The City of God?

Standing in a hostel reception, a pale girl shakes uncontrollaby. She has seen the statue of Christ, and thrown herself infront of speeding cars to be with God. A few hours later in the same building, a teenager will drink one too many vodkas and spray vomit across his sheets.

For this is Rio, where Christ and vice battle beneath a cloudless sky.

Such extremes form the sandy spine of the city, where rows of religious statues cast their watchful eyes over the sex shop next door. Just streets away, an ageing church demands confession from the glowing red motel beside it.

Across town, Paradise exists at Ipanema beach, where the fallen wrap their barely-there bikinis in ´Redeemer´sarongs. For the faithless, Christ has been enveloped in affordable kitsch, glowing green, blue and yellow all the way home.

And so riding the `Redeemer´ bus the morning after, one cannot help but feel that in this city of God and the Godless, there is at least a sunbed for everyone.

Ten Hours in Chuy

Born and bred on an island nation, my concept of border crossing generally involves check in, fly, immigration, go. Even on the mainland, driving through Europe involves nothing more than a stampless wave to the border guards. Try getting from Uruguay to Brazil, however, and you will find yourself exploring the strange anomoly that is Chuy.

Having jumped off the bus on the edge of town, we were unceremoniously stamped out of Uruguay and into no mans land. A brisk walk down shady streets led to the Brazilian bus station, where bored staff wait behind a rusty wire mesh. The dusty timetable is for display purposes only; there is no bus for the next 10 hours. And so we pay in Uruguan pesos for our Brazilian bus, and head back towards the main street.

Here lies the true border, lined with ´Duty Free´ shops piled high with panini presses and home entertainment sets. One side of the road hosts a broken ATM, which gives Uruguan pesos and US dollars. The latter are rejected on either side, whilst Brazilian reais free flowly from nowhere.

Attempting to flee the confusion, a fellow purgatory resident directs us to a pensión on the Uruguan side (the Brazilian side of the road is more expensive, of course). Greeted with strange looks by our bearded host, he nonetheless guides us up creaky wooden steps and through a hole-in-the-wall sliding door. We are left to contemplate our new abode, where a bunkbed reaches the ceiling, the dusty 70´s TV sits unplugged in the corner, and a lone mosquito drifts through a rusty window. With nine hours to go, I begin to read the list of ´house rules´hanging on the wall, and take note that we must ´keep the room clean´. Eight hours left, and I slip into faded sheets and wait for dawn.

Shuffling to the bus stop at first light, we are accompanied by nothing more than a limping dog and brooding clouds. Without hesitation we jump on the bus, hoping to be driven far away from this uncertain place. A few miles out of town, we speedily reverse; the Brazilians forgot to stamp our passports.

A Coca-Cola Country

Forever bus bored, as a last resort I turn to my drink carton for an informal Spanish lesson in all things juice-related. However, I am regrettably informed (in English) that my Latin American sugar rush is in fact owned by the mighty Coca-Cola Company. Sigh. This infamous logo brings with it images of slaughtered union workers in Colombia, drained farms in India, and a host of other sticky situations said company would prefer to hush up. And so I hastily blacklisted one more ´Argentine´ beverage, before entering Uruguay in the hope that this little nation had escaped such a partnership.

But rather than allowing Coca-Cola to subtly infiltrate its national drinks market, Uruguay has gone one step further, and stamped the garish logo all over it´s sandy soil.

Quiet beaches are presided over not by a trusty lifeguard or signs warning of terrible tides, but by Coca-Cola flags ten feet tall. The classic emerald green kioskos of Colonia have been painted over in the recogniseable red, whilst rusty brand memorabilia has infiltrated the charming clutter of antique stalls. Even the local rositerias have been united countrywide by one advertising board, detailing the delicious fresh pastries on sale, which must be washed down with a fizzy splash of e-numbers.

Uruguay is often regarded as living in the shadow of its giant southern neighbour. But in reality, is it not the imposing Coca-Cola umbrellas which are casting a darker shadow on the streets of Montevideo?

The Importance of Wilderness

Bleary eyes open as a sleepy bus grinds to a halt. Peering between the cheap red curtains, a dark expanse of nothingness is revealed; dusty shrubs illuminated by a few hundred stars. Yet the door slides open, luggage is dropped onto tarmac, and a cheerful passenger trundles off into the distance. With no buildings in sight, eyes dart backwards and still spy nothing more than an empty road. Leaving the remaining passengers perlexed, she continues her steady walk. The bus pulls away, and a dozen hours later a Patagonian town will appear out of this unforgiving landscape.

And after a hundred hours of bus journeys, I sit at the end of the earth and contemplate the wilderness which lies in every direction. Here the power of an impatient car horn is lost against a new soundtrack - chunks of ice plummeting from a glacier wall, woodpeckers incessantly drilling in the trees, sea-lions smacking their weight against the shore.

A nice stroll in the park is replaced by a battle against the unforgiving winds, which playfully toss tourists to the ground. Those who press on face stinging snowfall and a labyrinth of tree roots clinging to the boggy ground. Some inevitably pack up their tents and head back up north, having finally realised the embarrassing fragility of the human self.

But for those who remain, a sense of awe is awakened in the visitors´mind. Against our human failings, nature thrives. Vivid red leaves paint the mountain side, preying birds soar, and we are left stumbling home to the fireside.

Watching us from between the clouds, the jagged peaks of Fitz Roy provide a faint menace, reminding us that no matter how many buses and guidebooks we bring to Patagonia, this is one place which has already been conquered.

The Second Cities

Long gone are the days when European footprints marked out the city plans of South America. Today, the city imprints itself on the soles of ones feet, leaving an indestinguishable mark of a journey well trod.

In Buenos Aires this translates as an immovable black stain, as one fails to skip over the dusty holes and steaming dog shits which litter the city´s pavements. As the days go by, soles turn tar-black, absorbing a thick history which the blue skies and balconies escape.

Armed with a nail brush and foot file, for weeks I embarked on a daily battle against this phenomenon. But my feet resisted, and Buenos Aires stuck.

A few short hours from the capital, however, pink flesh began to reveal itself once again. I had found the second cities of Argentina. Whilst they cannot boast the infinite number of cultural centres and ageing cafes, my feet testified of kinder and slower-paced alternatives. Where feet darken and crack in the capital, do not forget that hard skin softens in the sands of Rosario and on the cobbles of Cordoba.

The Rainbow Colours of Blood

Blue birds dance across a childhood mural. Painted flowers creep up from the shiny wooden floorboards. A clutter of books lie waiting for chubby hands and inquisitive minds. But this is not a nursery, nor a bedroom, nor a bookshop. This is The Provincial Memory Commission and Archive, former Provincial Police Intelligence Department and torture centre.

The books sitting on the shelves are those banned during the Dirty War, for fear that children would develop an imagination and thoughts against the dictatorship. Today, a red beanbag invites escapism and fantasy galore.

A few meters away stand the scratched walls of dark cells, signed with desperation by the disappeared. Above wait interrogation cells, where barred windows halted last hopes.

Such a contrast between playful and pain seems cruel, in a world where the traces of genocide are displayed as a shocking reminder of Never Again. But whilst a tower of skulls in Cambodia and a mountain of plaits in Poland will scar the visitors’ memory, the horrors remain so inhuman as to stay dislocated from today’s reality.

And so behind the cobbled streets of Cordoba, a transformation in collective memory is taking place, where victims´ lives are brought within the walls where they were broken. Only then, it seems, can visitors face the cell walls with the understanding necessary to prevent repetition.

One room in ´D2´ detention centre is a picture of 70´s youth; stripy jackets hang from green curtains, a Vespa is parked carefully next to an acoustic guitar. But with each item comes a black and white photo, and stories from the smiling owners whose possessions could never be passed on.

Onwards, and through the dusty corridor seeps the smell of fresh paint; a white-washed room with Ikea-inspired chairs and a flatscreen TV hanging on the wall. And in this room of clean lines and familiar modernity the survivors speak of unspeakable sins. Thirty years on, atrocities once more creep into a familiar setting, and it is only this identification which truly means Never Again.

Retiro

On the outskirts of Buenos Aires, the airport departure lounge is filled with a cloud of melancholy, surrounding those whose time is regrettably up. A few miles away stand their counterparts, lacking such a self-induldgent time for reflection as they battle their way through Retiro station.

The grand old buildings which house the gateway to South America now cower in the shadows of thousands of suited porteños and tatty travellers. The English Tower still gazes a watchful eye over Retiro, but is now separated by a haphazard renovation barrier, leaving its ally to suffocate in the unbearable pollution.

Battling through the smog, the crowds are confronted with an endless supply of throwaway consumer items, with sunglasses desperately thrust under umbrellas. Only the insects pause for thought; flies dancing over empanadas piled on plastic crates, mosquitos searching for distracted victims.

But relief is not to be found inside, as the capital´s infamous queue for change transforms the train station into an inpenetrable maze. Acutely aware of the flow of precious coins, a beggar sits her sleepy child by the ticket office, clutching a polystyrene cup in misguided hope. Tensions rise below the earth, and police are forced to open the Subte barrier, freeing the masses.

A few meters away, the bus station hints at past prosperity, as moving walkways carry weary bodies inside. But still there are no empty seats for relief and reflection. They are already filled with the waiting, driven mad by inaudible annoucements and unavoidable dirt.

And so a sense of relief accompanies a Retiro departure from Buenos Aires. One which will prove invaluable, as it masks the memories of the capital with a lungful of smoke and a headful of hassle.

Retiro may be a blot on the city-scape, but without it, no-one would leave.