Ushuaia, Argentina - the southern most city in the world

Exhausted from the southern storms that howl around Cape Horn, we drift into the fjords and exhale, let go of railings and relax the frowns off our faces. We’ve made it, we congratulate ourselves.

In the distance drifts a sailboat in the orange glow of the morning. We whisper envious appreciations and imagine ourselves rich and retired and on that ship, in the arms of someone who truly loves us.

The crew goes for a saunter and comes back exited. The enormous yacht that’s tied up next to us – which we assumed from afar was some research or government vessel – is none other than the famous Octopus, owned by Microsoft foreman Paul Allen. Didn’t he loose a helicopter last year? Or was it last week? We notice damage at the bow, secretly fantasize about being chief engineer on board Paul Allen’s Octopus.

In the pastel distance are high peaks, still covered with snow. Ahead is the town, and boats of all sized bob in the marina. Last year I thought of moving here, far away from everywhere, with Antarctica just south to escape to. A few weeks later, on the Amazon river, I met Draga and came home for the first time in decades.



Ushuaia, Argentina - the southern most city in the world



The Ushuaiah pulling into port



Please retire me - sailboat at sunrise

Paul Allen's Octopus in Ushuaia, Argentina 

Ushuaia, Argentina - the southern most city in the world

Ushuaia, Argentina - the southern most city in the world

Fisherfleet of Ushuaia, Argentina

Catedral Metropolitana in Buenos Aires, Argentina

In a city where children sleep in card box boxes on the street, waiting for night to conduct their business, churches ought to be very small, very poor and very much focused on earth’s goings on. But perhaps the clergy of the Catedral Metropolitana in Buenos Aires is doing just that. They only inherited their sanctuary, after all.

Amid the pillars of the high colonnade men women and children hold up signs explaining why they have no food or shelter. They hold up calloused hands, look at us as we enter the building. A sign in four languages says, “Mind your possessions.”

Buenos Aires consists of many enormous buildings that dwarf this cathedral; its size becomes obvious only on the inside. And on the inside size is all we find; size and a disturbing artistic vacuum. There are statues but no flowers; murals but no candles. “What a dead church,” Draga whispers beside me.

The altar piece depicts the woman mentioned in Revelation12, which many take to denote Mary, but it’s monotonous, monochrome and plumb ugly. In one of the side chapels we find an endearing depiction of the Czech saint John Nepomucene. Among other things, he’s the patron against calumnies, I tell Draga. That when someone makes a false statement to injure another person’s reputation.

“Imagine that,” she says, and after a brief glance at a crowned Madonna with Child, “Let’s get out of here.”

And we go, past the beggars and the columns, to swiftly vanish into the Argentinean evening.

Catedral Metropolitana in Buenos Aires, Argentina

Inside Catedral Metropolitana in Buenos Aires, Argentina

Altar piece of the Catedral Metropolitana in Buenos Aires, Argentina

Saint John Nepomucene

Madonna with Child, Catedral Metropolitana in Buenos Aires

Madonna with Child, close up

Buenos Aires - Argentina; a hole in the ground

We follow the muddy river Platte up from Uruguay, arrive at Buenos Aires a few hours later. They call it little Paris, someone says, but it would impress me if they’d call Paris little Buenos Aires. We’re staying overnight. That means we get to go ashore.

What was predicted to be a shiny city of lights is a hell hole. I see piles of grimy children burrow like rats in portals, drunks and bums wag their bewildered heads and entire clans huddled around a blanket bearing utterly worthless wares. I can see that they’ve abandoned hope for mercy and now count on greed. Demonic eyes of flashing LEDs pierce from toy dogs. Some washout sings Elvis; his voice like an angel, his face sick and tired. A saxophonist regurgitates greatest hits of the eighties in obvious disgust. Leather belts, plastic trucks, Christian Dior, McDonalds; they’re all here in an orgy of carelessness, dirt and waste.

During the last twenty years Argentina lost everything but I doubt any developed nation would need to let its children sleep on the streets.

We briefly pop into the Catedral Metropolitan searching idly for consolation. Then we swim the river of human misery back to the ship. At the gate we meet a man who’s seen his country in better times. He checks our shore leave passes, and we briefly converse. It takes centuries to build a country, he says, but only one generation to tear it all down. He looks at me, then looks at my shore pass. I’m from the Netherlands. Compared to others, my country sailed through the twentieth century unscathed, but it’s getting ran over by immigrants and refugees. Draga’s shore pass says Serbia and the man nods a brief confirmation of kinship. Behind us rise the hushed whispers of some Americans. Behind them are a few Chinese sailors, with arms full of souvenirs and grins on their faces.

Leaving the world in its flux we all return to our own ships. Tomorrow we’ll cut the ropes and we’ll be little worlds again, without neighbors and only nature to serve.

The muddy water view of Buenos Aires

A park in Buenos Aires

The famous Florida street in Buenos Aires

Uncle Raoul strutting his pride; songs go a buck a piece

The famous Obelisco on Plaza de la Republica

Florida sreet by night