Snapped

My favourite art books are photography compendiums - heavy coffee table collections where the grainy faces stare out from the pages with the same immediacy as the moment they were caught on camera.

The Family of Man is a really classic collection. The photos are completely timeless and the beautiful images make up a groundbreaking series that set the scene for the development of photojournalism as an art - which raises a whole new host of questions. If you are interested in this debate, visit the Pulitzer Prize Photography exhibition at the Newseum in Washington, D.C.. The photos are jarring, and there is a series of short interviews with some of the winners who discuss how they captured the event on film, and what it feels like to have their image - often a private moment of pain and suffering - achieve international acclaim.

On This Site is an eerie series of now vacant landscapes where heinous crimes once occurred. Thumbing through is uncomfortably compelling. The unsettling experience speaks to the power of photos beyond the image, and it presents an interesting alternative to the frozen action of photojournalism.

A photography book that thrives on words as much as images is Homeless. Portraits of street-dwellers in San Francisco are accompanied by the words of the subjects themselves. They range from schizophrenic rants on being chased by the FBI, to heartrending tales of abandonment, abuse and escape. Sometimes it is hard to discern between the two, and the photographer offers no further explanation, save the weary faces of the subjects.


To India With Love is a visual explosion that combines snazzy graphic design with artistic motifs and classic photographs. The book is a sensory treat that captures the vibrant colors, fragrant smells and exotic sounds of India between it's pages. The collection is designed as homage to the nation in the wake of the Mumbai terrorist attacks,and the pages are punctuated with 'love letters' from actors, artists and designers who have fallen in love with the country. Perhaps an overly nostalgic and unrealistic view of India, the book nevertheless captures the ongoing romance and optimism of a country so rich in history and tradition, as it enters the modern world, full throttle.

In Case You Felt Rushed

Today was a national holiday in Buenos Aires in accordance with the new Bank Holiday Law. The city was off work, and the banks weren't functioning; hardly ground breaking news. On the other hand, there were no national protests blocking traffic, so for once everyone could actually make it to work.

President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner circumvented Congress with a presidential decree in order to increase the number of 'feriados' or bank holidays per year. It was obviously a matter of national urgency, which is all too obvious in a country where ordering a coffee takes a whole day and the parks look like fairgrounds - on a monday. Nevertheless it was an important political move: I'm never one to pass judgement. Click here to read why.

And when you're done, here are a couple snap shots of park life in Buenos Aires. Yeah, wish you were here?

This is how we do it, do it! Excercise Class, BA styleeee

uno, dos, TRES! Work it muchachas!

Just a regular park day

For the Latin Lover in you. Or, if you're lucky, for your Latin Lover.

This is tame for BA Roller Bladers. Usually they're an army on wheels.

And of course...there's always time for spotting a mullet!

A Review of Reviews

A few weeks ago I went to La Embajada Bar to write a review for the 54 Historical Bars series in the paper. It was a complete dump and I totally wouldn't recommend it. Thats why you should totally read my review.

And if we're talking reviews, here's a quick round up of the first glacier museum in Latin America, opening this week in Argentina. I didn't actually go because it's miles away in Southern Patagonia, but I did write a review of the man behind the endeavour. Click here to decide for yourself whether that was worthwhile.

A Hallow's Eve Past

So. Halloween may have come and gone. But I don't exactly move with the times (you may have gathered that when all my blog entries appeared on the same day). Even so, here's a little something to get you in the mood, or at least remind of you of spooky times, long gone.

My offering for The Argentina Independent's Top 5 Section. And you all thought I wanted to be a serious journalist.

With Recoleta Cemetery gracing the cover of many guidebooks, Buenos Aires has always existed along side the dead. But lurking behind every postcard is a far spookier past. Presenting the cities’ top five haunted places; a tour through the legends of the underworld, as told by the spirits themselves… (click to read on)

Recoleta Cemetary: Buenos' Aires' very own city of the dead

Where the Heart Is

If there's anything I've learnt since being in Argentina, its how much I love, love, LOVE Mexico. I definitely want to live in Mexico one day; it's so spirited and so Latin. A whirl of bright colors, spicy smells, zesty rhythms, endless energy. Its become a mild (more than mild) obsession since arriving here, much to the dismay of my friends who have been subjected to the below song on repeat, for weeks on end now. I think this passage from a Lonely Planet sums it up perfectly, and is a really good piece of writing.

Be careful: Veracruz is intoxicating. Scantily clad, she adorns herself in sea shells, permeates car exhaust and casually testifies her sordid colonial past. She’ll gladly share her last taco with you and just as gladly take your last peso. Usually you’ll find her swiveling to salsa, boozing, or laughing at her own joke. She gives her inhabitants, the ever-proud and doggedly faithful jarochos, a place to fall in love on her sweltering shores saturated with mariachis, seaside cafés, trova, and explosive sunsets. And for the broken-hearted, she offers miles of coastline boulevard for solitary rambling – save during her raucous Carnaval, which rocks Mexico. Whatever the case may be, Veracruz, both regal and trashy, could make even the most stoic bloke wax poetic.

I love this piece of writing - the personification of Veracruz is so evocative; sharing her last taco, and taking your last peso, her sordid colonial past, regal and trashy, etc I think it's great, and if it doesn't make you want to go to Mexico I don't know what will. I could go on.













While we're on the subject, check out this song; it also fits perfectly. The fact that it's just off tune makes it even better.

Doggy Dos and Paw Pedis: Porteños and their Pups

There is nothing Porteños like more than walking their dogs. Certainly man's best friend, the dogs here are treated to 'doggy dos' (hair treatments), paw pedis, and 'ruff robes' (nothing short of a ballgown).

Professional dog walkers clean up well, making a decent living carting the pooches of the wealthy across the palm tree boulevards - often ten at a time. What they don't clean up, however, is the dog poo. It is literally everywhere, turning a stroll through the city into a veritable ballet.

Here at Cerviño 3981, we have our very own dog... 'Dom,' or maybe 'Dominic.' I can't say I'm a fan. Sometimes he pees on my floor. Sometimes he eats the cat food (yes we have one of them too). Either way, i'm less than enamoured. I clearly don't have what it takes to be a Porteño.

That's alot of doggies


Who are they waiting for?


This professional dog walker spent the whole time on his phone.

Mourning in the City

On Wednesday, former Argentine president Nestor Kirchner died unexpectedly from a heartattack; Kirchner and his wife are a well established political instituion in the country so the news hit the nation hard. All over the city there are images of the political couple embracing during their rallies and signs of condolence hang on every wall, saying, 'strength, Mrs. President' and 'our tears are for you.'

I covered the story for my paper. It was my first extended news piece, written to the wire (I only had a few hours), and it was also the first political article/obituary that I have ever had to write.

In the evening I went down to Plaza de Mayo for a follow up article* on the scene at the presidential palace. It looked more like a political battle ground than a site of mourning, as people waving the Justicialist Party flag marched through the square in lieu of flowers and funeral processions. Of course, the entire centre was blocked off and traffic was at a standstill.

In other words it was like any other day in Buenos Aires, except with ten times as many people.

Paul, the psychic octopus who correctly predicted this year's world cup also died. Both tragedies in their own right - not to compare to the two or anything.

It will be interesting to see what will happen in Argentine politics. Nestor was the favourite for next years elections, and he has also been governing the country through his wife, current president Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, throughout her years in power.

Fuerza Cristina

*mine is the prose at the top, Sam gathered and put together the international responses at the bottom of the article.

Sex Talk With 'Dr. K'

In case you didn't already know, Argentina is obsessed with sex. As soon as you walk out the door you will hear one half of the city making cat calls, and you will see the other half proudly flaunting their new boob jobs as they shimmy down the street. Which by the way, come free on private health insurance. Once a year.

However, somewhere amongst the "Holaa Lindas" and the "Por Favorrrsss!" (my favourite) lurks a crippling insecurity. Buenos Aires has more psychoanalyists per person than any other nation in the world. People talk like its their job. And everyone talks.

That's why I wanted to write a story for my paper, The Argentina Independent, on the nation's foremost sexologist, 68 year old 'Dr. K.' I wanted to hear more from this legend. Who wouldn't?

Dr. K told me the secret to a good sex life, and revealed why all Porteños cheat.

I am his biggest fan.

A Family Holiday

Welcome to a Getzels' family holiday. Spirit possession, blood letting, a holy mountain in Venezuela. All in day's work, my friend:

Man mid trance, during cult festival Maria Lionza, Venezeula
(photo by Zoe Getzels)

For an explanation, check out my article, The Cult of Maria Lionza: Summoning the Spirit of Venezeula, for The Argentina Independent.

For a family album, check my sister's image story, The Indy Eye: Maria Lionza.

Happy travels!

Misión Adentro

So, the Chilean Miners have been rescued, and one week on, their lovers and wives who all turned up at the disaster site, haven't yet broken out into war.

On 12th October the world watched on, captivated by the miracle rescue of the 33 Miners who have been trapped underground for over three months. Across the globe, people stayed up to watch the 24 hour live television coverage. Outside the Chilean embassy in Washington D.C. a wide screen TV was set up in anticipation of a large audience. Of course, no one risked showing up.

But down South in Chile, champagne was popped and pinatas were cracked. Any excuse for a fiesta.

All in all it was a joyous occasion, a great ray of hope shining through the many disasters that populate the bleak pages of the news.

However the most illuminating story of all was one I found in a Venezuelan Newspaper. 'If the Miners were Here':

In Ecuador, President Rafael Correa would have jumped in the mine right behind the others,"I defy all those that try to stop me." he would announce holding back the rescue mission. "I will leave this mine a president, or a dead body."

In Venezuela the rescue would be titled, Misión Mino Adentro*, another one of Chavez's mission 'adentro' pet political projects. Still no one has actually made it inside.

In Bolivia the title simply would have been, "Mission: The first to leave."


*Mission inside the Mine

Blading B.A.

Have you ever wondered what a rollerblading marathon was like? Did you even know they existed?

Well, here in Buenos Aires rollerblading is all the rage. The biggest danger facing pedestrians in this city isn't the mountains of foot traffic, or the millions of cars that pass through the center each day. No, it's the roller bladers. Men, women, old young, fully clothed, partially naked, wearing a yellow wig (see below), anything goes:

Today, was the 2010 Buenos Aires Rollerblading Marathon, an annual race 'bladed' by thousands of knee padded, spandex sporting Argentines from across the country.

But no matter how fast paced the event, there's always time for spotting a mullet or two

My First Article

Last week I reviewed a bar for The Argentina Independent's coverage on the Government's list of historic bars in Buenos Aires. Apparently there are 54. I reviewed number 23, which I chose based on the name alone - 'El Tokio.' However I discovered that this bar was so far out that even the extensive BA buses don't go there. I also discovered that there was nothing more behind the name than the mere cross roads.

But all was not lost as I met a local celebrity whilst sipping on my coffee! There was mass hysteria in the bar; all five of the 60 year old patrons narrowly avoided heart-attacks. Click here to see how the exciting events unfolded.

To all my devout readers...

To all two of you: I would like to apologize for my absence of late. Moving to a new country is hard, and you will never fully understand the importance of windows until you've experienced Buenos Aires Craigslist.

However, I finally have a roof over my head, and empanadas in my fridge (though still no windows), so there is nothing to fear. I have also begun my job for The Argentina Independent as a 'journalist' (a.k.a a blathering spanish speaker who mumbles questions to unsuspecting passerbys - with incorrect grammer. You should really try it someday).

I am going to use this blog to keep my fan club (hah) up to date with my articles, rather than provide minute by minute accounts of my life in Buenos Aires. Though I may do that now and then. So when you are really pulling at straws, and have nothing else to do, I invite you to sit back, relax, and contribute to the my online hits... Ciao lindos.

Hath Thy Facebook...

Click here to see the article in the newspaper I work for, The Argentina Independent


The old adage goes: hath thy facebook, and hath thy a job, delete your account. It's true. Ask your friends. Ask your teachers. (Don't) ask your boss. It's ancient folklore.

Strictly speaking I don't have a job. However, I like to imagine that I'm forging a path. It's very windy, and I still don't have diamonds on the soles of my shoes. But for me, the journey started in Guatemala, where I began work on my Spanish. It was also here that my proverbial knowledge of Facebook was addressed.

I had this realization when Lesvia, my favourite teacher - patient, clear, enthusiastic, time enough for an hour per sentence - added me on Facebook. At first I was proud. I received my first message in Spanish. I replied in Spanish. I was corrected in Spanish. But then came our last day together, and, too, distraught to learn any more, we turned to Facebook. Lesvia scrolled through all 1,157 photos of mine as I sat next to her cowering with shame. Of course, I had considered how I looked in the eyes of my peers, but to my favorite Guatemalan maestra? For some reason, it had never crossed my mind.

As we skimmed through, the blinking, green hued computer cast my photos in an even more ugly light – Bebidas, mas bebidas. Mas. Every picture, she informed me, tipping her head back, and motioning towards her mouth with a pretend pint. And then, 'Raquelllllll, what is this!? Raquel!' There I was, pointing at the butt cheek of a boy who was gleefully mooning the photographer. And then again, a huge grin across my face. She kept going, her computer clicks drowning out my desperate explanations in broken Spanish.

We said goodbye that day, joking about my 'sordid' past, automated and ordered on Facebook. "Que tu extranes sobre Inglaterra?" Lesvia asked. Extranes. I filed through the Spanish words that I had stored in my head over the past weeks. Extranes...? extrano! 'Strange.' "Los hombres quienes quitten su ropa!" I replied, affirmatively. My one last dash at dignity. Yes, that's what I find strange about England! The men who take off their clothes all the time! "Es muy extrano, si?" Lesvia's face lit up, “Ah Raquel. I see. So that's what you miss?”

The ABCs of Xela

I've learnt my ABCs in English. I'm learning my ABCs in Spanish, so I thought, why not try my hand at the ABCs of 'Xela'?

A is for Antigua. A mere footnote to Xela
B is for Bella Chao (x 3) and other revolutionary songs of Central America
C is for Chistes: A zorro is walking along the border of Mexico and the United States. The zorro accidentally bumps into a gato and says, 'Oh I'm Sorrrry...' The gato says, 'Oh, I'm Gato...' Get it? No, neither do I but my teachers think it's hilarious. What they found even more hilarious was the fact that I thought 'zorro' was a reference to the Mask of Zorro. It's not. (It's a fox if you were wondering.)
D is for ¡Dios Mios! (la iglesia en Xela tiene cinco televisions...en color)
E is for Empandas Taiwanesa. The best in town. Who Knew?
F is for Frijoles. If you don´t like them now, you will soon.
G... Guatever...
H is for Hurricane Agatha, a devastating storm that took the lives of over 100 people and destroyed the homes of countless families, leaving pueblos and townships in complete disaray. The clean up effort is barely underway.
I is for (el) Infinito, and beyond! A gringo cafe with guatemalteco music
J is for Joder, if you're all about shock factor (and want to display your 'intimate' knowledge of español)
K is for ¿K tal? Spanish text-speak
L is for Los Estrellas de la Linea, a heartwarming, and at times, tragic portrayal of life for a group of Guatemalan prostitutes who form a soccer team in order to raise awareness about the plight of sex workers in Central America.
M is for 'un Mozo por favor' (the Guatemalan Bud Light)
N is for Noches. Buenas.
O is for 'OBVs'. Works anywhere.
P is for PLQ, the best place to learn Spanish in Central and South America. Can't you tell?
Q is for Quiché (a.k.a K'iche), one of the many indigenous languages spoken in Guatemala. Particularly commen in the surrounding mountains of Xela.
R is for Rolling your RRRRRRss
S is for San Simon, amigo of Gaucho Gil. Although the folkloric Saint is not fully recognized by the Catholic Church, admirers still turn up in the hundreds to pay their respects to the beer swigging, cigar toting martyr. Incidentally, these are his favorite gifts. And incidentally, they also miraculously 'disappear' from his shrine...
T is for Tenotopican, a nearby pueblo where a local collective of women specialize in weaving beautifully ornate traditional guatemalan clothes.
U is for Usted. Politely.
V is for Volcanos. Be aware of billows of smoke and clouds of ash looming overhead
W is for Wellington Boots. BRING THEM.
X is for 'Xela,' a beloved city in the highlands of Guatemala from which I am writing this very moment. World famous for their Spanish language Schools, Taiwanese Empanadas (seriously) and torrential downpours.
Y is for Yellow school buses. If you are yearning for yesteryear and the innocent days of paper aeroplanes and yellow school buses, look no further than Guatemala: The place where school buses come to die... Or are revived. Depending on your feelings about combustion smog.
Z is for Zunil, home of San Simon, trusted amigo and life long companion of Gaucho Gil.


The venerable San Simon, sunglasses and dappled pink tie bringing luck and good fortune to all.

Los Problemas Español

Since arriving at language school in Guatemala I have had muchos problemas español. And my dream of becoming fluent in six weeks is quickly fading...

1. I told my teacher that I was married (casada) instead of tired (cansado)

2. I told Jorge, the son of my host family, ¨me gustas muchas" (i like you alot) instead of, 'I like it alot.' This happens everyday.

3. I didn't bring enough socks. But i did learn the word for socks, 'los calcentines.'

4. Yo bailo la salsa... (badly)

5. I bought un reloj that doesn´t work, and cost alot. I now have no alarm (and no Quetzales).

6. I attended film night. The film was Bosnian. With Spanish subtitles.

7. I met another student called, 'Rachell' but I just thought that nobody could pronounce my name.

8. I turned up for all the activities because I thought I was already signed up. I wasn´t. But Rachell was.

9. I overestimated the weather (wishful thinking)

10. I arranged to spend six months interning in Buenos Aires. Pero no hablo español.

Hay muchos problemos.

the end of the world (cup)

Today I reached the world's end: A rusty fairground that falls sharply into the Pacific Ocean at the edge of a town that is nestled between the lush green hills of the Costa Rican Jungle. The flat grey sky weighs down on the valley, the heavy clouds hacking away at the concrete, as the taqueria's and tiendas crumble to the ground. The ferriswheel slowly creaks in the background blending into the storm that rolls across the ocean, keeping time in suspense.

It's the world cup final, but even so, the clock seems to stand still. As the hour ticks on for the players, neither team makes any progress, mirroring the slow, dense wave of heat that saturates the bar. Towards the end of the game the bar slowly wriggles with life, half the tables jumping to their feet as Spain score their only goal. Four minutes to go... and then three...the room is suddenly thick with nerves. Some people wring their hands together. Others grip their chairs. Two minutes left, and then BAM. The power goes off. The TV sputters and the screen fizzes to grey. A sigh echoes through the room uniting all the supporters. And that's it, the world cup is over. We think Spain has won, but a last minute come back isn't off the cards. So instead we wander the streets, trying to find some evidence of the game. An old man sits by his pizza stand in the fair ground. The TV blinks, but he doesn't seem to care, indifferent to the screen in front of him where history is being made.

playing catch up

Last year I entered a Rough Guide travel writing competition - describe a place you know well with an 'on budget' theme. I chose to write about Camden. Sadly I didn't win. But the lucky person who did is the next contributor to their South America guide - all expenses paid.

I based my entry on something I wrote for UCL's Pi Newspaper a couple of years ago.

But I did get a lucky break last month when I got paid for an article I wrote for Time Out London during some work experience at their offices (still to be scanned)

I really needed the dinero so perhaps it was my first milagro. If you're any better with your funds than I am you can buy a set of ten here.

the legend of 'gauchito gil'

I always say if I'd been born in any other life I'd want to be a pirate. A bit of Jack Sparrow never goes amiss. But instead of following the compass due North, and riding out the surf into the sunset, I'm heading in a South-Western direction - towards Buenos Aires*. And I'm going to need more than a compass to steer me in the right direction.

My Spanish is flojo at best. And as of right now I am entering Argentina on an (illegal) one-way ticket. Prospects for my first day of work are not looking positive. So I've decided to throw caution to the wind (much like the pirates) and put all my faith in my second favorite rogues: The Cowboys.

Gauchito Gil is a favorite folk hero of the Argentines. A good-hearted outlaw. First he had his heart broken by a rich heiress and was cast off his land. Then he was forced to fight against his own country men in a brutal civil war. To make matters worse he became prey to a bloodthirsty policeman. Whilst on the run Gauchito saved the life of the policeman's only son, but the raging officer killed Gil anyway. If that doesn't make you the stuff of legends I don't know what will. eHow provides a handy four-step guide on How to Ask Gauchito Gil for a Miracle. I know I will be.

*via Guatemala in August