yamanas, local indigenous people from Tierra del Fuego (land named like this because of the permanent fires the tribes made to combat the freezing temperatures). Fitz Roy kidnapped four natives in order to exchange them for the boat. As the indigenous never brought the boat back, the captain had the ‘idea’ of taking these natives to England, giving them an education and culture, and transforming their wild life to a 5 o’clock Victorian tea culture in London. The story also involves Fitz Roy giving Orurdelicone to his father for a button made of nacre on his jacket, hence Orurdelicone’s name changing for the ‘civilised’ name of Jemmy Button.

A couple of months later, Jemmy and the other three natives landed in Europe and went on an internship to learn manners, use European clothes, eat with knives and forks, etc. One of the four died quite soon of a civilised disease (viruela), the older one, nicknamed York Minster was quite wild and was excluded to the reformation plan literally because: “The size of his head and shapes revealed a disgusting specimen of uncivilised human nature.”

Therefore after five months of training Jemmy and ‘Fueguia Basket’ (the other indigenous who was only nine years old whose real name was Yokcushlu) were introduced to the King and Queen of England, and after an audience of 20 minutes they were sent to the internship again.

The reasons are not clear, at least for me, but less than a year after they arrived in Europe, Fitz Roy managed himself to find another mission in South America to draw a complete map of the continent. Fitz Roy’s goal was to return these indigenous to their land, I guess this old sailor had a brutal charge of conscience at this point, even more with the under lying versions of York Minster raping Fueguia Basket at the reformatory. He included an ‘amenity’ to his expedition, the inclusion of a young naturalist of good education who to this old captain at the end, was to be able to share conversations with a cult man during the next five years in the Beagle, at this point, all this reminds me of Jack Sparrow and his Black Pearl.

A year later Jemmy and Fueguia were dropped off on their land and Fitz Roy and Darwin proceeded to continue their trip to the harbour of the origin of the species and some exclusive cartography for her majesty. On their way back they sleep on board by the shores of Jemmy’s land, who rowed until the old navy to salute the cap and crew. Jemmy was again a nude indigenous with his old hair and manners of course.

Once in England Darwin wrote the revolutionary book whilst Fitz Roy was completely eclipsed by his image, though he was destined to a role in New Zealand and was the first man on earth to write about the daily weather in newspapers, he cut his throat one morning after greeting his whole family.

The last episode that history is about Jemmy Button, and is a confusing story in a massacre in which indigenous killed (some versions include anthropophagi) some religious missionaires paradoxically from a religious order created by Captain Fitz Roy.

The story gives feet to various debates and in my opinion is fascinating and I hope you enjoyed it too, at least I am glad that the next time you go restauranting in Palermo Hollywood in Darwin street or Fitz Roy street, you will recall this tale, and possibly as I do, thinking why isn’t there or somewhere a street called Orurdelicone or Jemmy Button or another one in the tender memory of little Fueguia Basket.

I’m a seiner, a sun of a Spanish Marquis and an Argentine aristocratic mother, a father of two super fresh beautiful little girls, a miscellaneous husband of a beautiful wife (in/outside), a frustrated but talented musician, a photographer and a painter, a vagabond, a tailor made travel agent, I play soccer every Saturday, I’m an agnostic, a degenerated mind in a peaceful body with harmless behaviour, I spent 19 summers on a beautiful farm, I rocked at least 2001 nights of my life, I wear suits, I’m a survivor; therefore, if what you expect to read in this and future past columns is just a column of a travel recommender, I may recommend you buy a Conde Nast Traveller mag in avenida Alvear in front of the homonymous hotel, which by the way is by far the most iconic hotel in Argentina, now in hands of beautiful Ms Cecilia Nigro.

Today’s column at this point will be about hotels in Argentina, if by any reason the topic of this column decants into Patagonian pancakes or something else, you may understand reasons in the first and, by the way, long paragraph.

The first hotel I ever slept was in Azul, a city 300km from Buenos Aires, in the mid 70s (…I was a child), in those days, Argentina was a thousand light years from globalised standards, the music was in every single room and ambient, and was played by an organ orchestra, songs like Yesterday by The Beatles and other classics in a very lousy performance. All colours were greys and browns and the starters and desserts were presented in a wheeled silver table, ashtrays all over the place and smoke and smokers too.

The menu of hotels now, in this hip Argentina is huge. The old fashioned still remains, especially in the interior, the youth hostels, the boutique, the fake boutique, the pretentious boutique, the lodge, the Hosterías, the posadas, the estancias, and the 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 star hotels.

Me, as a specialist in Argentine tourism, hadn’t yet been in all of them, but I will mention at least the ones I know, mentioning the ones that appear in my memory during this monotonous and autocratic writing, letter by letter, click to click. Noticing that my space in this column today it’s vanishing I will mention this list in alphabetic order.

Alvear was already mentioned so I choose, the ACAs (Automovil club Argentino), a low budget franchise of hotels all over Argentina, they work and have perfect location, they smell too, but they work, specially in Puerto Piramides where the whales, Bobo in Palermo, Casa Sur, a new development in smart Callao Avenue, Cavas Wine Lodge in Mendoza Correntoso in Villa La Angostura, Colomé in Salta, Design Suites, a pioneer in boutique and minimalistic deco, Esplendor in Calafate, Estancia El Puesto, Four Seasons Carmelo and Buenos Aires, planet Faena and its own universe, Geko in Chapadmalal near Mar del Plata the perfect place for a weekend escape by the ocean, Home in Palermo, House of Jasmines, Hyatt El Colibri, can’t recall I, Los Juncos in Bariloche, K??, La Alondra in Corrientes city (an oasis on your way to tens of paradises), La Paz, La Candelaria del Monte 120km from Buenos Aires, Las Balsas, Llao Llao, Manantial del Silencio in Jujuy, the N and the O blinded me, Patagonia Rebelde Calafate, Posada Paradiso in Punta del Este, Puerto Valle in about-to-be-discovered Corrientes destiny, Pica Zuro in Córdoba shooters paradigm, Quenti in Salta, R?, Solar de La Plaza in Salta City, Tailor Made Hotels in Cañitas neighbourhood, U?, Villa Julia in Tigre and Villa María 50 minutes from Bs As, WXYZ.

The first truth is, my memory sucks and I will have some new troubles with hotel managers, when they don’t find their on the list, the second truth is that they will survive without me including them on this list or they will give a sh.. , the third truth is that marketing guys and branders, can make a better job using the unfilled consonants and vowels and stop with the El something and La other things and Cs everywhere. Fourth truth is, I am going to bed, safe, tired, and assuming that if I don’t make a trip soon and write about it, my time in this paper may end.

Why don’t you travel around, and write to me, and inspire this new dad, who by the moment is at the side of the road? Good night, sleep tight!

Spring, the ring or cycle keeps on moving, the lapse for the newest Spring has become, and all the things to be done will become…done.

I am not certain if in the other countries of the world Spring is related or catalogued as the season of love. Poor Spring, bringing the burden of love as if in this season of the year there wouldn’t be wars, splits, murder or lust. Lust for Spring.

I am though pretty friendly to flowering girls, bombing them as in the last attack to achieve or reinvindicate their love. In Argentina the day that pulls the trigger for the beginning of the Spring (in pragmatic words and rigid numbers 21st September) is also called ‘the day of the student’, a day when students from all over the city invade the lakes of Palermo, our ‘central park’. The acne romancing day is a tradition that already is at least four decades old, and it used to be a very naïve reinvindication of the Spring spirit, though nowadays it’s something more similar to a rave or a rock and roll festival, and boys and girls are by the evening pretty stoned and drunk… Lust for Spring.

Leaving this first part of today’s flowered column, I want to put in words a small tribute to Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges for this second blind part of the story.

I am not certain of Borges’s fame around the globe, though I know his words were translated in all big languages… I wonder if you, foreign visitor to this wonderland know his writings or even heard his name before. As a mini preface, Borges, was a freak from his birth, he read since he was a child whichever book he could touch, he then worked in libraries and had more knowledge of human history and literature possibly than any other single person in the world. He read in Spanish, English, Latin, Italian, and even studied and learned German one summer in order to read Goethe and many others in their mother tongue. A man obsessed with labyrinths and mirrors, who could recall any of his written poems and many of writing verses from other writers, lost the sense of sight little by little until he became completely blind and lived blind half of his life, without this being any obstacle in his relation with inks and papers.

It is very recommendable for any of you to read his books, many are filled of short stories and narrates the idiosyncrasy of Argentine culture, mainly of the 19th century and beginning of the 20th, mixing all their content with other tales of history or mythology or regular days in regular life. A star, a leaving library, a myth. ‘El Aleph’, a book of short stories could be a perfect beginning.

I think that when you travel around, an excellent companion and method to get to know the place is reading the literature of the place you are visiting, apart obviously from meeting local people, visiting the geographic icons, or listening to their music. If you go to Guatemala or the south of Mexico while you read the Popol Vuh you will understand more about their culture than if you take an Agatha Christie pocket book in your bag.

When I travelled to Spain, and the train was advancing through open land, I couldn’t stop imagining Don Quixote, or the Moors or even the Romans in those hills, there is something very attractive when this images appear, when this communion with the past involves the weird present in a bullet train wearing Nike.

With Borges, I will assure you, that the next time you go to the pampas or the countryside in Entre Ríos or even Uruguay, when you see a forgotten tiny mount with an old house in the middle of the flat windy land, you will recall the erratic ‘Martin Fierro’ or you will see a stranger in the gas station and in a way, when you look into his eyes, you will be able to see his life and his fathers and so, you won’t become a witch if you are a lady or you won’t become a wizard if you are a man, but, the sense of travelling and experiencing will be deeper and somehow more comfortable and mature.

Well, that’s all for today, read books from Argentine writers, they are really worth it, and send a flower to your lady, wherever she is from, and wherever she is. Lust for Spring.

Possibilities to travel around the country are many, but it’s possible that a recommender recommending could be helpful when you decide to travel somewhere of the many possibilities around the country… redundant recommender recommending redundantly.

I will begin, as always, from the bottom to the top, and will skip some non-touristy spots in order to make you choose easier and this article shorter.

To Ushuaia, in the province called Tierra del Fuego (land of fire), which could also had been called Land of Ice, and unless you have in mind a long road trip along the Ruta 3 beside the Atlantic (very recommendable by the way), the best way to get there will be by aeroplane. Renting a car in Ushuaia? Though I am fun #1 of road tripping, I must say down there is really not necessary, Taxis or cool tour operators like ‘Cana Fun’ may make your trip a hit and without driving, even more, when half of the things to do are in the channel, and the other half in national parks, even a small part, can be done on an ancient steam train.

The pirate-tour-operator-land of El Calafate, which I must admit is not land of my devotion (because of them), is only reachable by aeroplane too, from Buenos Aires, from Ushuaia, from Trelew (where the whales are) or from Bariloche. Renting a car there might be a good idea if you plan to also go to El Chalten, otherwise, if your goal is to watch the glazed metropolis you may pay an absurd cipher to a taxi driver, or pay for a transfer to the three (amazing) activities in the menu

If the idea is to go to Peninsula Valdes or Puerto Madryn, a car is certainly a great idea, distances are huge, and though there are some cool South American buses from Madryn to Piramides, the option of driving there is worthwhile. You may get there by plane to Trelew or by land in a not so fantastic, but cool, drive.

Lake district, from Esquel to Junín or San Martín de los Andes, you must rent a car, and pay the expensive drop off (when you return a rented car to another place from where you actually get it), the scenario is sublime and the roads are fun. In all Patagonia, non-paved roads are very not fond of speed, go slowly; otherwise you may have to pay more than a simple drop off, or even your embassy will have to take your body home.

I am trying not to sound like a Time Out page or a Michelin guide, that’s why I may offer some black humour as the situation of making you imagine your dead body waiting for a bureaucratic visa to get back home… forever. You may cross the country (the pampas and the desert to reach San Martín de los Andes to Bariloche, or you might just fly to these cities or Esquel. Say yes to a road trip in the lake city.

Mendoza is also friend of cars; otherwise you may get cars with drivers, which after visiting three to five wineries a day may really be a good idea too. The road trip maybe from Mendoza to San Rafael, a little bit southern, all land of grapes and mountains; the flight from Buenos Aires maybe to and from any of these two cities.

Buenos Aires province, and its gaucho traditions definitely must be done by car, if you are from the US, Australia or Canada, you may know what a green flat land means, but if you come from Europe, or the other two continents Asia and Africa, you will be surprised by this pampa.

My beloved Puna, must be done by car, listening to local radios and when frequencies are gone, some Ennio Morricone, or movie themes may work properly…when I personally did that trip in my car, I just had a cassette stereo, and had no tapes, therefore I had to buy some in the gas stations, and the tapes I could find to buy were The Carpenters and the Ramones, apart from some Argentine ‘classics’…eclectic recommender.

Iguazú, is safe without a car, Jujuy, Salta and Tucumán are meaningless without a car, as well as all the other provinces and spots I hadn’t mention, like Santa Fe, Chaco, Formosa, Entre Ríos, Corrientes and its Esteros…

I can’t believe this is my third consecutive column without philosophy or political contents, maybe I am getting older and boring, or possibly my soul is sailing in clear calm and sweet waters after some decades of boiling blood and some smelling daisies.

Leaving the metaphysical phase of my writing behind, I will again intend to write recommending and describing Argentina’s touristic treasures, trying not to mention anything about contemporary politics and focusing, in geography, history and infrastructure.

Today’s column will be about Argentine sports possibilities, which as far as I am writing I understand I have material to fill the whole newspaper.

I shall begin with water sports and will include of course the frozen water…snow.

First thing to understand a sport could be its nature, and mainly that each sport comes from human methods for survival. A man saw a fish under the water and imagined that fish in his mouth and stomach, and invented several methods which are now called different specialties.

My favourite by far is fly-fishing and, here in Argentina, mainly in Patagonia, we fish the trout. The further south you may get, the bigger they will be. In case you are in the mood for the best fly-fishing in Argentina get in contact with www.nervouswaters.com, no doubt the best lodges and fishing.

The same company has a lodge called Pirá, immersed in the Esteros del Ibera in Corrientes province, were they practically discovered fly-fishing.

Other thing is fishing from the Atlantic coast, and this is definitely cheaper. All along the coast you have good fishing, Mar del Plata, Balneario Oriente, San Blas – where you can also fish shark in December from the coast if you are good and good lucking or in a boat.

Wake boarding, kite surfing and water skiing are available 30 minutes from the city in El Tigre, and you may be wondering what a wakeboard has to do with methods for survival… well I can say that procreation is by far the first adult human instinct to appear, and for sure wake boarding is pretty attractive for opposite sexes, and will perhaps incite to procreation.

In Puerto Madryn you can do scuba, and Patagonian lakes and our river in front of the city and ocean are great hosts for all kind of boats, yachts, and embarkations.

Waves and surfing are good in Mar del Plata and Necochea mainly, otherwise in the Uruguayan coast they get better. For wind surfing the options are many, by the coast and also in some lakes in Mendoza and San Luis, and other central provinces, in which the winds are perfect, and I mean perfect for this sport.

To twist by the pool, there’s opportunity in any hotel or ‘club de barrio’, and obviously all other natural aquatic environments.

Rafting is good in Mendoza and Misiones near the falls.

In terms of frozen water, called snow, for boards and skis the chances are many from Mendoza to Ushuaia all along the Andes.

Air sports, or shall I say activities that involve humans making weird activities in the sky. Paragliding, wherever mountains and heights unite in a combo are good. San Luis, Mendoza, San Martín de los Andes, even Tandil or Balcarce in Buenos Aires are perfect for this sport. There are few gliders clubs in Buenos Aires, like in Gonzales Chaves 450km from the capital city. In Bariloche during the summer, some of the world records for duration of flight take place, and – as a specialised pilot once told me – the sweat and body effort is as much as running a marathon. Parachuting is also available in Lobos, 120km from the city, I can recall my first jump into the abyss and I can say the free falling (that only lasts something like 30 seconds) were the best 30 seconds of my life: speed, face deformation and the whole plate seen from the sky, made that experience superior even to non-standard sex situations.

I think my column should get bigger if I want to continue, but the editor’s voice, imaginary whispers in my ear ‘shrink the column Alfonso’.

In order to fit in my space I will just make a list of other possible sports, car racing, motorcross, polo, trekking anywhere or in Chalten, horse riding wherever there is a horse, duck hunting, deer hunting, dove hunting, stop hunting, cycling, and of course rugby=Pumas, Tennis=Nalbandian or Vilas, football=Maradona, basketball=Ginobili, golf in Buenos Aires, Patagonia and Córdoba, etc etc.

Sports and travel, double fantasy…double fantasy.

The leaves are gone, chocolates become each day a better friend, children in the streets enjoying their two-week holiday from school, ready to cause trouble as soon as they feel they are not being watched, tasting freedom, and pushing limits.

Cinemas, ski resorts and the dramatic Atlantic Ocean scenes are part of the serial routine escapes for citizens to barbarian experiences, to recover strength and avoid responsibilities for a little while.

After a Pacific war, the country is slowly floating on a river, in calm waters, slightly advancing without propulsion, advancing without advance, causing the tiniest ripples in the surface, in the moment of tranquility before the storm, without wind or noise, at the gates of something which nobody knows what it may become.

Waiting for the snow, the ski resorts are wishing to receive you, and all the ski/board addicts. I was never a ski fan myself, but always frequented resorts. Argentine possibilities to practise this sport are many, and each has its own personality, and pros and cons, and none are perfect but all special, as everything in this calm flowing country by the river.

Ushuaia, a three-hour flight, takes you to this super southern spot in the world, were everything is the southern most everything, southernmost city, southernmost ski resort, southernmost hotel, hospital or casino. The good thing is where you are, cause you feel like…the southernmost weird feeling you’ll ever experience, though the resort isn’t that big, the lifts are modern, the people are nice, the options for hotels are enormous and there are some other things to enjoy beyond skiing. On the down side, the daylight doesn’t last long, it becomes something like the southernmost short ski day you’ll ever have. Anyway, it’s worth it.

Bariloche is, for the rest of the country, the capital for snow sports and end of school trips, wherever you go, you will be surrounded by noisy teenagers, ready to lose control, while a teacher or two try to control them. You have the city by the beautiful lake, then 30 minutes distant, is the ski resort ‘Cerro Catedral’ and its cute small town at the feet of the mountain. The runs are long and the off-piste possibilities are many. The closest feeling to a beach environment during the summer goes on during the day at the mountain, only with less skin and much more clothes. The tip here would be not to stay in the city of Bariloche, but stay at the ‘Cerro’, renting a house, or a bungalow, lighting a fire, drinking wine and eating pasta, and make some neighbouring friendships, which in some cases will succeed in romance.

The third choice is Las Leñas, in the wine-known province of Mendoza. In terms of ski, the real surfers prefer this spot beyond the others. In terms of the extra-life beyond ski, the place does not help that much. If you see a picture of the whole resort, maybe you agree with me, that it looks as a big penitentiary, something like an Alcatraz district in Siberia. Though people love it, I find it a little bit claustrophobic. But wait, the ski/board rocks, it really does. Airplanes only fly on Saturdays and are chartered, so you have to contact a ‘trouble agent’ like me to find place, it’s pure voucher-mania. You can also go by bus or car if you have some time, there is also a chance to go for a three-day ski weekend.

Chapelco in San Martin de los Andes would be the fourth and last resort in this recommending article that I will mention. The city is very nice and the resort as well, it has a huge problem with frequency of flights too, and the Saturday to Saturday chartered ski week rules here too. Many extra ski options, the place is alike a US version of a resort in northern Argentine Patagonia.

We do have some other resorts, but they are not as complete as the ones I’ve mentioned. I’ve never been to La Hoya (nothing to do with Oscar de) in Esquel, pretty familiar and small and cheap, but none of my skier friends ever recommended it as a hot spot. The other option is the now known as a ‘boutique’ resort Cerro Bayo in the Switzerland Andes at the other shore of the Nahuel Huapi. Beautiful but small and low, has more trouble getting snow on the runs.

Report has come to an end, and writer is going to bed so drastically I say goodbye till the next time that we say goodbye. 

Winter, fire, old music, old from the 1930s, from the first modern economic crisis year, humid wood ready to become ashes, violins and a clarinet, a Latin voice, male, singing songs of love, in tones of lust, of regret.

Outside the rain, smooth, tiny dashy drops very close to one another land in peace over the watery grass, pulling the green out of the yellow.

The music from the cassette starts to sound again, side B, and I can feel the presence of the resting souls around me, dancing to their music, which they lend to me to find inspiration while I write this column in this, their borrowed house. Houses with history, houses of the holy.

Second cigarette during this report, first glass of wine, Patagonian wine, from Río Negro, the land of Bariloche, of the red apples, the black river, that comes from the white mountains on a one way path to the blue ocean while the green grows around me.

I believe in a better way.

The country is trespassing an unexplainable turbulence, created by a minister who has been fired, and developed by the blind and drastic rage of the husband of the president who swims against of the will of her people in order to not have arguments in her matrimonial bed. It is sad, and dangerous. And I, having the responsibility of talking (writing) of the wonders of this country, at this point I can’t act as if nothing was happening.

It’s sad how a president tends to divide a country that is united, selling lies, just to achieve what she is not certain that its better, but just to show that ‘she’ has a bigger dick than the others.

I am now in the land of the ‘rebels’, of the real people, the farmers, the ones of the solid hands and the simple heart, and you know what, I trust these people, and I don’t trust botox and two outfits a day covering a body with a colagenated mouth which speaks of taking money from the rich to give it to the poor. Robin Hood, Jesus Christ did that, but they lived not only like the poor, but with the poor. I cry for you Argentina, and I am scared.

All this talk of getting old, its driving me down, and all this talk of the dark side of the Congress, whose only concern is power and gold, just makes me feel worse.

I recommend you to read the Martin Fierro, or Don Segundo Sombra, to understand the roots of my country and farming people and their idiosyncrasies, one is the story of an erratic gaucho, whose words of wisdom are contaminated by the surrounding disgrace of his fate, the other, an old gaucho, followed by a child, a child awakening to the gaucho lifestyle, taking cattle from one side to another, surrounded by the threads of the climate, the only thing that may be friend or the most inclement enemy. The horse was obviously their only way to move, the ‘criollo’ horse, small, compact, and not brave, naturally rustic, able to cover long distances through the desert. They made this country what it is, surviving with or against the indigenous, living a sometimes miserable life when the climate didn’t help.

These are the roots of the 80% of the people who are now complaining about a miserable law created by a fired minister, complaining against the absolutist ways of a husband of a president, a husband that pays money to the people so they can go to Plaza de Mayo to make up the numbers, and add some inches to his fake erected dick.

I still believe in a better way.

So many people to love in my life, why am I so worried about one without love? Maybe cause this guy will cost the death of some people I would love to love.

In the last two big political acts one person from the audience died in each. Is it worth it? The first died in the Plaza de Mayo when a huge crystal ball from a light felt on his head, he was a humble young guy, beloved by his relatives, who went to Buenos Aires for something like 60 pesos to ‘support’ the erection of an ex-president, husband of a plastic wife who became president after a legal vote.

I wish a leader, a new leader would appear from this popular opposition, I wish this country could grow in peace, I hope we vote better, I hope we won’t forget, I hope marmalade make friends with honey, and guitars with cymbals, and writers with me.