the daily mail summer

"Sun is in the sky, oh why, oh why, would I want to be anywhere else" - Lily Allen

The clocks have gone forward, in case nobody told you. 

In case nobody relentlessly reminded you that you would ‘lose’ an hour of sleep on Sunday and that you would stay unconscious for a mere 12 hours instead of the luxurious weekend 13. Ergh, the hassle.

When somebody tells you that the clocks are changing, you panic as if your life is about to spin into a vortex. That is, until you realise that this is twenty bloody nineteen and everything changes itself except the oven, your car and Piers Morgan’s personality.

The truth of the matter is that something much greater has arrived. Something to trivialise the position of a clock hand into an oblivion of irrelevance that only houses things like David Moyes and the bit of plastic on the end of a shoelace.

This is an enigma that only graces British shores. It rocks up like that old family member that visits once a year. They bring rare sweets that you’ve never had before and smell like, how you’d imagine, the drawing room in Cluedo smells. They are fun and fucking annoying in identical quantities.

This is the, drumroll please, Daily Mail Summer ©.

What a strange name, I hear you say. Why would you label something that isn’t a school sports tournament after the Daily Mail, you ask with bewilderment. Well I have several reasons. One is here. Another is here. And here. Here. Here. HeRe. hErE. HERE. 

The Daily Mail Summer is the kid who goes to Spain eight times a year and returns to his snotty, vitamin D deprived classmates with tales of nutmegging Messi, fighting a shark and losing his 12-year-old virginity to an 18-year-old model from Malaga. The Daily Mail Summer is Jay from the Inbetweeners.

Well, William Mackenzie, it’s time to open up that briefcase and lather on some sun-cream because the Daily Mail Summer has reached Britain and – as fucking always – nobody has a clue what to do.

The first rule of the Daily Mail Summer is that it must be anticipated with at least a week’s notice. 

Any sign of a 17 degree, cloudless day must be preceded with a few days of ‘BRITISH HEATWAVE HELL’ tabloid headlines and awkward office conversations that consist of one person saying “it’s meant to be warm this weekend” and another responding with “oh is it?!?!” despite having heard this three times previously that day. You sip your scolding, instant coffee daydreaming about a chilled 5% alternative.

Rule number two, said BRITISH HEATWAVE HELL always arrives on a Saturday. On a Saturday, society undoes its tie, unbuttons its shirt and puts on a pair of flip-flops. 

You wake up in a slight sweat – new territory – and spot the lustful beam of sunlight shining through the curtains. You react to it like a moth, banging into it like a dusty twat. Before you reach the shower you’ve already played three Tame Impala songs and Summer Breeze by the Isley Brothers. You put the shower on a few degrees cooler than usual. It makes you feel fine, blowing through the jasmine in your mind.

Once you’ve nonchalantly rejected your trusty tracksuit bottoms for some shorts and completely discarded the idea of wearing a top – all to the beat of Will Smith’s Summertime by Will Smith – you bop your way into the garden and breathe in the sweet, sweet summer air. Just like Miami, just like Will said. 

But it’s early April and it turns out 17 degrees doesn’t feel that much hotter than 13 degrees. In the shade it feels colder, and you look down at your sad erect little nipples as you silently think about what top you’re going to put on.

But does that stop you? Absolutely fucking not. You are British, you are tough, and you have worked all week to enjoy the fruits of a Daily Mail Summer’s day. 

You head straight to the WhatApp group chat and send a bait-loaded hook into the pond: “Pints” quickly followed by “Pub garden” in case anyone has lost their mind. There are no question marks as this is not a bloody question. The sky is blue, the sun is visible and summer has arrived. The Daily Mail said so.

Once you settle on some jean shorts, a white t-shirt and some sunnies, if you’re a middle-aged white kid, or shades, if you’re a father of three, you leave the house with the world at your feet. 

You bounce your way into town to the sound of chirping birds, paddling pools and lawnmowers, reminiscing about the times you were a little shit and used to gleefully chuck piles of cut grass on your mate with hayfever. You pass the ice cream van: wash pastel cartoons, 90s kids music, same middle-aged man, same wife beater vest. A cone of suspicion with a 99 flake and sauce.

Walking through a town centre on a Daily Mail Summer’s day is a safari. The population of your town evolves, flexing the gems that you knew existed but never saw. 

The convertible Audis driven exclusively by estate agents and the local drug lord. The family of nine with an Childline inducing communication style. The pre-pubescent worms smoking weed under a tree. Everyone that voted Brexit. The North Korea-esq sized armies of kids on bikes. The 9/10s. The tattooed blokes drinking Stella on the street. Your town living its best life, tears in your eyes.

If an alien decided to take a holiday to planet Earth – the poor sod –  and wanted to experience an authentic Daily Mail Summer, without reading some prestige content, they need not look further than a beer garden in a suburban JD Wetherspoons.

Populated by all of the above and the ice-cream man, whole towns pack into the adult playground to get their fix. Trays of Strongbow Dark Fruits and Carlsberg cascade onto splintering benches as you nod and shake hands with former schoolmates like you’re about to play an FA Cup fixture. 

Through the pints, the fights and the sobering five minutes when the sun goes behind the clouds, sunglassed Brits across the country are gleeful, pissed and  – somehow – pink.

It’s seven o’clock and still light, cries everyone. The insanity! Once pint glasses stop refilling, herds of dozy wasps leave the pub to return back to their respective hives, content. 

Under a tree, in the shadows, the Daily Mail Summer, wired from success, sniffs, looks towards the camera and winks: it’s rain until May boys, we got ‘em again.

Cologne Christmas Special

So... we're back.

Whilst there was an ever-so-slim chance of this blog continuing after the South American adventure had finished, the bleak reality of hangovers, lectures and grey British skies soon put an end to that. As the blog was showered with a mixture of praise and piss-taking comments on Nottingham's finest nights out, I couldn't help but feel a sense of vacancy without it in my life. I mean, it was nice to verbally share life thoughts with actual English humans instead of a non-responsive blogging site, but the writing was something I missed.

I couldn't just start again though - there was no chance that I was going to illustrate a night in Ocean as an opener to the comeback tour - and I needed a reason to write. With that in mind, a pre-Christmas trip to Cologne in Germany was the ideal opportunity to soak in some blog magic and ensure that Time to Make Some Mates could make a suitably stunning return to the spotlight. It was the Robbie to my Take That.

The glamour of the comeback was quickly brought back down to Earth as a 5am start at Manchester airport somberly drizzled all over my parade (this ego-driven stance may or may not continue but for now I'm enjoying it). I flew out to Germany with my girlfriend Coralie, yet the Scrooges at RyanAir made sure that our £20 fare would not allow us to sit together and we were promptly separated. We weren't the only ones and a variety of puzzled families and couples went their separate ways to find their cramped individual seats on Michael O'Leary's capital-sucking sleigh. Talk about the charm of the Irish...

The Lone Wolf

  The year abroad is one of the most complex life experiences that someone in their early twenties could go through. Packing a bag and heading into the world at a time of your life when your biggest decisions are what colour VK to get on a Friday night and what pizza topping you will order to cure the resulting hangover. Whether heading to the other side of the world or hopping to the other-side of the Channel, the adventure and it's respective challenges are the same. You have a new language, a new environment, new people to meet and new parts of your own personality that you have to get to know.

  There's many layers to the whole thing that people on their year abroad go through, and 95% of it isn't what people post on Instagram (or what people write in blogs). It's going down to the shops for some bread, sitting in a group of natives joking around and adapting to life in a new country with all of the routinely quirks that it brings. Some of it is great, some of it is less great, but all in all you know for sure that when you leave your respective English airport you're diving into the deep end.

Grab your goggles. 

  Personally, one of the biggest parts of this year has been the independence. When I went to Argentina there was no familiar faces waiting on the other side, and Brazil has been the same. I've been lucky to meet some great people along the way, but I've embarked on this experience as a lone wolf. It's never the thing you preempt when worrying about stuff pre-year abroad - that's reserved for Visas, accommodation and what the word for 3G internet is - but I would say it's definitely been the biggest challenge for me so far.

Let's Have a Moan...

  At the time of starting this article, the time since leaving English soil is 112 days, 23 hours and 14 minutes. I left behind a traditionally frosty gloominess, as the Christmas and New Year celebrations had quickly turned into a new working year. It was grey, drizzly and as British as a Yorkshire Pudding. What awaited me was a different stratosphere; the white sands of Copacabana and the postcard images of Rio de Janeiro in the height of summer. As I went through the routinely processes of Heathrow Airport, I felt like I was trading in a Ford Focus for a Lamborghini.

An initial warning to myself...

  Nearly four months later and I'd find it hard to argue that I was wrong. At times, my time in Brazil has felt like a tour around Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory - not just for the oompa-loompa tans of Rio's beaches - with an array of incredible experiences around every corner, and an infusion of the odd dark surprise to offer a bit of life perspective. I've had the time of my life and there's very little that I can complain about. Then again, I am British... 

  Would I even be a member of our proud (ha.) country if I didn't have a daily gripe or two. An example of this? Well for a start, that Yorkshire Pudding reference earlier would have been wasted on any Latin American readers of this piece. Further over their heads then an expletive fired towards Nigel Farage (there's another one...). I'll go further into my humour based niggle a bit later... 

  I've compiled a list of things that I come across on a daily basis over here in the land of samba and joga bonito. These are the most serious aspects of living abroad. The things that bring a dark cloud of longing to be back on the tarmac of Hitchin. Forget family and friends, it's these things that really pull at those homely heart strings. So, for anyone else currently abroad, get the tissues out, put a bit of James Blunt on and take a gaze at an old £5 note - we're going on a nostalgic ride.... 

Flares, Paint and Ayrton Senna: My Brazilian Easter

  I was stood on the the streets of central São Paulo staring up at a sporting icon. It was the middle of the afternoon, yet I was a number of beers down and grasping at a bottle of catuaba (a.k.a. liquid gold). I knew I was feeling a bit tipsy, yet I started to question just how much so when I realised that I was listening to a Brazilian questioning why this sporting icon was so important. A Brazilian questioning the greatness of Ayrton Senna? Maybe I'd missed the hallucinations warning on the side of this bottle. The motoring legend stared at us, judgingly, from a vibrantly coloured mural that covered the side of a nearby building. What he was witnessing was a group 50+ charity workers wetting the head of another successful project. It was an authentically Good Friday, just as Jesus intended... minus the beer.

  When I was made aware of the upcoming bank holiday - Easter is not naturally engrained in my mental calendar - I envisaged a day of sleep, Netflix and maybe, at a push, a cheeky shower. Oh how wrong I was. Waking up to the sight of 11:00am on my phone quickly morphed into standing, awake, on the metro platform at 6:30am. I gave myself a slap but it was reality alright. Now why the f**k was I awake at such an hour on a bank holiday Friday? Not even a Monday, a FRIDAY. Well, it turns out the spirit of Easter is contagious. Not giving up anything for lent and claiming to be an atheist at any mentioning of religion is not enough to avoid the big man's powers, apparently.

Work Hard, Play Hard(er)

  So when I last left this blog, I was giving it all that about how the fun is over, I was buckling down and that work was the new focus of my life. Technically I wasn't lying... I've worked my shifts, done some decent work and am settling into becoming a productive member of the team. As any one that works a standard weekly job knows, you've got to use your time off well. If you stare at computer screens, documents and emails for too long your mind will slowly wipe itself of any hope. This blog has never claimed to be scientific, but in this case the science of common sense prevails. Anyway, the last week has been the epitome of using my free time to the max, with the aid of some good friends of mine: Neymar and The Weeknd.

  The weekend (the two days at the end of the week, not the singer) began with a spontaneous night out. That Friday ecstasy was rolling and I met some friends for a few homemade caipirinhas as the sun set over the highrise in front of us. We headed to my favourite neighbourhood in São Paulo, Vila Madalena, and to my even more favourite burger bar which loudly promotes its 'Cold Fucking Beer' on the hilly, cobbly streets of the bohemian area. We got some burgers - served on fancy wooden trays so tables aren't needed - and some of the local beers which were suggested by a waiter that had taken an interest in our foreignness on a previous trip and even reads this blog (shoutout Victor!).

  The beauty of Vila Madalena is that every bar offers something different, from live music, unique beers, quirky decoration and just generally positive vibes. The night carried us to a couple more bars, via a mini photo shoot of us four gringos drinking a bar's speciality beer, and led us onto the streets where a group of old geezers were playing some samba. By this point, we were pretty wasted and did not hold back in joining the maturer local audience in dancing along to the samba beats that created a mini Carnival bloco. Unsurprisingly, four foreigners dancing to some local music with some beers on a warm Friday night went down well and we were popular with the crowd of people around us.

  Fast forward 24 hours. The scene was different, the people were different, but the essence was identical. I was at a house party that I had been invited to by a guy at work. Me and fellow intern Tom, from Wales, were making the caipirinhas for the Brazilians (how that works I will never know) and once again we were causing a nice stir. As has tended to be throughout this year so far, natives immediately take a shine to you if you oblige with their request to say a word or do a dance move from their cultures. It's an easy way to make some quick mates and it worked a treat at this particular party. A night that I thought was going to be a few chilled beers turned into a 10 hour party, yet I got back home at 6:30am with my real plans still ahead of me.

Livin' La Vida Carioca

  From doing this blog I've realised that it's impossible to do everything in the same style. Before starting it, I thought it would be like a simple equation: I do something or visit somewhere, I write about it, I post it. A very review-orientated travel blog. Yet then came South America and it's numerous imperfections, sparks and quirks. Not a day goes by here where I don't see or hear something bizarre or experience something that just wouldn't happen at home. These things don't merit their own article like an Iguazu Falls or Boca Juniors match (the show-offs), yet they combine to offer their own unique kinks to this Year Abroad armour.

What a nice weekend this looks so far...

  Occasionally enough of these weird or amusing things occur in a short period of time and I just can't help myself. This weekend was exactly one of these honeypots of material. There were highs and lows (more of the latter) and it was a bit of a rollercoaster. Come the end of Sunday, I stopped and had a little think to myself. I was still broken from a monster hangover, slightly embarrassed from some goings-on and, inevitably, tipsy once more. The Brazilians are re-knowned for their natural gravitation towards chaos - and this weekend I got a taste of the action.

  It all started on Thursday, where every good weekend starts right? I'd finished my classes for the day and I was feeling daring. Well, not daring enough for where I was going to be a thing of impulse, but daring enough to take the plunge. I got myself onto the metro and headed from Copacabana to Ipanema. I got off the metro to scorching 37+C heat, and set off en-route to my destination. Like every single damn time I've gone in search of a place in South America, it took longer than anticipated due to awkward street organisation, but finally I found King 7 Tattoos tucked away at the back of a building. I paused, contemplated my imminent life decision, and walked in.

Bem Vindo Ao Brasil

  I'm currently sitting in a room that must be just under 3 metres long by 1.5 metres wide. It's about 30 degrees celcius and the time has just passed 10pm. I have a lovely layer of perspiration surrounding my body, squeezed out of me by the bullying heat. The open window is a speaker to the natural sounds of the local area - shouts, cars, the occasional bang. The location is Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro, and I am 11 days into the second half of my year abroad adventure. Guess who's back to join the fun? Oh yes. Everyone's favourite social-media spamming, shoved down your throat a million times, over-rated travel blog.

  Time to Make Some Mates is BACK people.

    Firstly I have a few apologies to make. Number one, to the country and people of Argentina. I left your wonderful land without writing a tribute post. I could've written a book gushing about the country and experiences it gave me, and an even bigger one of the people that put up with me for 6 months. You're all fantastic and I'm honoured to call Argentina my 'latino home'. The truth of the matter was that my planned time to write that piece was at the airport whilst awaiting for my departure. Unfortunately, in that exact moment, I was fighting the effects of a 30 hour all-nighter that was still very much ongoing (what a legend, I know), and therefore no writing was physically possible. But i love you all and I'll be back soon don't you worry. 

  Secondly, I apologise to all of those that I told I probably wouldn't be doing this for Brazil. I really didn't plan to... but at the end of the day when you're in a place like this too much weird s**t happens to ignore and my impulses to put it into words was prodded too many times by this new, Brazilian stick. I've also kinda realised that I should go back to pursuing my dream job, as a journalist. So if I ditched the blog now, it would look really very terrible to any future inquirers of my passion for the field. After many years, I'm finally thinking of my future - look at me go Mum & Dad (shoutout alert).

The Interview

  As my time here comes to a close, I saw it fit to attempt (key word) to try and initiate some sort of cultural exchange. I wanted to try and share some of what I've experienced with the Argentinean people here with people back at home. Now I could've put some serious effort into this and initially ideas were booming...

•  Organising and link with my old secondary school and the school I'm currently working at. 

•   Doing a spread of interviews with a range of different people that I've met here of all ages and sizes. 

•   Getting in touch with local English press. 

  Stardom was on the horizon...

  But, in reality, I just got tired listing those things let alone putting them into place; so subsequently it was traded for a Facebook post and getting five teenagers at school come and talk to me for 20 minutes in a break time. An equal substitution if you ask me. Also I thought putting something on Facebook would get a quality, sophisticated response. After all, I'd seen everyone's opinions and political analysis on Brexit and Donald Trump. Well...

 Looked like we were going for more of a James Franco to Kim Jong-Un approach to this 'cutting edge' interview. Either way, you've got to give the people what they want so I wrote up a list of questions including a mix of my own and my friends' inquisitions. Inevitably, on the day, I left the list at home so I pressed record with a blank page and just my own mind to carry me by. Always dangerous. 

  Luckily I was joined by some great kids, and their enthusiasm fused the interview and made it somewhat publishable! My guests for the day were (left to right) Diana, Ana, Mile Camila and Facundo - five of the school's 3rd grade of secondary (Year 10 equivalent I think). I allowed them to do the interview to be done in Spanish (semi-bribery on my part) and subsequently everything you're about to read has been translated and para-phrased (like my very own dictatorship...) but I've made sure to keep it as close to the original answers as possible. So here we go, enjoy! 

Becoming An Ultra - Step One

  At every camp I counsel at, at most classes at school, with almost every social occasion I've been in here I've been asked the same question by Argentineans...

"¿De cual equipo sos en Argentina? ¿Sos de Boca? ¿Sos de River?"

As a football fan myself, I understand the essentiality of this question, which makes it all the more embarrassing when I'm forced to become the person I hate. 

"Erm, I don't really have one..." 

  Oh no, I'm part of that brigade now. The type of person that would say they support England if asked what team they support back at home. As football is such a religion over here, it's even less acceptable to be a fence-sitter, and your credentials as a football fan are limited without pledging your allegiance. At camps I have half-heartedly claimed to be a fan of Boca Juniors, Independiente or Estudiantes de La Plata, yet without feeling a true sense of belonging or dedication to either. The situation was getting desperate and something had to be done. 

Into the Final Third

  As somebody who is on a mammoth trip abroad, and somebody with an Apple smartphone, its only predictable that I have an application on my phone dedicated to a countdown. You know, the ones that you track the approaching of big upcoming events with big exaggerated numbers of months/days/hours/seconds/mili-seconds and so on. I actually only downloaded mine a few weeks ago and I haven't really been paying it much attention, but today I decided to take a look at it...

Flight to Argentina - 114 days, 15 hours, 57 minutes since 12th July 2016. 

Homecoming (Flight Home to the UK) - 44 days, 8 hours, 3 mins until 18th December 2016. 

  So I'm a month and a half away from heading home and ending my Argentinean adventure, well into the final third of my first half of my year abroad (all the fractions). This revelation gives me a mixed bag of emotions. I'm inevitably excited to fly back to the UK into the depth of British Christmas, to see family and friends for the first time in half a year, to be home. Yet an equal sense of sadness and panic set in when I realise my time in this incredible country is nearly up. 

6 weeks left in this beautiful
place.

  I'll be the first to admit that on leaving the UK I never expected to feel so at home on the other side of the World as I have done. If you'd asked me to predict my sense of feeling on the 3rd November, I would have guessed that I would be eager for the last month and a half to pass so I could jump on the plane back to the comfort of the UK. Yet my current emotion is one of stark parallel. 

 I feel more comfortable and more integrated here than ever, with a host of new friends and acquaintances (English and Argentinean) that it'll be sad to leave behind. There's a list of things to do and places to visit in this country that I'm running out of time to plan. The 18th December is as much a deadline as anything. So I thought I'd write this little update piece to outline some of my plans for the next 6 weeks before I head home to England.  

The Wait

  6:47am - I leave the house and walk up to the entrance of my barrio. I take a seat on the grass. It's a beautiful early Monday morning (if such as thing exists) and the week dawned upon me with a crystal blue sky. I was awaiting a taxi that would come and pick me up and take me to Capilla del Señor to work as a councillor on another camp. The idea of a taxi picking me up and driving me directly to the camp location, as opposed to negotiating a number of local buses and their awkward timetables, was a complete luxury. Even the 6:10am wake up couldn't bring me down, and the fact I'd managed to get myself ready and out the house with time to spare was pat on the back moment.

  It was going well.

  The taxi was due to pick me up at 6:50am. I wasn't stupid though, I knew that could mean anything between 6:50am and an undetermined hour (or number of hours) later. They're not exactly renowned for their punctuality here. Ever since I arrived in Argentina it has been something that has prodded and poked at my typically British obsession with being on time or worrying about something that is not. We are the class swat and they are the lazy kid at the back teasing us, dragging us into their ways. Either way, it meant I wasn't particularly phased as the minutes passed without the arrival of my horse and carriage.

Meet the Parents

  "So Jack, what do you know about dead bodies?" This was the kind of occasion when a year abroad comes into it's own. It was hardly the category of question that I had been faced with across my 7 years of classroom Spanish interactions. I was sat with the father of Carlos (the Dad of the family I am staying with) in the corner of a post-Baptism family celebration. He reminded me instantly of Robert De Niro's character in the Meet the Parents series. The head of the family with a fascinating history of stories to tell. He took a shine to me, and we had a really in-depth chat about his trip to London and the DNA of serial killers. But not before I mistook him for a stripper.

Honoured to be a temporary member of
this fantastic family 

*Background Information*  Ever since arriving in Argentina, I have presented myself as 'Jack' (or 'Shack' as it is now) and frequently been responded to with a jubilant cry of 'Jack El Destripador'. Primarily I assumed they meant 'Jack the Ripper'; however after experiencing some hysterical laughing with the phrase, a part of me convinced myself that 'Destripador' ('D' sounds almost silent) might mean 'Jack the Stripper'. I'd never heard of any such thing but I guessed it might be a thing here. Anyway that was what I was now going with (with a weird half-hearted stripping charade to match).

  So here I was. I presented myself as 'Shack' and the grandfather laughed as he bellowed 'Shack El Destripador', before saying that he himself used to be a 'Destripador'. I nervously chuckled a long as he already struck me as a joker and I thought he was pulling my leg. This was until he invited me to come and look at his car, in which there was a captain-like hat sitting on the dashboard - you know, the kind a stripper might wear as part of a costume. At this point I was a bit more shocked and he continued to say he did it for a bit of cash here and there. I even asked some questions (that now seem transferable between both a stripper and his actual job) and got answers. It was only when he asked me about the dead bodies that I realised that 'destripador' does in fact mean somebody who deals with dead bodies (and 'Ripper') and not 'stripper'.

 Complete and utter 'vergüenza'.

All Black Everything

  A Bucket List is one of things that everyone has, whether they know it or not. Whether they call it a bucket list or a list of things to do before they die, it's an almost constant factor of our DNA. Whether you're watching natural phenomenons on TV, tweeting about your dreams or liking Instagram pictures of paradise locations, it all accumulates towards the hypothetical holy grail of your own personal 'Bucket List'.

Just like watching Uni Varsity...

  Before coming to South America I identified a few items of my personal Bucket List that would be achievable across my Year Abroad. We're talking things like visiting Christ the Redeemer, seeing a glacier, watching a South American football match and witnessing Iguazu Falls (see Chasing Waterfalls to see how that went). There were other items on my list that were put aside for a later time in life, considered unrealistic whilst in this corner of the World: run a marathon, see the Northern Lights, watching the Haka performed live by the New Zealand rugby team.

  Little did I know that, fast forward only a couple of months into my adventure, and I would be standing front row of the local crowd watching the All Blacks line up to perform their enigmatic war cry. We were up against the gated fencing that lines Argentinean stadiums and listened to the autonomous hush of the audience, as an incredible aura of respect circulated around the Estadio de José Almafitani. The black uniforms lined up and the Haka was performed in a way that - predictably - triggered the emotion of awe and admiration that comes when witnessing the elite.

  See the All Blacks perform the Haka live - Tick.

Chasing Waterfalls

  When TLC first told me not to chase waterfalls as a youngster I vowed to myself that I would follow their fool-proof advice. However things change and I soon found myself in Northern Argentina staring at 'La Garganta del Diablo' (The Devil's Throat), the most impressive natural feature that I have ever seen. For the first time in a long-while I was speechless for a reason other than a failed retrieval of Spanish vocabulary. The showcase piece of the Cataratas de Iguazu blew me away on the spot as the devilish spit of the waterfalls flew into my face.

  From the moment I arrived in this country, the waterfalls in Iguazu had been sat firmly at the top of my tourist to-do list. The National Park that ties the two South American powerhouses of Argentina and Brazil is a world renowned phenomenon, but I had met very few people that had actually been. So when I got a few days off work to leave the country and renew my tourist VISA, the choice of destination was very simple. 

  Even the prospect of a 19 hour bus trip each-way did little to flicker my enthusiasm and before I knew it I was sat on the coach, with my mate Ed, watching a Spanish dubbed version of the Eddie the Eagle movie (strange choice to say the least). I fell asleep after a 7/10 coach meal of Milanesa (obviously) and awoke to a new window view of red dirt roads and tropical rainforest. This is what I was talking about. 

Dancing In The Wind

  Picture the scene. I am stood in a tarpaulin tent with rain lashing down outside and the hurricane winds lifting the sides up and letting the hellish conditions pollute my temporary dance studio. One child is attempting to hug the stranded, flea-ridden mut that is known as 'Dead Dog'. Another is stamping against the temporary flooring letting in a flood of muddy water. The rest are looking towards their councillor for inspiration. The councillor in question was me, and I was trying to conjure up a dance routine that would suitably pass as a 'punk-rock' edition of Hakuna Matata.

  Welcome to camp.

'Team Jack' about to perform the
Circle of Life set with my
'choreography'

  This was my last group out of four, having already worked me and three other groups of 11 year olds through Circle of Life (Jazz style), Just Can't Wait To Be King (Hip-Hop) and Can You Feel The Love Tonight (Opera). In case you hadn't already noticed we were preparing for a production of The Lion King, which would uniquely incorporate a variety of dancing styles. In charge of this was a man with only two years of dancing experience in a 'street dance' group called 'Dance Dudes' between the ages of 8 and 10. If we add this to years of drunken nightclub dancing then we have quite a resumé - but that didn't quite suffice to 35 eleven year old Argentinean kids.

  I was one of six councillors working on the Lights, Camera, Action English immersion camp with a theme of musicals. As you can imagine I wasn't necessarily picked for my suitability to the theme, but pretty much at random in the line of poor sods that had to spend 3/4 days entertaining a group of school-kids. In this case it was an epic four-dayer, the longest camp provided by the company, and with a theme that had never been done before. If being called for a camp was like jury-duty, I'd been handed a complicated fraud case.

Just Argentinean Things...

  As you've probably gathered by now weird things tend to happen here that aren't normal. Big things and little things that I experience or see that just don't tick in my head. The problem is that I've been here nearly two months now and I'm becoming immune to it. Such is this that things pass by without me thinking 'oh my God I need to write about this', but that doesn't stop them being weird. It was only when I looked back at my most recent weekend, for example, that it struck me that a few un-normal things happened.

Just pick your roast chicken off
a stick and you have your
 Friday night dinner.

  I'm going to write this article with a key, so after something that may be construed as 'Argentinean Things' I'm going to put (AT). So just keep that in mind, let's go...

  With a busy couple of weeks coming up with trips to Buenos Aires and Iguazu sandwiching my first camp as a councillor, I decided to spend the weekend at home with my host family. After some basketball and football fun (half player/half referee) with the kids, I went with the host Mum Tatiana to pick up dinner. This was just like home, chilled Friday evening going to the chippy to pick up dinner. Except the chippy here does not sell fish but a whole roast chicken (AT) to accompany your chips (which are the same chips as 'fish and chip' chips). I speculated to myself that this shop would be very busy on Sundays back at home - a quick way to acquire the star of your roast dinner.

Language Barrier 101

  Immediately this article might seem odd. I'm a university student studying Spanish for the seventh year of my life. To the untrained eye that equals sublime fluency and basically a Latin citizenship, but other language students will understand otherwise. This little guide to what I've experienced so far is aimed at all people, from those around the world in similar situations to those who ask us to 'say something in Spanish' in the middle of a nightclub. A learning curve for all.

  It all started as I strolled up to the immigration officer at Ministro Pistarini International Airport in Buenos Aires. I was confident and I had that 'yeah I'm starting my Year Abroad come at me' swagger going on.* I threw in a few of the 'Si' and 'Gracias' so this guy knew I wasn't just a tourist, I was here for business. It clearly worked as I was quickly struck with a sharp:

"Hablas castellano?" 

This was what I wanted, time to shine...

"Si si mas o menos, lo estudio a universidad" *God I'm good I bet that impressed him*

  I was greeted with what can only be described as the equivalent of riding Stealth at Thorpe Park in Spanish listening. Holy s**t. Not only did this dude launch a hurricane of palabras my way but he was speaking with a thick Argentinean accent. For anyone that (like me at the time) didn't realise the extent of the difference between Spanish and Argentinean Castellano - it's really different. I very quickly crept back into my little British shell...

"Hablas ingles..."

How to Fix an iPhone in Buenos Aires

  I stood there in the middle of leafy Palermo soaked to the core. I watched as my new acquaintance of 5 minutes rode off into the distance on his motorbike - with my mobile phone. I was left behind with an already sopping piece of paper faintly showing an address. I'm pretty sure this was the opposite of the situation I was meant to be in when in a South American capital city.

  Wet, phone-less, clueless.

 Let's go back to the start. After my photo-loss drama at La Bombonera I decided enough was enough and I needed the battery changing. I visited the 'Unofficial Official' (I know right) Apple Store and they told me my battery was broken. I could of told you that mate. He then told me to Google a local shop to fix it. I hate to think the horrors of difficulty that this guy went through to get this job as 'Unofficial Official' Apple helper. 

La Bombonera - The Beating Heart of La Boca

  As I read footballing magazine FourFourTwo a few months before I departed for Argentina, my excitement to travel to one of the Mecca's of the Beautiful Game grew only stronger. In a list of the World's best stadiums, I read through the impressive list enriched with sporting history, poetry and glamour. Camp Nou. El Estadio Azteca. Wembley Stadium. Yet these iconic arenas only acted as the supports acts for the main event, voted #1 football stadium in the World - La Bombonera, home of Club Atlético Boca Juniors. The rock star of South American football.

Photos taken by host Mum but
I can assure you I was there...

   From this moment it became an immediate goal of mine to visit this famous stage. I wanted to see Iguazu, Patagonia and the variety of natural wonders that Argentina possesses, but they all came second to La Bombonera. It may seem odd that a football stadium would surpass these other natural miracles but it was a personal thing. I've always had a passion for visiting stadiums and on my prior travels it's always been on the itinerary. The Bird's Nest in Beijing, Stadium Australia in Sydney and Yankee Stadium in New York have all been prior trips that have left a positive impression. Where they regarded as the best football stadium in the world though? No.

  That was La Bombonera.