Day 92 – All Night Long…
What time is it? Three pm?? No way. Well, I’m not going to have much to write about today. Except for Nico’s amazing asado, up on the terrace. Boy does that boy know how to cook. Only the most amazing, fatty hunks of rib eye beef ever (not so keen on the black pudding mind, and the intestines were challenging, too).
Anyway, why am I getting up at 3pm?
As Bo-Selecta would say, Rewind! Last night! (she said). So, we’re at the table outside on the patio and the American guys, Marcos and Matt, have got the guitars out. You know, the usual traveller standards: Bob, Bob (Dylan, Marley), Simon and Garfunkel (possibly). There’s a good crowd of us, all up for a party.
Ben comes along and starts to up the Andian quota, with a few Scottish tunes on the quena, that beautiful indigenous flute. This becomes a bit of a joke as Ben tries to jam along with every song that gets played, usually in the wrong key.
San Telmo Collective giving it max
Then it’s my turn. The drugs don’t work. Yes, that Verve classic about cancer is just the ticket for a knees-up (it’s about the only song I can play).
The wine is starting to run out, along with the canon of tunes. And then a guy walks into the hostel, carrying a rucksack and guitar. Five minutes later, Leo, from Colombia, is at the table, serenading us with traditional Colombian guitar music and improvised lyrics about all the people sat around. He is hilarious, a trained singer and the complete showman.
The next day I would find out, bizarrely, that he is also a scarf vendor. He came into my dormitory, I assumed just to chat, only to pull out a selection of scarves – “20 pesos each, very nice.” I assume he is joking, laugh and slap his back. He gives me a puzzled look – he is serious.
Anyway, back to the night before. Before long, Leo’s strumming some salsa-infused tune, and we all take up the baton on percussion. The loose tiles on the table make a great rattly noise when hit with force, as I discover, while the forks and knives played by everyone else, along with the occasional off-beat clap, also sound great.
Within seconds we have our own samba rythme in full-swing.
Leo, singer...guitarist...scarf-seller
It’s about 1am and time to…go out. First stop is the Gibraltar bar, up the road on Peru. It’s a British style pub which, remarkably, is all the better for it. The room out the back, with a pool table, is our hang out. It’s here that two old faces suddenly appear – Jimmy and Phil, the Australian dudes I went on the pampas tour with in Bolvia. Wow! Little did I know they were in Argentina, never mind Buenos Aires, never mind heading to the very same bar I was in.
Leo wants to go salsa-ing, and so we (Leo, Jag, Max and myself) head up town in a taxi to Azucar and shake our…you know, do the salsa thing. Well, we try. After an hour or so, we give up and head round the block to Konex, a huge old warehouse which stages a huge samba party every Monday night. Tonight is just a big old house disco, and the Ozzie guys have already headed there.
It’s 20 pesos but the bouncer won’t let us in because the ticket office is closed. It’s 5am and all looks lost. One last throw of the dice – lies. “Acabamos de caminar una hora y media a venir aqui” I tell him with my best sad puppy face. (“We just walked an hour and a half to come here”) He looks at me and hesitates before waving us all in, for nothing. Then we bump into a very drink Jimmy who puts an arm around my shoulder and thrusts a wad of paper slips into my pocket. He somehow managed to steal a bunch of free ticket vouchers, so now we’re on vodka and speed for the rest of the night, on the house.
The Banghra Boys
Two hours of mad dancing later, we get a taxi as far as the nearest all-night McDonalds, somehow aquiring a large straw sombrero, a pink top hat and deeleeboppers on the way. Various happy meals later, we start our walk home. It’s 8am and people are out and about heading to work.
In amongst the crowd are four grown men wearing silly hats, attemping to beat-box banghra-style. Booooyyyyzzzzzzzzz.
