The Austrian attitude to wine: "full-bodied and 14yrs old...it'll keep"

Sitting in the sun, drinking coffee, watching little Cafayateans squirrel around us, we planned our next steps. ‘Twas time to visit a vineyard or two and lay pillage to their “tasting” cellars. I asked some hippy artist, deep in his painting, whether there was a closing time. He informed me nothing closed untill around ten at night. I was later to find out that, on top of being shit at art, he was also lying. Only two remained open to some good quaffing:

“Good evening sirs,” a cork sized woman with fairly dark skin and brilliantly white teeth greeted us. (For your future reference: maybe it is best that you assume all people greeted or engaged in spoken words, from this point on, are of the aforementioned description).

“Yes...it.....is.....and, may I say, good evening to you to, suspiciously small wine harvesting woman. I will be frank with you Pablita, I haven’t done this before (or can’t remember.lad), could you possibly talk me through it please?” I asked her...a request that rang bells of other first times...but, alas, without recording equipment.

Off we trotted on a little tour of their museum. The museum functioned, in our eyes, as a polite pausing stop before we laid pillage to their tasting wines....to show, as you will, that we possibly gave a shit about a bunch of copper barrels and some dusty corkscrews. I even asked Pablita what significance a bottle, on display, from 1960 had. She told me “none” and that the winery wasn’t even in action then. "Why did you even place it there then Pablita? To make us aware that wine was in existance at that time?" A truly vintage shite museum in conclusion. We were not there to act as culture vultures though; sponges we would be. (I will add that nothing of great interest followed: we tasted a little, drunk a lot and bought a little-due to post drink guilt and small, shiny-teethed cork women mesmerization. Oh, and we were stalked by a league of very French French girls. "Have you heard of effervescence? No? ...Malbec or Cabernet Sauvignon?").

Although this bears little importance to our trip, I have to add that whilst writing this I spent the afternoon passing so much wind that someone was forced to spray the whole office with its finest loo freshener. The Pablobian work force assumed it was the trainees, who had been thick in a day of training (as trainees do), but ney ‘twasn’t, ‘twas I. Fools.
I joined in on the complaining....
“Bloody nuisance they are Pablo...faffing around our office, filling it with there unemployed odour.” I remarked contemptuously.
It is the small victories in life that will accumulate, the larger ones only compete.

Overall morals of these particular stories: vineyard museums and Saltean vagrant artists.No. Phantom office-based flatulence.Yes.

"The Game": a beginners guide to picking up hitchhikers

Try as I might to scrape my mind of any residual memories from the crusade, which have recently been evading my pen, I am still missing pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. These pieces are undoubtedly fragile; you try desperately to file them away safely from any proceeding chemical that might try and wipe the slate clean. Incidentally, it this latter aspect that has engraved itself rather clearly in my conscience/fading conscience:

We had driven from Cachi (small village at the foot of large mountains and edge of large desert) to Cafayate (village in centre of valley filled with wine/the means to make it) for what seemed like six hours (because it had been) on what cannot be described as roads or even tracks for that matter. Yet, the Don ate them up and we flew past the chameleon views and diligently working saltanas who would rest down their sticks, had they been hitting a goat or cow, their hoes, had they been doing what ever it is you’d want to do with a hoe (the tool...garden tool that is), and wave at us. Naturally, we would wave back in a regal fashion ‘n’ all: one doesn’t bend the wrist but merely rotate the whole hand.

I have just become aware that my intentions were set on describing the “latter aspect”, but something has cropped up quite unexpectedly and so I think I’ll put ink to this memory instead:

We were not all that far from Cafayate, cruising along, leaving a wake of dust and, consequently, very dusty locals, when, low and behold, we approached some more hitchhikers (they tended to be people from the middle of nowhere looking to get somewhere). We had past a few already and had decided that were we to reach some more, we ought to give them a lift....only to make ourselves feel good, that’s what charity is all about (based on this, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what “charity starting at home” is all about then). Therefore, I pulled the Don to a stop and wound up my window so that they could hear but not touch me.

“Bonjour my little family of coco-pops, what be your destination? I am assuming you are looking for a lift?” I chirped brightly.
(Might I add at this point that my face was glowing with good-will and I wore a smile that said “hey little boys, don’t be a afraid, you can get in my car and we’ll go to never(have.I.)everland” but my mind and my compatriate’s both said, “Oh fuck, we’ve stopped the Don next to a mother and her three young children. One is a baby, the other two appear to be no more than five but, being in the country and a tad malnutritioned, are probably closer to twenty-four years old (mystery solved). Furthermore, they all seem to have avoided a shower/river for the past week and one of the kids has a nose that is functioning as a tap.”)
The family said nothing following my line of questions.

“Ummmm, ok. In which case, I will have a Quarter Pounder with fries and my co-pilot will have a Big Mac. Any drinks? Yes, thank you for asking, we’ll have two Coke’s please. Large.” I said to them. I was fairly pleased with myself. Too right, it was an amusing line, utterly lost, unfortunately, on are friends....the South American version of ‘Snap, Crackle and Pop’.
“We go to San Carlos please sir,” she eventually asked of us. She may not have added the “sir” but the narcissistic part of my mind (most of it, the section not focused on looking for a reflective surface) tends to translate and filter what comes in and out.
“Well, of course, by all means, hop aboard. To San Carlos then....I assume that’s on the way to Cafayate? If not, you WILL all have to evacuate the car and resume your places under that tree to our right.”I replied.
She then told me that it was.

I proceeded to try and make some conversation but we were white, wearing red and blue bandanas....it was all too much for them right now; the following ten minutes were spent in relative silence while the children stared at us in disbelief....we must have seemed like gods to them. I was absolutely fine with that. So, when they finally left, after filling the Don with the smell of poverty, I told them:

“Go forth in peace my little brown brothers and may the sun shine down on you whilst you labour diligently in a field.”
It wasn’t meant to be inspiring....we didn’t want them to get ideas about education, god forbid.

The next 10km were driven with halo’s of smugness...and windows of wide-openness.

Moral of the story: “charity pays...off”.

"Two young men turn on Don McLean and enjoy the ride"

Having made our prayers, slept enough, and with caffeine pulsing irrationally through our our veins, we rented a gloriously white Chevrolet Corsa fuelled by “Super Nafta”, which incidentally lived up to its title by carrying out 500 km on half a tank (cue applause), costing us 20 pounds. The car was to be named “The Don”, for a number of reasons. Not because it was so white and M...cLean? or that the radio didn’t work or the music.had.died? Or that the man who rented us "The Don" looked either like Marlon Brando in ‘The Godfather’ or suspiciously like a chipmunk in Autumn?...

With Don filled up, we set off into the wild for three days to the beat of our own drum...passing desert, mountains, vineyards, rivers and a lot of very small, squat looking Saltean moutain people. T’was as if god had taken a raisin or saltana, pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and created the Saltean mountain people in this very image. Combined with arrid desert, mountains and a range of flora and fauna, it was not unlike driving through a large box of muesli.

Amid all this healthy stereotyping, one thing struck us quite firmly: a generation of Saltanas was and I assume still are missing, generally those between the ages of 18 and 25.

I posed this observation to someone recently, to be told that a likely explanation was education. I full heartedly believe this to be a fabrication. Saltanas appear to have little need for education, everyone participates in team-building farm work or tourist exploitation. Yes, by all means browse over the “beginners guide to getting the most out of the white man” but honestly, I fail to see the need to dedicate seven years of one’s life to the carefull price manipulation of a scarf made from the wool of an anorexic mountain goat.*

Another mystery, also to be found in many parts of Asia, is the mystery of the “expanding 29 year old woman”:

On reaching 30 a saltana will duly grow laterally. Again, I was offered another mundane explanation for this. It too balanced on a foundation of lies. This was....”childbirth”. My parry to the ill-informed suggestion: “the majority tend to reproduce at around the age of 18 or 20 (please refer back to paragraph dedicated to religion). For this reason, any attractive Saltana is likely to be holding the hand of a small child. Why? Because it’s HERS. Thus the chances of finding an educated, attractive, child-free Saltana are fractional, the men just won’t allow it. Fact."

Expect proceding chapter to follow in the week to come, addressing why it is that holiday 4x4s are used soley to transport grandparents sandwiched between children (like church) and vinyards will be sure to expell you from their premises at half 6 in the evening.

* I have recently been alerted to an update on the missing generation story: Apparently they all tend to find girl/boyfriends and focus “all” their energies on the relationship. So, in short, I had “love” or “infactuation” to blame for nearly going to jail.... What?...I don’t check driving licences.

"Avoid God's door & you'll be met by a boy selling the only thing he has"

Having told the company’s head of finances that she, naturally, was, frankly, “fucking useless”, I calmly set off to join forces with my compatriot and brother on a Tuesday night (this position is by no means limited to Tuesdays).

The time had come to dabble in a bit of light exploration, far from the magnetic pull of Buenos Aires; Salta would be our destination.

Twenty hours we were to spend cooped up in a bus, like a Jamie Oliver advert, had we been poor and Pablobian but alas, we were rich, British and would be damned if we’d travel with or like the masses. Thus we purchased what was and is known as a “coche cama”, which translates loosely as “reclining bed on large slow-moving vehicle”. A number of films were played, one of which involved Robert Redford getting to know his daughter-in-law (Jennifer Lopez) whilst Morgan Freeman (who had been attacked by a bear) watched and made wise, rhetorical comments.

What’s more, a small cafeteria was present and so we took a lot of excitement from this addition. Our favourite game happened to be: “make yourself a cup of coffee and then precariously walk the stretch of the bus alleyway back to your throne of leather and belittle passing bus passengers lacking coffee, leather thrones and Morgan Freeman”. Another game one could participate in was known as “be stared at by Bolivian families because you are tall and white”.

The bus fuelled fun and games finished, we settled in the city of Salta, marched into the centre, bought a bag of nuts, some beer and boldly seated ourselves in the main plaza.

The plaza, beautiful as as it was, happened to be filled with people, and furthermore, they appeared to be in the process of praying. The vast majority of Pablobians were facing the cathedral, which obviously had been filled up...or people were denied access on account of not being a boy between the ages of 6 and 10 years old.

In my honesty, I won’t say we felt out of place, after all, we were in the process of making our own silent prayers (to the god of gloriously cheap alcohol...lads.on.tour), yet one had the constant feeling that we might burst into brilliant red flames. I reeked of sin. The city stank of dogmatism. We kept our distant from the entrance.

However, our actions would not put a stop to the swarm of religious paraphernalia little Pablo's would force on us...

“No, Pablo, I would not like to purchase a calendar with a picture of Jesus being crucified on it....now run along.”

(Pablo in question then begins to stare at us, point at the picture of Jesus and then at the list of days of the year....it was as if he was trying to inflict some sort of Christ fuelled guilt on us...so in short, suggesting we become members of the Catholic church.)

“Thank you Pablo, we are both more than aware of who the malnutritioned figure you direct your finger at is...and, quelle surprise,what the calendar below is. Now, off you go and spread the word.” (Which he did, selling one immediately after our brief encounter. Well done, religion sells).

Part II from of the recordings of our noble crusade is to follow promptly.

"Send a letter and we'll be sure to get back to you"

I am certain I have shed light on the phenomenon that is free thought and how it has infested the analogical mind of the common man here, yet certain events today have spurred me to make further scribblings:


“I was diligently working in the confines of our office when low and behold, the sound of gunshots filled our mundane air. I flew to the window to gaze down upon the vanguard of a rally/demonstration. As I had constructed previous arrangements to meet a client for coffee, I had no choice but to follow my curiosity. I should add that many events not unlike these have marched into my scope before, yet somehow the number of police and the steady sound of explosives had suggested this might offer a spot more excitement. So off I trotted, downstairs, out the door, to be greeted by a thick wall of smoke and Pablobians scattered around the main road, placing fireworks and such like on the tarmac, lighting them and scurrying back amid excited yells and rhythmic chants. This was straight up anarchy. Hundreds of protesters filled my sight.

Naturally, I wasn’t the least bit concerned as to what the reason for all this fuss might be, no doubt one of the following: 'We’re bored self-righteous students applying book read philosophies to a world we know little about' or possibly: 'I got pregnant when I was 12 yrs old and drunk off potato vodka, please create some rights for me'...or my favorite: 'The British stole an unpopular holiday resort...and some oil, lets take a stroll through the streets to mark our discontent'.

Anyway, I thought it best that I maintain my distance but, nonetheless, continued my observations. As per usual, they had employed a spearhead of men with paisley patterned handkerchiefs around their faces and long sticks or metal poles in their hands. It was these chaps' job to clear the streets, which had obviously cleared its self quite effectively...paisley has that effect. Behind this unruly bunch, were the problem solvers and drum bangers. Trailing behind, far behind due to the extensive size of this fun train, were the families, general stringer-ons and exclusive fans of large groups of people and consistent noise.

I had had quite enough for the day, the kafuffle was beginning to irritate me and I had no intentions to follow their plight. The moment had passed, for me that is, and I strolled off to the capitalist comforts of my favorite cafe/spice haven."

Moral of the story: “long walks through cities good, paisley and fireworks... bad.”

Scouts and skirts: Bayden-Powell would have approved

Despite being in denial for some time, today I am fully aware that I possess the navigational skills of a little girl and yet, I continue to put my GPS under unnecessary strain. I draw attention to this fact merely because I have realised that I promised, some time ago, that I ought to retell a few rather important adventures, intentionaly and non-intentionally that way, which called on me to lean on absent boy scout skills...

“...There lies in this city a ridiculous public transport system. I was aware that there would come a time when I would have to take its reins and march a little closer to ‘knowing’ the place and immersing myself in the waves of smugness that inevitably follow. That time had come, I was due to congregate with other persons and so I took it upon myself to plan my journey by the means the "colectivo". I had a brief glance at the ‘GUIA T’( guide book for bus routes...they are all public owned and therefore move independently and unfortunately, temperamentally) in the hope that I might have my next steps planned. Thus, fueled by enthusiasm, a touch of Hendrick’s gin, bus numbers, a few road names and the arrogance of youth, I saw it a royal time as any to set off, which I did....in the wrong direction.

“Well Freddie, look at you, finally brushing off the considerable doubt of hypothetical scout leaders......”

I was so very pleased with myself that I continued to boldly plough on, certain that the road names I should have been reading were waiting for me patiently. They were indeed, just not where I was heading. I had wandered into the heart of Constitución (I live on the edge, everyday flirting with danger and my three Peruvian girls). I was in the heart of darkness: the heart of the city’s quite delightful crime epicentre and ‘transvestite prostitution market’. One cannot find a female prostitute in the heart of darkness, the market, it would seem, is a tad specific.

By the time my rational voice had crept up on me and quietly whispered:
“Umm Freddie”
“Yes,” I duly replied.
“It would appear that we’re trotting in the wrong direction old fellow. Oh, and one more thing....we’re surrounded by men in skirts; this is not Sparta.”
“Well that’s very observant of....”
“Freddie,”
“Yes..what?”
“Well...does this strike you as a salmon pink trouser and cerulean blue top type of area?...you’re a lamb in lambs’ clothing Frederick, no good can come of this.”....

It was as if the fog of enthusiasm had cleared and there I stood, in all my Surrey-Kent border glory, standing erectly in a dark street whilst prostitutes accumulated around me. The whistling started, the taunts...the probing questions...:

“Hey, white boy, why you here!”
“What you looking for?”
“Where you going?”....by and large a fairly deep and meaningful set of questions. Does anyone ever know where they are going...

Soon pimps began to join our jolly, philosophical party. I began to quicken my pace, aware that my time was somewhat limited and soon, Freudian retorts would not satisfy the appetites of my new best friends.

I had to get in a taxi, a bus...I would ride a small marsupial should one pass. Alas, there were no taxis, neither marsupials. There was a bus with a number I knew not but a destination that had to be better than my current one. I jumped on and peered out the window at the wake of high heels and pressured equipment I had left behind.

Moral of the story: “just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there.” Interpret that how you will.

Being blue eyed and blonde was never this hard...

It seems I’m encircled by linguistical bars that keep me enclosed in an anglophonal zoo of sorts. Yet, as discussed previously, my chiseled, Imperial features are contributing significantly to the upkeep of these bars. My house of sculpture (gym), or the one I now limp into in order to do physio (exercising every muscle but the one’s you can actually see), is becoming a source of considerable amusement; everyone thinks I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. This has been initialized by a personal trainer, Pablo:

So, there I was, chatting to him about personal perfection and what it was like to have reached it, when he suddenly goes…

“arrrrrrnol sneggar”

“What the bigglesworth Pablo…what are trying to say? Come on lassy…where is it girl..what? They’ve taken the 4 wheel drive, 3ltre, bmw and crashed it into a rare species of Canadian maple tree?” I replied.

“No, no u look like arrrrnol…u know (the ‘k’ was probably unnecessary there)..Arnol.” He then carries out a lacklustre performance of some gun fight, I can only assume it belonged to a 'Terminator' film.
“Ah, je comprends, I’m not sure I quite agree but yes, the basic structure is certainly there,” I shot back at him, accompanied with a slight flexing of my left pectoral muscle.
“No, it your face.” He half laughed back at me.
“What the fuck Pablo, thanks a lot, why is it that I look German to everyone?.... I’m hardly the senator of California or even one of the boys in a Hitler youth propaganda poster.”

Regardless, Pablo has since been dining off his supposed light bulb moment ever since and worse, like some dogmatic, South American disciple, he’s been spreading the word. Consequently, it is the common man who now tries to catch a look (at my face) and then go scuttling off to the Pablo dwelling rockery to cackle away in agreement. I’m taking it all in my measured stride and even embraced the joviality. Just the other day I was conversing with a couple of Pablobians, asked to be excused to use bathroom and, as I walked away I turned, narrowed my eyes and grumbled: “I’ll be back”. They absolutely bloody loved it, I bloody loved, we all bloody loved it. Good delivery, good timing, great material…no one stood a chance.

Moral of the story: “looking German doesn’t presuppose a lack of humour.”