(Tamara)

After a 10 hour painless bus journey through Uruguay we were welcomed by waving cows back into Argentina; we'll be eating you later! Disembarking the coach we thanked our luck as a squawking group of school children piled on, the night ahead would have been a long one. Rosario by moonlight seemed charming as we passed lit-up parks, with concrete noble horsemen taking centre stage. As the second city of Argentina, Rosario has a booming port trade and is rich in cultural and artistic diversity. We were aware the backpacker scene was slowly progressing and were pleased to experience the city before any further influx of tourism. Having last minute booked ourselves into the 10-bed dormitory in Hostel La Lechuza, nerves and anticipation were brewing; get set for our first hostel experience.

Timidly ringing the bell on the unnamed building, an Auzzie spoke through the buzzer. After some confusion that 'Tamara' was here, not that our stay begins 'tomorrow' we were welcomed in to an intimidating room of expecting faces. Thanks mum and dad, always a 'great' ice-breaker! We were shown into our small room of 6-beds and told for now we would sleep in there. At 11.30pm our tired heads were aching for our pillows. Yet being amongst the hostel 'vibe', having to avoid any unsociable labelling and sticking to our English heritage, we headed straight for the bar.

Our stomachs were growling, thankfully Felix the chef was ready to serve us up some roast chicken and mash potato; just what the doctor ordered. We would become very accustomed to life at La Lechuza, extending our stay and enjoying the wonderful evening meals and family atmosphere which the small hostel offered us. Felix, having suffered a marriage breakdown nursed his broken heart by preparing his finest dishes, surfing the net for 'chicas calientes' and singing at the top of his voice. Juan the owner made daily reference to our English residency, and made awkward comments about land we may or may not have successfully conquered. Unsuprisingly, the Fawklands' were a common theme brought up at dinner. We welcomed lighthearted banter, but when an Argentinian, blood dripping down his chin points his steak knife at you, you curse your fellow country men and quickly direct all gaze to the floor. There were four boys our age who had moved from Australia and New Zealand to work in Rosario, Tim from freaky deaky Deutschland with his combination of socks and flip flops, and crazy Mike who had cycled all over the world, planning one nights stay and had ended up staying a year. Our taxi expenditure in BA became a focal topic to every individual that walked through the door and having erased our memories of our wrongdoing, we cringed at each and every horrified response.

Trying to silently sort through my bag and slip into bed I was apprehensive of the night ahead. Sleeping in a dorm is an odd experience, without any spoken word a mutual appreciation of the guidelines exists between strangers. These include no snoring, no heavy petting and never turning the light on if someone is sleeping. This last point is all good and well during the night, but with Argentinians festering in bed throughout most hours of the day, it can be extremely impractical. I was looking forward to a good nights sleep in my bottom bunk, but I was unaware I had purchased tickets to the front row viewing of Cirque Du Soleil. It appeared George had decided to embrace his acrobatic abilities on the top bunk and proceeded to flip and twist throughout the night. 10, 10, 10 from the judges, a petty 1 score for my sleep. His innocent grin hung over the bed at 10am "good morning", smiling sweetly back I replied "tonight lets swap!"

(George)

I awoke to an uncomfortable predicament, toxic pits had begun to fester within my armpits and they desperately needed decontaminating. With Tam providing nothing but disdain for my technical performance in the night I concluded that my safest option was the shower. A troop of spiders provided my guard of honour as the tepid water drizzled from the shower head and I hastened to remove the biohazard. They say time is the best healer and after my 5 minute shower, Tam and I were on good terms.

First item on the agenda, exchanging dollars on the 'Blue Dollar' black market. After being able to complete this task at the reception of our BA accommodation we assumed our new hostel would be able to facilitate our request with little to no difficulty. Little did we know, we would soon be getting a glimpse of Rosario's elite crooks. The process began with our hostel owner, Juan, sending a cryptic text to a memorised number. Our names were provided and the exchange rate was given in return - $15.60 pesos to the USD, an astronomical rate compared to the banks $9.30 pesos. Juan gave us the all clear and issued us with strict verbal instructions, first right, three blocks down, next to the shop with the glass front. We set off with apprehension, were we entering the Layer Cake of South America? How would this transaction end? We didn't know but we needed pesos and in a world where money talks our lips were swinging. After a short walk we had arrived at a stainless steel entry point, it stood nonchalantly as pedestrians passed by, perfect camouflage in the urban jungle. Upon entering, a guard quickly hailed us down. Who were we, what did we want and who sent us? We bumbled through the interrogation and were directed to our destination, floor 9 for us.

Before I continue, I must emphasise that every boy, at one point in his life, has dreamt of becoming a spy. The endless catalogue of James Bond movies instills dreams of espionage and covert deals with foreign business men... today my luck was in. We were welcomed in to a modernistic office space by a well dressed Rosarian, his grey hair was coiffured neatly and a firm handshake confirmed his professionalism. 'Do you have the money?' - this couldn't get any better. I wish I had brought a briefcase, I envisioned myself slamming my 400 USD on the table with a British sense of authority - tally hoe and all that. The reality polarised my imagination. I scratched and fumbled through my pockets to produce four creased and battered notes, a patronising smile glinted across the Rosarians face as he examined the battle scarred presidents. He took the money and entered a fortified room, money counting machines could be heard whirring through the corridor and the smell of pesos was thick in the air. Our man returned with a wedge of cash, nearly $6500. Rubber bands caressed each individual $1000, each note crisp and ready to be of service. We began to leave, cash in hand, when the gentlemen eagerly warned me to hide the money, I revealed my triple padlocked body bag to which he knowingly smiled - we know what we're doing, 'mate'.

As we meandered through the beautiful, clean streets we felt a rumble, the Richter scale wobbled and tremors shook our feet - Tamara was hungry. The world was our oyster after our fruitful transaction and we went in search of our pearl. Hearing rumours of Italo-Argentine heritage we decided to test the Argentine pizza. I will now assume that we have all seen the children's parties that take place at Pizza Express or other such venues. Infants are invited to create their own pizzas, allowing free control over tomato, cheese and the toppings they desire. The outcomes are usually rather impressive, the occasional rogue child making something unrecognisable to the accepted pizza model. We sat patiently, relishing the thought of a tasty pizza being delivered to our laps. 'Something' arrived that would have brought a tear to Rome's eye. The base, made up of chewy/uncooked dough, was bordering on an inch thick. The tomato was non-existent, looking more like a one coat paint job. The cheese attempted to rival the base in thickness but don't expect fluffy mozzarella, this was harsh Argentine cheese with a sharp metallic tang. The poultry, masquerading as a chicken topping, matched an arid landscape as impoverished fibres stuck to the roof of our mouths. Whatever it was, it was demolished within 10 minutes of it arriving.

Brimming with dough and cheese we took to venturing around the city, God forbid we talk about more food! The sun poked a toe into the clear, blue sky and decided it wasn't too cold, fortune favoured us once again as sunlight poured through the sparse cloud cover. 'El Monumento de la Bandera' - 'The Monument of the Flag' stands tall on the riverbank of Rosario, an imposing tribute to the heritage of the Argentine flag. Pictures may be the only way to justify the beauty of this structure as it stole our breath round every corner. As is the way when travelling, fortune quickly evaporated from our palms as we discovered the tower of the monument was not open to the public that weekend. The reasoning for this limitation was due to a stage being erected in the middle of the monument, the stage was in fact playing host to a Queen tribute act. Having arrived during the construction we decided to sit a while. Music reverberated through the stone arena, crashing against our ear drums. Phil Collins could feel something coming in the air whilst Michael Jackson was certain that the kid was not his son. On the fifth time of hearing Billie Jean we decided we could not help Michael with his love issue and moved on.

Rosario, due to its fortunate placement along the Rio Paraná, is able to boast of far more than innovative urbanisation. It's favourable location along one of the meandering bends of the river permits year round 'river beaches'. The banks of said beaches have been converted into an adolescent playground with Tarmac strips and skating facilities stretching as far as the eye could see - the hallowed territory of the younger generation was alive, excitement and thrills oozed from its pores whilst the sun gently tanned its concrete skin. Techno boomed from car boots as speakers distorted space-time with beats harder than a Rubik's Cube. Kids from the age of 2 to 45 were present in their hordes, each equipped with their weapon of choice. Boys were strictly limited to BMX's or skateboards whilst girls were permitted nothing more than roller skates, any crossover of apparatus between gender inevitably lead to contemplation of the individuals persuasion. A short walk, beyond the chaos of the asphalt, lead us to a set of steps upon which the local university students had begun painting the number '43' in commemoration of the Iguala Kidnapping victims. The offering provided a melancholy touch to the day as we reflected on the impact that one incident may have upon the minds of many.

After recharging our batteries following a four hour nap we were awoken by the smell of a kiwi. This one didn't smell too good as he burst into the room and proposed a question in his New Zealand drawl, 'Do you guys fancy coming out with us tonight?' Our minds telepathically combined as we looked at one another with only one thought, can we afford that? We scraped our pesos together and threw (a little bit of) caution to the wind, tonight we shall dance. Our night began at midnight as we left the hostel to enjoy the comfort of our new friends apartment, the modestly furnished flat provided a humble roof to facilitate our consumption of the traditional poison, Fernet. Upon my first beverage of the thick, black spirit I deduced that our new amigos had played something of a prank on us and devilishly replaced the spirit with cough medicine. After furthering my investigation I found out that no tomfoolery had occurred and that the drink was indeed, Fernet. With my chest clear of mucus, we were quickly whisked to one of the top clubs of Rosario, Club Shanghai, at the ungodly hour of 3:30am. Nights in England are usually on their last legs at this time, with many bars and clubs closing far before our arrival at Club Shanghai. Expecting us to have missed the peak hours of the club I was stunned as we strode through the metal detectors in to the throngs of bashful Argentines. Walking was a no-no as we were forced to tip-toe in to the darkness. Realising that the main dance floor was impregnable we opted for the first flight of stairs we passed. Having separated with our cohort in the midst of the sweat pit we thought we may as well explore what we can. Wandering aimlessly through the labyrinth of darkened corridors we stumbled upon a Tech-House paradise. The resident DJ flipped vinyl for hour upon hour until the lights inevitably drew a halt to the stomping rhythm. We made it back to the hostel at 06:00 thanks to our helpful Kiwi friend who found us loitering in the taxi queue outside. All in all a great night out in our first taste of a South American club.

(Tamara)

Before I start this entry I must apologise to both the family and in-laws; there will be mention of food...

We were told upon arrival a trip would be organised on Sunday by Felix to visit 'the' island and have an asado. There were no further elaborations and through our struggled translation attempts we gathered: 8.30am be downstairs with a bag. We were invited to go out to a nightclub for the second time in a row, but with our stamina proving as weak as our post fernet-stomachs we politely refused. The following morning jumping out of bed eager for the adventure ahead, we savoured our precious minutes by avoiding any contact with soap and water; we were becoming exceptional at this task! Racing downstairs as instructed bag in hand we were ready. At 08.25, as true British do, we arrived prior to schedule, only to find we were the only ones ready, the only ones even awake. We should have known by now Argentinians don't rush for anything especially not on their day of rest. After a lot of dilly dally the troops were set, 25 of us, a myriad of nationalities all packed up with various meat organs, salads and breadsticks and off we went to the island. We experienced our first local bus ride and after driving for what seemed a lifetime we arrived at the foot of the deserted Rosario-Victoria bridge. We stood together with the tips of our toes in the water awkwardly fumbling in pockets, with loose translations keeping us busy as were all completely unaware where we were going. Now we had liked Felix but a broken heart can push a man over the edge, can make a man capable of anything. I looked around and began to question his motive for the trip. Was Felix going to kidnap us, keep the ransom money and become the next Hugh Hefner in his house of chicas calientes? My disturbing thoughts quickly vanished when out of nowhere two small boats arrived and the men on board hurled us all in and whisked us to the other side of the water.

After having no expectations for the day ahead, we were pleasantly surprised with the experience and a fantastic opportunity to see how Argentinians live on their Sunday's. Initially the island wasn't anything special; a deserted bar, desolate grills sporadically positioned on the floor and a lonely sand pit. As always when youngsters are out in the open air the physical activities commence, males exerting energy through volleyball and women exerting energy through lotion application and sunbathing. With the heat causing ripples in the sunlight I began to slovenly dose off, only to wake in what I can only describe as a Sunday fiesta. When the Argentinians finally decide to wake they sure bring a good party with them. Reggae blasted from the speakers as barmen handed out bottles of beer to the orderly queue, couples and friends roamed in bathing suites and the hippy inhabitants of the island had come to join with their various farm animals. George mentioned earlier that every young boys dream is to be a spy; well every grown man's dream is be chief of the BBQ. I felt as though I was watching an alpha male contest as macho men stood topless around their chosen grill. They eyed up their opponents, wiping sweat off their forehead, snarling "I'll show you whose the real man on this island". The battle began, pubescent males stood quivering as all eyes were locked on their sacrifice to the flames. Only one rack of ribs, one kilo of meat, that pathetic attempt isn't going to get you far. Their girlfriends hid in embarrassment and turned all their admiration to the real men, the barbaric brigade who had brought a whole cow to sacrifice to the God of fire. Flames roared and ensuring they had secured their position as 'man' they engulfed their meat with all the beer they could find; what a way to make a young boy feel inferior. After a day enjoying the company of our new friends and absorbing the tranquil atmosphere we reluctantly left our private world and ventured back to the mainland. It is safe to say Argentinians live their life the right way; unfortunately us stressed Brits have it so wrong.

We were sad to leave our hidden gem Rosario, but we knew we could easily get sucked into the way of life there and the lovely people we had met. With bags once again packed and reassembled we were off on part four of our journey.