Today I've been travelling for a month. I feel like I've been here forever, home seems very far away and somehow just unreal. The best thing is that I've still got 4 more months to go!

I finally left Mendoza, which was about to become my Hotel California. I never know which day it is and was taken by surprise when I realized that December has crept up on me, but I guess November couldn't keep on going forever. In the centre of Santiago everything's about Christmas-this-and-Christmas-that , I thought I could bypass that frenzy this year. Well, I am boycotting Christmas and only very few, if any, will get a Christmas card from me.
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The Los Libertadores between Argentina and Chile is now my favourite border crossing. Not only is it set in a breathtakingly beautiful landscape, but the immigration process is also fast and efficient.

Chile's agriculture is free of all kinds of diseases which plagues the neighbouring countries and luggage is searched in case passengers have animals or any kind of agricultural products with them. On the way to the border you have to sign a statement declaring that you don't have anything of the sort with you. Of course I had forgotten that I had a bag of almonds in my rucksack and a frowning staffmember of the border control confiscated them, but I just played the dumb tourist and didn't have to pay a fine.

My least favourite border crossing is between Tanzania and Rwanda. It is also set in beautiful surroundings, where the Kagera river divides the two countries. When I crossed the borders it took a good part of a day. I took a matatu (minibus) from Kigali to the borders, where the border patrol went thoroughly through my backpack, in search of what I don't know, probably out of boredom since the Rusumo crossing is in the middle of nowhere and only two other people were crossing at the same time as I did, and they probably didn't look half as interesting as a mzungu girl travelling on her own. Then I walked in the blistering midday sun over the bridge to the Tanzanian side. There my backpack was, again, ransacked thoroughly. I was more at ease with that, since I could communicate a bit with the guards on the Tanzanian side in my broken Kiswahili, but in Rwanda mainly French and Kinyarwanda are spoken and I know neither. And do not feel compelled to do so. Surely French would be useful but there is a handful of other languages that I'd rather learn. After going through customs (which were two guys on either side of the bridge, sheltered from the merciless sun with the unmistakable blue plastic sheets from UNHCR) I went through immigration in Tanzania. The immigration officials didn't know where Iceland was and then came in handy the excellent design of the new Icelandic passports, which includes a map on every other page that shows the global position of the country. I am very thankful for this foresight in the design of the passports. This is not the only occasion I've had to use this very practical tiny map.

What made the day so difficult was not however the scalding heat and sunshine or the pole-pole (slowly-slowly, a Kiswahili term for relax, take it easy) acting of immigration and customs on both sides, but the fact that at this border crossing thousands and thousands of people died in the war in 1994. Some were murdered with machetes, hoes and other handy gardening tools, others beaten to death, or shot while trying to cross the river, which is not just another small creek but a roaring fierce flow of water coloured reddish brown of the rich east african soil. And some days got coloured red with blood of the people who thought that a new life would await them on the other bank of the river.

I had read a lot on the war when I was in Rwanda and the truth can be very harsh for a little girl from Iceland, travelling around alone with her belongings in a rucksack. Yes, ignorance IS bliss, but I prefer to see the world as it is. Because sometimes it can be really nice.

One day I want to go back to Rwanda and see how much has happened since I was there, because in spite of all some people I spoke to were quite optimistic 5 years after the war. In Kigali a lot of new buildings had risen and things were looking promising, refugees were returning home although there was often nothing to return to. But what happened can never be forgotten, it was to dear.

Now, that was a happy memory! On to other things.
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Just when I was getting used to the Italian-like accent in Argentina and had even mastered a bit of lunfardo, which is a porteño (porteños are people living in Buenos Aires) slang I go to Chile. And not only is the pronounciation different but the vocabulary too.

And when I had gotten used to and learned to appreciate the Argentine timings, siesta and all, I have to get used to the more costumary timings in Chile. And when I find out that the shop I was going to isn't open until 9 pm or that the restaurant I was going to closed at 10 pm instead of being filling up for dinner, I'm all at sea. The bars and clubs are open until daybreak here though, as in Argentina, but nobody goes there until 1 am at first.
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Santiago sits in a basin between two mountain ranges and a cloud of smog often hangs over the city. It was ranked the second most polluted city in the Americas in 2002 and some days the smog is so severe that schoolchildren are kept from participating in PE and older citizens are advised to stay indoors. It's a nice city though, with lots of colonial buildings and history. And lost and lots of museums, which I've taken much pleasure in.

A few of the exhibitions I checked out are a part of the huge Foto América 2004 (www.fotoamerica.cl/2004), and you can see a great one here; www.cuerpospintados.cl. And no, I am not spending my precious time and effort in mastering the making of links, that will have to wait for a rainy day, you can just use copy and paste if you're curious.
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One of the beautiful buildings I went to look at is the Municipal Theatre (www.municipal.cl). I figured that it couldn't harm to check how much tickets were for the concert the same evening, the Polish pianist Krysztoff Jablonski was playing works by Chopin, and well, a last-minute-worst-seats ticket was about one US $, so of course I grabbed the opportunity. The next day I played the same game, then Orquesta Filarmónica de Santiago played works by Brahms and Bartók. Wonderful, wonderful.

Yesterday was a concert in Santiago I would have LOVED to go to; adorable Norah Jones in all her charm. But for the price of a ticket to that concert I could have gone to 30 concerts in the Theatre. And I am budgeting. But she is so great, if I were more into women I'd be after her. That is, if Salma Hayek wouldn't want me.
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And now I am in Viña del Mar, north of Santiago, which is a very touristy seaside resort. And tomorrow, after all the museums and information I've consumed on the Pinochet era I'm going to be an irresponsible ignorant tourist, to the beach and sunbathe and do nothing at all. Maybe read some trashy novel or another with a happy ending. And eat ice cream. Sweet.