By Camille Cusumano

“Everywhere I look I see dead eyes,” thinks a Buenos Aires expat as she visits the Feria la Salada, a market that lives up to its reputation for danger and desperation.

“You cannot go to this market, es muy peligroso,” said my friend Carmen. I watched her big blue eyes bug out, emphatic with the probability of harm befalling me if I went to Feria la Salada. We sat in the comfort of my 10th floor apartment in Recoleta, Buenos Aires’s upper-crust barrio. Another Argentine friend, Oscar, nodded in agreement with Carmen. I had just greeted him hello and noticed his neck was fragrant with Paco Rabanne cologne—real Paco, not the knock-offs reportedly available at the market in question.

“Oh, but I have a private bodyguard,” I joked, referring to a fellow journalist, Marc Haefele, from Los Angeles, who had invited me to check out the market with him. He piqued my curiosity, saying, “La Salada is a thieves market.” It was the world’s largest illegal market, he told me, denounced by the European Union, but locally pronounced unstoppable because tens of thousands of customers support it weekly.

The hints at danger, which I often find exaggerated by locals who listen to the news more than I do, ramped up my desire to take a glimpse. I had been living in Buenos Aires for nearly three years, absorbing the culture mainly in sultry tango dance halls and classes. I was streetwise enough to deal with rowdies and mischief makers. Besides, I wanted to get out of my complacent routine here in chic Recoleta. That black market was said to sprawl in a malignant belt of land, replete with polluted meadows, just south of Buenos Aires. Time to get a close-up view at the underbelly of my adopted home, I mused.

Oscar, who like Carmen, had never set foot near La Salada, said dismissively, “It’s full of the junk they sell at Retiro bus station.” The Retiro was one of my favorite offbeat places in the city. (Only once did I have to shrug off would-be pick-pockets.) My mind kneaded a vision of stall after stall with Hong-Kong-like knock-offs crossed with Tangiers’ bazaar-like ambience. It’s big, it’s unstoppable, and it makes the news regularly. So there must be something to see at La Salada.

The market opens at 3 am on Sundays. Mark said we had to get there early to get the good stuff. So we met at my place at 5 am and hailed a taxi. The first driver said, “No, I don’t go to La Salada, too dangerous,” and took off. The second taxi said the same and sped off. The third one, a good-natured driver, said, “I’m heading home that way, so I’ll drop you.” He asked which point of entry did we prefer, Punta Noria or Punta Mogote. “Whichever is safer,” I said. “That would be Mogote,” he said.

© Olmo Calvo

A Rank River and the Dregs

La Salada started in 1991 when a handful of Bolivians set up shop on the forgotten land near a rundown swimming pool park long past its prime. They found it profitable to sell “imported” clothes at a market they called Urkupiña. Eventually two more markets sprouted and joined forces. According to La Nacion, the gangly collection of flimsy bamboo-and-sheet-metal booths or warehouses on 20 hectares of the banks of the River Riachuelo moves some $9 million weekly and employs 6,000 people to serve the 20,000 customers who come from all over the country. And it’s all illegal.

As we rolled along the ingress road, Marc told me that indeed the land here was designated during the Juan Peron years (half a century ago) as a resort for the poor. The roadside was now lined with billowing tall grasses, reeds, willow trees and a deep layer of the usual Styro-plastic urban trash, bagged and otherwise, no less visible than if the place were a designated dump. A vivid heap of some synthetic fabric cuttings in a fluorescent rainbow of colors that might have been pretty in another setting caught my eye.

As soon as Marc and I paid the cabbie, he spun around and high-tailed out of the no man’s land. We joined an ant line of people (largely Bolivian, Peruvian, Paraguayan, and other much-lamented undocumented workers of Argentina). To get to the market stalls we had to cross the Riachuelo River, rank with years of slaughterhouse detritus and god knows what else. I started having my first misgivings.

The river was so thick with trash you could cross it on foot but risk its flesh-dissolving waters. No flora or fauna survived in it. The tonnage of humanity drawn to this Hades of merchandising had to use one of two pedestrian bridges, one more hair-raising than the other. We chose to walk the plank, a sling of metal, with jerry-rigged wire railing gone in most places. The thick, hideous stew of toxic garbage in the river below threatened life much more than the actual 30-foot fall. One blogger described the potential fall like “bungee jumping without a rope.”

But the pilgrimage, four and five people deep, moved relentlessly to the altar of mercantilism. Just before Marc and I were to mount the metal sling, I spotted the three-cup monty, or shell game scam, off to our right. I wondered what sucker they were ripping off. Two men and two women were obviously in cahoots. How many times had I seen this game pulled off on unsuspecting riders of San Francisco’s Muni bus—street guys getting 20 bucks a pop? Then, as I passed, one of the women tugged my arm lightly, not unfriendly, and encouraged me to play. It was me and Marc they’d had their eye on all the time. I had carefully dressed in loose cargo pants, all my few valuables in tightly zipped pockets. I wore my decrepit running shoes. I’m dark and Argentine looking, how could they spot me among the thousands of shoppers here?

“Get your hands off me,” I scowled, angrily pushing the woman’s hand away. “Fock you,” she yelled violently after me.

“This isn’t good, Marc,” I said. “Getting into a defensive mode is not good.” It was not even 6 am. I was cranky and not yet caffeinated.

In less than ten minutes we were across the river, joking about whether an engineer had lately examined the safety of the structure. I discreetly removed my 18-karat gold earrings from Florence and tucked them in a Velcro-locking pocket. I had brought my camera but would never take it out of my left zip-lock pocket.

We were in the heat of the market. We could only proceed with the packed crowds languorously. The flow was one huge sloe-eyed sea of poor people hungry for Stuff. Need or whim for that stuff could only be measured by the beholder. “Everywhere I look I see dead eyes,” I muttered.

Continue to Page 2 – Buenos Aires Market

Have you ever been on a photowalk?

I first heard someone talking about one during a tech conference …. a bunch of photography enthusiasts who were also conference attendees went out exploring as a group for an hour or two, usually in the morning or evening for best light.

The walk was at CES (the Consumer Electronics Show) in Las Vegas, so the eye candy was all around.

In Los Angeles, the tourism office knows how important visuals are to the LA visitor experience, and their Los Angeles Photo of the Day blog is hugely popular. They also periodically host photowalks with local photographers.

One event used the standard hop-on, hop-off LA tourist bus tour – a great way to visit a lot of iconic, interesting places in a short period of time.

Enjoy the video below (direct link on YouTube) and see if your own local tourism office would like to host a photowalk.

They’ll probably want participants to sign over rights to the photos taken – so they can use them in marketing your town – but if you’re OK with that, it should be a fun experience.

If you like this post, please consider subscribing to the blog via RSS feed or by email – the email signup link is at the top of the right sidebar near the Search box. Thanks!)

When I visited Palm Springs, California, I had no trouble remembering where I was. I had trouble placing when I was.

The city is well known for its impressive array of  Mid-Century Modern buildings — many of which have been preserved, some of which have been tragically lost.

The sleek aesthetic of the middle 20th century has always struck me as incredibly futuristic, which is what creates that “wobbling in time” feeling — don’t ask me to tell you what year it is when I’m looking at fifty year old building that seems like it belongs to an era that won’t happen for another fifty years.

Adding to this time travel effect were my Palm Springs accommodations. I stayed at the Riviera, which takes its design mission very seriously — there were lots of “oh my” moments, from the lobby’s curved orange wall, lit up, with a floral metal lattice work dwarfing small check-in desks in the lobby, to the swank Rat Pack pool, to the never-ending collision of patterns in the hotel’s labyrinthine hallways –  but not so many clues about what year tops the current calendar.

I will now confess that my estimate of fifty years of temporal flux in either direction was no rough estimate.  I’m not too proud to say that my earliest impression of Mid Century Modern came from watching The Jetsons, and they “lived” in 2062. Exactly fifty years from 2012.

Anyway, the best way to get to know Palm Spring’s Mid-Century Modern architecture, also known as “desert modernism”, is to head there for Modernism Week, February 16th to the 26th, 2012.  There are tours by foot and tours by bus, parties, lectures, films. Check out the full event schedule here.  And if you’re heading to Palm Springs another time, be sure to get your mid-century bearings at the Palm Springs Visitors Center, pictured above left, which started its life as a fabulous gas station, constructed in 1965.

In the heart of any city, there are times when things take on a quiet aspect, times when a quiet view of a usually busy scene arises. That was the case with this view of Buchanan Street in Glasgow, Scotland, which for me took on a bit of the aspect of an impressionist painting when seen from the steps of the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall one winter evening.

This is a time of year when Scots across the world, and all who enjoy Scottish life, history, and culture, take the opportunity to celebrate around Burns Night, the anniversary of the birth of Scottish poet Robert Burns on 25 January. They may do this with the traditional meal of haggis, cock a leekie soup, and cranachan, or with other dishes and festivities suited to their own tastes. Burns wrote a poem famously using haggis as a metaphor for Scottish pride and independence of character, which is why the dish often turns up on Burns night celebrations.

Care to learn a bit more about Robert Burns?
Visit Scotland tells you about Burns Night, past and present
Eddi Reader sings his graceful song of enduring loveJohn Anderson My Jo, and his lively one celebrating good friendship, Willie Stewart
Emily Smith, who is from the same area of southwestern Scotland where Burns lived, has recorded a fresh look at his songs on her album called Adoon Winding Nith

Consider subscribing to Perceptive Travel through email or
RSS feed. thanks!

Often there are musicians up in the front corner playing a session of tunes. There are plenty of places to sit and relax, up close to the music if you’d like, a bit farther away at the bar, and at a range of tables near enough and far away to either of those things to enjoy a chat and a drink of one of the many beers and ales available on draft or by the bottle. In the back room, there might be a singing session going on, or perhaps someone hosting a private vent such as a wedding reception or a family party, all adding to the atmosphere of the place, which is both festive and relaxed. Where is all this? The Burren in Somerville, Massachusetts. It may not be that TV made famous and rather touristy bar where everybody knows your name, but there’s always a feeling of welcome at The Burren.

The burren, in Ireland, is s a distinctive landscape of rock said to have been formed by glaciers passing over west Clare in ancient times, with stone formations built by giants, fairies, ancient people, or geology, take your pick. The Burren in Davis Square just a short way from the center of Boston is warm, friendly, wood toned gathering place that is both Irish and American.

That idea is carried out in the food served at the Burren, too. At weekend brunch you could order a full Irish fry with eggs, black pudding, and Irish bacon. You could also have a classic American breakfast of eggs sunny side up with American bacon. Eggs Benedict is on the menu as well. Lunch and dinner menus offer the same mix of Irish and American fare, with, as is not so common in Irish pubs, quite a few dishes that will suit vegetarians well and plenty of fish from nearby New England coastal waters on offer too. It’s all quite tasty and, Irish expats and lovers of a true Irish pot of tea take note, the know how to brew a proper cup of tea at The Burren as well — and they use Barry’s Tea.

It’s a good place to sit of a quiet afternoon over that pot of tea, and equally entertaining to stop in with a group to enjoy a drink. a chat, and a meal, and often, music form a singer who writes his owns songs, and an Irish tune or two as well.

photograph is of one of the front windows of The Burren during the Christmas season, and is copyrighted. thank you for respecting that.

Consider subscribing to Perceptive Travel through email or
RSS feed. thanks!