After three months and more than 16,000 kilometres over land and water, my biggest journey to date comes to an end in Tango Town Buenos Aires. I set off on foot for the last time, covering many kilometres in remote areas. On the outskirts of La Boca, the third warning from local residents tells me to hide my camera. The streets are barricaded and the figures actually set my alarm bells ringing for the first time in years.
Buenos Aires surprises me with the widest avenue in the world, a thousand statues, large parks full of rubber trees and a wonderfully lively mix of people from all over the world. The mansard palaces take you back to Paris in the early 19th century, the underground railway running against the traffic to London. In three days, I only get on the train in the right direction once. (more…)
If cats could dance…
…then they would dance the tango. In a swingers club. In Buenos Aires. After months in the Dominican Republic and the holy Sundays under the gay French direction of Thiery in the former Regensburg harbour brothel, I seriously thought that salsa was the most erotic dance in the world. I was so wrong! Salsa is just pornographic couple wankery. Tango is sex.
Today. Here. Buenos Aires. Probably the only small non-commercial tango venue in the tango metropolis of 15 million people. I find Café Vinilo after a long search on the internet, half an hour before it starts and five kilometres away. At first I just look. I’m good at recognising patterns. I don’t recognise a single one. Everyone dances different steps to different rhythms. Individualistic like cats. (more…)
Cordoba, Argentina
A friend I met in Brazil a few years ago invites me to Córdoba. I’m happy to drop by and am picked up by her at the terminal after the first really shitty night bus due to a massive lack of space. Her flat on the eleventh floor with a view over the whole of Córdoba is the panoramic web design office of the trip.
She works as a TV and radio presenter. For her birthday, she gives me a guided tour of all the studios. I feel like I’m on a kindergarten trip: the world is big, exciting and endlessly interesting. In the Cuesta Del Viento’s internet hole, all the work has been left behind. Here in the panorama over Córdoba, I work through a lot of things and listen to her on the radio. (more…)
50 kn @ Cuesta Del Viento
Poetic places are hard to reach. It takes me 33 hours, four buses and a lovely motorised local to get to Cuesta Del Viento. I arrive at the wonderful hippie hostel Lamaral in the middle of nowhere. The centre is just before the Chilean border. Its name means “rise of the wind”. The strongest winds in Argentina blow here every day at 25 to 50 knots across the reservoir, which is only 20 years old.
The Jefe himself makes my bed in the simple accommodation. Afterwards, he hands me a beer. As soon as my Styrian room neighbour has emptied it, the whole colourful gang heads to the nearest restaurant for dinner. The party goes on for a long time. Stars are twinkling, wine is glowing, guitars are strumming and dowels are holding pictures of the wind on the walls. (more…)
Road Tripping Argentina
The next part of the journey takes four buses and two taxis over a good 1,600 kilometres and 33 hours to the far north of Argentina. Every 100 kilometres, a bend interrupts the endless straight stretch to the horizon. For two months I travelled south on the west side of the Andes, now east of them to the north.
In the centre, the peaks of the Andes shine in the sunrise. On one side, they rise slowly over hundreds of kilometres. On the other, they go boom! and after thousands of kilometres of flat pampas, they are up to 6,000 metres high. (more…)
Bariloche
The journey to Argentina from Chiloé is almost 500 kilometres by three buses and a ferry and takes a good 13 hours. After eleven rainy days, Chilean Patagonia bids me farewell with the most glorious weather. The border guards wave us through quickly, then it’s over volcanic passes past forests of tree corpses from the last eruption down to Bariloche.
Everything here is Swiss: the mighty fir trees, the deep blue lakes, the luxury resorts built from natural stone and whole tree trunks, the expensive cars in front of them – and the prices. Withdrawing money from ATMs costs at least six per cent, less money or the wrong bank sometimes 15%. Hardly anyone accepts credit cards. (more…)












Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.