Pain Below the Equator
By Scott Skipper
Copyright 2011 by Scott Skipper
Cover photograph by Sandy Skipper
All photographs by Sandy Skipper
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Alien Affairs is a fast paced, slightly twisted story that explains what was the big secret at Roswell, and how a forty-something divorceé saved the human race when the aliens returned seventy years later to finished the mission of their crashed comrades.
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Forward, September 2011:
This was originally a series of emails sent to friends to keep them appraised of our progress. Most of it was written in snatches while waiting to be dragged about, often against our will, by the tour guides that we foolishly and ignorantly had prepaid for services we didn't want. I have attempted to smooth the flow in places but in others I find the almost telegraphic style captures the flavor of the trip. If you find it amusing or at all informative then I shall not have preserved it vain.
S.S.
January 22, 2010 Buenos Aires:
We knew the flight would be nightmarish but who would have thought the arrival would be so torturous? On entering the Buenos Aires International airport a helpful young man directed us into the queue for returning citizens and the inspector was outraged when we handed him U.S. passports. The mass of nonresidents was seething within the twisted confines of the labyrinthine ropes so we fell onto the end of one of two parallel queues. People were constantly switching from one to the other, which of course is typical of grocery store checkout lines as people try to guess who ahead of them has cash and who has coupons, so we paid no attention to that, but as the fog of twenty-two hours of sleeplessness ebbed and flowed I attempted to follow the switchbacks to see where our line would terminate. There were two destinations: immigration kiosks and cashiers. You see, Argentina has what they call a reciprocity tax. They charge citizens of the U.S., Canada, and New Zealand an entry fee that is equal to what those counties charge Argentines for a visa application. They hasten to explain that it is not a visa—simply revenge. Still it looks and acts like a visa. Whether or not it is a visa, it would be much more convenient to pay the fee and get a visa before leaving home because after many minutes I realized our line was not destined to end at the cashiers. So, now at the end of the third queue, we questioned whether our greeter would wait for us as the plane had arrived half an hour late and it was ultimately over an hour before we cleared immigration. The next hurdle was baggage that had been languishing on the carrousels for so long. There were a lot of carrousels, and the monitors at their return loops were more likely to be selling excursions to the playa then identifying from which flight the luggage had come. With luck we found our bags apparently unmolested and proceeded through the enormous duty free store bumping into displays that we mistook for the exit.
Hundreds of greeters with names scrawled on sheets of paper made an arena for the arriving passengers giving one to feel like cattle at auction. Nobody tiredly held ‘Skipper x 2', it was clipped to the top of makeshift wall of wire. When we meekly pointed to it people called to a big friendly fellow who introduced himself as Julio and shook our hands. He examined our new rolling bags and went to find a luggage cart. Now, this is why I prefer not to travel with tour companies. Julio’s contribution was to lift our bags onto an unnecessary baggage cart, push it a short way to the curb and overtly ask for a five dollar tip as he turned us over to our driver who actually earned his. The right way to arrive abroad is to have the first hotel reserved, go to the curb and hail a cab. The cab driver will probably overcharge, but his larceny is not likely to be greater than the tour guides’ tips. The U.S. notwithstanding, one generally does not tip a cab driver.
Predictably our room was not ready. Well, it was only eleven in morning, never mind that we had now been awake for twenty-four hours, but we completed the check-in process after I offered the wrong voucher―my eyes were so crossed I couldn’t read it, and I had difficulty understanding the silly vouchers anyway. To pass the time we sat on a bench in the parkway of the boulevard next to the recumbent form of an AIDS sufferer. I know this only because he carried a sign soliciting handouts on account of his affliction. Sandy couldn't read it, of course, and she said she would have rather I hadn't translated it for her. Twice we returned to be told the room was still not ready. We tried to wait in the lobby where I hoped we could doze in the club chairs, but the place was being remodeled and resonated with hammering and grinding. Around noon we found a nearby place to have lunch and use the restrooms, after that we hunted for a change house. There are not many in Buenos Aires and the banks won’t touch you. The change house was like none other I’ve seen. It looked like a bank, but instead of simply offering dollars and receiving pesos I had to complete and sign a form listing my passport number and local address. I signed a photocopy of my passport and the clerk inspected my dollars. He rejected one hundred dollar note because of a small tear, then he gave me a receipt and directed me to another line. The cashier was officious and made a great flourish of counting the limp, ragged, torn and filthy pesos that he gave me. I vowed to learn the art of the ATM.
We finally were admitted to our room at the 'Tribeca Apart' at two in the afternoon and we fell into bed, but for naught as the hammering didn’t cease until six. At an hour that Argentinos would find tres gauche we dined at Museo del Jamón which is not really a museum of ham but a Spanish restaurant on Avenida 9 de Julio at Avenida de Mayo. It is extraordinary.
January 23, 2010 Iguasu:
The alarm did not ring. It was ten to seven and the driver was coming at eight. The shower valve fell from the wall and water spurted from the hole and ran under the floor, but thankfully it flowed from the spigot, because none came from the shower head. So we both washed our hair under the faucet squatting on the moldy floor of the tiny glass shower stall. The hotel’s hairdryer over heated and quit and we had to hunt for the adapter plug for our travel dryer. We made it to the lobby and were even dry and breakfasted just as our new handler arrived. She was outgoing and rattled on to Sandy unceasingly. I couldn’t hear her and was just as glad. She followed us to the check-in line at the downtown airport, received her tip and promised to be waiting when we returned the following day. I knew she would be.
The airport at Iguasu is an attractive building made of local hardwood. Our guide’s name was Gabriel, but I couldn’t hear him and spent the day calling him Luis, which is what his name tag said. He also exclusively addressed Sandy and I was happier for it. He explained to her all the things we would be doing and offered to book boat rides to the base of the falls for us. They were pricey but of course we agreed. After checking-in, which was at barely noon, we prepared to tour the falls. We had left the large bags in Buenos Aires and of course forgot a few things that we would have liked to have with us. In the process of sorting the camera gear I said to Sandy, “Oh, I left the charger at the Treblinka.” It was one of the most apt Freudian slips I ever made.
Luis/Gabriel was just returni
ng from booking our boat trip. Later I asked the concierge, who was from Belgium and spoke unaccented English as well as Spanish; of course French and probably Flemish, Dutch and German, how much were the boat rides. Our guide had added a healthy mark-up. He was a good guide, however, and I did not begrudge him the money very much. He was tight with the park employees, shoved us to the front of lines, and moved us around the crowds so we could have the best view.
Iguasu is worth every dime, and they will try to extract every dime. After all it is a theme park, albeit an extraordinary one. One can’t grumble about nature spoiled, though, because if there were no infrastructure, and even if we were willing to hike through mud and dense undergrowth, which we may be slightly on in years to do, no one could ever attain the views available from the system of catwalks that form the paths and viewing platforms. They are so extensive that the foot bridge in one place that take you to see the massive Garganta del Diablo stretches across the river more than a kilometer.
The water level when we saw the falls was at an extraordinary height as a result of heavy rains during the