It's a broad generalisation, but I'd say the friendliest local people I've met so far in South America were the Colombians during my first month.
So when we rocked up at the Tango Hostel in Cordoba and found it being managed by a Colombian family we should have known that we were in for a good time.
Shaun, Ian and I regrouped at the bus station after our luxurious nightbus rides from Mendoza and walked the ten or so blocks to Tango. On the same street were dozens of bars, lots of small kiosks and a laundrette. What more do you need when you're on the road?
We arrived at about 8am so had a few hours of sitting around while we waited for our beds to become available. During the morning, various travellers emerged from the dorms upstairs with half-closed eyes, messy hair and zombified walks. Hangover central.
With bags dumped and bodies washed the three of us took the short ten minute walk to the historical city centre.
There were some beautiful buildings - churches, renovated houses and the like - mixed in with newer shops, restaurants and offices. It had more character than Mendoza, in my opinion, and the large pedestrianised area in the middle of the centro historico was a bonus.
We took a pew outside a smart restaurant on one of the pedestrianised streets, ordered some food and a couple of bottles of the local Cordoba beer. When in Rome, etc.
The sun was shining, we'd landed in a city teeming with life and everything was good with the world.
After lunch we met up with the Liverpudlian trio of Amy, Lucy and Louise (who we'd spent time with in Mendoza). They were only in town for the day, as they had a nightbus to catch that evening (to Salta).
As they were allRedshite Liverpool fans there was only one shirt I was wearing that day:
We decided to walk to the huge park in the east of the city and chill in the sun.
On the outskirts of the park we came across an eye-catching art installation of coloured rings, each one stencilled with a date and a historical fact from Cordoba's colourful history:
Unfortunately we'd got to the park at siesta time, and the Argentinians love a siesta, meaning our search for a drink in the sun was proving difficult.
However, after a walk round the lake we eventually found a spot to have a cold one, or two, in the sunshine and enjoy the last couple of hours with the Liverpewl ladies. With time ticking on we said our goodbyes, promising to meet up at Alton Towers in the not-to-distant future, and sent them on their way to the bus station.
It was Friday, which meant we'd arrived on the perfect day to sample what Cordoba - and it's 200,000 student population - could offer.
The hostel was permanently managed by brothers Javier (22) and Felipe (19), but this weekend their parents were also in town to help run the fort. Several times a week the sons arrange a dinner at the hostel, and we'd arrived just in time for the asado - an Argentinian speciality.
The Colombians busied themselves in the kitchen while we kicked back with some drinks in the great communal patio outside. There were lots of friendly people staying in Tango, like Ollie (the Crystal Palace fan), Sam (the Head Boy) and the sweet Nat/Laura combo from England.
The asado, my first, was a meal to savour. Javier, Felipe and their gregarious parents formed a human conveyor belt of food service - piling plate after plate of delicious meat in front of our faces.
There's Shaun in familiar pose, reaching for more alcohol...
And just when we thought we'd reached the end of the food, with belts bursting and gout not far away, another silver dish of meat appeared. We were like pigs at a trough.
The hostel itself was great - the rooms laid out perfectly so people ended up floating from the dining area to the patio, the TV room to the kitchen. It was a really social place, and - with it being the weekend - everyone was clearly up for a party.
In Argentina the locals don't tend to go out til 1-2am, which took some adjustment on our part, but I like to think we didn't let the side down.
Shaun showed off his expert salsa skills, gained from over a decade's worth of dancing, and at one point was serenaded by Javier and Felipe's mum:
She was great fun - shocking us with some of her one-liners (mainly to do with sex) and trying to matchmake the various people in the hostel.
With the night in full swing, Javier and Felipe told us about a house party that was happening in another part of the city. We were soon bundling into cabs and on our way.
The taxi drivers seemed to have a collective blank on the way there and we got lost. Fortunately, after a bit of chin-rubbing and a few wrong turns, we arrived at a bungalow in Cordoba's suburbia.
We were welcomed into the (joint birthday) party as if we were old friends, and went out to the back garden to find a DJ set-up, a drinks table, lots of good-looking women and half the local rugby team.
It turned out that several of the women were training to be English translators, so for once I was being urged to speak in English. What a chore.
We met some good people...
...did some dancing...
...helped smash the pinata...
...and got home in the wee hours, slightly worse for wear but with a great first Cordoban night behind us.
Because of the night's events, Saturday was a bit of a write-off but I still managed a good wander and saw more of the city:
In the evening Javier and Felipe laid on a great buffet of cheeses, chorizo dip, salads, bread, eggs, tuna and other bits and bobs. I think I stopped after about my seventh helping. Greedy bastard.
There was a sweet German called Francesca staying at the hostel, and it was her last Saturday in Cordoba after ten months of study. The boys agreed to host her leaving party, and the hostel was soon once again humming with good tunes and good vibes.
Sam: The Ice Man.
For some reason (I blame Shaun), we ended up drinking more Pampero rum than is probably sensible, and were well on our way by the time the Colombians once again dragged us out into the night to find more fun.
We got cabs to a club downtown called Studio Teatro - a cavernous former theatre that had kept many of its original features but added dancefloors, VIP areas and bars.
We were able to skip the queue after a word from J&F and ended up having a decent night in a booth overlooking the dancefloor. The choice of tunes was not my favourite (at one point I can remember YMCA followed by Abba), but it was a good laugh all the same.
On Sunday a few of us set off with two intentions: have a good lunch, and go to the cinema.
Most shops and restaurants in town were closed, but the one place that was open was the place we'd been recommended to visit - and we had some excellent steaks and chicken in cosy surroundings.
We then spent a strange hour or so walking between all of Cordoba's cinemas trying to find something to see. The choice of films seemed to be Fast & Furious 5 (no thanks), Pirates of the Caribbean 4 (ditto), Thor (I'd rather stick pins in my eyes) or Rio (I'm 34 years old).
So with that failed mission complete, we went back to the hostel, ate some empanadas - expertly prepared by J&F's cleaning lady - and had a late night in the dining room with music, Pampero and friends.
In the afternoon Sam, Shaun and I had put our names down to do a skydive the following day. It was a great experience, and probably deserves its own post, so I'll skip most of Monday here.
I had done some research into football fixtures and discovered that Cordoba has three main teams, none of them currently playing in the top division. That didn't bother me though. I just wanted to go to my first Argentine league match, and found out Instituto de Cordoba were playing that night.
We got back from the skydive and managed to rope in a good bunch of people to join us at the game. In the end there were nine or ten of us: Lucy (Sam's mate) and lots of blokes of various nationalities.
We got cabs to the ground in the north part of the city, bought tickets (about a fiver each), grabbed a choripan and made our way inside.
From the information I sourced online it seems that Instituto are historically a fairly big club, but have fallen on bad times. Once home to famous Argentine footballers such as Ossie Ardiles and Mario Kempes, the club now languishes mid-table in the second division.
They were playing a team second from bottom of the league, CAI, so the home fans were probably expecting an easy night.
We took a spot on the terrace behind the goal, just to the left of Instituto's singing section:
Despite its red and white colours, I quite liked the ground - a neat 25,000 seater with steep banks of terracing. Shame about the fences behind the goal (but we soon saw why they were needed).
The game kicked off and within five minutes it was clear to see that there's a big gulf in quality between Argentina's first and second divisions.
The home team had a couple of woeful strikers who stank the place out with their misplaced passes, overly complicated flicks that never came off, and an unwillingness to find any space. It was frustrating to watch.
Half time came, a goalless mess of a football match.
After the break, Instituto pressed and pressed but continued to lack any quality up front. At one point both strikers were hauled off by the frustrated manager. The first (a straggly haired guy who thought he was Maradona but was actually more like Ian Marshall*) got a load of abuse from the fans around us.
'Son of a whore' was the translated version according to our Ecuadorian friend Fernando.
With ten minutes left the unthinkable happened. A crossfield ball from CAI was heading out towards the corner flag when an Instituto defender, for reasons best known to himself, stuck his foot out and directed the ball in a looping arch towards his own goal.
The keeper had already rushed out to claim the ball and watched, rooted, as the ball sailed almost in slow motion over his head and into the net.
The locals, already restless with the lack of chances their team had created against one of the division's worst sides, took this as their cue to let off steam.
Blokes all around us were yelling abuse at their own players, and then several fans started to clamber up the fencing behind the goal in order to yell more abuse at the keeper and chuck bottles and lighters onto the pitch:
Tuesday was the day before Argentina's national holiday, where they celebrate the start of the revolution that formed their country. We had a lazy day, finally going to watch a film (decent Brit flick Don't Let Me Go) and preparing ourselves for the evening's activities.
With the country preparing for a lie-in the following day, the bars and clubs were full of people. We followed the usual pattern of staying at the hostel until well after midnight, before the Colombians took us to a club round the corner.
We spent the next few hours in various establishments having fun. Cordoba is a cracking place to party.
On the Wednesday, the national holiday, I bumped into the girlfriend (Rachel) of my first boss (Martin) at the hostel. Random rendezvous No.64 of my trip.
A group of us wandered round the city looking for street parties; found one that was a bit shit, then found one with a big stage and a crowd singing along to a warbling woman on stage:
At that second event we somehow found ourselves next to a model-scouting team from an Argentinian agency. This meant we had a procession of models-to-be strolling past us as we sat on bollards munching on choripans. Not the worst view I've ever had.
That night I took a night off the sauce, for the sake of my liver as much as anything, and the following day enjoyed a clear head as Sam and I went and bought our coach tickets for the evening.
My plan had been to go across from Cordoba to Rosario, but I took another look at my dates and realised I'd be rocking up in Buenos Aires - my final destination - way too early.
I decided to change tack completely and head north to Salta, partly to do a bungee jump up there, and partly because it would give me a route into Paraguay.
On our final afternoon, Sam and I headed back to the good restaurant we found on Day 1 and had a tasty lunch:
We followed this up by going to watch the Hangover Part 2 (or, as it's called out here, Que Pasa Ayer 2? What Happened Yesterday?) Quite an apt film for the week we'd just had.
That evening Sam and I said our goodbyes to the fantastic hosts and people we'd met in Cordoba and got our cama suite bus up to Salta.
So when we rocked up at the Tango Hostel in Cordoba and found it being managed by a Colombian family we should have known that we were in for a good time.
Shaun, Ian and I regrouped at the bus station after our luxurious nightbus rides from Mendoza and walked the ten or so blocks to Tango. On the same street were dozens of bars, lots of small kiosks and a laundrette. What more do you need when you're on the road?
We arrived at about 8am so had a few hours of sitting around while we waited for our beds to become available. During the morning, various travellers emerged from the dorms upstairs with half-closed eyes, messy hair and zombified walks. Hangover central.
With bags dumped and bodies washed the three of us took the short ten minute walk to the historical city centre.
There were some beautiful buildings - churches, renovated houses and the like - mixed in with newer shops, restaurants and offices. It had more character than Mendoza, in my opinion, and the large pedestrianised area in the middle of the centro historico was a bonus.
We took a pew outside a smart restaurant on one of the pedestrianised streets, ordered some food and a couple of bottles of the local Cordoba beer. When in Rome, etc.
The sun was shining, we'd landed in a city teeming with life and everything was good with the world.
After lunch we met up with the Liverpudlian trio of Amy, Lucy and Louise (who we'd spent time with in Mendoza). They were only in town for the day, as they had a nightbus to catch that evening (to Salta).
As they were all
We decided to walk to the huge park in the east of the city and chill in the sun.
On the outskirts of the park we came across an eye-catching art installation of coloured rings, each one stencilled with a date and a historical fact from Cordoba's colourful history:
Unfortunately we'd got to the park at siesta time, and the Argentinians love a siesta, meaning our search for a drink in the sun was proving difficult.
However, after a walk round the lake we eventually found a spot to have a cold one, or two, in the sunshine and enjoy the last couple of hours with the Liverpewl ladies. With time ticking on we said our goodbyes, promising to meet up at Alton Towers in the not-to-distant future, and sent them on their way to the bus station.
It was Friday, which meant we'd arrived on the perfect day to sample what Cordoba - and it's 200,000 student population - could offer.
The hostel was permanently managed by brothers Javier (22) and Felipe (19), but this weekend their parents were also in town to help run the fort. Several times a week the sons arrange a dinner at the hostel, and we'd arrived just in time for the asado - an Argentinian speciality.
The Colombians busied themselves in the kitchen while we kicked back with some drinks in the great communal patio outside. There were lots of friendly people staying in Tango, like Ollie (the Crystal Palace fan), Sam (the Head Boy) and the sweet Nat/Laura combo from England.
The asado, my first, was a meal to savour. Javier, Felipe and their gregarious parents formed a human conveyor belt of food service - piling plate after plate of delicious meat in front of our faces.
There's Shaun in familiar pose, reaching for more alcohol...
And just when we thought we'd reached the end of the food, with belts bursting and gout not far away, another silver dish of meat appeared. We were like pigs at a trough.
The hostel itself was great - the rooms laid out perfectly so people ended up floating from the dining area to the patio, the TV room to the kitchen. It was a really social place, and - with it being the weekend - everyone was clearly up for a party.
In Argentina the locals don't tend to go out til 1-2am, which took some adjustment on our part, but I like to think we didn't let the side down.
Shaun showed off his expert salsa skills, gained from over a decade's worth of dancing, and at one point was serenaded by Javier and Felipe's mum:
She was great fun - shocking us with some of her one-liners (mainly to do with sex) and trying to matchmake the various people in the hostel.
With the night in full swing, Javier and Felipe told us about a house party that was happening in another part of the city. We were soon bundling into cabs and on our way.
The taxi drivers seemed to have a collective blank on the way there and we got lost. Fortunately, after a bit of chin-rubbing and a few wrong turns, we arrived at a bungalow in Cordoba's suburbia.
We were welcomed into the (joint birthday) party as if we were old friends, and went out to the back garden to find a DJ set-up, a drinks table, lots of good-looking women and half the local rugby team.
It turned out that several of the women were training to be English translators, so for once I was being urged to speak in English. What a chore.
We met some good people...
...did some dancing...
...helped smash the pinata...
...and got home in the wee hours, slightly worse for wear but with a great first Cordoban night behind us.
Because of the night's events, Saturday was a bit of a write-off but I still managed a good wander and saw more of the city:
In the evening Javier and Felipe laid on a great buffet of cheeses, chorizo dip, salads, bread, eggs, tuna and other bits and bobs. I think I stopped after about my seventh helping. Greedy bastard.
There was a sweet German called Francesca staying at the hostel, and it was her last Saturday in Cordoba after ten months of study. The boys agreed to host her leaving party, and the hostel was soon once again humming with good tunes and good vibes.
Sam: The Ice Man.
For some reason (I blame Shaun), we ended up drinking more Pampero rum than is probably sensible, and were well on our way by the time the Colombians once again dragged us out into the night to find more fun.
We got cabs to a club downtown called Studio Teatro - a cavernous former theatre that had kept many of its original features but added dancefloors, VIP areas and bars.
We were able to skip the queue after a word from J&F and ended up having a decent night in a booth overlooking the dancefloor. The choice of tunes was not my favourite (at one point I can remember YMCA followed by Abba), but it was a good laugh all the same.
On Sunday a few of us set off with two intentions: have a good lunch, and go to the cinema.
Most shops and restaurants in town were closed, but the one place that was open was the place we'd been recommended to visit - and we had some excellent steaks and chicken in cosy surroundings.
We then spent a strange hour or so walking between all of Cordoba's cinemas trying to find something to see. The choice of films seemed to be Fast & Furious 5 (no thanks), Pirates of the Caribbean 4 (ditto), Thor (I'd rather stick pins in my eyes) or Rio (I'm 34 years old).
So with that failed mission complete, we went back to the hostel, ate some empanadas - expertly prepared by J&F's cleaning lady - and had a late night in the dining room with music, Pampero and friends.
In the afternoon Sam, Shaun and I had put our names down to do a skydive the following day. It was a great experience, and probably deserves its own post, so I'll skip most of Monday here.
I had done some research into football fixtures and discovered that Cordoba has three main teams, none of them currently playing in the top division. That didn't bother me though. I just wanted to go to my first Argentine league match, and found out Instituto de Cordoba were playing that night.
We got back from the skydive and managed to rope in a good bunch of people to join us at the game. In the end there were nine or ten of us: Lucy (Sam's mate) and lots of blokes of various nationalities.
We got cabs to the ground in the north part of the city, bought tickets (about a fiver each), grabbed a choripan and made our way inside.
From the information I sourced online it seems that Instituto are historically a fairly big club, but have fallen on bad times. Once home to famous Argentine footballers such as Ossie Ardiles and Mario Kempes, the club now languishes mid-table in the second division.
They were playing a team second from bottom of the league, CAI, so the home fans were probably expecting an easy night.
We took a spot on the terrace behind the goal, just to the left of Instituto's singing section:
Despite its red and white colours, I quite liked the ground - a neat 25,000 seater with steep banks of terracing. Shame about the fences behind the goal (but we soon saw why they were needed).
The game kicked off and within five minutes it was clear to see that there's a big gulf in quality between Argentina's first and second divisions.
The home team had a couple of woeful strikers who stank the place out with their misplaced passes, overly complicated flicks that never came off, and an unwillingness to find any space. It was frustrating to watch.
Half time came, a goalless mess of a football match.
After the break, Instituto pressed and pressed but continued to lack any quality up front. At one point both strikers were hauled off by the frustrated manager. The first (a straggly haired guy who thought he was Maradona but was actually more like Ian Marshall*) got a load of abuse from the fans around us.
'Son of a whore' was the translated version according to our Ecuadorian friend Fernando.
With ten minutes left the unthinkable happened. A crossfield ball from CAI was heading out towards the corner flag when an Instituto defender, for reasons best known to himself, stuck his foot out and directed the ball in a looping arch towards his own goal.
The keeper had already rushed out to claim the ball and watched, rooted, as the ball sailed almost in slow motion over his head and into the net.
The locals, already restless with the lack of chances their team had created against one of the division's worst sides, took this as their cue to let off steam.
Blokes all around us were yelling abuse at their own players, and then several fans started to clamber up the fencing behind the goal in order to yell more abuse at the keeper and chuck bottles and lighters onto the pitch:
South Americans really care about their teams and this lot didn't enjoy being humiliated.
Luckily a full-scale riot was averted when Instituto scrambled an equaliser five minutes later, but at this point the fanaticos behind the goal were still shell-shocked and barely celebrated the goal.
Shortly afterwards the ref blew the final whistle, leading to more boos and abuse. I saw a man on the way out who must have been at least 70 and was literally spitting with fury as he raged at the departing players.
A strange end to an eye-opening first game in Argentina.
We got back to the hostel, played a prolonged bout of drinking games involving slapping your hands in certain directions and passing on 'the switch' (don't ask) before going to bed.
With the country preparing for a lie-in the following day, the bars and clubs were full of people. We followed the usual pattern of staying at the hostel until well after midnight, before the Colombians took us to a club round the corner.
We spent the next few hours in various establishments having fun. Cordoba is a cracking place to party.
On the Wednesday, the national holiday, I bumped into the girlfriend (Rachel) of my first boss (Martin) at the hostel. Random rendezvous No.64 of my trip.
A group of us wandered round the city looking for street parties; found one that was a bit shit, then found one with a big stage and a crowd singing along to a warbling woman on stage:
At that second event we somehow found ourselves next to a model-scouting team from an Argentinian agency. This meant we had a procession of models-to-be strolling past us as we sat on bollards munching on choripans. Not the worst view I've ever had.
That night I took a night off the sauce, for the sake of my liver as much as anything, and the following day enjoyed a clear head as Sam and I went and bought our coach tickets for the evening.
My plan had been to go across from Cordoba to Rosario, but I took another look at my dates and realised I'd be rocking up in Buenos Aires - my final destination - way too early.
I decided to change tack completely and head north to Salta, partly to do a bungee jump up there, and partly because it would give me a route into Paraguay.
On our final afternoon, Sam and I headed back to the good restaurant we found on Day 1 and had a tasty lunch:
We followed this up by going to watch the Hangover Part 2 (or, as it's called out here, Que Pasa Ayer 2? What Happened Yesterday?) Quite an apt film for the week we'd just had.
That evening Sam and I said our goodbyes to the fantastic hosts and people we'd met in Cordoba and got our cama suite bus up to Salta.
The brilliant Hostel Tango - and Cordoba itself - was a difficult place to leave. The friendliest and best hostel of my trip so far, no doubt.
* I love the 'Personal Life' text on Ian Marshall's Wikipedia page. If you have never heard of him, this is what he used to look like: